Author: Momo Chan

The day my biological parents finally “reclaimed” me from my middle-class life, they didn’t throw a homecoming party. Instead, they packed me up like a piece of unwanted cargo and tossed me straight into a high-stakes horror trial—all to serve as a human shield for their precious, adopted daughter. My birth parents had spent a small fortune on a rare soul-binding artifact. It linked my life force to Tiffany’s, ensuring that any physical harm meant for her would instantly transfer to me. To make sure nothing went wrong, my older brother, Wayne, even volunteered to enter the arena with her, acting as her personal guardian. I stood there in my cheap, pretty dress, clutching the fabric so hard my knuckles turned white. My eyes burned with hot, humiliating tears. “Please,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I don’t want to die.” But they only looked at me with deep, chilling distaste. “A useless thing like you, who does nothing but cry, is just a drain on resources anyway,” my biological father sneered. “Consider it your civic duty,” my mother added, her tone utterly detached. “Taking Tiffany’s place is the only way you’ll ever be of any use to this family.” Beside them, Tiffany smirked, tossing her perfectly curled hair. “They don’t have crybabies in the Trials, sweetie,” she whispered, leaning in close. “A delicate little flower like you? I give you twenty-four hours, max. Just try not to break my expensive artifact too quickly.” Then came the blinding flash of white light, and the world dissolved. But before the terror could fully sink in, before I could even let out a sob, I froze. We were standing in front of a sprawling, gothic manor. Sure, the sky was a bruised, unnatural violet, and the air smelled of ozone and ancient stone. But… wasn’t this my adoptive parents’ house? The very house I had walked out of this morning, where my sweet, eccentric mom and dad had kissed my forehead and tearfully begged me to visit them often? When on earth did my childhood home become an S-Class horror dungeon? And more importantly… did that make my parents the final bosses? … The sky above was stained a violent, bleeding crimson, and a flock of ravens circled the dark spires of the manor. Even the vast rose gardens flanking the driveway seemed to drip with deep, arterial red. If it weren’t for the two stone lions guarding the front gates—the exact ones I had ordered online last summer—I would have convinced myself I was hallucinating. But I had lived here for eighteen years. Not once had my adoptive parents mentioned that our cozy, gothic-revival estate was actually a designated murder-zone for the System. Before I could wrap my head around it, a sharp, white-hot agony flared in my left wrist. The pain was so sudden, so intense, that I gasped, tears instantly spilling over my cheeks. Right beside me, Tiffany let out a thrilled, breathless laugh. “Wayne, look! It actually works! I didn’t feel a thing!” She triumphantly raised her pale, unblemished arm. In her other hand, she held a silver dagger, its tip dripping with fresh blood. I looked down at my own left wrist. A jagged, angry laceration had split the skin, crimson pooling and spilling onto the dirt. Growing up, my adoptive parents had shielded me from everything. I was so sheltered that they literally chased mosquitoes away from me. I had never even scraped a knee, let alone seen my own blood flow like water. The ground tilted. The crimson sky spun. The sheer shock of the pain sent my vision black, and I collapsed onto the damp grass. Through the haze, I heard Tiffany’s annoyed groan. “Seriously? She faints at the sight of blood?” “If the soul-binding artifact didn’t require a direct blood relative, I would never have agreed to bring this useless charity case along,” she grumbled. “If I knew she was this pathetic, I would’ve told Mom and Dad to leave her in the gutter where they found her.” My biological brother, Wayne, stepped forward, gently smoothing her hair. “Mom and Dad only brought her home so she could die for you, Tiff,” he said, his voice dripping with a warmth he had never once shown me. “You’re the only sister I care about. The only daughter of the Whitmore house. As for her… she’s not walking out of this place alive.” He turned, his shadow falling over my shivering form. He looked down at me, his eyes colder than the stone lions behind him. “Hey. Wake up. Get your head straight and don’t think for a second that sharing our DNA gives you any leverage over me. I have one sister, and her name is Tiffany.” I squeezed my eyes shut, my entire body trembling. I was too weak, too utterly drained by the phantom blood loss, to even muster a reply. Before the silence could stretch, another flash of light illuminated the courtyard. Three men materialized near the gates. There was a hulking, muscular man, a scruffy guy with a thick beard, and a lean man wearing wire-rimmed glasses. Each of them carried heavy, menacing gear. They radiated a hard, desperate edge. The muscular one, Rex, stepped forward, his eyes scanning our group. “Newbies?” his gaze lingered on Tiffany’s glowing wrist. “And you’ve got an aura-disguising decoy artifact. Fancy.” He gestured subtly to his two companions before turning back to us with a cold, predatory smile. “We’re veterans. Cleaned out three S-Class runs already. We could probably carry you through this hellhole.” He paused, his eyes sliding over to me, shivering on the grass. “But… we’re going to need your little decoy to clear the traps first.” Tiffany’s eyes lit up as she looked at their heavy weaponry. Without a second thought, she blurted out, “Deal! Take her. Use the useless bitch however you want.” “If you get me out of here alive, my family will wire you thirty million dollars the second we hit the real world.” The three veterans exchanged glances, their lips curling into dark, satisfied grins. Satisfied with the arrangement, Wayne marched over and kicked my ribs. Not hard enough to break them, but enough to send a sickening jolt of pain through my abdomen. “Are you deaf?” he snarled. “Get up. Get to the front and start walking.” I clutched my stomach, stumbling to my feet. My face was entirely drained of color as I took the lead, stepping onto the gravel path. But as I walked closer to the massive double doors, a strange, desperate warmth began to bloom in my chest. My adoptive father’s parting words echoed in my mind. On the morning I left, he had hugged me tightly, his voice low and vibrating with a strange, dark intensity: ‘If those people ever hurt you, sweetheart, you tell us. I will make them beg for the release of death.’ I was almost home. With my real parents inside, no one could touch me. My steps grew lighter, more urgent. Tears welled in my eyes, but I blinked them back, swallowing the urge to sob. I didn’t want them to see me looking like a crybaby the second I got back. But the moment I pushed open the heavy oak doors, the atmosphere shifted. The interior of the manor was structurally identical to the home I had left, but the lights were dead. Only a few thick, black wax candles flickered along the grand hallway, throwing long, distorted shadows against the walls. In the center of the foyer stood a tall, slender silhouette. Seeing the familiar, crisp lines of his tailcoat, I let out a shaky breath of pure relief. It was Thomas, our butler. He had practically raised me, slipping me extra sweets when my parents weren’t looking. He would put these awful people in their place. I wiped the tears from my cheeks and rushed forward, a fragile smile breaking across my face. “Thomas—” The butler turned to face me. Under the flickering candlelight, his warm, familiar eyes dissolved into twin pools of liquid crimson. His jaw unhinged with a sickening wet click, tearing all the way back to his earlobes to reveal rows of needle-sharp, glistening fangs. I froze, my breath catching in my throat. In the reflection of his polished spectacles, I saw myself. Except… it wasn’t my face. Thanks to Tiffany’s soul-binding decoy artifact, my appearance and life-force signature had been completely overwritten to match hers. To Thomas, I looked exactly like the spoiled stranger standing behind me. My blood ran ice-cold. He doesn’t recognize me. I instinctively lowered my head, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Thomas’s terrifying, blood-red gaze swept past me, locking onto the five people who had just stepped through the door. His voice was a horrible, grating rasp, like rusty nails grinding against stone. “You are precisely one second late.” “The Master demands absolute punctuality. As a minor warning… one of you must pay the penalty.” The System’s rules for the manor suddenly flashed in the air in glowing, crimson letters: Rule 1: Servants must obey the Masters unconditionally. Rule 2: Servants must perform their duties diligently. No slacking. Rule 3: The Masters value time above all else. Do not be late. Rule 4: Servants have no names. You are only numbers. To survive: Live through three days and secure the master key. Cold sweat beaded on the foreheads of the veterans behind me. In an S-Class dungeon, violating a rule usually meant a swift, excruciating death. Thomas’s head tilted at an unnatural angle, his smile stretching wider. “Let us see… who will be our unfortunate soul tonight?” “For a first offense, we shall keep it light. Just a finger.” Hearing that it wasn’t an immediate death sentence, the group let out a collective, ragged sigh of relief. Tiffany even let out a small, arrogant scoff. The terrifying S-Class boss suddenly seemed much less intimidating if his only punishment was a missing finger. But Rex, the muscle-bound veteran, remained tense. He nudged Tiffany sharply. “Miss Whitmore. Time to use your decoy.” Tiffany smirked, casting a sideways glance at me. “If this clumsy idiot hadn’t dragged her feet outside, we wouldn’t have been late in the first place,” she hissed. “Losing a finger is too good for her.” She stepped forward, thrusting her hand toward the butler with a sickeningly sweet smile. “Take her! She’s my servant. I choose her!” My heart plummeted. Tiffany didn’t just want me to take her physical damage. She wanted to throw me to the wolves for every minor infraction, using me as social currency to buy favor with the veterans. Desperate, I opened my mouth to scream my real name to Thomas. “Thomas, it’s me! I’m Mai—” The words died in my throat. Rule 4: Servants have no names. What would happen if I broke a system rule right in front of him? Would the game force him to execute me before he even realized who I was? I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, tears spilling over. Thomas stared at Tiffany, his crimson eyes gleaming with a malicious, knowing light. With a flick of his wrist, a pair of massive, tarnished iron shears materialized in his hand. I closed my eyes, braced for the agonizing tear of my flesh. Snip. A wet, heavy thud echoed on the hardwood floor. Then, a blood-curdling shriek shattered the silence. I opened my eyes, frantically checking my hands. Both of them were perfectly intact. Instead, Harvey—the glasses-wearing veteran—was on his knees, clutching his left hand where his pinky finger had been cleanly severed. Blood sprayed between his knuckles. Tiffany gasped, her eyes wide with shock and confusion as she stared at the screaming man. “How… how is this possible? I chose her! The artifact is active!” Thomas casually wiped a drop of dark blood from his silver shears, his smile cold and mocking. “Did I ever say… you were the one who got to choose?” The foyer fell into a suffocating, dead silence. No one dared to breathe. They realized, with absolute certainty, that a single wrong word would result in their heads rolling across the floor next. Thomas nodded, seemingly satisfied with the sudden obedience. He pointed a long, pale finger toward the dark, yawning corridor at the end of the hall. “Your quarters are at the end of the hall. Your uniforms are waiting inside. The room numbers correspond to your designated designations.” “Numbers One through Six. Choose wisely.” “And remember… never, ever sleep in the wrong room.” With that cryptic warning, his form dissolved into the shadows, leaving us in pitch darkness. Rex and his bearded companion didn’t waste a second. They grabbed the bleeding Harvey and bolted down the hallway. Wayne grabbed Tiffany’s arm, dragging her along as they scrambled to claim the safest rooms. But they were too late. Rooms One through Three were already claimed, their heavy wooden doors slammed shut. Only Rooms Four, Five, and Six remained. But Room Four had a fresh, wet-looking red handprint smeared across the center of the door. It radiated a heavy, malevolent aura. Wayne took one look at it and instantly made his decision. “You take Room Four,” he barked, shoving me toward the door with the bloody handprint. “Tiffany takes Five. I’ll take Six.” “Tiffany is in the middle, so you’ll be flanked. If anything tries to get to her, you throw yourself in front of it.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a harsh, threatening whisper. “If a single hair on Tiffany’s head is harmed, you won’t survive the night anyway. Remember that.” I looked at the number ‘6’ on his door, my throat tightening. I knew that room. “Don’t go into Room Six…” I whispered, trying to warn him. But Wayne only scoffed, grabbing my injured left wrist and violently throwing me into Room Four. “In this place, you do exactly what I tell you.” Tiffany leaned against the doorframe of Room Five, crossing her arms with a sneer. “The decoy gets the death room. Poetic justice, really.” “Sweet dreams.” The heavy oak door slammed shut, and the lock clicked into place. I clutched my bleeding wrist, tears finally spilling over. If Wayne didn’t view me as human, let alone his sister, then I owed him nothing. I wouldn’t warn him again. What they didn’t know was that the brass numbers on Rooms Six and Nine had been inverted years ago. When I was in elementary school, I had accidentally screwed the number ‘9’ upside down while playing with a screwdriver. Room Six was actually Room Nine. Wayne had just locked himself inside the most dangerous, unstable room in the house. And the terrifying Room Four? It was my childhood art studio. The ‘bloody handprint’ on the door was just some red acrylic paint I had gotten on my hands during an art session three weeks ago. My adoptive mother had found it endearing and refused to let the maid wash it off. Inside, my easel, canvases, and paints were exactly where I had left them. A sudden spark of hope flared in my chest. I couldn’t say my name without breaking the rules, but I could paint. I grabbed a sheet of heavy watercolor paper and a brush. Tomorrow, when Thomas came to check on us, he would see my painting. He would know it was me. Clutching the wet painting to my chest, I climbed onto the plush daybed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. The next morning, I was violently jolted awake by a bucket of ice-cold water drenched over my head. I sat up gasping, my first instinct to shield my painting from the water. Tiffany stood over me, her face contorted in an ugly, hysterical rage. “You did this!” she shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at my face. “You cursed Wayne last night! And you—you were sleeping like a dead pig while he was being tortured!” I checked the corner of my painting. Only a tiny smudged edge. I let out a soft sigh of relief. Then, I looked up at Tiffany, keeping my voice quiet and steady. “You were sleeping right next door to him. Why didn’t you go save him?” Tiffany choked on her own breath, her face turning a mottled red. At around one in the morning, a frantic, desperate pounding had echoed through the hallway. It had come from Wayne’s door. “Hehehe… this is my room…” a wet, gurgling voice had whispered through the floorboards. Sometime later, she had heard the door creak open, followed by Wayne’s blood-curdling screams, before the entire floor fell dead silent. Tiffany had huddled under her blankets, shaking violently until dawn. It was only when the three veterans went to investigate Room Six that she had summoned the courage to slip out. Wayne wasn’t dead, but his hair had turned entirely white, and he was staring blankly at the wall in a catatonic state of shock. Remembering my warning from the night before, Tiffany had immediately shifted the blame to me. “You knew!” she screamed, pulling a hunting knife from her boot, her eyes gleaming with absolute malice. “You knew something was wrong with that room! Why didn’t you sleep there instead of him?” “Since you don’t know how to use your mouth to warn people, maybe you don’t need your ears either.” Wayne stood just behind her, his face pale and hollow, his eyes entirely devoid of light. He didn’t stop her. “Just don’t kill her,” he muttered, his voice flat. “We still need her to take the final blow for you.” The three veterans leaned against the doorframe, watching the family drama unfold with cold, amused detachment. Tiffany stepped closer, the steel blade gleaming under the morning light. Just as the tip of the blade brushed against my earlobe, a deep, resonant chime echoed through the manor. Six o’clock. The start of the shift. The color drained from Tiffany’s face. She lowered the knife, casting one last venomous glare at me. “This isn’t over,” she hissed. They all turned and ran toward the foyer. The morning sun streamed through the high stained-glass windows, making the manor look almost normal. Even Thomas had returned to his immaculate, human form. He stood in the center of the hall, assigning our chores: Preparing breakfast, dusting the parlor, tending the gardens, playing with the family pets… Through the window, the roses in the garden seemed to bask in the warm sunlight, their petals unfurling. Wait. I squinted. Nestled within the velvet petals of the central rose were two tiny, dark, bead-like eyes. The rose was tilting its head, curiously peering through the glass at us. Rex noticed it too. “What in the actual hell…” he muttered under his breath. Tiffany and Wayne looked pale. They immediately worked together to dump the gardening duty onto me. The three veterans chose the indoor cleaning chores, knowing that the S-Class master key was far more likely to be hidden inside the manor. But they also knew the manor housed the two final bosses—the masters of the house—who had yet to make an appearance. Tiffany and Wayne, wanting to avoid the inner sanctum of the house, quickly opted for the final chore: playing with the pets. But… when did we ever have pets? Before I could think, Thomas finished his announcements and turned to head up the grand staircase. I clutched my painting and bolted after him. “Thomas! Wait—” A heavy hand clamped over my mouth from behind, dragging me backward. Wayne’s voice hissed in my ear, hot and furious: “Are you trying to get us all killed, you idiot?” Hearing the commotion, Thomas paused on the stairs, looking down at us with a polite, empty smile. “Number Four, Number Six. Your duties await.” Wayne nodded frantically, dragging me by my bruised wrist and throwing me out the heavy front doors. The moment the doors slammed shut, he shoved me onto the gravel. “Have you lost your mind?” he snarled. “Provoking a boss like that… you’re going to get us slaughtered!” My painting slipped from my fingers, landing face-up on the grass. Tiffany snatched it up, took one look, and burst into a cruel, mocking laugh. “Oh, look at this. She’s completely lost her mind.” “She drew a family portrait! What, did you think you could charm S-Class anomalies into letting you go by playing house?” “And look! She wrote ‘Baby’ over her own head. Do you honestly think the boss is going to treat you like a baby, you pathetic freak?” Wayne looked down at the paper. It was a drawing of a young girl riding on one of the stone lions, with three smiling adults standing around her. Above the girl’s head, the word Baby was written in messy, colorful letters. A dark, twisted scowl crossed his face. To him, the three figures represented our biological parents and him. He grabbed the paper, tore it into shreds, and threw the pieces in my face. “Stop dreaming,” he spat. “You will never, ever be a part of this family. You are nothing to us.” But before the paper scraps could even settle on the dirt, a massive, velvety rose head slid over his shoulder. A small, giggling voice echoed from its petals. “Baby.” Then, dozens of tiny eyes blinked open in the bushes. “It’s Baby…” “Baby… thirsty…” Wayne let out a terrified shriek, his face turning translucent. He grabbed Tiffany’s hand, and the two of them bolted toward the courtyard gates, leaving me behind. By the time I sat up, I was completely surrounded by a sea of undulating, walking roses. I had lived here my entire life, but I had never seen the roses sprout leafy little legs. Dozens of tiny, green bead-eyes stared at me with pure, desperate longing. I froze for a second, then realization dawned. They were just thirsty. I slowly walked over to the garden shed, turned on the automated sprinkler valves, and watched the mist settle over the garden. The roses let out tiny, satisfied sighs, stretched their stems, and curled up on the lawn to take a collective nap. The task was shockingly easy. All it took was a little patience and a hose. Meanwhile, Tiffany and Wayne were having a much harder time. The “pets” they were supposed to play with were the two massive stone lions at the gate. And the lions had come to life. The S-Class master key was nestled inside the heavy brass collar of the male lion. To get it, they had been forced to play a terrifying, high-stakes game of fetch with a massive iron ball for four hours straight. Their legs were shaking from sheer exhaustion. The moment the lions began to doze off, Wayne and Tiffany crept forward, successfully untying the brass key from the collar. But the click of the latch woke the male lion. With a deafening, earth-shattering roar, the beast lunged. It swiped its massive paw, pinning Wayne to the ground, its heavy jaws hovering inches from his face. In a desperate bid to save herself, Tiffany grabbed the heavy brass key and threw it directly into my lap as I sat by the rosebeds. “Stupid cat!” she screamed at the lion, her face twisted in a hideous grin. “She took your key! Go kill her!” I didn’t even have time to stand before a massive, terrifying weight slammed into my chest, pinning me to the dirt. The stench of sulfur and ancient stone washed over me. Two massive, jagged fangs hovered right over my throat. Fear, cold and absolute, gripped my heart. But just as the beast opened its jaws to crush my neck, a collective shriek rose from the rose garden. “Baby!” The next instant, the entire estate began to violently shatter. Massive, writhing black tentacles burst from the manor windows, blotting out the morning sky. “Our baby is home!”

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My boyfriend, Gavin, was doing it again. At the birthday dinner he threw for me, the cake he brought out still had only two candles on it. “You and Selena only have birthdays two days apart,” he said, his voice entirely too casual. “Might as well celebrate together.” The words cut through me, delivered with an ease that felt like a slap. I couldn’t understand it. If we had to share, why did the date always have to fall on my best friend’s actual birthday? Why was the restaurant’s decor, the menu, even the flower wall styled after Selena’s tastes? The floral arrangement spelling out her initials, “S.P.”, felt like a mockery. This wasn’t my party. It was hers, dressed up in the thin excuse of being mine. “Gavin, who are you actually dating?” I’d asked him more than once. But to Gavin, my hurt was just a symptom of my own insecurity. “You two are best friends,” he’d always say, waving it off. “You share everything. Being good to her is my way of being good to you.” He used that excuse to shield himself while his attention to Selena grew more and more meticulous. Eventually, even our rare dates were split down the middle, with Selena always occupying the other half of the table. She called him the blueprint of a perfect boyfriend—thoughtful, attentive, detail-oriented. Fine. If he wanted to be so good to her, if we had to share our birthdays, maybe they should just share a bed too. … I stood up to leave, but before I could take more than a few steps, Gavin caught my arm. “Don’t ruin Selena’s birthday, Maeve,” he muttered, his brow furrowing with that familiar look of deep disappointment, as if I were the one being utterly unreasonable. “She thinks of you as her sister. How is it going to look if you just walk out?” I stopped, looking at him. “You just said it yourself. It’s “her” birthday, not mine. Why do I have to be here for it?” “You two share everything. What’s the big deal about sharing a birthday?” He paused, shaking his head. “Besides, celebrating together is special. You’re always making a scene over nothing.” That look of exhaustion on his face—I knew it by heart. I didn’t argue. I just choked back my tears and ran out into the rain. I had lost count of how many times we’d fought over Selena. She was a permanent fixture on our dates. When we both caught a cold, he drove to her apartment first to drop off medicine. And when I flew back from a business trip in the middle of the night, he forgot to pick me up because he was keeping Selena company while she worked late. Every fight ended the same way: with me being painted as hysterical, jealous, and crazy. But standing in the cold rain, the truth finally crystallized. I was never the person he thought of first. By the time I got back to our apartment, shivering and wet, my phone buzzed with a text from Gavin. “When you’ve calmed down, come to the theater. I rented out a private screening.” My thumb hovered over the screen, trembling. Once, in a rare moment of quiet, I’d told him I wanted to know what it felt like to have an entire movie theater to ourselves. A tiny, foolish spark of warmth flickered in my chest—he had remembered. But the moment I saw the movie title, that spark died. It was the romantic melodrama Selena had been begging to see all week. I hated those types of movies. I tilted my head back, breathing in slowly, and realized our home was practically a monument to Selena. The living room set was in her favorite modern-bohemian style. The massage chair in the corner was bought specifically because her back occasionally ached. Even the photo wall—a collection of Gavin’s photography—was split. Half of it was of Selena; the other half was of the two of them. My face was there, too, but only in a single, small print squeezed into the bottom corner where the light barely reached. The clock struck midnight when Gavin finally walked through the door, holding a small box. “I saved you a slice,” he said, offering a tired smile. “Kept it in the restaurant’s fridge so the frosting wouldn’t melt.” In the past, a gesture like this would have been enough to make me fold. I would have apologized for being difficult. But now, looking at him, the distance between us felt like a chasm. “Do you actually love me, Gavin?” He let out a sharp, impatient sigh. “How many times do we have to go through this? Why do you always have to be so paranoid?” Sensing the chill in the room, he tried to soften his tone. He stepped closer, reaching out to brush my hair back, but I flinched away. “Maeve, I’ve had a really long day. Don’t start this again.” When I didn’t answer, he sighed and headed toward the bathroom. I remembered a time, early on, when asking that question would make him cup my face in his hands and look into my eyes. “‘I love you,’” he’d say. “‘You can ask me a million times, and I’ll always tell you.’” I let out a quiet, bitter laugh. I wasn’t sure if I was laughing at the memory of his words, or at the girl who had actually believed them. Before bed, Gavin did what he’d been doing for the last two weeks: he started a FaceTime call with Selena and kept it active as they fell asleep. It had started when she called him, terrified, claiming she heard footsteps outside her door. I was pulling an all-night shift at the office, so Gavin went to her apartment and stayed until dawn. Ever since, she claimed she couldn’t sleep without the comfort of his voice in her ear. “We should go to Cape Cod for our next trip,” Selena’s voice drifted from the speaker, soft and dreamlike. “I heard making a wish under the summer fireworks there actually works.” Gavin gave a low, fond chuckle. “Sure. If that’s where you want to go.” “What about Maeve? Where does she want to go?” “Why bother asking her? She doesn’t know anything about Cape Cod. She won’t have an opinion anyway.” His voice was so dismissive it was almost casual. In all our group trips, I was little more than a ghost. On our last hike, the two of them had forged ahead so quickly that when I tripped and sprained my ankle, they were already out of sight. The time before that, they had sat on the beach talking about constellations late into the night, their voices rising and falling in a rhythm I couldn’t hope to join. Watching their easy intimacy now, a profound exhaustion settled deep into my bones. “Let’s book it for tomorrow then,” Selena said. “Sounds good.” Gavin shifted under the covers, closing his eyes to sleep without once turning to look at me. “I’m not going,” I whispered. He was too busy murmuring a final goodnight to Selena to hear me. I pulled out my phone and typed a message to the headhunter who had reached out to me the week before about a position in Boston. “What is the earliest I can start?” The next morning, Gavin practically dragged me out of bed, pulling me toward the airport despite my protests. “Selena went out of her way to make sure you were included,” he scolded as we walked through the terminal. “Don’t wear that miserable expression this time. You ruined the mood on our last trip.” Through security, boarding, takeoff—I moved like a marionette, hollowed out. Somewhere mid-flight, the plane shuddered, dropping suddenly in a pocket of severe turbulence. My heart jumped. I instinctively turned my head toward him. Gavin’s body was tense, his knuckles white. He was holding Selena’s hand, gripping it with a fierce, protective urgency. Selena looked startled for a second, then gently patted his arm. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “Just a little bump.” I was the only one who knew Gavin was having a panic attack. Years ago, we’d been on a flight that dropped hundreds of feet in a storm. He had wrapped his arms around me so tightly it hurt, whispering, “‘If we don’t make it, my only regret is that I didn’t get to marry you.’” The burning sincerity in his eyes that day had sustained me through years of growing cold. But now, his reflex was to protect someone else. As he turned his head back toward me, I looked away. My fingers traced the band of my ring, a dull ache blooming in my chest. “Fine,” I thought. “Let this be our goodbye trip.” When we landed, Selena told us to wait by the baggage claim while she went to buy local iced coffees. Suddenly, I felt a familiar, sharp cramp in my lower abdomen. I hurried to the nearest restroom and realized my period had started early. I called Gavin. “Can you buy me some pads?” “Isn’t your cycle at the end of the month? It’s only the fifteenth.” There was a heavy pause on the line. We both knew the fifteenth was Selena’s cycle. He cleared his throat quickly. “Just hang tight. I’ll buy them and have Selena bring them in to you.” I huddled in the stall, waiting until my feet went numb. Nobody came. In the end, I had to call the airport’s guest assistance hotline just to get a basic hygiene kit. I wanted to prove to myself that I didn’t need him, but when I stood up, a violent cramp seized my leg. I stumbled, barely catching myself against the wall. The tears I’d been holding back finally spilled over. Gavin hadn’t always been like this. He used to be the man who kept track of every detail. When stress was making my hair fall out, he’d spent weeks researching natural remedies, boiling herbal teas for me every night. After graduation, I’d turned down a prestigious job offer in New York to move to his hometown, Seattle, with him. But the climate, the social circle, the job—none of it fit me. I was constantly struggling to adjust, while he thrived. Once, during an argument, the frustration boiled over. “I only moved to this city for you,” I cried. He had looked at me, completely detached. “I didn’t force you to come.” The words had stunned me. I still remembered our first night in Seattle, how he’d held my hand under the streetlights and promised, “‘My home is your home now.’” When I finally limped out of the restroom, I found the two of them standing in the middle of the terminal courtyard. They were participating in a live “Midsummer Couples’ Trivia Challenge” hosted by a local travel booth. I had forgotten today was Sweethearts’ Day. On our last anniversary, I had to work late, so Gavin took the reservation he’d made for us and went with Selena instead. When I got home, we had a screaming match. “You’re seriously blaming me because you had to work?” Gavin had slammed the door. “I even brought you takeout that Selena specifically picked out for you. She was trying to be thoughtful, and you’re just being bitter.” We didn’t speak for three days. But the moment he showed a sliver of regret, I went running back. It wasn’t because I wasn’t hurt; it was because the memory of who he used to be was too beautiful to let go. But today, standing on the edge of the crowd, I just watched them. The host asked a series of rapid-fire questions about Selena’s favorite things, and Gavin answered every single one without a second thought. “Perfect score!” the host boomed into the microphone, grinning. “How do you know her preferences so well?” Gavin leaned toward the mic, his eyes locked onto Selena’s face, a lazy smile playing on his lips. “A lot of practice buying her gifts.” Selena blushed, leaning her shoulder into his chest. The crowd laughed, but I felt entirely hollow. When Selena first moved into her apartment, Gavin insisted on buying her a housewarming gift. Then it became a habit. Every holiday, every trip, he bought everything in duplicate. He told me he was just trying to win over my best friend, but eventually, the line blurred. He’d buy her sunglasses, sundresses, even expensive bath bombs. Every time he went shopping, he saw things that reminded him of her. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought something just for me. They walked out of the crowd holding a matching pair of plush prizes. When Gavin’s eyes finally landed on me, his smile faltered. “Oh, the pads,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I completely forgot. Why didn’t you call me again?” I looked at him, my voice flat. “Someone else helped me.” Selena pouts, tapping his chest. “How could you forget something like that?” Gavin immediately ducked his head, his tone soft and placating. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Won’t happen again.” She let out a playful hum of approval. A wave of exhaustion washed over me. “My leg is cramping. I’m going back to the hotel.” Gavin was already typing on his phone, not even looking up. “Sure. We’ve got the fireworks show tonight anyway, so we’ll see you later.” That evening, I sat alone in the dim hotel room, scrolling aimlessly through my phone. On a local travel vlog, a video popped up. “‘Spotted the sweetest couple at the fireworks show tonight!’” the caption read. I watched the screen as my throat tightened. It was the scene I had always imagined for us. Under the bursting colors of the fireworks, Selena was laughing, and Gavin was pulling her closer, his eyes reflecting the light. They looked radiant. They looked perfect. I opened my airline app, booked a one-way ticket back to Seattle, and left for the airport within the hour. Gavin didn’t return to our apartment until the following evening. When he saw me sitting on the couch, he marched over, his face dark with anger. “Why did you just disappear like that? Do you have any idea how worried I was?” I stared at him. His version of worry didn’t include a single phone call or text. He noticed my packed suitcase by the door and ran a hand through his hair, his frustration boiling over. “Are you seriously doing this because I didn’t babysit you for one evening? How old are you, Maeve? Running away like a teenager?” I kept packing in silence. In the past, I fought because I believed things could be fixed. Now, I simply didn’t have the words. He stepped closer, his voice softening into that familiar, condescending tone. “Be reasonable. Every time we have a disagreement, you blow it completely out of proportion. Stop being so dramatic.” He reached into his bag. “Look, Selena spent hours picking out a souvenir for you. I brought it back.” He set a beautifully carved wooden sculpture on the table—and then handed me a cheap, generic refrigerator magnet. Of course. It was always like this. The thoughtful, expensive gifts went to her; the cheap afterthoughts went to me. I had stayed quiet for years because I didn’t want him to think I was materialistic. But the silence had only made me invisible. “Am I really that cheap to you, Gavin? Do I only deserve a refrigerator magnet?” His face twisted with irritation. “You’re the one who said you loved collecting magnets! I went out of my way to buy you one on every single trip!” When we first started dating, we had no money. I had lied and told him I only cared about magnets because I didn’t want him spending his rent money on me. Now, that lie was being used to justify my second-class status. I walked over to the fridge, pulled off every single magnet one by one, and threw them into the trash. “If I have it, Selena gets a version of it. But when did I ever get the things you bought for her?” The room fell dead silent. Then, a sharp “clack” echoed as a coffee mug was knocked over on the counter. I turned around. Gavin wasn’t even looking at me. His eyes were glued to his phone screen, his expression tense and panicked. I walked over and glanced at the screen. It was Selena’s Instagram story. A photo of a dimly lit restaurant table with the caption: “‘First blind date. Wish me luck!’” along with a location tag. “Why are you so panicked about her going on a date?” I asked, keeping my voice steady. His eyes darted around, avoiding mine. “She’s too naive. She doesn’t know how dangerous these setups can be. What if this guy is a creep? Who even set her up with him?” It was almost funny watching him struggle to maintain his composure. “I have to make sure she’s safe,” he muttered, grabbing his keys and heading for the door. I grabbed my purse and followed him out. He drove in absolute silence, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The moment we arrived at the restaurant, he stormed inside, located her table, and slid into the booth right next to Selena. “We’re leaving,” Gavin said, his voice dropping into a hard, commanding register. “This date is over.” The man sitting across from them looked offended. “Who the hell are you to tell her what to do?” Gavin wrapped his arm tightly around Selena’s waist, pulling her flush against his side. He lifted his chin, staring the man down. “Get lost.” The man stood up, cursing under his breath. “Unbelievable. If you have a boyfriend, don’t waste my time.” Once the man was gone, Gavin looked at the table, reaching out to push a plate away. “You hate cilantro. Why did he order this?” He picked up a plate of shrimp, cracked one open, and quietly placed the peeled meat on Selena’s plate. “Why did you suddenly go on a blind date?” he asked, his voice softer now. Selena shot a nervous, guilty look in my direction. “I don’t know what Maeve said to my mom, but my mom suddenly became obsessed with setting me up.” Gavin whipped his head around to glare at me, his eyes burning with fury. “Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? You’re trying to throw your best friend to the wolves.” He stood up, stepping between Selena and me. “Are you trying to ruin her life?” In reality, Selena’s mother had asked me about her dating life, and I had simply suggested she let Selena find someone naturally. I had no idea her mother would react by arranging an immediate blind date. But looking at Gavin standing there like a knight shielding his princess, I realized explanations were pointless. “Believe whatever you want,” I said. Gavin let out a dry, angry laugh. “If you’re so obsessed with blind dates, why don’t you go on one? Go marry some stranger.” I nodded slowly. “And I assume you’re going to act as her boyfriend and go home with her now?” I picked up my purse and walked out. Before I even reached the street, a text from Selena popped up. “Maeve, you’re misunderstanding. He was just worried about me and spoke without thinking.” I replied: “I’m not misunderstanding. You can have him.” A second later, a furious voice memo from Gavin arrived. “Maeve, what the hell is your problem texting Selena like that? Don’t act like you’re the only girl in the world.” The clicking of my heels on the pavement sounded steady, clear, and final. By the time I got back to the apartment, I had my bags dragged to the door. Just as I was about to walk out, my phone lit up with a text from a mutual friend who worked at the local clinic. “Hey, is Selena okay? I just saw her come into the ER during my shift.” My chest tightened. Despite everything, five years of friendship couldn’t be erased in an instant. I hurried to the clinic. When I found her room, Selena was curled up in Gavin’s arms, her eyes red and swollen. The moment she saw me, she pulled away, her expression shifting into deep unease. I stood at the foot of the bed, my face expressionless. “Are you okay?” She stammered, unable to find words. Gavin stood beside her, his head bowed in a heavy, suffocating silence. Before I could ask anything else, the door swung open. Selena’s mother rushed into the room, her eyes blazing. She bypassed me entirely, marching straight to Gavin and shoving a finger into his chest. “You miserable bastard,” she hissed. “You’re the one who got my daughter pregnant?” My breath caught. I instinctively tried to smooth it over. “Mrs. Palmer, there must be some—” But Gavin didn’t deny it. He hung his head, looking like a man accepting his sentence. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Palmer. I’ll take full responsibility.” The room went entirely cold. The blood rushed out of my face, leaving a deafening ring in my ears. Selena panicked, grabbing her mother’s arm. “Mom, please! We’ve actually been together for a long time. We just didn’t know how to tell you. He’s incredibly good to me, I promise.” I stood frozen as Selena kept talking, her voice fading into background static. I looked at Gavin, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. He kept making subtle gestures with his hands, signaling for me to stay quiet, to play along. When Mrs. Palmer finally left the room to settle the billing, the silence rushed back. “Is it true?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Selena’s eyes flooded with tears. “I’m sorry, Maeve.” With those four words, the last remaining piece of my heart withered. “The relationship story was just to appease my mom,” she sobbed. “But… the baby is real.” I took a sharp breath. She reached out, trying to grab my hand. “You know how I’ve always felt about marriage. I wanted a child, but I didn’t want a husband. Gavin has such incredible genetics, and he’s so responsible, so I thought…” She couldn’t finish the sentence, her head dropping as she began to weep. “I never wanted to take him from you. I just wanted a baby.” Gavin stepped forward, shielding her from me. “She just wanted to be a mother, Maeve. It’s not like she did this out of malice. She’s your best friend. Can you really stand there and condemn her to being alone for the rest of her life?” I wanted to scream. I wanted to ask him how he could look at his girlfriend of five years and defend the fact that he had fathered a child with her best friend. I wanted to ask if he felt even a shred of remorse. But the energy had completely left my body. Seeing my silence, Selena grew frantic. She grabbed my sleeve, her grip tight. “Please, Maeve. If you don’t forgive me, I don’t know how I can go on living. Please.” With every ounce of strength I had left, I flung her hand off. I turned toward the door, but behind me, Selena let out a hysterical cry and lunged toward the concrete wall. Gavin caught her just in time, pinning her to his chest before she could hurt herself. “Are you happy now?” Gavin roared at me, his eyes wild. “Just tell her you forgive her! Do you want her to die?” When I didn’t move, he gripped my shoulders, shaking me. “Say it, Maeve! Say it!” Mrs. Palmer walked back in at that exact moment. Seeing the chaos, she shoved me away from them. “What is wrong with you two?” she screamed. “Are you trying to kill my daughter?” Selena sobbed into her hands. “Mom, don’t. It’s not Maeve’s fault.” Whatever Mrs. Palmer took from that, she immediately pulled out her phone and dialed my mother’s number, leaving a furious voice mail: “‘Your daughter is a homewrecker. She’s trying to ruin my daughter’s life over a man.’” My head throbbed with a blinding pain. I turned around, grabbed my suitcase from the hallway, and walked out. As I hailed a cab outside, Gavin ran out, blocking the passenger door before I could close it. “Selena is unstable right now, Maeve,” he pleaded, his face pale and desperate. “Her only wish is to have you there. If you come back inside, I’ll do whatever you want. We can get married. We can go to the courthouse tomorrow. I’ll give you the wedding you’ve always wanted.” I looked at him, feeling nothing but a profound sense of disgust. “We’re done, Gavin.” “Stop playing games,” he snapped, his desperation turning into venom. “Every time you pack your bags, you just spend a night at a hotel and come crawling back. We’ve lived together for five years. You think you can just walk away? At your age, you’re just damaged goods. You need to think about your future.” Looking at his sneering, desperate face, I realized I didn’t even recognize him anymore. I slammed the door shut. “Drive,” I told the cabby. A minute later, my mother called, her voice trembling. “Maeve, what on earth is happening?” “Gavin got Selena pregnant,” I said, my voice dead and level. There was a long, heavy silence on the other end. “Come home, honey,” she whispered. I looked out the window at the passing city skyline. Five years ago, I had driven down these same streets with a heart full of hope. I never imagined it would end like this. I reached into my phone, popped the SIM card out, and threw it out the window, tossing five years of foolishness into the wind.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “529609”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was a hopeless, unapologetic mama’s girl. The irony, of course, was that my childhood had been a masterclass in maternal cruelty. For as long as I could remember, I had bent myself into impossible shapes just to earn a single, fleeting smile from the woman I called mother. What did I get in return? Screams, bruises, and the bitter taste of constant rejection. I never understood why she harbored such a visceral, bone-deep hatred for me. Until a sleek black town car pulled up to our dilapidated porch, sent by the ultra-wealthy Carlisle family. Only then did the truth unravel: the woman who had spent eighteen years breaking me wasn’t my mother at all. The moment I stepped through the towering French doors of the Carlisle estate, before I could even catch a glimpse of my biological mother, the girl who had spent her life living my lie began her performance. Her name was Tiffany. She stood on the sweeping marble staircase, her eyes welling with tears that looked entirely too practiced. “Please don’t make me leave, Talia,” she whimpered, her voice trembling like a bruised reed. “I don’t care about the inheritance. I don’t want a single penny. Just let me stay. I’ll work as a maid, I’ll scrub the floors—anything, as long as I can still be near this family…” Her adoptive brother—my biological brother—Christian, immediately stepped in front of her, his jaw clenched, shielding her like a knight protecting a fragile princess. “The only daughter of this house is Tiffany!” Christian hissed, his eyes burning with disgust as they landed on me. “I don’t care what the DNA test says. You are a stranger to us. You better not think you can come in here and play your pathetic little games. I will only ever recognize her as my sister.” In any ordinary story, this would be the moment the long-lost daughter crumbles, her heart shattering at the instant rejection. But my heart didn’t shatter. In fact, my eyes lit up. Because there, standing at the landing of the stairs, was Helena Carlisle. She looked like a classic Hollywood star stepping out of a silver-screen frame—tall, elegant, with a quiet, devastating beauty that commanded the entire room. Every ounce of pain and humiliation I had suffered under Trudy’s roof suddenly melted away. Here was a place to put all that desperate, bottled-up love. A manipulative fake sister? A blind, arrogant brother? They were nothing but noise. I bypassed them entirely, ran up the stairs, and threw my arms tightly around Helena’s waist. “Mommy!” I breathed, burying my face in her shoulder. “You’re so beautiful!” … Helena’s entire body went rigid. As the matriarch of a sprawling corporate empire, she was a woman defined by distance, steel, and a carefully cultivated aura of untouchability. Having her waist suddenly clamped in a vice-like hug by a stranger was clearly not in her daily planner. Her hands hovered awkwardly in the air, unsure of where to land. Christian’s voice cut through the silence like a whip. “Talia, are you out of your mind? Let go of Mom! You classless street rat!” Tiffany put on a display of delicate shock, fluttering her eyelashes. “She grew up in the backwoods, Christian. She probably doesn’t know how civilized people behave…” A gleam of satisfaction flashed in Tiffany’s eyes. She was waiting for Helena to throw me off, waiting for the humiliation to begin. I ignored them both. I leaned closer, lightly breathing in the faint scent of expensive sandalwood and Chanel that clung to Helena’s neck. “You smell so good, Mommy! You’re a hundred times prettier than the movie stars on TV!” Helena’s hovering fingers twitched. For a long, agonizing second, the silence in the grand foyer was deafening. But she didn’t push me away. Instead, her hands descended, awkwardly but gently patting my back. “Welcome home,” she murmured. Her voice was cool and composed, but beneath my cheek, I could feel the rapid, betrayed flutter of her heartbeat. The fake smile on Tiffany’s face fractured. Sensing the shift in the room, she immediately pivoted her strategy. “Since Talia is back, I suppose it’s time for an outsider like me to clear out,” Tiffany said, her voice dropping an octave as she began walking upstairs, her shoulders trembling with theatrical grief. “I’ll just pack my things and move down to the basement storage room. The master suite belongs to the real daughter.” Christian grabbed her wrist, his eyes wide with protective anger. “What are you talking about? You’ve lived in that room for twenty years! Why should she push you out the second she walks through the door?” He spun around to glare at me. “Talia, don’t you dare get greedy!” Helena’s brow furrowed, her lips parting to de-escalate the tension. But before she could speak, I lifted my head from her shoulder, looking at her with wide, adoring eyes. “I don’t want her room, Mommy. I’ll sleep wherever you want me to. I’d sleep in a dog bed as long as I get to stay close to you!” The grand foyer fell utterly silent. The string of insults Christian had prepared died on his tongue. Helena stared down at me, her piercing gray eyes softening with an emotion she clearly didn’t know how to process. “Butler,” Helena called out, her voice echoing in the quiet house. “Prepare the south-facing suite on the second floor.” “And,” she added, her gaze lingering on my frayed sneakers, “replace all the furniture with the highest-end custom pieces. Make sure the mattress is the softest they have.” At dinner, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension. Tiffany carefully selected a piece of sea bass, meticulously removing every tiny bone before placing it onto Helena’s plate. “Mom, I had the chef prepare this sea bass just for you. I know how exhausted you get after those long board meetings.” She shot me a subtle, triumphant smirk. Without a word, I reached over and picked up Helena’s bowl. “Mommy’s worked hard all day,” I declared, scooping up a spoonful of rice and holding it right to Helena’s lips. “Let me feed you, Mommy!” Christian slammed his fork onto the mahogany table. “Talia, are you insane? She’s a grown woman, not a toddler!” Tiffany sighed, playing the role of the refined, embarrassed sister. “Talia, please. You’re making Mom uncomfortable.” Helena did look stiff. Her instinct was to pull back, to maintain the boundaries she had spent a lifetime erecting. I immediately let my lower lip tremble, my eyes filling with unshed tears. “Does Mommy hate me? Back in the town, Trudy barely let me eat. I used to go to bed hungry, dreaming of the day I could finally sit at a table and feed my real mom…” Helena’s breath hitched. She looked at the silver spoon hovering in front of her face, then at my tear-rimmed eyes. Giving in, she leaned forward and took the bite. I practically vibrated with joy. After dinner, Tiffany refused to lose ground. She went out of her way to place her newly won piano trophy right in the center of the living room fireplace mantel. Christian immediately showered her with praise, elevating her to the status of a prodigy while casting pointed looks in my direction. “Our Tiffany is truly exceptional,” Christian said loudly. “Unlike some people who bring nothing but shame to the family name.” Tiffany lowered her head with practiced modesty. “Don’t say that, Christian. I’m sure Talia has her own unique talents. Did you play any instruments in the countryside, Talia? I’d be happy to teach you the basics.” I was sitting on the sofa, practically glued to Helena’s side. Hearing Tiffany’s sweet-poisoned offer, I stood up, my voice bright and clear. “I’m amazing at drawing baths and giving foot massages! That’s my absolute specialty. I’ll make sure Mommy’s feet are perfectly pampered every night!” Tiffany’s eyes rolled back so hard I thought they might get stuck. Christian was left utterly speechless. A delicate, rare blush crept up Helena’s neck. She cleared her throat, trying to hide the small, involuntary curve of her lips. “That’s enough for tonight. Let’s get some rest.” She stood up, and as she passed me, her hand lingered on my head, gently smoothing down my messy hair. In the reflection of the glass cabinets, I saw Tiffany’s face twist with pure, unadulterated envy. The next afternoon, the Carlisle estate was bustling. Tiffany had invited a large group of her high-society friends over for tea. I was wearing a pair of cheap, worn-out jeans and a faded t-shirt I’d bought at a discount store, my hair pulled back into a simple ponytail. A girl draped in a Chanel cardigan giggled behind her hand. “Tiffany, is this the long-lost sister from the backwoods? She looks… incredibly ordinary.” Another girl joined in, her voice dripping with disdain. “I didn’t realize the Carlisles let just anyone walk through the front door these days. It really lowers the standards of our circle.” Christian sat on a nearby armchair, scrolling through his phone, offering no intention of defending me. Tiffany sighed dramatically, her eyes projecting pity. “Please don’t talk about her like that. She just got back, she doesn’t know our lifestyle yet. It takes time to wash off the countryside.” I didn’t care about their petty insults. I was busy cradling the heavy cashmere wrap Helena had left on the sofa the night before. Just then, the heavy front doors opened, and Helena walked in, looking exhausted from a grueling day of corporate negotiations. The girls’ mocking laughter died down, but the insults they had thrown my way still hung in the air. I immediately rushed over to Helena, gently draping the cashmere wrap around her shoulders. “Mommy! You’re finally home! The AC is freezing in here, put this on so you don’t catch a cold.” The tension in Helena’s shoulders visibly melted under the warmth of the wrap. She cast a cool, sweeping glance across the room, taking in the sneering faces of Tiffany’s friends. Without saying a word, she reached into her designer bag and pulled out a sleek black credit card. She pressed it into my hand. “Go buy whatever clothes you want, Talia. A daughter of the Carlisle family wears whatever she pleases.” The silence that followed was absolute. The girl in the Chanel cardigan turned a deep, embarrassed crimson, suddenly looking very small. Within ten minutes, the entire group of high-society girls made polite excuses and scattered like mice. Helena gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze before heading upstairs to her study. I held the black card, grinning, and began making my way up the stairs. But as I reached the landing, Tiffany stepped out from the shadows, blocking my path. “Don’t think sucking up to Mom will save you, Talia,” she hissed, her voice low and venomous. Before I could even reply, she suddenly threw herself backward, tumbling down the flight of marble stairs. “Ah! Talia, why did you push me?!” she screamed, her body rolling to a stop at the bottom. Christian, who had been coming out of the kitchen with a glass of water, witnessed the fall. He dropped his glass, the shards shattering across the tile as he rushed over to her. Finding Tiffany crying in pain, he scrambled up the stairs toward me, his face contorted in rage. He raised his hand, aiming a heavy blow straight at my face. “You jealous bitch! I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget!” But the blow never landed. A slender, elegant figure stepped in front of me, absorbing the sharp slap across her own cheek. Helena had stepped out of her study just in time. Christian froze, staring at his trembling hand in sheer terror. He dropped to his knees, his face pale. “Mom… I didn’t mean to—I was trying to protect Tiffany—” I peeked out from behind Helena’s back, wrapping my arms tightly around her waist. “Mommy, does it hurt? Christian can hit me all he wants, but please don’t let him upset you! Your health is what matters!” Helena touched her reddened cheek, her breathing shallow but controlled. She looked down at her son, her voice carrying a terrifying, quiet weight. “Christian. Take Tiffany to her room. And reflect on what you’ve done.” To help me recover from the incident, Helena decided to take me to the exclusive high-society gala that evening. It was the perfect opportunity to officially introduce me to the world as her daughter. Tiffany had begged and pleaded until Helena finally relented, allowing her to tag along. But before we left, Tiffany bribed the family stylist to hand me a hideous, ill-fitting gown in a dusty, depressing shade of purple. The stylist kept insisting it was the height of vintage chic. I put it on without a single complaint, then walked down to find Helena. She was wearing a stunning, tailored ivory silk sheath dress that made her look like a goddess. I spun around her, my eyes shining with genuine awe. “Mommy looks like an angel! I look perfect to be your bag-carrier!” Helena took one look at my ridiculous outfit and her brows knitted together. She immediately pulled out her phone and dialed a number. “Bring the finest piece from your latest collection to my estate. You have ten minutes.” Half an hour later, I walked down the grand staircase wearing a breathtaking, navy-blue gown encrusted with delicate, shimmering diamonds that looked like a starry night sky. Tiffany stood in the corner of the foyer, her knuckles turning white as she clutched her clutch purse. The gala was held in the grand ballroom of the city’s most luxurious seven-star hotel. The moment we arrived, Tiffany slipped away, blending into her circle of wealthy heiresses. She kept gesturing toward me, whispering poison into their ears. Before long, a group of girls in heavy makeup and designer silk sashayed over to me, led by Charlotte Lee, Tiffany’s closest friend. “Oh, so this is the long-lost daughter?” Charlotte purred, looking me up and down with open contempt. “I heard you didn’t even go to a proper school in the countryside. Do you even know how to use a salad fork, or should I give you a lesson?” A chorus of snickers erupted around her. I didn’t give them the satisfaction of a reaction. I was holding a small silver plate with a few delicate pastries, keeping a respectful half-step behind Helena. Charlotte, feeling insulted by my silence, stepped directly into my path. “Hey! I’m talking to you! Are you deaf?” I looked up, my expression completely innocent. “My mommy told me not to talk to people with low IQs. She says stupidity is highly contagious.” Charlotte’s face twisted in fury. She raised her wine glass, preparing to splash the red liquid all over my diamond gown. But before she could, Helena spun around, her hand clamping down on Charlotte’s wrist like a steel cuff. “Is this how the Lee family teaches manners to their children?” Helena’s voice was ice, sending a visible shiver through the surrounding crowd. Her gaze swept over the wealthy guests. “This is Talia Carlisle. My biological daughter and the sole heir to the Carlisle Group. Anyone who makes her feel unwelcome makes an enemy of me.” The room fell dead silent. The girls who had been giggling moments ago took a collective step back, holding their breath. Tiffany shrunk into the shadows of the crowd, her face pale. Midway through the evening, while Helena was washing her hands, Tiffany cornered me on the terrace. “Don’t get too comfortable, Talia!” she hissed, her elegant facade completely gone. “Do you honestly think Mom cares about you? She’s just acting out of guilt! My brother runs the operations of the company, and he only recognizes me as his sister. One word from me, and you’ll be thrown right back into the gutter!” Looking at her desperate, ugly anger, I actually felt amused. I leaned casually against the stone balustrade, letting out a soft sigh. “Are you finished?” “If you want the Carlisle fortune, take it. I don’t care about the money.” I looked her dead in the eye. “I only want my Mommy. You get the cash, I get Mommy. It’s a win-win.” Tiffany stared at me, completely speechless. The venomous speech she had prepared seemed to deflate, leaving her red-faced and sputtering. On the ride home in the back of the Maybach, Helena leaned her head against the leather headrest, her eyes closed. I quietly shuffled closer, resting my head against her shoulder. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she shifted her posture slightly, letting me rest more comfortably. “Did you feel wronged tonight?” she asked, her voice soft in the quiet cabin of the car. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll make sure you get it.” I snuggled closer, breathing in her familiar scent. “I don’t feel wronged at all. As long as I can see you and be near you every day, I have everything I could ever want.” Helena didn’t say anything. But I felt her fingers tremble slightly where they rested on her knee. Slowly, her hand rose and rested on my head, gently stroke after stroke, smoothing my hair in the dark. The next morning, as we sat in the dining room, Helena’s phone rang. Her expression turned incredibly serious as she listened to the voice on the other end. Hanging up, she stood and grabbed her coat. “An emergency has come up at our European headquarters. I have to catch a flight immediately.” She walked over to me, gently ruffling my hair, before looking at the three of us. “I’ll be gone for a few days. Behave yourselves while I’m away.” As soon as the front doors closed behind Helena, a dark, calculating smirk spread across Tiffany’s face. That very afternoon, the front doors of the villa were pushed open with a loud bang. Tiffany walked in, trailing a loud, disheveled woman behind her. My heart stopped. It was Trudy, my adoptive mother. Tiffany looked at me with mock sympathy. “Talia, I was out shopping and ran into this woman near the gates. She claims she’s your mother from the countryside and was desperate to see you, so I brought her in.” Trudy’s eyes darted around the opulent living room, instantly filled with naked greed. She marched over to me, her voice echoing through the high ceilings. “Talia, you ungrateful little brat! You hit the jackpot and forgot all about the mother who raised you? You owe me five million dollars for raising you, or I’ll make sure every newspaper in this city hears about how you abandoned me!” Christian stood nearby, his arms crossed, a look of deep disgust on his face. “What a parasite. The moment she comes back, she drags this low-class trash into our home. You’re dragging the Carlisle name through the dirt, Talia.” Ignoring their taunts, I swallowed the panic rising in my throat and ran upstairs. When I returned, I held the heavy velvet box containing the diamond jewelry Helena had bought me. “I don’t have that kind of cash. Take this. It’s worth hundreds of thousands. Take it and never come back!” Trudy snatched the box, her eyes widening as she saw the shimmering gems. She quickly shoved it into her coat pocket. I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking she would finally leave. But I had severely underestimated her greed. “You think a few pretty rocks are going to buy me off? The Carlisles have billions! I want a luxury penthouse in the city, registered in my name!” My voice shook with anger. “Are you insane? I just got here! Where would I get a penthouse?” Seeing my defiance, Trudy’s face contorted. She lunged forward, grabbing a fistful of my hair and slamming her palm across my cheek. “You little bitch, you think you can talk back to me now? I raised you, and I can destroy you!” The force of her shove sent me flying backward. My head collided sharply with the edge of the marble coffee table. A sharp, searing pain shot through my forehead, and warm blood immediately began to blur my vision. Trudy didn’t stop. She descended upon me, raining down kicks and blows as I curled into a ball on the cold floor. “Please… help me…” I gasped, looking toward my brother. But Christian just watched with cold indifference, even raising a hand to stop the maids who wanted to intervene. “Stay back! This is their family business. Let her learn a lesson about where she came from.” Tiffany stood beside him, her lips curved into a triumphant, cruel smile. Only when Trudy grew tired did she finally stop, wiping the sweat from her brow as she prepared to leave. She pointed a finger at me. “I’ll give you one week, Talia. If I don’t see the deed to a penthouse by then, I’ll go straight to the Carlisle headquarters and make sure everyone knows what an ungrateful dog you are!” Once she left, Christian didn’t even look at me. “I have to get back to the office. Tiffany, clean up this mess.” He grabbed his keys and walked out without a backward glance. I lay on the cold marble floor, my body aching, blood pooling near my temple. Tiffany walked over, stopping right in front of me. She nudged my limp hand with the toe of her expensive designer shoe, laughing softly. “You look like a dying dog, Talia.” She knelt down, her voice dripping with venom. “Did you really think a few days of playing the perfect daughter would make Mom care about you? She’s a cold-blooded monster who only cares about her company. The moment that trashy woman starts causing trouble at the office, Mom will throw you right back to the gutter.” “If I were you, I’d pack my bags and crawl back to the mud where you belong.” I forced my eyes open, staring back at her through the blood. “You’re lying… Mommy wouldn’t do that. She loves me. She won’t abandon me.” Tiffany laughed as if I’d said something incredibly naive. “You’re so pathetic. I called her mother for twenty years. I know exactly who she is. She doesn’t have a heart…” Before she could finish her sentence, the heavy front doors were thrown open with a violent crash. Helena Carlisle, who was supposed to be on a private jet crossing the Atlantic, stood in the doorway, her eyes blazing with a terrifying fury. “Is that really how you see me, Tiffany?”

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My best friend is a prank influencer. She secretly filmed me breaking down after a breakup, added funny captions, and posted it. The internet called me pathetic and codependent, and she gained fifty thousand followers overnight. She fed me mangoes on purpose and livestreamed my allergic reaction while the chat spammed pig emojis. When I blew out my birthday candles, she threw a bowl of flour in my face—the hashtag #WorldsSaddestBirthdayGirl trended nationally. When I begged her to stop filming me, she called me sensitive, dramatic, and a party pooper. Finally, when I couldn’t take it anymore and ended the friendship, she posted screenshots of our text messages, crying on camera about how I destroyed our ten-year friendship. I was harassed by eighty thousand people online. I lost my job, my social life, and fell into a deep depression. Until her birthday, when I showed up with all the evidence. “Cheryl, you love to film things, don’t you?” “Today, let’s show everyone who you really are.” 1. My best friend is laughing so hard she’s crying. On the screen, I’m curled up in the corner of the sofa. My entire face is swollen like a balloon, my neck is covered in angry red hives, and my fingernails are bloody from scratching. The itch is driving me insane. It’s hard to breathe, like someone’s hands are clamped around my throat. Cheryl’s voice comes from off-camera, bubbling with laughter. “Look, guys! An allergic reaction really turns you into a total pig face! Spam ‘poor baby’ in the comments and I’ll show you an even uglier angle—” The camera shoves right into my face. Her finger pokes my swollen cheek. “Guys, this is the legendary mango allergy. Doesn’t she look like she got stung by a wasp? Oh my god, isn’t my bestie the funniest?” I try to open my mouth to tell her to turn off the phone, but my throat feels like it’s on fire. No sound comes out. I can only stare at the screen, watching the chat fly by: “LMAO dying” “This girl is a saint for putting up with you” “Your bestie has the best temper, I would have slapped you” “Slapped her? Please, she just can’t take a joke.” One million views. Thirty thousand comments. And Cheryl’s follower count grew by a hundred and fifty thousand in a single night. That was the first time I realized my pain wasn’t pain to her. It was engagement. It was content. It was the first brick of the house she wanted to buy. It had always been this way. Cheryl and I were college roommates, sharing a cramped bunk bed in a tiny dorm room. After graduation, we moved to Seattle together, renting a shabby two-bedroom apartment in an old building. The living room was so small we could only fit a single folding table, but back then, I thought life was perfect. She started making videos first. The beauty niche was oversaturated, and after six months of trying, she hadn’t made any progress. Then, one day, my heart got broken. I cried on her shoulder for three hours. She said, “Let me help you get over him, babe,” and secretly recorded the entire thing. She edited it and posted it online. The title: “My Bestie Cried for Three Hours After Getting Dumped, and I Laughed All Day.” Overnight, it hit half a million views. The comments section was full of: “This friendship is too real,” “You’re a saint,” “Please post more of your daily lives.” She burst into my room, holding her phone up, her eyes shining with a terrifying intensity. “Lauren! We went viral!” At the time, I didn’t understand what she meant by “we.” I thought she meant “us”—you and me. Later, I realized that in her version of “we,” I was the raw material, and she was the creator. I was the product being consumed. She was the one counting the cash. From then on, Cheryl found her niche: pranking her best friend. She branded herself as the “relatable, clumsy girl next door.” But her content was entirely built on capturing my worst moments. Me eating instant ramen with no makeup on, captioned: “The glamorous life of a corporate girlie.” Me running, gasping for breath, trying to catch the bus, edited with fast-forward effects and cartoonish sound effects. Me sleeping in on Saturday, my hair a bird’s nest, which she labeled: “The modern girl’s morning routine.” 2. In the beginning, I didn’t mind. We were friends. We messed around. Everyone has a few embarrassing photos. But then, one day, I was filling my cup in the office breakroom when I heard two interns whispering behind my back. “Is she the girl from those videos? The one who drools in her sleep?” “Yeah, that’s her. I saw it on TikTok. It’s hilarious. Does she actually look like that in real life?” “God, I don’t get how that passes for entertainment.” My finger froze on the water dispenser button. The hot water spilled over the brim, scalding my hand, but I barely felt it. That afternoon, I texted Cheryl: “Can you take down that video of me sleeping? Some people at work saw it. It’s kind of embarrassing.” She replied instantly: “What’s wrong, babe? Did someone say something to you?” “Yeah, my coworkers are talking about it.” “Oh, please! They’re just jealous! Think about it, Lauren, it has eight hundred thousand views. People would die to be in my videos!~” “Cheryl, I’m serious. I feel really uncomfortable. Please delete it.” Five minutes later, she sent a voice memo. Her tone had turned cold and annoyed. “Lauren, aren’t you being a little too sensitive? I only post you because I think you’re adorable. I wouldn’t even film other people if they asked. If you really hate it that much, fine, I won’t do it again.” She didn’t delete the video. And from then on, when she filmed me, she adopted a “post first, ask later” policy. She’d upload the video, and only tell me once it was already live. Every time I said, “I really don’t want to be on camera,” she’d say, “Okay, okay, I’ll be careful next time.” And then she’d do it again. She was like a machine that didn’t know how to find the stop button. No, that wasn’t true. She knew where it was. She just didn’t want to press it. The moment I realized something was deeply wrong was during that breakup. We’d been dating for eight months when he texted me out of the blue saying, “We’re not a good fit.” He didn’t even have the decency to say it to my face. I collapsed onto the curb outside our apartment building, crying so hard my makeup melted down my cheeks, mascara blurring my vision. I didn’t know when Cheryl had walked up, but suddenly she was crouching beside me, rubbing my back. “It’s okay, it’s okay. He’s not worth it.” In that moment, I felt so incredibly lucky to have a friend like her. Then the video went up. “My Bestie Cried for Three Hours After Getting Dumped, and I Laughed All Day.” The thumbnail was a picture of me huddled on the curb, my face smeared with black mascara, my eyes swollen like plums, a thread of spit hanging from my lip. I clicked on the video, watching it from start to finish. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She had edited my breakdown into three distinct segments. The first was sped up. I looked like a twitching shrimp, my mouth opening and closing in fast motion, set to a ridiculous circus soundtrack. The second had captions. When I sobbed, “He said I wasn’t good enough,” the text on screen read: “R.I.P. to my dignity lol.” The third was the sound of me blowing my nose. She had isolated the audio and looped it three times, overlaying a cartoon elephant sticker next to the caption “Honk Honk”. The comments rolled in endlessly. “Lmao the elephant sound had me screaming” “Did she really cry for three hours? That’s so dramatic” “You poor thing, having to deal with such a high-maintenance friend” “What is there even to cry about? So fragile” “Total codependent vibes” Three point two million views. Eighty thousand likes. Over ten thousand comments. I scrolled through them, one by one, until two in the morning. One comment read: “Does her friend know she’s being filmed? This seems a little messed up.” Someone replied: “She’s obviously in on it. It’s a skit.” Another added: “Even if it’s a skit, who cares? It’s funny.” I stared at that last comment, my mind blank except for one loud, clear thought: “I didn’t agree to this. Nobody ever asked me.” 3. Before posting the video, Cheryl had sent me a text: “Babe, I just finished editing a new clip. Take a look?” I was still crying at the time. I hadn’t looked at my phone. Half an hour later, she sent another: “Since you’re not replying, I’m going to assume you’re cool with it!” I hadn’t said a word. So she posted it. I walked down the hall and knocked on her bedroom door. She opened it wearing a sheet mask, holding her iPad with her editing software open. She looked like she was on top of the world. “Cheryl, that video… you didn’t ask me before you posted it.” “I did ask. I texted you.” “I was crying. I wasn’t looking at my phone.” “Well, you didn’t reply, so I thought you were fine with it.” “Fine with it.” The phrase felt like a needle driving straight into my temple. Implicit consent. If you don’t say no, it means yes. If you don’t speak, you’ve agreed. If you were crying and couldn’t check your phone, that’s your own fault. I opened my mouth, a flood of words rushing to my throat. I wanted to tell her she shouldn’t have turned my rawest, most vulnerable moment into content. I wanted to tell her she shouldn’t have written “I laughed all day” in the title. I wanted to explain that it wasn’t a joke, that I was genuinely, deeply hurting. But all that came out was, “Can you please just stop filming me?” Cheryl peeled off her face mask, staring into my eyes. Her expression was dead serious. “Lauren, do you have a problem with me?” “No.” “Then why have you been so hostile lately? I’m making these videos to make a living. Do you think this apartment is free? Do you think our bills pay themselves? You think I enjoy editing until three in the morning every night?” She made it sound like I owed her. Like those three million views were a sacrifice she made to pay my rent. I wanted to scream that I never asked her to film me. That her views were paid for with my tears. That her brand sponsorships bought her a closet full of designer bags I never touched. But I stayed silent. Because her eyes were welling up. She was crying first. “Lauren, I am so exhausted. You think this is easy? People in the comments call me a leech every single day. They say I’m exploiting you. I want to delete the videos, but the account is finally growing. I’ve already signed contracts with advertisers. What do you want me to do? Tell me, what am I supposed to do?” She sobbed, her shoulders shaking. As if she were the victim. As if having three million people watch me collapse was a burden she was carrying for my sake. I stood in her doorway, watching her cry. A voice in my head whispered: “She’s acting.” But another, louder voice drowned it out: “What if she really is hurting? What if she’s under a lot of pressure? What if I really am just being too sensitive?” Finally, I sighed. “Fine. Just keep editing.” She looked up, tears still wet on her cheeks, and smiled. “Really? You’re not mad?” “No.” “I knew you were the best!” She threw her arms around me. “Don’t worry, babe. I promise I’ll ask you before I film anything from now on.” That night, I lay awake in my bed, staring at the ceiling. I realized she had said those exact words so many times before. “I promise I’ll ask next time.” And next time, she still filmed. She filmed, she posted, and when she did ask, she didn’t ask “Can I post this?” She asked “Why are you acting so upset again?” As if being upset made me the defective one. 4. The most humiliating moment happened when we went dress shopping. It was a Saturday, and Cheryl dragged me to the mall, claiming she wanted to shoot a “shopping vlog with my bestie.” I told her I didn’t want to be on camera. She promised, “I’ll only film your back. No faces.” I believed her. On the third floor of a boutique, I saw a dress hanging in the window. It was cream-colored, with a cinched waist and delicate lace trim around the collar. I had gained some weight from working overtime lately, but I wanted to see if it would fit. In the fitting room, the zipper got stuck. Right around the ribs, it wouldn’t go up or down. I held my breath and yanked, my face turning crimson, my arm twisted at an awkward, painful angle. Cheryl burst out laughing outside the curtain. “Did you eat a little too well this week, babe?” “Can you help me with the zipper?” She stepped inside, but she didn’t reach for the zipper. She pulled out her phone and pointed it at me. “Stop filming!” “It’s fine, it’s fine! Just capturing the process. This is too funny.” The zipper never went up. I was trapped in the dress, unable to pull it off or get it on, squeezed into a tight, suffocating tube. My arms were pinned, my hair was a mess, and my face was flushed a deep purple. I looked like a helpless turtle flipped onto its back. Cheryl laughed for two solid minutes, her phone never wavering. Eventually, an employee had to come in and gently wiggle me out of the fabric. After I changed back into my clothes and we left the store, I told her repeatedly, “Do not post that clip.” “Yeah, yeah, got it,” she muttered, her eyes glued to her screen as she replayed the footage, a smug smile playing on her lips. The next morning, I was on the subway. My feed refreshed, and there I was—arms pinned, hair disheveled, dress stuck at my waist, my face contorted in pain. The title: “My Bestie Tried to Squeeze Into a Size 2 and Got Stuck LMAO.” She’d added laugh-track sound effects that played in intervals. The clip of me holding my breath was slowed down with a caption: “Inhale… Inhale…” My red face was zoomed in on, with a cartoon thermometer sticker labeled “Fever Pitch”. The footage of me struggling was looped three times, each with a different comedic sound effect—a slide whistle, a spring boing, and a dramatic “oh no.” The comments mocked me relentlessly. The video had over two million views. Five thousand comments. Some called me fat. Some said I had no self-awareness. Some said I deserved the embarrassment. I scrolled through them on the train, passengers jostling past me. Someone stepped heavily on my foot, but I didn’t feel a thing. I texted her: “You promised you wouldn’t post that.” She replied instantly: “What’s the big deal? The engagement is insane! Already at two million views!” “You said you’d only film my back.” “I did! Your back was in the frame, wasn’t it?” I stared at the screen, my thumb pressing down so hard my nail turned white. I started to wonder if I was the problem for staying friends with someone like this. But when my birthday rolled around, Cheryl offered to plan the whole thing. “You don’t have to lift a finger, babe. Leave it all to me. I promise you a birthday you’ll never forget.” My heart softened. I wanted to believe that, deep down, she still cared about me. I arrived early at the restaurant. Cheryl told me she was still setting up and asked me to wait outside for ten minutes. When she finally let me in, the private dining room was beautifully decorated with balloons, streamers, and fairy lights. A two-tier cake sat on the table, its candles already lit. “Make a wish! Blow them out!” I closed my eyes, pressing my hands together. “Please,” I thought, “let me cry a little less this year.” The moment I blew out the candles, before I could even open my eyes, a heavy blast of white powder hit me square in the face. Flour. A massive bowl of flour, dumped right over my head. It buried me. It got into my eyes, my mouth, my nose. I doubled over, choking and coughing violently. The rapid click-click-click of camera shutters filled the room. I forced my eyes open through the white dust. Three phones. No, four. Cheryl had one in her hand, two were mounted on the table, and another stood on a tripod in the corner. Captured from four different angles, the “World’s Saddest Birthday Girl” was recorded in high definition. “Surprise!” Cheryl shrieked with laughter, bending over. “Guys! This is the birthday surprise I planned for my bestie! Tell me this isn’t the most creative thing ever!” I stood there, covered in white powder, my eyelashes coated in flour, unable to see her face clearly. But I could hear the pure thrill in her voice. It wasn’t excitement for me. It was excitement for the content. I didn’t lose my temper that day. I went to the bathroom and spent thirty minutes trying to wash it off. The flour had mixed with the water, turning into a sticky paste that clumped in my hair and wouldn’t rinse out. My mascara had smeared into the gray sludge on my cheeks. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I looked like a joke. Actually, I didn’t just look like one. I was one. 5. When I got back to the apartment that night, I sat on the bathroom floor, letting the shower run over me for an hour just to get the flour paste out of my hair. The water turned cold, then hot, then cold again. I picked up my phone and opened my chat with Cheryl. The screen was filled with her texts: “Babe the video is live! Check it out!” “Over half a million views already, haha!” “Someone commented that you look like a Victorian ghost, I’m literally crying laughing.” I typed out a message, deleted it. Typed it again, deleted it. Finally, I sent it. “Cheryl, we’re done. Delete every single video you’ve ever posted of me.” I shut off my phone and buried myself under the blankets. I knew what she would do. Ten minutes later, Rachel called me, her voice tense. “Lauren, you need to look at TikTok. You’re trending.” Cheryl had screenshot our text about ending the friendship. She posted a video of herself crying, playing a shaky voice memo over it. The title: “My best friend of ten years wants to cut me off over a prank. My heart is completely broken.” On screen, her eyes were red and her voice trembled as she claimed she had “given her heart and soul to this friendship, only to be abandoned over a few harmless videos.” She sobbed, “I just wanted to bring some joy to people. What did I do wrong?” The comments section exploded. “This girl is so fragile.” “Throwing away ten years of friendship? What a coldhearted bitch.” “You deserve better friends, Cheryl.” “Unfollowed the friend. Good riddance.” Someone leaked my private Instagram handle. My inbox was flooded with hate. “How can you treat someone who cared about you like this?” “Cheryl was too good for you.” “I hope you rot alone.” “Why don’t you just kill yourself?” One thousand messages. Two thousand. Five thousand. Eventually, I lost count because I deactivated the account. The next day, HR called me into their office. “Lauren, the company has received some… external feedback. Some of the video content circulating online involving you is beginning to impact our brand image.” I looked at the HR director and said nothing. “Regarding the promotion this month, leadership feels it might be best to go in another direction. We’d like you to transition your current projects over and keep a low profile for a while. Is that okay?” I nodded. As I walked out of the building, Rachel ran after me. “Lauren! Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” I said. “No, you’re not.” She grabbed my arm. “That girl isn’t your friend. She’s been using you from day one.” “I know.” “If you know, then why are you just—” “Rachel,” I said, looking at her. “I know. I just… need a little time.” That night, I didn’t cry. I sat at my desk, opened Cheryl’s profile, and went back to her very first video. I watched them one by one. From the breakup breakdown. To the instant ramen. To the bus chase. To the sleeping compilations. To the allergic reaction. To the birthday flour. 6. Forty-seven videos. Over the span of two years, she had posted forty-seven videos featuring me. Every single one of them was published after I had explicitly told her, “I don’t want to be filmed.” I compiled every link, upload date, view count, and screenshot into a single folder on my laptop. Then, I opened our chat history and searched for keywords: “Delete” “Stop” “Don’t” “Uncomfortable” One hundred and thirty-four results. One hundred and thirty-four times I had said “no”. I took screenshots of the thirty-four clearest, most undeniable objections and saved them to the same folder. At 2:00 AM, a message came in from an unknown number. “Lauren, it’s Tori, Cheryl’s assistant. I have some files I think you should see. I don’t want to ruin her, but… I can’t watch this happen anymore.” I typed back: “What kind of files?” She sent a link to a shared drive. I clicked it open. Inside were screenshots of Cheryl’s direct instructions to her: “Zoom in on Lauren’s face here and add a ‘Meltdown’ caption. Make it punchy.” “Speed this part up by 2x. Make her look manic.” “Stir up the comment section. Get people to call Lauren dramatic. The harsher, the better.” There were also Venmo receipt screenshots. Cheryl had sent payments to an account labeled “Mitch – Promo & Bots”. Five hundred dollars. The memo read: “80k views + 2k comments. Make sure the narrative trashes Lauren.” I dragged every single file into my folder. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Cheryl’s birthday party was held at a trendy new rooftop restaurant in the West End. She had rented out the entire space, invited over thirty people, and set up three professional streaming rigs. Her livestream title was: “Come with me to my birthday party! Live!” I didn’t know if she had intended to invite me. I certainly hadn’t received an invitation. But I was sitting in the coffee shop directly across the street. My laptop was open, connected to the restaurant’s Wi-Fi—Rachel had slipped me the password earlier. The flash drive Tori had given me was plugged into the USB port. I watched the minutes tick by. I was waiting for the perfect moment. At 8:00 PM, the party officially kicked off. Cheryl cut her cake, made a wish, and blew out the candles—an exact replica of my birthday, only this time she was the star of the show. At 8:20 PM, Cheryl slipped away to the restroom to touch up her makeup. Rachel was sitting right next to the restaurant’s projector console. We hadn’t spoken much beforehand. I had only sent her a single text: “Rachel, I need a favor.” She had replied with two words: “Name it.” That is what a real friend looks like. Not someone who screams “besties forever” to a camera, but someone who stands beside you when you need them, without asking questions. At 8:23 PM. Rachel plugged my flash drive into the projector’s input. The massive screen on the restaurant wall flickered. At 8:24 PM. I clicked “Share Screen” on my laptop. The projector came to life.

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I am the most miserable man on the internet. Three years in the industry. While others sell smiles and sparkling charm, I market my own gloom. The public calls me dramatic, a fraud, a desperate attention-seeker. My agent begs me: “Man, can you stop playing the tortured artist every time you’re on camera? Your follower count is cratering.” My parents urge me to walk away: “We have enough money. Just quit.” My girlfriend sent me one final text before she blocked my number: “I love you, but I can’t build a life with a man who doesn’t know how to smile.” I ignored them all. Not because I wanted to cultivate some dark, moody persona for the aesthetic, but because of a curse. Before my grandfather died, his skeletal fingers clamped around my wrist like a vice, whispering a terrifying prophecy: “Before you reach adulthood, you will face eighteen deadly trials.” At first, I didn’t believe him. But after surviving one brush with death after another, year after year, the skepticism burned away, leaving only cold, hard certainty. Now, seventeen of those trials are behind me. The shadow hanging over my chest has finally begun to lift. But a week before my eighteenth birthday, my agency suddenly signed me up for a wilderness survival reality show. 1 “Beck, what is the big deal if you let Cyrus borrow your survival pack?” My agent, Gideon, stood in the doorway of the green room, his hand outstretched with effortless entitlement. I pressed my back against the cold, unyielding drywall, my fingers white-knuckled around the waterproof black canvas of my pack. “This is my personal gear,” I said, my voice flat, devoid of warmth. “According to my contract, I don’t share.” “Can you lose the corpse face for five minutes?” Gideon’s patience snapped. He took a sharp step forward, reaching for the bag. “The internet is tearing you to shreds for being a selfish prima donna. This show is your chance to clear your name. Don’t you get that?” I didn’t move an inch. I merely pivoted, letting his hand grasp empty air. Clear my name? In my playbook, public relations didn’t matter. Only survival did. Next week, I would turn eighteen. The final trial my grandfather warned me about was looming, a guillotine suspended by a thread. Getting thrown into a tropical rainforest for a survival show at this exact moment felt less like a career move and more like a carefully orchestrated execution. There was no way in hell I was parting with a bag I had personally inspected twelve times. “Gideon, please don’t force him.” The voice was bright, clear, and dripping with performative warmth. Cyrus Novak, the golden boy of the network, stepped into the room. He was dressed in pristine, high-end technical outerwear, his face—the one fans routinely called ‘the human sunshine’—pinched in a look of perfect, sympathetic distress. “My pack got lost in transit, but it’s really fine. Even without gear, I can manage in the jungle. I’ll make do.” He walked over, looking up at me with eyes so earnest it made my stomach turn. “Beck has been struggling, and he’s always so… heavy. He needs these things to feel safe. I want him to have them.” Gideon’s face softened instantly, morphing into a mask of maternal concern. “Cyrus, you are far too good for your own good. You’re about to shoot a blockbuster film with an Oscar-winning director next month. If you get hurt out there, who pays for it?” Gideon whipped his gaze back to me, eyes spitting venom. “Beck, I am telling you one last time. Give him the bag.” “And I’m telling you,” I replied, my voice dropping to a near-whisper, “no.” In the blind spot where the production cameras couldn’t reach, a flash of pure, venomous malice crossed Cyrus’s eyes. It was gone in a fraction of a second, replaced by a gentle tug on Gideon’s sleeve. “Gideon, let it go. I know Beck has some resentment toward me—he thinks I took his spots, his endorsements. But I’ve always admired him. Everyone drags him online, but his mental strength is incredible. He just does what he wants.” The words were wrapped in compliments, but each one was a calculated strike. He was framing my boundaries as petty jealousy, and my caution as sheer obstinacy. Sure enough, the crew members lingering in the hallway began to whisper. “Jesus, Beck is unbelievable. No wonder his girl packed her bags.” “Cyrus is being a saint, and Beck is still acting like a sociopath.” “Wait till the livestream starts. The chat is going to eat him alive.” The whispers floated through the door, sharp and clear. But my expression didn’t change. I survived my first seventeen trials in the quiet spaces of other people’s mockery. When I was six, I refused to board the school bus. My parents whipped me for it. Thirty minutes later, that bus plunged off a mountain pass. When I was thirteen, I refused to eat a slice of cake my cousin handed me. The family called me ungrateful and rude. The next day, the cake was found to be contaminated with rat poison. So no, I didn’t believe in human kindness. I didn’t trust smiles. I trusted the antivenom, the broad-spectrum antibiotics, and the three distinct tactical knives packed neatly inside my bag. “Cyrus, stop coddling him!” Gideon snapped, lunging forward to wrench the bag from my hand. “He’s handing it over today, whether he likes it or not!” I caught Gideon’s wrist. I didn’t shake him off; I just squeezed, my fingers finding the pressure points with clinical precision. Gideon gasped, a sharp yelp of pain escaping his throat as his grip failed. “You touched me?” he hissed, cradling his wrist, staring at me as if I’d grown a second head. “This bag is my life,” I said, locking eyes with him. “Anyone who touches it gets hurt.” Cyrus immediately rushed to Gideon’s side, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, his eyes wide with a perfect mixture of shock and heartbreak. “Beck, that’s enough! Gideon was just trying to look out for the production. How could you be so violent?” Just like that, he branded me the loose cannon. The aggressor. I looked at his flawless, lying face. “Cut the act,” I said softly. 2 “Beck!” Cyrus’s eyes welled with tears, his shoulders trembling like a startled fawn. “I honestly don’t know what I did to make you hate me this much. If it’s about the Best Newcomer award… I’m sorry. I really am.” He bowed his head, a gesture of profound, submissive apology. And right at that moment, the door swung wide. The camera crew stepped in, their lenses catching the final frame of his sorrow. The livestream was officially live. In seconds, the chat overlay on the production monitor turned into a blinding blizzard of hate. “Oh my god! Why is our sweet Cyrus bowing to that freak?” “Is Beck terrorizing people again? Why is he still employed?” “Cancel him! Cancel him now! I can’t stand his miserable face.” “Cyrus is too pure for this world. My heart is breaking.” Seeing the red recording light, Gideon leaped into his role. He cradled his wrist, wincing with a look of stoic endurance. “Beck, we all know you’re going through a dark time. We know about your depression. But Cyrus has no survival gear. The jungle is lethal. How can you sit there and watch him go in unprotected?” It was a brilliant trap. He had just painted me as a cold, calculating monster to millions of live viewers. I turned to the lens. My pulse was steady. My voice held no tremor. “The contract states that the production team provides standard gear. If a participant loses theirs, it is their responsibility to request a replacement. My bag contains specific medical supplies tailored to my physiological needs. If Cyrus needs gear, the network can overnight him a set. This is a cheap attempt at emotional blackmail to steal private property.” My logic was airtight, but logic is useless against a mob. “It’s just some medicine, you psycho! If anything happens to Cyrus, your life wouldn’t be enough to pay for it!” “So selfish. Why is this trash still on our screens?” Cyrus wiped an invisible tear from the corner of his eye. “It’s fine. I don’t blame Beck. I’m a man. I can take care of myself and look out for the others.” He turned to the camera, offering his signature, heart-melting smile. “Please don’t be mean to Beck, everyone. He’s just… scared.” With a few sentences, he cemented his status as the brave, forgiving martyr. The director’s voice crackled urgently through Gideon’s earpiece, demanding we move. Within the hour, the six of us were packed into a helicopter, flying toward the dense, suffocating green canopy of the rainforest. The roar of the rotors was deafening. Cyrus sat directly across from me. When the camera panned toward the window, he caught my eye, his lips moving silently to form four distinct words: “You. Are. Dead. Meat.” I stared back, my expression flat. I reached down, my thumb brushing the tiny micro-tracker concealed inside the cuff of my sleeve. Seventeen trials had taught me one fundamental truth: When someone shows you who they are, you don’t argue. You map out their path to destruction. The helicopter touched down in a muddy clearing, and the nightmare began. Our first task was setting up camp. Cyrus immediately went to work, embodying his “sunshine boy” persona. He took on the heaviest branches, helped Mallory—a rising starlet who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else—pitch her tent, and kept everyone laughing. The camp was thick with praise for him. “Cyrus is literally a lifesaver.” “I know, right? Unlike some people who just sit under a tree holding their precious little bag like a security blanket.” Mallory threw a disgusted look my way. I ignored her. My eyes were busy scanning the topography, calculating the potential angle of a mudslide if the looming clouds decided to burst. This was my survival protocol. That evening, food was rationed. Cyrus was in charge of distributing the limited survival bars provided by the crew. He broke them into small pieces, handing them out with careful, equitable grace. When he reached me, his hand slipped. The bar tumbled directly into a puddle of thick, black mud. “Oh no!” Cyrus gasped, his face instantly falling into a mask of deep regret. “Beck, I am so sorry. My hands are just so sweaty from the work. Here…” He knelt down, reaching for the mud-covered bar. “Maybe… if you wipe it off, it’s still edible? We don’t have much else.” Mallory stood up immediately, her voice sharp. “Cyrus, don’t apologize to him! He didn’t even try to catch it! If he doesn’t want to eat, let him starve.” I looked at the ruined food, then at the tiny, triumphant glint in Cyrus’s eyes. “Don’t bother,” I said. I stood up, hoisting my pack. “I’m going to scout the perimeter.” I walked into the darkening wall of the jungle. Behind me, Cyrus’s voice drifted through the trees, heavy with feigned concern. “Beck, it’s pitch black out there! Don’t go far, it’s dangerous!” I didn’t look back. Because the moment I stepped out of their line of sight, I pulled down my night-vision goggles. The lens flared, and I looked back at the muddy bar left in the dirt. Coating the surface of the chocolate was a very fine, pale yellow powder. I knew exactly what it was: the powdered dander of the golden-fringe moth, a rare rainforest insect. Ingesting even a microgram of it would trigger a violent, acute asthmatic attack within an hour, followed by asphyxiation. My eighteenth trial had officially begun. 3 The next morning, a blood-curdling shriek shattered the quiet of the camp. “Get it off! Get them away from me!” Mallory tumbled out of her tent, scrambling through the dirt on her hands and knees. Three brightly banded coral snakes were coiled near the entrance of her tent, their small heads swaying, tongues tasting the humid air. Cyrus was the first to act. Armed with a thick branch, he stepped between Mallory and the snakes, keeping his voice steady and calm as he guided her back and coaxed the serpents into the thick brush. “Don’t panic. I’ve got you. Just move slowly.” He looked like a hero straight out of a classic adventure film. Mallory threw her arms around him, sobbing into his chest. “Cyrus, thank god. Thank god you were here.” The livestream chat erupted. “Oh my god, he’s literally a prince! Look at how he protected her!” “My heart is beating so fast. He is so brave.” “Where is that useless dark cloud Beck? Is he still sleeping?” All eyes turned toward my tent. The flap was zipped shut. No sound came from inside. Gideon marched over, slamming his fist against the fabric. “Beck! Are you dead in there? Something this massive happens and you can’t even bother to step out? Where is your team spirit?” I unzipped the flap and stepped out, entirely unbothered. I was wearing full-coverage, snake-resistant gaiters and thick canvas sleeves. In my hand, I held a small glass vial. “I’m not dead,” I said, scanning the crowd. “But if I hadn’t stepped out, you might be.” I walked over to Mallory’s tent, crouching down. I pointed to a faint, greasy white residue smeared along the bottom seam of the nylon. “This is snake-attractant paste.” I looked up at Cyrus, my gaze freezing him in place. “Last night, someone went out of their way to paint this around the campsite.” The clearing went dead silent. Cyrus’s expression faltered for a microsecond before smoothing back into his trademark innocence. “Beck, what are you talking about? Attractant paste? This is a rainforest. Snakes live here.” He laughed softly, looking around for support. “You can’t just make up wild conspiracy theories because you’re terrified of the dark.” Mallory chimed in, her voice shrill with indignation. “Exactly! You didn’t do a single thing to help, and now you’re trying to scare everyone! If someone put paste out, why didn’t they get bitten?” I ignored them both. I held up the glass vial. “Because of this.” Inside the vial was a crushed green weed I had harvested from the deep brush during my midnight walk. “This is viper-grass, a plant whose natural oils neutralize the paste’s scent. Unfortunately for the person who smeared the paste, the wind shifted last night. They ended up spreading the scent onto Mallory’s tent—and mine.” I kept my eyes locked on Cyrus’s twitching gaze. “If I hadn’t anticipated this and coated my tent with the crushed viper-grass, the snakes would have been inside my sleeping bag by midnight.” The weight of my words sat heavily in the damp air. Gideon stepped in, red-faced and shouting. “Beck, you are officially losing your mind! Cyrus was exhausted yesterday. He slept like a log. Where would he even get snake paste? You need professional help!” Cyrus took a step back, his eyes swimming with tears. “Beck… if you hate me this much, just say it. But don’t accuse me of trying to kill people. I just wanted to keep everyone safe.” His trembling voice rallied the other male contestants. They stepped forward, closing ranks around him. “Apologize to him, Beck!” “Seriously, he’s a toxic element in this camp. We need to kick him out.” I looked at the group of easily manipulated fools. No anger. No disappointment. Just cold evaluation. Apologize? I’d send him a wreath for his funeral. “Believe whatever you want,” I said, turning back to my tent to pack my gear. “I’m leaving the group. I’ll survive on my own.” This was always my preferred path. Staying with these people only increased the variables of my eighteenth trial. “Good! Go! Nobody wants you here!” Mallory yelled. But Cyrus took a step forward, blocking my path. “Beck, no.” He looked deeply concerned, his eyes wide with noble responsibility. “It’s too dangerous out there alone. You won’t make it. We’re a team. I can’t just let you go off to die.” He looked at the camera lens, his expression resolute. “Even if you hate me, I’m responsible for you.” I looked at the disgusting display. “Move,” I said. 4 “Beck! Show some damn respect!” Gideon shoved his way between us, standing protectively in front of Cyrus. “Cyrus is trying to save your ungrateful skin, and this is how you treat him? If you want to leave so badly, fine.” He pointed to my pack. “Leave the group supplies behind, and you can rot in the jungle for all I care.” I looked at him, my expression dead. “I’ve told you once. This is my personal gear.” “Your bag has the broad-spectrum antibiotics and the water purification tablets!” Mallory shrieked from behind them. “The team actually needs those!” Cyrus sighed, playing the peacemaker once again. “Gideon, Mallory, let it go. Beck is fragile. He needs those things more than we do. We’ll just have to work harder to find a clean spring.” The more he conceded, the more the others hated me. It was a textbook execution of social isolation. No weapons, no direct violence—just letting the collective weight of the group crush me. “No way!” Gideon barked. “If you don’t leave the supplies, you aren’t leaving this clearing.” Two of the other male contestants shifted their weight, blocking my exit path. I calculated my odds in a physical altercation. One hundred percent. But physical violence would trigger a production intervention, and the moment the crew stepped in, I would lose control of the narrative. I would be disqualified, sent back, and my survival would be at the mercy of outside forces. I reached into my bag, pulled out the heavy plastic case of medical supplies, and tossed it into the mud at their feet. “If you want them that badly, take them,” I said, my voice as casual as if I were discarding a wrapper. They all froze, caught off guard by how easily I surrendered. Cyrus’s eyes widened in brief surprise, which quickly melted into quiet satisfaction. He thought he had finally broken me. “Beck, remember, you gave this up voluntarily. No one forced you,” he said, his voice dripping with faux-sweetness. I didn’t answer. I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked into the green dark of the jungle without looking back. The silence of the jungle was different from the silence of the city. Here, the damp earth breathed, and every rustle of the canopy was a reminder of my own fragile existence. For two days, I was entirely alone. I followed the contingency plans I had spent my childhood memorizing, mapping out water sources, laying simple snare traps, and constructing a small, high-altitude shelter. It was peaceful, in a way. No cameras. No forced smiles. No Cyrus whispering poison under the guise of concern. Yet, the quiet was deceptive. I knew my eighteenth trial wouldn’t end with snake paste or poisoned chocolate. The universe, or whatever malicious force had pursued me for eighteen years, was just catching its breath. On the afternoon of the third day, the air turned heavy. The sky bruised into a dark purple, and the clouds opened up, unleashing a torrential downpour. In the rainforest, rain of this scale is a death sentence. The clay soil quickly liquefies, and flash floods can tear through ravines in minutes. From my elevated shelter, I was safe. But on the portable receiver I had synced to the production’s emergency channel, I could hear the chaos at the main camp. They were flooded. Cyrus was leading the group toward the high cliffs to the north. It was a massive mistake. The cliffs had no tree cover to buffer the mudslides, and the sheer rock face would be slick as ice. A single slip meant a hundred-foot drop onto jagged limestone. He wasn’t saving them; he was leading them into a slaughterhouse. And I had to go. Because the cliffs were the only route the rescue helicopters could reach in this weather. If I didn’t make it to that clearing, I would be trapped in the valley, cut off from any exit. I pulled on my heavy weather gear, checked my harness, and headed straight into the storm toward the cliffs. When I arrived at the base of the rock face, they were already attempting to scale it using a single, frayed climbing rope. Cyrus claimed the production team had left it there as an emergency line. Gideon and Mallory were already near the top, huddled on a narrow ledge. Cyrus was at the bottom, preparing to climb. When he saw me emerge from the rain, his face went white. “Beck? How are you here?” he yelled over the roar of the wind, his voice losing its polished charm. “Get up here! It’s too dangerous down there!” He stepped aside, gesturing to the rope. “You go first. I’ll spot you from below.” 5 I looked at the rope swaying violently in the gale. The rope itself was professional-grade nylon, but right where it curved over the sharp lip of the cliff, the sheath had been deliberately sliced. A clean, surgical cut. The moment a grown man’s full weight hung on it for more than sixty seconds, the core would snap. Cyrus, is this your grand finale? I let out a cold, breathy laugh. “Sure,” I said. I grabbed the rope and began to climb. Below me, Cyrus watched, his face twisting into a silent grin of pure anticipation. When I reached the halfway point, suspended fifteen yards above the rocky valley floor, a sharp, wet “pop” echoed through the ravine. The nylon outer layer split. “Oh my god!” Mallory screamed from the ledge above. “Beck, the rope is snapping! Get down! Get down!” Gideon roared. I didn’t stop. I kept climbing. Below, Cyrus let out a frantic cry. “Beck, jump! I’ll catch you!” But his eyes were wide, hungry for the sound of my bones breaking against the rocks. “Snap.” The main load-bearing core sheared completely. My body plummeted. The stomach-churning sensation of freefall took over. The wind screamed in my ears. Below me, Cyrus’s face illuminated with the savage joy of a man who had finally won. But a fraction of a second before I hit the ground, I pulled the secondary release cord on my chest harness. “Thwip.” A high-tensile, military-grade steel cable shot from my belt, anchoring itself deep into a crevice in the rock face with a loud, metallic strike. My descent stopped instantly. The sudden deceleration jerked my spine, but the harness held. I swung gently in the air, suspended safe and sound, a foot above the jagged rocks. The ravine went dead silent, save for the pounding rain. I wiped the water from my eyes and looked up. Cyrus’s triumphant grin was frozen, his mouth half-open, looking at me as if I were a ghost. Using the mechanical ascender on my harness, I pulled myself up to a stable ledge near the top. I looked down at him from my high vantage point. “Cyrus,” I called out, my voice cutting through the storm. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you cutting the core of the line?” I spat a mouthful of rainwater onto the rocks. “Your little game ends today.” Thunder cracked, and a flash of lightning illuminated his pale, terrified face. The golden boy’s mask had finally shattered. “Beck… what are you talking about?” he stammered, trying desperately to cling to his innocence. “The rope was old. It was an accident. How could you accuse me of that? You don’t have any proof!” On the ledge above, Gideon found his voice, screaming over the wind. “Beck, you are insane! Cyrus let you go first out of the goodness of his heart, and you’re trying to blame him for a faulty rope?” Mallory was shivering, clinging to Gideon’s wet jacket. “He’s a lunatic! Just leave him! Let’s get out of here!” Even now, they chose to believe the lie. To them, I was just the broken, paranoid kid who saw monsters everywhere. I stood stable on the ledge and reached into my inner, waterproof pocket, pulling out a small, black metal square. It was a military-spec, all-weather recording device. “Proof?” I said. I looked down at Cyrus. “Do you really think I left the camp just to get some peace and quiet?” I pressed the play button. The device was hooked to a high-decibel, waterproof speaker. A voice, clear and cold, cut through the rain.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “529606”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

For twenty-six years, I’ve been living inside the pages of a toxic romance novel. I was cast as the quintessential tragic husband—the gullible fool whose wife brings her manipulative “boy best friend” into their home, the man constantly misunderstood, systematically pushed out of his own company, and ultimately destined for a car crash that would leave him paralyzed. But I refused to play the victim. So, I spent ten years mastering martial arts. I registered my core tech patents eight years ago. And three years ago, I drafted airtight licensing agreements. In our first year of marriage, my wife brought her sickly childhood friend home. He claimed he only needed to stay for three months. I set my spoon down, picked up my phone, and called four private security guards. “Pack his things and send them back to his own house.” My wife grabbed my wrist, her voice tense. “Wayne, don’t do this. You’re crossing a line.” I looked at her and offered a calm, steady smile. “If you don’t like it, Mary, you are more than welcome to go with him.” 1 The clam chowder on the dining table was still steaming, the heavy, buttery scent of seafood mixing with fresh thyme. A single droplet of grease clung to the rim of the white porcelain bowl. Mary set her spoon down, her fingertips tapping twice against the edge of the table. I knew what was coming. In these kinds of tragic stories, the downfall never starts with a dramatic car crash, a kidnapping, or sudden bankruptcy. It starts with a simple, seemingly innocent sentence. “Wayne, Elliot’s health has been getting worse lately,” she said. “The doctor recommends he have someone close to keep an eye on him. I was thinking… I’d like him to stay with us for a while.” My hand froze mid-air, my spoon hovering. Elliot sat right next to her, drowning in an oversized, heather-grey cashmere sweater. He coughed softly, pressing a pristine white tissue to his lips, his long eyelashes casting shadows over his downturned eyes. “I’m really sorry for the intrusion, Wayne,” Elliot murmured. “Honestly, I could have just stayed at a hotel, but Mary insisted she’d worry too much.” He looked up at me, a flicker of something dark and calculative buried deep in his gaze. But I had spent over twenty years analyzing the tropes of melodrama. I could spot that look in my sleep. Ah, here it is, I thought. The opening act. The sickly childhood friend moves in. I lowered my hand, placing my spoon back in the bowl, and casually picked out a stray piece of clam shell. “No,” I said. Mary blinked, taken aback. Beside her, Elliot’s hand tightened around the crumpled tissue. “Wayne, it’s just the guest bedroom,” Mary said, her brow furrowing. “Not even the guest bedroom.” Mary’s eyes hardened. “You didn’t use to be like this. You used to be generous.” I wiped my fingers with a linen napkin and finally met her gaze. “That’s because nobody tried to move into my marital home before.” Elliot stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. “It’s fine, Mary,” he said, his voice trembling. “Clearly, Wayne doesn’t want me here. I’ll just leave.” He reached for his coat with agonizing slowness, his shoulder swaying as if he might collapse at any moment. Naturally, Mary lunged forward to steady him. “Don’t push yourself, Elliot,” she pleaded, before turning a fiery glare in my direction. “Wayne, you know he just had heart surgery. He cannot handle this kind of emotional stress.” I stared at her hand resting protectively on Elliot’s arm. My silver spoon tapped against the edge of the bowl with a light, metallic clink. Jumping straight into the guilt trips on page one? The author of this tragedy is really rushing the plot. I picked up my phone and dialed my head of security. “Thomas, bring the guys up.” Mary’s face paled. “What are you doing, Wayne?” “Sending our guest on his way,” I replied. Less than a minute later, the synchronized thud of heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway. Four security guards entered, clad in tailored black suits with earpieces secured. As they stood in the living room, their towering frames seemed to cast a shadow over the entire space. The remaining color drained from Elliot’s face. “There’s no need to humiliate me, Wayne,” he whispered, leaning heavily on the table. “I can walk out on my own.” “This isn’t humiliation,” I said, pointing toward his two large designer suitcases sitting near the entryway. “This is a boundary.” Mary stood up so fast her napkin slipped to the floor. “Wayne, have you lost your mind?” I looked at her. She was my wife. Ours wasn’t a marriage of convenience, nor was it a forced union. When she was eighteen, cornered in a dark alley on a rainy night, I was the one who pulled her out. The first seed money for her tech startup came from my pocket. When her stomach ulcer flared up so badly she collapsed on the sidewalk, I was the one who carried her to the ER. I genuinely loved her. And because I loved her, I couldn’t allow Elliot to cross this threshold. Loving someone doesn’t mean handing them a blade and praying they won’t drive it into your chest. I placed my phone face-down on the table. “I’m perfectly sane, Mary.” Mary’s eyes rimmed with red, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper. “Elliot is my childhood friend, Wayne. His sister just left the country on a business trip, and he has absolutely no one to look after him. I can’t just abandon him.” Her reasoning was sound. In a normal world, it would even be noble. But this wasn’t a normal world. This was a melodrama. If the childhood friend moved in, the next chapter would feature a midnight fever, the wife keeping a bedside vigil, and the husband spiraling into jealousy. Next would come a drunken misunderstanding, leaked photos, and a corporate coup. By the end, the husband would be painted as a paranoid monster, while the wife wept, asking why he never trusted her. I might trust you, Mary, but I do not trust the cliché. I turned my gaze to Elliot. “Mr. Bernice,” I said, using his last name to emphasize the distance. “I am happy to arrange a private physician, a live-in caregiver, and a personal nutritionist for you. I will cover all the expenses. I can secure a luxury apartment for you right next to the medical center.” Elliot’s eyelashes fluttered. “Wayne… what kind of person do you take me for?” I offered a dry smile. “An adult.” Mary slammed her hand onto the table. The hot chowder splashed over, landing on the back of her hand, but she didn’t even flinch. “Why do you always have to be so incredibly cynical?” I pushed my chair back and stood up. “Because if I’m polite, you both pretend not to understand.” The air in the room turned ice-cold. The security guards began rolling Elliot’s suitcases toward the foyer, the wheels humming a long, hollow drone against the floorboards. Suddenly, Elliot gasped, clutching his chest as his knees buckled. Mary spun around, catching him, her composure instantly shattering. “Elliot!” I didn’t move. I simply looked at the head of the security team. “Call an ambulance. Open the front door. And record everything on bodycam.” Elliot’s body tensed for a fraction of a second. It was incredibly brief. But I caught it. I walked to the entryway and opened the door. “Before the ambulance arrives, you are welcome to wait in the hallway.” Mary looked up at me, her lips white with anger. “Wayne, is this really who you are? Do you have to be this cruel?” I looked at her hands, still tightly gripping Elliot’s arm. I wanted to explain, but I swallowed the urge. Explanations are useless in tragedies. Melodramatic heroes always fail because they talk too much and act too little. Instead, I reached out and pressed the button for the elevator. “If you don’t like it, Mary, you can walk out that door with him.” Mary froze. Elliot raised his head, the mask of vulnerability cracking just enough for the raw venom in his eyes to show through. The elevator doors slid open. A draft of chilly air swept into the foyer, causing the candles on the dining table to flicker wildly. “Thomas,” I said quietly. “Show them out.” 2 Elliot didn’t end up taking the ambulance. By the time the paramedics arrived, he was already standing upright, claiming it was just some mild chest tightness. I had our private doctor perform a quick, preliminary check right there on the spot, ensuring the entire process was documented clearly on video by my security team. Mary stood by the door, her fingers tightly clutching her sleeves, silent. Before Elliot stepped out, he turned back to look at her. “Mary, please don’t fight with Wayne because of me,” he murmured softly. “The last thing I want is to make things difficult for you.” It was a quiet statement. So quiet it was nearly swallowed by the squeak of the guard’s boots. But it was designed to sting. I saw Mary’s shoulders tense. I stepped forward, completely blocking Elliot’s line of sight. “Have a good night, Elliot.” He stared at me, his mouth twisting into a tight line. “I hope you don’t regret this, Wayne.” I leaned my hand against the doorframe. “I don’t do anything without calculating the consequences first.” I shut the door. The lock clicked into place. The apartment fell into a heavy silence. Mary turned on me. “Are you happy now?” I walked back to the dining table. The chowder had gone cold, a dull skin forming over the cream, the heavy, briny scent of cold seafood suddenly nauseating. “No,” I said. She let out a harsh laugh, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “Then what more do you want? Do you want to forbid me from ever seeing another friend again?” “You can see whoever you want. But they aren’t living under my roof.” “Wayne, do you honestly believe every single man who comes near me has ulterior motives?” I looked up. “Yes.” The sheer finality of the word left her speechless. “It’s not just men,” I added. “Women too. Anyone who crosses a line is a liability.” The anger in Mary’s eyes flared. “Your need for control is pathological.” I nodded. “It is.” That only made her angrier. “You’re not even going to defend yourself?” “There’s no need to.” She snatched her purse from the counter and headed straight for the door. I watched her walk to the foyer, her hand wrapping around the handle. I wanted to call her name, but I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth to stop myself. Don’t chase her. If you chase her, you’re bowing down. And once you bow down, they own you. She paused for a few seconds. I remained silent. She pulled the door open. The sterile, cold light from the hallway spilled over her, her back rigid. “I’m staying at the office tonight,” she said. Then, she slammed the door behind her. I sat back down and forced myself to take a spoonful of the cold chowder. The heavy cream clung to the back of my throat, making my stomach turn. Thomas stepped up beside me, asking quietly, “Sir, should I have the driver follow Mrs. Bernice?” “Yes. Keep a safe distance, just make sure she gets there safely.” “Understood.” “And Thomas?” I said, setting the spoon down. “Call legal. Tell them to schedule an emergency board meeting for Lumina Technologies tomorrow morning at nine.” Thomas looked up, surprised. “Tonight, sir?” “Right now.” Lumina Technologies was Mary’s company. She was the founder, holding a thirty-four percent stake. I held twenty-one percent. But more importantly, the three core algorithm patents that powered Lumina’s entire product line belonged to me personally. The company only possessed a revocable license to use them. This wasn’t some trap I laid after we got married. It was a safeguard I’d been working on since I was sixteen years old, the moment I realized what world I was in. In these stories, the male lead is always systematically stripped of his power and resources. I refused to let anyone hold my leash. By nine the next morning, the boardroom was packed. Mary clearly hadn’t slept. Shadowy circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes, and she was still wearing her clothes from the night before. When I walked in, her gaze turned icy. “Are you bringing our domestic disputes into the office, Wayne?” I placed a thick folder on the polished mahogany table. “This isn’t a domestic dispute. It’s risk mitigation.” The marketing director cleared his throat nervously. “Mr. Bernice, what exactly do you mean by that?” I didn’t look at him. “Effective immediately, no non-employees are permitted in the R&D division, the executive suite, or the archives without explicit board approval.” Mary’s voice was a low hiss. “Is this about Elliot?” “This is about everyone.” She stared at me, her eyes drilling holes into my forehead. And that was the exact moment Elliot decided to make his entrance. He pushed the door open, a cardboard carrier of Starbucks coffees in hand, a soft, polite smile plastered on his face. “Apologies for interrupting, everyone. I just wanted to drop off some coffee for Mary.” One of the board members immediately tried to diffuse the tension. “Ah, that’s very thoughtful of you, Elliot.” I turned to the head of security. “Who let him up?” The security manager’s face went pale. Elliot’s smile faltered. “Wayne, I come here all the time. The receptionist knows me.” I nodded slowly. “Fascinating.” I slid a second document to the center of the table. “Starting today, security clearance and visitor protocols are being entirely overhauled. Anyone who bypasses these regulations will be terminated in accordance with company policy.” Mary slammed her hands on the table and stood up. “Wayne!” Her voice echoed sharply against the glass walls. Every executive in the room froze, staring at her. I looked up, my expression placid. “Mrs. Bernice, this is a formal board meeting.” The cardboard carrier in Elliot’s hand trembled, the paper cups clinking softly. “Mary,” Elliot said, his voice dropping to that soft, wounded register. “Maybe I should just leave. I don’t want to make things difficult for Wayne.” “There’s no need to leave,” I said. He blinked, confused. I turned to our chief legal officer. “Call the police.” The boardroom plunged into absolute silence. Mary stared at me as if I were a stranger. “What did you just say?” “He is not an employee, he has no visitor’s pass, and he bypassed security to enter a restricted corporate zone carrying uninspected items,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on Elliot. “We will treat this as a security breach. Let the police handle the report.” Elliot’s face turned white. This time, he wasn’t acting. 3 The police arrived quickly. When they began taking statements, I simply provided the security footage, the keycard logs, and Lumina’s visitor policy. I didn’t exaggerate. I didn’t add drama. Elliot sat in the reception area, his fingers laced together so tightly his knuckles turned white. Mary stood outside the glass doors of the conference room. She reached for the handle, then stopped, her hand hovering in mid-air. She turned to look at me. “Did you really have to go this far?” I handed the keycard printout to the officer. “Adults must take responsibility for their own choices.” The officer scanned the documents. “Based on what we have here, Mr. Bernice did violate corporate security protocols, though it doesn’t quite rise to a criminal offense. We can file a report and mediate, or your firm can handle this through internal disciplinary channels.” Elliot immediately spoke up. “I’m happy to apologize. It was completely my oversight.” He was quick. He knew a stubborn defense would only make him look worse, so he chose to retreat immediately. These are the most dangerous types. The ones with enough brains to play the victim effectively. Mary let out a subtle sigh of relief. I nodded. “We accept the apology. However, he is permanently barred from entering any Lumina facility.” Elliot bit his lip. “Wayne… do you have some sort of misunderstanding about me?” “None at all,” I replied. “Then why are you treating me like an enemy?” I stared at him, my expression blank. “Because you don’t know your place.” A flash of dark hostility flickered in his eyes before he quickly masked it with a fragile look. Once the police left, Elliot didn’t linger. He stood up, offering Mary a weak, reassuring smile. “I’m sorry for causing trouble, Mary. I won’t come by anymore.” Mary’s lips parted. “Elliot…” He shook his head, his eyes rimming with tears as he kept his voice soft. “Don’t be mad at Wayne. He’s only doing this because he cares about you.” With that, he turned and walked away. His gait was unsteady, his narrow shoulders slumped in defeat. In the conference room, the executives looked at me with a mix of judgment and unease. Some clearly thought I was making a mountain out of a molehill. Others felt I was publicly humiliating my own wife. Mary watched the elevator doors close behind Elliot, then turned to me. “Are you happy now that you’ve won?” I closed the folder in front of me. “Not yet.” She let out a dry, bitter laugh. “What is it you’re trying to win, Wayne?” “A normal marriage,” I said quietly. Her expression stiffened. I didn’t elaborate. In these kinds of stories, explaining too much just sounds like pleading. Sliding the third document toward our legal team, I said, “Pull up the supplementary patent licensing agreement.” The chief legal officer’s hand shook slightly. The rustle of paper filled the quiet room. Mary’s face drained of color. She knew exactly what that document meant. Deep within the licensing contracts for our three core patents lay a risk-management clause. If Lumina Technologies faced significant corporate governance failures, security leaks, or if management allowed unauthorized personnel access to sensitive intellectual property, the patent holder reserved the right to issue a thirty-day cure notice. If the company failed to meet compliance by the end of those thirty days, the license would be suspended. I couldn’t just cut the cord on a whim—the law doesn’t care about a billionaire’s tantrums. But the moment a thirty-day cure notice was issued, investors would start asking questions. Creditors would tighten their terms. Competitors would circle like vultures. By playing this card, I was forcing the entire board to pay attention. Mary’s voice shook. “Wayne… are you really using Lumina to blackmail me?” I looked directly into her eyes. “I am forcing Lumina to secure its perimeter.” “You know this company is my entire life.” “Which is exactly why I won’t let strangers put their hands on it.” Her eyes welled with tears, her fingers pressing so hard against the mahogany table her fingernails turned white. “Elliot would never hurt me.” I didn’t argue with her. Instead, I picked up the remote and turned on the projector. The security footage from our front door from last night appeared on the wall. 2:17 AM. Elliot was standing in front of our apartment. His hand was raised, hovering inches away from the digital keypad of our smart lock. For fifteen agonizing seconds, he just stood there. He didn’t knock. He didn’t ring the bell. He just stared at the lock. Nobody in the boardroom spoke. In the video, one of the hallway lights was flickering, casting alternating shadows across Elliot’s face, splitting it into halves of light and dark. Mary’s breathing grew ragged. I pressed pause. The screen froze on Elliot with his hand poised over our lock. “Mrs. Bernice,” I said quietly. “What do you think he was trying to do?” Her lips parted, but no sound came out. I set the remote down. “Issue the thirty-day cure notice today.” 4 Mary didn’t sign it. She sat in the empty boardroom, staring at the cure notice for ten solid minutes. Finally, she said, “I need to verify this.” I nodded. “Fair enough.” She looked up at me. “Until I have answers, you will not take any unilateral action that damages this company.” “The notice merely initiates a standard review process; it doesn’t freeze the license,” I replied. “The contract is very clear on that.” Our chief legal officer whispered, “She’s right, Mary. He’s within his rights.” Mary closed her eyes. She was brilliant. She knew she couldn’t fight this legally. When the meeting adjourned, she followed me back to my office. Once the heavy door clicked shut, the bustling noise of the office faded. She stood in front of my desk, her voice softer now, stripped of her corporate armor. “Have you been waiting for this day, Wayne?” I unbuttoned my cuffs. “I prayed it would never come.” She stared at me. “Then why are you so thoroughly prepared?” I turned toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. Below, the city traffic was jammed, horns blaring faintly in a chaotic, never-ending rhythm. “Because I’m terrified,” I said. She froze. I turned back to face her. “Mary, I don’t enjoy being controlling. But I’ve watched too many people ruin their lives through sheer passivity. They let a friend move in, they let an ex cross boundaries, they let an assistant overstep—and when their lives fall apart, people just tell them they were being too sensitive.” Her lips trembled. “Those stories aren’t our life.” I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “I certainly hope so.” She had no answer for that.

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It was three in the morning when I finally left the office. Tired and drained from hours of overtime, I called Garrett. I called him exactly thirty-seven times, my thumb numbly pressing the screen, before he finally picked up, his voice dripping with irritation. “Do you have any idea what time it is? People are trying to sleep.” “Can you come pick me up?” I whispered, looking around the empty, dark parking lot. “I’m scared.” Garrett let out a dry, dismissive scoff. “Can’t you just call an Uber? Do you have to make everything a drama?” And then, the line went dead. I stared at my phone, opening my Notes app to look at the number: “123”. That was the number of times he had driven across town to pick up Mallory after her late-night shifts. Even on our wedding night. He had put his coat back on, car keys in hand, the moment Mallory’s name flashed on his screen. “Mallory’s single,” he’d said, not looking me in the eye as he zipped his jacket. “It’s not safe for her to go home alone at this hour. If something happens to her, I’ll have to live with that guilt for the rest of my life.” But in our one year of marriage, he was perfectly fine with me navigating the dark alone. “You’re a married woman,” he’d tell me. “Who’s going to mess with you?” He didn’t know about the night my Uber driver took a deliberate wrong turn down a sketchy, pitch-black alley, or how I had been cornered by a mugger. In my moment of absolute terror, when I desperately dialed his number, only 911 had answered. For the longest time, I played the fool. I lied to myself, whispering that he only missed my calls because he was a deep sleeper, or because his phone was on silent. But standing under the flickering streetlamp tonight, I finally saw the truth. I was never going to see his headlights pull up to the curb. I gripped the divorce papers in my bag. I wasn’t going to wait anymore. … The house was dark when I finally made it home. I quietly pushed open the bedroom door. The bed was empty, though his side of the mattress still held a faint, lingering warmth. I unlocked my phone. Right at the top of my social feed was a post Garrett had uploaded just minutes ago. Caption: “Mallory is single, guys. Stop dragging her out to bars late at night.” The photo showed him supporting her weight, her arms loosely draped around his neck, a lazy, innocent smile on her face. Asking him for a ride was “making a drama.” But a minor whimper from Mallory was an immediate emergency. Normally, a post like this would have kept me awake all night, my chest aching from the familiar, sharp sting of his favoritism. But tonight, I was just empty. I lay down, closed my eyes, and fell straight into a dreamless sleep. When I woke up, Garrett was standing by the closet, loosening his tie. Seeing me stir, he peeled off his shirt and tossed it onto my side of the bed. “Wash that for me. Mallory had too much to drink and threw up all over me.” The heavy, sour stench of stale alcohol and vomit instantly filled the room. My stomach turned. Garrett was notoriously OCD. Once, when I had food poisoning and threw up on the living room rug, he made me deep-clean the entire apartment and dragged the expensive wool rug straight to the dumpster. Yet, he had spent the entire night wearing a vomit-stained shirt just to keep Mallory safe. I kicked the shirt off the bed. “I have a meeting today. I’m busy.” Garrett glanced at me, his brow furrowing. “I don’t even know why you bother with that dead-end job. If it’s that exhausting, just quit.” He had always looked down on my career. I didn’t make nearly as much as he did, and he’d lost count of how many times he’d told me to stay home. Yet, I vividly remembered him lecturing Mallory on the deck during a summer barbecue. “A woman always needs her own career,” he’d told her, his voice warm with genuine advice. “That way, if she gets married, she can never be controlled.” I knew then, as I knew now: his true beliefs, the ones he actually valued, were only spoken to her. So no matter how many times he pressured me to quit, I refused. My quiet, unglamorous job was the only anchor I had left. Garrett walked out of the bathroom, his eyes immediately landing on the thick manila envelope on the nightstand. He frowned. “What’s this?” I handed it to him. “Take a look. Sign it if you don’t have any objections.” “I wanted to give it to you last night, but you weren’t here.” Garrett tore open the envelope. His eyes scanned the document, and his face went slack. “You want a divorce?” I had been thinking about it for a long time. I couldn’t even pinpoint the exact moment the seed had been planted. Maybe it was the countless nights he’d bolted awake at the sound of Mallory’s ringtone, the heavy slam of our front door vibrating through my chest as I lay staring at the ceiling, crying in the dark. Maybe it was the time he crashed her blind date, decided the guy wasn’t good enough, and claimed to be her boyfriend to chase the man away. Or maybe it was when he missed our first anniversary because Mallory needed someone to drive her to the clinic, leaving me sitting alone at a fully booked French restaurant, becoming the silent joke of our friend group. There were too many moments to count. All those tiny, accumulated fractures had finally shattered the foundation. I finally understood that between Garrett and me, there would always be Mallory. And his scale would always tip toward her. He was always worried about her. He worried about single women being taken advantage of, about the dangers of the city, about the bad intentions of other men. She went to bars, stayed out late, lived recklessly. And Garrett was always there, playing the loyal guardian. Sometimes I wondered if Mallory did it on purpose, a calculated dance to keep his attention entirely on her. But eventually, I realized it didn’t matter. They were two willing actors in a play—one loved playing the savior, and the other loved being saved. I was just the unwanted spectator. He had never worried about me, not even when we were dating. He would leave me at a restaurant to pick her up, and he strictly forbade me from going to clubs, claiming those places were for “girls who didn’t respect themselves.” But when Mallory went, it wasn’t about self-respect. It was about her safety, and he had to go protect her. Before we got married, I had asked him, “If you care about her this much, why are you marrying me?” It was the one question that haunted me. He had simply stroked my hair and smiled. “Don’t be paranoid. She’s like a sister to me. Protecting her is just what I do.” “If I actually had feelings for her, I wouldn’t be with you.” I had believed him. I loved him too much, wanted him too much, so I let his easy lies soothe my deep-seated anxiety. It wasn’t until after the wedding that I learned the truth. Garrett had pursued Mallory once. But his mother had fiercely opposed it, citing Mallory’s messy family background. So, they settled into this comfortable, blurred emotional gray area. Then I came along. I was safe. A good girl from a stable family, completely devoted to him. I was the perfect candidate for a wife. So he proposed, we dated, we married. It was a smooth, effortless transition for him. A single bouquet, a modest ring, and he had secured a lifetime of my devotion. I had placed my hand in his on our wedding day with a heart full of hope, only for him to leave me alone in our bridal suite because Mallory decided she wanted to look at the stars from a mountain ridge at midnight, and it “wasn’t safe.” “I had a lawyer draft this,” I said quietly, pulling my thoughts back to the present. “You’ve handled enough divorce cases to know the drill.” Garrett stared at me, dumbfounded. “I’m a divorce attorney, Maeve. You hired someone else to handle our divorce?” He caught himself, realizing he was focusing on the wrong detail. He took a sharp breath, trying to steady his voice. “The cases I handle involve infidelity or domestic abuse. I have never done either of those things to you.” Garrett was smart. His legal training made him naturally risk-averse. His devotion to Mallory wasn’t illegal. It didn’t leave physical bruises. “So a man is a good husband simply because he doesn’t hit his wife or sleep around?” I asked, looking him dead in the eye. He averted his gaze, looking out the window. “Are you still jealous of Mallory? She’s single. I’m just trying to make sure she doesn’t get taken advantage of by some predator. That’s why I look out for her.” In Garrett’s mind, every man around Mallory was a predator. Except him. But he chose to forget that he was a married man, and that his first duty of protection belonged to his wife. “I’m just tired, Garrett. Who you protect is your business. Just sign the papers, and we’re done.” He set the document down, shifting closer to me on the bed. He reached out to put his arm around my shoulders, but I recoiled. A look of mild exhaustion crossed his face, the look of a parent dealing with a toddler’s tantrum. “Babe, stop playing games.” “With my legal background, if I don’t want this divorce, it’s not happening.” He hadn’t called me “babe” since the wedding. Mallory had once remarked that pet names were incredibly tacky, and just like that, he had stopped using them with me. His absolute confidence—the smug air of a trial lawyer who had never lost a case—made a sudden wave of nausea hit me. I pushed him away, ran into the bathroom, and gripped the edges of the sink, dry-heaving violently. “What’s wrong?” he called out, standing at the door. “I’m disgusted,” I choked out. Another wave of dry-heaving hit, forcing tears to the corners of my eyes. I didn’t know if the disgust was physical, or if it was just him. Garrett sighed, his disappointment obvious. “For a second, I thought you might be pregnant. Mom called yesterday asking when we were going to give her a grandkid.” The words froze the blood in my veins. My period was two months late. A cold, heavy dread settled in my chest. If I was pregnant… For a fleeting, desperate second, a small spark of hope flared. If there was a baby, would Garrett finally look at me? Would he finally turn his attention back to his own home? “Can you… come to the hospital with me today?” I asked, calling out to him as he grabbed his car keys. He frowned. “Just because you gagged once? Don’t be dramatic, Maeve.” “Mallory was throwing up all night. I need to go check on her. If she’s alone and passes out, no one will know.” The front door clicked shut. It felt like a solid brick wall dropping between us, a cold mockery of the stupid, desperate hope I had just harbored. I took a sick day and went to the clinic alone. The waiting room was filled with couples. Husbands holding their wives’ hands, whispering softly. I sat in my plastic chair, a solitary island. Everyone else was smiling. I couldn’t even manage a neutral face. The woman sitting next to me nudged my elbow. “Unplanned?” I blinked, confused. “Excuse me?” “You look miserable,” she said gently. “Usually, it’s only the unplanned ones that look this stressed. When it’s planned, the whole family is practically throwing a party in here.” “I’m married,” I said quietly. “But I’m getting a divorce.” The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh, honey. If you’re pregnant, why divorce? Men love kids. Once you tell him, he’ll change his mind.” But did I want a marriage built on a hostage situation? He might temporarily pull his focus back to the house, but it would be a duty, a performance. An illusion. I had lived in an illusion for a year. I wasn’t going to raise a child in one. They called my name. The doctor did the ultrasound, confirming I was six weeks pregnant. I stared at the black-and-white monitor, then looked away. “I want to terminate the pregnancy.” The doctor’s expression shifted, a subtle flash of judgment crossing her face. “It’s always the parents’ choices, but the innocent child is the one who pays the price.” If this baby had come a year ago, I would have wept with joy. But the timing was cruel. I refused to bring a child into a home devoid of love, and I refused to let a pregnancy bind me to a man who didn’t want me. The doctor printed the paperwork. As I walked down the corridor toward the exit, a familiar voice called my name. I turned. Garrett was walking toward me, with Mallory clinging weakly to his arm. She was pale, looking fragile and pathetic. His eyes fell on the clinic folder in my hand. “You actually came to the hospital for a stomach ache? See? It’s probably nothing.” I nodded slowly, tucking the folder against my side. “Just a stomach bug.” Since I had already made my decision, there was no point in letting him know. It would only make the divorce more complicated. Garrett let out a self-satisfied sigh. “I told you so. I’m taking Mallory to get her IV fluids. Go home and whip up a few light dishes. She’s coming over for dinner tonight.” Before I could answer, two kids came tearing down the hallway, laughing and shoving each other. One of them collided hard with my shoulder. I lost my footing. The clinic folder slipped from my grip, its contents scattering across the polished tile floor. Garrett instinctively knelt to help me pick them up. His hand paused over the ultrasound report. He stared at the bold letters at the top, his voice rising in disbelief. “You’re pregnant?” Heads turned in the corridor. I lunged to snatch the paper, but his longer reach easily kept it out of my grasp. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Mallory gently tugged at his sleeve, her voice soft. “Maybe she wanted to surprise you, Garrett.” The tension in his shoulders melted, replaced by a sudden, boyish excitement. He glanced at my stomach, which was still perfectly flat under my sweater. “Sit down and wait for me. Once Mallory’s IV is finished, I’ll take you for another scan.” “You should call Mom first. She’s been praying for this. Let’s get the good news out. We’ll go out for a big dinner tonight to celebrate.” I had never heard Garrett speak so fast, or so much. He was usually a man of calculated, sparse words. He was genuinely thrilled. “You two go celebrate,” I said, my voice deadpan. “I’m going home.” Mallory’s pale face drained of what little color she had left. She pulled her hand back from Garrett’s arm. “I should go. If you’re celebrating a baby, I’ll only be a third wheel.” Garrett’s joy vanished instantly. He turned and caught her shoulder. “You’re sick, Mallory. Where do you think you’re going? You’re eating with us tonight.” She threw off his hand, her eyes flashing with sudden anger. “To do what? Sit there and watch you play happy family?” Garrett shot a panicked look at me. “I’ll just drop her home after her IV.” He leaned down, whispering something soft and reassuring in her ear until her posture finally relaxed. I stood there, watching them with absolute detachment. If this had happened a month ago, my heart would have broken. Now, I just wanted them to get out of my sight. “I’ll take her to the infusion room first,” Garrett said, pointing to a row of vinyl chairs along the wall. “Wait for me here. The second she’s dropped off, I’ll come get you.” The chairs were cold and sterile. Just like him. But I nodded anyway. Satisfied with my compliance, he handed the ultrasound report back to me. “I’ll be right back.” I watched their retreating figures, his arm securely around her waist. Then, I turned around and walked straight into the surgical wing for my scheduled procedure. As the bright overhead lights of the operating room blurred into a halo, my mind drifted back to our wedding day. I had pictured a quiet, happy future for us. Now, I was laying on a cold table, ending it all so I could survive. By the time I was wheeled into the recovery room and the anesthesia began to fade, my phone was buzzing. It was his mother. “Maeve! Garrett told me you’re pregnant! Where are you? I’m driving over right now!” “I served Garrett with divorce papers this morning,” I said, my voice hoarse but steady. “And I just terminated the pregnancy.”

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Elliot was always good at taking care of people. When I had a fever, he would stay up half the night, pressing cool washcloths to my forehead. Before I left the house, he would meticulously pack my purse. Credit cards, ID, my medical file. He never even forgot the little tangerine drops I kept on hand to prevent my blood sugar from dipping. On the day of my follow-up appointment, I handed the neatly organized medical folder he had prepared to my physician. The doctor cross-referenced my ID with the paperwork, his voice dropping to a quiet, flat register. “This is incredibly irresponsible.” Assuming he was referring to Elliot’s absence, I quickly jumped to his defense. “He’s been so busy lately.” The doctor looked up at me, a heavy, unreadable expression in his eyes. “Mrs. Campbell, this isn’t your file.” Written across the tab of the manila folder was a different name: “Lydia Wells. Eight weeks pregnant. Family accompaniment strongly recommended for follow-up.” In the blank space reserved for the partner’s signature, there it was, written in a confident, familiar hand: “Elliot Campbell.” I gripped the edge of the folder, my palms instantly turning cold and slick. The doctor watched my face. “Perhaps your husband simply grabbed the wrong file by mistake?” I couldn’t find my voice. The day I miscarried, my body had been wracked with violent, trembling pain. He had gently lifted me onto the bed, kissing my temple. “Sweetheart, I have an urgent hospital board meeting to run. I’ll be back before you know it.” I had believed him. That “meeting” had been a prenatal checkup. For another woman. My phone buzzed. It was Elliot. His voice came through the receiver, as warm and soothing as ever. “Isabel, I made that slow-cooked chicken and wild rice soup you love. It’s waiting on the stove for when you get home.” I stared down at the medical folder he had personally tucked into my bag. I didn’t even have the strength to scream. This time, I wouldn’t ask. And I wouldn’t wait for him anymore. …… “Isabel, is the follow-up finished yet?” Elliot’s voice was soft, laced with genuine concern. I sat on a rigid plastic chair in the sterile hospital corridor, my fingers white-knuckled around the folder. “Almost,” I rasped. “It’s windy out there today, so make sure you button up,” he added. “I put a thermos of warm water in the left pocket of your bag, and two tangerine drops. Take them if you start feeling dizzy.” My eyes fell on a slip of paper slipping out of the folder. A fetal heart rate monitor report. In the upper-right corner, there was a handwritten note: “Make sure not to skip breakfast before the next ultrasound. You’re prone to fainting.” It was Elliot’s handwriting. He used to write those exact, meticulous notes all over my files. Now, those same careful strokes were scrawled across another woman’s pregnancy chart. “Okay. I’m on my way back.” I hung up, shoved the sonogram report back into the folder, and slid it into my purse. When I opened the front door, Elliot was just coming out of the kitchen. He wore a soft gray lounge shirt, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, looking effortlessly handsome. “Shoes off, hands washed,” he said warmly. He stepped over, naturally taking my bag from my shoulder to hang it in the entryway. He pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. “Temperature feels normal. What did the doctor say today?” His palm was warm, carrying the faint scent of ginger and scallions from the kitchen. “He said my recovery is a bit slow.” I looked directly into his eyes. “The doctor asked why my husband wasn’t there to sign the consent forms.” Elliot’s hand paused for a fraction of a second as he poured water. “I’ve had back-to-back surgeries these past couple of days, Isabel. I literally couldn’t step away.” He handed me the glass, his eyes filled with sincere regret. “I promise I’ll clear my schedule for your next appointment.” I took the glass but didn’t drink. The dining table was set with three dishes and a soup: pan-seared sea bass, the slow-cooked chicken broth, and sautéed greens. Elliot pulled out my chair and placed a tender piece of fish fillet into my bowl. “Eat up while it’s hot. You’ve lost way too much weight lately.” I stared down at the fish. It was heavily garnished with finely chopped cilantro. “Why aren’t you eating?” Elliot frowned slightly. “You forgot. I hate cilantro.” I picked up my fork and pushed the fish to the very edge of my plate. Elliot froze. He stared at the plate, a flicker of sheer confusion passing through his eyes. “I’m so sorry. I must be exhausted from the surgeries. I got things mixed up.” He reached for the serving utensils, trying to pick the cilantro off the fish. “It’s fine,” I said, catching his hand to stop him. I took a small bite of plain rice. “Does she like cilantro?” Elliot went entirely rigid. Right then, his phone illuminated on the table, and an incoming voice message began to play automatically. “Elliot, thank you so much for today. When the doctor played the heartbeat, I swear the baby kicked me.” The voice was soft, fragile, and utterly dependent. It was Lydia’s voice. The dining room fell into a suffocating silence. Elliot snatched his phone, slamming it face-down onto the table. He couldn’t meet my gaze. “Isabel, let me explain.” He reached across the table, trying to grasp my hand. “Lydia just finalized her divorce. Her parents are out of state, and she was absolutely terrified to go to the hospital alone. You’ve always been the sensible one, Isabel. Please don’t misunderstand her.” I pulled my hand back and calmly wiped my mouth with a napkin. Lydia Wells was no stranger. She had been my college roommate for four years, once my absolute best friend. The night her marriage fell apart, I was the one who drove across town to pick her up. She had clung to me, sobbing until dawn, whispering that she had no one left in this city. My heart broke for her. I brought her into our home and set up our guest room. Knowing her health was fragile, I went out of my way to ask Elliot to pull strings for her at the hospital. I even remember smiling at Elliot back then, saying, “Lydia scares easily. If you run into her at the clinic, keep an eye on her for me, okay?” I never could have imagined that the very words I uttered in kindness would become the weapon they used to tear my life apart. “I don’t misunderstand,” I said quietly. That evening, when I came out of the bathroom after my shower, Elliot was standing by the nightstand, packing my handbag. He was slipping my ID and insurance cards back into their designated slots with practiced ease. But his fingers froze when they brushed against the manila folder bearing Lydia’s name. I walked over and placed my hand firmly over the folder. “Elliot.” I forced him to look at me. “The day of my miscarriage, you tucked me into bed and told me you had a meeting. Was your meeting actually just holding my best friend’s hand while she listened to her baby’s heartbeat?” The veins on the back of Elliot’s hands bulged. He stared at my hand resting on the folder, his breathing turning heavy and shallow. “There was a meeting,” he muttered, his voice dropping an octave. “But then Lydia called. She was cramping, experiencing early signs of a miscarriage. She was entirely alone, Isabel. She called me five times.” He wrapped his fingers around my wrist, his grip desperate, pleading. “I just ran over to check on her. I’m a doctor—I couldn’t just ignore a medical emergency. And besides, she’s your friend, isn’t she?” I stared back at him, my voice devoid of warmth. “You checked on her, and while you were ‘checking,’ you signed your name as her partner?” Elliot’s brow furrowed deep. “The hospital policy requires a guardian’s signature before they can run emergency diagnostics. Her ex-husband was completely off the grid, and the attending physician was pressing for consent. I was only trying to help.” I slowly peeled his fingers off my wrist. My mind flashed back to the afternoon of my miscarriage. The pain in my lower abdomen had been so blinding I was drenched in cold sweat. I remembered the nurse standing in the hallway, holding the surgical consent form, calling out, “Family for Isabel Campbell? Family?” She called three times. No one answered. In the end, I had to take the pen with trembling fingers, biting through the pain, and sign my own name. “Is that baby yours, Elliot?” I asked point-blank. Elliot’s eyes darkened. Instead of answering immediately, he picked up a throw blanket from the chair and draped it over my shoulders. “It’s complicated, Isabel. It’s not what you think.” He gently tucked the blanket around me. “Once you’re feeling stronger, I’ll explain everything. I promise.” The same old script. If I pushed further, it would become an issue of me not prioritizing my health, of being unnecessarily dramatic. He always used my well-being as a shield to shut me up. “I’m thirsty,” I said, turning my face away from him. Elliot let out a quiet sigh of relief. He slipped out of the room, returning moments later with a glass of warm water. He took a small sip himself to test the temperature before bringing the rim to my lips. “Drink some water and try to get some sleep. You’ve just had surgery, Isabel. You can’t let yourself get worked up like this. It’s bad for your recovery.” I stared at the glass. The night of my miscarriage, I had woken up from the anesthesia in agonizing pain, my throat burning like dry tinder. I had reached blindly for the glass on the nightstand, only to knock it off the table, shattering it on the floor. When I fumbled for my phone, there was only a single text from Elliot: “Meeting ran late, sweetie. Try to get some sleep.” I took the glass from him and swallowed a single mouthful of water. The moment I set it down, Elliot’s phone vibrated again. He didn’t answer the call, but instead looked down to type a quick reply. From where I sat, I caught a glimpse of the screen. It was from Lydia: “Does she know? I’m so sorry, Elliot. I shouldn’t have burdened you. I know I shouldn’t make Isabel angry.” Elliot’s reply: “Get some rest. I’ll handle it.” He flipped the phone screen-down and turned back to me. “Lydia isn’t the person you think she is, Isabel. She’s just terrified of losing this baby.” “And what about me?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “Was I not allowed to be terrified that day?” Elliot’s face drained of color. He looked at me, his lips parting slightly. “I came back to see you as soon as I could, didn’t I?” He did. Four hours after my dilation and curettage procedure. By the time he walked into the recovery room, the sheets had been changed, the blood had been washed away, and my tears had dried. He had wrapped his arms around me, resting his chin on the crown of my head, rocking me gently. “Stop overthinking, sweetheart,” he had whispered, kissing my forehead. “Go to sleep. I have an early shift at the hospital tomorrow.” I closed my eyes and lay perfectly still. At three in the morning, a low murmur of voices pulled me from my sleep. Slipping a cardigan over my shoulders, I cracked open our bedroom door. The study door down the hall was slightly ajar, throwing a sliver of warm light onto the hardwood. Elliot stood by the window, speaking in a hushed, urgent tone. “Lydia, we can’t tell her about the baby yet. She just lost ours. I’m worried the shock will destroy her.” Standing there in the dark hallway, staring at his silhouette, a cold realization washed over me. He knew exactly what this would do to me. He knew the depth of my grief, yet he still chose to stand hand-in-hand with my best friend in betrayal. The next morning, when I got out of bed, Elliot had already prepared breakfast. Wearing a canvas apron, he stood at the kitchen island, meticulously organizing my daily pills. Anti-inflammatories, iron supplements, prenatal-style vitamins. He popped them out of their blister packs one by one, dropping them into a clear plastic organizer. “Come eat breakfast,” he said without looking up, hearing my footsteps. I walked over and pulled out a chair. In front of me sat a steaming mug of warm almond milk steeped with sweet dates. I stared at the mug, leaving it untouched. “What’s wrong?” Elliot asked, sliding the organized pillbox toward me. “I can’t have almond milk right now. It makes me bloat terribly after surgery.” I looked directly into his eyes. “You’re a doctor. You should know that.” The knife Elliot was using to slice a fried egg hovered in mid-air. He looked at the mug, his brow furrowing. “The date-infusion is great for replenishing iron. I guess I was just so focused on your recovery that I forgot.” He set the cutlery down and took the mug away. “Let me get you some warm oat milk instead.” I opened the pill organizer. In the slot marked “Wednesday”, alongside my anti-inflammatories, there was an extra, small white pill. I picked it up and placed it on the marble countertop. “What’s this?” Elliot returned with the oat milk, his gaze falling on the small white tablet. His expression didn’t waver. “Folic acid. Lydia must have dropped it in my car yesterday. I grabbed it on my way in.” He picked up the pill and tossed it into the trash can. “Why was her medication in your car in the first place?” I asked, taking a small sip of the oat milk. Elliot pulled out a chair and sat down opposite me, his tone tinged with a mild, weary frustration. “I was dropping her off quite late last night. She must have dropped it when she got out.” He looked at me, a subtle hint of reproach in his eyes. “Isabel, please don’t hyper-focus on every little detail. I manage dozens of patients a day. I can’t keep track of every single trivial thing.” I didn’t argue. I simply lowered my head and took a bite of my toast. Elliot’s phone screen remained lit on the table. Even as he reached over to put some scrambled eggs on my plate, his eyes were glued to his screen, his thumbs flying across the keyboard. I caught a glimpse of the photo on his screen—a bowl of plain congee and a few side dishes. Lydia’s message read: “Elliot, is it okay to eat sour lemon drops for the morning sickness?” Elliot’s thumbs tapped out a reply: “A few are fine, but don’t take them on an empty stomach.” He finished typing, set the phone down, and pushed the plate of eggs closer to me. “Eat some more. You still look so pale.” I watched him. He had become incredibly skilled at compartmentalizing his attention. I used to believe his warmth and care were reserved exclusively for me. Now, I realized his devotion had been split in two—and the larger portion had been quietly handed over to the friend I once trusted with my life. I was merely receiving the leftovers. Around noon, I was curled up on the sofa, scrolling through Instagram. Lydia had posted a new story. “So grateful for the someone who remembered I can’t stand the smell of cooking oil right now.” Attached was a photo of a stainless-steel thermos filled with a delicate savory egg custard. I recognized that thermos instantly. It was the exact one Elliot had been carrying when he came home last night. In the comments, one of their colleagues from the hospital had teased: “The baby’s daddy is so attentive!” Lydia hadn’t corrected them. Instead, she had replied with a single blushing emoji. I took a screenshot and sent it directly to Elliot. Five minutes later, my phone rang. “Isabel, what are you doing?” His voice sounded utterly exhausted. “She’s incredibly fragile right now. Sending me this screenshot… what do you want me to do? Go and interrogate her?” “I just wanted you to see it,” I said, leaning my head back against the sofa cushions, staring at the ceiling. “She didn’t deny that you’re the father.” Elliot let out a heavy sigh over the line. “She’s just trying to save face in front of her coworkers, Isabel. Please, stop forcing her into a corner.” As dusk fell, the doorbell rang. I walked over and opened it. Lydia stood on the porch. Bundled in an oversized puffer coat, her face looked drawn and pale. She held out a small paper bag. “Isabel, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I was going to call a courier to pick up my things, but the medications are so specific, and I was terrified of getting them mixed up. I’ll grab them and leave right away.” I stared at her, taking in her delicate, pathetic posture. Just a year ago, I had been so fiercely protective of her, treating her like family. I had opened my home to her, believing she was looking for shelter from the storm. I never realized she had come to steal the very warmth from under my roof. Elliot stepped out of the study. He walked past me, his eyes sweeping over Lydia’s wind-whipped hair. “It’s freezing out there. Why are you standing in the draft? Come inside and have some warm tea before you go.” He stepped aside, taking the paper bag from her hands. My mind drifted back to the days immediately following my miscarriage. I had gone to stand on the balcony for a few minutes to catch my breath. He had walked over, shut the glass door firmly, and scolded me with a tight, stern voice: “Why can’t you ever just listen to me?” That night, the low-grade fever returned. My head throbbed with a dizzying ache. Lying in bed, I called out Elliot’s name. “Be right there,” he called back through the closed door. But ten minutes passed, and the bedroom door never opened. I propped myself up against the wall, slowly shuffling out to the living room. Elliot was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to me, on the phone. His voice was lower than usual, carrying a tenderness that made my stomach turn. “Try sleeping on your side tonight. Keep a pillow tucked between your knees.” “I’ll bring those lemon drops over for you tomorrow.” Lydia must have asked something on the other end. Elliot paused for a beat. “Sure,” he said softly. “The clinic is a long drive. You can come over and rest at the house after your appointments.” I stood frozen in the shadows of the hallway, watching as he hung up. He turned around, gasping slightly when he saw me standing there. “What are you doing out of bed?” He stepped toward me, reaching out to support my arm. “I have a fever,” I said, stepping back to avoid his touch. I guided myself back to the bedroom, hand pressed against the drywall. Elliot followed me in, opening the nightstand drawer to pull out some ibuprofen and a fresh glass of water. “Take this and get some rest. I’ll take you to your follow-up tomorrow morning.” He handed me the pills, his voice reverting back to that familiar, soothing tone. The next morning, I dressed and sat on the sofa, waiting for him. Elliot’s phone rang. He answered it, his brows immediately knitting together. “Cramping? Is there any spotting?” He glanced down at his watch, then up at me. “Okay. Don’t move. I’m on my way.” He hung up and walked over to where I sat. “Isabel, Lydia’s having some severe cramping.” He snatched his car keys off the counter, his tone carrying the illusion of a discussion, though his mind was already made up. “Yours is just a routine follow-up. Her situation is an emergency. I’ve already ordered an Uber for you. It’s waiting downstairs.” I looked up, staring straight into his eyes. “Elliot, the doctor specifically said I need a family member with me today.” “I know,” he said, leaning down to wrap my woolen scarf around my neck. “Go ahead first. As soon as I make sure she’s stable, I’ll meet you at the hospital.” Before I could even open my mouth, he turned and hurried out the door. The moment the heavy oak door clicked shut, I ripped the scarf from my neck. I climbed into the back of the Uber alone. The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror, offering a polite smile. “Your husband is incredibly thoughtful. He pre-paid the fare and left a note asking me to take the smoothest route possible.” I stared blankly out the window as the city rolled past. “Yes. He’s very thoughtful.” He was always brilliant at arranging every detail. Except for the one detail that required his actual presence. The results of the scan weren’t good. The OB-GYN frowned as he studied the ultrasound images on his screen. “Your uterine lining is healing very slowly, and there’s still some fluid retention.” He looked up, his eyes scanning the empty chair behind me. “Your husband couldn’t make it today either?” “He had an emergency surgery,” I lied softly. The doctor sighed. “Mrs. Campbell, lack of proper rest and emotional stress can severely hinder your physical recovery. For your next appointment, your husband absolutely must be here to hear these instructions.” I folded the ultrasound report, sliding it into my purse. As I stepped out into the crisp afternoon air, I sent Elliot a quick text: “The appointment is over.” Ten minutes later, his reply came: “Good. Go home and get some rest. I’ll look over the scans tonight.” When I unlocked the front door, I was greeted by the sound of heavy scraping. Our housekeeper was carrying a massive cardboard box out of the room at the end of the hall. That room was supposed to be our nursery. Since the miscarriage, the door had remained firmly shut. Peeking out of the open box were pristine, unopened baby onesies, bottles, and a roll of glow-in-the-dark star stickers. “Oh, Mrs. Campbell, you’re back,” the housekeeper said, looking flustered. She set the box down and rubbed her hands nervously. “Mr. Campbell asked me to clear this room out.” I walked to the threshold and peered inside. The corner where the crib was supposed to stand now held a plush, reclining maternity lounge chair. On the adjacent side table sat a bottle warmer and several boxes of pregnancy cookies. “He said… Miss Wells might need a quiet place to lie down after her doctor visits,” the housekeeper whispered, keeping her eyes low. “He said it would only be temporary.” I stared at the recliner. The decor for this very nursery had been chosen with Lydia’s help. She was the one who had laughed as she helped me press those glow-in-the-dark stars onto the ceiling, swearing up and down that she would be the best aunt in the world. Now, she was moving in to claim the space. The front door clicked open. Elliot walked in, his arm gently supporting Lydia’s waist. She looked pale, clutching a fresh sonogram printout in her hand. Elliot looked up, freezing when he saw me standing in the hallway. “Oh—Isabel. You didn’t tell me you were home.” He quickly slipped his arm away from Lydia and took a step toward me. I pointed toward the open doorway of the nursery. “Why did you clear out this room?” Elliot stopped in front of me, his voice dropping into that soft, placating register. “Isabel, I honestly thought you didn’t want to look at those things anymore. It’s been sitting empty, and you avoid this hallway altogether. Leaving it like this was only prolonging your pain. I figured we might as well let Lydia use it for a little while.” I looked at the man I had spent the last three years of my life with. I didn’t ask another question. I walked back into our bedroom, opened the bottom drawer of the nightstand, and pulled out a worn manila envelope. Inside was my very first ultrasound photo. Back then, Elliot had held my hand and promised he would never miss an appointment. I dragged my suitcase out from the back of the closet, throwing a few basic changes of clothes inside. I slipped my diamond wedding band off my finger, dropping it into the empty folder with Lydia’s name printed on the tab. Then, I slid that first, crinkled sonogram underneath the ring. I placed the folder on the console table in the entryway. I heard Elliot’s footsteps approach and stop right behind me. I didn’t turn around.

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My mother’s arms are mapped with dozens of scars. Three of them, deep enough to expose the bone, are the defining landmarks of my childhood. The first happened when I was seven. I was growing faster than my younger sister, Amber. My mother looked at me, her eyes dark with accusation, and told me I was selfish. “You don’t care that she’s younger,” she sobbed. “You only care about yourself.” Then, she drew a silver pocketknife across her wrist, right over her artery. The second came during my high school placement exams. Because I scored in the ninety-ninth percentile and Amber barely passed, she called me vain. She let her own blood run into the kitchen sink, right in front of my face. The third was after I started working. My starting salary was three thousand dollars higher than Amber’s retail pay. My mother told me I had no regard for my sister’s dignity, that I was money-grubbing. She grabbed my hand, forced my fingers around the blade, and dragged it across her own skin. Every single time, she would look at me with a terrifying mixture of venom and grief, whispering: “Mommy loves you, Hannah. I could never bring myself to hurt you. But a child’s sin is her mother’s failure. So, Mommy has to punish herself.” So I learned to shrink. I hid my talents, played dumb, and let my life unravel into a quiet, chaotic mess. Just to keep her whole. Just to keep the blood inside her veins. Until today. My wedding day. My mother showed up at the venue, holding that very same pocketknife. “Your sister isn’t even engaged yet! How could you do this to her? Hannah, didn’t I teach you to love your sister?” The blade pressed into her wrist, leaving a thin, red line. And just like that, the tightly coiled spring inside my chest—the tension I had carried for twenty-three years—snapped. I stepped forward. I gripped the handle of the knife with her, a cold, empty smile spreading across my face. “Let me help you, Mom.” … I pressed the blade down, hard. The sudden, sharp sting made her instinctively flinch, pulling her hand back. Shock, raw and wild, flooded her eyes. “You’re… helping me?” My smile widened. “Yes. Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? You taught me to respect my elders and love my sister. I’m just helping you. Is there something wrong with that?” She knitted her brows, staring at me in stunned silence. When she finally spoke, her voice cracked with a sob. “Hannah, how can you care so little about whether your mother lives or dies? Where is the kindness I raised you with?” I felt a sudden, hollow numbness. “Did I not care?” If I didn’t care, why did I take hormone blockers to stunt my growth, leaving me shorter than average? Why did I deliberately leave half of my SAT answer sheets blank, throwing away my chance at an Ivy League education? Why did I turn down a seventy-thousand-dollar job offer after graduation, just to stay by her side and work as a waitress? “Mom, I care so much,” I whispered. “But do you love me?” She didn’t hesitate. “I’m your mother! Of course I love you! Otherwise, why would I have spared a single hair on your head?” I knew she loved me. But that love was a tiny, suffocating drop compared to the vast ocean of her psychological control. Amber rushed over, her eyes red and puffy, looking like a wounded rabbit. She pointed an accusing finger at me. “Hannah! How could you be so heartless? How could you ignore Mom’s health like that?” The words hit me like a physical blow. A familiar, icy dread spread through my chest, making my whole body shiver. I remembered. When I grew my hair long, she would touch her own thinning hair—falling out from illness—and whisper those exact words to me. When I won first place in an art competition, when I sang online and people actually liked it, when I started getting fit and felt good about my body… she would always say it. And then, the image of my mother covered in blood would flash before my eyes. I was terrified. So I cut my hair. I tore up my certificates. I deleted my accounts. I let myself gain weight. I hid every single part of myself that had ever dared to shine. Now, my throat felt tight, as if a hand were squeezing my windpipe, choking the words back. My mother looked at Amber, her eyes filled with a soft, aching tenderness I had never once received. “Never mind,” my mother sighed. “It’s my fault. I failed as a mother. I turned your sister into this selfish monster.” With a sickening tear of flesh, blood splattered onto my face. She had sliced open her old scars again. The wedding hall erupted into absolute chaos. I stood there, frozen and silent, watching them scramble to call 911. People were shouting, calling me unfilial, a curse, a monster. Zach, my fiancé, stood nearby, his face pale and furious. “Hannah, I can’t do this. I can’t marry you. We’re done.” He turned and walked out, taking his family and friends with him. I didn’t try to stop him. When the ambulance arrived, my mother’s sleeve was entirely soaked in crimson. But she refused to get onto the stretcher. She pushed the paramedics away and stared at me, her eyes drilling into mine. “Do you know what you did wrong?” I didn’t answer. The paramedics, the venue staff, and the remaining guests all looked at me with disgust. “What is wrong with you, girl? Just apologize! Do you really want to kill your mother?” someone yelled, giving me a harsh shove. “Say it!” My clenched fists slowly loosened. The last of my strength drained away, leaving me hollow. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I whispered. “I shouldn’t have tried to get married before Amber. I shouldn’t have shown off. I should have taken better care of her.” A look of satisfaction—and a trace of smug triumph—finally crossed her face. “I knew it,” she smiled. “My Hannah is a good girl.” The ambulance took her away, but I didn’t go with them. Instead, I drove to the psychiatric clinic and found Dr. Lowell. “It’s gotten worse,” she said, studying my chart. The first time I realized something was wrong with my mind was after my mother bled herself. It had happened simply because a boy Amber liked had sent me a love letter. I didn’t even know him. But Amber cried. And because Amber cried, I was guilty. My mother had led me into her bedroom. She had spread a soft, pastel-pink blanket over the armchair. “Sit down,” she had said. And then, right in front of me, she had slowly sliced open her wrist. She was so pale from the pain, yet she kept lecturing me about loving my sister. “If you make a mistake, it’s because I didn’t raise you right. I am the one who is guilty.” I sat on that plush chair, next to a plate of fresh grapes and juice she had lovingly prepared for me, watching her blood stain the carpet. I was paralyzed with horror. “Mom…” I had whimpered. That night, I woke up screaming. For a second, I thought I saw my mother sitting on the armchair across from my bed, bleeding. But when I blinked, she was gone. Then her voice started playing in my head, echoing off the walls. “Mommy is taking your punishment for you!” “Hannah, you must understand my love for you. Your sister is your only family in this world, do you hear me?” I covered my ears, curling into a ball, but the voice seemed to crawl out from inside my own skull, clawing at my nerves. “I know…” “I’ll protect her…” “Stop it! Get out of my head!” When the voice finally faded, I was drenched in cold sweat. I stumbled into my mother’s bedroom, only to find her sleeping peacefully. That was when I knew I was broken. The next day, I went to the clinic. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Dr. Lowell wrote out a prescription. “Take these for a month, and then we’ll evaluate…” I pulled my thoughts back to the present. “I don’t need the prescription anymore,” I said. I stood up, looking at the doctor who had tried to save me for so many years. “I’m done taking the pills.” She stood up abruptly. “Hannah, you can’t—” I smiled. “Don’t worry. I haven’t given up on myself. The pills are just too bitter, and I don’t want them anymore. I can manage.” She stared at me, then let out a heavy sigh. “If anything happens—anything at all—promise me you’ll call.” I nodded. The moment I closed the door behind me, the forced smile slid off my face. I walked silently to the fifth floor. My mother was in the ICU there. The moment Amber saw me, she rushed forward, her face twisted in accusation. “Hannah! How can you be so heartless?” She was crying bitterly. An old panic seized me. I knelt down in front of her. My mother’s lectures, the blood, the nightmare voices—they all flooded my head, turning me into a puppet. I reached out and wiped Amber’s tears. “I’m sorry, Amber. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have done that. Please forgive me.” She looked down at me, her tear-filled eyes holding a cruel glimmer of victory. “Fine. Just don’t try to outshine me again, and I’ll forgive you.” I let out a breath, desperately trying to please her. “Thank you, Amber.” Soon after, my mother was wheeled out of surgery, her wrist wrapped in thick bandages. As the anesthesia wore off, Amber rushed to her side, crying. “Mom, are you okay?” My mother smiled gently. “I’m fine, sweetie.” Then she turned to me, her warmth instantly freezing into a cold stare. “Did you apologize to your sister?” I nodded, repeating the script I’d memorized over a lifetime. “Yes, Mom. Amber forgave me.” She finally looked satisfied. Once she was settled in her room, she looked up as if remembering something. “By the way, Hannah. I used your wedding registry money to buy Amber a car. We can’t return it to Zach’s family right now.” She watched me closely, testing my reaction. “But don’t worry. Even if I have to sell a kidney or bleed myself dry, I won’t let you struggle to pay them back.” The knife I was using to peel an apple slipped. A tiny bead of blood welled up on my thumb. I looked into her eyes, searching for even a shred of genuine love. There was nothing. I remembered when I was eight. Every year, my mother said she was saving my birthday money for me. But when I finally asked for it, she told me she had spent it on Amber’s dance and art lessons. I had thrown a tantrum. I had cried and screamed. She had simply set a bowl on the table, taken a knife to her wrist, and let her blood fill the bowl. “I’ll sell my blood to pay you back, okay? Is this what you want? Are you satisfied?” I was eight years old. I was terrified. I sobbed, screaming that I didn’t want the money anymore, begging her to stop hurting herself. And now, she was using the exact same words, pushing my drowning body deeper under the water. I didn’t blame her. I didn’t ask for the money. I just went home. I lay down in my cozy, beautifully decorated room, my fingers tracing the cold edge of a razor blade. “Does it feel good to cut your wrists?” I wondered. It must. Otherwise, why would she do it so many times? “A child’s sin is her mother’s failure. Your father is gone, so I am the one who failed you!” “Hannah, you are my child. I could never let you hurt, so Mommy will take the pain for you!” By the time I snapped out of it, the sheets were already stained red. The voices in my head suddenly went dead silent. A smile spread across my face. “Finally… the voice is gone.” I sat up and looked down at the pale, lifeless body on the bed, a soft smile frozen on its face. Then, something pulled at my soul, and I found myself back at the hospital. In the room, Amber was fast asleep on the only bed. My mother, despite her heavy bandages, was lying on the cramped sofa. But she didn’t complain. She kept getting up with her stiff, painful hand to pull the blanket back over Amber’s shoulders. I didn’t feel envious anymore. Just hollow. So this was what her love looked like when it wasn’t weaponized, when it didn’t come with strings attached. I had never seen it. She picked up her phone and made a call. “Hi, Zach. It’s Diane. About Hannah’s wedding deposit… she’ll pay you back slowly. Yes, she will.” She hung up, closing her eyes with a satisfied sigh. “Hannah wouldn’t let me get hurt,” she murmured to herself. The hospital room fell quiet. I stood in the corner, laughing silently through my grief. My love for her was nothing more than the leverage she used to control me. The next morning, Amber woke up. Seeing no breakfast, she pouted. “Mom, where is Hannah? Why isn’t she back? And it’s already morning. Why didn’t she bring breakfast?” My mother sat up quickly, rushing to soothe her. “Don’t worry, sweetie.” She unraveled the bandage on her wrist, took a photo of the raw, ugly wound, and sent a voice message. “Hannah, your mother is in this state and you aren’t even here? When you get here, make sure to go to that bakery downtown and get the donuts your sister likes.” She reviewed the photo. Yes, it looked brutal enough. Amber bit her lip. “Mom, does this really still work? Aren’t you afraid she’ll stop caring one day?” My mother didn’t even lock her phone. “Of course it works. Hannah can’t stand to see me hurt. Just watch—she’ll reply within a minute.” I watched them, feeling a cold wave of irony. There would be no reply. Because I was dead. They kept their eyes glued to the phone. One minute passed. Then three. The smile on my mother’s face began to freeze. Amber frowned. “Did she not see it?” My mother picked up the phone, toggling airplane mode on and off, checking the Wi-Fi. Her brow furrowed. “She’s not replying.” She looked stunned. I found it almost funny. For years, I had never taken more than sixty seconds to answer her. Why? Because she needed me to constantly check on Amber so she wouldn’t have to disturb her favorite daughter herself. There had been only one exception. During my SATs. Right before the English section was about to end, my phone—which was kept in my bag at the front of the room—started buzzing. I couldn’t turn it off, but I had set it to override silent mode only if someone called five times consecutively. My mother had called five times before the exam ended. My English score was disqualified. My overall score plummeted, forcing me into a local community college. Afterward, she shrugged it off, saying she forgot I was taking the test. She just wanted to know if Amber had eaten lunch. I couldn’t even blame her. Not when the pocketknife was sitting right on the table. Now, in the hospital room, she gripped her phone, her irritation mounting. “Fine. Ignore her. Let’s go home.” I followed them back. They prepared a feast, even bought a cake, but neither of them asked where I was. It didn’t even occur to them to turn the handle of my bedroom door. Now that I was a ghost, my bipolar disorder seemed to have vanished. For the first time, I saw our home clearly: there had never been a place for me here. She claimed she treated us equally, but there wasn’t a single photo of me in the house. On the TV stand, there was a photo of them skiing. On the desk, they were having a picnic. The shelves were lined with Amber’s trophies and certificates. My own achievements had been torn up and thrown away, sacrificed so Amber wouldn’t feel insecure, crushed under my mother’s eternal command: “You have to let her win.” I had been reduced to nothing but background noise. I let out a bitter laugh. My mother’s eyes suddenly darted to her phone. “Why hasn’t Hannah replied yet?” Amber rolled her eyes. “Mom, if you’re so worried, just go check her room. She’s probably throwing a tantrum in there because the wedding got called off.” She put on her best pout, playing the victim. “Go get her. I’ll apologize to her, okay? It’s my fault her wedding was ruined anyway.” The guilt-trip worked instantly. My mother rushed to comfort her. “Don’t cry, sweetie. Fine, I won’t look for her. We’ll let her come out on her own and explain herself.” Amber smiled. That night, after Amber went to bed, I watched my mother sit alone on the sofa, staring at her phone. Every few seconds, her gaze drifted toward my closed door. Finally, she sighed and dialed my number. A second later, my ringtone echoed from inside my room. She froze. Her face darkened. “Hannah, get out here.” She marched to my door. “If you’re home, why are you ignoring me? Are you throwing a fit at your sister, or at me?” I laughed. It felt so incredibly worthless. I had spent twenty-three years bound by the words “motherly love” and “protecting your sister.” My mother took a deep breath and rattled the doorknob. It was locked. She gasped, a sudden, wild anger taking over. “Hannah! You locked the door? Are you locking out your own mother?” Fuming, she pulled a razor blade from her pocket, snapped a photo of it resting against her skin, and sent it to my phone. “If you don’t come out, you’ll have to live with the consequences!” I watched her, a lump in my throat. I had seen this play out a thousand times. But this time, her threats had no power. When the door remained shut, she began hammering on the wood. “Hannah! You open this door right—” Her phone cut her off, ringing loudly with an unknown number. She frowned, answering sharply. “Who is this?” The voice on the other end was breathless, frantic. “Are you Hannah’s mother? Can you get in touch with her?” My mother’s brow furrowed. “Who are you?” “I’m Dr. Lowell, Hannah’s psychiatrist. Something is wrong. You need to find her immediately!”

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The moment the real Hayden heiress returned, I packed my bags and retreated to the quiet, dusty farm upstate. My ex-fiancé, currently a world away in England, sent me a message: “It’s snowing in London. I miss you. What are you doing?” I typed back: “Feeding chickens.” Elliot: “Are you bringing one of those chickens to see me before Christmas?” I shut him down: “No way. My grandmother would skin me alive.” “And stop texting me, Elliot. Your fiancée has changed.” … When Elliot’s message popped up on my screen, I was standing in a muddy yard, scattering feed. “It’s snowing in London. I miss you.” “What are you doing?” I tossed another handful of corn to the ground, wiped my palms on my jeans, and typed back: “Feeding chickens.” He was never one to ruin a moment. “The UK just switched to Greenwich Mean Time,” he replied. “Are you bringing one of those chickens to see me before Christmas?” I looked down at the free-range hens pecking at my boots, then glanced up at my grandmother, who was busy shoveling manure nearby. I felt a pang of regret as I typed: “No way. My grandmother would skin me alive.” “And stop texting me, Elliot. Your fiancée has changed.” The screen showed “Elliot is typing…” for several agonizing minutes. Then, my phone buzzed with an incoming voice call. The reception out here in the hills was terrible, and his voice cut through the static, sounding faintly metallic. “What do you mean, ‘changed’?” Before I could find the words, he added, “Is that thunder over there? I remember how terrified you are of storms.” “No thunder,” I murmured, staring at the dirt road. “Just a tractor rolling past.” I forced myself to speak clearly, pronouncing each syllable so he wouldn’t miss it. “I’m not a Hayden, Elliot. I’m currently standing in the mud feeding poultry. Our families arranged a marriage between the Hayden daughter and a Belmont. That isn’t me anymore. I assume they’ll be swapping me out.” There was a heavy, suffocating silence on the other end. Before he could say another word, I hung up. Then, with a numb finger, I blocked his number. Our engagement had always been a calculated transaction between two powerful dynasties. Now that our social standings were worlds apart, there was no future for us. Better a clean break than a slow, agonizing bleed. I covered my face with my hands, my chest tightening. Just as the first tear threatened to spill over, I remembered I had to go gather the eggs. “I’ll cry next time,” I told myself. When I left the Hayden estate, I didn’t take a single thing with me. My adoptive parents had begged me to keep my clothes, my jewelry, my designer bags, but I politely declined every offer. Their biological daughter, Daisy, had stood nearby, watching the exchange. Having grown up in this small rural town, she was vibrant, unreserved, and entirely unbothered by the sudden shift in her reality. She had looked at me with clear, earnest eyes and said, “The mix-up was an accident, Daphne. It’s not your fault. You really don’t have to leave.” “But I lived your life for twenty-two years,” I had replied, my throat dry. “The least I can do is go back and live the life you were supposed to have.” The irony of it felt heavy on my tongue. Daisy had scratched her head, looking slightly bewildered. “Well… alright then.” Before I left, the only contact I saved from my old life was Daisy’s WeChat. She promised to send me a PDF of “Postpartum Care for Sows”, telling me I could text her anytime if I had questions about farming. So, armed with nothing but a fragile sense of courage and Daisy’s practical advice, I boarded the dusty long-distance bus back to the country. My new life began: cutting sweetgrass on the steep hillsides and feeding chickens in the valley. Elliot used to tell me, “When London enters winter time, it means our time difference becomes eight hours. That’s one extra hour for us to love each other.” But after just half a day on the farm, I had reached a new level of enlightenment. Who cared about love? I was currently preoccupied with whether my hens were going to lay any eggs. I turned toward the coop. A plump hen was sitting stubbornly on her nest, puffing her feathers. I had no idea how to get her to move without getting pecked. After staring at her for a few minutes, I pulled out my phone and messaged Daisy: “How do I get the eggs when the hen is sitting right on top of them?” She sent back a cheerful voice note: “Oh, hon, you’ve got to scatter some corn first to distract her. We call that the Archimedes Principle of Poultry!” I grabbed a handful of feed, let the hen peck it from my palm, and carefully slipped my hand under her warm feathers. My fingers closed around a smooth, warm egg. I set it gently in the basket, washed my hands at the outdoor pump, and texted back: “Thank you, Daisy.” “Oh, don’t mention it, sis—” The voice message cut off abruptly. In the background, I heard my adoptive mother’s sharp, refined voice: “Daisy, must you speak with such a terrible accent?” I let out a soft laugh. Then, feeling a twinge of guilt, I decided I would practice some silent self-care mantras later to restore my karma. That evening, we gathered around a worn wooden table for dinner. Feeling out of place, I kept my head down, only reaching for the plate of steamed vegetables directly in front of me. My grandmother tugged nervously at her apron, her voice thick with a heavy local accent. “What’s wrong, Daphne? Is the food not to your liking? I can roast a chicken tomorrow.” “No, no, it’s wonderful,” I insisted, shaking my head. She gave a hesitant, relieved nod. “Good, good. Just let me know if you need anything.” “I will,” I promised. It really was a beautiful place. It was just going to take some time to get used to the quiet. Late that night, Daisy FaceTime’d me. She was lying flat on her stomach in her massive new bedroom, chin resting in her hands. “How are you holding up, sis?” “I’m adjusting,” I said softly. “Step by step.” She sighed. “I swear, I need to learn how to give those graceful, diplomatic answers of yours.” I smiled. “You’re smart, Daisy. You’ll catch on in no time.” “You always know just what to say. We should go clear some sweetgrass together sometime.” “I’d like that,” I replied. As we chatted about our swapped lives, Daisy suddenly shifted gears. “By the way, why did you block my brother-in-law?” “Brother-in-law?” I hesitated. “Who?” “Elliot, obviously.” At that moment, all my training in “graceful diplomacy” failed me. Daisy had just arrived at the Hayden estate; I hadn’t expected her to know about him so soon. “Why are we talking about him?” I murmured. “He asked me to pass a message along to you,” she said. “Honestly, my English accent is terrible, so I’ll just take a picture of what he wrote.” She sent a photo. It was a quote from “The Lord of the Rings”: “I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone.” “So, sis,” Daisy’s voice bubbled through the speaker. “Any thoughts?” I stared at the text on my screen, my chest aching. “Tell him… I’m having warm steel-cut oatmeal with maple syrup and a side of crispy bacon for breakfast tomorrow.” Daisy grinned, her eyes crinkling. “You certainly appreciate the finer things.” The next morning, the rooster’s crow woke me at dawn. I got up, ate a steaming bowl of steel-cut oatmeal topped with brown sugar, along with my desired side of perfectly crispy, salty bacon. Then, I set off up the mountain with a woven basket on my back. My grandmother had tried to stop me. “You don’t need to do hard labor, sweetheart. Just rest.” But I had been stubborn. “If Daisy did it, I should too.” She had looked at me, utterly perplexed. Armed with my basket and a small hand-scythe, I followed the trail Daisy had mapped out for me. The mountain was dense with thick pines and overgrown brush. The canopy was so thick that the morning sun barely filtered through, and there wasn’t another soul in sight. Only the low, hollow whistling of the wind through the leaves. After half an hour of hacking at the sweetgrass, the silence began to feel heavy, almost suffocating. Growing up, my adoptive mother had always warned me never to wander into isolated places alone. “If something happens to you out there, no one will ever find you.” The thought spiraled, morphing into a cold, sudden panic. I threw the half-empty basket over my shoulders and bolted down the trail. I ran so fast that I tripped over a root, scraping my knee and tumbling into the dirt. By the time I reached the house, I was a mess—disheveled, covered in dust and dried leaves. But the physical sting was nothing compared to the guilt. This was the life Daisy had lived for over two decades while I sat in air-conditioned parlors. As soon as my phone caught a bar of signal, I sent her a message: “I’m so sorry.” Daisy: “?” “What’s wrong, sis?” My throat tightened, a sob catching in my chest. “I didn’t realize how hard your life was out here…” Daisy: “It wasn’t hard at all! What on earth did you do?” I replied: “I tried to harvest sweetgrass.” She messaged back instantly: “Ah, see, that’s where you went wrong. I was practically born with a scythe in my hand. Send the tool back to me!” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. The heavy weight in my chest lifted slightly. I had assumed I would spend every waking hour pining for Elliot. But as it turned out, when you’re busy wrangling poultry, you don’t have the luxury of wallowing. I felt incredibly fragile. When the DNA results first came out, I felt like a piece of delicate glass that had shattered into a million pieces. But the manual labor was slowly gluing me back together. When you’re physically exhausted, your brain doesn’t have the energy to overthink. For over a month, Daisy and I traded farming tips. Meanwhile, Elliot tried every backdoor channel imaginable to get messages to me. I was caught in a painful tug-of-war within myself. Part of me was drowning in melancholy, while the other part remained stubbornly unyielding. By mid-December, London was gearing up for the Christmas holidays. In previous years, I would have been boarding a first-class flight to Heathrow to spend the winter break with him. But now, the disparity between us was too vast. We were living in different universes. The first snow of the season fell on our small town, blanketing the hills in a quiet, pristine white. I recorded a short video of the snow and sent it to Daisy. She got so excited that she announced she was coming up for a visit; she missed the fresh air and her grandmother. During our chat, she casually dropped a bomb: “Elliot is back in the States.” My heart skipped a beat. “He is?” “Yeah,” Daisy replied. “And he’s heading your way.”

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