Author: Momo Chan

Ten years. Ten years of playing wife to the man my runaway sister abandoned, mother to the child she left behind. And all it took to shatter that fragile peace was sitting in her armchair. The boy I raised pushed me from the third-floor landing. My spine was splintered, my body slick with blood, yet when I pleaded with him to call for help, he just looked down and sneered, a perfect echo of his father. “You don’t get to touch my mom’s things. Ever. I’m telling you, you will never be Audrey!” “You want help? I hope you end up paralyzed. I hope Dad throws you out on the street!” I stared up at the child who, since the moment he was handed to me in a blanket, had been my sole responsibility. The agonizing pain of my broken body was nothing compared to the slow, relentless flaying of my heart. After the emergency surgery, still woozy from the anesthesia, I found the strength to make a single international call. “Professor Warren,” I whispered into the receiver. “I’m ready to come home.” 1 I hung up just as Preston, Mom, and Dad swept into the room, Leo trailing behind them, his face a mask of furious, self-pitying innocence. “Why should I apologize to that… woman!” Leo snarled, pointing a vicious finger at me. “She went and sat in Mom’s chair first! I just shouted, and she got scared and fell down the stairs. She wasn’t even bleeding that much at first. I thought she was just putting on another one of her pathetic little shows.” The words grew crueler, yet the adults didn’t stop him. They just stood there, their expressions cold and accusatory, focused entirely on me. I didn’t bother to defend myself, just stared blankly out the window. Preston’s voice was a low, familiar burn. “Ainsley, Leo is talking to you. Look at him. What kind of mother ignores her own son?” I laughed, a dry, bitter sound. “What kind of son stands over his mother’s injured body, insults her, and never asks if she’s in pain?” Preston’s impatience sharpened. “That’s only because you’re not affectionate enough, Ainsley. You’re always trying to guilt him with your exaggerated dramatics.” Exaggerated dramatics? Leo was born with a delicate constitution, constantly battling illness. I was the one who kept vigil for ten years, learning specialized acupuncture and massage, brewing every obscure Chinese tonic and medicated broth imaginable. My long, pianist fingers—the ones that earned me a scholarship—were now calloused and swollen from endless hours of domestic labor. Leo once admitted he was scared of the dark, and I didn’t close my eyes for three straight days and nights, simply sitting by his crib. But Preston never saw it. Leo never saw it. “Ainsley,” Preston lectured, cutting into my thoughts, “when you married into the Hawthorne family, I had one requirement: Take care of Leo. Was that truly so difficult? If you couldn’t even manage that, then I told you I’d divorce you—” “Then let’s do it,” I cut in, my voice level. “Divorce me. I don’t want to be Mrs. Hawthorne anymore.” Preston froze, stunned. He hadn’t expected that. After all, my family had begged for this marriage. Ten years ago, my sister, Audrey, had married Preston—the original plan—but then her ‘Holy Grail,’ the one she’d always loved, came back to the States. Audrey abandoned her newborn son and vanished without a trace. The Hawthorne family was furious. My parents, desperate to save the Caldwell family business, tricked me. They lured me home from my Ph.D. program, drugged me, and pushed me into Preston’s bed. The scandal was massive. With an infant Leo needing care, Preston had no choice but to marry me. We had an agreement: ten years. When Leo was old enough, the sham marriage would end. But in every argument, Preston weaponized that promise, using divorce as a threat. Well, the threat had lost its power. My parents erupted first. “Ainsley, what are you talking about? You can’t leave! Who will take care of Leo if you go?” Their faces, etched with disappointment, were the same ones I’d faced when I initially refused to give up the engagement. The contract was originally for me, Ainsley Caldwell, the daughter my mother carried when the deal was struck. But later, when Audrey was heartbroken by her forbidden romance and impulsively decided to marry, my parents demanded I step aside. Seeing my silence, my mother quickly softened her tone. “Alright, alright. You’re hurt, so we won’t make you apologize to Leo. Just swallow your pride, honey. We’ll even give you your house keys back. You can come and go as you please.” After I married Preston, they took my key to the Caldwell family home. They instructed the security and the driver to deny me entry unless I was with Leo. “Ainsley, you have to burn your boats. You must have no retreat, no home base, only then will you truly treat the Hawthorne house as your own and Leo as your own son.” They were true to their word; once, when an enraged Preston threw me out, I spent the night on the porch in the rain, and they never let me in. Preston, seeing my silence, misread it as calculation. He offered a cynical olive branch. “Fine. It’s just a few cracked ribs, it’s not a big deal. Stop pouting. When you’re better, I’ll take you to get wedding photos done.” In ten years, we hadn’t taken a single photograph together. If a photo-bombing party guest accidentally caught us in the same frame, Preston would snap at me for trying to steal a moment. But now, I wanted none of it—not his mock affection, and certainly not my parents’ false pity. “It won’t be necessary,” I said flatly. “I’ll be gone next month.” The room plunged into a suffocating, dead silence. Then, my parents’ and Preston’s fury washed over me. “Are you listening to yourself, Ainsley?” “Leo has his Math Olympiad next month! Who will tutor him? Who will manage his schedule?” “You’re a mother! How can you be so selfish? Abandon your child over a stupid tantrum?” A mother? I looked at Leo, whose eyes were still burning with resentment. For a decade, he’d only called me ‘Ainsley-Auntie.’ For the past two years, he wouldn’t even use a name, preferring ‘that woman.’ He had called me ‘Mom’ once, when he was just learning to talk. Preston had exploded. He ripped the child from my arms and banished me from the house. “Don’t waste your energy, Ainsley. Leo only has one mother!” Even after Audrey had abandoned him, Preston reserved that title for her. Every time Leo slipped up and called me ‘Mom,’ Preston would punish him. Ten years, and I was just a highly paid, perpetually ignored nanny. But it was almost over. I faced them, calm now. “You all said it yourselves: I was only fit to occupy this position for ten years. The time is up. I’m leaving.” My parents looked at me with disappointment and irritation. “Nobody is forcing you out! Why bring that up now?” They were only worried about the Caldwell-Hawthorne business ties. Preston, surprisingly, did not look relieved. He frowned. “What kind of excuse is that? If you’d just begged, would I really have kicked you out?” He spoke with the entitlement of a king granting a favor. “Fine, if you’re worried about what people will say, I’ll post a single status update on social media. I’ll announce that you are officially the Mrs. Hawthorne.” He hadn’t even given me a wedding. When business partners or friends came over, he introduced me with a casual wave: “The one who keeps the house and watches the kid.” Everyone knew I was the desperate gold-digger who failed to climb the social ladder and whose decade-long grace period had expired. But a title was meaningless to me now. I replied with a cool detachment. “The doctor said I might have a permanent limp. A woman with a physical disability can’t possibly be the ideal Hawthorne wife, and she certainly shouldn’t raise the heir to the Hawthorne name.” Preston relaxed, assuming he had solved the riddle of my anger. “You’re worried about that? Don’t be silly. With my resources, no one will dare speak ill of you, and we can hire the best doctors. Stop sulking, Ainsley. What are you going to do, anyway? You’ve been a homemaker for ten years; you won’t survive without the Hawthornes or the Caldwells.” He continued, condescendingly, “If it means that much to you, I’ll have my secretary buy you a diamond ring. We’ll have one family dinner, and you’ll be the ‘official’ Mrs. Hawthorne. As for the public announcement? You can forget it. What if Audrey sees it? What if she decides not to come home?” He ushered my parents and Leo out, leaving only his secretary to discuss my recovery. Oh, and the offered ring. The secretary, aloof and judgmental, approached the bedside. “Miss Caldwell, Mr. Hawthorne approved a budget of one million dollars for the ring. We can only get you a ready-made piece. If you don’t know much about jewelry, just pick the most expensive one. It will count as your personal asset, by the way.” Preston always believed I was a mercenary woman who slept my way into his life, which is why he only allowed me a meager three-thousand-dollar monthly allowance from the house manager. The secretary obviously thought a million was an astonishing show of generosity. Yet the custom-made armchair I dared to sit in—the one commissioned for Audrey—cost ten million. The master suite, a room I had never been allowed to enter, was filled with Audrey’s sacred belongings, easily worth ten times that. I pushed the secretary’s tablet away. “Just pick something. I don’t care.” That ring, like everything else Preston had ever given me—even the cheap corporate gift baskets—would likely just be destroyed by Leo eventually. Besides, I wouldn’t be wearing it. Just as the secretary left, Leo came back. He opened a thermos and threw the scalding oatmeal at me. “You better wise up and disappear fast, or next time I’ll use something worse.” He was small, so the oatmeal mostly hit the sheets, but a few drops splashed my forearm. It was the same oatmeal I had woken up at four in the morning to prepare for him, yet it burned my skin like acid. Seeing the angry red marks, Leo’s face broke into a satisfied smirk, and he left. The nurse came in, changed the linens, and applied cream. As she was leaving, she paused, then spoke softly. “Some children, Miss Caldwell, are simply ungrateful.” I looked down at the bandages covering my body, and the tears finally started to fall. A stranger could see it, but I had blindly believed for ten years that genuine kindness would be returned in kind. But whether it was Preston, my childhood friend, or Leo, the boy I raised from birth—my sincerity was always met with malice. They didn’t visit me once during the next two weeks. I hired a private aide, and on the day I was released, I returned to the Hawthorne house in a wheelchair to collect my belongings. I opened the front door and saw them all in the living room, laughing, surrounded by warmth and joy. In the center, radiant and glowing, was Audrey, my sister, who hadn’t been seen or heard from in a decade. My parents clutched her, their eyes red. “Audrey, darling, you’re back. That’s all that matters. What do you want to eat? Your mother will cook it for you.” Leo was clinging to her like a baby koala. “Mom, you’re finally home! I won’t be the boy with no one who cares about him anymore.” Even Preston, the ice king, was smiling with undisguised adoration. “Audrey, I knew you couldn’t stay away from me.” They were united, ecstatic, as if Audrey’s sudden disappearance—the event that had nearly ruined them—had never happened. When my parents begged me to step in, one had claimed a heart attack and the other had cried until her eyes were nearly blind. They told me Audrey had no soul. I helped stabilize the family business, negotiated with the Hawthornes, and walked into what I knew was a marriage of fire, only because they pleaded with me. Preston, too, had spiraled into an alcoholic depression after Audrey left. I had stayed by his side, Leo in my arms, and helped him climb out of the darkness. He had solemnly promised me we would make a real life together. And Leo, when he finally realized his mother had abandoned him, had a massive breakdown, weeping day and night until I swore I would never leave him. Ten years of devotion, completely erased by Audrey’s sudden return. The sound of my wheelchair entering the room drew their attention. My parents’ faces flushed with embarrassment. “Ainsley, you’re back? Why didn’t you call ahead?” They looked at me as if I were a ghost who had ruined their perfect family portrait. I instructed my aide to push me toward the stairs. “I couldn’t reach any of you. I called hundreds of times.” I needed their signatures on medical forms. I needed to discuss Leo and Preston’s arrangements after my departure. Every message I sent over the past two weeks had vanished into a black hole. Yet now, they were angry at me for not calling. Preston looked away uncomfortably. “It was just a busy couple of weeks. Go on up and rest, Ainsley. Don’t strain yourself.” Rest? Since when was he attentive? He was only worried about me interrupting his reunion with Audrey. But I no longer cared. Leo spoke up from behind me, his voice dripping with malice. “Go crawl back into your hole! My real mother is home now. You coarse, ugly woman. You can’t compare to her little finger.” Audrey was dressed impeccably, her makeup flawless, her long, manicured nails sparkling. She did look beautiful compared to my makeup-free, oversized sweatshirt look. I used to care about my appearance, but I stopped when I was caring for Leo—I worried my long hair would tangle in his tiny fingers, my nails would scratch his delicate skin, and my perfume would irritate his lungs. Leo, apparently, never noticed or cared. I ignored him and continued upstairs. I had a phone call with Professor Warren, finalizing my arrangements. He asked one last question, his voice hesitant. “Ainsley, are you truly sure? That’s the boy you raised for ten years. And Preston… you two were childhood sweethearts. After a decade, those bonds only deepen.” Deepen? The moment Audrey appeared, I was instantly obsolete. “Professor,” I said firmly. “I’ve made up my mind. I don’t belong here.” I hung up and sat in silence. I turned and saw Preston standing in the doorway, watching me. Seeing my startlement, he scoffed. “Oh, come on. Stop acting. You make such a dramatic exit, and now you’re suddenly talking on the phone about leaving the country? It’s all for show, isn’t it? Audrey is back, so now you’re playing the run-away bride, trying to get me to chase you.” His familiar contempt was a dull ache. For a second, a complex mix of feelings—anger, nostalgia—floated up. Preston hadn’t always been like this. He had trusted me unconditionally once. When my parents tried to force me into a boarding school a thousand miles away to clear the field for Audrey, Preston had refused to eat for three days and risked losing his inheritance until his family finally agreed to send him to my school. I truly believed we would have a fairytale ending. I fought with all my strength against my parents’ attempts to cage me, to break my will and force me out of the engagement. But when I finally escaped the basement where they were holding me, the first thing I saw was him on bended knee, slipping a ring onto Audrey’s finger in a lavishly decorated hall. My parents told me Audrey was simply better than me, and Preston finally saw it. I tried to tell myself it wasn’t true, but the pure joy on Preston’s face when he held Audrey was undeniable. When my parents begged me to clean up Audrey’s mess, a selfish impulse was mixed into my agreement. I thought I could still get the old Preston back. Ten years of cold indifference had taught me the truth. Preston only had eyes for Audrey. “Dad! Did you go up to get that smelly woman to cook? What’s taking so long? Mom’s hungry downstairs!” Leo’s shrill voice cut through my memory. Preston glanced at me. “Stop playing your little games. Audrey specifically asked for your cooking. Go make her dinner. If you perform well, I might consider letting you stay on the property.” I gripped the arms of my wheelchair, choking down the rage. “I’m injured. You want me to cook for Audrey in this condition?” Leo shrieked again. “You don’t have a real injury, you fake! Stop pretending to be an invalid!” A few more hours, and the injury would have been permanent. That’s what the doctor said. That severe injury, in Leo’s eyes, was a minor inconvenience. I looked at the face I had woken up to every morning for ten years, now contorted with contempt. I couldn’t find a trace of the sweet boy who used to cling to me and say, “The heavens made a mistake. I chose you to be my mom.” I pushed the emotions down. Preston and Leo stood there, expecting compliance. The bitterness was overwhelming. “Fine,” I said, a self-deprecating smile touching my lips. “At least push me down there.” Preston scoffed and called the housekeeper. “Don’t try to find excuses to get close to me, Ainsley.” In the kitchen, Audrey strolled in like the queen returning to her throne. “Thank you so much, Sister, for watching the house. I’ll make sure Preston gives you a generous severance when you leave.” She then proceeded to list her dinner request: “Just keep it simple, you know my tastes. Bird’s nest porridge, braised sea cucumber, King Crab. Don’t make a fuss.” The housekeeper whispered nervously, “But Miss Caldwell, these are complex dishes. They require four to five hours of preparation, and you said we couldn’t help…” Audrey raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Are you saying my sister is too good to make me dinner?” My parents’ voices boomed from the living room. “Ainsley, your sister has just come home! Are you going to deny her this small request?” I had told myself I was numb, but their blatant bias still stung. This is the last time. I looked straight at Audrey. “I leave tomorrow. You don’t need to try and torture me anymore.” Audrey’s face instantly lit up. “You said it, not me! I’m not running you off.” She glanced at the housekeeper. “Fine, let them help you.” She then flounced off, responding to the urgent calls of Preston and my parents. With the housekeeper’s pitying gaze on me, I started to cook. Even with help prepping the ingredients, operating from a wheelchair was exhausting. After what felt like an eternity, and with my injured leg throbbing, the feast was complete. I rolled out of the kitchen. The villa was silent. The house manager approached me, looking troubled. “Miss Caldwell, Ms. Audrey said she wanted a late-night street food snack three hours ago. Mr. Hawthorne and your parents drove her out to get it.” I felt nothing. Not surprise. Not despair. I gave a quiet sigh. “I see. Please push me upstairs. I need to pack.” The next morning, before the sun was fully up, my arranged car arrived. The driver gasped as we were about to pull out. “Whoa! What’s this kid doing?” I craned my neck. It was Leo, standing directly in front of the car. He was still in yesterday’s crumpled clothes, shivering in the cold morning air.

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My roommate was the kind of genius artist who blooms early, dazzling everyone. She came from an old-money New England art dynasty—her father, a powerful figure on the Board of the Met, her mother, a former starlet with a permanent glow. She had been four years old when she first held a brush, ten when her first solo exhibition sold out in Chelsea, and by eighteen, her Instagram following rivaled a pop star’s. So, when I reported her to the school’s Ethics Committee for stealing my winning entry, everyone—from our department head to the campus security guard—thought I was delusional. A classic case of the untalented underdog cracking under pressure. I refused her hush money, trying to claw back my integrity, my truth. In return, she slammed the heel of her hand into my chest and sent me tumbling down the marble staircase. In the final, fading moments, I heard her voice, sharp and cold as shattered glass. “An orphan like you, with nothing but hand-me-down dreams? A joke.” When I woke up, the familiar, stale scent of our dorm room air conditioning filled my lungs, and the clock on the bedside table read: September 14th. Two days before the submission deadline. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I walked straight to my easel and slashed the painting to shreds. Now, it was her turn to panic. 1 The first time I stood up to her, after she’d won the Kestrel Prize with my canvas, the internet turned me into a villain overnight. It was all because of who Audrey Thorne was. The golden girl. Born into that rarefied air, she seemed to embody everything the art world adored. She was the one all the other girls at Rhode Island School of Design (RISD) wanted to be. No one, from her devoted fans to the casual onlookers, could believe that she, the luminous, gifted artist, would ever stoop to plagiarize. She was too good, too pure for such a tawdry scandal. To make matters worse, Audrey had used her acceptance speech to call for kindness, softly urging her fans not to “attack” me. “Sienna is a talented but clearly troubled soul,” she’d murmured, her voice laced with that perfected, gentle sadness. While the comments section flooded with praise for her beauty and “noble heart,” the digital detectives dug up my past. Orphan. Raised in a small-town group home. Didn’t even start oil painting until high school on a teacher’s advice. The narrative solidified instantly. “She’s got to be unstable. Why would someone like the great Audrey Thorne need her work?” “A desperate clout chaser. Going for the ‘black-and-red’ route—trying to build a career on controversy. Pathetic.” “Poor Audrey. She has to live with a toxic parasite like that. The school should just expel her for this character assassination!” The insults and fabrications hit me like a dense, driving rain. I sought help from our academic advisor and the other two roommates, Harper and Chloe, begging them to set the record straight. After all, they had seen me hunched over that easel for months. But I didn’t know what kind of deal Audrey had cut with them. They weren’t just unwilling to help; they were actively turning the screws. They did a joint Instagram Live, putting on a show of concern, tearfully urging me to “see the light.” “Just apologize, Sienna. Admit you were mistaken. Audrey is a kind person; she said she’ll forgive you and drop it,” Harper wept into the camera. I couldn’t do it. How could I confess to a lie I didn’t tell? The internet remembers everything. If I admitted to “slander,” that scarlet letter would brand me forever. The public didn’t see it that way, especially after Audrey leaked screenshots from her private fan group. The “evidence” showed her discussing creative ideas that seemed to align perfectly with the winning piece’s concept. Even I hadn’t realized how meticulously she’d planned this from the first day I laid down paint. A furious mob descended on the school’s social media, demanding my expulsion. On campus, students pointed and whispered, their eyes slicing me to pieces. Worst of all, the most extreme Audrey fans found the address of the old group home—The Haven—where I’d grown up. They splashed the main door with foul-smelling red paint and hurled abuse at the Director, Mrs. Sterling, and the younger kids. They screamed that the home raised “bad seeds,” and I was the proof: a “morally bankrupt trash” of a former resident. I could handle the attacks aimed at me, but The Haven had done nothing wrong. They didn’t deserve to be dragged into this firestorm. What I couldn’t wrap my head around was why Audrey, with her innate talent, would need to steal anyone’s art. The answer, I realized, was hiding in the last three years of dorm life. The brilliant child prodigy was gone. Fame and early worship don’t just elevate; they can also corrode the will. For years, Audrey had been too busy attending exclusive parties, filming perfectly filtered vlogs, and signing endorsement deals for luxury brands. She hadn’t spent more than a handful of dedicated days in the studio all semester. She couldn’t even replicate the quality of her own earlier work, let alone generate a new masterpiece. I cornered her one afternoon, warning her that I would call the police if she didn’t end the charade. Audrey threw her head back and laughed—a high, brittle sound. “Oh, stop. Name your price, Sienna.” Shedding her gentle façade, she spoke with a sickening superiority. “Having your little sketch crowned with my name? That’s your biggest break, kid.” “Keep fighting, and I have a hundred different ways to make you disappear.” I was done arguing. I pulled out my phone. That action—that simple gesture of defiance—was what truly enraged her. She lunged, shoving me back with a shocking violence. My head cracked against the corner of a step, and immediately, the slick, copper scent of blood filled the air. My legs were numb. As the world swam into a hazy, darkening canvas, I tilted my head and saw Audrey standing above me on the landing, arms crossed, her expression a mask of cold disdain. “An orphan like you, with nothing but hand-me-down dreams? A joke.” A storm of fury and profound injustice closed my eyes. The next time I opened them, I was back. The clock on the wall was mocking me: September 14th. Two days before the submission deadline. 2 “Sienna, how’s your Kestrel entry coming along?” “You know you can’t slack off. If you win, you’ll get the automatic Master’s placement—no GRE, no portfolio review. It’s huge.” “Just focus, sweetie. I know you can do it.” The earnest, concerned voice washed over me. I flinched, turning toward the sound. Audrey Thorne stood before me, her smile a perfect, radiant curve. She held out a pink, meticulously crafted strawberry tart. “I grabbed this for you. No pressure, just a little fuel for the final push.” I stared, frozen. I couldn’t reconcile this gentle presence with the face I’d seen twisted in sneering cruelty a moment before. Wait, where was I? One second I was dying on a cold staircase; the next, I was back in our cramped, brightly-lit dorm room. Before I could process the terrifying whiplash, two other voices chimed in. “Ugh, hello, catch it, Riser.” That was Harper, always snide. “Seriously, no manners. Typical. Didn’t they teach you how to accept a gift at the… home?” Chloe finished the sentence, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. Harper and Chloe had made it a point to freeze me out since they found out I was a scholarship kid from a group home. It wasn’t physical bullying, but their words were always barbed, meant to inflict a thousand tiny cuts. I usually shot back, refusing to be their doormat, but we’d kept up this toxic cohabitation for three years. This time, I ignored them. I launched myself off my chair, knocking the strawberry tart and the hand that held it aside as I bolted into the bathroom. Behind me, I heard Harper’s shriek. “Oh my god, Audrey, are you okay?” “The hell, Sienna! What is your problem? Did she just assault you in a daytime seizure?” Chloe raged. Audrey sucked in a theatrical gasp of air, but her reply was soft, forgiving. “It’s fine, girls. Sienna is probably just stressed about the deadline. There are so many of us submitting this year. Let’s not make it harder for her.” Same old Audrey. Always the martyr, the perfect, understanding friend. My past life screamed at me: She is a wolf in silk clothing. Chloe’s voice rose to a furious pitch. “I swear, she’s just jealous of you! You’re so nice to her, and this is how she repays you? She needs to apologize, right now! This is not over!” The two of them stomped off their beds, heading straight for the bathroom door, ready to drag me out and force a confession. But I had already locked it. I leaned against the sink, ignoring the banging and the muffled shouts. I looked into the mirror: my face was full, alive, bright. I reached up and touched my forehead. No blood. No sickening, deep gash. I clenched my fist and drove my nail into the sensitive flesh of my palm. The pain was immediate, sharp, and undeniable. I was back. I had a chance. The piece of art had not yet been submitted. I hadn’t been cyberbullied into oblivion. The Haven had not been vandalized. The rhythmic pounding on the door intensified. “Sienna, what is it? Did I do something wrong? Please, let’s talk. Don’t bottle things up.” If I hadn’t seen the truth, I might have been moved. But now, my only thought was a cold, sharp resolve: Audrey Thorne would never climb to the top on the back of my work again. After a moment, I opened the door. Audrey instantly moved in, her eyes wide with manufactured concern. Harper and Chloe hovered behind her, shooting daggers at me. I walked past all three of them, straight to my desk. I picked up my utility knife, flipped back the protective drop cloth, and, in a single, decisive motion, sliced my finished masterpiece to ribbons. Silence. Shock. Then, Audrey let out a sound so sharp it felt like a shriek. “Sienna! What is wrong with you?” She clutched her hair. Her voice was too loud, too distraught. “That painting was incredible! You—you just ruined it! The deadline is in two days! What am I going to submit?!” The word hung in the air: submit. In her panic, she’d forgotten the script. I had known she planned to steal it, but seeing her claim it so naturally, so instantly, made my blood run cold. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “It’s my painting, Audrey. I’m the one who decides what’s wrong with it. And what you submit is none of my business.”

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The moment the car crash took my parents, the clock stopped. I was eighteen. The world didn’t just end; it became a tidal wave of creditors and debt notices. I begged, tear-streaked and desperate, but the friends and “family” who had once filled our house vanished like smoke. Then, out of the wreckage, Audrey Sinclair appeared. She was my father’s former student, now the heiress to the Sinclair Empire. Under the cold, regal guise of the future Mrs. Maxwell, she paid off the last of the debt and silenced the collectors. But for the next ten years, we remained nothing more than engaged. A decade of standing on the sidelines, trapped in a bizarre holding pattern because I hadn’t yet “passed the Sinclair trials.” On my ninety-ninth failure—my body bruised and aching, a custom funfetti cake tucked under my arm—I accidentally overheard her talking to a friend. “Seriously, Audrey, how many times has Ethan failed the ‘trials’? I’ve lost count.” “He’s pathetic, Maya. There are no ‘Sinclair trials.’ It was a convenient fiction to stall for time and keep Leo Harrington within reach. How has he not figured that out?” Audrey’s voice was ice. “Ninety-nine, and counting. Pity isn’t in my vocabulary.” “But you’ve been engaged for ten years. The trials have to end sometime. What happens when he finds out? I heard Leo is flying back tonight.” “Leo isn’t the penniless grad student he was ten years ago, he’s a Wall Street golden boy. Our companies are already merging. The Sinclair heir’s spot was always meant for The Golden Standard, Maya. For Leo. I did what I had to do to hold the line until he was worthy.” The designer cake bag crumpled in my fist. A decade. A farce. My entire salvation, the lifeline I had clung to, was just a waiting room for her real love. The trials? A punchline. Tears fell, hot and bitter. My savior was nothing more than a magnificent liar, a director who’d cast me as the star of her decade-long distraction. I wasn’t playing this role anymore. 1 “But—” Maya’s voice was cut off. “Even if I hadn’t gotten engaged to Ethan, the family would never have let me be with Leo back then. My only option was to wait until he was the kind of man the Sinclairs would accept. As for Ethan—ten years of the Sinclair name was my biggest return to him.” Maya looked sick. “You gave him access to so many resources, and he turned them all down. Then he specifically demanded Ethan be the one to broker the final deal. He’s deliberately trying to hurt him, Audrey.” “If Ethan finds out, you’ll lose him completely. He might even hate you, and you know he has nobody else.” Audrey stood up, staring out the window. “I know all of it. But I just want to be with the man I love. Is that so wrong? The next trial will be impossible. He’ll walk away. It ends there. Don’t bring this up again.” “Making it impossible doesn’t mean the past disappears. Ethan fought through ninety-nine failures to marry you. He won’t just hand you over to Leo. He’s human, Audrey. He’ll break.” “Enough. I never belonged to him, so there’s nothing to ‘hand over.’ After Leo and I marry, I’ll send Ethan overseas for his doctorate. He always wanted to follow his father’s work. I’ll fund whatever he needs.” “You’re really going to see this through, aren’t you? Ethan has been the one by your side for a decade. How do you know Leo is still The Golden Standard you remember?” Maya sighed. “Fine. I won’t say anything else. Do what you want.” The silence that followed was heavy. The funfetti cake, which I had spent two hours trying to keep perfect, now lay on the ground, a colorful smear on the Persian rug. It was the perfect metaphor for my love for Audrey. Crushed, unrecognizable, a sticky, bitter mess. Ten years ago, the bailiffs were at the door, and my life had imploded. I was just a terrified kid who only knew how to study. Audrey had talked me down from the roof. She went from my father’s student to my fiancée. When the Sinclairs pushed back, she spun the story of my father’s life-saving kindness to her, securing her own father’s reluctant consent. I thought our bond was a sacred debt of gratitude. But then she told me I would be the best son-in-law, put me through business school, and let me shadow the Sinclair corporate affairs. She even kissed me sometimes, a quick, intoxicating brush of lips that felt like a reward. The suspicion about the trials had always been there, but the memory of those kisses, that brief taste of us, made me swallow it all down and try again. It had all been a lie. I scrubbed the tears from my face, straightening up and forcing myself to walk away. With every step, a piece of my affection for Audrey dissolved. Before I’d made it far, I heard a familiar voice behind me. “Ethan? What are you doing out here?” I turned and faced her, forcing a hollow smile. I pointed to the pitiful mess on the ground. “I was bringing the cake. Tripped right by the door, and it slipped. Heading back out to get a new one now.” The tension instantly left her face. She spotted the scrapes and cuts on my arms. Her eyes softened with practiced concern. “You went to another trial? I told you it doesn’t matter if you pass, I’ve already chosen you. You don’t need to—” The genuine concern I saw on her face the previous ninety-eight times now felt revolting. One second she was sighing over her long-lost love, the next she was pouring out this saccharine affection for me. You’re a phenomenal actress, Audrey. I watched her cold performance, avoiding her hand as she reached for my wound. I knew I couldn’t break the illusion yet. “I’m fine. Just clumsy. Sorry, I failed this one, too.” She was a professional. Despite my obvious coldness, she insisted on dragging me back to the Sinclair manor. She frantically searched for the first aid kit, treating my wounds as if I were a piece of priceless crystal. “Blow on it. The pain goes away.” A month ago, that sweet, maternal gesture would have melted me. Now, it made my stomach churn. This was the gilded cage she’d used to keep me compliant. She didn’t notice my inner chill. She kissed my palm—the familiar, sickening comfort of it—and then she said it. The line I’d waited a decade for. “Ethan, let’s get married.” My hand, which I was about to pull away, froze. She gripped it, looking straight into my eyes. “We’ve been engaged for ten years. People are gossiping that I’m unreliable, that I’ve moved on. We’ll have a spectacular wedding. The kind that shuts up every single person who has something to say.” I watched the self-serving fantasy play out in her eyes. “But I haven’t passed the Sinclair trials? Your father wouldn’t—” She cut me off with a kiss. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you pass the final one. I promise.” It was the ninety-ninth lie. If you don’t love me, why do you care what happens to me? “Ethan? You don’t want to marry me?” Her question broke my internal loop. To hide my true expression, I pulled her into a tight hug. But the warmth of my embrace was all a performance, and my eyes were utterly cold. She mistook it for passion and launched into a breathless description of the wedding planner. The distraction was a phone call. She glanced at the screen, and her lips curved into a smile she couldn’t hide. “Ethan, work emergency. I have to go now. You stay here and rest.” She rushed off, the joy in her expression undeniable. The identity of the caller was painfully obvious. I watched her retreating back, silently reciting my eulogy for our relationship. Audrey, you saved my life. I gave you ten years of my life as a repayment. The debt is settled. After she left, the immense space of the house felt desolate. I went straight to her private study, intending to draft a separation agreement. We didn’t have a marriage license, but ten years of entwined life meant we had ten years of separation to untangle. The moment I logged into her computer, I froze. Her messaging app was open. The thread was with Leo Harrington. His contact name was an emoji of a black knight. ‘Can’t miss the Princess’s birthday. Your Knight is flying in fast!’ Audrey’s reply: ‘Waiting for the Knight for the tenth time. ’ I scrolled, numbly, frantically, until the mouse slipped from my hand and I sagged onto the floor. I had known where she was going, but the sight of the evidence was a physical tearing in my chest. This was the truth of her “not-love.” She hated texting, she said. Too impersonal. We were always calls. Always voice. Always the distance. But here? Ten years only held 3,650 days. Their messages numbered in the tens of thousands. Daily. Intimate. Love was in the volume. Love was in the banality of their daily life. The clock struck midnight. A ding from the laptop. Leo’s Instagram post. ‘Happy Birthday, My Princess. Ten years of holding the line. Get ready for the most important day of our lives, three days from now.’ The photo: Two hands, clasped. His left index finger. The small, distinct crimson mole I’d seen a hundred times on campus. I wasn’t going to bless them. I picked up my phone and sent a text to a number I hadn’t dialed in a decade. ‘Are you still waiting? Do this one thing for me. Then I fulfill my promise.’ The reply was instantaneous: ‘Yes.’

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I wanted to stroke the campus heartthrob’s cat. It was the middle of the night, and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I shot him a text. Avery: Hey, can I stroke it? Just once! His reply was immediate, and predictably formal. Rhys: Avery, that’s a bit forward. I pressed on. I knew I was good with my hands. Avery: I’ve got a great touch, I promise I’ll make it purr! One hand from head to tail, right? Silence. An hour later, he finally replied. Rhys: One hand won’t do it. Rhys: You won’t be able to grasp it. 1 Avery: No way! Avery: I can definitely grasp it! To prove my point, I immediately took a close-up photo of my hand and sent it to him. In the picture, my hand was cupped, angled just so to make my fingers look extra long and nimble. Avery: See? Plenty of room. I wasn’t delusional. His cat, Figaro, was only three months old. A tiny little thing. How could I not be able to grasp it? The top of the chat box flashed: Rhys is typing… It started, then stopped. Stopped, then started again. For a solid three minutes. All I could think about was the cat. I was getting impatient. Avery: How about you send me a close-up picture so I can check if it’s grown? 2 Rhys’s reply this time was surprisingly fast. Rhys: I’m a traditional man. I frowned, staring at the screen. What did being “traditional” have to do with sending a picture of a kitten? Rhys: It’s not appropriate at night. It’s already asleep. I was even more confused. Avery: Don’t lie. It’s definitely wide awake right now. Nighttime was prime zoomie-time for any kitten. I suspected Rhys was just using excuses. After that, he stopped replying. Rhys Alderidge was a legend in our department. First, because of his face—a chiseled, untouchable beauty that landed him the unofficial title of Campus Heartthrob. Second, because of his personality—infamously stiff, unapproachable, and stubbornly old-school. He’d broken a thousand hearts without even trying. We were in the same college, but different majors, so besides large lecture classes, we had zero overlap. Texting him at midnight about stroking his cat was, admittedly, a breach of social contract. This is going south, I thought, letting out a heavy sigh. Just as I was about to give up, my phone vibrated. Rhys had actually conceded. Rhys: If you want to stroke it so badly… fine. Rhys: But you have to come to my place. He added a familiar line. Rhys: I’m a traditional man. !!! He’d said yes! I was elated, scared he’d change his mind. Avery: Deal! No problem! Avery: Wherever you want to stroke it is fine by me! I’m flexible! The screen went quiet for a few seconds. Rhys: When did you… take an interest in it? 3 Why was I so obsessed with stroking Rhys Alderidge’s cat? Because it was my cat. Rhys was a kidnapper. He had effectively catnapped my beloved son, Figaro. Figaro was a scrappy, long-haired calico I’d found living under my dorm. He had a weird, chaotic patchwork of orange and black that made him look a little like a walking paint-spill—which is why no one adopted him. I’d been his biological human since he was a month old. I paid for his vet visits, built his little shelter, and fed him by hand. I couldn’t bring him into the dorm because my roommate was allergic, so I was saving up my scholarship money to rent an apartment. Rhys, however, had beaten me to it. He skipped straight past “adopt” and went directly to “steal.” But an opportunist never quits. I instantly developed a perfect new plan: Get close to Rhys. Lull him into a false sense of security. Then, steal my son back. 4 When did I take an interest in it? I thought back. Avery: Two months ago. Two months ago was when I first met Figaro next to the dumpsters behind my dorm. The top of the chat box flashed: Rhys is typing… After a long pause, he sent three words. Rhys: Me too. My fist clenched. What did that mean? He saw Figaro two months ago but didn’t take him in? He just watched while I did all the hard work—potty training him, getting him fed, turning him into a plump, healthy little creature—and then swooped in to claim him? This was a blatant theft of hard-won victory. It was infuriating. But I forced myself to calm down. Bigger picture, Avery. Bigger picture. I put on a friendly facade. Avery: Well, looks like we’re completely in sync then, aren’t we~ Avery: So, when can I come over and stroke it? 5 That night, Rhys just replied, It’s moving too fast, and then went radio silent. No specific date, no time. That wouldn’t do. A dedicated plotter like me hates uncertainty. I had to push him. The first thing I did in the morning was film myself applying hand cream and sent the video. In the clip, I massaged the milky lotion into my palms, smoothing it over my knuckles. Avery: Look, my hands are super soft. It’s going to be in pure ecstasy when I touch it. The chat box flashed Rhys is typing… for nearly a minute. Nothing ever came through. Why did he keep doing this? A bold thought crossed my mind—maybe Rhys just wasn’t good with phones. I decided to be more direct. Avery: Can you send me a video of you stroking it? Just to tide me over? (Stars-in-eyes emoji) He was silent for a while. Then, a familiar line popped up. Rhys: I’m a traditional man. Avery: … Was that a default auto-reply? Was something wrong with him? I didn’t know how to respond, so I just didn’t. About ten minutes later, my phone vibrated. Rhys had actually sent a video! 6 My heart did a little jump. I quickly tapped play. The frame held only a pair of hands. The fingers were long and slender, with distinct knuckles. Pale skin with faint blue veins underneath. The fingers were moving, sliding up and down in mid-air, a study in elegant motion. But they were trembling slightly, as if recording this brief clip had been a massive psychological barrier to overcome. I was momentarily confused. Why was he showing me his hands? Was I the type of person who just drooled over handsome men? I wanted the cat! With no Figaro content from Rhys, I resorted to trawling his old social media posts. I found an old video of him petting the cat. In the clip, Rhys was sitting down, his eyes lowered, silver-rimmed glasses resting on his nose. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up twice, exposing a clean, firm forearm. He looked gentle and studious. His long fingers were lightly petting the kitten’s head. The next second, the cat twisted its head and swiped a claw across his forearm, leaving a clear red scratch. He didn’t seem annoyed; a tiny, affectionate smile even touched the corner of his mouth. My roommate leaned over my shoulder. “He’s so handsome, and so emotionally regulated… I wish I were his cat.” She paused, then observed, “Look, he was just scratched and he’s still smiling.” She smirked suggestively. “Maybe he is a bit of a masochist. They say the quiet, buttoned-up ones are always the wildest ones in the sheets. Girl, whoever lands him is going to eat well.” Her words made me realize the reason for Rhys’s hesitation. 7 I sent a probing text. Avery: You never bring people you aren’t close with back to your place, do you? Rhys replied with a single word. Rhys: No. Aha! Case closed. He was so stiff and formal that he felt we weren’t close enough for me to come home and stroke his cat. I clicked over to his profile again, carefully scrolling through his posts. I needed a way to accelerate our relationship status. 8 Clutching a small pink gift bag, I found Rhys in his large lecture hall during the busiest break between classes. He was sitting alone, reading. He looked like a very serious ragdoll cat. “Rhys!” He visibly flinched when he saw me, blinking rapidly behind his glasses. His earlobes flushed pink. I pressed the pink bag into his hands, smiling brightly. “Open it, Rhys. See if you like it.” He took it, glancing nervously at the surrounding students, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Are you sure… you want me to open this in front of everyone?” I nodded enthusiastically. “Of course! Open it.” He carefully peeled back the tissue paper. Inside lay a small, hand-knitted scarf that I’d stayed up all night to finish. “Happy belated birthday, Rhys!” The afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, catching my radiant smile. Rhys froze, staring at me. When he finally registered what I’d said, his ear tips turned even redder. He adjusted his glasses to cover his confusion. “…Thank you.” The surrounding spectators immediately became alert. “Rhys actually accepted a gift from a girl?” “The Heartthrob is blushing…” I gave myself a mental high-five. Plan: Aced. Now that he’d accepted a gift and I’d wished him well, we were officially friends, right? It was time to claim my prize. “I knitted it myself,” I emphasized. He stroked the scarf, his eyes avoiding mine. “I love it.” “I was up all night working on it,” I pressed, following the momentum. He looked up at me, his eyes dark. “I understand your intentions.” The moment was now. I lowered my voice. “So, about what I asked last night…?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. He looked away. “I’m a bit traditional. I need some time. Maybe next month…” My smile instantly faltered. He saw my face drop and pursed his lips. “Next weekend,” he revised quickly. I immediately deployed the innocent, doe-eyed appeal, gently tugging the sleeve of his shirt. “The day after tomorrow! Tomorrow! Please?” He seemed burned by my touch. He grit his teeth. “Fine.” “Thank you!” My mood instantly shifted, and I beamed. “I’m going to make sure I’m completely ready!” He looked at me, his gaze heavy, and his voice held a strange, determined finality. “I will be, too.” I didn’t understand what he needed to prepare for. 9 On the walk back to the dorm, my roommate linked arms with me, shaking her head in amazement. “Avery, do you know what Rhys said when a freshman tried to give him a gift last month?” She mimicked Rhys’s stiff, upright posture. “‘I do not accept bribes for my position.’ He refused without even looking at it.” “He’s pathologically good.” She suddenly leaned in, elbowing me. “But he took yours and said he liked it!” I thought she was overthinking it. “He just likes hand-knitted things.” My roommate sighed, utterly defeated. “Avery, you are a ruthless opportunist, but also a monumental idiot.” “Poor Rhys.” I tuned her out. I only had one thing on my mind: Figaro. Tomorrow, I could finally go to Rhys’s place and stroke him! I hadn’t seen him in so long; I was going to inhale his scent until I passed out. 10 I was too excited to sleep. Tucked under my covers, I suddenly remembered an important detail. I texted Rhys. Avery: Did you shave its butt hair? If not, I can come over and clip it tomorrow. Figaro was a long-haired cat; his rear end needed regular maintenance, or things got messy. On the other end, Rhys seemed to be struggling. After a long input delay, he replied. Rhys: Isn’t that… moving a bit too fast? I frowned at the screen. I told him the truth. Avery: I can’t wait any longer! This time, his input was even slower. So long that I thought he might have fallen asleep. Finally, the message popped up. Rhys: I’ve never done it before, but for you… I can try. Rhys: I’m very much looking forward to it. I was wondering why he’d be looking forward to clipping a cat’s butt hair. Then, another message arrived. Rhys: Since I’ve agreed to all this, can I ask for a small favor in return? I bit my bottom lip, hovering my finger over the screen. After three seconds of deliberation. Fine, I need the cat more. Avery: Sure. He almost instantly replied. Rhys: Can I call you ‘Babe’? I was confused. Avery: Why? He replied with utter seriousness. Rhys: It seems like people in our situation often use that term for each other. Our situation? 11 I stared at the words, my brain momentarily fried. Then, a sudden realization struck me—I understood! We were cat-buddies! People online who shared pictures and advice about their cats often called each other “Babe” or “Sweetie.” The logic was flawless. Relieved, I readily agreed. Avery: Okay, sure. Go for it. He immediately sent a strange, slightly outdated floral emoji with the caption, “Happiness Lasts Forever,” radiating a kind of rigid, uncontainable joy. My goal achieved, I decided to end the conversation. Avery: Goodnight, see you tomorrow. I was about to put down my phone when a voice note popped up. I tapped it. His low, rich voice poured into my ear, sounding as if he were right behind me. “Goodnight, Babe.” “See you tomorrow.” 12 Following the address Rhys had sent, I found myself standing in front of a substantial, secluded villa. “This is next-level luxury,” I murmured, taking a deep breath before ringing the doorbell. The door opened. Rhys stood in the frame, his hair damp. He was wearing a white terry-cloth robe, and he’d taken off his glasses, making his features look sharper and his thick eyelashes more prominent. He seemed edgier than usual. I froze for a second. He spoke first. “My parents are at a visiting professorship abroad.” “…Oh.” So, he was completely alone? He held out a pair of fuzzy white kitten slippers. They were identical to the black ones he was wearing. I started to bend down, but he knelt first. “Let me.” “You don’t have to…” Before I could finish, his fingers deftly untied my shoelaces. His robe gaped slightly with the movement, and I accidentally glanced inside, catching a flash of taut, slightly pink-tinged muscle. My face went hot, and I snapped my head away. After I put the slippers on, Rhys gentlemanly ushered me inside. “So, can I stroke it now?” I asked, eager for the cat. “Has it gotten a lot bigger?” 13 Rhys’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He cleared his throat. “Y-yes,” he managed. I was impatient. “Where should I stroke it?” “You… where do you want to? Anywhere is fine.” “The living room couch, then.” I went straight to the point, plopping down and rubbing my hands together excitedly. “Bring Figaro out!” Rhys lightly coughed, the tips of his ears flushed red. He looked incredibly serious. “It’s not small,” he said solemnly. What did that mean? Was he bragging about how well he’d fed Figaro? As I wondered, Rhys very deliberately reached for a remote and closed all the living room blinds. ?? Then, he turned on a dim, amber-colored mood lamp. ??? I didn’t understand, but I respected the man’s eccentricities. The entire space was bathed in a hazy, slightly ambiguous light. He walked over to the sofa. Taking a deep breath, as if making a monumental decision, he sat down next to me. The bottom of his robe had slipped open slightly as he spread his legs. He leaned back against the cushions and lifted an arm to cover his eyes. He looked like a portrait of submission. His damp, dark hair, the half-open robe—in the dim light, he appeared both incredibly restrained and deeply ready to let go. I was stunned. This was what he meant by “traditional”? After a moment, he didn’t feel any movement, so he lowered the arm covering his eyes and looked at me, his expression wet with a kind of resigned vulnerability. “You… you don’t want to start?” I was just as antsy. “You have to bring Figaro out! If you don’t, how can I start?” The air froze.

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My doctor was blunt: After the miscarriage, it would be extremely difficult for me to conceive again. To prove his undying love and devotion, my husband immediately went in for a vasectomy. “I’ll shield you from all the gossip and judgment,” he’d promised, his voice thick with sincerity. The world—our circle of friends, his corporate rivals, the tabloids—praised him. Grant Harrington: Wealthy, devoted, the perfect modern husband. I, however, slipped a signed divorce agreement across his pristine mahogany desk. Everyone, I knew, would call me insane. But only I knew the truth. The young woman who had pushed me down those stairs. She was the little bird my husband had been keeping in a gilded cage outside our home. 1 The very day I finally resolved to leave him, the blood test came back positive. Twins, the doctor said. A miracle. When Grant found out, he cut ties with the other woman instantly. He was efficient about it, cold and clinical. But not unkind. He paved the way for the next few decades of her life. A five-million-dollar trust. A high-rise condo. And a job that came with a guarantee she’d never be downsized. He rationalized it, saying the girl—Chloe—had been with him for two years, since she was barely legal. It was the compensation she was due. He seemed to have forgotten that I, too, had been young when I first stood by him. It was during the year his family’s empire collapsed. The year we were so poor our bank account held barely a thousand dollars leading into Christmas, and the rent was due in ten days. Our Christmas Eve dinner was instant ramen with a single egg, a rare splurge of two hot dogs, which we’d politely tried to defer to the other. As the fireworks cracked outside the window of our dingy sublet, he held me, swearing he would rise again. He promised he would never, ever betray me. And he did rise. Grant rebuilt an empire. But in doing so, he betrayed me utterly. All that stress and sacrifice in those lean years had ruined my body, making pregnancy a near-impossibility. He’d never complained, and he’d forbidden anyone from mentioning the subject of children around me. Everyone in our circle envied me, not just for having bet on the right horse, but for having a man so committed. But marriage is like a pair of shoes: only the wearer knows if they pinch. While I was meticulously tracking my cycles and enduring fertility treatments, Grant was funding a college girl. She was young, dewy, and untouched, like a perfectly peeled fruit. When I was that age, I was enduring financial ruin and humiliation by Grant’s side. My compensation was the title: Mrs. Harrington. His “compensation” to Chloe was enough money to buy a quiet, comfortable life. It made me feel like an absolute fool. I resented him. I hated him. But a chilling, practical voice in my head insisted: Don’t divorce him. Not yet. I had his twins growing inside me. I’d waited so long. I couldn’t lose them. But once they arrived, they would need capital, influence, and resources—things I couldn’t provide alone. Whether I wanted to admit it or not, they deserved to be Harrington heirs, raised in their rightful home, destined to inherit everything. If I could swallow my rage for a few more months, a life of immense security and privilege awaited us. After a night of brutal internal debate, I decided to give him a final chance. Grant took it as forgiveness. He stroked my swollen stomach. “Don’t stress, Audrey. It meant nothing. If it had been anything serious, she would have been pregnant ages ago.” I pulled my hand away, ice cold. I laid down three non-negotiable terms. First, an iron-clad prenuptial-style agreement: two-thirds of his assets must be irrevocably placed into a trust for our children. Second, the entire Harrington family would sign a document affirming my children’s sole and complete right to the family inheritance. Third, he had to cut off Chloe—completely, permanently, and publicly. Perhaps it was the shock of the twins, or perhaps he genuinely believed he was ready to come home. He agreed to everything. But the shift came that very night. What arrived before the notarized agreement was a video message from Chloe. In the video, she was weeping hysterically, mascara-streaked, claiming she’d just found out she was pregnant. Grant’s eyes lit up with a flash of undisguised joy—a brighter, more thrilling reaction than the one he’d had when I told him about the twins. He quickly masked it, regained his composure, and ordered her to fly to Europe to deliver the baby. He’d arrange for a massive stipend and annual deposits, but the precondition was clear: she was never to return to the States. Watching him calmly manage her future while refusing her a legitimate place in his life, she scrambled onto the window ledge, threatening to jump. It took him two hours, sweet-talking her like a parent soothing a toddler, to coax her back inside. When Grant finally collapsed into a chair, looking utterly defeated, with a “what am I going to do with you?” expression, Chloe suddenly erupted into delighted laughter. She launched herself into his lap, a pout on her lips. “It was a test, Daddy,” she purred. “I’m not pregnant. I just wanted you to pay attention to me. Don’t send me away. I’m not trying to compete with the exhausted wife. She can’t win anyway.” Grant reprimanded her sternly. “That is not something to joke about!” She looked heartbroken. “But if I were pregnant, would you marry me?” 2 Grant said nothing. He simply pulled her tight against his chest. The video ended there. I was shattered. The three terms we had just agreed on? He’d forgotten them the moment her tears started to fall. I despised him.

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The day my mother decided to buy me gold jewelry, she insisted on telling the salesperson I was her daughter-in-law. “You don’t get it,” she whispered to me, “It makes me look good! Generous!” Sure enough, the woman browsing beside us immediately started gushing over Mom. The two of them struck up a happy conversation, cooing over trays of necklaces. I was speechless. And then I turned my head and saw him. My ex-boyfriend, as of three days ago. It turned out the woman currently singing my mother’s praises was his mom. “Sweetheart, come over here!” she called out. “This lovely woman is picking out a necklace for her daughter-in-law. It’s got me thinking, I should start picking things out for your future wife, too.” My ex—Liam—raised an eyebrow, his gaze flickering to me. “Ma’am,” he said, his voice dangerously smooth. “If you don’t mind my asking, when did your son get married?” My mother, without missing a beat, beamed. “Last year.” A dry, humorless laugh escaped Liam’s lips. He pulled out his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen. A second later, my phone buzzed. [Liam]: So I was the other man for a year. 1 The breakup was fresh, so to console me, Mom’s brilliant idea was a gold necklace. “Twenty grams, max,” she’d warned in the car. “You even look at something bigger and I’ll smack you.” “Wouldn’t dream of it, Mom,” I’d said dutifully. With the price of gold skyrocketing, who was I to complain about weight limits? The second we got to the counter at Nordstrom, my mom leaned in conspiratorially to the sales associate. “I’m looking for a necklace for my daughter-in-law. Could you show us some of your popular styles?” My face went blank. Mom nudged me, whispering from the side of her mouth. “Trust me. It makes me sound like Mother-in-Law of the Year.” And damn it, she was right. The woman who had been quietly looking at a pair of earrings immediately lit up. “Oh, that is just so thoughtful of you! And my goodness, what a beautiful daughter-in-law. I can see why you adore her.” I managed a polite, tight-lipped smile. My mother soaked up the compliment, turning to her new best friend. “Are you shopping for one of your kids today, too?” The woman sighed dramatically. “I’m not as lucky as you. My blockhead son is twenty-eight, been working for years, and still hasn’t brought a single girl home for me to meet.” She gestured vaguely at the jewelry case. “I’m just getting a head start. Building up a collection for my future daughter-in-law.” Then her face brightened. “Oh, honey! Over here!” My mom and I both followed her gaze. Standing in the entrance was a handsome man, easily six-foot-one, with a jawline that could cut glass. I snapped my eyes away first. Because I knew that handsome man. His name was Liam. My ex-boyfriend. The one who had dumped me—or whom I had dumped, it was mutual and confusing—seventy-two hours ago. My mother, blissfully unaware, was already critiquing him. “Oh, that’s your son? He’s very handsome! So well put-together.” The woman waved a dismissive hand. “What good is handsome if he can’t bring home a girlfriend? Liam, get over here! This lady is buying a necklace for her daughter-in-law. I told you, I’m going to start buying things for your future wife. You’d better get a move on, or all this will be for nothing!” The moment Liam walked into the department, I felt a prickling on the back of my neck. He moved with a lawyer’s deliberate pace, his eyes locking on me before shifting to my mother. “Ma’am, hello,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Forgive me for asking, but when exactly did your son get married?” My mother, a professional in the art of the casual lie, answered instantly. “Last year.” Which, to be fair, was true. My brother, Evan, did get married last year. I thought I heard Liam scoff under his breath. He pulled out his phone and started typing. My own phone vibrated in my purse. It was the message from him. [Liam]: So I was the other man for a year. 2 I met Liam at a university alumni mixer. He was three years ahead of me, a law school graduate from the same program as my brother. He was so ridiculously good-looking that my usual social anxiety went out the window. “Hi,” I’d said, walking right up to him. “Are you in the market for a girlfriend? Because I’m available.” Liam’s response was characteristically brief. “Okay.” And just like that, I had a handsome boyfriend. We both lived in the same city but on opposite sides of town, so with our work schedules, we were lucky if we saw each other more than once a week. Most of our relationship lived online. It felt like a long-distance relationship with a shared zip code. And online Liam was… cold. Glacial, even. [Me]: Babe! Got off work early. Movie night? [Liam]: Okay. [Me]: Pick me up? [Liam]: Sure. That was him. He could use one word where none were necessary. He could use a period where an emoji would have been friendly. Half the time, I felt like I was dating a highly intelligent chatbot. But for that face, I tolerated it for almost a year. Waking up on a Saturday morning and seeing him next to me made the whole week of monosyllabic texting feel worth it. And Liam was anything but cold in bed. He knew exactly when to move, when to breathe, when to… well. But even the most handsome face can start to feel like wallpaper if the person behind it never talks to you. So, I started pushing back. [Me]: Liam, could you please try to use more than one word when you text me back? [Liam]: Okay. I laughed, a sharp, frustrated sound. Five minutes later, two more words appeared. [Liam]: Good night. That was it. I was done. Let someone else date the handsome robot. I was the one who initiated the breakup. [Me]: Liam, I think we need to take a break. Just to cool off and think. [Liam]: Sure. The exact same response he gave when we started dating. He really was an AI. I threw my phone onto my bed and went to my mom’s, ready for a good cry. “Mom, it’s over!” I wailed. “I got dumped by a robot!” Which is how, full circle, my mother ended up dragging me to a jewelry store. I leaned over the counter, re-reading the message from Liam. Wow. Ten whole words, including punctuation. A new record. So, he could form a sentence. But he’d gotten the wrong idea. Completely. Not that it mattered. He was my ex. Why should I explain a damn thing? I blocked his number. Decisively. Across the store, Liam stared at his phone, his brow furrowing. He tapped the screen a few more times. My phone remained silent. His face darkened for a split second. He must have gotten the delivery failure notification. Good. 3 An ex-boyfriend or a gold necklace. The choice was obvious. Ditch the man, take the gold. I turned my full attention back to the task at hand. “Ma’am, you have excellent taste,” the sales associate chirped. “This Stargazer Locket is our bestseller. It’s just over twenty-six grams.” It was beautiful. It was also over budget. I glanced at my mom. She was smiling, a serene, pleasant expression on her face. But I could see the glint of steel in her eyes. A silent threat. Don’t you dare. I meekly put the locket down and picked up a smaller, more delicate butterfly charm. “Oh, that one is so unique!” the associate said. “It looks dainty, but it’s solid gold. Twenty-eight grams!” Good lord. I was getting worse at this, not better. I dropped the butterfly as if it were hot and shot my mom a desperate, pleading look. My mother, a woman with an entire jewelry box full of gold, was a pro. She stepped in, her hands confidently selecting several pieces that were both stylish and, blessedly, within budget. Liam’s mom was impressed. “You have a wonderful eye. Those pieces are perfect for young women today.” Just as I was about to make my final choice, my phone buzzed again. A text message this time, not an iMessage. Liam had found a loophole. [Liam]: That mother-in-law of yours is all talk. She won’t even buy you a bigger necklace. What’s the point of a marriage like that? I, a grown woman who had been living on her own for years, was being gifted a beautiful piece of jewelry by my mother, and this guy was questioning it? [Me]: None of your business! I hit send and then blocked his number from my phone’s call and text list, too. He never initiated contact, so I’d completely forgotten to delete him after the breakup. Now my phone would finally be quiet. I chose a simple, elegant chain my mom and I both loved. As we were leaving, my mom and Liam’s mom were exchanging numbers, making plans to try a hot yoga class together. I learned later that after I left, Liam walked back to the counter and, under his mother’s baffled gaze, bought both the Stargazer Locket and the butterfly charm I had been looking at. His mother hesitated. “Honey… that girl is married.” “Doesn’t matter,” he said. 4 I started running into Liam everywhere. Grabbing my morning coffee at the shop next to my office, there he was. Eating lunch with colleagues at the cafe downstairs, I’d see him at a table across the room. One evening, I even saw him on the subway heading home. If he hadn’t gotten off at a different stop, I would have sworn he was following me. Didn’t he own a car? Why was he taking the subway? To reduce his carbon footprint? And his office was on the other side of the city. What was he doing over here all the time? Whatever. The private life of my ex was a book I had no desire to read. But I never expected to run into him on a Saturday, at a drone technology expo of all places. This time, however, he spoke to me. “Audrey,” he said, and his voice was startlingly close. “Can you help me out? I just put a deposit down on a drone, but my phone died before I could pay the balance. Could you cover it for me? I’ll transfer the money to you the second I get home.” He looked genuinely embarrassed, a flush creeping up his neck. I’d never seen him look so flustered. It was… interesting. I nodded. Liam let out a breath of relief. “Great. Can you unblock me on Venmo, then? I’ll send it to you when I get back.” I waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. Consider it payback for that purse you bought me last year.” Liam’s expression didn’t change. “The drone is three thousand, eight hundred dollars.” “…” “You know what, I’ll just unblock you right now.” As I was tapping my card, I thought I saw the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile, but when I looked back, his face was the same stoic mask as always. After the payment went through, he just… followed me, holding the giant box. “The transaction is done. Why are you still here?” I asked. He looked a little helpless. “My phone is dead. I can’t call an Uber.” Fine. In for a penny, in for a pound. I pulled out my phone to call him a car. But the address he gave me was completely different from his old one. This new place was less than a mile from my apartment. I shot him a suspicious look. He cleared his throat. “I switched firms. My new office is over here, so I moved.” That explained all the recent sightings. A little while after I got home, my phone pinged. A Venmo notification from Liam for four thousand dollars. [Liam]: The extra is for the Uber. For your records: this is a voluntary gift. I thought about it for a whole second. [Me]: Okay. I hit ‘accept.’ Not bad. A weekend trip to an expo and I’d made a hundred and fifty-six dollars. As I was admiring my new balance, another notification popped up. A text message from Liam with a picture attached. The photo showed a hand—his hand, with long, artistic fingers—arranging a container filled with perfectly cooked shrimp, calamari, and scallops in some kind of marinade. [Liam]: Don’t block me again just yet. I made a batch of my spicy garlic shrimp. Want me to bring some over? 5 Honestly, I was tempted. Tempted by the shrimp, that is. Liam’s spicy garlic shrimp was a work of art. Since the breakup, I hadn’t found anything that even came close. When we were dating, he was always so busy, and my stomach can be a little sensitive, so he’d only make it for me twice a month at most, just as a treat. I hadn’t had it in over a month. I was really craving it. By the time my rational brain caught up to my salivary glands, the message was already sent. [Me]: Sure. He replied instantly. [Liam]: Be there soon. I tossed my phone on the couch and started pacing by the door. What was I doing? Letting my ex-boyfriend bring me food? Did this mean I wanted to get back together? Not really. I just really, really wanted the shrimp. As I was spiraling, my doorbell rang. He’s fast. I pulled the door open, but it wasn’t Liam. It was my brother, Evan. “Whoa, you opened that quick. Were you expecting me?” I blinked. “What are you doing here?” Evan breezed past me. “Mom’s birthday is next month. It’s the weekend, so I figured we could go pick out a present for her.” Evan and his wife, Sarah, had a very modern marriage. They spent holidays with their respective families and only appeared as a couple at major family events like birthdays. I’d only seen Sarah a handful of times since their wedding a year ago, but she was great, and my parents were surprisingly cool with the whole arrangement. All that mattered was that Evan was happy. He helped himself to a soda from my fridge. “Mom said you went through a breakup. Don’t worry about it, sis. Plenty of fish in the sea. Hey, there’s a new guy at my firm. Total stud. What was his name… oh, right! Liam! I should introduce you two sometime!” “What?” Liam had transferred to my brother’s law firm? Evan frowned at my reaction. “Audrey, why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost? You know him?” “Nope. Never heard of him,” I lied smoothly. “Just surprised your firm is hiring.” If Evan found out Liam was the ex-boyfriend I’d been crying over, there was no telling what he’d do. “Yeah, this guy Liam’s a real shark. I heard the partners paid a fortune to poach him. Anyway, I’m gonna use your bathroom. Get your shoes on, we’ll head out. I have to get home and make dinner for Sarah tonight.” The second Evan closed the bathroom door, the doorbell rang again. I floated over and opened it. Liam stood there, looking like he’d actually put in effort. He was wearing a black button-down that fit him perfectly, and his hair was styled. I might have stared for a second too long. He smirked, a real, genuine smirk, and held up the container of spicy garlic shrimp. I had just taken it from him when Evan’s voice boomed from behind me. “Who’s at the door? It’s taking forever.” I jumped, slamming the door shut in Liam’s face. I spun around to see Evan looking at me curiously. I held up the shrimp. “Uh… food delivery!” 6 Five minutes later, Evan was happily munching on Liam’s shrimp. “Wow, where did you order this from? It’s amazing! Sarah loves this kind of stuff. I should get her some on my way home.” I forced a smile. “It’s a little private kitchen. Really hard to get a delivery slot.” He didn’t press, just put the leftovers in my fridge. I took the opportunity to pull out my phone. [Me]: Hey, sorry about that. Today’s not a good time. The shrimp is delicious, thank you. I’ll buy you dinner sometime to pay you back. The three dots indicating Liam was typing appeared, stayed for a while, then vanished. No reply came. Evan grabbed his keys from the bowl by the door. “Come on, let’s go. It’s getting late.” Worried that Liam might still be lurking in the hallway, I shoved my brother aside and pressed my face against the peephole. The elevator lobby was empty. I let out a sigh of relief. Evan stared at me, bewildered. “What is wrong with you?” I coughed, trying to look casual as I slipped on my shoes. “Nothing. Just have beef with a neighbor. Didn’t want to run into them.” My brother scratched his head, watching me walk out. “But this is a one-unit-per-floor building,” he mumbled to himself. “What neighbor?” … We went to the nearest mall. My brother has the aesthetic sense of a rock, so the burden of choosing a gift fell entirely on me. I found two beautiful coats for my mom but couldn’t decide between them after comparing the fabric and price over and over. I turned to ask for Evan’s opinion, only to find him lounging on a nearby sofa, scrolling through his phone. Infuriated, I threw my handbag at him. “Evan! Could you at least pretend to care?” He just chuckled, handing the bag back to me. “Relax, relax. You pick, I pay.” I shot him a glare and deliberately chose the more expensive coat. He paid without complaint, but I wasn’t about to let him cover the whole thing. It was a joint gift. “Text me the total later. I’ll send you my half.” He waved me off. “Don’t be silly. It’s my treat.” “No,” I said firmly. “I’m paying my share.” My mom had just bought me a gold necklace; I could afford half a coat. He was about to argue when he suddenly looked over my shoulder and broke into a grin. “Liam! Hey, fancy seeing you here! Doing a little shopping?” 7 I never thought we’d run into him here. My posture stiffened. Evan, however, was in his element, playing host. “Audrey, this is the guy I was telling you about, Liam. Liam, this is Audrey, my—hold on, sorry, I have to take this.” He walked a few feet away, his phone pressed to his ear. Which left me and Liam standing in awkward silence. Finally, he broke it. “So… you two are family?” Did my brother and I look that much alike? He’d figured it out instantly. I nodded, then remembered they were colleagues. “Liam, about us… could you maybe not mention it to him?” I asked quietly. Evan and I were close. If he knew Liam was my ex, it could make things weird for them at work. I was genuinely trying to be considerate of Liam’s professional life, but he looked personally offended. He let out a cold little scoff. “Please. I’m not that juvenile.” With that, he turned and walked straight into… the women’s clothing store I had just been in. Juvenile? Was dating me juvenile? His attitude pissed me off. I grabbed the shopping bag and stormed off. When Evan finished his call, he saw me marching away. “Hey, where’d Liam go?” “He was in a hurry to check out the new fall collection at Ann Taylor,” I snapped. My tone must have been off, because Evan looked confused. “The women’s section? But he doesn’t have a girlfriend… unless… is he a cross-dresser?” In my anger, I didn’t bother to correct him. I just let him drive me home in silence. 8 I thought that would be the end of my interactions with Liam, but my brother started bringing him up constantly. [Evan]: Audrey, I think that new guy, Liam, has it out for me. He’s a criminal lawyer, but he keeps finding fault with my divorce cases. He’s being a total dick about it. At first, I tried to smooth things over. [Me]: Maybe he’s just trying to broaden his legal knowledge? But then, one evening, Evan showed up at my apartment unannounced. He was acting paranoid, like he was being hunted. “Evan, what’s wrong with you?” He slammed the door and leaned against it, checking the peephole obsessively before he finally relaxed. “Sis, something is very wrong with Liam.” I crossed my arms. “And what would that be?” He dragged me to the sofa. “Listen. He was looking at one of my divorce files and started making these snide remarks about how men who treat their wives badly always end up divorced. I thought he was just making conversation, so I told him how happy Sarah and I are. And he just… snapped. He started tearing my case apart, pointing out every tiny flaw. My boss overheard and I was stuck at the office until midnight fixing it!” I tried to reason with him. “Maybe it was just a coincidence?” “That’s what I thought at first!” he exclaimed. “But then last week, he saw me buying that spicy shrimp for Sarah during my lunch break. I mentioned that my wife loves it, and he gets this weird look on his face and says he knows how to make it, that he could teach me. I thought he was being nice, right? So I followed his recipe. That night, Sarah almost kicked me out of the house! I tasted it later—it was disgusting. How could he even teach someone to cook something that awful?” He was on a roll now. “I figured, okay, maybe he’s just a bad cook who meant well. But the next day I go into work with these huge dark circles under my eyes, and he’s smiling. Smiling! Audrey, this guy never smiles. He’s got the personality of a rock. He was definitely gloating!” 9 I’ve had Liam’s spicy garlic shrimp. It’s incredible. And Evan isn’t a bad cook. There’s no way he could have messed up the recipe that badly. “So why would he deliberately target you?” I asked. Hearing my question, Evan’s eyes darted around the room. “I think… I think he has a crush on me!” “Impossible!” The word flew out of my mouth before I could stop it. I knew for a fact what Liam’s sexual orientation was. Our year together was not celibate. Evan shot me an annoyed look. “You don’t believe me? Didn’t you see him shopping in the women’s section? It all makes sense now. Every time I mention Sarah, he gets angry. What else could it be? He keeps asking where I live. Why does he care where I live? My car’s in the shop today and he insisted on driving me home. The way he was looking at me was so creepy, like he was planning something.” He shuddered. “Sarah’s out of town this week on a business trip, so I had him drop me off here. He doesn’t know where I actually live, see?” He might not know where your house is, Evan, but he sure as hell knows where mine is. I was pretty sure my brother was completely misinterpreting the situation. But why was Liam targeting him? I thought about it. Could it be because I broke up with him? Was this his way of getting revenge on my family? I tossed a blanket at my brother, who settled onto my couch, perfectly content. Back in my bedroom, I pulled out my phone. [Me]: Have you been targeting Evan because of me? Liam replied almost instantly. [Liam]: I haven’t targeted him. I’ve merely offered timely reminders. I still felt that family should be off-limits. We needed to talk. [Me]: Are you free for dinner tomorrow night? His reply was simple. [Liam]: Sure. I put my phone down, ready for sleep, when it buzzed one last time. An anonymous text from an unknown number. [Text]: Your husband is cheating on you.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386353”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My profession? I’m a placeholder. A professional ghost. My specialty: powerful men haunted by the one that got away. The idealized ex, the girl next door, the great lost love. I find the ones with a tombstone in their hearts and I become the ghost they’re still chasing. And when their real-life ghost is about to be resurrected—to come back into town, to get a divorce, to finish their residency—I cash out and perform my own disappearing act. In my line of work, I have a reputation. They call me the queen of dancing on the graves of old flames. The best you can hire at getting gone. Right now, I’m in the middle of a gig, diligently channeling the spirit of Liam Blackwood’s dearly departed first love. I’m wearing her favorite style of white dress, my fingers resting on the keys of his grand piano, faking my way through a melody. But my mind is on the numbers. Last month, Ethan Reed bought his ghost a pink diamond. Get with the program, Liam. 1 “Ava. Play that piece again. ‘Clair de Lune.’” Liam is leaning back on the leather sofa, eyes closed. His voice is a low rumble, laced with a familiar, almost invisible thread of exhaustion and nostalgia. My fingers twitch, nearly stumbling into the opening notes of the “Flight of the Bumblebee.” Buddy, this is the only part I know. It took me a full week to memorize this one damn section. If I play it again, the whole con is up. I take a slow, calming breath. I turn my head, carefully arranging my expression into the gentle, watery-eyed look I’d studied in photos of the original girl, and add the perfect touch of melancholy. “Liam, I’m a little tired tonight. That song… it just brings up so much.” Yeah, so much anxiety. The anxiety of being exposed as a fraud. Liam’s eyes open. His gaze is sharp, analytical, and it lands right on me. A fine sheen of sweat instantly slicks my back. Just when I think he’s about to call me out, to finally see the cracks in my performance, he lets out a soft sigh and gestures to the empty space beside him. “Come here.” My internal monologue is a cascade of eye-rolls, but my body is a consummate professional. I rise with a practiced fragility and drift over to him. He pulls me into his arms, and I sink into the scent of him—clean cedar, expensive whiskey. It’s intoxicating. It’s the smell of money. “Next weekend, you’re coming with me to an auction,” he murmurs, his fingers tangling in a strand of my hair. His tone leaves no room for argument. “There’s a sapphire necklace. I think you’ll like it.” There it is. The closing bonus. A tiny, invisible version of me starts setting off fireworks. On the outside, I just hum a soft, “Mmm,” and rest my head on his shoulder, fighting to keep the triumphant smirk off my face. According to my very reliable, very expensive source of information, Liam Blackwood’s sainted childhood sweetheart, Charlotte—the one who supposedly succumbed to a tragic, unnamed illness years ago—is scheduled to make a “miraculous recovery” and return to the country next month. I have to work fast. In this final month, that sapphire necklace, the two handbags I’ve had my eye on, and the deed to the downtown condo he promised me all need to be secured. Operation Perfect Getaway is a go. Just as I’m mentally calculating how long this final payout will let me lay on a beach in the Seychelles, his phone, lying on the coffee table, starts vibrating violently. He frowns, clearly annoyed by the interruption. But I, being the perfect, attentive stand-in, immediately move to get it for him. “I’ll get it.” When I pick it up, the name on the screen makes my heart skip a beat. ETHAN REED As in, the notoriously charming, scandal-a-minute heir to the Reed fortune. He’s also on my shortlist of potential clients, but his great lost love is studying abroad indefinitely. Too much risk. I’d put a pin in him for now. Liam takes the phone and, after a glance at the screen, puts it on speaker. “Blackwood! Did you see what’s trending? That little stand-in you keep around… she wasn’t at Enigma two nights ago, was she?” Ethan’s voice is practically buzzing with the gleeful energy of someone who loves to stir the pot. My blood runs cold. Two nights ago? I was at Enigma. Another potential client, the tech prodigy Leo Foster—a man said to be eternally hung up on his college girlfriend—was hosting a private event. I’d gone to make a brief, seemingly accidental appearance. To plant a seed. Liam’s gaze snaps to me, sharp as a shard of glass. “What are you talking about?” “Someone got a picture! It’s just a profile shot, but come on, I’d recognize her anywhere. She walked into a private room right after Leo Foster! The whole scene is buzzing. They’re saying your girl is playing for two teams. Or hey, maybe even more!” I can’t breathe. Shit. Busted? I was so careful. I checked for paparazzi. Which asshole with a camera phone got me? Liam’s face darkens. He hangs up on Ethan and opens Twitter. There it is, trending at number three: #BlackwoodsGirl Cheating with Tech Mogul Leo Foster? The accompanying photo is blurry, but the dress I’d so carefully chosen to project an air of “effortless innocence” is unmistakable. And so are Leo Foster’s signature gold-rimmed glasses. It’s all the proof anyone needs. This is bad. This is very, very bad. My sapphires. My condo. My sunny beach in the Seychelles. All vanishing into thin air. Liam puts the phone down. He doesn’t say a word. He just looks at me, and the silence is colder than any accusation. Run. The thought is a primal scream in my head. Run. Now. Immediately. Before he processes the full extent of this humiliation, before he thinks to lock me in here or have me thrown off the penthouse balcony. I make my decision in a split second. I shoot to my feet, grabbing my small purse from the sofa. I force my face into a wobbly, unconvincing smile. “Liam, I… I have to use the restroom…” I don’t wait for a response. I pivot on my seven-inch heels and sprint for the door like my life depends on it. Twist the handle, slip through the opening, slam the door shut behind me. The sequence is flawless, worthy of a professional assassin. From behind the door, I think I hear him roar my name: “Ava!” Can’t hear you! La la la, I can’t hear a thing! I bolt for the emergency stairwell, my heels clattering. One of them nearly twists my ankle, so I kick them both off and carry them in my hand. Thank God for penthouse suites. I run down five full flights of stairs before I dare to slip back into a main hallway, find an unlocked supply closet full of cleaning tools, and dive inside, locking it from within. My heart is a wild drum against my ribs, so loud I’m afraid someone will hear it. I slide down the cool, solid wall, gasping for air. My phone is vibrating nonstop in my purse. I don’t have to look to know who it is. Liam, or my best friend and agent-of-chaos, Maya. My hands are shaking as I pull it out. And there it is. A text from Liam. Run? You have three minutes to get your ass back here and explain. Explain? Explain what? How I’m a diligent, multi-tasking professional managing a diverse portfolio of clients? I scroll down. There’s a message from Leo Foster, too. Characteristically concise. What’s this trending topic about? Do you need my help getting it taken down? Oh, thanks a million, Leo. You stepping forward right now would be like throwing gasoline on a bonfire. But the worst one, the absolute cherry on top of this shit sundae, is from Ethan Reed. **Heard you crashed and burned, beautiful. Need a safe house? My door’s always open for you. 😉 ** I stare at my phone in disbelief. Do all these guys have some kind of gossip-detecting radar? How are they all this fast? I frantically text Maya: CODE RED! I’M BURNED! Liam is done, Leo is probably toast too! Book me the first flight out of the country. Anywhere. I DON’T CARE! Her reply is almost instantaneous: HOLY SHIT! You juggled two of them at once and got caught?! You’re a legend! Okay, looking for flights now! But… I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first? Me: This is not the time for games! SPILL! Maya: Good news is, Liam’s ghost, Charlotte, looks like she’s coming back early! Me: !!! Are you serious?! It’s a miracle. A bona fide miracle. With the real thing back, who’s going to care about the understudy? Maya: Bad news is… Ethan Reed’s ghost, the ballerina who’s been studying abroad? Her flight lands next week. Me: … Maya: Oh, and Leo Foster’s college sweetheart? She just finalized her divorce. And she’s been very active on the local charity circuit lately. Me: “…” So, what I’ve done is… I’ve managed to perfectly, precisely, and simultaneously light the fuse on three different volcanoes that were all about to blow. What have I done to deserve this? 2 Crouched in the cramped, dark supply closet, surrounded by the faint scent of bleach and Pine-Sol, I contemplate the wreckage of my life. If I go out there now, Liam will almost certainly catch me. But I can’t hide in a closet forever. Eventually, the cleaning staff will find me and have me arrested for being a creep. As I’m spiraling, the doorknob begins to turn. My soul just about leaves my body. I throw all my weight against the door, holding it shut. From the other side, a lazy, amused male voice drifts through. “Well, well. Is there a little stray cat hiding in here?” That voice… it’s Ethan Reed. How the hell did he find me here? “Come on, open up, beautiful. The paparazzi are about to swarm the hotel entrance. You can’t hide in a closet forever,” Ethan says, his voice laced with the same teasing tone he uses to charm his way out of everything. I press my lips together and hold my ground. “No? Okay. I guess I’ll just give Liam a call. Let him know where his lost little canary is hiding.” …He’s got me. I take a deep breath and yank the door open. Ethan is leaning against the opposite wall, dressed in a ridiculously flamboyant pink silk shirt, unbuttoned just a little too low. He’s smiling, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips. In his hand, he’s dangling his phone, Liam’s contact information glowing on the screen. “Mr. Reed. Fancy meeting you here,” I say, my own smile feeling more like a grimace. “It’s no coincidence. I came looking for you.” His eyes drift over me, lingering for a moment on my bare feet. “Tsk. A real damsel in distress. Come on, I’ll get you out of here.” I eye him warily. “The lobby is crawling with reporters…” “You’re with me now. What are you afraid of?” He raises an eyebrow, his tone breezy and confident. “Or would you rather wait for Liam or Leo to come down and rescue you?” I picture Liam’s ice-cold fury. I picture Leo’s cool, detached analysis of the situation. And I make the only choice that feels survivable right now: the handsome, untrustworthy devil I know. “Then… I’d be grateful for your help, Mr. Reed.” I manage to squeeze out a thankful smile. He nods, satisfied. He shrugs off his tailored suit jacket and drapes it over my shoulders without asking, then slides an arm around me. “Stay close. Don’t look up.” He guides me, half-shielding me, toward the main elevators. Just as he predicted, the lobby is a war zone. Flashbulbs explode like a fireworks finale. Reporters surge toward us like sharks that have scented blood. “Mr. Reed! What is your relationship with this young woman?” “Ethan, aren’t you and Liam Blackwood friends? Why are you with his companion?” “Miss, can you clarify your relationship with Mr. Blackwood and Mr. Foster?” The questions are like daggers, each one sharper than the last. Ethan keeps that infuriatingly casual smirk on his face, but his arm tightens around me, pulling me deeper into his side and shielding me from most of the cameras. “Everybody, give us some room,” he says. His voice isn’t loud, but it carries an authority that makes people listen. “Ms. Vance is a friend of mine. I’m helping her leave. As for the rest of it, no comment.” “A friend? What kind of friend sneaks out of the emergency stairwell in a nightgown?” one reporter yells, refusing to back down. I look down at myself. In my panicked escape, I’d forgotten I was only wearing a silk slip of a nightgown. With Ethan’s oversized jacket and my bare feet, my hair a tangled mess… the whole picture screams ‘walk of shame.’ Ethan lets out a short, sharp laugh and is about to respond when a new voice cuts through the chaos—clear, crisp, and furious. “Ethan Reed!” Every head in the lobby turns. Standing at the entrance is a tall, slender woman in dance rehearsal clothes, her body radiating a chilly, disciplined grace. Her forehead is damp with sweat, as if she’s come straight from the studio. My pupils dilate. Is that… no, it can’t be. That’s Isabelle Croft, the ballerina. Ethan’s great lost love. What is she doing back a week early? And how did she know to come here? Isabelle stalks toward us, her eyes like twin icicles fixed on me. “Who is she?” The smirk on Ethan’s face finally fades. “Izzy. What are you doing here?” “Shouldn’t I be here?” she retorts, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “It looks like you’ve had a very entertaining few years while I’ve been gone, Ethan. Are you poaching your friends’ women now?” Yes! Exactly! You tell him! I’m just an innocent flower caught in this mess! My inner monologue is cheering her on. Ethan’s brow furrows. “It’s not what you think.” “Then what is it?” Isabelle presses, her gaze landing on me again, full of judgment and contempt. “This woman, wearing another man’s clothes, caught by reporters sneaking out of a hotel… you seem remarkably calm about all this.” I bow my head, doing my best to look like a frightened, overwhelmed victim. “He and I… we’re just friends,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “Friends do this?” she scoffs, clearly unconvinced. The scene is at a stalemate, the reporters frantically capturing every second of the drama, when the elevator doors slide open with a soft ding. Out steps Liam Blackwood. He’s flanked by two imposing bodyguards, his face a thundercloud, his dark suit radiating pure menace. His eyes immediately find me, tucked into Ethan Reed’s arms. I’m done for.

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My husband is the loyal best friend in a dark romance novel—the handsome, stoic doctor to the brooding, billionaire anti-hero. Tonight, as a fever of one-hundred-and-three cooked me from the inside out, he took the forty-ninth call from that same best friend. It was a plea for him to go check on the ankle of the female lead, Lily Evans. My hand, weak and trembling, caught the hem of his shirt. He pried my fingers away without a moment’s hesitation. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen Damien care about a woman like this,” he said, his voice clipped with urgency. “I have to help him. This is it for him, Audrey.” When I woke up in the hospital, the first thing they told me was that the baby was gone. Lost in a fog of grief, I saw the comments appear at the edge of my vision. Over? Who the hell said it was over? 1 My fingers trembled as I dialed a number I hadn’t called in years, a number belonging to my childhood friend, the man they were calling the “final boss” villain, the one the comments said was about to jump off a skyscraper. “You’re a pathetic excuse for a villain,” I said when he answered. “If you can’t do the job right, I’ll do it myself.” “It’s just a sprained ankle, Damien. Are you sure you’re not overreacting? Audrey’s burning up. Her fever is almost one-oh-four.” A pause. Then, a long, put-upon sigh from my husband, Marcus. “Alright, alright, I get it… Christ, I swear I must owe you from a past life. The first time you ever give a damn about a woman… Fine. I’m on my way.” I summoned the last of my strength, my arm shaking as I reached out. The moment the bedroom door opened, my fingers managed to snag a fistful of his impeccably pressed shirt. “Don’t go,” I rasped, the word tearing at my raw throat. It didn’t even sound like my own voice. “Marcus, I feel… really sick.” “Audrey, don’t be dramatic.” He was already pulling away. “Lily’s ankle is swelling up like a balloon, and Damien’s losing his mind. This is the first woman he’s ever really fallen for. As his best friend, it’s my job to make sure he doesn’t screw this up.” Gently, but with an unmistakable finality, my husband uncurled my fingers from his shirt. The soft click of the front door locking sounded like something inside me splintering. I tried to push myself up, to get the glass of water on the nightstand, but the room tilted and spun. My body hit the cold, hardwood floor with a heavy thud. The last thing I did before the world went black was dial 9-1-1. “I’m very sorry, ma’am. We weren’t able to save the pregnancy.” I lay in the sterile hospital bed, the doctor’s words echoing in the hollow space of my mind. What would Marcus’s face look like if he knew he’d just lost a child he never even knew he had? I waited until noon to call him. When he picked up, I could hear the triumphant joy in his voice before he even realized it was me. He was clearly talking to someone else in the room. “Damien, you bastard, you better treat her right! Do you have any idea how many times I’ve had to ditch my own wife for you two?” He chuckled, then his tone shifted as he finally noticed the call was connected. “Audrey? Hey. How are you feeling?” My hand drifted to my stomach, to the place that had so briefly held a spark of life. “If you had to choose,” I asked, my voice flat, “between me and Damien’s love story, who would you pick?” There was a definite pause. Then, a light laugh, laced with confusion. “Audrey, what’s gotten into you? Why would you ask something like that?” “Answer me, Marcus.” He didn’t. He must have put the phone on speaker. A soft, sweet voice trickled through the receiver, trying to soothe him. “Dr. Cole, it was all Damien’s fault for overreacting and dragging you out in the middle of the night. I’m sure your wife is just upset. I’m fine, really. You should go be with her.” I recognized that voice. It belonged to Lily Evans, the woman my husband’s best friend, Damien Blackwood, had been chasing for three years. Marcus’s voice came back, dripping with the fond, patronizing tone he always used when I was being “difficult.” “Did a little fever turn my invincible Audrey into such a sentimental mess? Don’t make me look bad in front of Damien…” He softened his tone, trying to placate me. “Listen, honey, I have to cover a shift tonight. I’ll be home tomorrow after work, and I’ll make you dinner, okay? Be good.” I hung up the phone. That made things simple. The truth was, Marcus never even knew I was pregnant. Now, after the miscarriage, the doctors wanted to keep me for observation for a couple of days. I wouldn’t even have to come up with an excuse for not being home. <…but his wife had a really high fever. Isn’t it a little messed up to abandon your sick wife to take care of someone else?> I lay in that hospital bed for a half an hour, just staring at the strange, transparent comments scrolling across my vision. It took me that long to piece it together. The world I inhabited wasn’t real. It was a story. A long, cliché, dark romance novel. My husband, Dr. Marcus Cole, was a stock character: the loyal best friend to the possessive alpha-male protagonist. The one who would do anything for his bro. The time Marcus spent by Damien’s side would always be more than the time he spent by mine. And it was all because of Damien Blackwood’s obsessive, all-consuming love for Lily Evans. A love story built on a foundation of clichés: possessive stalking passed off as romance, kidnappings, car crashes, and forced proximity. Lily was always getting hurt, and every single time, one call from Damien was all it took for Marcus to drop everything—including me. “You know how he is, Audrey,” he’d always say. “Damien’s never felt this way about anyone before. I have to help him.” So that was it. My entire life, our entire marriage, was dictated by a plot device. By a character archetype. A tidal wave of grief and fury crashed over me, stealing the air from my lungs. Because I was only a few weeks along and otherwise healthy, I only needed two days of recovery at the hospital. When I got home, Marcus wasn’t there. Valentine’s Day. Two months ago. That was the day the test came back positive. I’d planned everything. A candlelight dinner, his favorite wine. I was going to tell him, to surprise him. I waited all night. Just after midnight, my phone finally rang. “Audrey, I’m so sorry,” he’d said, his voice rushed. “Vanessa got taken along with Lily. I have to go with Damien. Eat without me tonight.” At that point, Marcus had already been running himself ragged for weeks, cleaning up messes from Damien and Lily’s turbulent romance. I was so worried about him that night, I just sat on the couch until the sun came up. It turns out, while I was sick with worry, my husband had his arms around another woman. From the looks of these comments, my world—this story—was rapidly approaching its finale. I clutched the discharge papers in my hand, the crisp paper crinkling under the pressure. A chilling, profound sense of absurdity seized my heart. A side-character romance? A perfect pairing? My baby was dead. Dead because my husband abandoned me for a scratch on his best friend’s girlfriend. And in the eyes of this world, this story, that was just a necessary plot point on the way to a “happily ever after”? To hell with their happy ending. A searing hatred, white-hot and absolute, burned away the last of my tears. The end? Who the hell said it was over? That comment made me sit bolt upright. I snatched my phone, my fingers flying across the screen, dialing a number I hadn’t used in three years. The voice that answered was brittle, hollowed out with despair. “Who is this? If you’re calling to laugh, just get it over with…” “It’s your goddamn conscience,” I said. He gasped, a sharp intake of breath. “Audrey?! Is that you?” The comments said he already had one foot over the ledge. “Sebastian Croft,” I bit out, “they don’t let you bungee jump off residential buildings in this city.” I heard a frantic shuffling sound as he stumbled back from the edge. “Audrey? You’re—you’re supposed to be dead!” “It’s only been three years, and you’re already wishing me dead? I’ll outlive you all,” I snapped. Three years ago, my father’s company in the States was targeted by a vicious corporate takeover. He made the call to move the entire family and our operations overseas to Europe. I only came back last year, alone, after I fell in love with Marcus, who was attending a medical conference in London. Sebastian seemed to be processing this. “Old Mrs. Gable from next door told my mom your dad’s company went under and he… took the whole family with him. I thought you were gone.” …Right. I remembered her. Mrs. Gable, the neighborhood gossip who could spin a whole epic from a single wrong-number phone call. After a long silence, I couldn’t hold back my disgust. “And with an IQ like that, you thought you could play the villain? You’re pathetic, Sebastian. If you can’t handle the job, then let me.” I met him at his apartment. “You look like hell,” he said, his voice raspy. He looked more mature than I remembered, the boyish charm replaced by a weary hardness. There was a nervous energy about him as he paced the marble floors. I dropped onto his sprawling designer sofa and looked him up and down. “You’d look like hell too if you’d just had a miscarriage.” Sebastian froze, his face hardening into a mask of fury. “A miscarriage? What the hell happened?” I met his gaze and told him everything. He paced the room, his hand reaching for a pack of cigarettes on the counter before he glanced at me and shoved it back into his pocket. “The great Sebastian Croft, eldest son of the Croft dynasty, can’t even get the girl and lets his rival drive him to the brink of suicide.” I shook my head in mock sympathy. “Your father would be so ashamed.” “I don’t even like Lily Evans,” he muttered, his jaw tight. “And I was just getting some fresh air on the roof.” I raised an eyebrow. “Then why did you go to war with Damien Blackwood over her?” The tips of his ears turned red. He shot a glance away from me. “Because… she reminded me of someone.” “Duh,” I said flatly. “She’s a human being. She’s not going to look like a golden retriever.” “…You don’t get it!” As he spoke, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, then looked at me, a strange expression on his face. I kicked his shin, leaving a dusty footprint on his pristine black suit pants. “Spit it out.” He gestured for me to check my phone. It took me a solid minute to get the sluggish Twitter app to load. When it did, the top three trending topics were emblazoned with fiery “EXPLODING” icons. #DamienBlackwoodWeddingRehearsal #DamienAndLilyFairytale A push notification from a celebrity gossip account popped up at the same time. The headline was sensational: [Damien Blackwood’s Fairytale Wedding Rehearsal! A-List Groomsmen and a Picture-Perfect Romance!] The post was a gallery of nine photos. The center image was Damien and Lily gazing into each other’s eyes, surrounded by a crowd of impossibly beautiful people. In one of the smaller, corner photos, my husband, Marcus, dressed in a sharp tuxedo, was angled slightly away from the camera. He was steadying a woman who had nearly tripped over the hem of her bridesmaid dress. It was Lily’s best friend, Vanessa. The photographer had caught the moment perfectly. Their eyes were locked. A small, intimate smile lingered on Marcus’s lips, not yet wiped away. The next photo showed Lily, her back to the crowd, tossing her bouquet. The spray of pink and white flowers sailed through the air, landing squarely in the startled arms of Vanessa. The crowd was roaring with laughter. Marcus was standing right beside her, his gaze fixed on her as the camera shutter clicked. The trending hashtags were impossible to miss: #LilyEvansBouquet #PerfectBestManAndBridesmaid The comments were still flooding in, a chorus of strangers celebrating a happiness I was supposed to be a part of. I felt the rage coiling in my gut, but I kept my face a mask of detached curiosity as I looked at Sebastian. “I hear you kidnapped Lily Evans on Valentine’s Day.” Ten minutes later, a new post was pinned to the top of my Twitter profile. It was marked with a content warning for nudity. The caption read: Looks like my husband might be getting a new girlfriend. Should I wish them well? Asking for a friend.

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