Author: Momo Chan

My sister, Eliza, was gone. Shaking, I called my CEO wife’s executive assistant. I needed to pre-pay $800 from our family fund for Eliza’s cheapest, thin-pine coffin. On the other end, the assistant, Marcus, gave a short, contemptuous laugh. “Mr. Ethan, is this you again? We just approved fifty thousand last month. Are you trying to print money off the Foundation’s account?” “My sister, she—” Before I could finish, my wife’s voice cut in, cold and razor-sharp: “Ethan, your recklessness has to have a limit. I transferred over thirty million dollars total. That wasn’t enough for your sister’s medical bills?” The sudden thrum in my skull felt like an electric shock. Thirty million? The funds her male secretary approved for me—the maximum I ever received in a month was five hundred dollars. During the worst months, it was sometimes as low as forty cents. My heart went instantly numb, but I couldn’t find a single word left to explain. I dropped my cell phone onto the leather seat of the sleek, dark Maserati GranTurismo that had been waiting patiently outside my house for eight months. The woman inside, Anya, smiled gently at me. I found my courage and spoke. “You said if I signed the divorce papers, you’d give me an unlimited black card… was that true?” 1 Anya looked at me with tender eyes. “Of course it’s true, Ethan.” She handed me a pristine black card—no numbers, just a minimalist symbol. “The PIN is your birthday.” I took the card. The cold, smooth weight finally anchored my trembling fingers. “I need to… handle my sister’s funeral arrangements first.” “I’ll go with you.” She lightly squeezed my hand, her voice steady and certain. Twenty minutes later, I stood outside Victoria Ashworth’s executive office. The massive soundproof door couldn’t fully muffle the sound of gasping and heavy breathing that made my cheeks flush hot. I didn’t hesitate. I drew a deep breath and raised my hand to knock. “Enter.” Victoria’s voice was clipped, tainted with the annoyance of interruption. I pushed the door open. Though I’d steeled myself, the sight still stabbed my eyes. Her assistant, Marcus, was scrambling up from between her legs, zipping his trousers while frantically trying to smooth his wrinkled dress shirt. Victoria’s face was still flushed, and she was deliberately, slowly smoothing the fitted fabric of her pencil skirt over her thighs. She frowned when she saw it was me. Every anniversary, I used to throw a fit because she wouldn’t come home. This time, she likely assumed the same childish tantrum. I calmed my breathing and slid a document across her desk. “Sign this.” Victoria glanced at the cover, scoffed, and assumed it was another agreement for a handout. “How much do you want this time?” When I didn’t speak, didn’t beg her to come home like I used to, she uncharacteristically offered more. “It’s our anniversary today. Sorry, I forgot to buy you a gift. Take this card and go buy yourself something you like.” She tossed a subsidiary card—a corporate platinum—toward me. I didn’t reach for it. I just repeated: “Sign. It.” Finally, true impatience crossed her face. She picked up the file, flipped straight to the final page, and, without reading a single word of the contents, signed her full name with a flourish. “Victoria Ashworth.” Two words. They ended our ten-year marriage. Watching her sign, my heart felt simultaneously hollowed out and completely unburdened, as if I’d shed a suit of armor I hadn’t realized I was wearing. She remembered the anniversary. But she didn’t know that from this day forward, it was two anniversaries: the day our marriage ended, and the day my sister, Eliza, died. Marcus, who had been sneering at me, assuming I was there for money, caught sight of the words “Divorce Settlement Agreement” on the document. The contempt in his eyes instantly morphed into barely contained elation. I picked up the signed papers and turned to leave. “Allow me to see you out, Mr. Ethan.” Marcus rushed to follow. Outside the office, he yanked me into the privacy of a narrow corridor. His voice was a blend of gloating and insult. “Good riddance.” He pulled a thick, crumpled stack of bills from his pocket and threw them in my face with a sharp smack. “Take the money. Buy your dead sister a coffin. Consider it a tip from me.” Dead sister! What right did this son of a bitch have to invoke her? The fuse finally blew. I grabbed his collar and slammed my fist into the bridge of his nose. “My sister only needed two thousand dollars for the surgery!” “Two thousand! Your approval process took three months! Three months! Until the day she died, the money never came through!” “The final deposit was forty cents! Did you hear that? Forty cents!” I was a madman, pouring all my strength into every punch. He was the one who killed my sister. Desperate for that $2,000, I tried to work a delivery job to raise the funds. He did this. He claimed I was tarnishing Victoria’s image, and he used corporate security to have me held and questioned until the money was raised. When I was finally released, the only thing waiting for me was Eliza’s cold body. The doctor said she’d been calling for me, “Brother, Brother,” until her voice trailed off and she simply stopped breathing. Marcus let out a shrill, porcine shriek. His nosebleed splattered across my worn leather jacket. Hearing the noise, the office door was thrown open. It was Victoria. She saw us fighting and, with a frightening clarity of purpose, delivered a vicious kick to my lower back! She knew better than anyone that I suffered from severe lumbar strain from the years I spent testing her experimental drugs and equipment. The white-hot pain instantly drained my strength. I curled up on the cold floor. “Ethan, what the hell is wrong with you now?!” Victoria didn’t spare me a glance. She rushed past me, straight to Marcus, tenderly dabbing the blood from his face. “Are you alright? Does it hurt?” I touched my spine, now throbbing with soft pain, and felt a surge of self-mockery. The old Victoria would protect me if I so much as snagged a thread on my shirt. Now, she’d physically assaulted me for a man who hadn’t even scraped his skin. Seeing Marcus’s pathetic state, she spun back and delivered a sharp, echoing slap across my face. The world went white and fuzzy. My ears rang, and my mouth filled with the bitter taste of blood. Her eyes were filled with disappointment. “I gave you so many chances, and you wasted every one of them.” “Marcus, freeze all his funds. Change the codes to the house. As for you, Ethan… go to the Guest House. Take thirty lashes and kneel for three days and three nights. When you’ve come to your senses, you can come and apologize to Marcus.” With that, she supported the whimpering Marcus and walked away, never looking back. I lay on the icy marble floor and started to laugh. Funds? What funds did I have? The house? That mansion held nothing of mine except a few faded, worn-out shirts Victoria bought me in college. And the Guest House… It was merely a black-painted annex she used to discipline me. Stepping into her office unannounced earned me ten lashes. Failing to secure the perfect dress for a gala earned me ten. Even visiting my own sick sister was punished with ten lashes, because, as she claimed, “seeing other women makes me feel insecure.” I squeezed the warm, heavy black card in my pocket. Using every ounce of my will, I pulled myself off the floor. Dragging my nearly useless leg, I staggered, step by painful step, toward the Maserati still waiting below. I, Ethan, was rich now. And I was going to buy my sister the finest coffin in the world. Anya opened the car door. When she saw the handprint on my face and the blood on my jacket, her eyes immediately filled with tears. “You have me now. No one will ever touch you like that again.” Her voice was choked with emotion. I had come to believe that all women’s promises were lies. But then she reached into the glove box and pulled out a watch I’d lost in high school, and a faded, yellowed math notebook. “Remember? The girl hiding behind the bleachers because she failed the math final?” “You were the one who comforted me, gave me your notes, and made me believe I could pass. I found your watch in the cafeteria. I tried to return it, but you’d transferred schools and I never saw you again.” “Now, it’s back where it belongs.” I stared at the watch. My eyes burned. Someone, truly, had kept me in their heart for all these years. “As soon as I’ve seen to Eliza’s funeral,” I gripped her hand tightly, “we’re getting married.” Eliza’s funeral was simple but deeply solemn. With Anya’s money, I purchased the best plot and the finest silk-lined casket. Standing before the headstone, looking at the photo of Eliza’s bright, laughing face, my heart was shredded. My phone vibrated. A screenshot from a former colleague. It was Victoria’s social media. Marcus had his arm draped around her waist beneath a Maldivian sunset. Around her neck was the anniversary necklace I had bought her last year by saving every penny I had. The caption, written by Marcus: “The CEO deserves a break. I’ll take care of her from now on.” A second photo, buried in the feed, was a half-naked bed selfie—them under a thin sheet, the hotel bedsheets disheveled in the background. My heart had died the moment my sister did. Now, the final flicker of warmth was incinerated. Expressionless, I opened Victoria’s messaging app. I typed two words. “Victoria, we are done.” Then, I blocked and deleted all contact information for both her and Marcus. It was done. Meanwhile, thousands of miles away in the Maldives. Victoria, mid-flirt with Marcus in the infinity pool, felt a sharp, unprovoked pang in her chest—an intense flicker of unease. She impatiently shoved Marcus away and, guided by a strange compulsion, opened my direct messages. She intended to send some demanding text, but the screen flashed a stark, red exclamation point. Victoria froze. Ethan had deleted her? Disbelieving, she called my number. “The number you have dialed is switched off.” A flicker of panic ignited. She tore through every social media platform—Twitter, Instagram, even the old account I hadn’t used in years. In every case, she was blocked. For the first time, this man, my shadow, had used a weapon of absolute finality to vanish from her world. Victoria’s face twisted into a mask of ugly shock. But quickly, she found a familiar, comfortable rationalization. “He’s sulking because I missed our anniversary. He’s trying the push-and-pull routine.” She muttered to herself, her eyes regaining that familiar look of high-altitude confidence. “Playing hard-to-get? Such childish manipulation.” She gave a small, scornful laugh, then expertly opened a luxury app. She bought a pile of items I’d once mentioned wanting but she’d never cared about. She also ordered a limited-edition supercar I’d dreamed of for years. “Book the next flight back,” she ordered Marcus, her tone edged with an unconscious irritability. She needed to return, to personally watch that man crawl back and beg for her forgiveness. While she was in the air, Anya and I walked into the local Registrar’s office. When the two official certificates were placed in our hands, I felt like a man who had been trapped in an ice cave for ten years and finally saw the sun. “Husband,” Anya whispered the word for the first time, a blush on her cheeks. “Let’s go home.” She drove me to her private garage. When the enormous alloy door slowly rose, I was stunned into silence. An entire basement floor, filled with over a hundred top-tier luxury vehicles. From a Rolls-Royce Ghost to a Bugatti Veyron, they shone under the recessed lighting with a cold, expensive luster. “Pick any one you like. It’s yours now.” Anya pressed a key fob into my hand. I looked at the Koenigsegg key in my palm, a burning sensation in my chest. This was the first time in my life I had been treated with such profound respect. “No… this is too much.” “When you go out to seal a business deal, you can’t be caught without a car that commands respect.” Anya lifted my face and looked me in the eyes, utterly serious. “Besides, you deserve the best things in this world.” Her sincerity and trust were a deep, moving tide. I was speechless. “You’re… you’re not what I thought.” She smiled, a flash of pure, wry intelligence. “The state’s top science and math scholar from a decade ago? Did you really think I had no ambition?” Anya’s words were a key, unlocking ten years of buried shame and resentment. She was right. The early, crucial technology that built the Ashworth Group into what it was—that was all me. Victoria used “love” and “insecurity” to tie me to the shadows. She convinced me to sign over all my equity and assets in her name, claiming she needed the security. I got nothing in return but the public title of a kept man. “Now, we are a team.” She took my hand and placed it over her heart. “My company, Global Bio-Tech, is yours. Half the shares are yours. Ethan, go do everything you were meant to do.” My eyes finally gave way. I nodded, a wetness on my cheeks. I knew it then. My new life had begun. Victoria, exhausted and laden with my “apology gifts,” returned to the cold mansion. When she didn’t find me taking my punishment in the Guest House, a flicker of outrage at my defiance rose in her, but she quickly suppressed it. She decided to be the bigger person—she had neglected him. They would just celebrate their anniversary now. However, she searched the entire estate—the master suite, the study, even the cramped storage room I sometimes used as an escape. “Ethan!” Her voice echoed through the vast, empty rooms. No answer. A cold, unfamiliar panic started to coil around her heart like a vine. “Where is he?” she demanded, grabbing the housekeeper. “Madam… Mr. Ethan… he…” the housekeeper stammered. Marcus, standing nearby, interjected with a smirk of schadenfreude: “V, he’s a piece of trash. He’s gone, who cares? You have me now.” “Snap!” Victoria’s hand whipped out, delivering another sharp slap that sent Marcus’s head spinning. “Did I give you permission to speak?! What right do you have to even utter his name?!” “And you,” she pointed at Marcus’s chest, her voice low and dangerous, “don’t mention divorce again! I didn’t agree to anything!” Marcus clutched his face, momentarily stunned. It took him a beat to realize what she’d said. He stammered: “V… but… but you did divorce him! The papers Mr. Ethan gave you to sign that day… that was the settlement agreement!”

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Ten years ago, I lost everything. I was convicted of academic fraud, served two years in a federal prison, and was summarily expelled from The National Tech Guild—the organization I had co-founded. After my release, I changed my name and retreated to my quiet hometown, Willow Creek, opening a used bookstore called ‘The Quiet Corner.’ I was a ghost. Until I saw my ex-husband, Owen Miller, again. Behind his expensive, wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes were still piercing, but his profile was infinitely sharper. He was now Amesport’s youngest tenured professor, controlling the most cutting-edge tech—a man with a limitless future. His assistant—a polished twenty-something—leaned in with a sympathetic smile. “Ms. Reed,” she murmured, “Professor Miller has been single for ten years. He never forgot you.” I laughed—a dry, strangled sound that felt like sandpaper in my throat. Forgot me? Ten years ago, Owen Miller had expertly fabricated evidence, sacrificed me to cover for his girlfriend, and personally guaranteed my spot in a federal cell. He didn’t forget me; he orchestrated me. 1 Owen Miller’s arrival at The Quiet Corner was less a visit and more a full-blown spectacle. “Evie! Look, it’s Professor Miller!” Mrs. Albright, one of my regulars, gripped my arm excitedly. “Quick, get a picture with him! It’ll be great for local publicity—you’ll be swimming in business!” I put down the book I was cataloging and raised my eyes. Flashing cameras illuminated his face—that cold, handsome mask. Ten years hadn’t fundamentally changed him, only sharpened the lines of ambition around his eyes. Before I could slip into the back room, the assistant spotted me. “Ms. Reed, you’ve been hiding out here,” she said, her voice carrying a performative concern. “You know, Professor Miller has been looking for you for years.” I stared at her, saying nothing, my internal warning system flashing red. Looking for me? The man who personally shredded my life was looking for the debris? I swallowed, grabbed the keys from the counter, and forced a ruthless dismissal. “I’m sorry, you have the wrong person. The shop is closed for the day. Everyone, please exit.” I fought to control the frantic drumbeat of my pulse, trying to project a calm efficiency that my trembling hands immediately betrayed. Smack. A book slipped from my grip. As I bent to retrieve it, a manicured hand reached past me. Owen picked it up, his voice a low, familiar rumble that instantly paralyzed my spine: “Evelyn Reed.” The regulars who had been encouraging me to take a photo froze, looking at me with shock and disbelief. His eyes lingered on my faded, pilled sweater—the uniform of a woman who didn’t care about appearances anymore. He opened his mouth, then closed it, the complex mess of whatever he was about to say condensing into three empty, patronizing words: “Well. Look at you.” I took the book from him, avoiding his gaze. “Thanks for the assist.” I turned my back on him, slotting the book onto the shelf, a clear and decisive end to the interaction. His next attempt at speech was cut short by a bright, saccharine voice. “Owen, darling! There you are!” Seraphina Ross—all high-end white designer dress and perfectly coiffed blonde hair—slipped her arm possessively through his. “We were supposed to be looking at vacation villas in Iceland, not this… middle-of-nowhere town.” She paused when she saw me, her perfect smile freezing for a beat before snapping back into place. “Oh, Professor Reed! Long time, no see.” The title was a deliberate barb. “Owen always says how terrible he felt about what happened. Honestly, I should be thanking you.” This was Seraphina “Sephy” Ross, the daughter of a major figure in the Atherton Institute. She was the one. Owen had sacrificed my career and my freedom to bury Seraphina’s blatant academic plagiarism. Owen didn’t push Seraphina’s hand away, but his brow furrowed. “Don’t be dramatic, Sephy.” She turned her gaze to me, her eyes glittering with possessiveness and jealousy. “Dramatic? Then why are you here, Owen? Why did you tell me you’d never forget her?” She raised her voice, and the lingering patrons put down their books, their disbelief morphing into open curiosity. Owen let out a heavy, rehearsed sigh. He pulled out a sleek, expensive fountain pen, scribbled a number on a stray receipt from the counter, and slid it toward me. “Call me, Evie. Please. I owe you so much.” The deep, sincere tone was identical to the one he’d used a decade ago, just before the judge’s gavel struck, when he’d whispered: “Two years, Evie. That’s all I ask. Sephy’s too young to have a stain on her record.” I shoved the scrap of paper carelessly into my jeans pocket and managed a brittle, fake smile. “Professor Miller, I appreciate the thought. But my little shop here is doing just fine. I have nothing to ask of you.” I didn’t wait for a reply, ruthlessly ushering everyone out and slamming the lock home. After that day, Owen didn’t reappear for a long time. Willow Creek was far from the whirlwind of Amesport, and his fleeting visit was soon forgotten. Life settled back into its monotonous calm. I truly thought that was the last I would see of him. Then, a month later, the phone rang. It was the factory. A cargo collapse. My father, George, was seriously injured and in surgery. I raced to the hospital, only to learn that the injury had triggered a cerebral infarction. The factory’s compensation wouldn’t cover the full treatment; we needed twenty thousand dollars more for the specialized care. In ten years, my bookshop had only just kept me afloat. All my savings combined totaled less than nine thousand. Just as I was sinking into a desperate plan to sell the bookstore, the hospital delivered stunning news: the country’s top neurological team was consulting on my father’s case. Furthermore, someone had paid the entire outstanding balance. My stomach clenched. After a moment of agonizing hesitation, I pulled out the scrap of paper and called Owen Miller. Before I could even speak, he answered. “The medical bills are taken care of. Consider it my compensation.” I had a hundred questions boiling in my throat. How did he know about my father? Was he having me watched? Why do this? But my father’s health was paramount. The money was a lifeline I couldn’t reject. All the accusations and pain condensed into a single word I didn’t mean, but had to say. “Thank you.” Then, I hung up in a panic. My father was receiving the best care, and thanks to Owen, the hospital staff treated me with newfound deference. But inside, I felt a crushing weight, a suffocating dread. I knew Owen too well. His heart was a meticulously calibrated instrument; every gift was precisely calculated for its cost. He had saved my father’s life. The price, I knew, was my continued entanglement in his. The familiar sound of Seraphina Ross’s voice cut through my thoughts as her number flashed on my screen. “Professor Reed.” Seraphina let out a light, brittle laugh, failing to mask the raw, possessive spite in her tone. “Oh, sorry. You’re not a Professor anymore, are you? Just a woman with a criminal record. That must be so hard.” “Owen hasn’t slept in days worrying about your father,” she went on, her voice rising in a calculated whine. “He even postponed our trip to the Maldives. Do us both a favor and don’t make him feel like he needs to do more. It interferes with our relationship.” Her words were meant to be a triumphant boast, yet I knew she wasn’t as secure as she pretended. If she and Owen were truly “fine,” she wouldn’t be making this call. I stayed silent, preparing to disconnect, but she rushed on. “Also, you should stay put in that pathetic little bookstore. Be grateful. Owen is looking into overturning your conviction to ‘clear your name’ as a way to compensate you.” My heart skipped a beat. Clear my name? He had engineered my descent into hell, and now he assumed he could engineer my return? By finding some other innocent person to ruin, washing away my ten years of suffering with a simple reversal, and expecting my gratitude? While I was still reeling, Seraphina abruptly hung up. Immediately, an email landed in my inbox. It was a photo of Owen in bed, asleep, with Seraphina nestled against him. The sheen of sweat and the flush on their cheeks left no doubt as to what had just transpired. [Ms. Reed, Owen is helping you, but you need to remember your place. If you harbor any foolish ideas, I have ways of ensuring your return trip to hell.] The wave of nausea was overwhelming. I rushed to the restroom and dry-heaved. How dare they? They had destroyed my life, and now they were using their arrogant ‘compensation’ to buy their own peace of mind. The day my father’s surgery was declared a success, Owen showed up at the hospital. He looked haggard, his exhaustion visible in the dark circles under his eyes—proof, perhaps, that he had genuinely exerted himself. He naturally took up the role of a devoted son-in-law, monitoring my father’s IV bag, talking to the nurses, and anxiously checking with the medical team. Once my father was asleep, he spoke. “What happened back then, Evie… I was wrong.” He lowered his gaze, carefully peeling an orange segment and offering it to me. “At the time, I only thought about how young Seraphina was. She couldn’t have a permanent stain on her record.” He paused. “Besides,” he added, the word heavy and flat, “her father could give me everything I wanted.” I accepted the orange segment. It was bitter and rotten, just like him. The truth was laid bare: he needed to climb higher, and I, my family, had merely been sacrificial pawns, the necessary offerings in his ascension ritual. I spat the ruined orange into the trash without looking at him. “Professor Miller, it’s over. Thank you for what you did for my father.” “Now, please don’t come back.” He frowned. “Evie, don’t be so stubborn. I told you, I will compensate you.” Just then, Seraphina pushed the door open, carrying a fancy takeout container. Trailing behind her were several reporters. “Professor Reed, we meet again.” She chirped. “I heard George is out of danger, so I brought some specialized restorative food.” She turned, flashing a perfect smile at the cameras. “Thank you for being so gracious and forgiving Owen and me. I truly hope no one else ever has to suffer such an injustice.” The flashbulbs erupted, practically blinding me. That night, the news was saturated. Owen Miller: The deeply remorseful, devoted man. Me: The gracious victim, standing in the light of his redemption. No one seemed to remember that he had been the one who presented the evidence and indignantly condemned me a decade ago. The next morning, Owen called. “Evie, this is the first step,” he said. “I will help you return to your former position.” He didn’t give me a chance to argue, shifting immediately to his usual manipulative tone. “I know you’re proud, but this isn’t the time for ‘saving face.’ Your father is getting older; he can’t stay at that factory. And your bookstore money won’t cover a serious illness.” His voice was gentle, yet utterly chilling. “I know you resent Seraphina. I will try to keep her away from you.” I understood. He was issuing a threat, reminding me that the well-being of my family was in his hands. He was putting on a show, and he intended to keep me tethered and controlled. Seraphina’s taunts finally moved from the shadows to the light. She ensured that every meeting was perfectly timed and always accompanied by reporters. In the glare of the flashes, she’d clasp my hand and play the benevolent figure. When the cameras were down, she’d lean in and whisper: “Professor Reed, don’t blame Owen for your father’s business failing.” “Blame your father for being in the way. He was going to stumble upon the truth eventually, and that would have ruined Owen’s prospects.” My father had run a small, successful company. Though it wasn’t publicly traded, we lived comfortably. My scandal had caused the stock to plummet, and the company was swiftly surrounded by corporate raiders. Within a month, it had collapsed. Under pressure from creditors, my mother, Eleanor, had taken her own life, and my father had spiraled into depression, eventually having to take the factory job. I had always believed they were collateral damage. Seraphina’s words were a clear confession: Owen was directly responsible for it all. I took the first bus to Amesport, connected with a flight, and was in the city the next morning. Ten years had passed, but I had no time for nostalgia. I headed straight for Owen’s high-rise office. It was the first time I had ever sought him out. He looked up, a flicker of surprise and—was that genuine pleasure?—in his eyes. “Evie! You finally came to me!” I tightly gripped the flash drive in my hand—evidence my former university colleagues had helped me compile. I stared straight at him. “What exactly happened to my father’s company?” “Did you know,” I asked, my voice dangerously low, “that my mother died because of that storm?” His composure fractured for a second, but he quickly masked it. “I don’t know, Evie. It must have been an unfortunate accident.” I threw the evidence across his pristine glass desk. Seeing the files, his pretense evaporated. He lunged, grabbing my sleeve. “Evie, let me explain!” I was shaking with a rage that eclipsed a decade of pain. “Explain? You killed my mother, you ruined my family, and you want to explain?” “Owen Miller, what else have you done? What other secrets are buried?” I was near hysterics. He looked at my distressed face, and a flash of what might have been genuine regret crossed his eyes. He looked almost like the boy who used to shield me from bullies back in college. It was nauseating that they were the same person. Just then, his assistant burst in, frantic. “Professor Miller! I’m sorry, but Ms. Ross fell. She’s at the clinic getting bandaged up.” Owen didn’t spare me a second glance. He bolted for the door. I watched him go, the fight draining out of me. The devastation of my family and my tortured accusations meant nothing compared to Seraphina’s scraped knee. Dazed, I returned to my father’s small-town hospital. As I reached his door, I heard a terrible groan. I rushed in. Seraphina was standing over my father, holding her phone up for him to see. “George,” she was saying, her voice sickeningly sweet, “it was Owen who sabotaged your company, and yes, he arranged the debt collectors. And yes, he personally sent your daughter to prison.” “But don’t blame him. He only did it because he loves me.” She was replaying the decade-old video, over and over, for him. On the screen, Owen’s tender, cold voice mixed with my father’s pained gasps: “Sephy, as soon as I get rid of this dead weight of a family, I’ll marry you. Just wait for me.” My father saw me in the doorway, his eyes wide. He tried to speak, but the heart monitor flatlined. He never got the chance. My mind went blank. Everything was a distant, loud buzz. Seraphina straightened up, walking toward me. She laughed softly. “These bottom-feeders are so fragile. A little video is all it takes.” “I had so many more surprises for him.” She looked at me, her smile wide and unhinged. “Oh, and by the way, I never even asked him to sacrifice you. Owen did it all on his own, just to prove his loyalty.” I snapped. I lunged, grabbing her throat and slamming her back against the bedside cabinet. Before I could connect, the door burst open. Owen and two security guards rushed in. The men brutally pulled me away, throwing me against the wall. The impact knocked the bedside ashtray to the floor; shards of glass sprayed up, slicing into my hands and shins. Seraphina huddled in Owen’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably. “Owen, Professor Reed has lost it! She tried to kill me!” The look Owen gave me was pure, murderous contempt. “Evelyn Reed, you are insane!” I looked at him, at Seraphina in his embrace, and then at my father’s cold, lifeless body on the bed. Tears streamed down my face, but I started to laugh—a high, ragged sound. “Yes, I’m insane!” “You dogs drove me mad!” Owen glanced at my father on the bed, his expression faltering for a second. He didn’t say anything else, instead rushing out with Seraphina, fleeing the scene. My phone vibrated. A message from an unknown number. [Ms. Reed, I have been looking for you for ten years.] [I believe we share a common enemy. I now have the evidence to help you. Shall we cooperate?] The second victim in the academic scandal was the man Seraphina had plagiarized: Elias Croft. He had gone abroad shortly after the incident, too preoccupied to appear in court. Everyone had assumed he was gone for good. My fingertips felt icy. I slowly typed a response: [Cooperation. I want them to pay the ultimate price.] Owen Miller, your reckoning has just begun.

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The snarky little post I’d made on The Sprawl—a private forum for rich, disgruntled wives—had exploded overnight. I had vented about finding yet another piece of lingerie that wasn’t mine. Now, I watched the comments roll in, but one private message stood out, a blue-check account I didn’t recognize: @UnattainableIdeal: He didn’t cheat. He just wants you to flirt with him, Avery. He wants you to stop being so buttoned-up and boring. I snapped a photo of the pale pink lace slip I’d just pulled from between the sofa cushions—a damning piece of evidence if ever there was one. @AveryThorne: Are you sure about that? The typing bubble appeared and vanished several times. A few seconds of silence stretched. @UnattainableIdeal: …He wants you to wear it. I was done with the whole ridiculous, degrading scavenger hunt. This was the tenth piece of intimate apparel I’d found in our Boston penthouse in as many months. I ignored the anonymous user and grabbed my phone to call my lawyer, Leo. “Did you finally draft those papers?” 1 Miles Thorne pushed the door open, his expression as cool and detached as the polished granite countertop in the kitchen. I was sitting on the Italian leather sofa, staring straight at him. Next to me, the pale pink lace slip was a glaring, obvious spot against the charcoal gray cushion. Miles glanced over. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, brushed past me, landed on the lingerie, and then moved on without a flicker of acknowledgment. He simply walked toward the stairs. The sheer dismissal was a slap in the face. Impotent rage—that’s what the feeling was. He was bringing women into our home, leaving their secrets scattered for me to find, and he couldn’t even bother to offer a lie. He treated me like a ghost in my own marriage mausoleum. I snatched up my phone and went back to my post on The Sprawl, typing furiously. @AveryThorne: My husband is cheating, fine. But does he have to keep leaving lace slips and silky camisoles everywhere? What is his goal? To provoke me? Can’t he keep his affairs out of the house?! The comments poured in. WTF, is he serious? You haven’t yelled at him? He’s definitely doing it on purpose. Why are you staying, girl? Do you like the drama? I replied with cold cynicism: Look, he might be a player, but the man has money. Serious money. The collective wisdom of the internet told me to swallow my pride and stop looking for the evidence. A trade-off, Avery. While I was wallowing in this melancholy, the private message popped up again. @UnattainableIdeal: He didn’t cheat. He just wants you to flirt with him, Avery. He wants you to stop being so buttoned-up and boring. I narrowed my eyes. How could you possibly know that? No reply. I scoffed, taking the picture of the slip again and sending it. You sure? If you don’t find this repulsive, you have my respect. (Followed by a strong-arm emoji). @UnattainableIdeal: …He wants you to wear it. I actually laughed. This person was a complete freak. I was genuinely tired of this. I hadn’t looked at the account again, dialing my lawyer, Leo. “Is the divorce agreement ready?” Last month, I’d found a satin bunny costume tucked deep under the master bed. That was the last straw. I’d called Leo that night. But Miles and I had been married for five years, and I’d grown very accustomed to the life his money afforded. There was also the residual, old feeling of affection. I had loved him—until his nonstop work, his constant absence, slowly chipped away at the foundation until there was nothing left but two strangers sharing a very expensive zip code. My hesitation had stalled the process. I kept thinking I needed the right time to talk to him. Now, I thought, maybe he’s been trying to talk to me all along. Maybe this whole lingerie scavenger hunt was his clumsy, silent plea for me to end it. Fine. I’ll give him what he wants. Leo replied, “It’s been ready for a week, Avery. But I’m out of the country. Do you want to come to the firm and pick it up, or should I have my assistant courier it to you?” “Courier it,” I sighed. “Your firm is practically in the next state. I’m too lazy for that drive…” A cold voice cut through the silence of the room. “Avery. Who are you talking to?” I instantly hung up, turning to face him, forcing a casual look. “I thought you were in your study.” Miles stood on the bottom step, his eyebrows low, his gaze locked onto me. “Who were you just on the phone with?” Was he interrogating me? The man who was currently having an affair? I glared back. “Mind your own business.” I yanked the lace slip fully out of the couch, marched toward him, and threw it right at his chest. “Why don’t you mind your own first.” 2 Back in the bedroom, a message from my friend, Liv, flashed on my screen. Liv: Avery, seriously, you need to watch Miles. I heard he’s getting way too cozy with his new executive assistant. She followed up with a photo. Miles was leaning over a document, his face obscured by shadow, while a pretty, slender woman stood right next to him, leaning in, their shoulders practically touching. It was an unnervingly intimate angle. I let out a cold laugh. When was this taken? Liv: Just yesterday. I’d been at my spa retreat yesterday. That explained the fresh piece of lace on the couch. My fingers tightened faintly around my phone. It was a strange feeling—not sharp pain, but a deep, numbing ache of betrayal. But we were on the verge of divorce, so those ambiguous feelings didn’t matter. I thanked Liv. I noticed the annoying user, @UnattainableIdeal, had messaged me one second ago. @UnattainableIdeal: Does this make you angry? That your husband is doing this? My eyes widened. I typed back furiously. Is it not obvious enough?! Does he even see me anymore?! @UnattainableIdeal: It sounds like you really care about him. I was speechless. What nerve. The person continued: You should try to be proactive. Go to him, try to flirt a little, and tell him you’re bothered. I stared at the last phrase: tell him you’re bothered. It wasn’t really jealousy, it was disgust, but I was too tired to explain. He’s cheating. You think that’ll work? @UnattainableIdeal: It will. The certainty in that one word was maddening. I clicked on their profile. Just a bunch of blurry photos of houseplants. Nothing useful. @UnattainableIdeal: Most men are like this. I snorted. I sent a dry: Oh. I just wanted this person to stop, so I added: Fine. I’ll try it later. The account went quiet. Thank God. In reality, I turned off my phone and yawned. My eyelids felt heavy. Sleep beckoned. The world was ending, but first, I needed a nap. 3 I woke up starving in the middle of the night. I stumbled downstairs, groggy, planning to snatch a yogurt from the fridge. A sudden, low voice startled me into wakefulness. “Avery.” I nearly dropped the carton, whipping my head around. Miles was on the sofa, his long legs crossed, staring into the dark room. By the sliver of moonlight filtering through the window, I could just make out the intense focus of his eyes on me. I stammered. “W-w-what are you doing sitting in the living room?” His voice was husky, a low grate. “I forgot. What were you doing in the room?” I gave him a baffled look. “Sleeping, Miles. I woke up from a deep sleep. It’s the middle of the night.” Was it my imagination, or did he visibly freeze for a second? I grabbed my yogurt and waved dismissively. “I’m going back to bed. You should too.” Miles stared at me, his lips parted as if he was about to speak, but he ultimately remained silent. I woke up the next day just before noon. The first message I saw was from Liv. Liv: You’re not going to the Thorne corporate event? The updated guest list for the big commercial gala listed Miles’s new executive assistant as his date. As his date, Avery. Did you two have a fight? I quietly read the lines. A faint, bitter smile touched my lips. We were getting divorced soon. I didn’t need to be upset about this. But still… It was true Miles and I lacked passion, but we had always maintained a kind of stiff, polite respect. Now, with the lingerie and the public date, it seemed clear: he had found someone he genuinely cared about and was deliberately pushing me out. I would grant him his wish. The annoying user popped up again. @UnattainableIdeal: Did you try my advice? Did it work? Persistent, I thought. I hadn’t had the slightest intention of going to Miles and confessing my feelings. I sent a cold laugh. No, it didn’t work. We’re getting divorced. 4 The reply was instantaneous. A bright red exclamation mark followed by a two-word message. @UnattainableIdeal: Don’t do it! I raised an eyebrow. He was more stressed than I was. Why not? he asked. I gave a dry chuckle, typing quickly. He’s taking another woman to the biggest corporate event of the year. What am I supposed to stay for? To cheer them on? Silence. A long five minutes passed before a reply came. @UnattainableIdeal: Maybe he just wants to make you jealous. He’s hoping you’ll demand to go with him. I stared at the screen and almost burst out laughing. This person’s reasoning was truly astonishing. To justify this much callous behavior. I was done debating. I ended the conversation. I’m not going. He can bring the whole staff if he wants. I don’t want to see his stone-cold face anyway. I exited the chat. Leo’s firm was efficient. The next afternoon, the assistant couriered the package. I tore it open and pulled out the divorce papers. Two copies, all the necessary information filled out. All it needed were Miles’s and my signatures. I picked up a pen and, with careful, deliberate strokes, signed my name on the line for the wife. A hollow feeling settled in my chest. Five years. Just like that. I placed the signed papers prominently on the living room coffee table, packed a small suitcase, and headed to my own place—a pre-nup loft I’d bought before the wedding. I needed a quiet place to contemplate how I would spend the rest of my life after taking half of Miles Thorne’s fortune. 5 I spent two days at the loft, sleeping and eating, catching up on the emotional exhaustion of the last few years. On the third day, my phone nearly melted from Liv’s frantic calls. Liv: Avery! Are you really not coming?! Your husband actually brought the little secretary! Holy hell, Chloe is wearing a custom couture gown! You need to get here! If the Queen doesn’t show up, the mistress takes the throne! I read Liv’s chain of messages and looked at the few candid photos she’d snapped. Miles was in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, his expression utterly impassive. Next to him was the secretary, Chloe. Young, beautiful, and in a white mermaid-style dress that made her look like a pure, delicate flower. A knot formed in my stomach. It was a lie to say I wasn’t bothered. But then I reminded myself that I was divorcing him. Why should I care? I texted Liv back. I’m not coming. They can be happy together. I’m busy cashing out. Liv: …Are you serious? It’s Miles Thorne! Yes. It was Miles Thorne. The hardest man to catch at Harvard Business School, the one who’d pursued me for a full year before I finally agreed to marry him. The man who, despite his coldness after marriage, never once held back his wealth. My resolve wavered. Just then, the mysterious user popped up again. @UnattainableIdeal: Are you really not going to the event? Your husband looks incredible tonight. If you don’t go, he will be very disappointed. I stared at the messages, a surge of pure fury hitting me. Disappointed? He brought another woman as his date and he expected me to cheer him on? I typed, pressing down the rage. I don’t care. @UnattainableIdeal: If you went, he would be happy. He got you a gift. A gift? I gave a cold laugh. Was it another lace slip? Or something even more bizarre? I was about to block him when Liv’s call came through again, her voice vibrating with excitement. “Avery! Check the trending page!” I opened the social media app. #ThorneCEOandNewFlame was sitting at number one. I clicked in, and high-resolution photos and videos of the gala flooded the screen. Miles’s god-like handsome face was flawless under the lights. He and Chloe did, indeed, look like a perfect couple. The comments section was a battlefield. OMG! Who is that woman? Not his wife, Avery! Where have you been? They’ve been playing their own games for years. The secretary has serious game to land Miles Thorne. Am I the only one who thinks the CEO looks miserable? Like someone owes him ten million dollars. I couldn’t help but smile at the “miserable” comment. It was true; Miles in the photos looked like his jaw was set in concrete. As I was enjoying the schadenfreude, Liv shrieked into the phone. “Did you see it?! The necklace around her neck! The Heart of the Ocean! Miles bought it at auction last week for nine million dollars!” My heart plummeted. I had seen the news about that auction. I even joked with Liv that some woman was incredibly lucky. I just didn’t expect that woman to be his secretary. 6 He bought me a designer handbag for my birthday. The most expensive was maybe a few hundred thousand. It wasn’t that he was stingy. It was that he thought I wasn’t worth the grand gesture. A strange mix of bitterness and white-hot anger rushed through me. I took a deep breath. “Liv,” I said, my voice steady. “I need you to do me a favor.” “Anything!” “Send your emergency gown and your stylist to my loft. Now. Immediately.” Liv’s efficiency was startling. Within half an hour, my single-bedroom loft looked like a celebrity dressing room backstage. “Avery, you finally snapped? We’re crashing the party?” Liv asked, directing the stylist while practically bouncing with excitement. I sat in front of the mirror, looking at my slightly pale, tired face. My eyes, however, were blazing. “Crash it?” I smirked, letting the stylist pin up my hair. “I’m going to reclaim what’s mine.” I was still Miles Thorne’s wife. His date, publicly, had to be me. If a divorce was happening, I would be the one kicking him out, not the other way around. The stylist and makeup artist were world-class. In less than an hour, the mirror reflected a radiant, fiercely beautiful woman. A strapless gown of siren-red silk made my skin look porcelain. The high slit in the skirt gave fleeting glimpses of my long legs. My long, dark hair was swept up, a few loose curls framing a face defined by a powerful red lip. “Holy shit, Avery. If you dressed like this all the time, that secretary wouldn’t even exist!” Liv stared, slack-jawed. I smiled, a predatory curve of my lips, and grabbed a tiny clutch. “Let’s go. Time for the main event.”

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I was scrolling through my phone before bed, deep in the digital rabbit hole, when I stumbled across a morbid Reddit post that immediately seized my attention. AITA for wanting to tell my neighbor she’s got a stranger hiding in her apartment? The headline alone had a potent, visceral punch. I couldn’t stop myself from reading on. He’s hiding under her bed tonight. The comments section was already a chaotic mess. Definitely farming karma. This is too wild. Are you posting this from under the bed yourself, bro? Writing out your dream plot points, are we? If this is real, you need to call the cops. Wait, why does he know this? Holy hell, is the girl being stalked? The Original Poster (OP) saw the flood of accusations. Look, y’all need to calm down. Her floor-to-ceiling windows don’t have the curtains closed. I live in the building opposite, and I saw it by accident. Someone challenged him for photo evidence, but before I could scroll to see the proof, my blood ran cold. A sudden, sharp memory. My sheer voile drapes. They were at the dry cleaner. I’d dropped them off this morning. And my apartment, with its entire south-facing wall, was essentially one giant sheet of glass. 1 Just then, a sound abruptly pierced the silence under my bed. I jumped out of my skin, my muscles tensing as if preparing to launch myself into the blankets for cover. Then I realized it was just the charging cord for my phone, snagging the box of tissues on my nightstand and sending it crashing to the floor with a soft thud. I leaned over and picked it up, my hand shaking slightly. I knew I shouldn’t have been reading those messed-up, sensationalist posts before bed. What were the chances? The whole thing was clearly manufactured to go viral. But then, the Reddit post updated. The OP had uploaded an image. It was a picture of an entire residential tower. I squinted at the screen, and a film of cold sweat broke out on my forehead. It was my building. Our community. Our developer used huge, floor-to-ceiling windows to maximize light in the smaller units. My entire living area, from the balcony to the main bedroom, was one continuous expanse of glass. Living alone, I’d chosen not to put a wall between the bedroom and the balcony, so the whole space was one sunny, open concept—which I loved. The photo sent the discussion into a frenzy. I told you that privacy was crap with those windows. No curtains and everything is on display. OP is a total fraud. He’s obviously not shooting from his own floor. Everyone scatter. Probably stole the pic from Zillow. The OP replied, defending himself. I’m not an idiot. I shot this from my place. How many floors up can you count from your vantage point, genius? The math wizards in here are on fire tonight. Fine. To prove I’m legit, here’s a close-up from my window. I’m only showing half. The next image was a blurry, zoomed-in shot of the opposite building. Most windows were covered, their curtains drawn tight. A few were dark. I nearly dropped my phone. I recognized the layout instantly. That was my exact tower. And one of those dark, uncovered windows was mine. I quickly tapped the OP’s profile and checked his IP location. My heart hammered against my ribs. I instinctively slid out of bed and retreated to the living room. The comments under the post had turned frantic. If this is true, you need to call the police, OP. The OP posted again. The neighbor looks like she’s up. She just went into the living room for water. I gripped my phone, trembling. The coincidence was too precise. I was in the living room, standing right next to the water filter. I dared not look at the windows. I couldn’t walk back to the bedroom. As I stood there, frozen, the thread updated again. The reason I posted for advice is that the guy hiding in her apartment doesn’t seem to have any hostile intentions. If I tell her, will he notice and come after me? Or will he just get worse? About three days ago, I first noticed a man pop out in her apartment after she left for work. I thought he was family at first. But they never appear at the same time. And I watch him climb under the bed every day right before she gets home. The comments exploded. This girl is being stalked by a psycho! Some sickos target single women, live in their place, and when they’re bored, they kill them. This is horrifying. Call the cops, OP! Call them now! But if he calls the cops, how long will the creep be locked up? Will he come back and retaliate against the girl? The OP replied. That’s exactly why I posted for help. I’m thinking about all that. Y’all are actually believing this peeping tom? A normal person doesn’t stalk their neighbor. He’s a creep too. That comment spurred an even more intense discussion. OMG, this girl is cursed. Two psychos at once! I’m never living alone again. The OP posted a final update. I’m putting up a poll now. Based on the votes, I’ll decide whether to knock on her door and tell her. A poll button appeared instantly. Knock on her door now Continue to observe I clutched my phone and backed into the bathroom. Please don’t come. He’s a creep, too. Thankfully, the majority of votes were for “Continue to observe.” OP, don’t provoke him. Unless you’re the size of The Rock, don’t risk escalating it. I still think OP is just trying to go viral. Look at all the new followers! The OP replied: Okay, I’ll listen to the consensus. Continue to observe, or maybe tell her during the day. She turned off the light. Maybe I should delete this thread. It feels weird now that everyone’s calling me a stalker. NO, OP! We need updates! You’re the good guy stalker protecting the single girl next door! The light from the phone screen washed over my face. In the reflection, I saw my own expression: perfectly blank. Exposing myself now would put me, a woman, at a severe disadvantage against the intruder. I turned off the phone, cleared my browser history, and walked casually back to bed. I pulled the covers up to my chin. I closed my eyes. Which floor, in the building across the street, was the other creep on? Was he still watching? 2 I woke up the next morning and went to work as normal, terrified of showing even the slightest sign of distress. I was sure the man hiding in the dark would burst out and kill me the second I slipped up. Only once I stepped out the front door did my heart rate begin to slow. On the subway ride to my yoga studio, I called the dry cleaner. They told me my curtains—the material was large and handmade—wouldn’t be ready until the day after tomorrow. I didn’t push them. I just told them to take their time and do a good job. Then, I checked the Reddit thread from last night. The OP had posted an update during the day. The guy under the bed is gone. He actually left the apartment today. The neighbor still hasn’t noticed anything. Should I still say something? The comments section was busy. Oh god, is he scouting his next victim? OP, you need to get evidence and call the police! What good will the police do? She hasn’t lost anything. What’s the charge? Disgusting. The thought of a stranger touching her clothes, smelling her sheets… makes me sick. The discussion didn’t last long. The OP abruptly deleted the entire thread. I frowned, biting my lip. Did he really leave? My subway stop had arrived. I put my phone away. That evening, coming home from work, I saw a young man near the lobby entrance. He was wearing a black hoodie, the hood pulled so low it obscured most of his face. My gut told me he was watching me. But he never approached. I walked into the building, breaking his gaze. After dinner, I did my usual ten minutes of yoga on the balcony. It was essential for my job. Given the lack of curtains, I kept it brief, mindful of the exposure. Before going to sleep, I searched for the deleted thread again. The OP had reposted a new update. He’s back. He’s back. He climbed under the bed again. He seems to be holding something in his hand this time. The neighbor is home. The comment section went into full panic mode. Call the police now! He’s going to make a move! This is like a horror movie! Why are you still posting, OP?! Oh my god, is this girl about to be murdered? I think OP is just fabricating the whole thing. A normal person would have called 911 by now. OP, you need to go check on her. The OP didn’t reply again. I opened the Notes app on my phone and started typing. Then, I quickly got up and went to the living room, settling onto the sofa. I refused to go back to the bedroom. Curled up on the couch, I picked up the thermos from the coffee table, took a sip of water, and felt a wave of crushing drowsiness wash over me. I must have fallen asleep instantly. Before I drifted off, I had one last thought. Please, please don’t let the poster come tonight.

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My in-laws were in a horrific car accident. They were rushing them into surgery. I raced to the hospital like a man possessed, but the real shock wasn’t the sirens or the blood; it was seeing my wife, Savannah. My brilliant, celebrated surgeon wife stood at the observation window, arms casually folded, coaching her star intern, Troy. She was letting an intern perform my parents’ life-or-death surgery! I lunged toward her, demanding an explanation. She merely shrugged, her voice a flat line. “Troy needs to grow. People like your small-town parents should be honored to serve as his practice run.” Troy’s hand slipped. The monitor screamed. The aorta was nicked. They didn’t make it. When I sought justice, she cornered me in her office and slapped a divorce agreement onto the desk. “Ethan, I’m through with you. And I’m through with your poor, pathetic parents.” “Drop the complaint right now. Don’t ruin Troy’s future.” “Otherwise, you won’t get a single cent.” I looked at her face—beautiful, yet twisted with such pure, raw disgust—and felt a strange urge to laugh. Slowly, deliberately, I asked her the question. “Savannah, if it were your own parents lying on that table, treated like guinea pigs for your student, would you still say that?” She didn’t know the truth. To try and talk her out of a divorce, the two people who had driven five hundred miles overnight, only to be struck by a drunk driver and rushed into the ICU, were not my parents. They were hers. 1 By the time I frantically reached the Emergency Room, the corridor was already a maelstrom of fear and noise. Yet, I spotted Savannah instantly. She wasn’t in scrubs. She had her white coat draped loosely over her shoulders, hands jammed into her pockets, her expression utterly detached as two blood-soaked bodies were wheeled toward the operating theater. “Savannah!” I ran to her, grabbing her arm, my voice trembling uncontrollably. “How are Mom and Dad?” Her brow furrowed. She recoiled and sharply pulled her arm away, as if I’d contaminated her. “Multiple rib fractures, punctured lungs suspected, severe cranial bleeding. It’s bad.” Her tone was as flat and emotionless as a weather report. “I’ve already arranged it. Troy is leading the procedure. I’ll observe.” Troy was her hand-picked intern, her star apprentice, the one she constantly spoke about grooming as her successor. My mind went blank. I couldn’t process the words. “You’re letting Troy operate?” “Savannah, have you lost your mind?!” “These are two lives, not a goddamn training opportunity for your student!” “Ethan, stop shouting!” Savannah’s face instantly went cold, her eyes fixed on me with that familiar look of high-minded arrogance and contempt. “Troy has been with me for three years. He can handle a minor trauma case like this.” “What do you know about surgery, House Husband?” Her words stole my breath. My whole body seized up, and a dull ache started to throb in my chest. Yes, I was a stay-at-home husband now. But she had conveniently forgotten something. Seven years ago, I had stood beside her, a fellow surgical resident. My hands were steadier, my talent perhaps even greater than hers; I was the one our mentor had singled out. Yet, for love, I had deliberately put down the scalpel and picked up the kitchen knife instead. The light above the Operating Room door flickered red. That harsh glow stung my eyes. My throat constricted, choking off the air, making it impossible to breathe. I rushed to the observation window, staring desperately into the room. Troy was visibly nervous, his forehead slick with sweat, the hand holding the scalpel shaking ever so slightly. Savannah stood just behind him. She offered an occasional instruction but mostly remained motionless, arms crossed, the picture of a disinterested bystander. I watched Troy’s hand slip. He failed to accurately navigate around a major artery. In a flash, the heart rate on the monitor became a flat line. The piercing, relentless shriek of the alarm broke the silence, shredding my eardrums. Two agonizing hours later, the OR light went dark. Troy walked out, utterly distraught, his face a ghostly white. “Ethan… I’m so sorry… I couldn’t save them…” Savannah followed him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Her voice was gentle, filled with reassurance. “It’s alright, Troy. It wasn’t your fault. Their injuries were too severe.” “It was just one mistake, sweetheart. Don’t dwell on it. Every doctor has to go through this.” She didn’t spare me a glance. All her sympathy, all her careful soothing, was reserved for the intern who had just destroyed my parents’ lives. I stood there, my hands and feet freezing cold. All sound around me faded into a distant hum. 2 The deaths of my in-laws were officially categorized as “Death due to failed resuscitation.” Savannah used every connection she had within the hospital to suppress the incident. The reports filed with the oversight committees were seamless and airtight. Troy’s surgical error was perfectly obscured by the severity of my in-laws’ existing injuries. I locked myself in the guest room for three days, refusing to eat or drink. On the fourth day, I finally emerged. I needed a conclusion. Savannah was sitting on the living room sofa, leisurely flipping through a medical journal while wearing a sheet mask. She showed no sign of grief. On the coffee table lay a divorce agreement, already signed by her. She didn’t even lift her eyelids when I entered. “Finally came to your senses?” “If you have, sign it. The house is yours, the car is yours, plus a five million settlement…” “Just don’t bother me again.” Her tone was that of someone swatting away a persistent, bothersome beggar. I ignored the agreement. Instead, I tossed a thick file onto the table in front of her. “I’m filing a lawsuit against Troy and the hospital for gross medical negligence.” Every word tore from my throat with a metallic, blood-raw edge. My voice was hoarse, but my resolve was absolute. My in-laws would not die in vain. Troy would pay the price. At that, Savannah finally looked up from her magazine. She glanced at the file’s title, then looked at me as if I were a particularly poor joke. “Ethan, have you gone completely insane?” She ripped the sheet mask off her face and casually flung the wet, cold thing onto the legal documents. She sprang to her feet, looming over me. “I told you, their death has nothing to do with Troy. They were too far gone to begin with!” “Why can’t you just listen?” “I saw it with my own eyes,” I said calmly, meeting her gaze. I was no longer the docile, eager-to-please husband she knew. “He lacerated the aorta. He missed the critical window.” “He needs to face consequences.” “And what good is your testimony? Do you have proof?” Savannah sneered, crossing her arms. “That entire OR team is my team. Who do you think is going to testify for you?” “I’m warning you, Ethan. Don’t be an idiot. Put this trash away!” Savannah snatched the file off the table and hurled it at my face. The sharp corner of the folder sliced my cheek, leaving a thin, burning red line. “I don’t need a witness,” I said, ignoring the sting. “I’ll subpoena the OR surveillance footage.” “The cameras were broken,” she replied without hesitation. In that moment, staring into her icy eyes, the last flickering candle of hope in my heart was extinguished. I looked at the woman I had loved for ten years and felt an utter, chilling foreignness. Her face was a mask of cold calculation and indifference. To protect her golden boy, she was willing to twist the truth and sacrifice human lives. “Savannah…” I looked at her, slowly articulating each word. “Those were two lives. They were our parents.” “So what?” Her impatience was clear, her voice laced with extreme contempt. “They were just useless small-town trash. It’s an honor for them to add a line to Troy’s resume!” Trash! Honor! Those two words struck me like a pair of bullets, piercing my skull. I was cold all over, from my head to my toes. In her eyes, my parents were nothing more than sacrificial dogs. I forced a smile. I slowly bent down, picked up the divorce agreement, and reached for the pen. A look of smug victory flashed across Savannah’s face. “That’s more like it.” “Ethan, you can’t win against me. Take the money and quietly go back to whatever hole you crawled out of…” 3 Hearing Savannah’s voice, my heart gave a painful, involuntary lurch. I paused the pen just above the signature line. “I can sign. But I have one condition.” “Spit it out.” She folded her arms, radiating an air of complete superiority. “I want you to personally go to the funeral home and prepare their bodies for burial.” I lifted my head, meeting her eyes, my chest heavy with complex emotions. “Let’s call it… the last thing you do for us, as my wife. See them off.” Savannah’s eyebrows knitted tightly together, her face a map of undisguised aversion and disgust. “Are you insane? I’m not going to that morbid, stinking, filthy place!” “It’s my only condition.” I pushed the blank agreement back toward her. “You agree, and I sign immediately. This divorce is finalized.” “You don’t agree, and we go to court. And even if I can’t convict you, I will make enough noise to ensure you and your precious student…” “Are completely ruined.” My voice was calm, but Savannah knew I wasn’t bluffing. She glared at me, her chest heaving, her lips trembling with suppressed rage. After a long silence, she let out a slow, strained breath and bit out two words through clenched teeth. “Fine. I’ll go.” “But once it’s done, you sign and get lost!” Savannah believed this was nothing more than my final, meaningless act of spite. She was wrong. This wasn’t the end. Everything was just beginning. The air in the funeral home hung thick with a sickly sweet mix of antiseptic and burnt incense. The moment Savannah stepped inside, she clapped a hand over her nose, her face contorted with revulsion. She was dressed in an expensive Chanel suit and ten-centimeter heels, profoundly out of place. “Ethan, what the hell is this supposed to achieve?” She hissed, her voice low and furious. “Dragging me to this awful place? Does it make you feel better?” I ignored her and walked directly toward the viewing room. A worker slid open two sterile metal drawers, pulling out two white-shrouded bodies. “Dr. Chen, you’re a physician. You can handle this, right?” I turned back to her, gesturing with my hand. “Get started. Mom and Dad are waiting for you.” Savannah’s face was chalk white, but she gritted her teeth and reluctantly approached the table. She snapped on a pair of plastic gloves and roughly pulled back the first sheet. When the face, horribly mangled by the crash, was exposed, she couldn’t help a small, gagging sound. She quickly averted her eyes. “Hurry up,” I urged. Fighting back the nausea, she grabbed a wet cloth and haphazardly wiped the face, treating the dead like a filthy kitchen counter. She repeated the perfunctory gesture for the second body, never once bothering to truly look at either face. “Done,” she announced, peeling off the gloves. She backed away as if fleeing a plague. “My part of the deal is complete. The divorce agreement—” “Not so fast,” I interrupted, pointing to a cardboard box nearby. “Their personal effects. You should inventory those too.” Savannah’s patience was clearly exhausted, but she managed to suppress her fury long enough to open the box. Inside was a collection of blood-soaked, torn clothing, a cracked old flip phone, and a severely scuffed leather wallet. She pawed through the items with the disdain of handling trash. Then, her hand froze. Why did this stuff look so familiar? 4 From the pile of tattered clothing, she picked up a half-finished sweater. It was a men’s sweater, grey, and an old-fashioned style, but the stitches were tiny and intricate, showing the effort and care of the knitter. “This sweater…” she mumbled, a flicker of confusion in her eyes. “My mother was knitting it,” I said calmly. “She said it was getting colder and she worried I’d be cold. Shame she didn’t get to finish it.” Savannah’s fingers tightened on the yarn, but she said nothing. She then picked up the worn leather wallet and opened it. Tucked into the plastic window was a faded, sepia-toned black and white photo. It showed a young couple, both beaming, holding a newborn baby. She didn’t recognize the couple. But the baby… the baby felt unsettlingly familiar. “Who is…?” “A picture of me when I was a baby,” I said flatly. Savannah’s brow furrowed deeper. She looked like she wanted to ask something, but in the end, she merely tossed the wallet back into the box. “Fine. I’ve seen everything.” She stood up, brushing imaginary dust off her suit. “Ethan, our transaction is finished. We are done.” With that, she didn’t look back, click-clacking on her heels as she fled the place that had suffocated her. I watched her go, then slowly knelt down. I gently gathered the unfinished sweater and the black and white photo, tucking them away safely. Savannah… did you truly not recognize anything? Could you really not recognize the sweater your own mother spent half her life knitting for you? Could you not recognize your father’s twenty-year-old wallet? Did you not recognize the eyes of the baby in the photograph—the eyes you see every morning in the mirror?

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That was the last time I ever brought up the subject of our engagement with Rhys Kingston. The room went silent. Then, a collective snicker turned into a roar of laughter when they caught the look of sheer annoyance on Rhys’s face. “Seriously, a childhood promise? What is this, a Jane Austen novel?” “Our Princess Anya is finally feeling the heat, huh? Thought that old family pact kept you safe?” I ignored the crass, drunken mockery. My eyes were fixed on Rhys, who was draped in a velvet armchair. His shirt collar was undone, and I could just make out faint, tell-tale marks—hickeys—on the skin above his collarbone. My heart seized, a sharp, almost surgical kind of pain. The full, brutal realization of what those marks meant hit me a second later than the sting. “We were naive children, Anya. That kind of ridiculous arrangement only makes sense when you’re twelve.” Rhys met my gaze, a lazy, utterly dismissive look. His lips curled in subtle mockery. “We’re not kids anymore, Anya Wells. Let’s be adults and call this whole childhood thing what it is: over.” 1 I stared at him, my mind scrambling for a response. The door to the private penthouse lounge swung open. Holly Quinn came in, wearing the black uniform of the catering staff, holding a tray of champagne flutes. She flinched visibly when she saw me, her voice dropping to a near-inaudible whisper. “Ethan’s sister… I mean, Miss Wells.” Then, quick as a flash, she darted a tearful glance at Rhys. “I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize I was interrupting something.” Holly’s voice trembled as she rushed to set the tray down and leave. Rhys’s composure broke. He suddenly kicked out, flipping the heavy mahogany coffee table in front of him. Glasses shattered, and the sound of cracking crystal echoed through the sudden silence. Shards of glass flew. A piece grazed my arm—a sharp, immediate stinging—and I watched the blood bead up, slowly spilling onto my white dress. Rhys didn’t even glance my way. His face was thunderous as he strode toward Holly. He roughly grabbed the frilly apron tied around her waist and yanked it off. “Holly, did I not make myself clear? You are not to be working here or anywhere.” She nodded immediately, obediently, but then her eyes welled up. “I just… I don’t want to keep leaning on you, Rhys. You and Ethan have done too much already. I can earn my own living…” “But it makes me sick to see you in this,” Rhys growled, tossing the apron aside. “You’re coming home with me now. And if I ever see you trying to work again, I swear I will personally shut down the place.” He spun around, his gaze finally snapping back to me. “And anyone—anyone at all—who tries to use their connections to make your life difficult, they’re going to pay. No history, no relationship, will matter to me.” I pressed my hand to my bleeding arm. The room was chaos, but I held his gaze, my face a mask of cold neutrality. This penthouse lounge is part of the Wells Group portfolio. Rhys thought I had pulled strings, using my family’s power to make a point, to make her suffer. The ridiculous, painful thing was that Holly was already living like a pampered princess, showered in my brother’s and Rhys’s money. She had no need to “work her way through life.” But I knew that even if I presented the club manager as a witness, Rhys wouldn’t believe a word of it. In his mind, I was the malicious antagonist, the entitled heiress using her power to crush the fragile, innocent heroine. “Anya Wells,” Rhys said, his voice flat with finality. He pulled Holly securely into his side. “You’re too much, Anya. Too demanding. Too dramatic.” He tightened his grip on her shoulder. “The engagement is off, officially. You can stop grasping at that childhood agreement now.” The room went silent again. Holly’s face went white, and she trembled, shrinking further into Rhys’s embrace. My so-called friends looked at me with a mix of disgust and pity. A strange feeling, almost like relief, washed over me. I remembered the months of hysterical arguments and the tears I’d shed, all because my entitled, spoiled existence couldn’t handle sharing the unconditional affection that had once been solely mine. I reacted, I threw tantrums, I cried. All I managed was to cement their loyalty to her. Now, I was simply tired. Exhausted, down to the bone. “Fine,” I heard myself say. It was a single, utterly calm word. I took a slow step forward. Rhys instantly moved to shield Holly further. “Anya Wells, you want to start something, start it with me.” I lowered my injured hand and spread my fingers. The white skin of my palm was a mess of spreading crimson. Rhys’s eyes flickered, the anger in them softening a fraction, a brief moment of human doubt. But then Holly pulled away from him. “Anya, please don’t be angry with Rhys. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have intruded…” Her tears began to fall perfectly on cue, running down her porcelain cheeks. “I’ll leave right now.” “Holly, I told you. I have you,” Rhys whispered, immediately stroking her cheek and wiping her tears away. Any brief moment of wavering was gone, replaced by a fierce protectiveness—and unconcealed revulsion directed at me. “Anya, why do you have to be so manipulative—” I cut him off. “Ending the engagement is fine. But I want my things back.” Rhys looked confused. “What things?” I reached behind my neck and unclipped the scarlet cord. Hanging from it was a small, plain silver locket—the heirloom his mother had given me when the pact was made. My mother had given him a heavy, much more valuable signet ring, a family heirloom blessed by some high-ranking archbishop in the past. “The locket for the scarlet wristlet,” I stated, referring to the ornate silver cuff he’d received. Rhys’s face hardened. He knew how much that locket meant to me. I hadn’t taken it off since I was fifteen. “You think everyone is as obsessively sentimental as you are, clinging to sentimental trash?” Rhys scoffed, snatching the locket from my hand. He held my scarlet wristlet, the piece that had been mine since childhood, and sneered. “What a pathetic thing. Carrying it around like some lovesick puppy.” He gave me one last cold look. “I’ll find your wristlet and have it delivered to your house. We’ll be done.” * * * Ethan was waiting for me in the living room when I got home. “Anya, listen, there’s something I need to tell you.” He handed me a thick folder of documents. “I’m planning to sign over the title of the Commerce Building to Holly so she can manage the leases and have an income stream.” I looked at the documents. That building was part of Mom’s estate—a massive asset she brought into the Wells family from her side. I snatched the stack of papers and tore them, cleanly and deliberately, right down the middle. “Anya! What is the meaning of this?” Ethan pushed his glasses up, looking severely disappointed. “I covered for you when you shoved Holly down the stairs last month. You owe her this, if not more.” He lowered his voice. “Did you forget Mom’s final request?” Ethan fell silent. On her deathbed, Mom had made him swear to protect me, to look after me, and to never let anyone steal what was mine. “I didn’t forget,” he said slowly. “But Anya, she’s my sister now too. Is it really too much to ask for me to split my affection? To share the love I have for you with her?” He sighed, a patronizing sound. “You’re being stubborn and spoiled. Why can’t you be more like Holly?” The urge to laugh died in my throat, replaced by a sudden, choking well of tears. “Ethan Wells,” I said, my voice dangerously soft. “Mom’s legacy. Nobody takes it.” I dropped the shredded papers into the bin. “You want to give Holly a gift? Give her one of Dad’s properties.” “What good things has the Wells family ever had?” he muttered, instantly recoiling. I had the answer already: From people to property, nothing good remained. I turned and headed for the stairs. “Mom’s death anniversary is next week. Don’t forget.” “How could I forget?” Ethan gave a weak, shifty smile. “You go rest. I’m heading to the study to catch up on some work.” I didn’t reply, nor did I look back. I didn’t sleep that night. I walked through the house, collecting every single item that held a memory of the three of us—Ethan, Rhys, and me. The photos I burned in the fireplace. Anything that could be smashed, I smashed. Whatever was salvageable—expensive clothes, jewelry, books—went into boxes destined for a local charity. Only the house remained—the small villa that was the only place Mom had ever felt happy in. I sat out on the balcony, holding Mom’s framed photograph, and cried until I finally drifted off to sleep. The day after my birthday was Mom’s anniversary. She had held on just long enough for me to celebrate one last time. For eight years since, Rhys had never failed to spend the entire day with me, making sure I got through it. This was the first time he’d bail. It didn’t matter. But while Rhys was absent, Holly’s influence was not. Her Instagram feed was a continuous stream of celebration all night, which my frenemy, Chelsea, helpfully live-streamed to me. “Couldn’t think of a reason for a party, so Rhys suggested we celebrate my new tablet! Just kidding—it’s really just an excuse for cake and champange! Look at my new tiara!” I quit Instagram, flipped my phone face-down on the nightstand, closed my eyes, and made a wish over the flickering candle. “Mom, please bless me with a clean break. Mom, please help me finally be free of these rotten people.” On Mom’s anniversary, I waited. Dad sent flowers and a few expensive items for the memorial. Ethan never showed. I called three times. No answer. The fourth call was answered by Brenda Quinn, Holly’s mother. “Anya, honey, is that you? Are you looking for Ethan?” “Today is my mother’s death anniversary.” “Oh, your mother’s anniversary? Bless her heart. You know, our little terrier just had a litter of puppies this morning, and Ethan and Holly have been so utterly distracted. They completely lost track of time.” She spoke with faux pity. “It’s probably too late to head over now, don’t you think?” “Auntie, who is it?” Holly’s sweet, muffled voice in the background. “It’s Anya. She sounds upset. What should I tell her, Ethan?” Ethan’s voice came on the line. “Anya, hello?” I hung up the phone and blocked his number immediately. Mom’s photo smiled back at me from the granite tombstone. It was a beautiful spring day, but kneeling there, I felt like I’d fallen into a cold, bottomless void. I hugged the stone marker and kissed the smooth surface. It’s okay, Mom. At least I’ll never forget. * * * I returned from the lawyer’s office to the house, only to find Rhys, Ethan, and Holly standing by the door. Holly was flanked by both of them, clutching a massive bouquet. Ethan spoke first. “Anya, look! Holly’s design just won the International Young Designers Award. I’m so proud of her.” “I was only trying to follow in Anya’s footsteps,” Holly said, a perfect picture of demure humility. Rhys took the portfolio and gave a dismissive laugh. “Follow her? Anya had the best tutors money could buy and never made it past the preliminary round. This takes real talent, baby. Don’t downplay it.” I ignored them and reached for the design pages. My breath caught. Sheet after sheet, the sketches were almost identical to my abandoned portfolio. Holly had stolen my work. “You stole my designs! Holly, you’re despicable!” I was trembling with fury, and my hand instinctively shot out to strike her. Rhys’s grip clamped down hard on my wrist, stopping me mid-air. He shoved me backward with a violent force that sent me sprawling onto the ground. “Anya Wells, your spoiled tantrums have gone too far.” He stood over me, livid. “Holly won that award fair and square. Where is your proof? If you can’t produce it, you’re making a slanderous accusation.” “I would never steal your work, Anya,” Holly cried, tears already streaming. “You hate me so much—I’ve never been near your computer!” She collapsed into Rhys’s arms. I looked desperately at Ethan. My computer had been in his study. Only he had access. Ethan immediately broke eye contact. I didn’t need any more answers. “Anya Wells, look at yourself.” Rhys looked down, radiating contempt. He threw the scarlet wristlet onto the ground near my hand. “I truly don’t know what I ever saw in you.” I looked up, ready to meet his mockery, but my eyes locked onto the delicate diamond tulip pendant around Holly’s neck—the necklace my mother had left to me. “Ethan! How could you give her Mom’s necklace?” I pointed at Holly, my vision swimming red. Ethan pressed his lips together, shifting nervously. “Anya…” Holly immediately reached for the clasp, tears falling faster. “Anya, I didn’t know this was your mother’s. I’ll take it off right away.” Ethan, instantly heartbroken by her distress, grabbed her hand. “Don’t, Holly. It’s my gift to you.” He turned back to me. “It’s just jewelry, Anya. A trinket. Holly loves it, and she deserves something nice. I’ll buy you a better one.” “I’d rather throw this thing into the ocean than let the daughter of the woman who destroyed Mom’s life wear it!” I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat. Ethan’s face flushed with shame. “Anya, stop with the hostility! That’s between the adults! What does any of that have to do with Holly?” Holly was sobbing hysterically, burying her face in Rhys’s chest. Rhys was incandescent. “Anya Wells, enough is enough!” He yanked the necklace off Holly’s neck and threw it at the ground with force. “Here! Take your damn trinket! Let’s go, Holly. I’ll buy you a piece ten times better and ten times more expensive right now.” Ethan sighed, then looked at me with pity. “Anya, why do you have to be so difficult? Why can’t you be a little kinder? Holly is going through so much.” He lowered his voice. “She needs this win to establish herself in the design world. It’s her first step toward having a real life here… and to eventually be accepted by the Kingston family.” He reached out to help me up. “Anya, please…” “Get your hand off me,” I hissed, pushing his arm away. I looked at him, and then I smiled—a cold, genuine smile. “Brother,” I said. It was the last time I would ever use that title. “You will get what you deserve.” Ethan frowned, unwilling to meet my eyes. “Anya, I promise, I’ll fix this. I’ll make it up to you.” He rushed to catch up with Rhys and Holly, his back turning on me. I sank down, picked up the diamond tulip, and clutched it to my chest. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. It was the strange, numb calm that comes when human pain finally exceeds the capacity for tears. The sun finally sank below the horizon, painting the sky in a bloody, dramatic wash of orange and red. The weather forecast had warned about high temperatures and dry air. Late that night, I began to feed the thick stack of yellowed letters into the fireplace, followed by the photos. Rhys and Ethan and me, their faces all bright, beautiful, and happy. The smiles disappeared into the smoke, turning into nothing but fine gray dust. My eyes were hot from the flames. I leaned close, catching a glimpse of the old handwriting. Ethan wrote: “I will always love my little sister and protect her. Anya will be my princess forever.” Rhys wrote: “I’m going to marry Anya when we grow up, and we’ll have two kids—a boy and a girl.” They had meant every word. They had both sworn that I mattered more than their own lives. But the promises, like the faded ink on the page, always drift away on the wind. The heat scorched my fingertips, and I dropped the last piece. It drifted down onto a forgotten silk garment bag. The small flames caught, licking up the side of the curtains and then onto an old storage trunk. Thick smoke began to pour out of the window. Rhys’s number flashed on my phone. I didn’t answer. Ethan called next. I hung up. As I was about to block them both, a text from Rhys came through. “Anya, look, Holly is still your sister. I wish you could just be happy for her. She really hoped you’d call. I’m going to buy you that set of diamond studs you liked tomorrow. Don’t be difficult.” Ethan’s text followed immediately. “Anya, I’ll pay for a custom replica of Mom’s necklace. I’ll make it up to you. Can you just forgive me?” I wanted to laugh, and finally, the tears came—choked, silent, and bitter. My reply to Rhys: “I hope she gets disqualified, and I hope you both burn for what you did to my mother.” My reply to Ethan: “Go ask Mom for forgiveness. Oh, wait. You can’t.” I blocked and deleted their numbers. I dragged my single suitcase out, taking one last look at the house saturated with memories, and walked away without looking back. Soon after I left, a draft caught the candle I’d left burning by the fireplace. The small flicker became a hungry lick of fire. The dry air and the old wooden structure devoured the flame. The home, the archive of our life, was a ruin.

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I’ve had four boyfriends. The first was an arrogant, old-money scion. I chased him for two years. We lasted three months. When he dumped me, he looked down his nose at me, his eyes cold. “Harper, to me, you were just a game.” The second was a brilliant academic, an associate professor. I pursued him, too. We were together for a year. His smile was gentle when he ended it. “Reed, I don’t have the time to wait for you to grow up.” The third was an A-List actor. Ironically, he was the one who chased me. When he cast me aside, his voice was laced with spite. “A bastard child is a nasty thing, after all. You just need a little attention and you come crawling.” Years later, when I finally announced my marriage to the fourth, they all came calling. 1 Life’s a long journey, and with you, I’ll take my time. I posted the announcement on my social media—a picture of Owen Maxwell and me, our signed marriage license held up between us. Friends flooded the comments with a gratifying wave of love and blessings. Then I saw one comment that felt like a needle scratching glass. Are you seriously going through with this? It was from Elias Hawthorne. My first boyfriend. My so-called first love, though the ending was so humiliatingly brutal that it purged him of any possibility of becoming a “ghost of my past” or “the one that got away.” Given Elias’s staggering arrogance, I was surprised he hadn’t scrubbed me from his contacts entirely. Maybe he kept me around as a footnote, a minor conquest he occasionally enjoyed glancing at, like a museum piece he owned. I replied to the well-wishers, pointedly ignoring Elias’s loaded question. I sent a quick voice note to Owen: “Could you pick up that small blueberry micro-cake on your way back?” The moment I hit send, a new message popped up, and my hand actually trembled: Marcus Albright. Why on earth was Marcus texting me? You’re getting married? My feelings toward Marcus were complicated, a tangled knot of longing and anger. When we were together, I had truly envisioned a future—house, dogs, kids, the whole middle-class dream. Marcus was a PhD Candidate when we met, six years my senior, polished, polite, and overwhelmingly gentle. He was just as calm when he ended things. I had been hysterical, pleading with him not to leave, yet he’d simply dried my tears and smiled that serene, hollow smile. “Harper, you’re just too immature. I don’t have the time to help you find yourself.” Marcus was always so painstakingly controlled. Even when I was a screaming mess, he remained detached. He listed my failings like bullet points in a dissertation, which, for months afterward, sent me spiraling into crippling self-doubt and emotional exhaustion. But those dark days were behind me. I glanced at the marriage license resting on my coffee table. I had found my ground. Yes. We signed the papers this morning. The “typing…” indicator stayed on for a long time. Finally, one sentence came through: Congratulations, and happy wedding. Thank you, Professor. It was startling. The intense love and the residual sting of betrayal I felt for Marcus had, with time, faded into something polite and dull. I logged off the chat and scrolled through social media. The top news story was A-List actor Dean Kinsley’s live-stream. He had been on camera when his expression suddenly froze into a dark scowl. The comments section was full of speculation: What did the king see? His face just went totally black! I raised an eyebrow. Dean Kinsley, still unable to mask his immediate emotions. Given his massive family influence and Hollywood status, I supposed he never needed to hide anything. Dean was my third ex. Although the words he used when we broke up were cruel, they hadn’t cut deep. From the first day we started dating, I knew it wouldn’t last. I knew his motives were shaky, but I was so crushingly lonely then. When he pursued me, I accepted. I was slightly curious what news had wiped the smile off his face. Just then, the doorbell rang. Owen was back, holding my small cake. Looking at the towering, solid man in front of me, it was still hard to believe we were finally here. 2 My encounter with Owen Maxwell was purely accidental—or so I thought at the time. I had just broken up with Dean. Though I’d always known the end was coming, I’m sentimental, and I felt hollowed out. To shake the feeling, I flew to the American West—to the vast, remote open spaces of Montana. That’s where I ran into Owen. I’d actually seen Owen once before. When the nominal patriarch of the Reed family—my “father”—died, everyone was summoned back for the will reading. Even as the illegitimate daughter, the law protected my rights, and Owen was the estate lawyer assigned to the case. I ended up with three million dollars and a modest condo. In the grand scheme of the Reed family’s wealth, it was less than pocket change, a paltry sum. My half-siblings and other illegitimate relations received much more. I knew they’d done it deliberately—they hated me the most because my mother had nearly succeeded in securing a permanent place in the family. But it didn’t matter. The money was enough for me to live on simply. At the time, Owen, in his formal suit, had clinically asked if I required legal counsel for any further action. I had declined. We hadn’t seen each other since. Yet here we were, meeting again amidst the breathtaking scenery of Big Sky Country. Owen explained that his wallet and ID had been stolen. He said I was the only familiar face he knew in the area and asked if I’d let him tag along. I was traveling alone, and traveling with a lawyer felt reasonably safe. I agreed. Owen was usually reserved, almost cold, but he was incredibly considerate. He was also endlessly knowledgeable; no matter what topic I brought up, he could keep the conversation flowing. Traveling with him was unexpectedly joyful. He taught me to ride, and we galloped across the vast Montana plains. With the entire sky above us, and the ground flying beneath the horse’s hooves, I felt a deep sense of release. It was in that moment I finally shed the burden of my first two decades of misery and misfortune. I’m a graphic novelist. I turned my Montana experience into a webcomic, and it blew up overnight. The sudden success of my career finally eclipsed the failure of my love life. After we returned to the city, Owen and I kept in touch. We talked about everything under the sun, and sometimes I was stunned by our intellectual and emotional synchronicity. We were so effortlessly compatible it felt like we’d known each other forever. We started planning more trips together. One night, in a small, rustic cabin in the Pacific Northwest, we had a few drinks. The moon hung bright and low in the sky. I smiled and turned to him. “Do you like me?” Owen gave me a faint smile in return. “Took you long enough to notice.” “I was only semi-sure. But I felt like you did.” “No need to be unsure. I’ve liked you for a long time now.” Owen’s eyes were bright, like starlight on a crisp night. He simply held my gaze. He later confessed that he was terrified in that moment, convinced I was about to reject him. I burst out laughing. “Well, I like you, too, then.” Getting together with Owen felt entirely natural, as if it had been destined. Once we were dating, Owen encouraged me to try things I’d always been afraid of. He took me to see the penguins in Antarctica, and we watched a volcano erupt in Hawaii. We kissed passionately on the deck of a cruise ship in a gale-force wind. “Harper, life is passionate. I want you to always be radiant.” Meeting Owen filled the empty spaces and quiet loneliness that had shadowed me for years. When he proposed, I didn’t hesitate for a second. 3 It was the Reed family patriarch’s ninetieth birthday, and we, the extended family, were all summoned for the celebration. I dreaded it, but the old man was obsessed with appearances. If I publicly snubbed him, he could still make my life hell. Besides, when my half-siblings had tried to ruin me completely, it was the patriarch who intervened. So, even knowing the gala would make me nauseous, I had to go. At least I had Owen by my side. My half-sister, Daphne, and her brother, still looked at me like I was a piece of refuse. The naked hatred in their eyes was barely concealed. There were four illegitimate Reed children, but the legitimate siblings despised me most. My mother had been the most ambitious, the closest to achieving the coveted status of ‘wife.’ I was brought into the Reed house at twelve, given a life of luxury, but it was the most hateful place I’d ever lived. Daphne always loathed me. She pulled countless small, cruel stunts: locking me out in the rain, cutting the power to my room in the summer, sealing my windows shut, and instigating bullying against me at school. Daphne was the one I hated most in the Reed family. When I found out that Daphne had a crush on Elias Hawthorne, I immediately saw a path to revenge. I would seduce Elias and make the high-and-mighty princess feel the pain of loss. I spent two years catering to Elias, putting myself on display. Everyone whispered that I was as low-class as my mother, a cheap flirt, but I didn’t care—I was consumed by my hatred for Daphne. I succeeded. I remember the look on Daphne’s face—the raw, fire-spewing fury—when I walked past her, hand-in-hand with Elias. “Harper Reed, you are a parasite,” Daphne hissed darkly. The more miserable she was, the happier I felt. I offered a brilliant, saccharine smile. “Thanks to you all, I’m doing just fine here in the city.” Daphne’s eyes flickered to Owen beside me, and she let out a disdainful scoff. “Which stray man did you hook this time?” “Ms. Reed,” Owen cut in smoothly. “It’s been a few years. I am Owen Maxwell, Harper’s husband.” The instant Daphne heard the word ‘husband,’ the contempt in her eyes evaporated. The Maxwell family has a long history in law and politics. Owen’s grandfather was a celebrated legal figure. “Ms. Reed, your comment just now was offensive to Harper and an insult to me,” Owen said, his voice calm yet deeply intimidating. “I would ask that you apologize to us both.” Daphne’s face flushed crimson. She choked, unwilling to apologize. I noticed more and more gazes turning toward us. Daphne’s brother, Jackson, stepped forward. “Daphne, apologize to them.” Reluctantly, and clearly furious, Daphne mumbled an apology. Ugh. Adult Daphne was so much more pathetic than her childhood self. As I took in the scene, I felt a heavy gaze fixed on me. I traced it back to Elias Hawthorne. Of course, Elias would be here. The Hawthorne and Reed families were historically linked. Years had smoothed some of Elias’s sharp edges; he looked reserved now, radiating the cold confidence of a CEO. I offered him a purely reflexive, fake smile—a little piece of calculated nastiness. I wanted to see him squirm. Instead, his entire face seemed to crumple. The suffocating atmosphere of the ballroom made it hard to breathe. I slipped out to the Reed family’s private courtyard for air. Just as I was about to head back to Owen, Elias suddenly appeared. “What did you mean by smiling at me like that?” he demanded. I honestly found Elias irritating. He always had that high-handed, old-money entitlement. When I’d chased him, I’d poured my heart and soul into it. Even though my initial motivation was cruel, I’m a person, I’m emotional. He had genuinely helped me a few times when I was completely isolated, and I really did fall for him. But we only lasted three months. When we broke up, he ground my face into the dirt, calling me utterly worthless. I offered a dismissive shrug. “Nothing. Just saying hello after all these years.” He was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was tight. “Are you really married?” “Why? Is there some reason it would be a fake marriage?” I retorted, a sharp edge of sarcasm in my voice. When he broke up with me, he’d said, “I told you I was just playing a game, and you actually believed me.” “The Maxwells are a political dynasty. They would never accept an illegitimate child like you,” Elias declared, using that patronizing, ‘for your own good’ tone, laced with the same old, familiar contempt for my identity. “Harper, stop deceiving yourself. End things with him soon.” A calm voice came from behind him. “Mr. Hawthorne, do you often interfere in other people’s marriages? You don’t need to worry about Harper and me. My family loves her. Birth status is not a choice, and it certainly won’t be a chain around my wife.” Owen walked up and leaned in close to me. “Where were you? I’ve been looking for you.” The sight of us, cheek-to-cheek and intimately close, was clearly the last straw for Elias. His eyes went dark. He let out a cold, hard laugh. “Harper Reed, do you actually think Owen Maxwell is some kind of saint?” I looked at him oddly. Had Elias lost his mind abroad? He was spewing absolute nonsense. “He’s not. But are you?” Elias’s chest heaved with suppressed rage. I didn’t see the smug, triumphant flash that crossed Owen’s eyes before he turned to walk away with me. 4 Later that evening, Elias sent me a text. Harper, what I said earlier wasn’t intended as a taunt. I just wanted to warn you. LOL. Don’t worry about it, Mr. Hawthorne. My husband and I are doing great. Not everyone looks down on me because of my past. I never looked down on you, Harper. It was a voice note, and I could hear a trace of panic in his voice. It doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t need your respect. Are you still angry that I broke up with you? But you were the one who lied to me first. I had briefly hated Elias, but the years had swept all those intense feelings away. The love and the resentment were gone. I’m not angry anymore. If you’re still upset about my deception back then, I apologize. I drew a clear, businesslike boundary. After I sent that, Elias went quiet. I couldn’t figure out why he was suddenly so invested in my life, breaking character to sound genuinely concerned. But it didn’t matter. Ten years was a lifetime. I had truly forgotten him. The Elias Hawthorne who I once considered the single source of light in my chaotic life had vanished the moment his plane took off from LAX. Two weeks later, my alma mater, Capital University, held its fiftieth-anniversary celebration, inviting alumni back for a ceremony. It was then I realized Owen had also graduated from the same school, three years before me. I joked with him that if I’d gone to college earlier, we would have met sooner. He didn’t look pleased. He only muttered darkly, “You were too obsessed with your Professor Albright back then. Would you even have noticed me?” His jealousy was thick enough to cut with a knife. I had been honest with Owen about my dating history, so he knew about Marcus. That night in bed, he kept insisting I call him “Professor.” I refused at first, but he wore me down with inventive persistence. Finally, weakened, I meekly whispered the word a few times. But then the man went completely feral. I could barely move the next morning. I was annoyed, and Owen spent the drive to the university catering to my every need. Capital University was bustling. Students, alumni like Owen and me, and various guests flowed through the campus. We strolled around for a bit until we reached my favorite spot: a secluded gazebo near the old oak tree. It was quiet there, away from the main thoroughfare. As we approached, I realized someone was already sitting inside: Marcus Albright. My first impulse was to turn and run, but Marcus saw us and called out. “Harper Reed. It’s been a while.” His voice was still the same—warm, cultivated, and pleasant, like a gentle breeze. I held myself steady and forced a natural smile. “Marcus Albright. Good to see you.” Marcus’s gaze dropped to my hand, which was firmly clasped in Owen’s. I stepped forward to introduce them. “This is my husband, Owen Maxwell.” Owen gave a slight nod in greeting. “Well, we won’t interrupt you,” I said, already trying to pull Owen away. But Marcus stopped us. “Harper, do you remember? This was your favorite place to bring me. I came here specifically hoping to run into you.” My footsteps faltered. A thousand memories flooded my mind. 5 I had truly wanted to spend my life with Marcus Albright. Our breakup had been completely unexpected. Only a week before, he’d been telling me about the beautiful spring flowers blooming on campus. Then, over a quiet dinner, he dropped the bomb. I remember my wide-eyed disbelief when I asked him why. He called me childish and said our relationship was exhausting him. I promised to change. I cried and begged him to stay, but he simply wiped my tears away and delivered his crushing verdict. “I can’t wait, Harper. The time investment is just too high.” I refused to accept it. I hounded him for two months until he finally chose to take a “research fellowship” in Africa just to avoid seeing me. If there was one thing I would never forget, it was the final, determined retreat of Marcus’s back as he walked away. So, what was he doing now? Feigning regret? Or just trying to make me feel terrible? “What do you want?” “Can I speak with you alone?” Even confronted with my obvious hostility, he remained infuriatingly calm. I used to love his unflappable composure. Now, it just made him seem like a corpse, drained of life. “We have nothing to talk about.” I threw the words out and prepared to leave with Owen. “Harper,” he called, desperation finally cracking his veneer. “I never wanted to break up with you.”

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Since I can remember, my mother has listened to billionaire romance audiobooks every single day. It’s why the term “billionaire CEO” makes my skin crawl. While my mom was weeping over the ‘chase-and-apologize’ trope—the part where the male lead grovels for forgiveness—I’d be silently calculating his net worth, drafting a preliminary divorce settlement offer in my head. When she’d lament the heroine being a mere placeholder for the ‘Golden Girl’—his one true love—I’d tell her, “Then she should be aggressively shaking him down for every penny he has!” Unfortunately, I was born with a face that screams “don’t even think about it.” No man ever dared to approach me. It meant my carefully crafted dreams of becoming a professional gold digger had never once materialized. That is, until the night of a graduation mixer at a downtown bar. A group of guys in tailored suits—the kind that look expensive even when you can’t name the designer—spent a good minute sizing me up. “Holy hell,” one of them muttered. “She’s a dead ringer for Vivian.” The most attractive one—the one with the quiet, commanding presence—walked up to me. He smiled, a slow, practiced gesture that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You look uncannily like someone I once desperately wanted and couldn’t have,” he said. “If you’re willing to stay by my side, I’ll make it worth your while.” A thrill shot through me. Finally. I immediately pulled out my phone and opened my payment app. “Venmo me a million dollars right now,” I told him, holding the screen up. “And the stand-in fee, the emotional damage fee, and the ‘lost youth’ compensation fee will all be calculated at triple the market rate.” “If you hesitate, I’ll package up that whole speech you just gave and send it directly to your Golden Girl.” 1 The man froze instantly. His entourage looked completely bewildered, taking a few long minutes to process what I’d just said. “Shit, she’s a hustler!” one of them exclaimed. “What a waste of a gorgeous face. Link, let’s go!” They started pulling him away, but Lincoln Rhodes didn’t budge. He just stared at me, a flicker of disgust adding a new shade to his expression. “Right. No one can compare to Vivian.” “Even a perfect likeness couldn’t capture her pure, untainted soul.” I swirled the drink in my glass, tapping my foot impatiently. “Hold on, hold on. If you need an acting partner, the studio lots are downtown. I am not contractually obligated to play a role in your little melodrama.” The second the words were out, the guy closest to me reared back, his hand shooting toward my face. “You bitch! Who the hell do you think you are?” he roared. “You don’t disrespect Link! I’ll teach you a lesson!” Just as his palm was about to connect, Link’s hand shot out, grabbing his friend’s wrist in a death grip. He ignored the commotion, his eyes still burning into mine. “A million dollars, you said? Fine.” “Three times a week. I set the schedule.” He pulled out his own phone, ready to scan my code. I locked my screen and looked at him coolly. “The million is the non-disclosure fee, not the retainer, big shot.” “Billionaire CEOs these days are getting cheap. The old-school ones threw around hundreds of millions. Now they haggle?” Link’s eye twitched. A flash of irritation, quickly masked, crossed his face. But he took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm, and asked, “So, what are you suggesting?” I held up my right hand, palm facing him, and spread my fingers to show a five. Link understood immediately. He considered it for ten seconds, his jaw tight, then nodded. “Six million. Done.” When the notification popped up—six million dollars deposited into my account—I nearly burst out laughing right there. His friends were losing it, jumping up and down in impotent rage. “Link, are you insane? You’re letting her dictate the price? This is blackmail!” “You have dozens of women throwing themselves at you! Why pick this mercenary lowlife?” “She’s nothing without that face, man, she’s not worth it…” I lifted a hand to silence him. “One more word out of you, and I’m raising the price.” I met the furious glare of his friend. “If you’re so upset, take my photo to a plastic surgeon and see if they can replicate the results. Or maybe consider selling your own services? It’s a growth market.” With that, I leaned back into the sofa and opened a game on my phone. Six million dollars! I’m clearing out my entire shopping cart and buying my mother two massive gold necklaces. Link pulled his friends aside, gave them a stern dressing down, and they sheepishly filed out of the bar. He tossed a business card onto the table. “I’ll contact you when I have time. Do not attempt to reach out to me.” I immediately flicked the card onto the floor. “I’m free Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons. Weekends are reserved for my personal schedule.” “If you need me on a weekend, that’s time and a half. Federal holidays are triple pay. You know the drill.” Then I picked up my bag and left without a backward glance. I didn’t need to see his face to know the look of furious indignation stamped on it. On the ride home, I texted my mother. “Mom, I landed a huge offer at a major firm!” “Only three days a week, and the pay is unbelievable!” 2 Monday morning at nine on the dot, my doorbell rang. Lincoln Rhodes stood on my stoop, impeccable in a bespoke suit, flanked by two assistants. “Change into this.” He handed me a designer shopping bag containing an expensive dress. “We’re going somewhere.” “The service contract didn’t specify required travel or location changes,” I said, leaning against the door frame. “Ten times the hourly rate,” Link said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. “The itinerary is highly confidential. Requires an additional non-disclosure agreement. That’s billed separately.” I pulled out my phone. “Ten thousand dollar retainer up front.” Link’s eyes narrowed. The assistant behind him audibly gasped. “Ms. Shaw, with all due respect…” Link cut him off with a raised hand and completed the swift transfer. “Now,” he said, the word clipped. “Can we go?” The car stopped outside the Rhodes Global corporate headquarters. Link led me into the top-floor conference room. Through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows, the entire city skyline stretched out before us. The long table was packed with serious-faced executives. “Sit down and listen,” Link ordered, pushing me into a chair in the corner. His tone brooked no argument. “Keep that mouth of yours shut the entire time. Don’t say anything you shouldn’t.” I knew this plot twist. Bringing the stand-in to the company to piss off the real girlfriend. Rich people are so predictable. He turned and walked to the head of the table. The meeting began. The screens displayed complex financial data and the title, “East Side Land Acquisition.” The executives argued fiercely, the main point being how to crush a small company called ‘Lancaster Holdings’ to force a cheap buyout. I was bored, idly examining my manicure. That is, until a CFO quickly skipped past a section containing an abnormal set of financial correlations during his report. I raised my hand. The entire room went silent. All eyes pivoted to me. Link frowned, furious. “What now?” “Could you go back to the previous slide?” I pointed at the screen. “The reconciliation between your third-quarter cash flow and the fixed asset movements looks off.” The CFO’s face instantly changed. “Look, Miss, if you don’t understand, please don’t interrupt.” “I don’t understand?” I smiled, stood up, and walked to the screen, using the laser pointer to circle a few numbers. “The incremental increases here, and here, don’t align with the publicly disclosed construction in progress. Who is this surplus being laundered for?” The conference room was deathly quiet. Sweat beaded on the CFO’s forehead. Link’s gaze was sharp, sweeping between me and the executive. “Keep talking.” “Business consulting is billed by the minute,” I said, looking at Link. “Are we starting now?” Link ground the word out. “Start!” I immediately launched into a rapid-fire assessment, pinpointing three crucial financial loopholes. Each one pointed directly to embezzlement from the project funds. “My preliminary estimate puts the compromised amount at no less than this.” I held up my hand, showing an eight. Not eighty thousand. Eight million. The CFO’s face was ashen. Link’s expression hardened to steel. He gestured to an assistant. “Escort Mr. Lee to a private room. Assist him thoroughly in auditing his books.” He stressed the word ‘assist,’ making his meaning chillingly clear. After the meeting, Link brought me back to his corner office. “How did you see that?” He scrutinized me as if I were a biological anomaly. “Basic training,” I shrugged, keeping my tone deliberately cold. “Also, my consulting fee for those ten minutes, calculated at ten times my hourly rate, comes to eight thousand dollars. You can scan my code.” Link didn’t move. Instead, he stepped closer, his presence immediately dominating the space. “You’re more interesting than I thought. Not just a pretty face.” “Thank you for the compliment. Compliments are free.” I took a step back, maintaining the boundary. “Crossing this line, however, is not.” At that moment, the office door was violently flung open. Vivian Lancaster burst in. She stopped short when she saw me, then recovered, bursting into tears. “Lincoln! How could you bring her to the company! And you fired Mr. Lee for her? He works for my father!” Link immediately moved backward, putting distance between us. “Vivian, what are you doing here?” he asked, his voice softening with concern. “Of course, you didn’t want me here!” Vivian pointed at me, her voice shaking with righteous indignation. “This woman! She was secretly taking pictures of the lobby’s security layout downstairs! She’s clearly a spy!” My heart dropped. I had taken a few photos while waiting downstairs, but they were of the artistic chandelier. I wanted to show my mom an idea for our new apartment décor. Link’s gaze immediately locked onto me. “Explain yourself.” A flicker of smug victory crossed Vivian’s face. I met Link’s intense, searching look and slowly pulled out my phone. “I can explain.” “But the accusation of corporate espionage is a serious one. The compensation for my damaged reputation…” “Ten million,” Link stated, his eyes boring into mine. The air thickened. He suddenly laughed, a sharp, bitter sound of disbelief. “Ten million? Sydney Shaw, your appetite is becoming insatiable.” “Thank you for the compliment. Inflation is high, and my market value naturally increases.” I rattled my phone. “Pay up, and I’ll prove my innocence instantly.” Vivian shrieked, “Lincoln! Don’t listen to her!” Link ignored her, waving his hand toward his assistant. “Transfer it.” The deposit notification chimed. I immediately unlocked my phone, opened the photo gallery, and turned the screen toward them—a series of close-ups of the ornate, luxurious chandelier. “Your company’s lighting is impressive, Mr. Rhodes. I was taking photos for my mother’s interior design inspiration. Is that a copyright infringement?” Vivian’s face went white. Link shot her a dark, menacing look. “Vivian, apologize.” “I…” I casually twirled a strand of my hair, smiling sweetly. “Apologize, or I’ll call your fiancé and let him know why you spent your afternoon here.” Vivian instantly clamped her mouth shut. She glared at me, humiliation etched into her features, and choked out three words. “I’m sorry.” “I recorded that,” I said, pocketing my phone. “Next time, the price doubles.” Vivian ran out of the office, sobbing. Link drove me back to my apartment. He pinned me against the floor-to-ceiling window. “Sydney, who the hell are you?” “Your creditor,” I said, pushing him away. He didn’t listen, closing the distance and kissing me hard, with a punishing intensity. I managed to turn my head, dodging his mouth. “Kissing is a separate charge. Ten thousand dollars a pop.” His action stilled. His eyes were turbulent, filled with rage and a newly sparked, aggressive desire to dominate. That night, he proved physically that he was indeed very rich and very strong. But even in bed, I didn’t forget my principles. “A change of position? Sure.” I gasped, looking up at him. “Add another ten thousand to the tab.” Link’s movements instantly became rougher. He squeezed my waist, a cold mockery in his voice. “You charge for everything. Sydney, doesn’t it make you feel cheap?” I laughed, meeting his gaze. “And doing it for free is somehow nobler, Link?” “It’s a transaction. Don’t flatter yourself by thinking of it as anything else.” He lost control then, taking me with a savagery that felt like an attempt to devour me whole. When it was over, he leaned back against the headboard, lighting a cigarette. “Vivian is getting married.” “Oh. Congrats.” I was too tired to move. “I’m not interested in your love life, and I can’t offer comforting words.” He crushed the cigarette out. The smoke obscured his eyes, leaving them dark and unreadable. “The Lancasters need the Ashworths’ financing. It’s a business alliance.” “So, she dumped you for money?” The logic clicked instantly. “And you hired a stand-in to punish her and console yourself?” Link didn’t answer. “Pathetic,” I scoffed. “But don’t worry, Mr. Rhodes.” I propped myself up and leaned close to him, my fingertip tracing the line of his chest. “Here with me, you can always experience something more honest than love, something money can truly buy.” “Like what?” “Like right now. Post-coital cleaning services. Fifty thousand. Cash or transfer?” Link stared at me, then slowly, a chilling smile spread across his face. He gripped my chin, his fingers digging in. “Sydney Shaw, you better stay this sharp forever.” After that night, Lincoln’s visits to my apartment became more frequent.

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On our wedding anniversary, my husband, Colonel Ethan Cole, told me he had an emergency deployment. I smiled as I watched him leave, then turned and opened the GPS tracker on his car. The location wasn’t The Base. It was St. Jude’s Women’s Center, the best fertility and obstetrics hospital in the city. I logged into the hospital’s security camera system. On the screen, he was carefully guiding a fragile-looking woman, his eyes filled with a tenderness I had never once seen directed at me. The woman touched her stomach, asking sweetly, “Ethan, have you picked a name for the baby yet?” Ethan said, “How about Haven? To memorialize our love.” A glacier formed in my chest, solid and unmoving. Just then, my phone rang. It was the command center calling, asking about Ethan’s location. I looked at the couple on the monitor, so deeply engrossed in their lie, and pressed the speaker button. My voice was eerily calm as I replied: “Report, Commander. I suspect my husband, Colonel Ethan Cole of Special Operations, may have compromised classified information and potentially gone AWOL.” 1 The words caused both the officer on the phone and Ethan on the screen to freeze simultaneously. Over the phone, the voice of Commander Davies, Ethan’s direct superior, instantly hardened. “Audrey Stone, repeat that statement.” On the monitoring screen, Ethan’s phone rang. He saw the caller ID, his face draining of color, and quickly hung up. Then, without a moment’s thought, he called my private line. I didn’t answer. I just spoke into the phone, every syllable precise and distinct. “Report, Commander. Ethan left this morning citing an emergency deployment but appeared at St. Jude’s Women’s Center. His movements are suspicious, he is refusing to answer the secure military line, and I suspect he may be a flight risk.” My voice was quiet, yet it felt like a detonated charge. Commander Davies was silent for a full five seconds. “Audrey Stone, stay exactly where you are. Do not move. Secure your location. We are mobilizing immediately.” The order was swift and absolute. I hung up and watched the monitor. Ethan was in full-blown panic. He abandoned the woman, Willow Price, frantically calling my number while sprinting toward the hospital entrance. Willow cried out pitifully behind him, “Ethan, where are you going? Our baby…” He didn’t look back. The warmth and patience in his eyes were entirely gone, replaced only by a desperate terror and raw aggression. But it was too late. In less than ten minutes, several olive-drab military SUVs roared to a stop, sealing off every hospital exit. Heavily armed soldiers leaped out, their movements swift and their presence intimidating. They stormed into the lobby and located their target instantly. “Colonel Cole, you’ll need to come with us!” The muzzles of their rifles were pointed directly at him. Ethan raised his hands, his face pale as paper. He was pinned against a wall, his hands cuffed behind his back by two soldiers. As they marched him through the lobby doors, he saw me. I was standing just outside the glass entrance, watching him with cold indifference. His eyes dilated. It was as if he’d seen a ghost, or the most unbelievable nightmare. “Audrey!” He roared, his face contorted in a snarl. “Are you insane! What the hell are you doing! I’m being framed!” I simply gave a desolate laugh. Yes, I knew he wasn’t being framed for treason. He hadn’t compromised national security. He was just, on our anniversary, while I was preparing a surprise, helping his mistress name their bastard child. He was just an adulterer. But why should I explain for him? When he lied to me, and to his command, while wearing that uniform, did he ever consider that this day might come? The soldiers didn’t give him another chance to shout. They roughly shoved him into one of the vehicles. The woman, Willow Price, was also taken away, ostensibly for “protective custody.” She was shaking with fear. When she passed me, she suddenly lunged forward like a madwoman. “You! You did this to Ethan! You poisoned bitch!” Two female soldiers quickly restrained her. I looked at her tear-stained face and her slightly rounded stomach. “Haven.” I breathed the name softly. Willow’s face went instantly white. “To memorialize your love, right?” I smiled, a smile so broken my eyes were stinging with unshed tears. “It really is a lovely name.” The commotion around me faded into irrelevance. The world had turned into a monochrome blur. Ethan Cole, the game has begun. You destroyed my love. I will destroy everything you are proud of. 2 I was taken back to The Base, not as a spouse, but as a “key witness.” I was met by Commander Davies, a man in his late forties whose quiet demeanor nonetheless commanded authority. He personally poured me a cup of hot water. “Audrey, don’t be nervous. Please detail the situation you discovered today.” I held the mug steady. “Today is my and Ethan’s three-year anniversary. This morning, he claimed he had an emergency deployment and rushed out. I knew something was wrong immediately.” “How so?” Commander Davies pressed. “He wasn’t in uniform, and he took his personal SUV. When he left, I saw a crumpled piece of paper fall out of his pocket—it was a registration slip from St. Jude’s Women’s Center.” I pulled a wrinkled paper from my pocket. Of course, he hadn’t dropped it. I’d recovered it from the trash can in his home office. He thought he’d cleaned up all his tracks. He didn’t know that ever since I became pregnant, my sense of smell had become abnormally acute—and that I’d caught the scent of a perfume that wasn’t mine. From that day on, I stopped being a wife and became a hunter. Commander Davies took the slip, his expression increasingly grim. “Why did you suspect him of something as serious as compromising his post?” This was the critical question. I lowered my eyes, introducing a carefully modulated tremor of distress and injury into my voice. “He’s been acting very strangely lately. He frequently takes encrypted calls late at night, and he’s been using a second computer secretly in his office. When I asked, he always dismissed it as classified material.” “As a military spouse, I respect the rules; I don’t ask what I shouldn’t. But today… he lied about an emergency mission just to take another woman to an OB-GYN appointment. Commander, if he’s willing to deceive his own unit and his wife, what else is he capable of?” My words were a skillful blend of truth and lies. He did have a second computer, but he used it to play online games with his mistress. He did take calls late at night, but it was Willow calling to complain about morning sickness and to seek comfort. I had seen all of this through the hidden cameras I’d installed in our home. But I couldn’t say that. I needed to muddy the waters. Commander Davies’ brows furrowed into a tight knot. “Do you know the woman he was with?” “No,” I shook my head, “but I gained access to the hospital system and found her name: Willow Price.” “You have hacking skills?” Davies looked surprised. “My degree is in cybersecurity,” I answered calmly. This was my trump card. I hadn’t just hacked the hospital; I could also recover all the deleted files and chat logs from his “game computer.” Commander Davies fell silent. A Special Forces Colonel, acting secretly, deceiving his command, and intimately involved with a woman of unverified background. And his wife, a cybersecurity expert, had reported him. Each element was a shocking headline in itself. “Audrey Stone, the information you’ve provided is critical. We will begin an immediate, full-scale investigation. In the meantime, for your own security, you’ll need to stay at the Base Annex.” “I understand. I have only one request.” “Go on.” “I want a divorce.” My tone was resolute, without the slightest hesitation. “Regardless of the investigation’s outcome, this marriage is over.” Commander Davies looked at me, his eyes clouded with complicated emotion. “Understood. The organization will support your reasonable petition.” As I walked out of the office, the sun was shining brightly outside. But I felt only coldness. My phone vibrated with a text from an unknown number. Audrey, you bitch! You destroy Ethan, and my mother will make you pay! It was Ethan’s sister, Sienna Cole. I deleted the text without emotion and blocked the number. This was just the start. Immediately, my phone rang again. It was my mother-in-law, Evelyn Cole. The moment I answered, the line was filled with a torrent of curses. “Audrey! What kind of sick, twisted monster are you! What did Ethan ever do to deserve this! You are a curse, a jinx! I should never have allowed you to marry my son!” I listened quietly. When she finally ran out of breath, I spoke softly. “Mom, before you scream at me, maybe you should worry about your unborn grandchild.” The other end of the line went instantly silent. “You… what do you mean?” “Ethan was at the hospital for his mistress’s prenatal checkup. She’s three months pregnant. Oh, and they already picked out a name: Haven.” “To memorialize their love.” With every word, I could imagine the blood draining from my proud mother-in-law’s face. “You’re lying! That’s impossible! My son would never do such a thing!” she shrieked. “You’ll find out soon enough.” I hung up, letting out a long, slow breath. The knot of tension in my chest eased, if only fractionally. Ethan Cole, you thought your family was your fortress? Soon, they will become another pillar collapsing on top of you. 3 I settled into the Base Annex. While it was technically a guest quarter, the security was top-notch, with soldiers on guard twenty-four hours a day. I understood it was both protection and surveillance. Until Ethan’s name was cleared, I, the “first informer,” couldn’t move freely either. It suited me perfectly. I needed an absolutely safe and quiet environment to plan my next move. The investigation team came for me the next day. This time, in addition to Commander Davies, there were two sharp-eyed, serious men in plain clothes. They were from Internal Affairs, specializing in security clearances and internal probes. “Audrey Stone, we’ve reviewed the hospital footage and conducted initial interviews with Colonel Cole and Willow Price. Colonel Cole insists this is merely a moral lapse, a personal failing, which is why he panicked.” One of the men spoke, his pace measured, his gaze like a hawk. “Willow Price also claims their relationship is purely romantic, and she knows nothing of his work.” “Is that so?” I raised a subtle brow. “Purely romantic?” I took a USB drive from my purse and placed it on the table. “Inside is all the data I recovered from Ethan’s ‘game computer.’” “It includes the chat logs from the moment they met, a record of every transaction he made to her, and even… documents showing his attempted unauthorized use of his rank to apply for ‘Temporary Dependents’ Housing’ for her.” The faces of the three men at the table changed instantly. Commander Davies’ expression was one of shocked fury. The Internal Affairs men were openly grave. A moral lapse is entirely different from using one’s position for personal gain for a mistress. The former is a character flaw; the latter is a severe disciplinary violation—a disgrace to the uniform! “In the chat logs, Willow frequently complained to Ethan about feeling unsafe living alone, saying she envied me living in The Base Annex.” I narrated calmly, as if discussing someone else’s tragedy. “To appease her, Ethan lied, telling her he had successfully applied for temporary housing under the ‘Special Talent Dependent’ program and that she would move into a community not far from the Base soon.” “That community, as far as I know, is reserved for military families who have made significant contributions and for high-value contracted personnel, correct?” My gaze rested on Commander Davies. The Commander’s lips were tightly pressed, but the vein pulsing in his forehead betrayed his rage. The Internal Affairs agent immediately snatched the USB drive. “We will verify this immediately.” After they left, only Commander Davies and I remained. “Audrey…” He sighed, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “You… you’ve been wronged.” I shook my head. “Compared to my personal pain, I care more about the honor of that uniform he wears.” I meant that, sincerely. I married Ethan not just for love, but out of profound respect. I respected him as an honorable soldier, a protector of our nation. Now, he had personally shattered all my reverence. “The organization will not protect any failure, and we will not wrongly condemn any good man,” Commander Davies assured me. I nodded and rose to leave. Just as I reached the door, I paused, turning back as if a thought had just occurred to me. My expression was tentative and uncertain. “Commander, there is something… I don’t know if I should mention it.” “Tell me.” “That woman, Willow Price—when I looked up her details, I found she has a brother named Asher Price.” “This Asher… I don’t think he’s an American citizen. He has an overseas background. And in the chat logs, Willow mentioned several times that her brother was extremely curious about Ethan’s work, always probing for details about Special Forces training, equipment, and tactics.” I chose my words carefully, making myself look like an ordinary spouse who had stumbled upon a loose thread but was terrified of misinterpreting it. “I thought it was just family curiosity at the time, nothing serious. But thinking about it now, it feels wrong.” “I worry… I worry Ethan might have been set up by this woman…” My voice trailed off, ending in a slight, controlled sob. The tears were half acting, half real. Real for the death of my love. Real for the husband I was personally pushing into the abyss. Commander Davies shot up from his chair. The last flicker of sympathy vanished from his eyes, replaced by an unparalleled sharpness and alertness. “What is her brother’s name? Which country is he associated with?!” The nature of the situation had, in that instant, fundamentally changed. It had spiraled from a simple moral lapse, to severe abuse of power, and now… to a major suspicion of jeopardizing national security. Ethan Cole, I had just played the final card in your checkmate.

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Declan Kincaid and I were supposed to get married. Five years after Liam Scott left the country to join Doctors Without Borders, his gift for my wedding arrived: two large crates filled with all the handwritten love letters I’d ever sent him. My fiancé, Declan, meticulously went through every single one. With tears in his eyes, he slipped off his platinum wedding band. “I’m sorry, Evie. I thought I could convince myself to accept your past.” Seeing Liam, wind-battered and dusty, standing in the doorway behind Declan, a sudden laugh escaped me. Five years. And he was still using the same tactics. But the bitter truth was, I no longer loved him. 1 The upbeat celebration music screeched to a halt. The guests in the ballroom gaped, the clinking of silverware and dishes abruptly ceasing. The wedding planner, sweat beading on his forehead, gripped the microphone and forced a strained laugh, clearly unsure how to salvage the situation. A gust of wind swept through the open door, scattering the drapery and setting the indoor chimes ringing. This space, a blend of rustic charm and modern elegance, was a labor of love, a joint effort between Declan and me. As Declan walked past Liam, he stumbled, but he didn’t look back, vanishing around the corner of the hallway. Liam was staring right at me, his handsome, sun-darkened face breaking into a wide, bright smile. “Evie. Long time no see.” My expression blank, I slowly lifted the veil from my hair. My mother shot up from her seat, the scraping sound of her chair against the polished floor a jarring alarm. She bit down hard on her lower lip, shaking her head at me. The fleeting joy in her eyes was swiftly replaced by a torrent of despair. Lifting my chin, I spoke flatly: “It certainly has been a long time, Liam. And thanks to you, again, my wedding is cancelled.” A woman, slender and impeccably dressed, poked her head out from behind Liam. She pursed her lips in a display of indignation. “We came all this way to see you, out of the goodness of our hearts, and you’re still holding on to ancient history…” “That’s enough, Chloe!” Liam cut her off with a sharp frown. Chloe, once the epitome of an untouchable, spoiled socialite, immediately fell silent, her compliance unsettling. Liam still knew how to train his dogs. I calmly addressed the stunned room: “Everyone, please, enjoy the feast. It’s on me. I’ll ensure all gifts and contributions are returned shortly.” I took my mother’s hand, guiding her toward the exit. Her palm was a sheet of ice, sending a shudder through me. A tall, lean figure blocked our path. Standing against the light, I couldn’t make out Liam’s expression, but his voice was much softer now. “Mrs. Miller, Evie. Please, believe me. The gift I sent was not those crates of letters. It was a framed butterfly I caught in Africa—a symbol of peace and safe return—I wanted you to have it. I don’t know how the courier service messed up.” He paused, his voice thick with a forced sincerity. “It’s been five years. I missed you both. I wanted to come back and see your father, Evie.” My mother’s pale face flushed crimson with rage. Her lips trembling, she spat out, “Get out. You don’t have the right to see him!” Liam’s eyes were full of a contrived conflict and helplessness, and he cast a meaningful look at me, as if expecting me to intervene, to solve his problem as I always had. I did not hesitate. “My mother is right.” A person, after all, can’t afford to fall into the same trap twice. Declan’s discarded wedding ring still sat on the stage. The cold diamond caught the light, refracting a chilling brilliance. I walked over and picked it up. As I turned, Chloe and Liam’s fingers intertwined. She held their joined hands high, a triumphant smirk replacing her frown. “Annabel Miller. Liam Scott and I are back, and we’re getting married soon, by the way. Since you and ‘Liam’ have known each other for so long, we’d love your blessing.” The murmuring in the room intensified, guests sighing and expressing their surprise at the dramatic spectacle. I put my arm around my mother and headed out without looking back. “Why wait? You can use my stage for your wedding today. You love picking up things other people have tossed aside, don’t you?” The crowd behind us erupted in a chorus of whispers and mocking laughter. Strangely, there was no rush of relief or satisfaction. I placed a hand over my heart. It was silent. It no longer beat for them. All my joy, anger, sorrow, and delight had been burned away in that fire five years ago. After settling Mom into the care facility, I walked home in my heavy bridal gown. Along the way, I tossed both the engagement and wedding rings into a public trash can. Bad things, once recognized, should be discarded. People, too. Yet, people aren’t always bad. At least Liam Scott, once upon a time, had been so good. 2 My father had always been a charitable man. When his army buddy died unexpectedly, he took on the responsibility of funding the education of the man’s only son. Liam Scott, that year, was true to his name—quiet and subdued. He wore a school uniform mended countless times, his lips pressed into a thin, unyielding line that no one could seem to break. The teacher seated us together when he transferred to our class. Finding him a frustratingly silent companion, I deliberately hid his pen, just to make him say something to me. To my surprise, after school, instead of going home, he spent the entire evening collecting empty bottles and cardboard to sell. With the money he earned, he bought a new pen, and then, respectfully, placed the remaining coins into the cup of an old beggar on the street corner. He must have known that man was a notorious local scammer. That day, I realized Liam was not just a quiet ox; he was a stubborn fool, too. But even a stubborn fool like Liam sometimes learned to yield. I woke up, groggy and disoriented, to a startling number of notifications on my phone. The chat thread that had been blank for five years had new messages from Liam. “I haven’t agreed to marry Chloe. Come out, let’s talk properly. There are so many misunderstandings between us.” Misunderstandings? My pain, the trauma I had lived through, was a misunderstanding in his eyes? Smart as he was, Liam knew exactly how to get me to agree. He mentioned he wanted to tell me the last words my father had spoken to him before he died. I agreed to meet. He brought a butterfly-shaped cake, pushing it toward me with a smile. “Here. I remember you used to love sweets.” “Liam, you loved it. You had an insatiable sweet tooth. I never did. Don’t you know that, truly?” A wave of helplessness washed over me. I rubbed my temples, utterly drained. “Forget it. Just say what you need to say, then I’m leaving.” A flicker of hesitation crossed his face, imperceptible, but it was there. He quickly regained his composed, reserved demeanor. “Evie, you should apologize to Chloe. The things you said today were unacceptable. She was reduced to tears.” I laughed, the sound hollow. “Everything I said today was the truth. You know that better than anyone.” “Apology is not happening. If you’re so concerned, go back and comfort her right now.” It wasn’t the first time he’d abandoned me like this. His scales had always been unbalanced. The year Liam met Chloe, we were already planning our wedding. I had clumsily chased after him, and he had finally turned to look back at me. He chose medical school instead of the military academy. He told me, “Northern University’s Medical School is closer to your home. You’re a homebody, and I don’t want us to be too far apart.” That summer, Liam Scott worked relentlessly, saving up for tuition, and took me on a graduation trip. We held each other on the beach, and we kissed on the Ferris wheel. After graduation, we were finally of legal age. My father, with a kind heart, said Liam was an unfortunate child, and since I loved him, we should give him a home. I was ready to give him that home. But he was afraid to enter it. He went to my father and knelt heavily on the floor. “Sir, I watched my father die right in front of me. For years, all I’ve thought is, what if I could have saved him?” “I couldn’t save him, but I can save more people. Being a Doctor Without Borders is my dream.” Clap! The sound was sharp. Eavesdropping by the door, my heart skipped a beat. My usually gentle father shouted at him, his voice laced with fury: “Don’t even think about it! I promised your father I would look after you! Your life, this life, is meant to be one of domestic bliss!” When Liam emerged with a blazing red handprint across his cheek, I still hadn’t moved. His eyes were bloodshot as he stared at the matching wedding bands I had just bought, his voice a choked, painful whisper: “Evie, you always said marriage wasn’t a cage. Why do I feel so much pain?” I wasn’t doing any better. I rushed into the study to find Dad clutching his heart, struggling for breath, slumped in his chair. As I pressed his medication into his hand, he gripped my wrist tightly. “Evie, you must… you must hold on to Liam.” I didn’t know how to hold on to Liam. I only knew he loved sweets. Perhaps his life was too bitter, and he needed the sweetness to balance it out. I spent the afternoon baking a cake, searching everywhere to find him. Finally, I found them at his father’s gravesite. Chloe was clinging to his embrace, her pale, delicate face flushed. “I know you’re a man with great ideals and ambition, Liam. Whatever you decide, I support you. My family has the means to be our safety net.” “I’m willing to go with you, to the ends of the earth.” I ran toward them, throwing the cake right at her. Ignoring all dignity, I yelled, “Shameless! He already rejected you, and you’re still sticking to him like a leech!” Liam did not push her away. Instead, his hand landed on me. “Evie, are you done with this drama?!” He had never once raised his voice at me since we were kids. I fell silent, gently wiping the frosting from his face. Liam’s gaze was fraught with inner conflict, but in the end, he followed me back home. However, he was going back to pack. Unable to stop him, I pulled out a clinic report. “Liam, I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a father.” He snapped his head up, meeting my eyes with a look of pure scorn. “What new trick is this?” My stomach began to seize up, the pain forcing me to crouch down. When I looked up again, I was alone. He was leaving. He had made his choice. The day before his departure was his birthday. I went out to buy him a gift. A car screeched to a halt beside me, and as the door opened, a strong force yanked me inside. A hood was thrown over my head, and a rain of fists began to fall. I covered my abdomen, begging them to stop, but my clothes were violently ripped off. I heard the continuous click-click-click of a camera shutter and a girl’s high-pitched, triumphant giggle. When I was dumped on the side of the road, I reached down, wincing in agony. My hand came away sticky and warm. I lost consciousness completely. I woke up to the smell of disinfectant and my phone ringing non-stop. When I answered, Mom’s hysterical scream hit me like a physical blow, leaving my mind numb. By the time I rushed back, the house that held all our happy memories was reduced to a heap of ruins. Smoke hung thick in the air, a towering pile of black, collapsed debris. As the morticians wheeled away my father’s charred remains, my mother collapsed, passing out from the shock. I couldn’t reach Liam, but I knew my father’s last visitor had to be him. The investigation concluded that the culprit for the massive fire was a single candle. My father had lit it, hoping Liam would make a wish. That was all. I found his rental apartment, only to be told by the landlord that he had already left for Africa. He’d left in a hurry, taking only the two large crates of handwritten love letters from our dating years, entrusting the rest of his belongings to the landlord. The only thing he left for me was a text message before his number was deactivated: “Evie, I’m gone. I hope every day of your future is as happy as the first day I met you.” Suddenly, I no longer wanted to pursue why he left when I needed him most. His manipulative softness was, indeed, potent. For five years, my mother has fluctuated between periods of lucidity and madness. The start was incredibly hard. I worked during the day to earn money for her medical bills and delivered food at night, sleeping only three hours a day. Once, I collapsed at work, my head hitting the floor with a sickening thud. Blood poured from a gash. Thankfully, Mom’s condition gradually stabilized. I borrowed some money and opened a bakery. She asked me if I couldn’t let go of Liam, that curse on our lives. No. It wasn’t that. I simply started to understand why Liam loved sweets so much. Because life, truly, was unbearably bitter. The candlelight flickered on the table, illuminating Liam’s face, which overlapped with the image of the man in my memory. I asked him, “So, you won’t tell me until I apologize to her?” Liam paused. “Yes.” I picked up the wine bottle in front of me and smashed it against his head. CRASH. My heart shattered too. “I will never apologize to the person who killed my child!” Blood streamed down Liam’s face, tracing an ugly path. His eyes widened, and a panicked look replaced his composure. “There must be some mistake, Evie. Chloe might be spoiled, but she wouldn’t hurt anyone.” “Besides, did you really get pregnant back then? I remember I didn’t…” I didn’t listen to the rest. I turned and walked out quickly. There was no point wasting my breath on a man who refused to believe me. My mother had a relapse after seeing Liam. When I arrived at the hospital, she was banging her head against the wall. I held her tightly, letting her bite and pinch me, new, terrifying bruises forming over old ones. I finally managed to soothe her to sleep. When I looked up, Liam and Chloe were standing outside the glass window, exposing my most vulnerable moment. He was quiet for a moment. “What happened to your mom?” I didn’t answer. Chloe spoke first, her tone laced with faux sympathy: “Liam said your parents were kind to him, so he should check in on them. But since your mom is like this, maybe we should just go. Wouldn’t want her to hurt anyone.” “And your dad?” I forced a tight smile. “My dad? He died on June 12th, 2015.” The day Liam left. I clearly saw the composed barrier in his eyes crack, tearing apart. He finally seemed to grasp the reality, reaching out clumsily to catch me. 3 “Evie, the real reason I left so decisively was because…” 4 “It was because Uncle Annabel told me I should pursue the life I wanted. He said he wouldn’t force me to do anything I didn’t want anymore.” “I never imagined he would get hurt after I left. How… how did he pass away?” Tears streamed from my eyes. I took a step back, and his outstretched hand fell short. “After you left, he had a heart attack and knocked over the cake. The single candle he lit especially for you is what killed him.” “Liam, sometimes, I can’t help but hate you. If you hadn’t been so eager to leave that day, if you had just stayed a little longer, he would still be here with me.” Chloe stuck out her chin, placing herself protectively in front of Liam. “Hey! You can’t blame Liam! It’s your father who had a short life!” “That’s enough, Chloe! Get out!” Liam roared, the sound echoing down the hallway. Chloe flinched, her eyes instantly filling with tears. “You’re shouting at me—for her?” “Don’t forget who spent five years with you in that impoverished, dreadful place! If my father hadn’t given us all that money, do you think you’d be living so comfortably?!” “Liam, do you even have a heart?!” She ran off crying. A flash of blatant annoyance crossed Liam’s eyes. He truly had no heart, I thought bitterly. Wiping the tears from my face, I spoke calmly. “It’s been so long. Neither of us wants to see you anymore. Just go. Marry Chloe, and you’ll be set for life.” “I’ll just pretend my father took in an ungrateful stray dog.” Liam stared intensely at me, a raw, near-feral cry escaping him: “You don’t want me? You were the one who told me you’d give me a home—that’s why I came back!” “I’ve held on to those words for five years!” “I never intended to marry Chloe. She’s the one who’s been constantly clinging to me!” A dark figure charged in, landing a punch that sent Liam stumbling six feet away. I grabbed Declan’s arm, the skin under my palm hot with adrenaline. “Stop, Declan. Don’t dirty your hands on him.” He looked at me, stunned, a flicker of confusion in his expression.

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