Author: Momo Chan

The eighteenth time Damon Montgomery and I attempted to divorce, he failed to show up again. I stood outside the Registry Office, the same place it had always been, and received the customary text message. Emergency. Reschedule. I stared blankly at the red-highlighted countdown on my phone, the remaining days until we could file again. I simply couldn’t afford to waste any more time on this disastrous marriage. After a long moment, I pulled up the messaging app and calmly typed a few lines. She’s pregnant again, isn’t she? Damon, for the sake of your two children, just let me go. The nineteenth time, we finally succeeded. 1 Damon and I had once been madly in love. We had both dreamt of the perfect little family, a beautiful home, and one adorable baby. Now, the son he’d fathered with another woman was three years old, and still, he’d fought to keep me tied to him. A woman’s voice jolted me out of the memory. She gave me a sympathetic glance, unable to resist offering unsolicited advice. “Lydia, stop this. No matter how much you fight it, the child is here now. Deep down, Damon still loves you.” I didn’t reply, turning my back to her. The man in a crisp suit stood in the doorway, having overheard everything. He walked away the moment my gaze landed on him. Today was the day his son was officially inducted into the Montgomery family lineage. Halfway through the ceremony, the family elders paused, stymied by the name to be recorded as the mother. I had already warned them: my name was forbidden. In the awkward silence, someone gently advised Damon. “Damon, just choose someone else.” Damon’s eyes remained fixed on me, saying nothing. Everyone was watching my reaction. I finally spoke, my voice flat. “It’s fine. I have no objection.” I thought I heard a cold, self-mocking scoff from somewhere, but I didn’t look up to confirm. Savannah was called in. When the ritual was over, she turned to leave, but Damon stopped her. “Come here. Stand beside me.” Out of the corner of my eye, I felt his gaze probing my face, waiting for a crack in my composure. I kept my head down. But I still looked once. The woman leaned into his side, gripping the sleeve of his expensive jacket, her entire being focused on the child they shared. A familiar, dull ache settled in my chest, a residual pain that was more numbness than heartbreak. The ceremony ended, and as the last person in the room, I was the first to leave. Behind me, the little boy, Leo, skipped happily, holding Damon’s hand and Savannah’s other hand. The Montgomery seniors watched the trio—a perfect, complete family—with warm smiles. They looked so proud. Yet, they had once stood firmly by my side. I remembered when Savannah had just given birth. She knelt at the gates of the Montgomery estate for a full day and night, clutching the infant, and still they refused to let the child inside. They had sworn that as long as I lived, I would be their only daughter-in-law. I was glad I hadn’t believed them then. I stopped Damon as he approached. His expression was dark, shadowed. “The divorce papers tomorrow. Don’t forget.” My persistent demand for a divorce had clearly worn out his patience over the years. Everyone assumed I was just throwing a tantrum, unwilling to accept defeat. They thought three years of fighting was enough, that since the boy was three, what good would come of not forgiving him? But only I knew the truth: I was genuinely done wasting my time on him. The woman beside him instantly teared up. “Mrs. Montgomery, are you angry because of me? If I’ve done anything wrong, I apologize. Please, have some compassion for Damon and stop deliberately making things difficult for him.” Damon stared at me, then sneered. “She’s divorcing me. What right does she have to be angry?” My eyes finally felt the sting of dampness. The next second, I was abruptly shoved. The little boy, Leo, stood defensively in front of Savannah, hands on his hips, glaring at me with puffed cheeks. I landed hard on the marble floor. Looking down, I saw my palms were scraped raw. Damon instinctively took a step toward me. He was silent, but a flicker of emotion—concern? guilt?—crossed his eyes. A dry retching sound broke the tension. Savannah suddenly clutched her stomach and doubled over, her face pale. I rose slowly, clutching my stinging, scraped hands. I walked toward the exit. A stunned Damon did not follow. A low whisper drifted after me, reaching my ears as I left. “Do you think… she’s pregnant again?” 2 I opened the door to the house, and silence rushed out to greet me. It was empty and cold. I had dismissed the house staff six months ago. My body was throbbing, a deep ache pulsing behind my eyes. My hand shook as I fumbled in my purse for the pill bottle. I dumped a handful into my palm—I didn’t count—and swallowed them quickly with a dry throat. I lay on the cold hardwood floor, tears slowly tracing a path down my temples. Lydia. How did you let your life become this? The endless, sightless marriage had left my spirit exhausted, utterly lifeless. Now, even my body seemed to be giving out. The lock clicked. I tried to struggle to my feet, but I was too weak. No one ever comes here but me. A bitter laugh was still on my lips when the door swung open. Damon stepped inside, backlit by the evening sun. He stood motionless, watching me, not speaking. I managed to sit up, carefully tucking the pill bottle into my bag. Even if he saw it, he wouldn’t care. Just as I thought, Damon bypassed me entirely, settling languidly onto the sofa. “I don’t believe we’re divorced yet, Ms. Montgomery. Are you saying there’s nothing of mine left in this house?” I had mailed all his clothes to the penthouse he’d bought for Savannah months ago. It had been so long since he’d come home; wracked with pain, I could no longer remember when. Seeing me still sitting on the floor, the man roughly hauled me into his arms. He leaned in close, his voice a low, ragged growl. “Lydia. Speak to me.” His eyes, beneath the dark fringe of his lashes, had that tiny, beautiful teardrop mole I used to love. I turned my head away. “Your things aren’t lost. They’re at your other house.” Damon exploded. He gripped my shoulders so tightly his fingers dug into my flesh, his eyes completely red. “Three years! It’s been three damn years! What do you need to finally forgive me? Can’t you see I regret it? Can’t you see I’m suffering every day just like you?” He took my hand and placed it over his wildly beating heart, his voice raw with pleading. “Lydia, can’t we just go back to the way things were?” I pushed back, but he didn’t budge. I just stared at him, my eyes empty with a quiet sense of finality. Finally, Damon shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. He gradually released my arms. I rubbed my bruised shoulders and picked up the steak knife from the coffee table, turning it over in my fingers. “Then divorce me, Damon. We both can be free.” Damon slumped to the floor, laughing wildly. “You want a divorce? Never. I’ll keep you trapped here. I’ll make you watch me live a happy life for the rest of yours.” I tightened my grip on the knife. Slowly, deliberately, I brought the tip to my pale, exposed throat. Unfortunately, he won’t be able to trap me for my entire life. Damon’s pupils constricted. Without hesitation, he grabbed the blade with his bare hand. His five fingers were trembling. In the silent, terrifying standoff, he was the one who surrendered first. “Fine. I’ll divorce you.” The tall man struggled to stand, swaying as if he might collapse. Before he did, a small woman rushed in and braced him. Savannah. She was weeping, her lashes heavy with tears. “I didn’t follow you. I just—you come home so often with fresh cuts and bruises. I was worried.” Damon rested his head weakly against her shoulder, closing his eyes. “I won’t come here anymore. Never again.” I watched the empty, wide-open doorway. Damon was gone. Memories rushed up, pushed down, only to surge up again, blurring my vision. Someone once said that love alone can’t guarantee a happy ending. Damon and I never believed it. Now, we both knew better. 3 Savannah, of course, told Damon’s parents about our dramatic confrontation. They arrived while I was eating dinner. My throat, still visible despite my efforts, showed the faint red line from the knife. Damon’s mother kept her silence, but his father asked, with a show of concern: “Why are you eating so little?” It’s true. When did my appetite shrink to this? “Because I’m going to die soon.” Damon’s father froze, assuming I was being difficult again. His face hardened. “Lydia, is that how you talk to your elders? You weren’t like this before. You’ve become so difficult to be around. No wonder Damon avoids coming home. Who would want to stay with you for long?” I was unmoved, slowly chewing my food. I couldn’t seem to swallow it. Damon’s mother, a woman of high society, grew visibly angry at my lack of reaction. She pushed her plate aside and slid a check across the table. “We came here to ask you to divorce Damon. You saw Savannah today; she’s pregnant again. She’s several months along, and it’s a girl.” The pain started again. A wave of nausea. How strange. Why does it hurt every time they mention Damon? “We’re divorcing tomorrow.” Damon’s mother scoffed. “You and Damon have been fighting this for three years. When has it ever worked? You refused a good life and insisted on this drama. If you had just accepted my grandson sooner, it wouldn’t have come to this.” I looked up, meeting her eyes. “Are you suggesting I should have accepted his child with another woman, and watched him lie to me, over and over, all for the sake of that child?” My clear, unwavering gaze unnerved her. The cruel words died in her throat. She only muttered: “We were on your side. You wouldn’t have lost anything.” I tossed the check back onto the table, stood up, and motioned them out. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow, Damon and I will be done.” 4 On the day of the divorce, I woke up early and dressed with care. After all, this would be the last divorce of my life. I arrived early. The Town Hall had just opened. The people milling around were all couples, some happy, some clearly miserable. I was the only one sitting alone on the steps, counting the ants on the sidewalk. The morning passed. Damon didn’t show. He’d broken his promise again. I checked my phone. One minute ago, he had sent the text. Emergency. Reschedule. I stared at the seven simple words. I scrolled up through our previous attempts. All eighteen messages were identical, down to the punctuation. I sat back down, propped my chin in my hands, and drifted into a daze. If the divorce failed today, Damon’s mother would suspect I was the one refusing to let him go. I didn’t want to die with the reputation of a woman still clinging to her cheating husband. After a long time, I took out my phone and calmly typed the lines that had worked the day before. She’s pregnant again, isn’t she? Damon, for the sake of your two children, just let me go. He didn’t reply, but I decided to wait. To pass the time, I counted the ants again. I realized there were only a few of them, and I finished counting quickly. They have more time left than I do. The smile on my face froze. It was only now, truly, that I realized I was actually going to die soon. Just as the Town Hall was closing, Damon emerged from a car parked some distance away. His polished leather shoes appeared in my line of sight. I looked up. The afternoon sun made my eyes sting slightly. I rose slowly and brushed the dust from my clothes. “Let’s go inside.” Damon didn’t move. He grabbed my arm, his eyes radiating a cold intensity. “Are you really sure you want to divorce me?” For a fleeting second, I heard another question, long ago. “Lydia, are you really sure you want to marry me?” I pulled my hand free and walked up the steps before him. “Yes. I’m sure.” The answer was the same, but the path was leading to a completely different ending. 5 The nineteenth time, we finally succeeded. When we walked out, Savannah was waiting by the door with their son. The boy saw me and spat toward me. “Dead woman, get lost! Stop bothering my dad! If you don’t leave, I’ll hit you!” Before he could touch me, Damon slapped him across the face. Damon didn’t hold back. The boy’s cheek immediately swelled, and a trickle of blood appeared at his mouth. Savannah began to sob, distraught, but Damon remained impassive. He gripped the boy’s head and spoke with a fierce, brutal intensity. “If I ever hear you insult her again, you’re out. Go as far away as you can.” The boy hid in Savannah’s arms, wailing, refusing to apologize. “They said I’m a bastard, not Dad’s real son, that’s why you won’t let us live with Grandpa and Grandma! They also said Mom is a homewrecker, a vixen everyone hates! Mom always cries in secret and lies to me that she just got sand in her eyes!” The boy wiped his tears with the back of his hand and pointed a furious finger at me. “If it weren’t for you, Dad would love me and Mom! Why don’t you just die!” I wasn’t angry. I just felt a sudden, deep disgust for the little boy. He was Damon’s son, all right. His words cut just as deep. I turned my back, quickly swallowing a few more pills in secret. Damon saw the movement and seized my wrist. “What are you taking?”

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My sister, Serena, always dreamed of striking it rich. Her plan? Stage an “accident” that would cripple Leo Kingston, the only son of Manhattan’s most untouchable financial dynasty. A rebar stake through the kid’s chest. Serena played the Good Samaritan, rushing him to the E.R., even pumping out 800cc of her own blood. No fanfare, no credit—that was the trick to getting the biggest reward. As soon as the doctors said the danger had passed, she bolted. And I didn’t stop her. I stood in the corridor, watching her back. Last time—in my former life—I tried to warn her. I saw her tampering with the equipment at the construction site and begged her to stop; the Kingstons were untouchable. She smiled, told me I was sweet, and then, on the walk home, she took me to the roof of that very same steel plant and pushed. I died choking on my own blood, impaled on the same construction debris she’d rigged. My final thought: She blamed me for ruining her jackpot. Then, I opened my eyes. Back in the same day. The same humming, antiseptic corridor. This time, I wasn’t saving her. I was watching her dig her own grave. 1 Leo Kingston was in emergency surgery. My sister, Serena Miller, was at the blood bank window, her face a mask of refined, selfless panic. Her expensive designer dress was artfully soaked in Leo’s blood. If you hadn’t seen her orchestrate the accident—if you didn’t know the sickening ambition churning beneath that fragile facade—you would have thought she was a literal saint. “Is that enough?” she pleaded with the nurse, her voice catching with forced tears. “If he needs more, take it! I have plenty! He’s so small. You have to save him, or I’ll never have a moment’s peace.” The nurse cooed about her kindness, assuring her that the amount she’d given was more than enough. Serena bowed and scraped, thanking the nurse with effusive, grateful reverence. But when the nurse asked for her name, Serena smoothly changed the subject. It was all part of the plan. Her information was on the transfusion documents, but by pretending to be a self-effacing hero, she hoped the Kingstons—a family known for their obscene wealth and old money arrogance—would offer a reward far greater than any she could have negotiated. The nurse hurried away. The surgical doors swung shut. Serena’s grip was a vice on my arm, making me gasp. The act was over. Her voice was a low, vicious hiss, all the Good Samaritan stripped away. “Keep that mouth shut, Naomi. You know the score.” I gently pulled my arm free. I could feel the adrenaline thrumming through me, but I kept my face blank—the familiar, cowed expression she expected. “Don’t worry, Serena. You’re my sister. Who else would I side with?” I kept my voice small and meek. “Just let me be the receptionist when you get your big payout. I just want a steady paycheck.” Serena scoffed, wiping a smear of blood off her sleeve with a disdainful frown. “Mom and Dad are right. You’re a useless commodity, a born drone. You’ll die in debt without my brilliance.” She was already walking toward the elevator, high heels clicking impatiently. I just nodded along, playing the pathetic, easily managed younger sister. Last time, my concern had been interpreted as sabotage. This time? I would push her toward the cliff. I wanted to see exactly how she planned to survive messing with Rhys Kingston. Serena didn’t spare me another thought. She saw my fabricated fear and preened. “Fine. Stop looking so scared. You’re irritating me. When my company launches, I’ll hire you as my assistant—maybe hook you up with a chauffeur. That should keep your bills paid.” She practically dragged me to the elevator. As expected, we hit the ground floor just as he arrived: Rhys Kingston, the man who owned half of Manhattan and whose son was currently bleeding out upstairs. Serena’s eyes sharpened, a silent, warning glare aimed at me. I immediately clutched my stomach. “Bathroom. Emergency.” I fled. Why link myself to her when her carefully constructed tower was about to crumble? I heard Serena’s voice echoing down the corridor, overly sweet and carefully pitched. “Oh, no thanks are necessary. It’s just what anyone would do. That poor boy is only five.” She turned down the offer of immediate financial help, but conveniently dropped her new, expensive-looking business card right at the Assistant’s feet. I waited until I heard the elevator ding. Rhys’s tone was lethally smooth, devoid of any genuine relief or gratitude. “I want to know if this was a loose bolt or a calculated hit,” he said to his Assistant. “No cops. I handle my own problems. You try to hurt a Kingston, you learn the hard way: I know a hundred ways to make you permanently quiet.” “Check the rebar. Check the workers. I want to know exactly how unstable that beam was. We’ll see if the steel or the perpetrator is harder.” The Assistant nervously glanced at Serena’s dropped card. “What about Serena Miller…?” “Don’t care yet,” Rhys cut him off. “See to my son. I’ll question the child when he wakes up.” I waited until the elevator doors closed on the elite entourage. I could finally breathe. Serena hadn’t just messed with a wealthy man; she had tried to extort a true powerhouse. Her lavish funeral was practically booked. Her car was gone when I finally stepped outside. She didn’t answer her phone. I caught a cab back to our dismal little house. The moment I walked through the door, my father’s heavy glass ashtray slammed against my forehead. Blood immediately bloomed. “Naomi, you spineless failure!” my mother shrieked, not even looking at the blood. “Your father has worked the Kingston site for years! This was our chance! You don’t help your sister, but you damn well don’t ruin her performance!” My father shoved his palm directly onto the bleeding wound on my forehead. The pain was blinding. “Serena told you to leave immediately! Are you deaf? Did you plan to steal her savior credit? You idiot! Do you want ‘Extortion’ written on your t-shirt?” They knew. They all knew this was a cheap, vile con. I remembered how they had blamed me in my former life—a cold, twisted memory where they refused to collect my broken body because I had supposedly cost Serena her fortune. “Taking her credit?” I spat the words, tasting blood. “Or taking the fall for near-homicide? Only a sick person looks at everyone else and only sees an accomplice.” My father raised his hand for another blow, but Serena swept into the room, cutting him off. “Stop, Dad. She’s useless. Don’t waste your energy.” She eyed my head wound with bored contempt. “Rhys Kingston got there so fast. Luckily, I was quick. I dropped the card and ran.” My mother’s face, a second ago tight with fury, instantly melted into pride. “That’s my girl! Always the smart one! Unlike some people, who are only good for being a drain on the electric bill! Twenty years, and still nothing but a disappointment!” I retreated to my room, grabbing some tissue to staunch the bleeding. From the hallway, I could hear Serena, her voice breathless with excitement, recounting the ‘accident.’ “He just tripped and fell off the scaffolding…” I couldn’t help myself. I marched out. “Stop lying to yourself! Do you think Rhys Kingston is as dumb as you are? Rebar doesn’t ‘just break,’ Serena! Not that gauge! And it doesn’t ‘accidentally’ fall into a five-year-old’s chest cavity!” My parents’ faces contorted with horror. They lunged for me. They hit me. Both of them. Hard. “Shut up!” My mother screamed. “Those words stay rotten in your throat! This was an accident, and your sister saved him! The Kingstons owe us! They have a moral duty to reward her!” I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “So my honest paycheck is ‘useless,’ but extorting a man whose child you almost murdered is ‘ambition’?” My father grabbed the shattered glass ashtray and slammed it onto my head again. My vision swam, but the heat of my infected wound was nothing compared to the cold ache in my heart. “You have no ambition, Naomi! You’re poor! We’ll be buried in unmarked graves before you earn anything worthwhile!” “Why did you even bother having me?” I pleaded, my voice breaking. “One greedy daughter should have been enough.” A flicker of panic—just a quick, cold shadow—crossed both their faces. Serena, preening, cut in. “Forget her, Mom. She’s poor. I told her I’d give her a receptionist job, and she jumped at it. Rhys Kingston’s gaze… it wasn’t just gratitude. His wife died years ago. If I play this right, I won’t just get a fifty-million payout. I’ll get the whole empire.” My parents were ecstatic, ignoring me completely as they fawned over their brilliant daughter, handing her a bottle of expensive blood-restoration vitamins. It was my moment. I baited them with their own ugliness until my father was spitting mad. He snatched a document from a desk—our family’s official Birth and Identity Registry—and viciously tore out the page with my name on it. “Get out! Now! I have no daughter named Naomi!” My mother stared at me with pure disgust. Serena, still glued to her phone, barely looked up. “Good. If you can’t appreciate me, then go. Don’t come crawling back when you get fired.” I smiled, picking up the torn page. Freedom. “You’ll see,” I said, meeting their furious gazes with cold certainty. “The Kingstons aren’t fools. You messed with the wrong people. We’ll see who’s begging for mercy when he decides to pay a visit.” I left the house and stumbled toward the nearest drugstore. My head was pounding, the wounds already starting to throb with feverish heat. The pharmacist gasped at the sight of me—all blood and pale skin—and urged me to go to the hospital. I didn’t make it out the door. My legs gave out. When I next opened my eyes, I was in a hospital room. The nurses didn’t notice I was awake. “Did you hear?” one whispered. “The kid downstairs is a Kingston. Critically injured. Rhys Kingston flew in surgeons from Geneva and Tokyo overnight!” “Who would attack a child?” “I heard the kid’s not stable. And the security detail? They look like ex-military, maybe mercs. Don’t go near the room.” A cold dread settled over me. Serena was utterly doomed. I quickly checked myself out, but not before I ran into Rhys Kingston’s Assistant, frantic, racing down the hall and asking every person about their blood type. Leo needed a specific type, and the hospital’s supply was running low due to complications. I hesitated. I could walk away. I should. But the kid was a pawn. My soul needed this absolution. I followed the Assistant and gave my blood again. The urgency was so high, and the Kingstons had such pull, that no paperwork was filed. I was in and out of the operating room, and as soon as I heard Leo was stabilized, I ripped out the IV and fled. No information. No trail. I rented a cheap place on the outskirts. The community was right next to the site of the ‘accident.’ From my window, I could watch Rhys Kingston and his private security systematically interrogate every worker. I stayed hidden. Serena, however, was doing the opposite. She practically lived outside the hospital entrance, hoping Rhys would recognize her. When that failed for three days, she went straight to Leo’s room under the guise of concern. The Assistant recognized her immediately. Leo, bless his heart, even told the Assistant that the “nice lady” was his hero. The Assistant was effusive, promising Serena a personal visit from Rhys when the boy was discharged. Serena filmed the interaction and posted it. Within hours, Serena Miller was an overnight sensation—the hero who saved the Kingston heir. Offers, praise, and gifts flooded our old house. She gave an on-camera interview, saying she’d have saved anyone—it was just the right thing to do. She cemented her benevolent image. The flood of public approval and media attention made me cold. I immediately started the process of legally separating my name from my family’s address.

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Ivy and I were lured into a nightmare disguised as a vacation, sold into a high-end trafficking ring south of the border. For three thousand dollars a night, any man could own us. By the time the Feds and the Blackwood family’s private security kicked down the doors, I was the establishment’s top earner, sitting atop a wealthy client, counting a stack of cash with trembling hands. My best friend, Ivy Blackwood, wasn’t so lucky. She was found in the basement, visibly pregnant and in a permanent vegetative state. The Blackwood family put a five-million-dollar bounty on the head of the broker who sold us. But I, the only witness who knew the truth, chose silence. Ivy’s mother knelt on the marble floor, begging me to speak. I closed my eyes and feigned sleep. The detectives grilled me for hours. I gave them nothing but dead air. Ivy’s brother—my fiancé, Roman Blackwood—finally snapped. He threw me onto the Neural Projection Stage. “Ivy is living a fate worse than death, and you’re protecting the monsters!” “To think I ever loved a piece of trash like you… it makes me sick.” “Today, the Neural Interface is going to drag the truth out of your skull, and I’m going to send you and your accomplices straight to hell.” But when the truth finally flooded the screens, Roman didn’t scream. He fell to his knees, silent. 1 Roman chose the Crestview University stadium for my public execution. It was our alma mater. It was also where we first met. The arena, capable of holding ten thousand people, was packed to the rafters. Everyone I had ever known was there. Close relatives, old friends, professors, down to the delivery driver I’d tipped once and the woman who ran the diner down the street. Roman had invited them all. I covered my face, instinct screaming at me to run. But Roman’s hand was a vice on my shoulder, pinning me to the chair. I couldn’t move. He gripped my throat. Those eyes, once warm with the promise of forever, were now cold, hard flint. “Nora, do you even know what shame is?” “I’m asking you one last time. Who sold Ivy?” His grip tightened. My face burned, oxygen fleeing my lungs. I teetered on the edge of consciousness, but I kept my lips sealed. The Blackwood family swarmed me, a tide of expensive fabric and raw fury. “You heartless bitch! Ivy and Roman gave you everything, and you protect the people who destroyed her?” “She was born for the gutter! Probably enjoyed it down there! That’s why she won’t talk!” Hands clawed at me, tearing my clothes, exposing my scars and skin. Flashing cameras blinded me, my humiliation broadcast on the massive Jumbotron above. “Look at her! Let the whole world see what a traitor looks like!” Roman loomed over me, a needle the width of a pinky finger poised at the base of my skull. His gaze cut deeper than the metal ever could. “The Neural Interface does more damage to the brain than a lobotomy.” “It’s going to hurt, Nora. Imagine childbirth, then multiply it by twenty.” “And every dirty, secret memory you have? It’s going to be played out in 4K for everyone to see.” “This is your last chance.” The thought of those dark, grimy months in the compound made my pupils dilate. My body betrayed me, shaking violently. “No… don’t look,” I whispered. “Roman, please. Trust me. You’ll regret this.” For a second, hesitation flickered in his eyes. Then he glanced at his mother, her hair turned white overnight, and the hesitation hardened into disgust. “Regret?” ” The only thing I regret is pulling you out of that hellhole.” “I should have left you there to rot.” The metal pierced my scalp. It plunged deep into the neural tissue. The pain wasn’t just physical; it was existential. It shattered my consciousness. I couldn’t even form the words to beg. I just opened my mouth, and a sound that didn’t belong to a human tore out of me. The crowd went wild. “She deserves it! That toxic snake deserves every second!” On the giant screen, the static cleared. My memories began to play. The first scene flickered into view. Ivy’s hospital room. She looked like an origami figure, fragile and paper-thin, except for the swollen mound of her stomach. The doctor, looking grim, delivered the news. “Her brain activity is minimal. The chances of her waking up are statistically zero.” “And… given her physical state, a termination is too risky. She has to carry the child to term.” Ivy’s mother collapsed onto her daughter’s chest, wailing. In the memory, I stood by the window, eyes dead, staring at nothing. The Roman on the screen exploded. He grabbed a handful of my hair and dragged me to the bedside, slamming my forehead against the cold tile floor. “Why? Why won’t you tell us?” “What did the Blackwoods ever do to you? Did I not love you enough?” “Nora, do you even have a heart?” The crowd in the stadium roared their approval. “The Blackwoods are saints. Their daughter is a vegetable, carrying a rapist’s baby, and they can’t even abort it.” “Nora isn’t human. Look at her. Her best friend is gone, and she doesn’t shed a tear.” “She’s probably jealous. That’s why she let it happen.” Ivy’s mother, fueled by the crowd, rushed the stage. Her nails raked down my cheek, drawing blood. She grabbed the control lever of the extractor and jammed it forward. “My Ivy will never wake up! Why should you get to live?” My scream echoed off the stadium walls. Blood splattered onto Roman’s pristine trousers. He turned his face away, his voice icy. “Widen the search parameters. I want the truth.” The surge of electricity forced a jump in the timeline. The screen shifted. Roman was dragging me into a condemned warehouse in the bad part of the city. He stripped me and hoisted me up by my wrists. The room was filled with homeless men, eyes hungry, hands filthy, reaching for me. Roman’s eyes were bloodshot. He squeezed my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “Nora, who is he? Who is worth dying for?” My body in the memory was vibrating with terror, but I clamped my jaw shut. “I don’t know.” That broke him. “Since you miss the whorehouse so much,” he spat, “I’ll give you a taste of home.” Someone handed him a cigarette. Through the smoke, his voice was a jagged blade. “Give her to them. A dollar a turn. No refusals.” “Whatever she earns, buy Ivy’s favorite irises. Send them to the hospital.” The images that followed were the stuff of nightmares I had tried to bury. I clapped my hands over my ears, desperate to block out the sounds of my own degradation. Roman pried my hands away, laughing darkly. “Oh, playing the victim now, Nora?” “You’re the last person on earth who deserves pity.” “You’re protecting a criminal. You earned every second of this.” The audience ate it up. “Look at her, trying to manipulate us with a sob story!” “Ivy is a living corpse! Her parents are destroyed! Nora got off easy!” “She was the top earner down there, remember? Maybe she liked it.” “If she won’t talk after all that torture, maybe she is the mastermind.” “Has to be. If not the boss, then a willing partner.” Ivy’s mother, hearing the crowd, lost what was left of her mind. She slapped me, a sharp crack that silenced the front row. “Crank it up! Burn her brain if you have to! Dig it all out!” The technician looked pale. “Sir, she’s already at critical levels. If we push the voltage, she could be left permanently disabled…” “She’s already broken,” Roman said, his face like stone. He reached over and turned the dial to the maximum. “She deserves it.” The current hit my brainstem like a lightning strike. My body curled into a fetal ball. Warm liquid spread down my legs. As I lost control of my bladder, a new memory ripped onto the screen. A dark, damp room. A heavy iron chain around my neck, chafing raw skin. Two guards were beating me, trying to force me into a private room with a new buyer. When I refused, they placed a phone book on my chest and hammered it with fists—maximum pain, no bruising. A gasp from the stands. “I know that trick. It hurts like hell but leaves no marks.” “She looks like a victim there… how could she be an accomplice?” “Don’t be stupid,” someone shouted back. “She’s curating these memories! It’s a manipulation!” Roman’s fingers trembled as they closed around my throat again. “Still protecting him?” “You think showing me this makes me soft? You’re delusional.” “You’re a monster, Nora.” The memory shifted violently again. The screen showed me in a dressing room, applying heavy makeup, wearing barely enough silk to cover my shame. The stadium erupted. “See! She is a whore!” “Took a few beatings and then happily sold herself!” I shook my head frantically, trying to dislodge the memory, but the machine was relentless. The scene changed. Ivy. She was pinned under three men. She was screaming, her skin a map of bruises. The leader of the gang covered her mouth, looking at me with a dead-eyed smile. “I don’t run a charity.” “This one’s sick. She can’t work.” “Either you earn her keep, or we throw her to the dogs.” In the memory, I threw myself over Ivy’s body. “Please! Get a doctor! I’ll do it!” “I’ll work! I’ll pay for everything! Just don’t hurt her!” The montage accelerated. Me, swallowing my vomit, smiling at men who smelled like rot. Me, dragging my broken body to the boss, begging on my knees. Not for freedom. For better antibiotics for Ivy. The stadium fell into a stunned silence. “She… she sold herself to save Ivy?” “That’s not the behavior of a criminal.” “Jesus. The Blackwoods are torturing the woman who saved their daughter.” Ivy’s mother shrieked, shaking my shoulders. “Fake! It’s all fake!” “It’s CGI! It’s a lie! If she cared about Ivy, she’d give us the name!” “It’s a sympathy play! Look at her, she’s alive, isn’t she? My Ivy is gone!” The crowd, fickle as the wind, turned back. “Ungrateful trash!” “Rot in hell, Nora!” Roman’s face was gray. He stared at the screen, then screamed at me, a sound of pure desperation. “Who is it?! Who is worth betraying me? Betraying Ivy?” “I gave you everything!” “Why isn’t it you in that hospital bed?!” He wiped a tear from his cheek and turned to the doctor. “Don’t stop. More power.” “We don’t leave until I have a name.” “Mr. Blackwood,” the technician stammered. “Her vitals… she’s going to brain-dead…” “If she’s protecting a slaver, she’s better off dead.” Roman grabbed a second probe and jammed it into the base of my neck. The machine whined, a high-pitched frequency that shattered teeth. My body thrashed, galvanized by the electricity. The memories began to strobe. My childhood, abandoned by my parents. The orphanage. The scholarship. Meeting Ivy. Becoming sisters in everything but blood. Meeting Roman at Ivy’s sweet sixteen. Falling in love. The images swirled, but the name—the face of the villain—was missing. The technician threw up his hands. “Her will is too strong. Her subconscious is locking down the core memory. I’ve never seen resistance like this.” I looked at Roman. My vision was blurring, tunneling. I tried to speak, but my tongue was heavy lead. To him, my silence looked like mockery. He laughed, a brittle, insane sound. He grabbed the technician by the collar. “Do whatever it takes.” In the front row, a young woman—an intern who had always looked at Roman with hungry eyes—stood up. “The body has a failsafe. If the pain threshold is breached, the mind loses control of the blockade.” Ivy’s mother stopped crying. She reached into her purse and pulled out a pair of rusted gardening shears she’d found in the stadium utility closet earlier, manic in her need for a weapon. She handed them to Roman. “Ten fingers connected to the heart, isn’t that what they say? Cut them off. Let’s see her keep secrets then.” “We owe this to Ivy.” The stadium held its breath. Then, a chant began. Low at first, then thundering. “Truth! Truth! Truth!” “Do it, Roman! Stop the traffickers!” Empowered by the mob, Roman’s eyes steeled. He walked to the chair. He took my hand—the hand he used to hold during movies—and caressed my thumb. Then he took the rusted shears. “You brought this on yourself.” “You could die a thousand times, and it wouldn’t be enough.” The metal crunched through bone. I didn’t scream. I convulsed. My body jerked like a severed wire. Blood sprayed, hot and metallic, painting the floor. “You…” I choked out, the words bubbling through blood. “You will regret this.” Roman looked at me, dead-eyed, and jammed the shears into the open wound. “The only thing I regret is not seeing you for what you are sooner.” “You destroyed Ivy.” One finger. Two fingers. Roman Blackwood cut them all off, one by one.

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When the fire alarm screamed through the elementary school, I was two months pregnant. Chaos erupted, a stampede of terrified children and smoke. I reached for my husband, needing his hand, needing safety. Instead, Mark shoved me hard. I lost my footing. The world tilted, and I tumbled backward down the concrete stairwell. Pain, sharp and blinding, tore through my abdomen. I felt the hot, sticky dampness spreading between my legs before I could even scream. Through the haze of smoke and agony, I looked up. I saw my husband. He was shielding his son—our son—and guiding the school’s beautiful young homeroom teacher, Paige, past my crumpled body. Then, as if I were nothing more than debris blocking their escape, he kicked me aside. “God, you’re such a nuisance,” he muttered, his voice cold steel against the heat of the fire. “Why are you always in the way?” I woke up in the hospital to a ceiling of sterile white tiles and a hollow ache where a heartbeat used to be. When I finally dragged myself home, I found a pregnancy ultrasound report on the kitchen counter. It wasn’t mine. Scrawled across the top in clumsy, joyful handwriting was a note from my son: I’m so happy! I’m going to be a big brother! I love Ms. Paige the most in the whole world. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply walked to the bedroom, packed my life into a single suitcase, and sent a text to my boss. “David, I accept the transfer. I’ll report to the London office next week.” 1 I had just hit “send” when the bedroom door flew open. I lowered the phone, unprepared for the look of utter disdain on Mark’s face. It was a look I had become intimately familiar with over the last year—a mixture of boredom and irritation. “Leo and I have things to do,” he said, not bothering to look me in the eye. “We can’t go on that trip abroad. Cancel the tickets.” The tone was a command, not a request. That was Mark. I slid my phone into my pocket, my voice steady, devoid of inflection. “I’m going with my friends instead.” Mark exhaled, his shoulders dropping as if he’d been carrying a heavy load. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. For a second, he played the part of the doting husband, reaching out to awkwardly pat my shoulder. “Listen, Nora. Next month, when Leo is on break, and I have some downtime… how about we do a proper family trip? Just the three of us. Maybe Europe?” He was lying. I knew it, and he knew I knew it. Vacation—that intimate, relaxed space—was reserved for them. For Mark, for Leo, and for the lovely Ms. Paige. I nodded silently, turning back to my suitcase. I folded a silk blouse with precision, smoothing out the wrinkles before tucking it away. Mark paused, unnerved by my lack of a fight. “Right. Well. That’s settled then.” Before I could respond, his phone rang. It was her ringtone. A bubbly, sickly-sweet pop song that grated on my nerves. He answered immediately. The faint, coquettish voice leaking from the receiver made the phantom burns on my skin flare up again. Let them have each other. If they wanted to be a family—the father, the son, and the mistress who wanted to be the cool stepmom—then let them. The door banged open again. Leo, my son, burst into the room. His eyes were shining with a manic excitement as he looked at his father. “Dad! Ms. Paige said she’d be my godmother! Can you believe it? I’m literally the happiest kid alive!” Then he saw me. The light in his eyes instantly curdled into annoyance. “Ms. Paige is burned and hurt, but she still promised to come to work every day,” Leo spat, his voice dripping with a learned cruelty. “Look at you, Mom. You’re fine. You just sit at home enjoying life. Besides spending Dad’s money, what are you actually good at?” Mark chuckled, ruffling Leo’s hair. “Hey, don’t talk to your mother like that,” he said, though his tone carried zero weight. Leo grabbed Mark’s sleeve, whining, “Daddy, come on, let’s go see Ms. Paige. I can’t wait for her to be my new mom.” Mark’s hand shot out, covering Leo’s mouth. His eyes darted to me, panic flashing in them. He turned, offering a tight, nervous smile. “Nora, don’t listen to him. Kids say the craziest things.” “He only has one mother,” Mark added, the lie tasting like ash in the air. I kept folding clothes. “It’s fine,” I said, my voice flat. “More people to love him. I’m happy for him.” Paige was Leo’s homeroom teacher. Before she arrived, our home had been peaceful. But slowly, insidiously, Mark began to praise her. Then Leo started. “Mom, you should be more like Ms. Paige,” Leo would say, pushing away his dinner. “She’s not strict like you. She lets me eat whatever I want. At her house, there are no rules!” We had fought about it, screaming matches that left my throat raw. But every time, Mark and Leo stood shoulder to shoulder, a united front against the “boring, nagging mother.” Two weeks ago, at the parent-teacher conference, the fire alarm had sounded. I had tried to reach for my son. Mark had shoved me away. I lost the baby. They saved her. And now, looking at the sonogram Leo had helped annotate, I knew the truth. The pain in my heart finally eclipsed the physical pain in my body. I turned my back to them to wipe a stray tear. It didn’t matter anymore. Soon, I would be gone. I wouldn’t be an eyesore to this happy little family any longer. 2 I stayed in bed until the afternoon shadows stretched long across the floor. I drank hot water, but the cramping in my lower abdomen didn’t subside; it pulsed, a grim reminder of what I had lost. Before collapsing into sleep earlier, I had put a pot of chicken soup on the stove to simmer. My legs felt like lead as I walked to the kitchen. I just needed something warm. I reached for the ladle, but a hand slapped mine away. “Are you seriously stealing food from a patient? God, you’re greedy.” Mark stood beside me, lifting the entire pot off the stove. “Thank god Leo didn’t inherit your sticky fingers.” I looked at him, blinking slowly. “I made this soup. How is eating my own cooking stealing?” I pointed to the trash can, where a charred, black lump sat on top of the refuse. “You burned whatever you were trying to make. It’s right there.” Mark froze, holding the pot mid-air. He looked at the trash, then back at me, his face flushing an ugly shade of red. “Paige needs bland food for her recovery. I… I assumed I made this.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry. My mistake.” “Go rest,” he muttered, turning his back. “I’ll make some instant noodles and bring them to you.” In all our years of marriage, this was the first time Mark had apologized to me. And it was for her. He had never stepped foot in the kitchen before. He used to joke that the kitchen was a “woman’s battlefield.” But for Paige? For Paige, he would learn to cook. Love—and the lack of it—was so painfully obvious in the details. I sat at the table and served myself a bowl of soup. As I lifted the spoon, my sleeve slid down, revealing my bare wrist. Mark frowned, staring at my arm. “Where’s your bracelet?” It was a custom piece, a gift from our early days. I never took it off. His matching one had disappeared months ago. “Lost in the fire,” I said calmly. “Did you forget?” If he had looked just an inch higher, he would have seen the fresh, angry burn scar on my forearm. “Oh,” he said, looking away. “Sorry. When work slows down, I’ll buy you a new one.” Work? Mark wasn’t busy with work. He was busy playing house with Paige. “Dad!” Leo walked in, wrinkling his nose. “Mom’s soup tastes terrible. Ms. Paige’s cooking is a hundred times better.” Leo stared at me, waiting for the reaction. Waiting for me to get defensive, to cook a five-course meal just to prove a point. Mark shot him a warning look and took the bowl from Leo. “Don’t be rude. Let me taste it.” I didn’t engage. I just pulled the pot closer to my right hand and poured myself another serving. “If you don’t like it,” I said softly, “you can go eat at Paige’s house.” Mark opened his mouth to scold me for being jealous, but his eyes drifted to the living room wall. He froze. “Where is our family portrait?” He spun around, his voice rising. “Are you done yet? Why do you have to be so dramatic to get attention?” 3 I wiped my mouth and met his gaze. “The frame fell,” I said. “Glass everywhere. I haven’t had time to clean the mess, so I put the photo away.” The tension in Mark’s shoulders eased, though suspicion still clouded his eyes. “Look, Nora,” he said, softening his tone. “I promise, once Paige is fully healed, I’ll keep my distance. We are the real family here. You know that.” He checked his watch. “Tomorrow is our anniversary. Make a reservation at that Italian place you like. We’ll have a nice dinner.” The classic cycle. A slap in the face followed by a piece of candy. To them, I wasn’t a wife or a mother. I was a utility. A servant who could be dismissed and summoned at will. My phone buzzed. Leo, sensing the shift in atmosphere, sidled up to me. “Mom, your cooking is actually okay. I was just joking.” His eyes held a glimmer of the sweet boy he used to be. I smiled, a sad, small thing. Mark took my phone from the table. “Let’s just book it now. Oh, look, the manager is calling you.” He handed me the phone, grinning. “Nora, stay home tonight. I’ll bring takeout. Wait for me.” Leo giggled, covering his mouth. For a fleeting second, we looked like a happy family. The door clicked shut behind them. The phone in my hand was vibrating so hard it hurt. I answered. It wasn’t the restaurant manager. It was my colleague, Sarah. Her voice was shrill, bordering on hysteria. “Nora! Did you start the fire at the school? It’s all over the internet. People are doxxing you. They posted your address. They’re coming for you, Nora.” I gripped the counter, forcing air into my lungs. “Sarah, listen to me. Our company handles the cybersecurity for that district. Can you pull the server logs? I need the surveillance footage from that day.” 4 Sarah didn’t get a chance to answer. Another call cut in. Then another. And another. I answered one. Screaming. Curses. “Burn in hell, you psycho!” I hung up. Another call. I dialed Mark, my fingers trembling. His voice was unrecognizable—cold, detached. “Nora,” he said, cutting me off before I could speak. “Paige is pregnant. The stress is too much for her. And she saved Leo. You need to take the fall for the fire.” I froze. “What?” “She’s fragile,” Mark continued, sounding reasonable, as if discussing dinner plans. “You’re strong. You can handle the heat. Consider it payback for us. Leo and I will make it up to you.” In the background, I heard a woman’s soft laughter. Paige. Thanking me. They were framing me for arson. And they hadn’t even asked. My phone pinged with another death threat. Why don’t you just die? Even though I was leaving, the betrayal felt like a physical blow. “How dare you?” I whispered, my voice breaking. “How dare you decide to ruin my life for something I didn’t do? This is mob justice, Mark! What about my job? My career?” “Is your career more important than your son’s life?” Mark snapped, his voice rising. “You’re being selfish. Paige saved him! Even if you lose your job, who cares? I’ll support you.” “It’s arson, Mark! That’s a felony!” He scoffed. “Nobody died, Nora. Stop being dramatic. It’s just property damage. You’ll get roasted online for a few days, and it’ll blow over. Besides, that job of yours is pointless anyway.” Nobody died? A sharp cramp seized my stomach. My baby died. But to Mark and Leo, that life didn’t exist. It didn’t matter. I remembered a memory from years ago. Leo, a toddler, squatting next to Mark, both of them looking at me with adoration. “If we have a sister, I’ll treat her like a queen!” Leo had promised. “No,” Mark had corrected gently. “Mommy is the queen. We have to protect her.” Now, my knights were the ones holding the daggers. “Fine,” I said, my voice turning to ice. “I’ll take the blame.” And with those words, the last thread binding me to them snapped. Mark hesitated, surprised by my sudden capitulation. “Okay. Good. That’s… good.”

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My mother came to me privately and asked me to sell her house. “Your father is having some business difficulties,” she said. “I want to give him a little support.” The house was the only asset my grandmother had left her—a small, solid harbor meant solely for my mother. Now, for my father, she was throwing her harbor onto the market at a steep discount. A buyer contacted me quickly. The woman’s voice was warm and overly friendly. “Hello, could you possibly hold the property for me? My partner wants to gift it to me next week for my birthday.” I glanced at the photo on her phone screen, the one she had up with her ‘partner,’ and I froze. It was my dad. I managed a bright, professional smile, nodding at the woman. “Of course. I look forward to meeting your partner next month at the closing.” 01 After our conversation, I made sure to confirm the buyer’s information again and again. “Just so I can reserve the property, may I please take down the full name and a contact number for the purchasing party?” It wasn’t until I saw the forms—the name, the ID, everything matching my father’s—that the cold truth settled like a lead weight in my stomach. It really was him. The woman handed the paperwork back, her smile wide and self-satisfied. “Such a sweet girl. I hope you find a man who cherishes you as much as mine cherishes me someday.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Next week is my thirty-fifth birthday. He told me he’d get me anything I wanted, no limits. This little condo is older, sure, but the location is downtown. A quick renovation, just the two of us, and it’ll be perfect!” Her ‘kind’ words were a shard of glass in my chest. My grandmother’s last gift to my mother—her safe harbor—was being sold off at a loss so my father could turn it into a present for his mistress. I fought down the nausea, forcing myself to test the waters. “What if… what if your partner can’t come up with the full amount?” I tried to sound apologetic. “I don’t mean anything by it, but buying property is a huge deal. It would be a nightmare if the deal fell through later…” She threw her head back and laughed, as if I’d told the funniest joke in the world. “If he can’t scrape together a two-million-dollar down payment, why would I bother with him?” She lowered her voice to a proud whisper. “I’m not afraid to tell you, sweetheart, a few of his company’s new projects have hit the jackpot recently.” She shook her wrist, flashing a Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet. “See this?” she said, preening. “He just picked this up for me last weekend. On a whim.” I stared at the bracelet, the hatred a bitter heat on my tongue. “Your partner is so romantic,” I choked out, my voice tight. “When my mom had her birthday, my dad just gave her a thermos he got from a grocery store promotion.” The woman raised a perfectly sculpted brow, smugness radiating off her. “Men, honey, they know who’s worth spending money on.” She ran a finger over the bracelet. “Last week, I mentioned I was craving Japanese. He immediately booked a table at that place—two hundred dollars a head. Has your mom ever been anywhere like that?” My stomach twisted. I remembered last month, my mother’s birthday, when my father had claimed to be too busy with work and told her to just make herself a bowl of noodles. I took a deep, shuddering breath, swallowing the screaming questions that wanted to burst out. “He sounds incredibly thoughtful,” I managed, pasting my real estate agent’s smile back on. “I’ll get the documents ready for next week’s contract signing, then.” She tossed her hair back, pleased. Her phone buzzed with a message alert. She glanced down, a bright curve to her lips. “Ugh, he’s rushing me. He wants me to test drive. He insists on replacing my old car with a new Porsche; says the old one doesn’t suit me anymore.” She deliberately flashed the screen at me. The chat name on the lock screen read “Hubby,” and the last message was a pinned location for a luxury dealership. My nails dug crescent moons into my palms. Yesterday, my mom had asked him to take her to get her commuter scooter repaired. He’d told her he was locked in with an important client. She swayed her hips as she left, leaving a heavy, cloying cloud of expensive perfume behind. Before she disappeared, I used the excuse of needing an easy channel for closing details to add the woman, Vanessa, on WeChat. That evening, Vanessa’s social media updated. [Test drive surprise! Someone special said white matches my new dress.] The photo showed my father, Mitchell, holding open a car door, beaming, the dealership logo visible behind him. I scrolled down. Last Wednesday: [Midnight feeding] My dad, in a pristine apron, cooking a lavish seafood feast in what looked like a custom kitchen. When my mother’s arthritis flared up and she couldn’t stand to cook, he told her to eat instant noodles and manage. Last Sunday: [Gift haul unboxing] A sofa piled high with designer shopping bags. The family account ledger from that same week showed he had refused my mom’s request for a new refrigerator. In every photo, my father’s smile was indulgent and doting, a completely different man from the one who sighed and complained about “tough times” at home. I screenshotted every image, saving the evidence. My phone vibrated with an incoming call. It was my father. “Sasha, any progress on the house?” His voice sounded weary, stressed. “Your mother’s been nagging. Try to talk some sense into her.” I stared at the screenshot of him, arm-in-arm with his mistress, test driving a luxury car. “Dad,” I said softly, “what time are you coming home today? Mom made braised pork.” He paused. “Can’t. Client dinner. Gotta schmooze.” He sighed, heavily. “Business is just so difficult these days.” The call ended. I pulled up my mother’s recently posted social media update. It was a photo of her standing next to our old, yellowed refrigerator. The caption read: [Suddenly stopped cooling. The meat smells a little… off. Any suggestions for salvaging it, ladies?] The first comment was from my father. [Don’t waste it. Boil it longer, you can still eat it.] I saved the last screenshot, locked my phone, and put it away. Next week, on the day of the signing, I would be presenting him with a substantial ‘birthday gift’ of my own. 02 When I pushed open the door, my mother, Eleanor, was crouched in the kitchen, scrubbing the floor. The water she wrung from the mop was grey with soapy residue, and her fingers were red and chapped from the cold water. Her sleeve was stained with the dark residue of the herbal medicine she’d boiled this morning. “Mom.” My voice was rough. “Stop scrubbing. Did you get the fridge fixed?” She looked up, forcing a smile. “Your dad said we need to hold out a little longer. We’ll replace it once business picks up.” I stared at her split, cracked fingernails, a sharp, cold pang gripping my heart. Last year, when my dad was dealing with a flare-up of his rheumatism, she had shelled walnuts by hand to crush into his medicine, tearing off half a nail in the process. All he had said was that women were “just too delicate.” And she, my sweet, loyal mother, had actually started blaming herself for being too fragile. “How did the house talk go?” She steadied herself on the counter, clutching her lower back. “Your dad was coughing all night. I need to get that money together quickly…” I cut her off. I held out my phone. “Just look at this first.” Confused, she took the phone. Her fingers slid across the screen, bringing up Vanessa’s feed. The posts rolled past: Mitch smiling next to the Porsche [Test drive surprise]; Mitch in the kitchen making an elaborate seafood dinner [Midnight feeding]; and the most recent, most galling post: [Someone special said my bracelet was too plain, didn’t match my new dress.] The accompanying image was the Van Cleef & Arpels counter, a sales associate packaging a matching necklace. “I checked the price,” I said, my voice low and hard. “Even the cheapest version of that necklace is over eight thousand dollars.” “Th-this is…?” My mother’s hands were shaking. “This is the client who came to view the house today. Guess who’s buying it for her? My dad.” I watched her face as I explained, my words cutting through the air. “He cries poverty to us, Mom, but he’s pouring money into her.” “Impossible…” Her lips trembled. “Your dad said money was so tight he even had to cut my prescription coverage for a few months…” I pulled up the bank transfer screenshots. “Tight?” I pointed at the large, frequent transfers to Vanessa. “Eighty thousand dollars sent over three months. The notes all say ‘wellness investment.’” She suddenly stumbled toward the bedroom, returning with a rusted metal box. It was stuffed with yellowing receipts: my dad’s physical therapy bills, his vitamin subscriptions, his supplements. On every one, she’d written in her delicate script: Mitch’s health is paramount. The irony was staggering. At the very bottom was a photocopy of my grandmother’s will: Property bequeathed to Eleanor. May it be a place of shelter and refuge. My mother looked at the receipts, then the will, and the tears finally burst through. “How… how could he do this to me?” she choked out. “It wasn’t enough to take my money, to take my life—he wanted to steal my last anchor, too!” “Your grandmother warned me again and again…” She sobbed, caressing the copy of the will. “This house, Sasha, this was my root.” I picked up a recent receipt. Last week, Mitch took five hundred dollars for “holistic supplements.” That same week, Vanessa’s social media showed a new designer handbag. “Look closely, Mom,” I said, holding up the phone to the receipt. “His ‘supplements’ are what she’s wearing.” She suddenly snatched the phone, swiping furiously. Every photo of Vanessa’s boasting was a lash across her face. Mitch cooking, Mitch jewelry shopping, Mitch test-driving a new car. “When I was in the hospital last year for my surgery…” She stared at his adoring smile in one photo. “He said the hospital signal was bad… he was busy being her personal chef…” Tears splashed onto the screen, and then, slowly, a soundless laugh broke from her. “No wonder he always complained my medicine tasted bitter…” She grabbed the stack of receipts and hurled them against the wall. “Using my life’s savings to bankroll that little tramp!” In the flurry of falling paper, her bent back slowly, painfully, straightened. “Sasha.” She wiped her eyes, her voice now flat and cold. “Next week, for the contract signing, I’m coming with you.”

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The day my sister stepped into the limousine to take my place at the altar, Roman received a final notice from the hospital. “Mr. Ashford,” the voice on the other end was clipped, professional, yet laced with an ultimatum. “Ms. Lowell’s account is significantly in arrears. If the balance isn’t cleared today, we will be forced to cease all life-sustaining measures.” Roman let out a short, incredulous laugh, the sound sharp against the hum of the wedding preparations. “Tell Norah to stop the theatrics. It’s embarrassing,” he sneered into the phone, adjusting his silk tie. “Tell her that even if she dies today, I’m still marrying Sienna. She can save her little performance.” Around him, the groomsmen—scions of New York’s oldest money—chuckled in solidarity. “Is that hospital looking to get shut down?” one of them scoffed, swirling his scotch. “Don’t they know who they’re talking to? The Ashfords own half of Manhattan.” The call ended. In the sterile silence of the hospital room, I watched, helpless, as the nurse reached out and disconnected the ventilator. It took less than thirty seconds. The machine’s rhythmic hum died, leaving a deafening silence. The nurse checked her watch and spoke softly to the empty room. “Time of death: October 10th, 2025.” Today was the day I died. It was also Roman’s wedding anniversary. Roman didn’t think of me again until the reception was over. When the last guest had left and the confetti had been swept away, he finally drove to the hospital. He pushed open the door to my room. Seeing my body still lying on the bed, he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “See?” He turned to the empty hallway, validating his own cruelty. “I told you no one would dare cut off your meds.” He started to walk toward me, a rebuke ready on his lips. But he was stopped by a voice from behind him—a somber man from the funeral home, holding a garment bag. “Excuse me, sir. I need you to step aside. It’s time to dress the body.” 1 “Roman, let me go check on her for you. I’ll find out which hospital has the nerve to threaten the Ashford family.” Roman had rejected his groomsman’s offer with a cold wave of his hand. “There’s nothing to see. It’s just Norah’s usual cry for attention,” he said, his voice dripping with fatigue. “Ever since the accident, she plays the victim card. She claims she has ALS, says she has no money for treatment. But I send Sienna to check on her every single day. It’s all a lie.” The groomsman tried to press the issue, but Roman’s patience snapped. “Did Norah pay you off? Why are you defending her?” The friend backed down, muttering an apology. Roman’s expression hardened. “When Norah got hurt, I made a promise,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “Even though Sienna is taking her place to fulfill the marriage contract between our families, I promised to take care of Norah for the rest of her life. Who would dare neglect someone under my protection? Stopping treatment? It’s absurd.” As he spoke, he caught sight of Sienna waiting in the vintage Rolls Royce. The ice in his eyes melted instantly. I was nothing but a wisp of consciousness floating in the air, watching the man I once loved look at my sister with adoration. The bitterness in my chest was overwhelming. Roman didn’t know. From the day he decided to let Sienna wear the ring meant for me, I had been erased. My parents, desperate to cement their climb up the social ladder, backed Sienna’s decision to move me. “Move her somewhere cheap,” they had agreed. “We can’t have a cripple embarrassing the family name.” So Sienna transferred me. They dumped me in a sub-standard facility, cut off the specialists, and fired the private nurses. They let my brain injury spiral into the aggressive progression of ALS. In the beginning, Roman would call. Even when he was busy closing billion-dollar deals, he checked in. Until his mother, the formidable Victoria Ashford, stood at the foot of my bed and demanded he break the engagement. “Roman, marrying a paralyzed woman will make this family a laughingstock,” she had hissed, her face flushed with indignation. “She can’t be a hostess. She can’t give us an heir. The Ashfords do not support useless assets.” I still remember the shame of that day, having nowhere to hide my broken body. So when I heard Sienna would take my place, part of me was relieved. How could I, a woman wasting away, stand beside Roman Ashford? But now, seeing Sienna in the Vera Wang gown custom-made for my measurements, wearing the diamond Roman had cut specifically for my finger… the pain was a physical spike through my phantom heart. Inside the ballroom, glasses clinked. Someone shouted a toast. “Congrats, Roman! Here’s to a lifetime with your girl. May you have a son within the year!” The room went quiet for a split second. The “girl” was supposed to be me, once upon a time. Roman leaned toward his assistant, whispering something low. “Check on Norah’s status at the hospital.” Sienna noticed the shift in his mood. “Roman? Is everything okay?” He forced a smile, squeezing her hand. “Everything is perfect. Someone just mentioned a baby. Don’t forget that part of the deal.” Sienna blushed, and the sight burned my eyes. Even as a ghost, Roman’s tenderness toward her felt like suffocation. I wanted to flee, to dissolve into the ether. But then, the assistant rushed back in, looking frantic. “Roman, the hospital says Norah isn’t there. She was transferred months ago. She’s gone.” 2 “What did you say?” Roman shot up from his seat, his chair screeching against the floor. He moved to leave, but Sienna grabbed his arm. “Roman, where are you going?” “You visit Norah every day,” he snapped, his voice rising. “Did you know she was transferred?!” Sienna froze. A flicker of panic crossed her eyes, but she smoothed it over instantly with a practiced calmness. “Yes, I had her moved. But I did it for her own good, Roman. I found a place that specializes in her condition.” She softened her voice, pleading. “Even if you don’t trust me, you know no hospital in New York would dare mistreat a Lowell connected to an Ashford. She’s fine.” The tension in Roman’s jaw loosened slightly, but the shadow of unease remained between his brows. Sienna seized the moment, linking her arm through his and pulling him back toward the celebration. I watched him sit back down, and the flicker of hope I’d felt was extinguished. Roman, she’s lying to you! Just go to the hospital! If you go, you’ll see! I screamed at him, floating right beside his ear. I shouted until my soul ached. But he couldn’t hear me. I watched them exchange rings. My vision blurred. The reception dragged on for hours. When it finally ended, I followed Roman. He didn’t go to the bridal suite. He went to my old hospital room—the fancy one I hadn’t been in for months. He stood outside the door, listening. My heart—if it still beat—would have been deafening. But he didn’t open the door. He just looked through the small glass pane at the empty bed, assuming I was asleep. “Norah,” he whispered to the silence. “I got married today.” He leaned his forehead against the wood, sounding exhausted. “I know you hate me for marrying Sienna. But there are things out of my control. You know I loved you. I told you once—it was always you.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips as he remembered. We met at the Ashford estate. My parents dragged me there to network. I was supposed to play the violin for his mother’s birthday, but I froze. The stares of the elite were too heavy. It was Roman who walked onto the stage, sat at the piano, and guided me through the melody. He later claimed he just didn’t want the party ruined, but that night, our fates knotted together. Loving him was exhausting. Everyone mocked me—the climber chasing the crown prince. But on his eighteenth birthday, he took my hand in front of everyone. “Norah,” he had said, “I don’t start things I don’t finish. You’re going to be Mrs. Ashford. Don’t try to run.” We were so sure of our future then. “Don’t hate me, Norah,” Roman said now, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. He looked at the “No Smoking” sign, then at my “sleeping” form through the glass, and put the lighter away. He tapped the glass gently. “Tomorrow, I’ll move you. I’ll bring you to the hospital closest to our penthouse. Okay?” The room remained silent. Finally sensing something was wrong, Roman frowned and reached for the handle. Just then, his phone rang. “Sienna’s sick? I’m coming.” His hand dropped. He turned and left. The door stayed closed. 3 I didn’t follow Roman back. I couldn’t bear to witness his wedding night. instead, I waited in the silence of the room where my body lay. Roman said he would come. He always kept his word, eventually. But the next morning, I was woken by screaming in the hallway. I drifted out and saw Nana Rose—my grandmother, the only person who ever truly loved me—arguing with Sienna. “Nana!” I cried out, reaching for her. But Nana was focused on Sienna, her eyes blazing with fury. “Norah is dead! None of you came to help her, none of you came to hold her hand, and now you want to steal her body?” Sienna didn’t back down. She crossed her arms, cold and imperious. “This is all Norah’s fault. It was my wedding night, and Roman left me alone to come check on her! She’s a curse. Even dead, she’s haunting us.” “I’m moving her body,” Sienna spat. “I’m dumping it somewhere Roman will never find it.” Nana clutched her chest, her face paling. I tried to push Sienna away, but my hands passed through her like smoke. “I don’t have a sister,” Sienna continued, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “If she hadn’t existed, everything the Lowells have would have been mine from the start. Why did I have to be the one sent away to boarding school while she stayed home?” I froze. I never knew she hated me this much. Nana was begging now. “Sienna, please. She’s gone. She can’t stop you and Roman anymore. Let her rest.” Sienna laughed, a cruel, sharp sound, and shoved Nana hard. “Old hag. I’m not soft like you. I don’t care about morality. I paid someone to arrange Norah’s ‘accident’ years ago, and she survived it. Now Roman wants to move her closer? No. She needs to disappear so he can finally forget her.” The revelation hit me like a physical blow. My paralysis… the accident that ruined my life… it was my sister. Nana screamed, “My Norah… oh, my poor Norah!” Sienna, impatient, grabbed Nana and threw her aside. Nana hit the floor hard, her head cracking against the linoleum. Blood began to pool. “What are you doing?!” I screamed, sobbing, uselessly beating my fists against Sienna’s back. “She’s your grandmother!” Sienna stepped over Nana to open the door to my room. Nana, bleeding and desperate, lunged forward and grabbed Sienna’s ankle. “I won’t let you hurt her again!” Sienna stumbled. She fell hard, her stomach hitting the floor. She gasped, curling into a ball, clutching her abdomen. Then, blood—bright and red—began to stain her white dress. “What did you do to Sienna?!” A man’s voice roared from the elevator banks. It was Roman. 4 “Roman!” I screamed, pointing at Nana. “Sienna hurt Nana! Look at the blood on her head!” But Roman was deaf to me. His eyes were locked only on the crimson stain spreading across Sienna’s white skirt. Sienna, eyes bloodshot and wild, grabbed Roman’s sleeve. “Roman… I just wanted to see my sister… but Nana… she told me to get out. She attacked me… I couldn’t fight back… our baby…” I stood frozen. Baby? I looked at Roman’s panicked profile, and my world collapsed for the second time. They had been together long enough to conceive. While I was rotting in a bed, waiting for a call that never came. Roman glared at the closed door of my room, his voice vibrating with rage. “Norah! I promised I’d move you today! Why would you incite this violence against Sienna? Come out here and apologize to her right now! Or I swear, I am done with you!” The room remained silent. I trembled, watching him. Nana, clutching her chest, gasped out, “Mr. Ashford… Norah is dead… she couldn’t have told me to do anything… Sienna is lying…” Roman paused, a frown creasing his forehead. Sienna saw his hesitation. “Roman, would I lie about our child? Nana has always hated me. She only ever loved Norah.” Roman’s doubt vanished. He signaled his bodyguards. Two massive men grabbed Nana, pinning her arms. Roman turned back to the door. “Norah. If you don’t come out, I’ll let the person you love most pay the price for you.” He checked his watch. “Three seconds.” “Roman, I’m dead! Please, leave her alone!” I screamed. “Just open the door! Just look!” He nodded to his guard. The man kicked Nana in the back of the knee. She collapsed to the floor with a sickening thud, gasping for air. “Apologize to my fiancée!” the guard barked. “I… I can’t breathe…” Nana wheezed. “Asthma…” Her trembling hands fumbled for her purse. But Sienna reached out and kicked the bag across the hall. “Keep kneeling,” Sienna sneered. “I don’t feel your apology yet.” Roman watched Sienna’s cruelty. He opened his mouth to object, but then his eyes fell on the blood on her dress again, and he stayed silent. I tried to hold Nana, my tears mixing with the blood on her face. “Roman, please! Help her!” Just as Nana’s face began to turn purple, the elevator chimed. A staff member from the funeral home walked out, holding a garment bag. He looked around the chaotic hallway. “Where is the family of Norah Lowell? I have the burial shroud. Who is going to dress her?”

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It happened during the final hour of the State-wide University Entrance Exam—the moment I suddenly went blind. Rushed to the Emergency Room, the doctors ran every test imaginable, but they came back clean. “No discernible cause,” they said. My career as a high school English teacher was over. Driven by necessity, I earned a license as a therapeutic massage therapist, relying on the sensitivity of my hands. Then, one day during a session, I overheard a conversation between two clients. “That teacher who went blind, it was perfect timing,” a man’s voice boasted. “I copied one multiple-choice answer from the paper while she was distracted, and that was just enough. Two points over the cut-off for the Ivy-tier schools. It’s been twenty years, man. I wonder how she’s doing. Northwood High, the summer of ’05, Exam Room 28. Man, my whole life was in that room.” The second man’s voice was a low, gravelly rasp. “I know exactly why she went blind. And the killer was right there in the exam room.” I froze, heart hammering against the massage table, breath held tight as I waited for them to continue. The silence stretched for what felt like minutes. Then, a sudden, ice-cold pressure pressed against my neck. A knife. I opened my eyes again. I was back. I was sitting in the exact same exam room, two decades in the past. 1 My eyes blinked, taking in the world in sharp, bright detail. The fluorescent lights hummed, the gray walls felt solid, the faces of the teenagers were perfectly clear. I was back in the final hour of the exam, the ticking clock the only difference between this life and the last. The killer… who is the killer? And right before the darkness consumed me that first time, who was it who actually killed me? But I had no time to process it. The familiar bell for the final ten minutes of the exam rang out, sharp and jarring. The awful clack-clack-clack of my co-monitor’s heels echoed across the linoleum floor. Ten minutes. In ten minutes, my vision would dissolve into blackness. I couldn’t risk it. Not again. Not for anything. But what if I just pretended to be sick and left? What if the killer simply targeted the substitute? I tossed all concerns about protocol and disruption out the window. “No one should be in this room!” I screamed, shooting out of my chair. “The teacher in this room, whoever it is, is going to be targeted! Someone here is going to make the teacher go blind!” It only took moments. I was immediately hauled out by a proctor and then the campus security, accused of disturbing the final, most crucial minutes of a major examination. As I was put into the back of a police cruiser, a huge, rattling sigh of relief escaped my lungs. I’m out. Now, it was out of my hands. At a temporary staging area in the school administration building, a Sergeant Miller interrogated me, his face a mask of furious disbelief. “Why the hell did you disrupt the exam, Ms. Sinclair? We’ve swept every single student in that room for abnormal materials. There’s nothing. What is your motive for slandering these students?” He slammed his hand hard on the metal table, the sound making me jump. I tried to keep my composure. “I told you, Sergeant. I heard a whisper right before I walked in—a student saying they wished the teacher would go blind.” I stared him down. “Losing your sight over something as senseless as monitoring an exam is too high a price to pay.” My explanation clearly did not satisfy him. “That sounds like a nervous kid joking, Ms. Sinclair. You’re a teacher. You actually believe that?” He leaned in closer. “Consider yourself lucky, the exam hadn’t formally ended yet. If you’d pulled this stunt minutes later, you’d be sitting in county jail right now.” I had been blacklisted from all future examinations, and my job was definitely on the line. But compared to two decades of blindness and degradation? It was nothing. As he escorted me out, I couldn’t help but stop at the gate. “Sergeant, what if they were serious? If another teacher loses their sight, it’ll be too late. You need to investigate this.” “One more word, Ms. Sinclair, and I will book you for harassment.” Free of the school grounds, I felt a rush of adrenaline mixed with pure dread. I drove straight to the best ophthalmologist in the city. The results, however, were an exact repeat of the last timeline. “Ms. Sinclair, your retina and optical nerve are pristine. You don’t have an ounce of astigmatism. This sudden blindness you mentioned is medically impossible.” I sat in the crowded hospital waiting room, watching a man with a cane and a guide dog navigate the lobby. I remembered the last twenty years: losing my job, my fiancé ending our engagement, the desperation that led me to the massage parlor, and the sleazy clients who would expose themselves, daring me to touch them. But I had been saved. I could see. My eyes could take the full measure of the world again. Then, a sudden burst of frantic sobs from the hallway pulled me back. My heart seized. Another teacher, clearly distraught, was being rushed into the eye clinic. It was Harper Rhodes, the co-monitor from my exam room. Inside the examination room, I could hear her frantic voice describing the terror to the doctor. “Doctor, I was just monitoring the room, and then suddenly I couldn’t see! My eyes are normally fine! What is happening to me?” After the examination, the doctor sighed. “Your retina and cornea are structurally fine, Ms. Rhodes. We simply can’t explain why you’ve lost your vision.” I stood outside the room, my hands trembling uncontrollably. Harper Rhodes was now blind. How? I had disrupted the exam, made a scene, screamed a warning. How had the killer still managed to execute their plan? The doctor sat by his machine, muttering, “This is bizarre. Just an hour ago, another woman came in, asking me if it was possible to suddenly go blind even if all her tests were normal.” He noticed me and called out my name. Harper, hearing the doctor, instantly recognized my voice. “You were the teacher in my room, weren’t you? Are you here because you lost your sight too? You warned me! Did you know something? Which student did this to me?” She sounded terrified, manic. I knew she wouldn’t believe the truth—that I was a time traveler. I gave her the same line I used on the police. “Right before the exam started, I thought I heard a student say they wished the teacher would go blind. There were too many students around the door to see who it was, but they all ended up in that room. I know it sounds crazy, but…” Harper was hysterical. “Investigate! You have to investigate! Who used some kind of twisted trick to do this to me?” I felt a surge of cold relief. This was it. Now the case would be taken seriously. In the last timeline, I had no one. When I asked for an investigation, the parents had rallied against me: “You’re ruining our children’s chances! You can’t even find a cause—who knows if this is just a defect in your own body! Don’t push this on innocent kids!” But now, with two of us demanding answers, the police would have to listen. More importantly, I remembered the killer’s voice from the massage parlor. If I could just hear it again, I could identify him. I accompanied Harper to the police station. They immediately went back to Northwood High. But another sweep of the students, who were growing increasingly resentful, still revealed nothing. “We can’t disrupt the other two days of the exam,” the Sergeant insisted. “We’ll conduct a thorough review once the testing is complete.” The rumors, however, were already flying. “Why are they only searching our room? Who are they accusing of cheating?” “It’s not cheating. It’s about the blind teacher. They think one of us poisoned her.” Having faked an illness to pull out of the exam room, I spent the next three days monitoring the situation. My eyes remained perfectly fine. I learned that Harper, an art teacher, was near collapse. She couldn’t paint, and now she struggled with basic daily living—the same reality that had been mine. Three days of hospital visits, all ending with the same infuriating answer: No cause. Finally, the exam ended. As the students slowly dispersed, I nervously approached a holding room. Thirty students were crammed inside. Harper and the police were already waiting. “So, Ms. Sinclair, you said you heard a student say they hoped the teacher would go blind, correct?” I nodded, my voice catching in my throat. “Yes. And I remember the voice. It was a male student.” A wave of noise erupted from the boys in the room. “Alright, all the young men in this room, line up,” the detective instructed. “You will read this printed statement aloud, one at a time.” He held up a paper. “No one needs to be nervous. Do not attempt to alter your natural speaking voice.” One by one, the boys read the text and then left. I held my breath, straining to hear the low, raspy tone of the man who had spoken right before the knife slit my throat in the last life. The last male student finished reading the final word. My heart sank. I hadn’t heard either of the voices from the massage parlor. I had been blind for twenty years; I had developed the ability to identify people by their speech patterns. While a voice changes over time, the rhythm and cadence rarely do. I tried again. “Can I listen to the last three boys one more time?” I closed my eyes this time, concentrating on the sound, not the sight. And then, I found the flaw. One boy had deliberately altered his tone, making it sound unnaturally high. It was Ethan Keller, the boy who had confessed to copying a multiple-choice answer. If I had the voice of the cheater, I could eventually find the voice of the actual killer. “I remember you talking to another boy right before,” I accused, pointing at Ethan. Harper looked manic. “Good! Tell the police! How did you make me go blind?” Ethan, however, insisted he didn’t know anyone else in the room. “Teachers, I swear I didn’t do anything! I didn’t talk to anyone! I just… I just quickly glanced at an answer sheet after the other teacher suddenly went still.” He was immediately taken away for further questioning. As his confession aligned with the first man’s words from the last timeline, I knew he wasn’t the killer. It was also possible he simply hadn’t met the killer yet. But where was the other man? “Why, why would he do this to me? I don’t even know him! Even if I went blind, another teacher would have taken my place—he still couldn’t have cheated!” Harper was nearing total hysteria. She dropped to her knees. “Please! I am begging you! Just tell me how you did this! If you tell me how to reverse it, I won’t press charges! I have a child! Please, let me live my life!” Her agony was a searing mirror of my own past. Then, a memory surfaced—something I felt during that fateful massage. On the back of the killer’s neck, I had felt a distinct, small, fleshy nodule. Ignoring the stares of the police and the students, I rushed down the line of remaining boys, my hands quickly but firmly brushing the back of their necks. Then, my heart hammered hard against my ribs. I closed my eyes and carefully felt the small bump—a tiny, pea-sized cyst. It was exactly as I remembered it. I spun around, pointing at the student, Preston Pierce. “It’s him! It was you talking that day, wasn’t it?” I screamed, grabbing his shoulders. “Tell us what you did! How did you poison the teacher?” My face was flushed, my eyes welling up with tears. No one understood the sheer force of the two decades of trauma driving this breakdown. As a detective moved toward Preston, the boy flashed me a dark, knowing smirk. His lips formed a single, silent sentence: “You will never know who the killer is.” Then, to the collective horror of everyone in the room, he sprinted across the classroom and threw himself out the fifth-floor window. He landed head-first on the pavement below. He was dead instantly. Preston Pierce’s suicide threw the entire city into chaos.

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My Nana’s memory was shot. She’d forget I’d already eaten and still dish up a massive bowl. I genuinely couldn’t handle the extra food, so I’d try to distribute the bounty—a spoonful to the stray dog. A scatter of grains for the chicken wandering by. I even looked up at a kid passing by and asked, “Want some?” The kid blinked, surprised, then nodded, face flushing. But right after he finished, he passed out. I froze, ready to scream for help. Then, the glowing text appeared. 1 I was ten years old. My parents, both too busy with their high-powered jobs, decided to send me out to the country to stay with my Nana in her small Midwestern town. She was supposed to look after me. Nana was the best—gentle, kind, and devoted. She worried about me constantly. But she had that one flaw: the older she got, the worse her memory became. She was always forgetting I’d eaten. I’d just finish a huge serving of her slow-simmered pork ribs and noodles, and the next moment, she’d forget and whip up a massive bowl of her famous Egg Fried Rice. I stared at the golden, fragrant mountain of rice in my hands, shimmering with three or four fluffy eggs. I just… sighed. I knew this was her love for me, pure and unfiltered. But too much love doesn’t just make you complacent; it makes you plump. I cupped my own ridiculously chubby cheeks and couldn’t help but groan. Nana didn’t notice my inner turmoil. She beamed at me. “Skylar, darling, Nana is going out to the garden now. Be a good girl, okay? I’ll bring you back some sweet raspberries for dessert.” With a final pat on my head, she grabbed her trowel and headed out. I sat on the porch step, spooning the heavy bowl. I couldn’t eat another bite, but wasting food was a sin in Nana’s house. My eyes landed on Big Yellow, the neighborhood mutt, ambling past. I scooped two generous spoonfuls into his empty metal dish. Big Yellow ate it all, then promptly stretched out on the ground and began a contented afternoon nap. No help there. I looked toward a passing hen. A chicken’s appetite, however, was even smaller. One tiny peck, and she squawked and ran off, the mountain of rice barely grazed. I was at my wit’s end. My gaze drifted to a kid walking down the dirt lane. He looked maybe a year or two older than me, wearing a faded T-shirt that had been washed threadbare. He was walking with his eyes straight ahead, clearly trying to slip past unnoticed. I called out, holding up the bowl. “Hey, want some?” The boy slowly turned, pointing a hesitant finger at himself. “Me?” I nodded emphatically. “Yeah! You!” Hearing my confident, city-kid tone, the dullness in his eyes instantly lifted. But he was still shy. He stood rooted to the spot, fidgeting awkwardly. I got impatient. I grabbed his hand and tugged him down onto the small, smooth stone bench next to the porch, setting the heavy bowl in his lap. “Hurry up and eat! Egg Fried Rice isn’t nearly as good when it’s cold!” I leaned in conspiratorially. “I’m telling you, my Nana’s Egg Fried Rice is the best in the world. It’s seriously amazing.” He watched me, half-believing, half-skeptical. Then he picked up the spoon and took a small taste. Then a big bite. Then he started devouring it, scarfing down the food like he hadn’t eaten in days. Watching him eat so hungrily, a wave of deep satisfaction washed over me. Phew. No waste. I sat there, watching him scrape up the final grains of rice. I was just about to ask him how he liked it. But the next second, his body went soft, and he slumped sideways, sliding onto the ground. My jaw dropped. What? Allergy? Egg… Egg Fried Rice allergy? I’d never heard of such a thing! Terrified, I was about to bolt for the fields to find Nana when a cascade of brilliant, luminous text exploded in front of my eyes. I scanned the buzzing wall of text, but only two words registered: Carb Coma. Okay. No emergency then. Phew. But he couldn’t just sleep there. Nana always said your belly button shouldn’t get cold. I ran inside, my little legs pumping, and grabbed a small, knitted blanket from the living room. Just as I managed to cover him, he shifted. The boy opened his eyes a slit, staring up at me with a confused, hazy look. He reached out and grasped my hand.

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I became the NPC in a romance novel, and the System’s mission was simple: get the supporting male lead. He wanted me to fetch his bespoke artisanal coffee, bring him water, and even rub his shoulders after a long day. If he craved a specific kind of late-night ramen from a noodle shop six miles away, I drove straight there. But when the success meter hit ninety-nine percent, the heroine kissed him right in front of me. The meter zeroed out. The System asked me, its voice a tired buzz in my head. “Third failure. Do you want to continue?” I felt the life drain out of me. “No. I want to go home.” In that instant, I saw him—Liam Kinsley—snap his head up, his eyes suddenly wide with panic as he looked at me. 1 Eliza Reed lost a round of Truth or Dare, and the forfeit was to kiss any guy in the room. Her eyes, of course, locked immediately onto my fiancé, Liam. I was sitting beside him on the sofa, painstakingly peeling the white pith from a clementine that he preferred to eat perfectly clean. One of Liam’s friends glanced my way. “Audrey won’t mind, right? It’s just a party game.” Liam slung his arm around my shoulder and gave the guy a cold, sidelong look. “Knock it off. That’s disgusting.” His friend recoiled, muttering about how lucky I was to be so loved by Liam Kinsley. But I knew the truth. His fingers were digging into my shoulder, making it ache. When I looked up, silently pleading with my eyes, his attention was completely focused on Eliza, his awareness of me entirely absent. This was an alumni gathering, and Eliza had been the undisputed campus queen. Everyone was chanting for her to go through with the kiss. Eliza’s eyes were glistening, a fragile smile plastered on her face, her peripheral vision fixed squarely on us. Dean, a guy who’d been obsessed with her back in college, slid an arm around her. “If Liam won’t play ball, I will. I’m here.” Dean gave a lewd smile and edged closer. “Just a peck, come on. Right here.” Liam lowered his head and took the clementine I’d just finished peeling, popping a section into his mouth. He looked as effortlessly charming and gentle as always, and he even broke off a small piece, offering it toward my mouth. But I could see the success meter above his head ticking down. He was using me to distract himself. He was hurting for her. Eliza winced, holding back a sob. Just as Dean’s face was about to connect with hers, she shoved him hard. “I won’t do it.” Her voice cracked. The clementine segment froze halfway to my lips. “My heart has always belonged to only one person,” Eliza announced, her voice gaining a dramatic strength. “I know he’s about to get married, but I still want to be brave today.” With that, she strode over, pulled me back by my arm, cupped Liam’s face in both her hands, and kissed him. The whole room fell silent. Liam didn’t resist. In fact, the moment Eliza started to pull away, he gripped her arm, pulling her back in to deepen the kiss. The clementine in my hand slipped, rolling onto the ground and collecting dust. The room erupted. Everyone was cheering, several people pulling out phones to film. I bent down to retrieve the fruit, only to watch it burst under the heel of someone’s expensive loafer, turning into a piece of disgusting mush. Irretrievable. The System was screaming at my side. “Liam Kinsley, do you remember you have a girlfriend?!” No one could hear it but me. The alarm bells in my mind were shrill and repetitive: “Success meter zeroed out! Zeroed out!” They kissed for a long time, finally pulling away, breathless, hands still clinging to each other’s shoulders, their eyes glazed with a mutual, sticky affection. The next second, Liam swept Eliza up into his arms right in front of everyone and carried her toward the door. The System, defeated, asked me again. “Third failure. Do you want to continue?” I shook my head, my heart a dead stone. “No. I want to go home.” In my peripheral vision, I saw Liam pause for a split second, but then he kept going, disappearing without a backward glance. He had abandoned me in front of all our friends. Liam’s car was long gone. We were miles from the city center, and I was left to walk. One luxury SUV after another sped past me. Then, Dean, the guy Eliza had humiliated, pulled up beside me, leaning out of the window to sneer. “I always knew you were a sneaky hanger-on,” he scoffed. “Always swooping in when Eliza wasn’t around. Go back to being his errand girl, and stop trying to steal what’s hers.” He floored the gas pedal, deliberately choking me with exhaust fumes. I pulled out a tissue to wipe the grit from my face, catching and wiping away the tears as well. I hadn’t tried to steal anyone. When I was dropped into this romance novel, Eliza had already left Liam to get engaged overseas to the actual male lead, Felix Shaw. The System told me that achieving a hundred percent success would not only save Liam from his destined tragic death but also pay me four million dollars to go home. This was my third try. The first time, I pulled him from a set mishap fire. He woke up with amnesia, publicly accused me of being the arsonist, and dragged my name online. The second time, he finally agreed to marry me, and I spent six months meticulously planning the wedding. On the day, Eliza called him, crying, and he walked out on the altar, leaving me for her. Before, I could blame my seventy or eighty percent meter reading. But this time—ninety-nine percent. And still, the same fate. The System tried to comfort me, saying I only had ten days left before I could return home. But it warned that because I was going against the tide of the world’s narrative, I would experience some kind of backlash right before leaving. I managed a bitter laugh, suppressing the urge to cry again. After all the emotional turmoil I’d endured to win him over, what was a little more pain? The next day, Liam had an early shoot, so I arrived on set before dawn to prepare everything. Since I was going home soon, I didn’t want to leave any loose ends. Liam was an hour late, and he wouldn’t pick up his phone. The director, a well-known veteran, wouldn’t dare yell at Liam, so he turned on me. “You’re his assistant! Why didn’t you coordinate his schedule properly?” I had confirmed everything with Liam yesterday. I apologized profusely, bowing again and again, and desperately texted Liam, asking when he would arrive. I instinctively worried about his career. This film was his shot at the Best Actor award he’d coveted for years. And this director was not a man you wanted to cross. As I was spinning in a panic, I learned Liam had just messaged the director, asking for a sudden three-day personal leave. Given his stellar reputation and high status, the director immediately agreed. However, the production had already incurred losses. The director billed the costs to Liam’s manager, Denise. Denise, furious, blamed me entirely, docking three months of my pay as a “lesson.” She even posted about it in the company group chat, using me as a public example. Liam remained silent. He didn’t defend me. Moments later, Eliza posted an Instagram Story. The photo showed their fingers tightly intertwined. “Teehee, I told the future Best Actor I was bored, and he canceled work to come play with me.” The comments flooded in. “Now this is a power couple! A match made in heaven!” “Stay together forever! Don’t let that trash Audrey Stone worm her way back in.” “Ha! She had four years and couldn’t hold onto him. Total waste.” Liam’s only reply was to Eliza: “Anything for you, El. Just be happy.” He was openly displaying his devotion to her and ignoring the public humiliation I was facing. I couldn’t help but message him. “Why didn’t you tell me you were taking leave? I’m not just your assistant, I’m your girlfriend.” He replied almost instantly. “You’re just the assistant, Audrey. I don’t need to give you a heads-up on everything.” Just the assistant. For Eliza, the man who had never taken a personal day in his life had suddenly taken three days off. And now he was drawing a cold, hard line between us. It was clear: nothing was more important than Eliza. I didn’t bother replying. I deleted every message thread with him. I was done. I needed to quit. I went to the agency office to find Denise and bumped directly into Eliza. She winced, rubbing her shoulder. She looked up, ready to snap at the offender, but her expression softened when she saw it was me. “Fancy meeting you here.” Liam must have come back to deal with some business, and she was too clingy to let him go alone. She spotted the crumpled resignation letter that had fallen from my hand and gasped dramatically. “Liam just took a little break to hang out with me. Why are you throwing a tantrum and quitting?” With one sentence, she had successfully framed me as irrational. She took my hand and apologized sweetly. “I’m so sorry, Audrey. We were having so much fun that we forgot to tell you that Liam took the day. We promise it won’t happen again. We’ll make sure you’re always in the loop.” She lowered her voice. “That post was terrible. Please don’t take it to heart. Honestly, I’m so grateful to you for taking such good care of Liam all these years.” She gave me a gentle, generous smile. I managed a polite smile and tried to pull my hand away. “You don’t need to say that. I’m truly—” Eliza’s smile didn’t falter, but her grip on my hand tightened. I didn’t overthink it; I just didn’t want any more connection with her. I yanked my hand free and slapped her across the face. A bright red handprint bloomed instantly on Eliza’s pale cheek. She clutched her face, looking utterly shocked. She started to raise her hand to strike back. Liam burst into the room and grabbed her arm. “Eliza, what are you doing?” He was standing between us, defending her. A wave of pent-up bitterness and betrayal surged up, and I started to cry. Eliza was tearful too, pointing at her face. “Liam, she hit me first! She called me a home-wrecker and a slut and slapped me! I only tried to defend myself, and you just happened to see it! She did this to provoke me!” Liam slowly released her hand. He believed her. He gently touched her cheek, his voice soft with concern. “I’m sorry. I misunderstood. Does it hurt?” He wiped her tears, sheltered her behind his body, and turned a cold gaze on me. “Apologize.” My tears were still streaming, but he just clicked his tongue in impatience. “And you’re still crying? You’re the one with no integrity. How can you have the gall to look upset?” The System, furious, yelled next to me. “You need to get your eyes checked, Liam! Why do you believe her but not your own girlfriend! She abandoned you for Felix Shaw! Audrey saved your life when you were suicidal! You said she was the only saving grace you had! You forgot all of it! Just wait, you’ll regret it when she’s truly gone!” Liam gave a quiet, measured laugh, and then spoke calmly. “My heart has only ever been with Eliza. I don’t care about anyone else.” His words stunned me, and even the System froze. “Did he just hear me?” I remained silent, simply wiping the tears from my cheeks. Then, I spoke lightly. “You’re right. I lack integrity.” I picked up my resignation letter and signed it. “I don’t deserve to be your assistant.” “So I quit.” His expression solidified for a moment, and his charming smile slowly faded. “Are you serious?” I ignored him, walking past. He moved to follow me, but Eliza grabbed his arm. “Liam, she’s just being dramatic. She’d never actually leave you.” He stopped. I scoffed, not looking back. Whether I was serious or not, he would find out soon enough.

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My husband was sobbing his heart out at my best friend’s wedding. My best friend, Chloe, was so rattled she rushed over to clarify. “Avery, I swear, your husband and I? We are not a thing! We’ve never been a thing!” Fueled by alcohol, my husband, Dean, slammed his hand on a table in the reception hall, pointed a finger at me, and bellowed. “Avery Harrison! I want a divorce!” Every guest instantly looked at Chloe’s husband, who instinctively reached up to feel the top of his head for imaginary cuckold horns. “What, did your girlfriend dump you?” Chloe’s husband muttered, confused. Of course, I knew exactly why Dean was having a public meltdown today. The woman he was sleeping with—the woman he claimed was his soulmate—was getting married right now, just down the hall in the ballroom next door. 1 I’d seen their texts. I’d read every single one. Savannah: Dean, I’m getting married tomorrow. Will you be there? Savannah: No, you shouldn’t come. I’m scared I’ll see you and won’t be able to stop myself from running away with you. But I know you’d never divorce her for me. Savannah: If there’s a next life, I promise I’ll find you first. I’ll hold you when you’re in pain and tell you I love you. Savannah: I love you, Dean! Then, she’d blocked him. Dean kept frantically sending messages into the void, knowing full well she couldn’t see them. Dean: Babe, I love you too!! I love you!! I love you more than anyone! Dean: But I owe her, Savannah. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be where I am today. I don’t love her anymore. All I feel is guilt! Dean: Can you just wait for me a little longer? I love you so much. I love you, I love you. Dean: If I came and crashed your wedding tomorrow, would you run away with me? Such deep, passionate love. A tragedy for the ages. It almost made me feel like the Wicked Witch of the West, the old crone keeping the star-crossed lovers apart. At my best friend’s reception, Dean was throwing off all pretense, ripping the veil off our life, and demanding a divorce. He was willing to lose his dignity; I was happy to oblige. All our mutual friends looked at him with sympathy. They patted his shoulder. “Hey, Dean, you’ve put up with Avery’s… diva attitude for years. Just talk to her. Make her change. Divorce is too harsh, buddy.” Chloe, ever the mediator, also stepped in, her smile strained. “What did Avery do? I’ll make her apologize. You’re a grown man, Dean. You must be deeply hurt to be crying like this.” Chloe’s husband, now certain his marriage was safe, joined in. “Seriously, man, this is my wedding. Show some respect. Don’t blow up your life on my dime.” Only a completely unhinged person would announce a divorce at someone else’s wedding. The fact that Chloe’s family hadn’t physically thrown him out was a testament to their restraint. But Dean had already chosen his path. “It has to happen today! I’m divorcing you! Avery, I’m sick of you! The thought of spending the rest of my life with someone like you makes me sick!” He drove the knife in deep. He clearly wanted no turning back. He wanted a divorce, and he was determined to drown me in his filth while doing it. He thought I was clueless. Chloe nudged my arm. “What did you do to him? Why is he so furious? Go mollify him, Avery. He looks serious.” Even my closest friend thought I was the problem. Everyone in the room was urging me to apologize, assuming my high-maintenance attitude had finally pushed the poor man over the edge. I was an only child. I’d grown up pampered, and yes, I had an entitled streak. I knew it. But over the years, I’d consciously scaled back my temper, especially with Dean. I remembered when my father warned Dean, “My daughter has a difficult, demanding personality. Please be patient with her.” And Dean’s response? “Avery is perfect! A little attitude? Who cares? If she didn’t have a single flaw, I’d never have a chance with her! Besides, I think Avery has a great temperament!” Now, Dean’s main reason for divorce was my temper—I was too strong, too bossy, and suffocating him. Once the love is gone, the virtues that once charmed them become the fatal flaws. The first time Dean mentioned divorce, I was completely blindsided. One moment, we were wrapped up in a tender, morning embrace, the next, he was on the phone, and suddenly, he said, “Avery, I think we need to talk.” I sat up, pulling the duvet around me, and looked up at him. “Talk about what? Our weekend trip? I booked us a lovely boutique hotel upstate. I even did all the research on the best vineyards. Isn’t that great? I’m so organized!” I waited for the praise I was sure would follow. Dean stared at me for a long time. Then he said, “I want a divorce. I’m exhausted being with you. Avery, even in a marriage, there has to be a boundary. I need my own space. I want to spend a weekend alone sometimes. We don’t have to do everything together.” “Your temper is awful, and I’m always the one accommodating you. But have you ever thought about my feelings? I get angry too. I need to vent. I need to be accommodated sometimes.” 2 I spent those next few months in a constant state of self-doubt. I thought that by dedicating all my free time to my partner, he would be happy and appreciate it. I loved him, and I wanted him by my side every second. Didn’t he feel the same? I reached out to every relationship guru and therapist online. Do couples need boundaries? The universal answer: Yes. I started taking online emotional intelligence courses, studying the science of marriage, and how to manage a modern relationship. Dean said I wasn’t accommodating him, so I reined in my temper and focused on being his supportive partner. I’d gently ask if he was stressed at work or facing any challenges. I hoped he’d open up. I was ready to be his confidante. But every time, he’d respond with, “It’s work stuff. You wouldn’t understand.” He grew increasingly impatient, while my temperament grew steadily calmer. I even learned to cook. Following the advice of the gurus, I worked on the principle that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. To save our relationship, I immediately quit my high-powered, demanding job, determined to be his perfect homemaker and supportive wife. For a while, Dean seemed to warm up again. Our relationship appeared to shift back to how it used to be. I was convinced my choices were correct. Until I found a small emerald earring tucked into the lining of his overnight bag. It sparked the most explosive fight we’d ever had. I screamed, demanding to know why there was a woman’s earring in his luggage. “You want a divorce because you’re cheating on me, don’t you?” I was hysterical. Dean’s voice was louder than mine, full of a raging defensiveness that made him look like the victim. “I work myself to the bone to provide for this family! And you’re accusing me of cheating because of an earring?! That’s disgusting, Avery!” His righteous fury was so overwhelming that the red-hot anger draining out of me was replaced by a cold dread. Right in front of me, he called his subordinate. “Savannah!! Why was an earring in my suitcase! You need to explain this to my wife right now!!” Savannah was Dean’s assistant. She’d been at the company for two years. Everyone knew Savannah had a handsome fiancé, Wyatt, and that they were getting married soon. Wyatt was a partner at one of Dean’s major client firms. Because of that existing relationship, Dean often took Savannah on business trips. No one, including me, had ever suspected a thing. It was perfectly normal for Dean to look out for his assistant, especially since she was part of the client network. Savannah and Wyatt came over that evening. “Oh my God, I am so, so sorry, Avery,” Savannah gushed, a picture of distress. “It’s my earring. I must have dropped it when I was helping Dean pack for his last trip. I am truly mortified that I caused this misunderstanding!” Wyatt quickly backed her up. “My fiancée was just complaining about losing the earring this afternoon. I immediately ordered her a replacement. Mrs. Harrison, I can show you the order confirmation right here.” The date on the order was indeed before Dean and I had our fight. I was mortified, completely at a loss for words. I glanced at Dean. Dean flipped the coffee table over. “This is ridiculous! You need to take a long, hard look at yourself, Avery!” He stormed out of the apartment. Wyatt rushed after him. “Dean, man, slow down! Don’t take this out on Avery. It was Savannah’s mistake. Let me buy you a drink. I apologize for her.” I didn’t see the flicker of smug satisfaction in Savannah’s eyes then. I only felt like a foolish puppet she’d manipulated. “I am so embarrassed,” I mumbled, apologizing to her. “I’m so sensitive.” I barely registered the faint note of mockery in her voice. “That’s what happens to wives, Avery. You focus all your energy on your husband, and you start overthinking everything.” “It’s normal to worry, though,” she added with a saccharine smile. “Dean is so exceptional.” Maybe I did hear the taunt. But feeling guilty, I just offered a sheepish smile. After that, the evidence kept piling up. Lipstick on Dean’s shirts, long strands of hair on his jacket, a lip balm, a bracelet, or a necklace left in his car. But I never screamed again. I was terrified of being wrong, of causing another ‘misunderstanding.’ Each time, Dean’s expression would be mild, almost bored. “A client got drunk, Avery. She hugged me and insisted I was her long-lost brother. That’s how the lipstick got on my collar.” “The car is always full of coworkers and clients. Someone must have accidentally left it. I’ll check at the office tomorrow.” I believed him every time. But I would spend the nights spinning, the quiet hours filled with suspicion and dread. I started having intense insomnia and slipped into a deep depression. I went to a psychiatrist and began taking medication. Until, finally, under the mattress of our bed, I found a black lace thong. 3 It was hidden deftly—a subtle black corner peeking out from under the white cotton edge of the mattress. This time, I didn’t scream. I didn’t explode. Even an idiot would know: he was cheating. And the other woman was a regular in our home. I waited until Dean was in the shower and immediately grabbed his phone. The password was no longer my birthday, his birthday, or our anniversary. I tried three times. One more wrong attempt, and the screen would lock. I remembered something. When we hired Savannah, Dean hesitated because her resume wasn’t strong enough. He’d talked it over with me, and I distinctly remembered her file. I remembered her birthday was Christmas Eve. I’d commented, “A Christmas Eve baby, that’s so festive.” On a chilling hunch, I typed in Savannah’s birthday. Success. The phone unlocked. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. My heart hammered, trying to break free from my ribcage. From that day on, I checked the chat logs every time Dean went into the shower. At first, my heart would constrict, the pain so intense that my hands would shake. Eventually, I reached a state of cold, detached numbness. I started reading their long, dramatic conversations while casually munching on chips. I used Dean’s account to forward all their chat history to my own phone, then meticulously deleted the forwarded messages from his sent folder. They texted all day, every day. Dean even updated her when he was in the bathroom. Dean: Getting paid to poop. Savannah would instantly send back a funny GIF of a cartoon duck on a toilet with another duck cheering it on. It was annoyingly cute. Savannah: Dean, if I break up with Wyatt, will you divorce Avery? Dean: Of course, I will. We barely have a relationship anymore. I asked her for a divorce a year ago. She didn’t agree. Instead, she quit her job to become my full-time homemaker and even toned down her diva attitude. Dean: We were a college romance. She had plenty of rich guys chasing her, but she picked me, a poor student. She refused a dowry and brought property and money into the marriage. My job at the company? That came through her father’s connections. I owe her everything. Savannah: Dean, have you ever considered that her ‘diva attitude’ is why none of those rich guys would stick around? She picked you because you were her ceiling. If someone else had your career potential and could tolerate her better, would she have ever looked at you? Dean fell silent. After a long pause, he replied: My mother said the same thing. She thinks Avery’s family only wanted me because I was a ‘safe investment’ and that rich kids are too spoiled and run through their money. I had read every text between Dean and Savannah since she joined the company. Dean hadn’t deleted the records, secure in his arrogance that I would never look. I briefly considered sending the entire history to Wyatt, but I stopped myself. If I exposed Savannah now, the issue would be public, but Wyatt might forgive her. Savannah’s constant digs at me suggested Wyatt already knew something and had likely chosen to overlook it. Being truly adored gives a person a kind of impunity. Then, Savannah messaged Dean: Babe, I think I left your favorite pair of my panties at your place. Dean sent a string of panic emojis: Are you serious?! Don’t mess with me! Dean searched frantically: They’re not here! Look under the mattress. It would be bad if your wife found them, right? Dean flipped the entire mattress but still couldn’t find them. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe they’re not lost. Dean: Babe!! Be careful next time! I’d been reading their texts for almost half a year. The intensity of their whole ‘star-crossed lovers’ thing was so over-the-top, it was almost comical. Now, Dean’s demand for a divorce at my best friend’s wedding was a clear declaration of his resolve. He had made his choice. As everyone rushed to advise him to calm down, and urged me to apologize and save my marriage, I let out a sharp, unexpected laugh. “What’s wrong, Dean? Did your girlfriend dump you?”

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