Author: Momo Chan

The day my wife gave birth to another man’s child, her parents hired ten security guards to keep me away from the maternity ward. But I never showed. I didn’t make a scene. Later, I heard her mother was holding her hand, stroking her hair. “Ava, don’t you worry,” she’d said. “We’ll make sure he doesn’t get within a hundred feet of you.” “Your father has men watching the main entrance, too. If he dares to show up and cause trouble, we’ll have him arrested.” Ava, pale and exhausted, managed a weak nod. But her eyes still drifted towards the elevator bank. The space was empty. Only then did she finally let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. She couldn’t understand it. All she was doing was giving her high school sweetheart a child, a legacy before he died. Why couldn’t I just understand that? As a nurse placed the crying infant in her arms, a genuine, relieved smile spread across her face. She told herself that if I came to visit her the next day, she would forgive all our recent fights. She would even be willing to let me be the baby’s father. What she didn’t know was that I had just filed my final paperwork with Doctors Without Borders. In seven days, I would renounce my American citizenship and disappear into the world’s forgotten corners. I was never coming back. 1 The day Ava was discharged from the birthing center, I was finishing the last of my handover paperwork at the hospital. I walked up to her parents’ front door and paused, my hand on the knob. Laughter spilled from inside. “He’s such a beautiful baby,” her mother cooed. “Those big eyes… he got them from his father, that’s for sure.” Leo emerged from the kitchen holding a steaming bowl of homemade chicken soup. “I made this myself,” he said, his voice a gentle hum. “You’re still weak. You need to build up your strength.” He sat on the edge of the bed, feeding Ava spoonful by spoonful with a tenderness that screamed of domestic bliss. They looked like a perfect family. Her father, shaking a baby rattle, was grinning from ear to ear. “This little guy is just so charming, just like his dad. Thank God he’s not Ethan’s. Can you imagine? Having a doctor for a father would be a nightmare, all work and no play.” My hand tightened on the doorknob until my knuckles were white. I remembered the first time I met her father. He’d clapped me on the shoulder, beaming. “A doctor! Saving lives! It’s an honor to have you in the family.” He’d told me he’d been a surgeon himself, forced into early retirement by a violent patient who’d ruined the nerves in his hand. Now, he was saying a doctor wasn’t fit to have a family. I had been away for a one-year fellowship. In that single year, this home had become a place where I no longer belonged. I lowered my head, a bitter taste filling my mouth. Ava and I had been married for three years. She told me she was staunchly child-free, and I understood the risks of childbirth, the nine-circles-of-hell ordeal it can be for a woman. I never pushed her. I remember the day I left for my fellowship abroad. She’d cried, her eyes red-rimmed, telling me she couldn’t bear to be without me. For that entire year, we were inseparable, despite the distance. We called every day, sharing every little detail of our lives. My colleagues would tease me, saying we were like newlyweds, even after three years. Then, one month ago, I finally got approval for a surprise trip home. I endured an eight-hour flight, my body screaming with exhaustion, but I didn’t care. I rushed straight from the airport, only to find Ava on our doorstep, her belly swollen and round, her hand in that of her first love. Leo’s voice pulled me from the memory. “Ethan? Man, when did you get back? Why are you just standing in the doorway?” The laughter inside died. Everyone turned to look. When Ava’s father saw the resignation letter in my hand, his brow furrowed into a tight knot. “How did I ever entrust my daughter to someone like you? What a disgrace. You quit your job? What’s the plan, Ethan? Are you expecting us to support you?” “What kind of husband are you?” her mother chimed in, her finger pointed at me like an accusation. “You quit? That job was a golden ticket, and you couldn’t even handle that? What can you do? Ava’s recovering, the baby needs things… money, Ethan! Or do you expect the three of you to live on air?” A hollow laugh escaped my lips. “Whose wife and whose child,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet, “is whose responsibility.” “What did you just say, Ethan? Have you no sense of duty?” Ava finally broke. Her eyes were blazing, her face flushed with anger. “Leo saved my life in that car crash three years ago! If it weren’t for him, I’d be dead. His parents are gone, and now he has terminal cancer. Soon, there will be no one left in the world to even remember he existed.” Her voice cracked. “Why do you always have to attack him? Do you really think I’m that kind of woman? A cheap, disgusting cheat?” A coughing fit seized her, and Leo was immediately at her side, rubbing her back, his face a mask of concern. He turned to me. “Ethan, maybe you should just back off a little. I know this is all my fault. I promise, I’ll disappear from your lives. But please, don’t let me ruin what you two have.” I looked at the four of them, a perfectly united front. A wave of nauseating clarity washed over me. They were the family. I was the intruder. Then Ava spoke, her voice laced with steel. “Ethan, my patience has a limit. If you ever dare to come after Leo again, you can forget about coming back to this house. If you want to stay married to me, you will drop this. At the christening next week, I’m willing to tell our friends and family that you’re the baby’s father.” Next week? My gaze drifted to the sleeping infant in the bassinet. Next week, I’d be on a plane to a different continent. But before I left, I didn’t mind giving them one last surprise they’d never forget. My expression remained neutral. “Okay.” Without waiting for their reaction, I turned and walked to the bedroom to pack. If I was leaving for good, I didn’t want a single trace of myself left behind. The sounds of their cheerful chatter seeped through the closed door. I paused, my hands stilling on a folded shirt. “Leo,” I heard Ava say, her voice thick with emotion, “I want the baby to have your last name. That way, even if he calls someone else ‘Dad’ one day, he’ll always remember who his real father is.” I didn’t need to see her face to picture the adoration in her eyes. My heart, already fractured, felt like it was being ground into dust. I remembered that awful day last month. I’d just gotten home, a souvenir I’d bought for her in my hand. And there they were, walking back from a stroll, hand in hand. The look on Ava’s face was pure panic. Leo, however, just looked at me with mild confusion, as if I were a stranger who’d wandered up the wrong driveway. I said nothing. My eyes were glued to the impossible curve of her stomach. I’d been gone for eleven months. My wife was pregnant. There was no math, no self-deception that could make that child mine. It wasn’t until Ava frantically stepped in front of Leo, shielding him, that the silence was broken. “This,” she’d said, her voice trembling, “is my husband, Ethan.” 2 I thought hearing that would make Leo back off, show some restraint. Instead, he smiled and extended a hand as if he were the host welcoming me into my own home. As he brushed past me to enter the house, he leaned in and whispered, his voice for my ears only, “I hear you’re a bit older than me. Guess that makes you the big brother, huh? After all, your wife is carrying my child.” A hot, white rage surged through me. The eleven months of longing, of missing her, curdled into pure, undiluted fury. I swung. My fist connected with his jaw with a sickening crack. I lost control. If there had been a knife nearby, I think I might have actually killed them both. A neighbor heard the shouting and called the cops. They took us all down to the station, but it was a domestic dispute. They couldn’t do much. They sent us home. The second we walked in the door, Ava’s parents, who had rushed over, started in on me. They didn’t ask a single question. They just yelled. Yelled about me causing a scene, making them a laughingstock in the neighborhood. Yelled about my years of education being a waste, resorting to violence like a common thug. If Leo had been seriously hurt, they snarled, they would make me pay. It was then I realized. They knew. They’d known all along. They supported it. In one short year, Leo had become their perfect son-in-law. I was the only one left in the dark. The bitter taste in my mouth was overwhelming. My chest felt hollow. Ava approached me then, her hands trembling as she reached for mine. “I never meant to betray you, Ethan. Leo is sick. The doctors gave him six months, tops. I couldn’t stand the thought of him dying without leaving anything behind.” Her voice was a desperate whisper. “I was going to tell you, I swear. I just… you were so far away, and I didn’t want to distract you from your work. I was going to explain everything when you got back. If you’re willing… can we raise this baby together? Please?” Something so monumental, so life-altering, and she spoke of it as if it were a minor inconvenience we could simply work through. I finished packing the last of my clothes into a suitcase. Just then, her mother pushed the door open. She saw the suitcase at my feet and gave me a look that said, good, you have some sense after all. “You were gone so long, we let Leo use your room,” she said, not a hint of apology in her voice. “And we converted your study into the nursery. So, you can take the couch tonight. Or find a hotel.” I was tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushing tired. I didn’t have the energy to find a hotel. I just nodded, ready to crash on the sofa. But deep in the night, the baby’s cries echoed through the house. I rolled over, reaching for my earplugs, when I heard Ava’s voice, thick with sleep. “Honey, can you do something about the baby? He won’t stop crying.” “You’re my baby,” Leo murmured back. “I just need to take care of you. Let the little guy cry. It’s good for his lungs.” A soft giggle from Ava. “Stop it.” Then came the unmistakable sound of sheets rustling, of bodies shifting on a mattress. I pulled the comforter over my head, a useless shield against the sounds seeping through the walls. I squeezed my eyes shut, but all I could see was her face the first time she told me she loved me. She was so bright then, so beautiful, and her world revolved entirely around me. That girl was gone. And she was never coming back. 3 I slept in fits and starts, and by the first light of dawn, I was out the door with my suitcase. I went to the federal building and finalized the paperwork to renounce my citizenship. With the government-sponsored placement through Doctors Without Borders, the process was expedited. The clerk didn’t ask many questions. As I was about to leave, she called out to me, offering a genuine, sympathetic smile. “I hope you find what you’re looking for out there.” I managed a small smile back. I found a cheap hotel nearby, dropped my bag, and went out to find something to eat. And that’s when I ran into them: Ava, Leo, and her parents. Leo was wearing a custom-tailored Armani suit that must have cost a fortune. He looked radiant, flushed with health. There was nothing about him that suggested a man at death’s door. “Ethan! I thought that was you from a distance,” he called out, his smile wide and confident. “Ava said it couldn’t be you over here.” His eyes fell to the flyer I was holding—a recruitment ad for construction work that a girl handing them out on the corner had pressed into my hand. I’d only taken it because she looked cold. A knowing smirk spread across Leo’s face. “Looking for work, huh? A construction site might be tough, man. You don’t exactly have the build for it. You’ll wear yourself out.” I didn’t say a word. My silence seemed to confirm his assumptions. “You should have just said something,” he continued, placing a chummy hand on my shoulder. “I could probably help you out. We’re family, after all. If you’re doing well, I know Ava will be taken care of. It would put my mind at ease.” Ava’s expression, which had been confused, hardened into contempt. Her brow furrowed as she looked at me, her eyes filled with a disgust that twisted my insides. “Why would you help him?” she snapped. “He’s the one who threw away a brilliant career as a doctor. If he starves on the street now, he has no one to blame but himself. Honestly, Ethan, you have no backbone at all. Did you think this little pity party would guilt me into giving up my son?” I stared at her, at the familiar lines of her face that had suddenly become the face of a stranger. I remembered a time, early in our marriage, when I was caught in a nasty bit of hospital politics and almost lost my promotion. I’d talked about quitting, changing careers entirely. Ava had just held me. She’d stroked my back and whispered in my ear, “We’re a team. Whatever you decide, I’m with you. Quitting isn’t the end of the world. A pearl will always shine, no matter what. I’ll always be by your side, my love.” The woman who promised to always be by my side was now letting another man humiliate me. She had forgotten her words, forgotten the love she once swore was etched into her soul. Her parents just shook their heads, their faces a mask of disappointment. “I was blind,” her father muttered. “To think I was going to leave my daughter’s happiness in your hands.” “Thank God we’re still around,” her mother added. “If we were gone, who knows how you’d mistreat her.” Their voices grew louder, more theatrical, drawing the stares of people passing by on the street. My hands, hanging at my sides, clenched into fists. Just as I was about to speak, Leo stepped forward again. “Well, we were just on our way to get a family portrait done. You should come, Ethan. After all, I’m counting on you to help take care of Ava and the baby for the rest of your life.” Ava cut him off with a disdainful scoff. “Look at him. He’d just lower the tone of the whole picture.” She turned on her heel and started walking toward the photo studio, calling over her shoulder for Leo to hurry up. “Guess we’ll see you around, then,” Leo said, giving my shoulder one last, patronizing pat. “Don’t want to keep you from your job hunt.” I watched them go, a perfect family unit, and felt nothing. Not anger, not sadness. Just a vast, cold emptiness. If this was the life Ava wanted, who was I to stand in her way? 4 Three days before my flight, I got a text from the Dean of Medicine at my old hospital. The top cardiac specialist I’d asked him to contact was in the country for a conference. He’d be willing to take a look at my father-in-law’s coronary disease. Ava’s father had a bad heart; he’d been rushed to the ER a few years back. During my fellowship, I’d made a point of consulting with colleagues, collecting research on his specific condition. No matter what had happened, there were years of history between us. I figured if I did this one last thing, my conscience would be clear. We would owe each other nothing. But when I told him I wanted to take him to the hospital, his face soured instantly. “The hospital? Why? Are you trying to jinx me? My bypass surgery was a complete success. There’s nothing to check.” “There’s a world-renowned specialist in town just for today,” I tried to explain. “He could take a look, maybe suggest some preventative care for the future—” He cut me off by throwing his glass of water at me. It shattered against the wall behind my head. “Empty words! You think a world-renowned specialist is someone an unemployed bum like you can just book an appointment with? All you do is brag! You know who really cares? Leo! Leo stayed up all night once just to get me an appointment with a good doctor. Where were you then, huh?” Everything was Leo this, Leo that. His attitude made it painfully clear. It didn’t matter what I did; it would always be wrong. I could never measure up to Leo. When that realization settled in my gut, all I could do was offer a bitter smile. “If you don’t want to go, then forget it.” I was a fool for even trying. Soon enough, the day of the baby’s christening party arrived. I was late. The banquet hall was packed with relatives whose names I couldn’t remember. For a moment, I was disoriented. The celebration was grander, more lavish than my own wedding to Ava. And there, at the entrance to the hall, was a massive, five-person family portrait. Ava, Leo, the baby, her parents. All of them beaming. As for me, I was the punchline. Relatives saw me and immediately began whispering amongst themselves. I didn’t need to hear the words to know what they were saying. Soon, one of my aunts-in-law cornered me, her grip tight on my arm. “Ethan! When did you get back? Ava never mentioned it. I heard that after your fellowship, you were on track to become a department head at City General! Your future is so bright!” I just nodded politely, saying nothing. I could see the pity and contempt in her eyes. It was obvious. I wasn’t in the family portrait. I wasn’t the one standing by Ava’s side. Another busybody pointed across the room to where Leo was feeding Ava a piece of cake. “Ethan, who’s that man? I didn’t know Ava had a brother.” A faint smile touched my lips. “Ava’s new husband.” The circle of gossiping aunts around us fell silent, their eyes wide. Then, they huddled together, whispering furiously. Ava’s family clearly didn’t care about appearances, so why should I help them keep up the charade? Just then, Ava walked onto the stage and took the microphone. “Thank you all so much for coming to celebrate my son’s christening,” she began. “Before this, I never thought I wanted to be a mother. I was always afraid I wouldn’t be good enough. But in that moment, lying in the delivery room and hearing his first cry, I finally understood the incredible power of a mother’s love.” She spoke with such passion, she looked like she was about to be moved to tears by her own speech. The aunt next to me yelled out, “Let’s hear from the proud father! Where’s the dad?” The atmosphere in the room froze. All eyes darted between me and Leo. The answer was hanging in the air, but the aunt’s question was a direct challenge, forcing Ava to say it herself. My eyes met Ava’s. I started walking slowly toward the stage. Under her stunned gaze, I reached her side and gently took the microphone from her hand. “What are you doing?” she hissed, her eyes flashing with panic. She grabbed my sleeve. “I’m warning you, Ethan, don’t you dare say anything stupid, or I swear you’ll regret it.” I calmly pulled my arm from her grasp. If she had a clear conscience, what was she so afraid of? I turned to the crowd, my voice calm and steady. “First, thank you all for coming today. Many of you here watched Ava and I get married. I’ve always cherished your blessings for our life together. But as you probably noticed on your way in, there’s a family portrait at the entrance.” Ava’s face went pale. She lunged for the microphone, her expression turning thunderous. I sidestepped her easily and continued, my grip firm on the mic. “To be honest, I was shocked to see it, too. But not as shocked as I was to come home after a year-long fellowship abroad to discover that my wife—who had told me she wanted to be child-free—was eight months pregnant.” “This is a humiliation I will not swallow. This is a burden I will not carry!” “Ava, I want a divorce.”

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When the zombie apocalypse hit, pets turned into guardians. The system allowed three per person. My best friend spent a fortune on three Tibetan Mastiffs. My landlord cleared out his fish tank for a trio of alligators. My boyfriend stormed the city zoo and came back with a lion. And me? I had three stray cats. The oldest was blind, the middle one had a limp, and the youngest was barely a month old. The moment the System locked in our pet registrations, I knew. I was screwed. My whole plan was to hide with my three disabled cats and just… survive. Quietly. Day one of the apocalypse: Terror. Day two: Helplessness. Day three: My sons padded up to me, their big tails swishing, and dropped something unidentifiable at my feet. “Mom,” the oldest one said, his voice a low rumble in my head. “I bit the heads off every zombie on the block.” He nudged the grisly trophy with his nose. “So. How’s this for playing it safe?” 1 【Apocalypse countdown: 24 hours. Your pets will become your guardians. Each individual is limited to three.】 The moment the System’s announcement echoed in everyone’s mind, the world imploded. Pampered toy poodles and fluffy house cats were dumped on the streets. Vicious, aggressive dogs that people used to cross the street to avoid were suddenly the subject of frantic bidding wars. My boyfriend, Mark, heard the news and raced to my apartment. Without a word, he scooped up my three sleeping cats, bundled them into their carrier, and headed for the window, intending to toss them out like a bag of trash. I moved faster than I ever had in my life, planting myself in front of him. “Mark, what the hell are you doing? I raised them!” He exploded. “Did you not hear the announcement? The world ends in twenty-four hours, Anna! You really think a blind cat and a cripple are going to protect you?” I stood my ground, a human shield in front of the window. Seeing that force wasn’t working, Mark softened his voice, turning on that infuriatingly fake charm. “Anna, baby, just listen to me. Be reasonable. We get rid of these… liabilities, and we’ll have six slots between us. We can get some serious protection. We’ll be untouchable.” I wasn’t moving. I puffed out my chest, a bluff I didn’t feel. “Who says they can’t protect me? Leo isn’t crippled, and Luna isn’t blind. They’re good cats.” It was a stupid, pointless lie. Leo’s left hind leg had always been stiff, and Luna’s eyes were milky, sightless orbs. “You touch them today, and we are over. I mean it.” Mark stared at me like I’d just been committed to an asylum. He slammed the carrier onto the floor, and the raw anger finally broke through. “They’re not blind, Anna? No, I’m the one who’s been blind! What was I thinking, dating a stupid, bleeding-heart case like you?” He stormed toward the door. “We’re done. And when the world goes to hell tomorrow, don’t you dare come crawling to me.” The door slammed shut, the sound rattling the cheap pictures on my walls. Only after he was gone did I rush to the carrier, letting my cats out, my hands shaking as I stroked their fur. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that kind of vitriol. Ever since I graduated college, the label “bleeding heart” had stuck to me like glue. And it was all because I was, to the bone, a cat person. After college, I got my own place, a tiny one-bedroom I could barely afford. To finally fulfill a childhood dream, I took in two strays I found shivering in a dumpster during a thunderstorm. A male and a female. I named the big one Leo and the smaller one Luna, and I loved them like they were my own kids. To most people, having a couple of rescue cats isn’t strange. The strange part was their appetite. They wouldn’t touch the cheap kibble from Walmart. They turned their noses up at the hundred-dollar-a-bag, grain-free stuff from PetCo. They ignored cans of tuna and fancy catnip treats. They only ate fresh meat. Raw. Three-pound chickens? They could tear through four or five a day. When they got tired of chicken, it was pork. Then steak. If I didn’t buy it for them, they’d slip out the window and steal it from the butcher shop down the street. From that day on, my life became a frantic cycle of cleaning up their messes. I was drowning in credit card debt, my already pathetic paycheck vanishing into their food budget. I was the quintessential millennial cliché: working overtime at a soul-crushing job, subsisting on ramen and caffeine, and trying to ignore the constant, gnawing hunger. I fainted at my desk more than once from malnutrition. The older women in my apartment building would see my gaunt face and pull me aside, their voices thick with pity. “Honey, if those cats can find their own food, maybe you should just let them go.” “You’re so young, Anna. You can’t ruin your health like this. You’ll end up with permanent problems.” Lying in bed one night, my stomach aching with hunger, I decided they were right. So, under the cover of a moonless night, I drove them to a park across town and “set them free.” 2 Honestly, the day I abandoned Leo and Luna was the first day in years I ate until I was full. Barbecue ribs, buffalo wings, a whole pint of Ben & Jerry’s. I ordered everything I’d been craving for months and ate until I had to lean against the wall to stand up. I fell asleep in a food coma, dreaming of flavors I had almost forgotten. But the good life didn’t last long. The next morning, a frantic, scratching sound at my door jolted me awake. I opened it, and there they were. Leo and Luna. Leo had a fat trout dangling from his mouth, and Luna had a dead pigeon pinned under her paw. They sat there, looking up at me with those pleading, pathetic expressions they’d perfected. As soon as the door was open, they pushed the food toward me, an offering. The wall I’d built around my heart overnight crumbled into dust. But then the memory of the constant hunger, the dizziness, the shame of my empty bank account returned. I swallowed hard. “No,” I whispered, my voice thick. “I can’t afford you. You can’t come back.” I shut the door in their faces, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot. On my side of the door, I was a mess, creeping to the peephole to watch them, tears streaming down my face. The first day, they staged a hunger strike right on my doormat. The second day, the hunger strike continued. The third day, still nothing. I watched through the peephole as the cats I’d worked so hard to nurse back to health grew thinner and thinner. On the outside, I was a monster of cold resolve. On the inside, I was dying with them. After a week, Leo couldn’t take it anymore. He collapsed, retching up bile right in front of my door. That was it. My resolve shattered. I threw the door open. “Get in here,” I choked out. I was resigned to my fate. I was born to be their servant. To keep us all from starving, I descended further into the gig economy. I worked my 9-to-5, then spent my nights and weekends driving for Uber and delivering for DoorDash. My days stretched into sixteen-hour marathons of pure exhaustion. The news spread through my old college friends. Anna’s lost it. She’s got some weird disease where she’ll die without her cats. I didn’t care. All that mattered was keeping my little family together. Over time, I even got used to the grueling pace. I was almost proud of my resilience. And just when I thought I had it all figured out, Luna got pregnant. She gave birth to a single, tiny ball of fur, so white it was blinding. A true demon, born into this world. 3 I’d never seen a cat so white. If you put him in a snowdrift, the snow would look dirty by comparison. I named him Ghost. Ghost opened his eyes on day one. He was walking by day two. By day three, he’d figured out how to open the apartment door, sneak downstairs, and chew through the insulated delivery box to drink all the fresh milk meant for the entire building. Leo and Luna were content with raw meat. But Ghost? Ghost would only eat things that were alive. He single-handedly drove the neighborhood’s escaped-hamster population to extinction. He’d leap into the nearby creek and steal hooked fish right off the line, leaving furious fishermen with nothing. He even got into the neighbor’s backyard and snatched their prize-winning pet rabbit. My role in our little family leveled up again. I went from Chief Financial Officer to Chief of Damage Control. On top of working myself to the bone, I spent my free time making humiliating, bowing apologies to my neighbors. At twenty-three, fresh out of college, I was Anna, full of ambition, convinced I was going to make something of myself. Two years later, I was Anna, the woman at the bottom of the food chain, so beaten down I felt like I should apologize to the rats in the sewer for taking up space. Looking back, it was a hard road. But the four of us, we had each other. We’d made it through the worst of it. And now, the apocalypse was coming. Zombies. Fast, strong, and numerous. One bite and you were either dead or one of them. It didn’t matter if my cats had been eating chickens and rabbits their whole lives. Even if I’d been feeding them timberwolves, they couldn’t stop a horde of zombies. I watched the clock on the wall. Less than twenty-three hours to go. There was no way I was getting rid of my cats. But with the little money I had, I couldn’t afford a trained guard dog, let alone tame a wild animal. What was I supposed to do? Just wait to die? After weighing my options, I clenched my jaw. Fine. I’d just have to prepare. I didn’t have to fight the zombies head-on. If I had enough food and water, I could just… hide. Barricade myself in this apartment and wait it out. Survive for as long as I could. Every extra day was a win. With a new sense of purpose, I joined the frantic mobs looting the city. While everyone else was fighting over attack dogs and exotic animals, I slipped into the back of a grocery store. I made trip after trip with my beat-up 2008 Honda Civic, hauling hundreds of pounds of rice, flour, and canned goods. I cleared shelves of ramen, mac and cheese, and Spam. I filled half my living room with bottled water alone. Through all this chaos, my three cats didn’t stir. They just slept. Lately, it seemed like sleeping was all they ever did. My tiny apartment was now a fortress of non-perishables. I was drenched in sweat, my body screaming with exhaustion. But I wasn’t done. I went to a hardware store and bought steel plates and bolts, reinforcing my door and windows. It wouldn’t stop a horde, but it might buy me some time. Finally finished, I collapsed on the floor, ready to pass out. Suddenly, I heard a key turning in my lock. My landlord burst in, flanked by a group of menacing-looking men. “Leave the supplies. Get out,” he said, not even looking at me. “I’m terminating your lease.” 4 “On what grounds?” My heart hammered against my ribs, but fury quickly replaced the fear. The landlord was arrogant, a classic slumlord who had never once fixed my leaky faucet. He casually hefted a crowbar in his hand. “On the grounds that this is my property, and I can do whatever the hell I want.” His men pinned me to the floor. I couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but watch as they carried away all the food I had risked my life to gather. I watched as they brought in a massive, custom-built aquarium and set it up in the middle of my living room. Somehow, my landlord had gotten his hands on several small alligators. Their jaws were wired shut for now, but I could see the glint of their teeth. He looked at his new pets with a smug, proud grin, then noticed Ghost sleeping on the floor. He snatched him up by the tail. He swung my tiny, sleeping kitten back and forth, laughing. “Hahaha! Don’t tell me you were planning on this little furball protecting you! There’s not enough meat on its bones to get stuck in my gators’ teeth.” Ghost, who was usually a terror, was completely limp, as if he were in a coma. Leo and Luna, who were fiercely protective, didn’t even twitch. They were all dead to the world. The landlord laughed again and made a move to drop Ghost into the tank. “NO!” I screamed. “I’ll go! I’ll take them and go right now. Just don’t hurt him.” He tossed Ghost into my arms. “Good girl. Now get the hell out of here. If I see you again, I’ll feed you to them, too.” One hour until the apocalypse, and I was on the street with my three comatose cats. This was it. I was well and truly finished. I held one cat in my arms and had the other two in a backpack carrier, wandering aimlessly, looking for a place to hide. I rounded a corner and bumped right into two people. I looked up and my blood ran cold. It was my best friend, Jessica, and Mark. They were holding hands, walking three enormous, snarling Tibetan Mastiffs. “Well, well, look what we have here,” Jess cooed, her voice dripping with venom. “It’s Anna. Still clinging to your precious little masters, I see.” I ignored her, my eyes locked on their intertwined hands. “We broke up a few hours ago, Mark. How are you with her?” He dropped the charade, his face twisting into a sneer. “You really think I was ever into you, Anna? You’re a broke, scrawny charity case. Jess and I have been together for months.” “I was going to trick you into raising some strong pets with me,” he continued, his voice cruel. “Then, when the time was right, I’d have pushed you out as zombie bait. That way, Jess and I could have had nine guardians between us. But you’re just too stupid for your own good. Couldn’t let go of these useless fleabags.” Jess giggled, squeezing Mark’s arm. “Honey, why are you wasting your breath? We’ve got mastiffs and a lion now. She’s dead meat no matter what. Why don’t we just let our babies have a little appetizer?” The meaning behind her words hit me. My whole body started to shake. They’re going to kill me. Before the zombies even get here, I’m going to be eaten by dogs. I could see their teeth. Long, yellow canines. It would hurt so much. As if they understood, the mastiffs surged forward, barking furiously. Jess clapped her hands. “That’s it, boys! Go on! Rip that bitch apart!” The dogs lunged. The smell of their hot, fetid breath washed over me. My feet felt like they were nailed to the pavement. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t even scream. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the teeth. And in that instant, my cats woke up.

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After I got pregnant with our second, my husband hired a nanny to “help with my workload.” But when I fell down the stairs, she didn’t call 911. Instead, she rushed to comfort my daughter, the one who had pushed me. “It’s okay, Sophie, sweetie. Don’t be scared,” the nanny cooed, stroking her hair. “Auntie Jenna knows it wasn’t your fault. Mommy’s just gotten clumsy since the new baby came along.” My daughter buried her face in the nanny’s arms, her sobs muffled. “I hate her, Auntie Jenna! That stupid, ugly woman doesn’t deserve to be my mom!” she wailed. “When Daddy divorces her, you can marry him. You can be my new mommy, okay?” I saw a flicker of pleasure in my husband’s eyes. The nanny, Jenna, just blushed. But when I finally did step aside and give up my title as the wife of a wealthy man, they both came to regret it. I guess a nanny’s salary doesn’t quite cover the costs of a man and a child who bleed money like it’s their job. 1 It was Sophie’s third birthday. At six months pregnant, I had squeezed myself into a sweltering, plush mascot costume of her favorite cartoon character, planning to give her the surprise of her life. But when I pulled off the heavy mascot head, grinning as I held out her present, her face fell. “Oh. It’s you,” she said, her voice flat with disappointment. “Where’s Daddy?” I figured she was just having a moment. I’d been so buried in work lately; maybe she felt neglected. I forced a patient smile. “Daddy went to pick up your birthday cake, sweetie. He’ll be right back.” She just turned away, her little face a cold mask. A wave of dizziness washed over me, the heat from the costume clinging to my skin, but I pushed through the discomfort and offered the gift again. “Sophie, look. Mommy got you the princess dress you wanted. Why don’t you try it on for me?” She didn’t even glance at it. Her hand shot out and slapped the box from my grasp, sending it clattering to the floor. “I don’t want your stupid present!” she shrieked. “I want Daddy! He promised he’d take me to get a kitten today!” I frowned. A kitten? Sophie was severely allergic to cats. Mark would never make a mistake like that. I reached for her, my voice gentle. “Are you sure that’s what he said, honey? I don’t remember him mentioning that.” That was the wrong thing to say. Her face twisted in disgust. She ripped her arm from my grasp and gave me a hard, two-handed shove. My balance was already precarious. I stumbled backward, my feet finding only air, and then I was tumbling, crashing down the stairs. The world was a blur of motion and pain. Sophie’s terrified screams echoed from the top of the landing as Jenna, the nanny, came running. “Jenna,” I gasped, my voice thin and reedy. “Call an ambulance. Now.” She gave me a fleeting, dismissive glance before scooping my crying daughter into her arms. “It’s okay, Sophie, honey. Don’t be scared,” she murmured, her voice dripping with false comfort. “Auntie Jenna knows it wasn’t your fault. Mommy’s just gotten so clumsy since the new baby.” Sophie clung to her. “That woman is ugly and stupid, and she won’t let me have a kitten! I don’t want her to be my mom anymore!” she sobbed. “You’re nice to me, Auntie Jenna. When Daddy divorces her, you should marry him. You can be my new mommy!” The words struck me harder than the fall. I couldn’t breathe. Sophie’s birth had been traumatic. A nightmare of an emergency C-section, an allergy to the standard epidural. I had been half-conscious, feeling every pull and stitch as they brought her into the world. And this was the child I had nearly died for? Saying things like that? Just a few weeks ago, she was my little shadow, my sweet girl. What had changed? Was it Jenna? Mark had hired her when I was about five months along. He said it was to help me with Sophie. I was hesitant—Jenna was barely out of her teens—but Mark insisted she was from a reputable agency. “She’s young,” he’d argued. “She’ll have more energy to keep up with Sophie.” It made sense at the time, so I agreed. Not long after, a neighbor pulled me aside. “I don’t want to be a busybody,” she’d said, “but that new nanny of yours seems a little… overly friendly with Mark. Just be careful.” I nodded and thanked her, but I didn’t take it seriously. Mark and I were college sweethearts. We’d built a life together. If he wanted to cheat, he’d had countless opportunities with women far more impressive than a twenty-year-old nanny. But I never imagined the nanny’s target wasn’t my husband, but my daughter. Thinking back, Sophie’s coldness towards me started right after Jenna arrived. A sharp, violent pain radiated from my abdomen, shattering my thoughts. There was no more time to think. I fumbled for my phone, my fingers slick with sweat, and dialed 911 myself. Then, everything went black. 2 When I woke up, the sterile smell of a hospital filled my nostrils. My hand instinctively went to my belly. The baby was still there. Thank God. The thick padding of the mascot costume must have cushioned the fall. The room was empty. Who had brought me here? I reached for my phone, planning to call Mark. But when the screen lit up, I saw a flurry of notifications from the parent group chat for Sophie’s preschool. 99+ messages. I scrolled to the top. It was a photo posted by Sophie’s teacher, and she had tagged me. “Audrey, you never answered your phone today, I was worried you weren’t coming to the parent-teacher conference! It was so lovely to finally meet you. You’re even more beautiful in person! Mark is a lucky man.” My blood ran cold. Today was the first parent-teacher conference of the year. After Sophie was born, Mark and I had an agreement: I would carry the babies, he would handle the school runs and parent meetings. But I hadn’t been there today. Who did the teacher think I was? With a sense of dread, I clicked on the photo. It was Jenna. She was holding Sophie, a serene, maternal smile on her face. Mark stood beside them, his arm resting possessively on the back of her chair. At a glance, they looked like a perfect family. The comments below the picture were a mix of fawning and envy. “Wow, Mark, you really hit the jackpot! What a gorgeous wife!” “Seriously! And talk about a power couple. I’m pretty sure that limited edition Maybach in the parking lot is his. I heard those things are over a million dollars!” The mention of the car sent the chat into a frenzy. Someone asked Mark what he did for a living to be so successful. He replied with a coy, humble message about just being “lucky.” A knot of bitterness formed in my stomach. Mark had essentially married into my family’s money. He was a kept man. The seed money for his boutique photography studio had come from me. The Maybach was a birthday gift from me. His income alone wouldn’t even cover the insurance on it. I understood a man’s pride. A little bragging was one thing. But why would he take Jenna to our daughter’s conference and let everyone believe she was his wife? I didn’t have the heart to read anymore. I dialed his number. It rang and rang, unanswered. Just then, I heard voices from the hallway outside my room. It was Mark and Sophie. “Daddy, can you divorce Mommy tomorrow?” Sophie pleaded in her sweetest voice. “I want Auntie Jenna to be my new mommy.” Mark chuckled. “You really like your Auntie Jenna that much, huh, sweet pea?” “Of course! Auntie Jenna is young and pretty, and she’s going to buy me a kitten! Mommy is just mean and bossy!” Sophie’s voice turned demanding. “So, will you do it or not? If you don’t, I’m never speaking to you again.” “Alright, alright,” Mark said with a long-suffering sigh. “Whatever my little princess wants.” The door swung open. Mark’s smile vanished the second he saw my eyes were open. “What the hell was that parent-teacher conference about?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. He had the grace to look guilty. “It’s your fault, Audrey. You’re always working, you never have time for Sophie. Jenna was just trying to help so Sophie wouldn’t feel sad.” I let out a cold, humorless laugh. “Helping? Does ‘helping’ now include pretending to be my replacement?” Before he could stammer out another excuse, Sophie ran forward, planting herself between us like a tiny bodyguard. “You’re a mean lady!” she shouted, pointing a finger at me. “Daddy already promised he’d divorce you! When we kick you out, you won’t be able to be mean to him anymore!” My eyes locked on Mark. “Is that right?” He wouldn’t meet my gaze. Sophie got frantic. “Daddy! You promised! You can’t take it back!” My own anger flared. “Sophie Elizabeth,” I snapped, “I haven’t even started with you. Why did you push me down the stairs? There’s a baby in my belly. What if you had hurt the baby?” Her eyes instantly filled with tears. “Mommy’s yelling,” she whimpered. “I’m scared!” Mark immediately turned on me. “Look what you did. And nothing happened, did it? Why are you taking it out on a child?” he scolded. “Besides, if you hadn’t gained so much weight with this pregnancy, you wouldn’t be so clumsy. You can’t blame Sophie for that.” He scooped her into his arms. “Come on, sweet pea. Daddy will take you for some ice cream.” The air left my lungs. The words were a physical blow. It was true, I’d gained a lot of weight. I hadn’t even wanted a second child, but Mark had insisted Sophie was lonely. He’d worn me down until I agreed. And now he was using it against me. He was disgusted by me. Just then, his messenger bag, left on a chair in the corner, chimed. He had left his iPad. A sick feeling pulled at me. I opened the bag. His iMessage was open, the screen still lit. I don’t know why I did it, but I started scrolling through his conversation with Jenna. It was all there. A carefully documented campaign of sabotage. It started innocently enough—daily updates on me and Sophie, laced with subtle digs about how I was neglecting my family. Then came the messages bragging about how attached Sophie was becoming to her. Once they were comfortable, she started asking about his finances, feigning naive curiosity. And Mark, drunk on the praise and adoration, had forgotten his place. He told her my family’s corporation was his. He complained about me, my moods, my work. And Jenna, with her gentle and understanding words, reeled him in, whispering suggestions and validations. Even a fool could see her endgame. She wanted to be me. She was angling for the throne. My hands shook as I used my phone to record the entire chat history. A part of me tried to rationalize it. A man can be replaced. A nanny can be fired. But a daughter… a daughter is your own flesh and blood. She’s just a child, I told myself. She’s been manipulated. I decided I would deal with Mark and Jenna later. First, I had to fix things with my daughter. But when I walked through my front door later that day, carrying a box of her favorite cupcakes, I was greeted by a scene that burned any remaining hope to ashes. 3 I walked in to find Sophie curled up on Jenna’s lap. “Auntie Jenna, when are you going to marry my daddy?” she asked, her voice full of childish sincerity. Jenna bit her lip, feigning demureness. “Oh, Sophie. Do you really want me to be your new mommy that much?” Sophie nodded furiously. “Uh-huh! Daddy already promised he’s going to divorce that old woman. As soon as they’re divorced, he’s going to marry you!” Jenna cast a shy, hopeful glance at Mark, who was watching from the other end of the sofa. “Is that what Daddy wants, too?” Mark’s expression was unreadable, a smug, ambiguous smile playing on his lips. He neither confirmed nor denied it. Sophie scrambled off Jenna’s lap and started tugging on his arm. “Daddy, say something! All you have to do is say yes, and Auntie Jenna will be my new mommy forever!” Just as he opened his mouth to speak, his eyes landed on me, standing frozen in the doorway. The color drained from his face. He shot up from the couch as if he’d been electrocuted. “Audrey,” he stammered. “You’re home.” A cold smile touched my lips. “Looks like I’m interrupting something.” He started to make an excuse, but Sophie charged at me, her tiny fists balling up and punching my thigh. “You bad woman! Don’t you bully my daddy!” The pure hatred in her eyes was a physical blow. I felt my heart crack. Just then, Jenna rose gracefully from the sofa. “Audrey, you’re misunderstanding,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I just feel so bad that Sophie feels neglected by her own mother. I was only trying to give her a little extra love… I never thought you’d take it this way. You’re so suspicious and… and irresponsible. No wonder Sophie doesn’t like you.” I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat. “You can drop the act,” I said, my voice like ice. “The day I fell, you didn’t call an ambulance. That was negligence. Now you’re actively trying to turn my daughter against me. You are a nanny, Jenna. And when you cross a line this egregious, you get fired.” Not only fired. I could have her blacklisted across the city. My father was the majority shareholder in the agency chain that had placed her. But Jenna didn’t flinch. She pulled Sophie into a defiant hug. “Mark hired me to take care of Sophie, and she will always be my first priority,” she said, her chin held high. “I may just be a nanny, but you can’t intimidate me. If you want to fire me, fine. But I feel sorry for Sophie, knowing she’ll have no one to look after her.” A single, perfect tear rolled down her cheek. She made a show of turning to leave. “NO!” Sophie shrieked, launching herself at me, kicking and punching. “You evil woman, you can’t make Auntie Jenna leave! You should be the one to leave! I only want Auntie Jenna!” Mark finally spoke, his tone dripping with disapproval. “Audrey, I hired her. Don’t you think you should have consulted me before firing her?” A laugh, sharp and brittle, escaped my lips. “I pay for her. Why on earth would I need your permission?” He was carrying on an emotional affair with our nanny and now he had the audacity to lecture me. I pulled out my phone, brought up the screen-recorded video of their texts, and shoved it in his face. “Did you really think I didn’t know, Mark?” I said, my voice dangerously low. “The only reason I didn’t expose you sooner was to spare you some dignity in front of our daughter. But you just had to push it.” I paused, letting the weight of my next words sink in. “Since you’re so unhappy with my decisions, how about this: we get a divorce. Then you can do whatever you want with your precious little nanny. How does that sound?” Mark’s face went pale. He was silent. Jenna looked at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Mark? Are you really going to let her send me away? I promised Sophie I’d take her to see the kittens.” Sophie’s wails intensified. “I don’t want Auntie Jenna to go! Bad mommy! I hate you!” Mark shot a look at Jenna, then scooped Sophie up without another word and walked out the front door. After Jenna left, a fragile peace settled over the house. I told myself it had all been her influence. With her gone, Sophie would eventually come back to me. Mark, for his part, blocked Jenna’s number in front of me and swore it would never happen again. My trust in him was nonexistent, but for Sophie’s sake, I decided to give him one last chance. It was a mistake. One night, I woke up around 2 a.m. and he wasn’t in bed. I found him on the balcony, his back to me, whispering into his phone. 4 In the dead of night, the voice coming through the phone was unnervingly clear. It was Jenna. “When are you going to divorce that old hag?” she demanded. “Just be patient,” Mark soothed. “Give me a little more time.” “Patient? How can I be patient?” she hissed. “If you don’t divorce her soon, I’m getting rid of this baby!” Mark glanced nervously over his shoulder. “Don’t say that, baby, please,” he whispered urgently. “I promise you, I’ll handle her. I’ll make this right for us.” Jenna was pregnant? With Mark’s child? My world tilted on its axis. I thought, for Sophie, I could endure a broken marriage. But this… they had been sleeping together all along. And then Mark said something that shattered what was left of my reality. “Just hang on a little longer, for our son,” he pleaded. “I’m looking for another way to get rid of her. If we divorce, I’ll have to give her half the assets. I can’t let that happen. I’ve put up with her for this long… a few more days won’t kill us.” My body started to shake uncontrollably. When I married Mark, he didn’t even have enough money to buy me a ring. I’d married him against my family’s wishes, against all common sense. To protect his fragile ego, I let the world believe he was the provider, the breadwinner. And now, for a nanny, he was talking about getting rid of me. Killing me. Beside me in our bed, Sophie mumbled in her sleep. “Want… Auntie Jenna… to be my mommy.” I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. It was over. The husband, the daughter—I had to let them both go. I hired a private investigator to gather concrete evidence of Mark’s affair and to dig into Jenna’s background. I was preparing for war. But before I could even launch my first attack, Jenna lost her patience and brought the battle directly to me. 5 I had taken Sophie to Mark’s photography studio to get a new passport photo. As we approached, I saw a small crowd gathered outside, murmuring and pointing. In the center of it all was Jenna. The moment she saw me, she threw herself forward and grabbed onto my legs, collapsing theatrically onto the pavement. “Audrey, please, I’m begging you, let me have my job back!” she wailed, her voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m not lucky like you, married to a rich husband. My grandmother needs medicine! You can’t just have the agency blacklist me over a misunderstanding!” Her voice rose to a hysterical pitch. “All I did was try to help with your daughter because you’re always so busy! Why are you trying to destroy my life?” She made a show of trying to bang her head on the ground. Mark, his face ashen, rushed out of the studio. “Honey, I have no idea why she’s here,” he stammered, desperately trying to signal for Jenna to leave with his eyes. Jenna ignored him completely, her performance escalating. In her telling, I was a paranoid, abusive, pregnant monster. It was clear what she was doing. This wasn’t about the job; it was a public spectacle designed to force Mark’s hand. At this point, I had nothing left to lose. The onlookers, however, were eating it up. “That poor girl,” one woman muttered. “Imagine having a mother that paranoid.” “Exactly! She fires the nanny for caring too much? That’s inhuman.” “How did a great guy like Mr. Henderson end up with such a shrew?” Beads of sweat formed on Mark’s brow. He grabbed Jenna’s arm. “Jenna, stop this. I’ll… I’ll talk to the agency. We can get you back to work.” I let out a sharp, derisive laugh. “Mark, since when do you make the decisions in this family?” His face flushed a deep, ugly red. Jenna, sensing a shift in power, straightened up. “Mark, you’re the man of the house! How can you let her talk to you like that? A woman like her doesn’t deserve you.” Mark stood silent for a long moment, then his jaw clenched. He turned to me, his voice seething. “Don’t push it, Audrey. If Sophie knew what a tyrant you are, she would be so disappointed.” “Then let’s not disappoint her,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “Let’s get a divorce.” I knew he was trying to use our daughter as a weapon. But he had no idea that I was already done. With both of them. His face went slack with shock. He was completely cornered. Our prenuptial agreement was ironclad; in a divorce, he would walk away with nothing. He would never risk that for Jenna. Not when he was still plotting to get my assets. But Jenna didn’t know that. She saw her chance. “Fine! Divorce her!” she crowed triumphantly. “Mark has been sick of you for ages! Even Sophie wants a new mother!” Mark lunged to cover her mouth, but it was too late. I smiled, a cold, empty thing, and pulled a folded document from my purse. I threw the divorce papers at his chest. “Then sign it,” I said. “The daughter is yours. I don’t want her.” Mark looked like he was going to be sick. But Jenna, high on her perceived victory, jumped in. “Don’t you act like some kind of saint!” she shrieked at me. “Just three days ago, I saw you at the Grand Hyatt, all over some young guy, hugging him in the lobby! You’re the cheater! Mark should have thrown you out ages ago!” Mark’s head snapped up. A glimmer of hope, ugly and ravenous, lit up his eyes. “Jenna,” he said, his voice trembling with excitement. “Are you sure? You saw her with another man? At a hotel?”

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My husband is a terrible photographer. Which is a problem, because I’m a beauty influencer with over a million followers. In the three years we’ve been married, Leo has been the perfect partner in every other way. He tracks my cycle on his calendar, kneels to massage my sore ankles after a long day in heels, and makes sure I have three solid meals when I’m too lost in editing a video to remember to eat. But whenever I ask him to take a simple picture for me, that pained look crosses his face. “Babe, I’m telling you, I just don’t have the eye for it. Please don’t make me.” On the rare occasion I could guilt him into it, the results were always comical. The lens, they say, captures the heart of the person behind it. If that were true, Leo’s heart saw me as a bizarrely angled cryptid or, at best, sixty pounds heavier than I am. I eventually gave up. Today, rushing to get footage for my big Christmas brand deal, Leo spoke up from the doorway. “You can’t frame it like that,” he said suddenly. “It’s going to look awful.” In three years of marriage, it was the first time he’d ever offered a single piece of photographic advice. I thought he’d been secretly studying, trying to find a new way to connect with my work. My heart swelled. Beaming, I filmed a little behind-the-scenes clip of his advice and posted it to my story, only to have a tidal wave of ice-cold water thrown in my face by my own comment section. “Wait… isn’t that the guy who used to be Ava Sinclair’s exclusive photographer? No way he ‘doesn’t have an eye for it.’” “To you his first words are ‘you’ll break the lens.’ To her, they were ‘I’m all yours, maestro.’” “Holy shit. Your ‘bad at photos’ husband is LEO DAWSON?!” “I’m more shocked that Leo Dawson is MARRIED. What the hell was I doing shipping him and Ava all those years?” 1 The comments kept pouring in, a relentless flood. “You’ve got good taste, I’ll give you that. It was an open secret in the industry. For Ava’s big competition, Leo stayed up for three straight nights shooting and editing. The second the show was over, he literally collapsed backstage. God, their story is still iconic.” “You think that’s iconic? What about how he just dropped his camera and walked away from the entire industry after she left? He went completely dark. Talk about devotion.” “Girl… I think there’s a little green sprouting on your head.” … The shippers and the trolls took over my comments, and the few remaining were just mourning a love story that never got its ending. Three thousand, seven hundred comments, all piecing together a man I didn’t know at all. This wasn’t the Leo I had fallen in love with—the steady, reliable man who was so calm and self-assured that I was the one who had to nervously bring up the topic of marriage. This was a reckless, passionate kid who would race through a rainstorm to explain a misunderstanding at her apartment, who would loudly and publicly claim her as his in front of her other admirers. The night before Ava left the country was Christmas Eve. That same day, Leo Dawson quit his job at the studio, put down his camera for good, and locked himself in his room, staring at the last set of photos they ever took together. It was a bridal shoot. A joint creation. It was Ava who had taught him how to find the angle, how to adjust the light. They had chosen the gown and the backdrop together. It was their shared memory. He watched the slideshow, and with every image, he wept. I scrolled through the comments, reading their entire history. The bright white of the screen burned, and my eyes stung with tears I refused to let fall. I knew that set of photos. They were legendary. They were the key that unlocked the doors to the international fashion scene for Ava. I remember seeing them back then and thinking, the camera really does have a soul. How much love must a photographer have for his subject, for an audience to feel it radiating from a still image? The composition Leo had just suggested for my video… it was the same framing he’d used for Ava, all those years ago. Was it because Christmas was coming again? Was he thinking of her? “Hey, what’s this? You’re crying?” Leo’s soft chuckle broke the silence. The calloused pad of his thumb brushed against the corner of my eye. I flinched away, forcing a smile onto my face as I tried to keep my voice steady. “Have you ever studied photography? The composition you suggested was really beautiful.” I took a breath. “My regular shooter for the event backed out. I could really use a photographer to save the day. How about it, husband?” Everyone has a past. And for the past few years, he had been so good to me. It was real. Besides, I’d just gotten the positive pregnancy test last week. The future we’d always talked about, our little family of three, was finally within reach. If he said yes, it would mean he had truly moved on. I could pretend I never saw any of this. I could let it all go. But Leo just froze. A long, heavy silence stretched between us before he finally spoke. “I’ve never studied it. You know that. I’m terrible at taking your picture.” His words made my desperate attempt at peace feel pathetic. Laughable. The whole world knew his story with Ava. It was still plastered all over the internet. Leo, my cautious, careful Leo, was telling such a clumsy, easily disproven lie. I lowered my gaze, my voice barely a whisper. “Is that so?” “Then what are all of these comments about?” 2 With the last shred of denial torn away, a frantic energy seized me. I demanded to know why. Leo was silent for a long time. “There is no why,” he finally said, his voice flat. “I loved her. And sometimes, I still think about her. It’s that simple.” He watched my hysteria with a chilling calm before adding, “Chloe, we’re married now. You don’t need to be obsessed with my past.” The irony was a bitter pill. “And what if she came back now?” I shot back, my voice trembling. “If she asked you to be her exclusive photographer again, would you go?” He didn’t answer. Instead, his hand moved to my shoulder, trying to pull me into an embrace. I slapped his hand away, my eyes locked on his, demanding an answer. Leo sighed. “Come on. Don’t work yourself up like this. Let’s just go to sleep.” His composure was infuriating. It painted me as the hysterical, irrational wife. Tears welled, blurring his face. “Would you go, or not?” I insisted, my voice thick. According to the comment section, Ava Sinclair had just returned to the States and opened her own studio. She was looking for a skilled, dedicated photographer. The old fans were in a frenzy, convinced this was the grand reunion, completely unconcerned about the feelings of his legal wife. Leo’s jaw tightened. “No, I wouldn’t go. Okay?” As if on cue, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. The caller ID glowed in the dark room: a single, shining letter. A. Without a second thought, Leo grabbed the phone and started to walk out of the room. I lunged, clutching the hem of his shirt. A tear splashed onto the fabric, darkening a small circle. “Answer it here.” We were locked in a standoff. The ringing weakened, and perhaps fearing he would miss the call, Leo actually answered it, right there in front of me. His voice was hoarse when he spoke. “Ava.” He said her name with a deep, lingering tenderness that twisted a knife in my gut. A soft, gentle voice replied from the speaker. “It’s me.” I felt Leo’s entire body go rigid, so still that he forgot to pull his shirt from my grasp. Ava’s voice was laced with a hint of melancholy. “I’m so sorry to bother you this late. But… I didn’t know who else to call. The photographer for our studio is throwing a fit, and now he’s refusing to shoot the final runway show, let alone come back to the States with me. But the venue here is already booked, and we can’t postpone.” She paused. “I know this is a long shot, but… could you come and save me? Please, Leo. For old times’ sake.” 3 “What about your show over there? How will you manage?” The words flew out of Leo’s mouth before he could stop them. Both Ava and I were stunned into silence. I’d never seen him so impulsive, so reckless. Especially not for me. My own voice rose, sharp and high. “You’re going to fly overseas for her? Tomorrow is Christmas Eve! Our families are supposed to come over for dinner!” I had planned to announce the pregnancy then. Our parents had been asking for years. My mother-in-law would always get that wistful look whenever a friend mentioned their grandchildren. And Leo… Leo had wanted a child more than anything. In our most intimate moments, he would whisper against my ear, his voice thick with emotion, “Let’s have a baby, one that’s just as sweet as you. Please?” On the other end of the line, Ava’s voice suddenly caught. “Leo, is… is that a friend of yours?” “We’re married,” I cut in. A choked sound came from the phone. Leo frowned at me, his voice firm. “It’s just taking pictures, Chloe.” Right. It was just taking pictures. Then why was it an absolute “no” when I asked, but the second she called, he was ready to book a flight to another continent? The air crackled with unspoken things. Ava was the first to break the silence. “Forget it, Leo. It’s okay.” “Wait,” he said, a rush of panic in his voice. He covered the phone’s microphone with his hand and pried my fingers from his shirt. His voice was cold. “Can you just stop this?” “She’s all alone in a foreign country. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get to where she is? I’m helping a friend. What is wrong with that?” I opened my mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. But it hasn’t been easy for me, either… This was supposed to be the year I finally broke a million subscribers. But the morning sickness has been relentless. My video output has slowed to a crawl, my livestream numbers are dropping, and my brand partners are getting nervous, even threatening to terminate our contract. The Christmas campaign was a lifeline, a huge opportunity a friend had fought to get for me. But the photographer I’d booked bailed, saying my morning sickness was “disgusting” and he couldn’t work with me. I’m not some naturally gifted prodigy. I got here through sleepless nights writing scripts and endless hours practicing in front of a mirror. Now, because of this pregnancy, I might lose everything I’ve built. And even with all that, I never for a second regretted carrying his child. There was too much to say, too much hurt welling up inside me. The moment I tried to speak, tears started streaming down my face. Leo was already grabbing his camera bag, packing in a frantic hurry. Seeing me cry, he paused. For a moment, I thought he would come to me, hold me, or at the very least, offer some hollow words of comfort, like he always did. But all he said was a flat, dismissive, “Drink some water when you’re done crying. I’m leaving.” My nails dug into my palms. “Are you really going?” I asked, my voice raw. “No regrets?” Leo looked at me, a long, hard stare. Finally, he looked away. “Get some sleep.” The heavy thud of the front door echoed through the house, leaving me completely alone in the cavernous silence. My hand instinctively went to my stomach. For a long, long time, I just stood there, crying. Then, I picked up my phone and dialed a number. “Hello, I’d like to schedule a consultation for a… for a painless abortion.” 4 My voice must have been choked with tears, because the young woman who answered the phone sounded startled. “Ma’am? Are you okay? Please, just take a deep breath. Don’t do anything rash.” “Is there something wrong? I can just listen, if you want to talk.” I couldn’t hold it in anymore. A wrenching sob tore through me. A complete stranger on the phone was showing me more compassion than my own husband, the man who slept beside me every night, who had looked right at my pain and chose to walk away. Almost as a form of self-torture, I spent the rest of the night digging up old behind-the-scenes clips of him and Ava. There was Leo, blushing when Ava glanced his way while posing. There he was, frustrated with himself for not capturing her at the perfect angle. And there he was in an interview, boldly declaring that she was the most beautiful woman he would ever capture through his lens. In our relationship, he had always been the stable one, the calm one. His emotional steadiness gave me a profound sense of security. So when he was occasionally distant or cold, I just chalked it up to his personality. It wasn’t his personality at all. It was just that he’d already given all his fire, all his passion, all of his grand, romantic gestures to someone else. And he was still ready to fight her battles. I watched until dawn, tears tracking paths down my cheeks. As the first light hit my window, I hardened my heart and forced myself to make a decision. I was at the clinic by eight a.m., clutching my appointment confirmation. The waiting room of the OB/GYN clinic was already packed. I saw so many couples, waiting together for their appointments, their faces glowing with happiness. One pregnant woman grimaced, her face pale. Her husband immediately started rubbing her back. “Are you feeling sick again? This is too much for you. We don’t have to do this, you know. We can just stop.” She gave him a weak, loving smile, and he melted. “I know, I know. You’re doing so great,” he cooed, his eyes filled with adoration. It must be nice. A pang of envy shot through me. My morning sickness had been terrible, but Leo had never really asked about it. He probably still didn’t even know I was pregnant. “Chloe Morgan?” a nurse called. “We’re ready for you.” My thoughts snapped back to the present. I stood and walked into the exam room. The doctor reviewed my chart, her brow furrowed. “Your health history indicates that it’s not easy for you to conceive. If you terminate this pregnancy, it could be very difficult to have a child in the future. I strongly recommend you discuss this further with your family.” I stared down at my hands, which were trembling uncontrollably. My phone screen lit up with a text from my mom. “Happy weekend, sweetie! What do you feel like for dinner tonight? You and Leo pick.” A second text followed. “We are so, so excited for your surprise!” I stared at the messages for a long time, the certainty I’d felt just moments ago beginning to crumble. I was about to tell the doctor I needed more time to think when my phone started ringing. It was Leo. 5 “My camera fell. It’s broken,” he said, his voice a frantic rush. “You need to bring yours. Now. Book the earliest flight you can, the event starts in a few hours.” The words hit me like a barrage of stones, leaving me stunned and confused. Ava’s camera broke. What did that have to do with me? “If the camera’s broken, just buy a new one,” I said, frowning. “You could be at a pro shop choosing a new one in the time it would take me to get to the airport.” Before I could finish, Ava’s tearful voice broke in on the line. “We can’t! They don’t have lenses this good here. The photos won’t be the same.” It clicked into place instantly. My camera. The anniversary gift from Leo. It had a custom-made lens—one of only a handful in the world, he’d told me. I remembered the night he gave it to me. When I opened the box, I’d actually stumbled back, insisting it was too expensive, that my skill level didn’t deserve such incredible equipment. But Leo had pressed it into my hands, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “What are you talking about? You’re amazing. You deserve the best of everything in the world.” An identical lens. Which meant he had given one to Ava, too. I tilted my head back, trying to keep the fresh wave of tears from falling. “I can’t. I have something here I can’t get out of.” Ava started to say something else, but Leo cut her off, his voice now sharp with irritation as he took the phone back. “What’s the big deal? Just let Ava use the camera. Your little videos aren’t good enough for a camera like that anyway! And what else do you have going on? That influencer stuff isn’t even a real job. What could you possibly have that you can’t get out of?” His casual, cruel dismissal of my life’s work sucked all the fight out of me. Just before the sob broke through, I let out a small, quiet laugh. “I’m about to go into surgery,” I said softly. “So, yeah. I really can’t get away.” I ended the call, my fingers gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles turned white. I looked at the doctor, my voice steady now. “We don’t need to discuss it anymore.” “What’s the earliest you can do the procedure?” Everything moved quickly after that. As the IV needle slid into my arm, the sky outside was just beginning to bruise with dusk. The television in the recovery room was broadcasting Ava’s final international runway show. Members of her team were telling the reporters a gushing, romanticized story of her bond with her “prodigal photographer.” Two nurses were chattering excitedly nearby. “It’s so romantic,” one of them sighed. “After all this time, they found their way back to each other.” I looked up at the screen. The camera was doing a close-up on Leo as he shot Ava on the runway. The lights converged on them, and for a split second, their eyes met. It was a look of profound, undeniable connection. Love. The crowd roared, the nurses behind me squealed, and my social media feeds were exploding with a single refrain: I’m shipping this so hard. It was Christmas Eve. It was supposed to be a happy, noisy celebration. The anesthetic began its work, a cold spread through my veins. Amid the sound of a thousand celebrations, I was completely alone as I said goodbye to the tiny life inside me. At that exact moment, Leo was finishing his shoot. He and Ava were standing together, taking questions from the press. They looked like a bride and groom at their wedding reception. “Mr. Dawson, it’s so moving that you came all this way. Could you comment on the current nature of your relationship?” “The rumor is that you two are back together. Is that true?” Leo gave a small shake of his head. “No, that’s not true. I’m married.” The smile on Ava’s face faltered for a fraction of a second before she recovered beautifully. “We’re just friends! And his wife is amazing, a huge influencer! I was so touched he would leave his family right before the holiday to come help me. I really didn’t expect it.” Her words were just ambiguous enough for a sharp reporter to seize upon. He pushed his microphone towards Leo. “Mr. Dawson, is there tension in your marriage? There’s currently a trending story that your wife was seen at a clinic today… alone… having an abortion.” At the mention of the word, Leo’s entire body went rigid.

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My wife, the CEO, had fallen for a grease monkey. To fit in with his crew, she traded her chauffeured Maybach for the back of a motorcycle. Her collection of haute couture gowns was locked away, replaced by nine-dollar graphic tees with slogans like ‘GET RICH OR DIE TRYING.’ The exclusive membership at the Sterling Club was swapped for a monthly tab at a dive bar on the wrong side of town. I tried to reason with her. “Have your fun, Audrey, but don’t let it get out of hand,” I’d said, my voice low and steady over the phone. “If you embarrass the family name, it reflects poorly on all of us.” She called me stale. Predictable. “Donovan, have you ever done one thing in your entire life just for yourself?” Her voice was laced with a kind of pitying scorn. “When I’m with Jax and his friends, it’s the only time I feel free.” Then she blocked me. I stared at the undelivered message, at the stark finality of it. A flicker of anger, hot and unfamiliar, coiled in my gut. Freedom? Was this what she called freedom? Trading a billion-dollar empire for cheap beer and asphalt? I typed out one last message from my assistant’s phone, my patience worn to a thread. “I don’t care what kind of freedom you think you’re chasing. But if you dishonor our families at the foundation gala in three days, we’re done. This marriage is over.” 1 The message was marked as ‘Read.’ No reply came. Looking at the blank screen, the whole situation felt absurd. Audrey Croft was the perennial good girl, the dutiful daughter whose life had been a blueprint drawn by her parents. She’d married me the summer after graduating from Wharton, a union of holding companies, a merger of legacies sealed with a ring. For five years, we had been the picture of a modern power couple. The Crofts and the Shaws were more than satisfied. A stable marriage meant a stable alliance. On the back of our union, Audrey had been unofficially crowned the heir apparent to the Croft empire. But then, a month ago, some grifter had thrown himself in front of her car in a clear insurance scam. Jax, the yellow-haired biker, happened to be there and played the hero, scaring the guy off. And just like that, it was as if Audrey had been put under a spell. A part of me was hurt, I’ll admit. But I could tolerate it. In the face of family legacy and market share, affection was merely a seasoning, not the main course. I never imagined she would forget who she was. She started following Jax into his world of dingy bars and back-alley brawls. Smoking, fighting, even getting caught up in a petty shakedown of some college kids. I cleaned up her messes, quietly and efficiently, urging her to come home. She responded with a quote that the tabloids ran with for a week: she would rather feel the wind on the back of Jax’s bike than be suffocated in the leather of a Maybach. In the span of thirty days, Audrey Croft, the formidable CEO, had become a running joke. And I, by extension, was the punchline. My phone buzzed, dragging me from my thoughts. It was my executive assistant, her voice tight with panic. “Mr. Shaw, you need to see the news. How do we want to respond?” I opened the browser. The headline sent a shock of ice through my veins. #CEOInLove: Society Heiress Gets Inked for Her Bad Boy# #LoveThatCrossesTheTracks# In the accompanying photo, Audrey was lying face down in a tattoo parlor, a triumphant smirk on her face. And there, emblazoned on the small of her back, were two words in a thick, blocky font that screamed cheap rebellion: JAX’S GIRL. Jax. That was his name. Almost simultaneously, a call came through from the chairman of our board. My father. “Donovan,” he began, his voice devoid of its usual warmth. “I’ve managed to kill the story on the major wires for now, but the gossip sites are having a field day. How you handle this next is up to you.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his tone was heavy. “The Shaw family values its dignity above all else.” The line went dead. I gripped the phone, a hot flush creeping up my neck. I immediately buzzed my assistant. “Find Audrey Croft,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “Use any means necessary. Bring her home.” Less than an hour later, Audrey was tossed into our living room, a burlap sack pulled unceremoniously from her head. She was spitting fire. “Do you have any idea who I am?” she yelled, then her eyes focused on me and the fight seemed to drain out of her, replaced by sheer contempt. “Seriously? You had me kidnapped? What happened to respecting a woman’s autonomy, Donovan?” She fished a crumpled cigarette from her pocket, lighting it with a practiced flick of a cheap lighter. She took a long, deliberate drag, then blew the smoke directly into my face. “So,” she said, her voice dripping with insolence. “What was so important?” I looked at her—the studded crop top revealing a sliver of her stomach, the ripped jeans, the smudged eyeliner. This was my wife? I didn’t recognize the woman standing in front of me. For five years, we’d been partners. Courteous. Professional. There was a distance between us, yes, but I had always treated her with respect, with a quiet concern I thought she appreciated. We were two well-cast actors, playing our parts in a long-running production. But somewhere along the way, I had started to believe in my role. My affection held a kernel of truth. It’s why I’d defended her, why I’d cleaned up her messes without a word to her family. But the stranger before me now made me question everything. Seeing my silence, Audrey rolled her eyes. “Look, if that’s all, I’ve got places to be. I’m busy.” She turned to leave, the clunky soles of her platform boots thudding against the marble floor. “My father called me,” I said finally. The words stopped her cold. She turned back slowly, a flicker of apprehension in her eyes. “What… what did he say?” I pressed my lips into a thin line, a small measure of relief washing over me. So, she still cared. She still understood what was at stake. The lecture I had prepared died on my tongue, replaced by a softer, more familiar tone. A warning. “You need to make this scandal disappear, Audrey. If you don’t, I can’t protect you anymore.” I expected compliance. Instead, she exploded. “Because I got a tattoo?” she shrieked, her voice cracking. “I have spent my entire life doing exactly what I’m told! Am I not allowed to have one thing for myself? It’s my body! Why don’t I get to have a say over my own body?” Her accusations hammered at me, and the dam of my composure finally broke. A week of swallowed anger and humiliation surged forth. “Of course, it’s your body!” I roared, the sound echoing in the cavernous room. “But you are Audrey Croft-Shaw! And you chose to tattoo another man’s name on it! Have you forgotten? I am your husband!” She flinched as if struck. It was the first time I had ever raised my voice to her. The color drained from her face, leaving it pale and shocked. After a long, tense silence, she took a shaky breath. A hint of her old self returned, laced with a newfound guilt. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just assumed… in a family like ours, feelings weren’t part of the equation.” She looked at me then, truly looked at me. “I’ll fix it. I’ll come home. I’m sorry I worried you.” Two days later, she kept her word. When I walked through the door, she was sitting on the sofa in the grand parlor. Her dark hair fell in a silken sheet over her shoulders, and she wore a tasteful cashmere set that spoke of quiet luxury. She stood as I entered, her expression placid, her voice a cool, even monotone. “Donovan. The tattoo has been removed.” She gestured to a small, fresh bandage at the small of her back, visible just above her waistband. “I will be going to the board personally to offer my apologies,” she continued. Then she retrieved a thick file from her briefcase. “I know my behavior has been… irrational. As an apology, I’m signing over 20% of my new AI venture to you.” I took the file, my eyebrows raising slightly as I scanned the first page. The company was at the forefront of generative AI, a market darling poised for an explosive IPO. The valuation was easily in the ten-billion-dollar range. It was a weighty apology, a gesture of sincere contrition. I handed the documents to my assistant, who had been waiting silently by the door, and nodded for him to handle the transfer. As I turned back, Audrey reached out, her fingers closing around the cuff of my shirt. “Are you still angry?” she asked, her voice so soft it was like a breath against my chest. “I promise, it will never happen again.” My heart gave a painful throb. I swallowed the bitter taste of the past few weeks. A crack in a vase can be glued, but the line always remains. In my mind, the perfect image of Audrey Croft was now irrevocably flawed. I closed my eyes, steeling myself. Gently, I pulled my sleeve from her grasp. “Don’t forget the foundation gala tonight,” I said, my voice colder than I intended. “The car will be here at seven.” She stood frozen, her eyes welling with a guilty red. I sighed, a long, weary breath, and handed her a gift box I’d had brought in. “A new gown,” I said. “Don’t overthink it. It’s in the past.” It was a truce. A signal that our alliance, our marriage, was still intact. She nodded, taking the box, her expression unreadable. At seven o’clock sharp, she descended the stairs. She was a vision. The gown I’d chosen, a deep emerald silk, clung to her frame, setting off her porcelain skin and cool, composed features. She turned heads the moment we arrived. With the seamless grace I’d always admired, she navigated the crowd, greeting investors and board members, her smile perfectly measured, her charm deployed with practiced efficiency. She found me by the bar and slid her arm through mine, a familiar, proprietary gesture. “Darling, I’m so sorry I’m late,” she murmured, loud enough for those around us to hear. A few of our acquaintances chuckled. “Look at them. Still newlyweds after all these years.” By silent, mutual agreement, no one mentioned the recent unpleasantness. As long as she was Mrs. Donovan Shaw, she commanded respect. The gala was proceeding flawlessly. Audrey was playing her part to perfection, a testament to her breeding. Later in the evening, after the speeches and the auction, the orchestra began to play. Audrey’s parents found me by the terrace. “Donovan,” her father began, his expression somber. “We apologize for Audrey’s recent… foolishness. It must have been difficult for you.” He placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. “But rest assured, she is a Croft. She knows how to weigh her options and choose what is most advantageous.” I smiled and nodded, offering the requisite polite assurances. But his words left a bitter aftertaste. I was the advantageous choice. The logical one. But he was right. In our world, love was never the bottom line. As long as the merger was profitable, the marriage would endure. I could learn to retract the small, worthless piece of my heart I had foolishly invested. Toward the end of the night, my father made his appearance. I was about to lead Audrey over to pay our respects when I turned and found she was gone. I frowned, catching my assistant’s eye. “Where is she?” He looked uneasy. “Mrs. Shaw took a call a few minutes ago, sir. She said it was an emergency and left in a hurry.” My jaw tightened. What emergency? Every major firm in the city knew this gala was happening tonight; no one would dare interrupt. And if it were a Croft family matter, her parents were right here. It could only be one person. Jax. My father’s gaze was already on me. I smoothed my expression into one of easy confidence and walked toward him. “Father. Audrey was called away for an urgent matter. She sends her deepest apologies. Allow me to toast you on her behalf.” He looked at me, his eyes sharp and knowing, but he accepted the glass. He took a sip, his gaze unwavering. “Donovan, family interests are paramount, I know. But you are my only son. Your own well-being matters more.” I was stunned. I never expected that from him, a man forged in the cold calculus of corporate warfare. For a moment, a genuine warmth spread through my chest. But I shook my head. “I appreciate that, Father. But I have it under control.” He gave me another long, meaningful look. “You always were the one with the heart, son. Be careful with it.” When I returned home after the gala, the house was dark and empty. Audrey wasn’t back. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed one. I pulled out my phone, about to call my security team to track her down, when a text from an unknown number came through. It was a video. I opened it. The scene was a filthy, cluttered apartment. Greasy takeout containers, cigarette butts, empty beer bottles, and playing cards were scattered across the floor. Audrey, who I knew to be a fastidious neat-freak, who would often have the maids re-clean a room she found unsatisfactory, was sitting cross-legged on a stained carpet. She wore a faded, cheap-looking t-shirt and her hair was thrown up in a messy ponytail. She was playing cards with a group of thugs with brightly dyed hair. “Haha, you lose again! Off with an item, Audrey-baby!” a voice jeered. It was Jax, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The other men hooted in agreement, their eyes crawling over her with a slimy, possessive hunger. My stomach clenched. Audrey? Taking her clothes off? The woman who, for all five years of our marriage, insisted on turning the lights off during intimacy, maintaining a rigid, almost puritanical modesty. I told myself she wouldn’t. But my hand had started to tremble. On the screen, Audrey just shot Jax a playful glare. But she was smiling. She reached up and pulled her shirt over her head. Her bare shoulders and collarbones were exposed to their greedy stares. She didn’t seem to care. “A bet’s a bet,” she said, her voice giddy. The game continued. She didn’t win a single hand. Her tank top, then her shorts, were tossed onto a pile on the floor. Finally, she was completely naked. Under the dim, grimy light, she looked like a priceless porcelain doll put on display in a junkyard. The stares grew more brazen. Someone shoved a beer into her hand. “You lost the game, now you gotta chug the pain!” I watched her take the bottle, a wave of self-loathing washing over me. Audrey had navigated treacherous boardrooms and hostile takeovers for years. Her perception was razor-sharp. She had to see the blatant malice in their eyes. She was doing this on purpose. Or worse, she simply didn’t care. After a few more beers, her eyes were glazed over. She suddenly threw her arms around Jax’s neck, draping herself over him. “Jax…” she slurred, her voice breathy. “Being with you… it’s the only time I feel alive…” Ah. So that’s what this was. A drunken confession. The room erupted in wolf-whistles. Jax grinned, puffed out his chest, and waved the other men away. “Alright, alright, show’s over! Everybody out!” The door clicked shut, leaving the two of them alone. Their faces smashed together in a desperate, clumsy kiss. CRACK. My phone hit the far wall, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of glass. I stood there, breathing heavily, the silence of the room pressing in on me. After a moment, I walked over and picked it up. Through the fractured screen, a new text message from the same number popped up. It was from Jax. “Heard you’re a big shot CEO too. You rich folks really get off on some weird shit, huh? Gotta say tho, your wife’s body is tight. Like a teenager’s.” The roiling nausea and white-hot rage in my chest instantly cooled, solidifying into something dense, cold, and absolute. The heir to the Shaw Corporation. Being mocked by some two-bit parasite. And it was all because of her. I walked to my desk and picked up the landline, dialing my assistant’s private number. “Liquidate and freeze every asset, every share, every joint account connected to Audrey Croft-Shaw. And put the PR team on standby. Level-one crisis protocol.” A pause on the other end. “Sir? Effective when?” “Effective now.” Three days later, in the early morning, I heard the faint click of the front door. Audrey was back. She carried with her the stale, lingering scent of cheap beer and smoke. She looked exhausted, but her eyes held a feverish, manic energy. She froze when she saw me sitting on the sofa in the living room. After a beat, she affected a casual air, slipping off her boots. “Sorry about that,” she said, her voice flat. “A last-minute project came up. Had to fly out for a few days.” I said nothing, taking a slow sip of my tea. Her own assistant, who had followed her in, was pale as a ghost. She leaned in and whispered frantically, “Ms. Croft, you need to look at the top news stories. Right now.” Audrey frowned, pulling out her phone with an annoyed sigh. A few seconds later, the color drained from her face. Her knuckles went white as she gripped the device. The number one trending topic, in bold, lurid letters: #HighSocietyScandal: Billionaire Heiress’s Wild Hotel Party# #VIDEO: Business Titan Audrey Croft’s Sex Tape Leaked# Her head snapped up, her eyes blazing with fury. “You?!” she screamed, her voice shaking with rage. “Donovan Shaw, did you do this?! Did you stoop this low?” The video was pixelated, with blurs over the most explicit parts, but her face was perfectly clear. Whoever released it wanted to destroy her reputation, not just titillate the public. It was a character assassination. And it dragged both the Shaw and Croft names through the mud with it. I leaned back against the sofa, a smirk playing on my lips. “I did. What of it?” “You—!” Audrey was trembling, speechless. She had clearly never imagined I would be capable of such a thing—of choosing scorched earth over ‘the greater good.’ She took a deep, shuddering breath, reining in her fury. “Fine! Fine, Donovan, you win! You’re ruthless. Now, get this taken down. Bury it. Erase every copy from the source. You do that, and I’ll agree to one demand. Anything you want.” She paused, her eyes glinting with what she thought was her trump card. “I’ll break it off with Jax for good. I’ll spend the rest of my life playing the part of your perfect wife.” A dry, humorless laugh escaped my lips. She really thought this was all some grand, manipulative gesture to force her back into line. She thought my ultimate goal was simply to maintain our respectable, hollow marriage. She had no idea. I was done wanting her. I stood up and retrieved a document from the desk drawer. “Alright,” I said, sliding it across the polished mahogany table toward her. Her eyes lit up with a flash of triumph. But then I finished my sentence. “I’ll have it all taken down the moment you sign the divorce papers.”

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Three days after the stomach cancer diagnosis, I picked out a grave. A prime piece of real estate, overlooking the valley. They said the spot was impeccable. It would guarantee a better life next time. A life where I wouldn’t be the unwanted “real daughter” — the one who came back and ruined the harmony. A life where no one could steal my parents, my brothers, my life. A life where… I was loved. I burned the photos, shredded the clothes, and erased every trace that Rowan Harrington had ever existed. Then I ran a bath, took a blade to my wrist, and settled in to wait. The call came as a final, cruel interruption. My final resting place, of all things. “Ms. Harrington, we are so sorry.” The voice from The Haven Memorial Park was slick with apology. “Two agents cross-booked the plot.” “It was simultaneously sold to another gentleman, Mr. Rhys Thorne.” “Would you… be open to choosing a different plot?” 1 Hell, no! I’d heard of moving cars, moving apartments. But a grave? Rage and despair churned in my stomach, making the blood loss-induced nausea worse. I lurched upright in the tub. Blood-dyed water sloshed over the rim, staining the pristine marble floor. Every curse word I had ever swallowed in my life rushed to my lips. But habit was a fortress. I forced the venom down. “I watched the contract upload into your system. It’s tied to my personal information.” “Yes, well,” the park representative stammered, “Mr. Thorne signed his contract at the same time, so…” “So, his name isn’t on the system yet, is it?” I cut him off, my voice dangerously calm. “I’m sorry, but no. I am not open to choosing a different plot.” When I came home, I couldn’t win the fight for my family. My parents, my brothers—they all went to my sister, Chloe. But this plot? It was legally mine. I wasn’t going to lose this, too. The line went silent for a beat. When the voice returned, it was a low, resonant baritone I didn’t recognize. “Ms. Harrington, name your price.” “Any amount. Consider it compensation.” The edges of my vision were starting to blur from the loss of blood. I pressed the heels of my hands into my forehead, trying to clear the haze. “It’s not about the money.” I told him honestly, the words slurring only slightly. “I need it. Urgently.” But the cemetery, clearly sensing a big-money client, jumped to the new man’s defense. “Ms. Harrington, we genuinely have hundreds of other premium plots. Mr. Thorne… he has a more immediate need.” “And you’re a young woman. Even if you’re in a rush, you have time to—” “Is Mr. Thorne purchasing it for himself?” I interrupted. My question stopped them both. I didn’t wait for the answer. I looked down at the hand soaking in the warm, crimson water. Softly, calmly, I deployed my greatest competitive advantage. “I’m slitting my wrists right now. I’m dying today.” “I really do need it urgently.” “Please stop fighting me for it. Or, if you love it that much, maybe we can… split the plot?” 2 A sudden, stunned silence fell over the phone line. I didn’t break it. I was doing a mental check of logistics. I figured cremation this afternoon and burial tonight would be the most secure option. This plot—my perfect, private spot—I had to secure it. But to do that, I needed to ensure someone would collect the body. No delays. I bit back a whimper of pain, grabbed the phone off the edge of the tub, and opened the family group chat. The one pinned to the top of my messages. Ro: Guys, I’m planning on taking my life. Ro: Could one of you please come back to the condo to collect the body? Ro: @all. I hit send, not mentioning the cancer—that would just sound like another lie. Less than twenty seconds later, the screen flashed: [Dad] has left the chat. A bitter laugh escaped me. Perfect. Once the logistics were sorted, I’d dissolve the group myself. They had their other group chat, anyway. The one that didn’t include me. On the phone, Rhys Thorne cleared his throat. His tone was a complex weave of shock, doubt, and careful concern. “Ms. Harrington, you’re… kidding, right?” A fresh line of blood tracked from my wrist down to my elbow, hitting the water with a light, clear plink. It served as my answer. The line went silent again. Then, a sudden rush of wind roared in the background of his call. He must have been outside, or maybe speeding somewhere. I didn’t pay attention. The dizziness was getting worse. My family group chat remained desolate. No one answered. I pressed my lips together, took a shaky breath, and snapped a gruesome photo of my bloodied arm. Ro: Sorry. No joke this time. Ro: The grave site is being fought over. I’m serious about the rush. Ro: Just reply to me once. This is the last time. Please? Buzz. The phone vibrated weakly a moment later. Unexpectedly, someone replied. Ethan: K. 3 K. Go to hell, Ethan. Ro: Thank you for your service. I exited the chat, intending to delete the app altogether. But the phone immediately buzzed a few more times. Chloe: Sis, I’m so sorry… I’ll make Mom, Dad, and the guys come back right now. Chloe: Ethan is busy with work, let’s not bother him. Declan: Come back for what, a pity party?! Declan: This is all because it’s your birthday, and we’re out with Chloe, isn’t it? Declan: We said we’d be back tonight! Rowan, what the hell do you want? Declan: You can’t go one day without causing drama? Can’t you stop performing for attention? A sharp, physical pain constricted my chest. I smiled a pained, shaky smile. Ro: Sure I can. I’m dying, remember? Chloe. She was the girl my parents adopted three years after I was accidentally abducted. She was supposed to be my temporary replacement, a vessel for their grief and guilt. But ever since I came back, I’d envied her. Chloe was the blinding sunlight that helped my family move past the shadows. I was the shadow they couldn’t shake. I came back with all the scars and side effects of my years missing: uncouth, timid, awkward, lacking education. They felt a crushing guilt toward me, but that guilt was wrapped in an uncomfortable distance. I was a permanent, unwelcome guest in the Harrington house. Chloe was their family—the one they laughed with, joked with, and indulged. I tried for years to erase the seven missing years, to ingratiate myself, to earn their love. But no matter how hard I tried, their preference for Chloe only grew. They started to see me as jealous, bullying, manipulative—always vying for their attention. The distance became outright contempt. It all broke on that final day: “We ran tests. Your pill bottle was filled with vitamins!” “Why the hell do you keep complaining about stomach pain then?” “Using our guilt to hold the entire family hostage, is that fun?” “Competing with Chloe, is that what makes you happy?!” No. It wasn’t fun. So now I had cancer. And I was dying. I wouldn’t be a burden or a rival to their precious Chloe anymore. This family? They could keep it. 4 Mom: Rowan… how did you become like this? Mom: Blame me, but please don’t do this. Mom: I’m coming back now… Declan: Mom, ignore her! She’s a liar! Suicide? Fine! Go drown yourself in the ocean! Declan: Just don’t mess up the house or bother us with the cleanup. Declan: From now on, the Harrington family doesn’t have you. A pause. Fifteen seconds of excruciating silence. Then, he sent the final, fatal message: Declan: Sometimes, I actually wish you had never come back. The cut on my wrist, which had felt numb moments ago, erupted in searing, soul-shattering pain. It was a physical manifestation of the emotional wound. Tears that I couldn’t control began to stream down my face. “Rowan Harrington!” Perhaps my silence had lasted too long. Rhys Thorne’s voice—deep, strong, and utterly furious—came through the phone. The wind howled on his end of the line. “Talk to me!” 5 His shout dragged me back to my body. I blinked away the tears, quickly pressed a towel to the major bleeding points on my wrist, and slowly, weakly, stood up. I managed a small, tired smile as I closed my eyes. “The plot is yours.” “I won’t be needing it anymore.” 6 Ro: K, sounds good. I’ll take your advice. 7 Since the burial plot was legally tied to my information, both parties had to meet to sign the transfer papers. I set the meeting location at Metropolitan General Hospital. I needed to get stitched up before going to the ocean, anyway. After such a long time bleeding, I might not make it to the water otherwise. And then I’d just be a mess for someone else to clean up. I was surprised. Rhys Thorne should have been driving from the distant memorial park, yet he arrived only ten minutes after I did, despite me being in the city. The agent, wiping sweat from his brow, noticed my confusion. “Mr. Thorne drove straight here the moment he heard you were… suicidal.” “He checked your file for your home address and sped back to the city.” “He probably broke every speed limit.” I looked over at the man standing next to the agent. Tall, well-built, dressed in a simple white tee, a casual jacket, and chinos. He was remarkably handsome, with clear, intense eyes. “You just got here, too?” Rhys asked, slightly out of breath. “Come on, we need to find a nurse—” “Rowan Harrington, number zero-zero-seven, please report to Examination Room B.” The robotic voice from the speaker cut him off. Rhys stared at me, dumbfounded. “You’re in this condition, and you took a number?” I nodded, confused by his reaction. “Uh, yeah. Why? No rush, right? Don’t want to take up the ER resources.” “Rowan Harrington?” A familiar, icy voice of surprise sounded behind me. I turned. I hadn’t expected to see Owen Harrington—my second brother, a rising star internist at the City Hospital. What was he doing here, at Metro General? Owen clearly hadn’t expected the name being called to actually be me. His brow furrowed as he approached. The screen of his phone was lit up. It looked like a text message thread. Oh, no. It must have been the group chat. “Did you know I was here for a surgical symposium today?” His voice was a cold, distant accusation. His eyes swept over my makeshift-bandaged wrist, and a flicker of impatience crossed his face. “There’s a limit to how far you can push a pathetic stunt, Rowan.” 8 The Harrington family had three sons. Ethan was the businessman, Owen the doctor, and Declan the racecar driver. Compared to Declan’s toxic cruelty, my older brothers were generally characterized by their busy schedules and cool indifference. I barely reacted to Owen’s words. Rhys Thorne, however, frowned instantly. He stepped forward, taking my arm and pulling me into the exam room, gently sitting me down on the edge of the examination table. “Doctor, this is an emergency. It cannot be delayed.” Rhys shot a pointed, cold glance back at Owen, who was still standing at the door. Owen’s face tightened. He stood frozen for a few seconds, then let out a cold, cynical laugh. “You’ve stooped so low that only Chloe would fall for this performance.” “She was worried sick about you and is already hurrying Mom and Dad back home.” “Congratulations. As you wished, the whole family is miserable. Satisfied?” His gaze slid over my bandaged wrist again. His eyes darkened, but he said nothing else. He simply turned, walking toward the exit, apparently confident I would follow his command. That’s when the doctor, reading the information from my intake card, gasped. “You have stomach cancer?!” “This needs a gastroenterologist. You registered for general surgery—that won’t help you!” The exam room fell silent. The hand Rhys had on my wrist froze instantly. Owen Harrington stopped dead in the doorway. But unlike Rhys’s sheer shock, Owen’s face registered immediate annoyance and contempt. “First a suicide attempt, now cancer.” “Rowan Harrington, know when to quit.” “If you keep this up, you won’t have a way to save face if you don’t actually die.” My eyes flickered, the pain replaced by a quiet, bitter amusement. I nodded slowly, forcing a slight smile. “Okay. Then I guess I’ll just go die.” 9 Owen let out a short, tired scoff and pinched the bridge of his nose. His impatience was bordering on outright disgust. “I’ve been in meetings for hours. I’m too exhausted to watch your performance, Rowan.” Owen’s work was demanding and unpredictable. For years, I had quietly adapted to his schedule, making sure I never added to his burdens. If this were a month ago, I would have rushed over, offered a water, and apologized for troubling him. But this time, I stayed put, sitting quietly. I looked up at him, my expression blank. “Then you should go home and rest early.” Owen’s face froze. A flash of something—confusion? panic?—crossed his eyes, before it snapped back to his default cold indifference. “Whatever. Do what you want.” “Just keep your word. If you’re not coming home, don’t ever come back.” My heart remained utterly still, like dead water that couldn’t be stirred. I nodded softly, my smile serene. “K. Sounds good. I’ll take your advice.” “Take my advice, my ass.” Very suddenly, Rhys Thorne snapped. He gently but firmly pulled my hand onto the examination table for the doctor, stood up, and turned to face Owen. Rhys’s eyes were dark, his expression lethal. He only said one word. “Roll.” 10 The exam room door slammed shut behind Owen. Rhys pulled up a chair next to mine and sat down, silently watching the doctor unwrapping the crude bandage on my wrist. I broke the silence. “Just give me the transfer papers. I’ll sign them now.” I didn’t want to waste his time. Rhys didn’t answer. His gaze moved from the grotesque cut on my arm to my eyes. “You said you needed it urgently. Why concede?” “And if you’re not going home, where exactly are you going?” The plot’s yours, dude. Why do you care? I thought. Stop interrogating me. I was planning to just use the safe excuse—I don’t need it. But Rhys’s eyes were too intense, too perceptive. I had a feeling that any lie would only prolong the conversation. I sighed, giving in to the strange necessity of the truth. “It’s too much trouble to arrange for someone to collect the body.” “So, I’m planning to drown myself in the sea and feed the fish.” “The plot is no long—Ouch!” The doctor, apparently startled by my morbid update, lost his grip on the gauze, tightening it painfully. He gave me an apologetic look, clipped the dressing tape, and then paused. He spoke gently. “Are you sure you don’t want to try and fight this?” “With good management, you can usually buy yourself five more years with stomach cancer.” I blinked, then shook my head with a light laugh. “Nah. Lived long enough. I don’t need the extra three to five years.” I pulled my bandaged hand back and turned my head, intending to ask Rhys for the papers again. My eyes caught the realtor standing behind him. I blinked again. Wait. Those two men came empty-handed. “So, the transfer papers… where are they?” Rhys’s expression shifted. He pressed his lips together, his eyes becoming unreadable. He thought for a few seconds, then finally spoke. “Rowan Harrington. Let’s split the plot.” 11 It might have been the blood loss. It was probably the shock of his bizarre proposal. My vision went completely black for a moment. I steadied myself for several long seconds before I found my voice. “Excuse me?” “Didn’t you suggest it?” Rhys smiled faintly. “‘If you love it that much, maybe we can split the plot.’” “I think that’s an excellent idea.” “It’s perfect for a loner like me.” “Your relatives will come and visit, bring flowers, and pay their respects on all the major holidays. I get to piggyback on their love.” “It’s a great value proposition.” He met my stunned gaze, his smile softening. “In return, I’ll personally arrange the collection and cleanup of your body, no fuss.” I clutched my chest. I looked back and forth between him and the door. Why did that sound… appealing? “But you can probably tell from the scene at the hospital, my family won’t actually come to visit.” “Doesn’t matter,” Rhys said, entirely unconcerned. “Having a neighbor is better than having no company at all.” He stood up and looked down at me, his demeanor casual and easy—a complete contrast to the cold fury he’d just shown Owen. “If Ms. Harrington isn’t willing, I can always look for another—” “Deal!” 12 I picked a gorgeous beach—a misty, private cove where the sunset stained the sky in brilliant hues. It felt like a magnificent place for a grand finale. But I was already starting to regret my “plot-sharing” arrangement with Rhys. The man was too meticulous. “Let’s just wait for the sunset. We’re not in that much of a rush.” “The water at night is too cold.” “In fact, let’s just wait for the sunrise, then you can go.” Fine. You’re the cleanup guy. You make the rules. The night wait for the sunrise was agonizingly long. Blood loss makes you tired, and I quickly drifted off. I expected the five-thirty alarm to wake me. I did not expect my third brother, Declan, to call me via video chat at 10:32 PM. Rhys was asleep, slumped comfortably against the passenger window. I quietly opened the car door and stepped out. I answered the call. The screen immediately filled with the image of the Harringtons’ ornate dining room table, Chloe in the center, bathed in attention. Ethan wasn’t there, but the others were. “Rowan, are you insane?!” Declan’s brow was deeply furrowed, his voice choked with anger. “You drag the whole family back, and now where the hell are you?” “Chloe spent the entire afternoon making your favorite meal. Get your ass home now!” Mom leaned into the frame, her voice still soft, but layered with exhaustion and disappointment. “Rowan, please stop this. Just come back and celebrate your birthday with us, okay?” Dad scoffed. “Making your parents wait to eat? Where are your manners?” My eyes skimmed the clearly disturbed plates of food. I smiled faintly. It occurred to me that Rhys’s cleanup schedule and my death schedule didn’t have to be linked. Why was I waiting for him? A profound, dead calm settled in my heart. I took a decisive step forward. The water rushed over my feet. “I’m dying right now. I’m not coming back.” Just as I spoke, the lock on the front door clicked. Ethan Harrington, dressed in a sharp suit, appeared in the doorway. His gaze swept over the table. He changed his shoes, then walked directly toward the only bedroom on the first floor. My room. “I was busy in a meeting this afternoon. I forgot about Rowan.” “How is she? Still being dramatic?” He spoke lightly, casually, then reached for the doorknob and opened my bedroom door— 13 The room was utterly empty. All my belongings were gone. The sliding bathroom door was wide open. The tub was a horrifying scene of bright, red water. The sight shocked everyone into silence. Owen, the doctor, reacted the fastest. He shot up from the table and sprinted into the room. When he saw the level of blood in the tub, he sucked in a sharp breath. His eyes quickly filled with panic and disbelief. “No, wait, this volume of blood—this is not a stunt.” “She—she was really trying to die…” He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out his phone, and quickly scrolled through something, zooming in on the screen. I couldn’t see the image, the video feed was too blurry. But I knew exactly what he was looking at: the photo of my cut wrist. Ah. That explained it. How could a doctor—my own brother—have thought I was just acting if he had actually looked at the depth of that cut? He hadn’t. He hadn’t even bothered to look. A cold certainty settled in my heart. I tilted my head back, raising my hand to end the call. But Owen snatched the phone from Declan. His face was pale. “Rowan Harrington, stop this immediately.” “Come back… just come home.” “Or tell me where you are. I’ll come get you…” 14 The seawater was chilling, rising past my waist. Rhys was right. The night water was truly freezing. I stopped moving and finally let my eyes focus on the screen. I met Owen’s terrified gaze. “Go back. And then what?” “Go back to being your awkward, visiting stranger, watching how much you adore Chloe?” “We never wronged you, though!” Declan’s defensive, tortured voice came clearly through the speaker. Unlike Owen, who now seemed to suspect the cancer was real, Declan was still convinced I was acting out. But his hostility had softened into a desperate defensiveness. “We’ve never lacked for you. Who walked on eggshells and treated you like a princess before you started your little schemes?” “Why do you have to compete with Chloe?” They never lacked for me. True. They just didn’t love me. Chloe gets a cold, and the entire family coos and gives her medicine. I slit my wrist, and I get “Go die somewhere else so you don’t bother us with the cleanup.” These were my biological parents and brothers. Why shouldn’t I compete? Why the hell shouldn’t I fight for them to love me?! “Rowan,” Owen swallowed hard. “Just come home first. We can talk when you’re home.” “If you’re really sick, your brother will save you…” I kept walking. The cold water submerged the rough bandage, and a sharp sting registered. I smiled faintly and cut him off. “Owen Harrington, I haven’t had a brother, or a home, for a very long time.” Owen’s body stiffened. It seemed to hit him that I hadn’t called them “brother” in a very long time. Not since the day they accused me of lying about my stomach pain. They were the ones who said it. “Rowan Harrington, I truly wish Chloe was our real sister.” Owen’s eyes widened with a frantic, regretful look. He shook his head, his voice trembling. “No, that’s not true! Those were words spoken in anger, out of disappointment!” “We just didn’t want you to keep bullying Chloe or competing with her—” A large hand reached over and snatched the phone away. I looked up in surprise. Rhys Thorne was standing right behind me in the water, his moonlight-drenched gaze heavy. “People only envy others for two reasons.” “One, they believe the person doesn’t deserve it.” “Two, because they lack it themselves.” “You had the energy to criticize her jealousy.” “But you never had the decency to give her what she lacked—security, affection, belief.” Rhys let out a cold, short laugh, his lips curling with pure contempt. “It’s not favoritism. It’s just lazy cruelty.” “Garbage.” 15 Splash! The phone was tossed into the waves, sending a small spray of water into the air. My eyes widened. Wait. That was my phone, right? You just threw my phone into the ocean? “Rowan Harrington.” Rhys took my hand and stood with me in the icy sea, his eyes locked on mine. He didn’t say anything else. He just sighed, then bent down and lifted me horizontally out of the water. He held me tightly against his chest, turning toward the shore. “I have a home. Why don’t you come take a look?” “If you like it, we can try sharing that, too.”

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The company let me go. Age discrimination, they called it. Thirty-five, and already too old for the hustle. Then, my son, Leo, lost sight in one eye in a stupid neighborhood accident. A week later, my wife, Seraphina—Sera—tumbled down the stairs and fractured her leg. The towering medical bills were a lead weight on my chest, suffocating the air out of me. But I kept grinding, pushing through every hellish job I could find to keep my little family afloat. Until the day I landed a gig as an extra on a film set, and saw the woman with the “broken leg” soaring thirty feet above me. 1 I stood there, paralyzed, watching the lead actress, who was mid-air, executing a perfect wire-work fight sequence. It was her. The curve of her jaw, the way she moved, the unmistakable grace—it was Seraphina. My wife. The woman I tucked into bed every night. How… how was she doing this? “Hey! What are you staring at? Get down and play dead, will ya!” A fellow extra hissed, nudging me hard. “You mess this up, you don’t get paid a dime!” I forced myself to drop, my face pressed against the cold, dusty floor of the soundstage. My eyes were shut tight, but the tears, hot and humiliating, leaked out and disappeared into the grime. When the director finally yelled, “Cut!” the world tilted. I scrambled up, stumbling toward the bright, manicured circle where Sera was instantly enveloped by her team. Her assistant, a sharp-faced young man named Benji, put a hand on my chest. “Sir, what do you think you’re doing? Are you looking for an autograph? Honestly, you extras are unbelievable. You’re here to work, not to stalk the talent.” I just stared, dumbstruck, past Benji to Sera, who was basking in the glow of attention. The worried murmurs and fussing of her people created a bubble around her—a world I didn’t belong to. Benji was ready to tear into me, but it was Seraphina who finally turned her gaze my way. For a flicker of a second, I saw it: pure, unadulterated panic in her eyes. My lips trembled. I tried to speak, to form a single question, but only a pathetic, ragged breath came out. The crew members around me were gushing. “Sera Maxwell, even at forty, she’s a goddess! The class, the sheer presence!” Some of the younger male extras were openly fantasizing. God, if only Seraphina were my wife. Sera muttered something quickly to Benji. His eyes darted back to me, full of surprise, but he grabbed my arm and steered me away from the crowd to a quiet corner. A moment later, Sera joined us. Her usual radiant composure was gone, replaced by a strained look. “Ethan, let me explain—” “Your leg,” I managed to choke out. “Your leg, Sera.” Benji, who had stepped away, rushed back, checking his phone. “Sera, the episode fees just came in. One million dollars. Per episode.” One million dollars. The number hit me like a physical blow. A million dollars for one episode. What did that make the five grand I was hoping to scrape together over seven days of humiliating extra work? What did that make the back-breaking shifts washing dishes, the sleepless nights? I looked at Seraphina—the woman who had just flawlessly performed acrobatics on a wire harness—and felt the laughter bubble up in my throat, hollow and bitter. A joke. I’m an absolute joke. Just this morning, I had proudly told her I’d found this extra gig. I had massaged her “injured” leg before leaving, worried sick about her recovery, waiting until her breathing evened out before walking out the door. Benji cleared his throat, sensing the toxic atmosphere. “Sera, whatever history you have with this… fan, you need to be careful. Don’t let your fiancé get wind of this. And frankly, he’s not exactly A-list material. No need to invite a scandal.” Fiancé? The word echoed in the empty space where my heart should have been. Sera’s face tightened. She shot Benji a look that sent him scurrying away. It was just the two of us now. She twisted her hands. “Ethan, please, let me explain—” I cut her off. The years of love, devotion, and sacrifice curdled into pure acid. “Explain what, Sera? What’s left to explain? You thought this was fun? Lying to me? You’ve been healthy this whole time, running around and swinging from cables, while you let me believe your leg was shattered! You’re a major star, yet you told me you were tutoring rich kids! You watched me get fired, watched me chase every scrap of work, lose my dignity for this family. Did you enjoy the show? Did you get a kick out of watching your pathetic, broke husband grovel for cash?” “Ethan, don’t—” “Don’t call me that! When did you get better? Or were you never hurt in the first place?” “That’s not it, Ethan. I swear—” I remembered the tough, sweet times. The struggle had always been real, but the love had felt honest, a precious, fragile thing. Now, looking at the dazzling stranger in front of me, I felt utterly defeated. I was a man who had been cast out by his company and utterly betrayed by his wife. I was a worm, wriggling in the mud. Then, a sickening thought struck me. Our son. Leo. He’d always been closer to Sera, but his injury was the one thing that crushed me. I looked up, my eyes suddenly clear and hard. “Leo. Tell me about Leo. Was he really blind in one eye? Or was that just part of the act, too?” Sera’s lips parted, a desperate sound caught in her throat. Before she could speak, the door to the quiet corner burst open. It was Leo. “Mom, what are you doing back here? Uncle Damon is waiting for us! We’re going out for dinner!” 2 A profound, suffocating grief washed over me. I stared at my perfectly healthy wife, whose eyes were full of evasiveness, and my son, whose eyes were bright, curious, and utterly undamaged. The sky hadn’t just fallen; it had dissolved, leaving me floating in a void of lies. I had been living in a carefully constructed stage play. Behind Leo, a man walked in. He radiated money and privilege. Tailored black suit, expensive watch, a demeanor that spoke of effortless, casual power. Sera moved her head slightly, a frantic, useless attempt to shield Leo from my view. My heart shattered on the floor, the sound of the pieces inaudible beneath the roaring in my ears. “Leo?” My voice was a choked whisper. Leo spotted me. He frowned, his flawless features pinching with annoyance. “What are you doing here?” The cold, distant look in his eyes—the kind of look you give a stranger on the street—was a fresh stab of pain. “You… you were lying to me, too?” I whispered, all the strength draining out of my body. Leo’s frown deepened. It was the kind of disdain that could crush a grown man. “Lying? Oh, yeah, I guess I was. If Mom hadn’t said it was ‘interesting’ to keep you fooled, why would I have gone along with it? It was disgusting! Wearing that cheap, smelly eye patch every day in that gross little apartment.” Leo stood tall in a miniature suit and a bow tie, looking like a little prince of industry. I used to look at him and feel a surge of foolish, ordinary pride. How could someone so exquisite come from someone so plain? He had always been aloof, but I’d dismissed it as precocious maturity, a boy too old to cling to his father. But watching him now, how tightly he clutched the hand of the man in the black suit—Damon Royce—his face open with pure, trusting dependency, I knew the truth. I closed my eyes, the bitter cold of betrayal seeping into my bones. I sank to my knees, shaking uncontrollably. Leo, emboldened by my collapse, dropped the pretense entirely. “Seriously, now that you know, I don’t have to pretend anymore. We only stayed in that dump for your sake, you know? Honestly, Dad? I don’t know what Mom saw in you. You’re old, you’re… ugh. I literally couldn’t eat when I looked at your face. You’re nothing compared to Uncle Damon.” Tears blurred my vision. I couldn’t clearly see Leo’s face anymore. When Leo had his supposed injury, he was a spoiled terror. I had to coax and feed him every bite, despite a full day of exhausting work. I never complained. I cooked, cleaned, and cared for both of them. I thought I was a good man, a dedicated father and husband. In their eyes, I was trash. Even to my own son. Damon Royce stepped forward, his expression a mixture of contempt and bored curiosity. “So, you’re Ethan Kade? Yeah, you do look pretty pathetic.” He surveyed my crumpled, shaking form, then smiled, a chilling, condescending gesture. “No wonder Leo despises you and wants me to be his father. If I were him, I’d hate you, too. Seven days for five thousand dollars? Leo’s allowance for one day is more than that.” My back felt like it was snapping under the weight of his judgment. I wiped the tears from my face, desperate to shout a defense, but Seraphina beat me to it. “Leo, honey, why don’t you and Damon go ahead to the restaurant? I need to talk to… Ethan. Alone.” Leo wasn’t having it. “Why? Since he knows, let’s just get it over with! I don’t want to be involved with this failure of a man ever again!” Damon, too, seemed to prefer an audience for the kill. He gave me that casual, predatory smile. “You know that saying, Ethan? All the world’s a stage?” 3 Damon Royce looked at me, malice shining in his eyes. I didn’t care about his reasons, or Seraphina’s. I just felt a sickening mix of pain and nausea. He was clearly enjoying my humiliation. “This whole thing was a bet, Ethan. A script. I gave Sera the outline, and she just followed the directions.” I met Seraphina on a rainy night. I had been searching for jobs, hitting dead end after dead end. Despair was a heavy cloak, soaking me to the bone. I had no umbrella, no cab fare, nothing. Then, she appeared. She held a black umbrella over me. Her eyes were impossibly gentle. “Even if you’re a man,” she said, her voice soft, “you shouldn’t stand out here in the rain. It’s bad for your health.” I was a fool. I reached out and took her hand. I thought she was my salvation. I didn’t know she was the person who would push me into a deeper, colder abyss. Damon looked down at me, utterly superior. “You fell in love right on schedule, just like my script predicted. Honestly, did you really think someone like Sera would ever be within your reach?” “The blind eye. The broken leg. All orchestrated by me. You see, my social standing is leagues above yours. With one word, I can turn any story into reality.” His words were the opening of Pandora’s Box—a nightmare unfolding in real time. When Sera and I married, I planned out our future: saving money, a good education for Leo, a stable, happy life. But then, at thirty-five, my company fired me, citing my age. Not enough hustle, not enough hunger. In the same week, Sera supposedly fell and broke her leg on the way to a tutoring job. Leo, playing with a friend, shattered a shop window and the glass sliced his eye. The happy family disintegrated. I was the only healthy one left. To pay for their treatments, I begged, borrowed, and groveled. I knelt and pleaded, giving up every last shred of my pride. The debts were crushing, forcing me to take on an endless cycle of grueling shifts—washing dishes, waiting tables, stacking shelves. I fought tooth and nail for the extra gig, just another way to trade my time and body for cash. I never complained. I only cared that my wife and son were safe and whole. My hard work, my sacrifice—it was all a punchline. I wasn’t their rescuer. I was their entertainment. I was walking the path they had drawn for me. Damon’s final blow was delivered with a casual, easygoing smile. “You getting fired? Yeah, that was me too. Funny, right? Your company’s CEO just happened to be an old acquaintance of mine.” His words, spoken with such gentle cruelty, were sharp knives slicing through my spinal cord. I couldn’t breathe. I looked up, tears blurring the edges of his smug face. Damon Royce reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a pristine tissue, and gently dabbed my cheek. “Why the tears, Ethan? You pride yourself on being so strong. And I’m not done with you yet.” I had a hard childhood. My parents favored my younger brother, treating me like a servant. I fought for everything I had. Meeting Sera, I thought I was finally building the life I deserved. I wanted to give my son a life overflowing with love, free from the suffering I knew. I wanted Sera and Leo to never feel poor, to never be looked down upon. I didn’t want them to be miserable wretches like me. Instead, I was the biggest joke of all, still drowning in the same old mud. My supposed light was just a deeper form of darkness. I took a deep, shuddering breath. Thirty-six years of accumulated humiliation and anger exploded in my chest. I didn’t care about the consequences. I didn’t care what I was facing. I just wanted to reclaim one ounce of dignity. Why should I be the idiot, the plaything? I am a person, too! I looked at Damon, my eyes blazing with pure rage. He started clapping, a delighted laugh bubbling from him. “That’s it! The anger! I love it! But Ethan, what good is your anger now?” My voice was a low growl. “You’re right. Anger doesn’t help me. But what if—” I launched myself at him. You rely on your face, don’t you? Damon’s panicked scream was instant. My fist found its target. “My face! My face! Get off me! You despicable brute!” I didn’t care what he said. He had orchestrated the destruction of my life. He had to pay.

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Rhys Albright’s childhood legacy—a documentarian who had been in professional hibernation for years—needed a blockbuster hit to reclaim her former glory. So, Rhys, my boyfriend and my defense attorney, handed over the most humiliating details from my sexual assault case to Serena Sullivan, raw and unfiltered. He didn’t tell me about the documentary’s premiere. But I went anyway. On the colossal screen, the sheer, crushing despair of my violation had been meticulously edited, reframed as a sleazy, transactional exchange—me selling my body for cash. Meanwhile, the men who had shattered my life were somehow recast as mere “youths led astray,” unable to resist temptation. When the film ended, Serena was escorted to the stage, instantly surrounded by a constellation of admirers. She stood there, smiling down at Rhys, who was seated in the front row, and introduced him to the audience. “This is the attorney responsible for the case, the legal counsel for this documentary, and my constant source of inspiration—my muse.” The applause was deafening, a standing ovation. The host praised them, calling them a match made in professional heaven. Across the room, I watched Rhys’s face contort in alarm. In the stunned silence that followed my rising, I slowly, deliberately, raised my hand. “I have a question,” I said. “For the muse-slash-attorney.” 1 The host was visibly blindsided by the interruption but professional enough to pass a microphone toward me. “Yes, ma’am, what is your question?” I didn’t immediately take the mic. Instead, I stood my ground, staring across the sea of heads at Rhys. His lips moved slightly, forming a silent warning I knew all too well. Audrey, don’t do this. I gave a short, brittle laugh and accepted the microphone. “Mr. Albright,” I began, my voice quiet but amplified by the speakers, filling every corner of the theater. “I’d like to ask, as the legal consultant for this film, do you stand by the claim that all content is factually accurate, particularly concerning the victim, Audrey Shen?” I used my full name. Audrey Shen. The name he had, for a second time, personally shoved into the abyss and then nailed to a public pillar of shame. Rhys’s face went even paler. He looked as though someone had clamped a hand around his throat, utterly speechless. Serena, however, recovered instantly. She glided forward, gracefully taking the lead, her smile impeccable. “Thank you for your question, Miss. I can assure you that our team conducted rigorous verification of every single detail.” She paused, then looked at Rhys with an air of intimate admiration. “Mr. Albright, as the lead attorney on the case, provided us with the most authentic and authoritative material. It was only with Rhys’s help that we were able to get so close to the truth, wasn’t it, darling?” Rhys gave a stiff, mechanical nod. But his eyes were locked on mine, a desperate cocktail of pleading and warning. “Is that right?” I countered, a sharp laugh escaping me. I held the microphone closer. “Then why,” I asked, “do I know a completely different version?” Boom. The crowd exploded. This was more than just a question; it was a public execution. Flashbulbs started stroking the room like a sudden, aggressive thunderstorm. Reporters, sensing the scent of blood, surged forward like sharks. “It’s not a true story?” “Wait, is there a cover-up? This is the headline for tomorrow!” The host, panicking, tried to regain control. “Everyone, please! Quiet down! Miss, I need to ask you to—” “To what? Stop telling the truth? Should the truth be twisted to suit your narrative?” I moved. I started walking, step by deliberate step, toward the stage and toward Rhys. Security tried to stop me, but the frantic reporters shoved them aside. That winter, when I staggered out of the precinct, shaking, barely able to walk straight, Rhys had done the same. He had broken through the crowd, wrapped his heavy overcoat around me, and held my icy hands. “Don’t be afraid, I’m Rhys Albright, your lawyer. I’ll get you justice.” His warmth had been my only light then. Now, I was the one walking toward him. A mere foot separated us, and I could clearly see the cold sweat beading on his forehead. “Rhys,” I said, looking him dead in the eyes, asking each word like an accusation. “The film claims Audrey Shen accepted ten thousand dollars, and everything was consensual. Is that how it was recorded in the evidence you provided to Ms. Sullivan?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. His lips worked furiously, but no sound came out. “Speak up.” I took a final, forceful step closer. Confronted with my challenge, his face was wretched. Serena’s perfect composure finally cracked. She stepped in front of Rhys, adopting the pose of a fierce protector. “Miss, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but the documented facts of the event are clear. Please don’t cause a scene here—” “Get out of my way.” I cut her off, the chill in my voice unmistakable. “I’m speaking to my boyfriend. Who do you think you are?” Serena’s expression froze solid. “Boyfriend?” She turned to Rhys as if she’d heard an obscene joke, her eyes demanding an explanation. Rhys instinctively recoiled half a step, averting her gaze.

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Ethan Sawyer spent three years playing the penniless artist by my side. When I told him my mother desperately needed life-saving surgery, he doubled down on his act, pretending he’d just been fired and needed me to support him. I couldn’t play along anymore. I walked out. I dumped him and married the successful businessman who had been pursuing me. Then, I attended a client’s wedding. The groom was Ethan Sawyer. I heard his groomsmen taunting him: “Remember when Sawyer insisted on playing the ‘pure love’ game? And she still dumped him.” “What a pity. The ‘getting fired’ thing was actually his final test. If she’d just held on for a little longer, today’s bride would be her.” “If that gold-digger knew she tossed the heir to Sawyer Holdings, she’d be kicking herself, huh? Ha ha.” The funny thing is, I knew all of it. 1 My second encounter with Ethan Sawyer was at my client’s wedding. He was the groom. In an expensive custom suit, hair impeccably styled, he looked aristocratic and arrogant—nothing like the down-and-out man I’d shared a tiny apartment with. I had no intention of speaking to him. Our breakup had been anything but civil. I was the one who ended it. He’d knelt on the floor, weeping and begging me to stay, but I hadn’t looked back. His final words were a threat: “Audrey Miller, walk out that door, and don’t you dare regret it. Even if you crawl back to me, I won’t give you the time of day!” I bolted. Three years in that cramped rental was more than enough. I was over it. Reuniting at his wedding felt painfully awkward. I turned to leave, but then I heard the groomsmen circling Ethan, mocking him: “Remember when Sawyer insisted on playing the ‘pure love’ game? And she still dumped him.” “What a pity. The ‘getting fired’ thing was actually his final test. If she’d just held on for a little longer, today’s bride would be her.” “If that gold-digger knew she tossed the heir to Sawyer Holdings, she’d be kicking herself, huh? Ha ha.” Amidst the playful teasing of his friends, Ethan just gave a small, contemptuous smile. “Too late for regret,” he drawled. I knew they were talking about me. The gold-digger. It was clear they truly believed I left him because he was poor. The truth? I already knew. 2 About a year into dating Ethan, I was working a part-time job at a high-end hotel. I saw him sweeping through the lobby in a tailored suit, reviewing the staff. The manager called him “Mr. Sawyer.” That’s how I discovered the hotel was part of his family’s empire—Sawyer Holdings. They were practically East Coast royalty. My perpetually broke, struggling artist of a boyfriend was actually a wealthy golden boy. To me, it felt less like a dramatic movie plot and more like winning the lottery. I wasn’t the type of heroine who’d act high and mighty. Instead, I felt like I’d hit the jackpot. I was certain Ethan genuinely loved me. He was there to cheer me up when I was down and patiently cared for me when I was sick. Rich or poor, he was the best boyfriend. If he enjoyed playing the role of the impoverished romantic, I would continue to play along. But then my mother got sick and needed a huge sum for surgery, and he was still, merrily, testing me with his poverty game. I was done. The charade had lost its charm. I dumped him and married the rich man who pursued me. Ethan and his buddies could be disappointed all they wanted. I had zero regrets. Suddenly, the bride walked over, took my hand, and pulled me towards Ethan. “Ethan, look! This is Ms. Audrey Miller, the owner of The Horizon Gallery that I was telling you about,” she gushed excitedly. “I told you we look alike, but you didn’t believe me.” He lifted his gaze. After a momentary flicker of recognition, his eyes turned cold. “They do look similar,” he conceded, then added dismissively, “But not as pretty or as young as my wife.” 3 The bride, Lila May, was my client. She’d first visited my gallery two weeks prior, looking for pieces for her new marital home. When we truly saw each other, we both gasped. The resemblance was uncanny—at least seventy percent.

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I was a D-list actress filming in a remote, mountainous region when the flash flood hit. Desperate, I called my patron, Rhys Hawthorne, for help, and that’s when I heard the shocking voice of the baby in my womb: [Mom! Don’t call him! Do NOT let Dad come save you!] [Dad is comforting his Golden Girl, Genevieve Sinclair. If he rushes over here, she’ll have a major depressive episode and it will kill her!] Rhys’s low, commanding voice cut through the static: “Skylar Reid, it is 11:59 PM Eastern. You better truly have a reason to be calling me right now.” [Mom! He will literally kill us both!] I swallowed my panic. “My mistake, sorry. Pocket dial. I’m fine.” Let him do whatever he wanted. I just needed to make sure he didn’t involve me or my child. 1 My phone’s battery was down to 6%. A few production assistants and I stumbled along the muddy trail, headlamps slicing weakly through the relentless downpour. I kept my eyes glued to the ground, but the knot of unease in my gut tightened with every step. [Mom, those PAs are working for Genevieve—she paid them to kill you. You have to sneak away, now!] I clamped a hand over my mouth and darted off the path, scrambling down a muddy slope into a thicket of overgrown shrubs. Moments later, the beam of a headlamp swept over the spot where I’d been standing. “Damn it! That bitch saw us,” one PA hissed. “There goes the million bucks.” I saw the cold glint of the knives they pulled out. Another second and they would have plunged those blades right into my abdomen. Before I could even catch my breath, my foot slipped. I lost my grip and slid hundreds of feet down the steep incline. Bushes and broken branches ripped through my thin raincoat, leaving behind stinging, bloody streaks. A terrifying, sharp ache seized my lower belly. Preterm labor. I fumbled for my phone and quickly dialed the director’s number. “It’s Skylar Reid, I’m still trapped on the mountain—” The person who answered immediately interrupted: “Are you sure about that?” It was Marc Knight, Rhys’s best friend and business partner. If anyone could arrange a swift, private rescue, it was Marc. “Yes, Marc, I am!” I rushed to reply. He sounded annoyed. “I checked with the PAs ahead of time. They told me you were already back safe hours ago!” His voice hardened. “Rhys was right. You’re playing games again, trying to pull off some scheme.” “That’s not true—” Marc scoffed. “You never quit, do you? Still trying to blow things up for attention?” He lowered his voice, the chill coming through the phone. “Let me tell you, the entire crew is busy dealing with the fallout from the flash flood. Nobody has time for your drama. I’ve ordered everyone in the crew to ignore your lunatic stories. Good luck, Skylar.” The cold wind howled, and the rain grew heavier. The mountain groaned with the sound of rushing water, a warning of the increasing flood danger. I tried a few more numbers—actors I was friendly with—but by the time the battery hit 3%, all I’d gotten were variations of “I’m sorry, I can’t help.” Panic flooded my chest. This child was my only family. I had to protect it. I struggled to my feet. I walked until my soles were a mass of bloody blisters, finally seeing a faint light ahead. But a broken branch tripped me. I fell face-first, and muddy water rushed into my lungs. My gasping cries were swallowed by the storm. [Mom, look out!] My baby was crying inside. I grit my teeth, grabbed a rock, and threw it with the last of my strength, hitting one of the figures ahead. That finally got their attention. It was a group of local villagers. “Wait, isn’t that the actress? The one filming in our town!” “Should we help her? This rain is too dangerous.” A kind-faced woman immediately pulled me up. “Come on! I’ll carry you! Don’t be afraid, child, we’ll take you home!” That simple act of kindness nearly made me weep. Swinging precariously on the woman’s back, I relaxed slightly—and that’s when the pain intensified. In my agony, the woman’s sturdy back momentarily morphed into Rhys’s. I remembered the director who had driven me to the brink of suicide; Rhys was the one who had carried me, step by step, out of that dark little room. The illusion shattered as my lower abdomen clenched. A large gush of warmth instantly stained my costume red. I touched my belly, my eyes wide with terror. “The baby… my baby…” Bright crimson blood dropped onto the ground. Everyone tensed. “We have to get her to a clinic, fast!” “Wait, we can’t! The village is flooded, the road to the county clinic is completely washed out!” “What do we do? We can’t just leave her to die!” I clung to the woman’s shirt, tears streaming down my face. “I’m begging you, please help me! I’ll give you five hundred thousand dollars… please… save my child…” They told me there was only one small wooden bridge that might still be passable. They didn’t dare risk it and dialed 911 for me. The dispatcher quickly connected with the relevant authorities. But as soon as they heard the name Skylar Reid, they instantly refused. “Ma’am, we suspect you are making a fraudulent call. Please don’t waste our resources again.” The line went dead. The surge of hope was instantly extinguished. Rhys and Marc, believing I was causing trouble, had successfully blocked every possible avenue of rescue. My hands trembling, I called Marc Knight one last time. “Marc, please, you have to help me. You don’t want Rhys’s child to be hurt, do you?” Marc paused. “Child?” “Yes! I’m pregnant!” The Hawthorne family has a difficult history with heirs. I knew a potential grandchild held immense importance. He couldn’t possibly ignore this. But he just scoffed. “A joke! You expect me to believe you?” “When Genevieve returned to the States, you promised Rhys you’d behave. But you immediately stole her campaign resources, and you pushed her into the pool, knowing she couldn’t swim! Your credibility is zero.” I didn’t waste time arguing. I switched to a video call. I pulled aside my heavy costume, revealing the deep, raw scrapes on my body, and then the wide stain of red between my legs—proof of the hemorrhage. The villagers spoke up for me. Marc’s voice finally changed, laced with a bitter snarl. “Fine. I’ll believe you one last time. I’m sending a car immediately.” I was overwhelmed with relief and started to thank him. But a few seconds later, the baby’s tiny voice filled my mind. [Mom, he’s lying to you. There’s no car coming!] [That bridge ahead is going to collapse in a few minutes! Get across, Mom, now!] I didn’t wait to explain. I sank onto the ground in front of the kind woman. “That bridge is going to collapse! Please, I’m begging you, take me across!” Marc’s voice crackled through the speaker. “You think you’re smart this time, hiring a crowd of villagers to stage a show for me? I’m recording this entire performance, Skylar. I’m going to expose you as the liar you are in front of Rhys!” Seeing the villagers hesitate, I slammed my head onto the muddy ground. Thud. “Please! Save my child, I’m begging you.” Blood instantly welled up on my forehead. The kind woman tried to pull me up. “It’s too dangerous to cross now. If the baby is gone, it’s gone, honey. Don’t risk your own life.” But I wouldn’t stop. I continued to smash my head against the ground with every ounce of my remaining strength. Finally, their hearts broke. A few of them hoisted me onto their backs and rushed across the fragile bridge. On the phone, Marc sneered. “Ha! That’s a thousand-year-old double-arch bridge! It’s going to collapse now? Who do you think you are? If it does, I’ll shave my head on a live stream!” The words were still hanging in the air when the bridge structure gave way with a deafening roar. Marc was stunned. “What… no way… that’s impossible.” Soon after, the villagers carried me to Marc’s high-performance SUV and we raced toward the hospital. I could hear him speaking to Rhys on the phone. “How bad is she?” “She’ll be fine. But the baby… she’s going to lose the baby.” The line was silent for a long moment. Then, Rhys’s voice came through, icy and remote. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just an accident. It has no right to be born into this world anyway.” His words were a knife twisting deep in my heart, tearing the tissue apart. The bleeding beneath me increased. The physical pain was nothing compared to the agony in my soul. [Mom, I’m so sorry, I can’t hold on much longer…] The baby’s presence grew fainter and fainter. Soon, no matter how frantically I screamed for him in my mind, there was no innocent voice to answer. I froze. Only a terrifying, dead silence remained in my heart. I was a failure, worthless trash. At three, my parents divorced; I was the abandoned baggage. At seven, my grandmother, dying of cancer, cursed me, calling me a calamity. At ten, staying with my aunt, she called me trash and a slut for ‘flirting’ with my uncle. I’d scavenged bottles, eaten out of trash cans, and worked illegal jobs to survive. But if I couldn’t even keep the one being who truly loved me, what was the point of surviving at all? Just before I faded away, I suddenly thought: My baby fought so hard to help me—he wants to live! A shard of clarity pierced the dark. No! I couldn’t give up now! For him, I had to hold on! In the end, perhaps my fierce will to survive moved the heavens. Just before I passed out, I heard the doctor let out a long sigh of relief. “We saved her. The child is safe.” I did not hear Marc, speaking to Rhys on the phone: “Congratulations, buddy. Your wife and child are both safe.” Rhys didn’t correct his language, but his tone was freezing. “She was out of danger that fast? That proves the injury wasn’t serious.” He paused. “Contact the best specialist immediately and arrange a termination.” He added a final instruction: “She is not to know anything about it.” I woke up in the hospital bed, clutching my stomach. “Baby! My baby!” [I’m here, Mom! But I heard Dad say he wants to abort me. What are we going to do?] My baby’s relayed words sent a chill through me. I couldn’t believe Rhys was so merciless that he would dispose of his own child. After a moment to calm down, I picked up the chicken soup the crew had sent. I looked up and met a pair of cold, hostile eyes. It was one of the PAs Genevieve had hired! I quickly pretended the bowl was hot, intentionally spilling the soup all over the floor. I didn’t know if Genevieve knew I was pregnant. If she did, she would stop at nothing to eliminate me. As I was formulating a plan, Rhys called. “Trapped on the mountain. Why didn’t you call me?” I was done pretending. I snapped back, “How could I dare interrupt your time with Genevieve?” “Don’t be childish, Skylar. You were playing with your life!” Rhys’s tone was so accusatory, it almost made me believe he genuinely cared. I pushed the ridiculous thought away. I offered a shallow laugh. “My deepest apologies, then. I am truly wicked.” A warning crept into his voice. “I’ve arranged for the best medical team to fly out overnight. You will not be injured again.” My heart wavered slightly. “Did you know that I was trapped on the mountain because of Genevieve…” Rhys instantly erupted. “Skylar Reid! Genevieve has been with me this entire week! Do not try to frame her!” He paused. “I am warning you. Do not say one more bad word about Genevieve!” I lowered my eyes and quietly replied, “Understood.” Just then, a soft, sugary voice cooed from Rhys’s end of the line: “Rhys, my tummy hurts, I need you to rub it.” Rhys immediately hung up. My heart ached fiercely, but not with the sharp, overwhelming pain of before. It was just a dull throb. Moments later, my phone pinged with messages from Genevieve Sinclair. Because my stomach hurt, the medical team had to stay to take care of me. So sorry for your luck. Oh, I forgot to tell you. Rhys and I are having an engagement party next week. Don’t forget to RSVP. She even attached a photo of her hand intertwined with Rhys’s. The massive ring on her finger was blinding. I just found her pathetic. The lack of a medical team was a blessing in disguise. I took the powerful sedative I’d had prepared for weeks. I watched through blurry eyes as the decoy body was consumed by the crematorium flames, then turned and walked away. The next day. Rhys Hawthorne arrived at my hospital room, carrying my favorite strawberry cake. He hadn’t seen me in a month, and he unconsciously adjusted his tie. All that awaited him was an empty room. The attending nurse entered. “Are you the family for Room Two?” “She passed away. The ashes were scattered in the mountains. My condolences.”

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