Author: Momo Chan

On the drive up to the mountain retreat, I habitually reached for the front passenger door. Wright, busy loading our luggage into the trunk, naturally slid into the backseat right next to Carly. They spent the entire drive whispering about high school pranks and catching up on mutual friends. Every now and then, I tried to chime in from the front, but Wright would only offer a distracted, one-word murmur before instantly picking back up wherever Carly had left off. It went on like that until our driver glanced in the rearview mirror and broke the silence. “Hey, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s the dynamic here? Is it a thing now for couples to bring a third wheel on vacation?” I froze. “Actually… I’m his girlfriend.” The driver winced, clearly embarrassed. “Oh, my bad. Seeing you up front, I just assumed those two were the couple…” “Watch the road,” Wright snapped, his voice tight with defensive irritation. I didn’t turn around. I just watched the rearview mirror. I saw Carly’s expression—a fleeting mask of panic instantly giving way to a small, smug curl of her lips. And Wright. His first instinct wasn’t to clarify things. It was to get angry. A quiet, bitter laugh slipped past my lips. Even a complete stranger could see who the outsider was. Yet here I was, clinging to the title of “girlfriend,” playing the fool for God knows how long. … The car pulled up to the entrance of the nature reserve. Carly leaped out like a hyperactive kid, tossing her overstuffed designer backpack straight into Wright’s arms. “Wright, hold this for me? It’s so heavy, and I want to go take pictures by those flowers!” Wright caught it effortlessly. There was no complaint, only a soft laugh as he ruffled her hair. “You’re a handful, you know that?” he murmured affectionately. Yet, when we were packing, I had tried to squeeze a light windbreaker into the suitcase, and he had rolled his eyes, sighing about how I always packed useless junk and dragged him down. I followed them in silence. The two of them moved inside a bubble that completely excluded me. Carly ran ahead to a cascading wall of wisteria, spinning around to wave him over. Wright immediately pulled out his phone. To get the perfect angle, his six-foot-two frame didn’t hesitate to crouch down, eventually dropping one knee onto the dirty cobblestones. “Carly, tilt your chin down a bit. Look to the left.” “Perfect. Now smile, put your hand near your cheek.” He directed her with endless patience, cracking jokes that kept her giggling. Passing tourists cast envious glances. I heard a woman murmur to her friend, “Her boyfriend is so sweet.” Wright heard it. He didn’t correct her. Instead, a proud, indulgent smile played on his lips. I stood in the harsh afternoon sun until my legs ached, feeling less like a partner and more like a hired chaperone. Once Carly got tired and trotted off to queue at a nearby lemonade stand, I finally stepped forward. “Wright,” I said quietly, “could you take one of me?” The warmth drained from his face instantly. He raised his phone with lazy indifference. Without even adjusting the focus, he tapped the screen once—a half-hearted gesture that took less than three seconds. “Done.” He shoved the phone back into my hand, his eyes already drifting back toward the lemonade stand. I opened the gallery. The photo was a blurry mess. He’d caught me mid-blink, looking awkward and disheveled, while the random tourists in the background were perfectly sharp. “My eyes are closed. Can we try one more?” I gripped the phone, trying to keep my voice even. Wright frowned, looking me up and down with irritation. “You’re wearing that drab gray tracksuit. It’s not exactly photogenic, Naomi. Another shot isn’t going to fix that.” He let out a sigh of disdain. “Honestly, you should take some notes from Carly. It’s a vacation—wear a bright sundress or something. You look like you’re going to a funeral. How is that my fault?” My breath caught, a sour lump rising in my throat. The gray tracksuit he was criticizing was the exact outfit he had insisted I wear. “We’re going to be walking a lot,” he’d said yesterday. “Wear something practical. Don’t slow us down.” Yet Carly was navigating the dirt paths in wedge sandals and a bright, floral sundress, and he hadn’t muttered a single complaint. Instead, he had gladly spent the entire morning acting as her personal pack mule. While Carly was waiting in line, my phone buzzed with an Instagram notification. It was a nine-photo carousel she had just posted. Every shot was meticulously composed—the soft golden light catching her face, making her look effortless and ethereal. The caption read: “Stop number one! Huge thanks to my personal, exclusive photographer!” In the comments, one of their mutual friends had joked: “Damn, Wright’s got skills. That’s pure love behind the lens!” I looked down at my own screen, staring at the blurry, half-blind stranger staring back. But I didn’t start an argument. I didn’t demand to know why he had two entirely different sets of standards. I just quietly locked my screen and slipped the phone into my pocket. The truth was simple: a lens, like a human eye, doesn’t lie. It always focuses on the thing it cherishes most. Once, Wright’s camera had held only me. In college, he’d skipped meals for a month just to buy a decent DSLR, and his storage was packed with candid, makeup-free photos of me sleeping that he refused to delete. But six months ago, Carly moved into our apartment complex under the guise of being his “childhood neighbor.” Since then, our quiet weekend getaways had devolved into a crowded party of three. Whenever we took a trip, they would sit side-by-side in the back, lost in a labyrinth of high school nostalgia. The one time I had tried to squeeze into the backseat with them, Wright had frowned and told me to sit in the front. “It’s too cramped, Naomi. Carly gets motion sickness; she needs the space.” And just like that, I became a spectator in my own relationship. The chime of a brass bell pulled me back. We had wandered into a quaint local boutique, where Carly was cradling a delicate, hand-painted ceramic figurine. “Wright, look! Doesn’t this look exactly like me? I have to have it!” “It does,” Wright said, his eyes softening. Without even checking the price tag, he pulled out his card and tapped the reader. As he pocketed his wallet, his eyes caught me standing quietly near the door. He paused. Reaching down to a clearance bin near the register, he grabbed a cheap plastic trinket and tossed it to me. “Here,” he said casually. “Take this. Lest you throw a fit later about me being unfair.” I looked down at the cheap, poorly painted plastic trinket in my hand. The eyes were slightly crooked, giving it a hollow, eerie look. My fingers tightened around it, but I said nothing. For lunch, we stopped at a bustling local bistro. Carly took the menu and confidently ordered several of the spiciest specialty dishes, finishing with a large bowl of firecracker noodles drenched in chili oil. When the food arrived, Wright naturally slid the fiery red bowl directly in front of Carly. Sitting across from them, looking at the table covered in red oil, my stomach clenched. I had a severe ulcer; even a hint of chili could send me into cold sweats. For the first two years of our relationship, Wright hadn’t cooked a single spicy meal to keep me safe. Now, he had completely forgotten. “Wright, I can’t eat spicy food,” I said, my throat dry. Wright’s fork paused. A heavy frown settled over his features. “Carly barely gets to travel, Naomi. Can’t you just rinse it in a cup of water? Why do you always have to be so difficult?” His tone carried a sharp edge of resentment. “We’re supposed to be having fun. Stop ruining the mood with your endless complaints.” Beside him, Carly bit her lip, looking suitably wounded. “I’m so sorry, Naomi. I forgot about your stomach. Wright, please don’t be mad at her…” I pushed my empty plate aside and waved down the waiter. “Could I just get a plain chicken noodle soup, please? No seasoning, no spice.” Wright blinked. My sheer composure seemed to throw him off. A rare flicker of guilt crossed his face, and he parted his lips. “Naomi, look, I didn’t mean it like—” “Wright! You have to try this fish, it’s amazing!” Sensing the shift, Carly quickly cut him off, pressing a piece of fish to his lips. His attention snapped right back to her. He took the bite, falling easily into her distraction, and didn’t look at me for the rest of the meal. When my plain soup arrived, the steam rose to blur my vision. I took a bite. It was completely flavorless, but I swallowed it along with the bitter weight settling deep in my chest. “Let it go,” I told myself. I didn’t want cheap, pity gifts anymore. And I was tired of washing away the spice just to survive on his crumbs. That afternoon, we hiked up the scenic mountain trail. The storm caught us without warning. The oppressive heat vanished as the sky bruised purple, and with a sudden crash of thunder, heavy drops of rain began to pelt down. We were halfway up the trail, entirely exposed with no shelter in sight. Almost purely on instinct, Wright ripped off his windbreaker. Standing beside him, I felt a brief flutter of hope. I remembered another storm years ago, how he had pulled me close under his jacket, whispering against my wet hair, “I’ve got you. Don’t worry.” But this time, his hands moved right past me. “Carly, put this on!” He didn’t even glance my way as he draped the jacket over Carly’s head. Carly gasped, slipping easily into his embrace and wrapping her arms around his waist. Wright held her tight, his own shoulders getting soaked as he guided her toward a small wooden gazebo a few yards ahead. Only after taking several strides did he remember I existed. He shouted back through the downpour, “Naomi! Carly gets sick easily in the cold! Hurry up and get over here!” His words were instantly swallowed by the howling wind. I stood frozen as the icy water seeped down my collar. I caught a chill easily, too. My immune system was fragile. But he had chosen to forget. Gritting my teeth, I forced my legs to move, but the wet stone steps had turned into a slick trap. My foot slipped, and I went down hard on the jagged rocks. A sharp, white-hot agony flared in my knee. The sickening thud of bone hitting stone was loud enough to pierce through the thunder. I sprawled in the mud, watching a deep crimson stain spread across my gray sweatpants, bleeding into the pooling rain. “Wright…” I gasped, the name slipping out from sheer muscle memory. From the gazebo, Wright turned. Seeing me on the ground, a flash of genuine panic crossed his face. He stepped forward to run down the steps. “Naomi!” But before his foot could touch the wet gravel, Carly let out a shrill scream, clutching his arm with desperate strength. “Wright! The thunder! I’m terrified! Please don’t leave me alone, please…” Wright froze. He looked at me, drenched and bleeding in the mud, then down at Carly trembling against his chest. That single second of hesitation cut deeper than the fall. It was the moment the fog finally cleared. He pulled his leg back. “Naomi! Just use the railing and get up! It’s only a few more steps! You can do it!” he yelled, his voice laced with defensive irritation. I sat there in the dirt. Rain washed over my eyelashes, blurring my sight, but I could still see them clearly. Wright was gently wiping the droplets from Carly’s forehead, while she, safely tucked under his arm, let a tiny, triumphant smile slip. In that moment, the last ember of love inside me went cold. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wet phone, and tapped the screen with numb fingers. Open app. Book flight. Confirm. The next flight back to New York was in five hours. I wasn’t going to spend another second in this crowded, suffocating nightmare. I limped all the way back to our rental cabin. The blood on my knee had dried, gluing the gray fabric to the raw skin, sending sharp jolts of pain up my leg with every step. I didn’t bother cleaning the wound. Instead, I pulled my suitcase from under the bed. Folded clothes, packed toiletries, snapped the locks shut. The metallic click echoed in the quiet room. The door burst open. Wright walked in, his arm supporting Carly, who was still wrapped snugly in his windbreaker. The moment his eyes landed on my packed suitcase, his expression hardened. “Naomi, what the hell is this?” He slammed the door behind him, his voice thick with barely suppressed anger. “Are you seriously throwing a tantrum just because I didn’t help you up? Who are you trying to punish right now?” I zipped the final compartment without looking up. “Wright, don’t,” Carly whispered from the doorway, her eyes pooling with tears. “It’s my fault. Naomi is mad at me because I panicked. Naomi, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you fell. The thunder just terrified me…” “Carly, you don’t owe her an apology,” Wright snapped, pulling her behind his shoulder as he glared at me. “Naomi, grow up. She’s practically crying because of you. How long are you going to keep this act up? Do you seriously have to ruin this trip for everyone to be satisfied?” I finally raised my head and looked at him. For the first time in years, I didn’t feel the sting of his accusations. I didn’t feel the urge to show him my bloody knee or defend my pain. I was just tired. A deep, bone-weary exhaustion that stripped away any desire to argue. I reached down and slowly slipped the simple gold band off my left ring finger. He had given it to me on our third anniversary, promising I was the only woman he’d ever love. I placed it gently on the wooden bedside table. “You can have this back. Keep enjoying your trip. Don’t worry about me.” Wright stared at the ring. His pupils dilated, and the anger drained from his face, replaced by a sudden, frantic flicker of panic. But his pride won. His expression went cold again. “Are you threatening me, Naomi?” He let out a harsh laugh, stepping forward to slam his hand down on my suitcase. His eyes were dark. “Fine. You want to play games? You walk out that door today, and you can forget about ever coming back.” I looked at him as if he were a stranger. I reached out and gently but firmly pried his fingers off my suitcase one by one. “Okay.” I pulled the handle of my suitcase and walked past him. As I brushed past Carly, she flinched, shrinking back into the doorframe. Behind me, Wright realized I was actually leaving. His voice cracked with a furious roar: “Naomi! Don’t you dare come crawling back!” I stepped out into the cool mountain air, my pace steady and unhurried. “Goodbye, Wright. I hope you two are very happy together.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “529600”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

This was our third wedding rehearsal, and once again, Chelsea’s best friend, Cody, was wearing my custom-tailored suit. He strutted up to me, tugging at the collar with a theatrical grimace. “God, getting married is such a chore,” he complained, his voice loud enough to carry across the room. “Why do guys have to wear these straight jackets? This thing is so tight, it’s practically cutting off my circulation.” He patted my shoulder with a patronizing grin. “But hey, I’m taking the bullet for you today. No need to thank me. Just let Chelsea off the hook tonight so she can give me a proper bachelor send-off.” Around us, our friends laughed, treating the whole display like a harmless joke. I didn’t smile. I kept my eyes on Chelsea. “He’s wearing my suit again,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. “Did you forget what you promised me after the last time?” Chelsea’s face darkened instantly. “What do you mean, ‘wearing your suit again’?” she snapped, her tone dripping with defensive irritation. “Cody was just trying to help. He knew you were exhausted from work, so he stepped in to finish the rehearsal for you. Don’t throw his kindness back in his face.” In that exact moment, shimmering golden words drifted across my vision, like a live-stream chat rolling through the air. [Chelsea is just a scared little girl deep down. She’s so insecure, she’s only doing this to test how much Jesse will tolerate for her.] [Once Jesse passes this third test, she’s going to give him the perfect wedding.] [She’s literally dying for him to just wrap his arms around her and soothe her right now.] I stared at the glowing text and felt a sudden, hollow laugh rise in my chest. For years, I had let these phantom comments guide me. But not today. Looking at Chelsea’s tense, stubborn face, I spoke softly. “Since he’s so eager to help, let him stand in for me at the wedding tomorrow, too.” … The rehearsal hall went deathly quiet. Chelsea froze, her eyes widening in disbelief. The friends who had been snickering moments before now exchanged uneasy glances. A profound exhaustion settled deep into my bones. I turned to leave, but Chelsea’s bridesmaid, Becca, quickly stepped into my path, blocking the exit. “Jesse, come on, Cody was just messing around,” she said, her voice dripping with forced sweetness. “He didn’t mean anything by it. Chelsea only snapped because she’s stressed. Just say something nice to her, and this will all blow over.” A bitter ache bloomed in my chest. Chelsea was the one hurling insults, and I was the one left humiliated. Yet, like always, everyone in our circle expected me to be the one to swallow my pride and apologize. For the past eight years, every single time Chelsea and I fought, those golden comments would flash before my eyes, assuring me that I was the love of her life. They told me that because she had been abandoned by her parents as a child, she had no sense of security, that she only pushed me away to see if I would run. So, even when she was entirely in the wrong, I would always bow my head and comfort her. But I was done. I was so incredibly tired. I looked Becca dead in the eye, my voice entirely flat. “I’m not joking. I won’t be at the wedding tomorrow.” Then I looked past her to Chelsea. “We’re over.” The color drained from Chelsea’s face, leaving her ghostly pale. But almost immediately, a fierce, defensive anger flared in her eyes. “You’re breaking up with me over this?” she yelled, her voice trembling. “Fine! Pack your things and get out! Tomorrow I’ll marry Cody instead. And don’t you dare think about crawling back. Even if you get down on your knees and beg, I will never take you back!” The golden text erupted across my field of vision, frantic and dense. [What is the male lead doing? Chelsea’s heart is literally breaking right now. She’s only saying these awful things to make him turn around!] [She’s going to regret this so much. She actually planned a massive surprise for him tonight!] A surprise? Looking at Cody, who was still smirking in the suit I had spent a month designing, I realized I didn’t care about her surprises anymore. During our first rehearsal, Cody complained the suit was too loose and took a pair of scissors to the seams, hacking away at my handiwork. During the second rehearsal, Cody insisted on choreographing a dramatic dance routine. He tripped, fell off the stage, and ripped a massive hole through the delicate fabric of the trousers. I had wept. I had screamed. I had even lost my temper and slapped Cody across the face. But Chelsea had immediately shielded him, glaring at me like I was a monster. “It’s just a suit, Jesse! You can design another one. Is it really worth bullying Cody over a piece of cloth?” And the golden text had chimed in: [Chelsea knows Cody went too far. She’s just testing to see if Jesse’s love for her is truly unconditional.] So, I let it go. Both of those weddings had fallen through. Afterward, I told Chelsea I just wanted to go to the courthouse, to skip the pageantry entirely. But she had insisted on a third attempt. She held my hand and swore to me that she would never let Cody touch my suit again. Yet, here we were. My throat felt tight, as if stuffed with dry cotton. I looked at Chelsea’s flushed, angry face and spoke quietly. “Fine. I’m leaving.” As I turned on my heel, Cody let out a sharp, derisive scoff. “Unbelievable. Some guys just don’t know how to be grateful,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “I spend all evening helping out, and I don’t even get a thank you. Just this dramatic exit. Look, it’s just a jacket. I’ll take it off right now so you can stop whining to Chelsea.” He gripped the lapels and yanked the jacket off with aggressive force. As the fabric parted, I realized with a sick jolt that he was wearing my custom-tailored shirt underneath, too. I instinctively reached out to grab the jacket before it could hit the floor. But Cody smirked and tossed it over his shoulder. The beautiful, off-white silk landed squarely in the middle of a messy buffet table, splashing directly into a half-empty bowl of greasy pasta. This was the dinner Chelsea had asked me to arrange and pay for to thank the bridal party. A hot, stinging sensation rushed behind my eyes. Thirty days of sleepless nights, of calloused fingers and meticulous stitching, ruined in a second of greasy gravity. I raised my eyes to Cody, but before I could utter a single word, Chelsea lunged forward and gripped my wrist in a vice grip. Her hand was shaking violently, but her voice was freezing cold. “It’s just a stained jacket, Jesse. Don’t you dare touch Cody.” She wasn’t angry about the suit. She was just terrified I would hurt her precious best friend again. The golden comments sped up, flashing rapidly. [Chelsea looks like she’s taking the second male lead’s side, but honestly, if Jesse just swallows his pride like he always does, she’ll finally feel safe.] [She’s a broken little thing. She’s already counting down the seconds until he forgives her.] I let out a soft, hollow laugh and wrenched my wrist from her grip. “You’re right,” I said. “It’s just a stained jacket. And just like this suit, I don’t want it anymore.” I looked at her, letting the weight of my words sink in. “And I don’t want you, either.” Becca gasped loudly. “But the wedding… if the suit is ruined, we can’t do the wedding tomorrow. What about the surprise Chelsea got for you, Jesse?” The golden comments surged again. [Chelsea tracked down the original paintings Jesse sold years ago! She bought them all back!] [She was going to present them to him at the reception tomorrow as a reward for his patience.] My head snapped up. I stared at Chelsea’s trembling lips, and for a fleeting, painful second, my numb heart stuttered back to life. Chelsea met my gaze, her eyes cold and devoid of warmth. “The surprise was actually for Cody,” she lied, her voice tight. “And since Jesse doesn’t want to be here, I’m giving all of them to Cody right now.” On her cue, several assistants began carrying large, wrapped frames into the hall, lining them up in front of Cody. My body went entirely rigid. Those twelve paintings were my pride and joy—the collection that had won me a national arts scholarship in college. When Chelsea wanted to start her own fashion line years ago and couldn’t secure a loan, I had sold them to a private collector to give her the capital. I remembered the night I handed her the money. She had clung to me in our tiny apartment, sobbing into my shoulder. “Jesse, no one has ever loved me like this. No one ever will. I swear to you, the second my business takes off, I’ll find these paintings and buy every single one of them back for you.” I had believed her. But now that she had finally tracked them down, she was handing them to Cody. The text kept scrolling. [Can’t Jesse see how much pain Chelsea is in? All he has to do is say he wants them, and she’ll hand them over in a heartbeat.] Chelsea’s jaw was set tight, a desperate, expectant look lingering deep in her eyes. Becca nudged my elbow, whispering, “Jesse, just apologize to her. You’ve been putting up with her for eight years. What’s one more time?” Instead of answering, I watched Chelsea lift one of the paintings and hand it directly to Cody. “These are yours now,” she said loudly, her eyes fixed on me. “No one can take them from you.” Cody flashed me a triumphant, nasty grin. “Well, since they’re mine, I guess I can do whatever I want with them.” He reached onto the buffet table, grabbed a steak knife, and drove the blade straight through the canvas, dragging it down in a brutal, jagged motion. “I absolutely loathe when guys try to leverage their past favors to guilt women,” Cody sneered, glancing at me. “Real love is unconditional. Expecting a return on your investment is just pathetic.” He moved to the next frame, the blade ripping through years of my hard work. I clenched my fists so hard my fingernails bit into my palms, drawing blood. With every tear of the canvas, it felt as though he was slicing directly into my chest. And Chelsea just stood there. She watched him destroy my life’s work, and she didn’t lift a finger to stop him. The golden text was still flashing, but I closed my eyes, refusing to read another word. The paintings were gone. And with them, the very last piece of whatever beauty Chelsea and I had once shared crumbled into ash. I turned and walked out of the venue, the heavy doors swinging shut behind me. As the cool night air hit my face, Cody’s mocking voice echoed in my head. “Man, Chelsea, your guy is a joke. So incredibly petty. His tolerance level is basically zero.” And Chelsea’s cold reply: “He’s obsessed with me. He’ll probably have a pathetic excuse lined up to apologize by the time I get home.” I let out a quiet, bitter laugh into the empty street. No, Chelsea. Not this time. There are no more apologies left in me. Back at our apartment, I immediately began packing. My mother had already planned to move out of the city tomorrow afternoon to go live with my grandparents in Seattle, hoping to spend her remaining years caring for them. Since there was no wedding to attend anymore, I figured I would just leave with her. As I packed, a painful realization washed over me. All of my personal belongings—my clothes, my sketchbooks, my documents—fit into a single, modest suitcase. Everything else I owned had been systematically thrown away over the past year. Cody had claimed my things were “eyesores” that cluttered the apartment, and Chelsea had let him toss them. When I had protested, she had simply shrugged. “Cody’s right, Jesse. Men have too much junk anyway. You need to learn to let things go.” Yet, when Cody’s belongings began slowly filling the empty spaces in our home, she never said a word. Looking around this beautiful apartment that had absolutely no room for me, I pulled out my phone, intending to call a real estate agent to list my half of the property. But before I could dial, the front door clicked open. Chelsea and Cody walked in. Seeing the suitcase at my feet, Cody raised an eyebrow, a mocking smirk playing on his lips. “Look at this, Chelsea. Your little drama queen is at it again. Is he trying to kick me out, or does he just not love you anymore?” He held up a plastic takeout container. “And to think we actually felt bad for him. We brought back the leftovers from rehearsal dinner for him and Rusty.” Rusty was Cody’s golden retriever, whom he had moved into our apartment months ago. And the leftovers were from the very table where my suit had been ruined. The defensive anger returned to Chelsea’s face, masking the brief flash of panic I had caught when she first saw my suitcase. “Jesse, what is wrong with you?” she demanded, throwing her keys onto the counter. “I am warning you, my patience is wearing thin. If you walk out that door tonight, you are never coming back. Do you understand me? You will lose me forever.” [Jesse, please hold your ground, but don’t actually leave! Can’t you see she’s just terrified of losing you?] [She was literally crying in the car on the way home. Just give her a hug and she’ll forgive you.] [She can’t survive without you. She’s only acting tough because she wants you to submit one last time.] Reading the text now, I felt nothing but a profound sense of disgust. Ever since Chelsea met Cody in the business world, I had done nothing but submit. When I had a fever of 103 and begged her to bring me medicine, she had gone out and stayed overnight at Cody’s place because he had a minor stomach ache and “needed her.” When Cody’s apartment was being remodeled, she had invited him to move into our home without even asking me, slowly erasing my presence from my own living space. I had tolerated all of it because those stupid golden comments told me it was just her insecurity. But my compliance had only fed their cruelty. The love I had harbored for her for nearly a decade was completely dead. I looked at her, my eyes entirely clear. “I’m not coming back. And I’m selling this place.” Chelsea’s pupils dilated in shock. But Cody suddenly burst out laughing, a loud, grating sound. “Sell it? With what authority? This is my apartment!” A cold dread pooled in my stomach. I turned to Chelsea, whose eyes had suddenly darted away, refusing to meet mine. “What is he talking about?” my voice trembled. Chelsea reached out, her fingers twitching as if she wanted to grab my hand, but Cody casually draped an arm over her shoulder, pulling her back. “It means Chelsea signed the deed over to me last month,” Cody said smoothly. “Come on, Jesse. You claim to love her, right? You’re not seriously going to grudge her giving a house to her best friend, are you?” My hands began to shake violently. To ensure Chelsea and I wouldn’t have the burden of a massive mortgage, my mother had sold her own beautiful home. She had used every penny of her savings—nearly $200,000—to pay off our remaining debt so we could start our lives together debt-free. Because of that sacrifice, my mother was currently renting a cramped, damp apartment in a dilapidated part of town. And Chelsea had handed that very home to Cody without a single word to me. A blinding wave of fury rushed to my head. Before I could think, I raised my hand and swung it toward Chelsea’s face. But before my palm could connect, Cody threw himself in front of her. He hit the floor with a dramatic thud, immediately letting out a pathetic wail. “Ow! God, Chelsea, he’s trying to kill me!” he sobbed, clutching his stomach. “He’s attacking me just so he can steal my apartment! Does he hate you so much that he’d resort to violence just to get away from you?” Chelsea’s eyes flared red with fury. “Fine! You want to leave? Then get the hell out!” She grabbed my arm, her grip brutal and frantic, and violently shoved me toward the hallway. The heavy front door slammed shut in my face, the lock clicking into place. I stood alone in the dimly lit corridor, holding nothing but my phone. The golden text exploded, swirling frantically before my eyes. [Jesse, don’t leave! She’s only throwing you out because she’s terrified you’re actually going to abandon her!] [She kept your suitcase inside on purpose so you’d have to come back! If you leave now, she’s going to lose her mind!] [He’s crying outside, and she’s crying inside. This is so devastating.] [Even though she gave the apartment to Cody, she was actually planning on buying a mansion for Jesse anyway!] I ignored the comments. Taking one last look at the blank, white door of the home that was no longer mine, I turned and walked away into the night, heading toward the tiny, cramped apartment my mother rented. When I arrived, my mother was dressed and waiting, ready to call an Uber to take her to the hotel near our venue. Seeing me standing on her doorstep with bloodshot eyes and no luggage, her heart broke. “Jesse? What happened? Is the wedding… off again?” The dam broke, and tears finally spilled over my cheeks. “Yeah, Mom. It’s over. We’re not getting married.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about the apartment, about how her immense sacrifice had been handed over to a parasite. I simply told her that Chelsea and I had broken up for good. But before we could even process the grief, the thin front door of the apartment was kicked open. Chelsea stormed in, her face twisted in rage. “Jesse! You beat Cody half to death, and you think you can just walk away?” she screamed. “Do you have any idea how fragile he is? He just had surgery last week!” “I didn’t even touch him!” I yelled back, my voice cracking. Cody stepped out from behind her, looking entirely fine, save for a smug, mocking glint in his eyes. “I really thought better of you, Jesse,” he said, turning to my mother. “But I guess you didn’t raise him very well. Chelsea is the most generous woman in the world—she was nice enough to sign her apartment over to me—and your son responds by beating me up and refusing to even apologize.” My mother’s face went instantly pale. She stared at Chelsea, her breath hitching in her throat. “What… what did you say? Chelsea… you gave Jesse’s apartment to this man?” Cody smiled, pulling a folded deed from his pocket. “Yep. See for yourself. It’s registered under my name now.” My mother stared at the document, her hand rising slowly to her chest. She gasped, a choked, rattling sound escaping her throat, and collapsed heavily onto the linoleum floor. The blood in my veins turned to ice. I threw myself beside her, panicked. “Mom! Mom, please! Don’t do this, talk to me!” But her body was convulsing, her lips turning a terrifying shade of blue. I looked up at Chelsea, sobbing hysterically. “She’s having a heart attack! Chelsea, please, we need to get her to the hospital! Call an ambulance!” The golden text flickered back to life. [Chelsea is terrified. She only came here to find an excuse to bring Jesse home. She’s completely desperate.] [She didn’t know Cody was going to bring the deed. Jesse, please don’t be mad at her.] “Chelsea, please!” I screamed. My mother had already survived one major heart surgery; the doctors had warned us that another severe shock could be fatal. Seeing the sheer terror on my face, Chelsea took a step forward, her hand reaching out toward my mother. But right then, Cody let out a sharp, theatrical groan, collapsing against the doorframe. “Chelsea… my stomach. My surgical wound is bleeding. Jesse must have ruptured my stitches earlier.” He looked at my mother with a sneer. “And she’s clearly faking it. She’s just trying to help her son escape the consequences.” He closed his eyes and let his head drop, pretending to faint. Chelsea’s hand instantly retreated from my mother. She caught Cody as he “collapsed” into her arms, cradling him against her chest. She looked down at me, her expression hardening into bitter annoyance. “Tell your mother to stop acting. I’m not falling for this cheap trick.” She adjusted her grip on Cody. “I’m taking Cody to the emergency room to get his stitches checked. Once you’ve calmed down and decided to act like a rational adult, I’ll come back to get you.” With that, she turned and carried Cody down the stairs. My mother had stopped moving. My hands shook so violently I could barely unlock my phone to dial 911. By the time the paramedics arrived, it was already too late. She didn’t even make it to the operating table before the doctors pronounced her dead. I sat on the cold floor of the hospital corridor, clutching her lifeless body, screaming until my throat bled. Three days later, holding a small urn containing my mother’s ashes, I boarded a one-way flight to Seattle. After spending three days entirely consumed by Cody’s demands, Chelsea finally found a spare moment to visit the cramped apartment. She had bought a expensive peace offering—a watch I had admired months ago. She had convinced herself that as long as I promised to put her first from now on, she would overlook my “tantrum” and marry me anyway. She knocked on the door, but the apartment remained entirely silent. Just as a strange, cold panic began to tighten around her chest, the landlord from next door opened his door. “Stop knocking,” the woman said, leaning against the frame. “The lady who lived there passed away a few days ago.” “Dead?” Chelsea’s voice cracked. “How is that possible? She was perfectly fine when I left.” “Well, she wasn’t fine,” the landlord scoffed, crossing her arms. “She had a massive heart attack. Delayed medical attention, apparently. Her son’s eyes were swollen shut from crying when he turned in the keys. The funeral’s already over.” Chelsea’s face went entirely white, the expensive gift box slipping from her numb fingers and crashing onto the dirty floor.

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I went with my husband to his college roommate’s wedding. He had gone out of his way to dig out the oldest, most buried suit from the very back of our closet. At the reception, I went to the restroom to touch up my makeup. When I came back, I saw the group of men in their custom-tailored tuxedos, champagne flutes in hand, crowding Lester into a corner near the service bar. “Everyone at this table is pulling in mid-six figures, Lester. What are you even doing here on an eighty-thousand-dollar salary?” “You used to be the wild card of the Prep School Princes, man. How did you end up so thoroughly domesticated?” The groom walked over, drink in hand, trying to smooth things over but patting Lester’s shoulder with a patronizing grin: “Don’t sweat the gift registry, Lester. Just put fifty bucks in a card. Don’t break the bank.” Lester downed his glass of champagne in one swallow, his face flushing a deep, tight crimson. He didn’t look at me once. He didn’t say a word on the drive home, and from that night on, he never touched that suit again. Soon after, he started complaining. My cooking was too salty. I didn’t dress up enough anymore. I looked at myself in the vanity mirror. My features were still soft, but there was a quiet, weathered exhaustion around my eyes that makeup couldn’t hide. Seven years had gone by in a blur. Just like that old suit, I had finally become the embarrassment he wanted to keep hidden. … The thought hit me like a thin, sharp needle slipping straight into my heart. I finished making dinner and sat in the living room, waiting for Lester to come home. I’d sent him a text, but there was no reply. I opened his Instagram profile. It was completely barren. Three days visible. I stared at the screen, stunned. I scrolled back through my own memory to the post he had shared for our anniversary last year: “The luckiest thing that ever happened to me was marrying you.” That caption, along with the photo of me leaning against his shoulder, laughing so hard my eyes closed, had been hidden away. I tried to reassure myself. It was probably just for work. Lester was currently working as a campaign planner at a boutique ad agency. His manager had recently mentioned that his social media looked too personal, that it might alienate potential high-end clients. Yes, that had to be it. But as I kept scrolling, I saw a post from his college roommate, Ryan, from two days ago. The picture showed a group of men standing on a lush golf course in matching custom Polo shirts, with a row of Cayennes and Panameras parked in the background. Ryan’s caption read: The Prep School Princes reunion. Just missing one. Two days ago? I remembered Lester telling me he had a team-building dinner that night. He hadn’t gotten home until late. I pinched the screen to zoom in. On the absolute edge of the frame, there was a figure half-cropped out of the photo. The light blue linen shirt he was wearing was one I’d bought him for his birthday, spending half a month’s paycheck at the boutique downtown. He’d told me he loved it, that he’d only save it for special occasions. So, he had gone. But there was no place for him in the picture. Or rather, he had been edited out. As I stared blankly at the screen, the sound of keys jiggling at the entryway broke the silence. Lester pushed the door open. He smelled of whiskey. His collar was slightly undone, and on the left side of his collarbone, there was a faint, dusty-pink smudge. I recognized that shade. It was a trendy lip stain from a high-end brand—expensive, the kind young girls on TikTok obsessed over. A cold, bitter ache surged from my stomach. I took his coat as he handed it to me, keeping my voice as even as possible. “Since when did you start drinking this much?” Lester unbuttoned his cuffs, his eyes never leaving his wrists. “Client dinners. You can’t close deals without a few drinks.” His tone was flat, conversational. He was stating a simple fact of life. But the Lester from three years ago hadn’t been like this. Three years ago, he would have wrapped his arms around my waist, laughing. “Don’t worry, I skipped the bar. I wanted to stay clear-headed for you.” I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to ask, “Why did you archive all your old Instagram posts?” Lester paused. He looked up at me, his brow furrowing slightly, a flicker of controlled impatience tightening the corners of his mouth. “The agency requested it. Why are you suddenly tracking my social media?” As he spoke, his wedding band caught the warm light of the hallway. But I noticed his right index finger unconsciously tapping twice against the seam of his trousers. It was his tell. His lying tic. He’d done it since college. It had never changed. I swallowed the bitterness and let the subject drop. “Have you eaten? I made sweet and sour ribs.” “I ate at the restaurant.” He grabbed his jacket and walked into the bedroom. When the door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the warm, yellow glow of the living room, the apartment suddenly felt massive. And entirely empty. This was my third year of marriage to Lester. Counting our years of dating, we had been together for seven. Everyone always said Lester adored me. Years ago, for my sake, he had walked away from the path his family had paved for him, falling from the heights of East Coast high society to become an ordinary nine-to-five employee. My mother used to tell anyone who would listen, “Lester treats my Leah like gold. He’s a man she can rely on for life.” I had believed her. After all, following the car accident, he had spent two grueling years by my side, helping me through physical therapy. He had promised me: “Leah, I am going to spend the rest of my life making you happy.” I could still remember the overwhelming tenderness and guilt in his eyes back then. But what about now? I looked down at my right leg. The prosthetic was hidden beneath my long skirt, invisible to the casual observer. But whenever the weather turned damp, the phantom aches at the amputation site would flare up. Like tonight. I was sitting alone, eating a plate of ribs I’d reheated for the second time, when my phone buzzed. It was Ryan. “Hey, Leah. I couldn’t get through to Lester’s phone. My housewarming party is tomorrow night—make sure you guys get there early, okay?” I promised him we would, set my fork down, and walked over to the bedroom door. Pushing it open quietly, I saw Lester was already asleep. His phone was resting on the nightstand, the screen still glowing slightly as if he’d just put it down. I picked it up, intending to plug it into the charger, when a preview notification slid across the screen. The contact photo was a little pink pig emoji. “Lester~ I saw the lipstick mark on your shirt today. I’m so embarrassed! Let me buy you a new shirt tomorrow to make up for it, okay? What color do you like?~” My finger hovered over the screen. My hand was shaking. A dull, throbbing pain flared at the top of my thigh. Like my body was trying to warn me. I wanted to tap the notification to read the full thread. It required a passcode. I entered our wedding anniversary. Incorrect. I entered my birthday. Incorrect. I entered his birthday… “What are you doing?” Lester’s voice came from behind me, thick with sleep but laced with an undeniable, sharp defensiveness. I turned around. He was leaning against the bedroom doorframe, his forehead deeply creased. I wanted to ask: Who is the little pig? What is this lipstick mark about? But the words caught in my throat as I looked at his silhouette against the dim light. The sharp jawline, the clear eyes. The boy who used to chase me across campus had hardened into the silent, guarded man standing before me. The ache in my right leg flared again. I handed him the phone. “Just plugging it in for you. Ryan called. He wants us to get to his housewarming early tomorrow.” Lester took the phone, searching my face for a second before the tension in his shoulders melted away. “Okay.” His voice softened back into its usual, gentle cadence, and he turned back to the bed. The next evening, we arrived at Ryan’s new place. It was a three-story colonial house with a private pool and a custom wine cellar. I had worn the wine-red maxi dress Lester always said complimented my skin, its long hem perfectly concealing the joint of my prosthetic. Lester kept his hand firmly under my elbow, slowing his steps to match my uneven gait. At the reception table, we slipped our two-hundred-dollar check into the card box. On the registry guestbook beside it, the other entries were a sea of five-figure pledges. The young woman coordinating the arrivals glanced at our envelope, her expression shifting into a brief, polite pity. I pretended not to see it. But I saw the tips of Lester’s ears burn red. Ryan emerged from the crowd, throwing an arm around Lester’s shoulders. “You made it! Leah, you look stunning tonight.” He looked between us, then lowered his voice, speaking directly to Lester. “The guys are in the back. Grab a drink, but don’t feel like you have to keep up with them.” Throughout dinner, Lester kept putting food onto my plate. His fork carefully avoided the cilantro and bell peppers I despised. If I ignored the appraising, critical glances from the guests in their designer evening wear, we really did look like a perfectly happy couple. Until I went to use the restroom and overheard a conversation coming from the balcony. “Where is Lester living these days? Still renting that two-bedroom?” “Yeah. Can you believe it? He used to be the golden boy of our class, and now he’s making eighty grand. Honestly, I only gave him that referral because of our history.” “All for some girl? What was the point? Especially since she’s a…” The voices dropped to a whisper, and the rest of the sentence was lost to the wind. But I knew exactly what they were saying. I walked back to our table, smiling as I placed a piece of sea bass onto Lester’s plate. “The fish is fresh. You should eat more.” He looked up at me, his lips curving into a gentle smile. “Thanks, babe.” After the party, we stood on the curb waiting for an Uber. Lester’s phone kept buzzing in his pocket. He glanced at the caller ID, swiped it away, and quickly began typing a message. I watched his thumb fly across the screen, my throat feeling as though it were lined with sand. “…Are you working on a big campaign lately?” “Yeah. Year-end push at the agency.” He didn’t look at me when he said it. His index finger tapped twice against the side of his phone case. Another lie. “The… contact photo…” “What?” He looked up, his brow furrowing slightly. I opened my mouth, but the courage dissolved. I swallowed the words. “Nothing. I was just wondering if we had any of that vanilla yogurt left at home.” “I don’t think so.” The car pulled up, and we got in, one after the other. The backseat was cramped. He sat close to me, smelling faintly of a new, sweet cologne. But the distance between us felt wider than the stretch between this suburban estate and his family’s old brownstone in Boston. Once we got home, he took another call, stepping out onto the balcony and speaking in a low, hushed tone for a long time. I watched his silhouette through the glass door, remembering how seven years ago, on the roof of our college library, he had stood in the exact same position. Back then, he was screaming at his parents. For me. “I don’t care what you think! I’m staying with her. Cut me off if you want, it won’t change my mind!” He had been so sure of himself then. And now? When he came back inside, his face carried a tired but gentle smile. “Not asleep yet? Tomorrow I’ll drive you to the clinic to get your prosthetic checked.” I shook my head. “It’s fine. I can go by myself.” “Don’t be silly.” He knelt down, placing my slippers right by the edge of the bed so they’d be within easy reach. The gesture was tender, instinctual. As if nothing had changed. But I knew. The foundation had already cracked. Lester didn’t come home for the next several days. He texted to say the campaign was in its final crunch and that staying at a hotel near the office was easier. He even sent a photo of the room: “Don’t worry, it’s clean and basic. I’m not wasting money.” At the end, he added: “Once this is over, I’ll take you to that sushi place you love.” I texted back: Okay. But when our wedding anniversary arrived, he didn’t return. I pulled the white dress he loved out of the closet. Wearing heels with a prosthetic was too exhausting, so I opted for a pair of flats. I cooked a full dinner, opened a bottle of Pinot Noir, and sat down. I waited as the food went cold, reheated it, and watched it go cold again. Outside, the sky faded from gray to a deep, heavy black. My phone screen lit up. It wasn’t Lester. It was an unknown number, requesting to add me. The verification note read: “Want to see where your husband is, sweetie?” I stared at the words for a long time. Then, I pressed accept. Within seconds, a fifteen-second video arrived. The lighting in the VIP lounge was dim and intimate. Lester was sitting on a plush leather booth, a young girl pressed close to his side. She was laughing, smearing birthday cake onto his cheek. He leaned back with a grin, dodging her plays, but he didn’t push her away. In the background, someone yelled over the music, “Lester, why don’t you and Lexie just make it official?” Then came Lester’s voice. It was thick with alcohol, his tone casual, as if he were commenting on the weather. “Cut it out. I’m married.” “Then why do you come find us every single night?” the girl pouted, her voice dripping with sweet affection. Lester didn’t answer. Then, the person sent an audio recording—a voice memo recorded surreptitiously. The girl’s voice: “Lester, if you don’t even love your wife anymore, why don’t you just get a divorce?” Lester’s voice, low and infinitely heavy: “…I owe her.” I owe her. What a familiar phrase. Seven years ago, those same words had bound me to this relationship. Lester and I were college classmates. Technically, he was a year ahead of me. On my first day of freshman year, I had tripped over my heavy suitcase right outside the campus gate. He was the one who walked over, bending down to lift the bag for me. Standing against the sunlight, his smile was bright and effortless. “You okay there?” Only later did I find out that Lester was a legacy kid from one of the oldest families in the city. Born with a silver spoon. And me? I was a scholarship girl from a small town, raised by a single mother who ran a small tailoring shop, sewing day and night to keep me in school. The gap between us was a chasm. But Lester hadn’t cared. He pursued me with a relentless, loud passion. Love letters filled my mailbox, and five hundred roses were laid out from the lecture hall to my dorm. The whole campus knew the wealthy Lester was head over heels for Leah. I pushed him away for two years. Not because I didn’t care. But because I was terrified. During our junior year, he waited for me at the bus stop after my internship ended. He stood in the freezing rain for four hours, holding a simple silver band. “Leah, I don’t want my family’s money. I’ll make my own way. Just say yes.” Looking at his raw, red nose and shivering shoulders, I finally broke down and cried, nodding my head. When we got together, his family reacted exactly as expected. His mother’s voice over the phone had been ice-cold: “Lester, if you choose this girl, don’t bother coming home.” Lester chose me. He went from a trust-fund kid spending thousands a week to an entry-level worker earning forty thousand a year. I thought we were living a fairy tale where love conquers all. Until the winter of our senior year. The accident. Lester was driving us to the mountains to see the first snow. The heater in his cheap, secondhand sedan was broken, so we rolled the windows up tight and blasted the radio, singing along. The road had iced over. He didn’t see it. As the car began to spin, I saw a semi-truck heading straight for us. I lunged across the console, grabbing the wheel and wrenching it to the right. The car missed the truck but slammed violently into the guardrail. When I woke up in the hospital, Lester was by my bedside, his eyes bloodshot, his face covered in stubble. I tried to shift my leg, only to realize… Everything below my right knee was gone. Lester grabbed my hand, his voice cracking. “Leah, I’m so sorry… It’s my fault. I’ll spend my whole life making it up to you. I’ll take care of you. I’ll do whatever you want.” He knelt by my bed, bowing his head in front of his mother when she arrived. His mother sighed, looking at him with cold disappointment. “Have it your way. Just don’t come to us when things get hard.” From that day on, Lester never went back to his family. And I spent two years relearning how to walk on a carbon-fiber limb. He stayed by my side, step by step, as if carrying out a life sentence of penance. But penance has an expiration date. Seven years had passed. Even debt, eventually, becomes too heavy a burden to bear. I locked my phone, stood up, and scraped every single dish of the anniversary dinner into the trash. I poured the wine down the drain. The anniversary candles were left untouched, never to be lit. The day after I received the video, Lester came home. He brought a bouquet of baby’s breath and a box of tiramisu. “I’m so sorry, Leah. The client added another round of reviews at the last minute. I couldn’t get away.” He arranged the flowers in a vase, turning to give me a soft smile. “Can we celebrate tonight instead? Happy anniversary, sweetie.” His smile was still beautiful. Gentle, warm, flawless. But his right index finger tapped twice against his pants. I watched the movement, feeling a strange, hollow calm wash over me. “Sure,” I said, taking the tiramisu with a smile. He went into the kitchen and made me a bowl of noodles—even though it wasn’t my birthday. As he set the bowl down, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, his expression unchanging. “Work. I need to take this.” He stepped out onto the balcony, keeping his voice low. I couldn’t hear the words, but in the reflection of the glass window, I saw the corner of his mouth lift slightly. People don’t smile like that during a work call. By the time he came back, the noodles had grown cold and soggy. “Sorry, just confirming the schedule for tomorrow’s presentation.” He sat down to eat with me, placing a perfectly fried egg onto my plate. Halfway through the meal, my phone vibrated. It was the unknown number again. An image. Lester was standing in a brightly lit, pastel-pink kitchen, wearing an apron, meticulously slicing strawberries. Below the photo, there was a message: “Sweetie, your husband is so incredibly gentle when he’s making fruit platters for Lexie~ This was taken last night. Were you waiting up for him all alone? I feel so bad for you~” Last night. The night I had waited up for him until dawn. The night he claimed he was pulling an all-nighter in a hotel room. The background of the photo was entirely different from the sterile hotel room he had sent me. The food in my mouth suddenly lost all flavor. I set my chopsticks down and looked at him. He was looking down at his phone, his brow relaxed, looking completely at peace. “Lester.” “Yeah?” “Where were you last night, really?” His hand froze for a fraction of a second. Then, he resumed eating, his tone perfectly natural. “I told you, the hotel near the office. Why?” His finger tapped his leg. Twice. I smiled slightly and didn’t push further. That night, he went to shower first. I sat on the couch, scrolling through local job listings, looking for remote positions that were accessible for people with physical limitations. When Lester came out, his hair still damp, he noticed what I was doing and leaned over my shoulder. “What are you looking at?” “Just seeing if there are any freelance gigs I can do. I want to help with the bills.” He frowned, gently taking the phone from my hand. “I told you, you don’t need to do that. Just focus on taking care of yourself. Let me handle the rest.” His voice was incredibly tender, like a warm, heavy blanket. But I was no longer sure what lay beneath that blanket. A few days later, Ryan called again. “Leah, I can’t seem to get ahold of Lester lately. My birthday dinner is this Saturday. Bring him along, okay?” Saturday. I agreed. That night, I put on makeup and wore a black maxi dress, the long hem grazing my ankles to hide the prosthetic. Lester held my arm as he guided me into the private dining room Ryan had booked. About a dozen of his old college friends were already there. When we walked in, their faces registered a polite, practiced warmth, masked by an undercurrent of scrutiny. A woman wearing a Cartier bracelet smiled widely. “Oh, Leah! It’s been ages. You look wonderful. Lester is taking such good care of you.” Taking care of. The words stung. It made me feel like a caged bird. A bird with a broken wing, kept out of pity. As the night went on and the alcohol flowed, Lester navigated the subtle jabs and thinly veiled pity of his old crowd. He held his glass, his remarks sharp and polite, his smile measured. But I saw his knuckles turn white against the crystal. Near the end of the evening, one of his friends, clearly drunk, draped an arm over Lester’s shoulder. “Lester, man… you were the best of us. And now… damn. It’s just a shame.” Lester looked back at me. Just a glance, quickly averted. But I saw what was in his eyes. It wasn’t affection. It wasn’t even guilt. It was a profound, suffocating weariness. On the ride home, I reached out and took his hand. He squeezed it back, but his grip was weak. “Tired?” I asked. “Get some sleep when we get back.” “I will,” he replied, his voice as gentle as always. The moment we stepped through the front door, his phone rang. He muttered, “Got it,” and hung up. Then he grabbed his coat. “Emergency at the office. I have to run out for a bit. I’ll be quick.” The door clicked shut. I sat in the dark living room, refusing to turn on the lights. A few minutes later, the text arrived. “He’s on his way to Lexie’s, sweetie. Aren’t you scared being all alone in the dark?” I stared at the screen for a long time. Then, I deleted the thread. I blocked the number. Not because I didn’t want to know anymore. But because I no longer needed anyone to tell me. At 11:40 PM, Lester returned. He was holding a beautifully wrapped small box. “An early birthday present. I know your birthday isn’t until next week, but I couldn’t wait.” He opened the box to reveal a pair of delicate pearl earrings. Simple, not overly expensive, but elegant. He gently put them on my ears, stepping back with a soft smile. “Perfect. My wife looks beautiful in everything.” So sweet. So attentive. So utterly stifling. I touched the cool pearl on my earlobe and asked softly, “Lester, have you been happy these past seven years?” He froze. But his smile didn’t falter, and his voice remained steady. “Of course I have. Being with you is everything to me.” His finger tapped his thigh. Twice. A cold shiver ran down my spine. I looked down and let out a quiet laugh. The next day was Sunday, and Lester spent the entire day at home. He cooked lunch, took me for a slow walk around the courtyard, and we watched a movie together in the evening. It felt exactly like the early days of our marriage. I almost let myself believe it again. But after dinner, his phone began to buzz incessantly. He glanced at it, claiming it was a client, and went out to the balcony. I stood up to clear the table. As I passed the coffee table, his screen lit up. I only caught three words: “I miss you.” The sender was the little pig icon. On Monday morning, before leaving for work, Lester kissed my forehead. “Your birthday is on Wednesday. I booked a table at that French place downtown. I won’t stand you up this time.” After he left, I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the floorboards. Then, I made a decision. On Wednesday, I didn’t go to the restaurant. I put on the white dress he had loved when we first met. I did my hair and makeup, making sure I looked clean and polished. Walking on the prosthetic was painful, but today, I refused to use the cane. I drove to Ryan’s office. The receptionist told me he was in a meeting. “No problem,” I said. “I’ll wait.” Twenty minutes later, Ryan came out, his eyes widening in surprise when he saw me. “Leah? What are you doing here? If you need Lester, you should call him directly.” “I’m here to see you. Today is my birthday, and I need a favor.” Ryan blinked. “What kind of favor?” “I want you to put together a dinner tonight. Just the old group, and Lester. Don’t tell him I’m coming.” Ryan’s expression shifted through several stages of confusion and realization before he slowly nodded. “Okay. I’ll set it up.” At 7:00 PM, I arrived at the private dining room Ryan had reserved. When I pushed the door open, there were already seven or eight people seated inside. Lester was sitting in the middle, a drink in his hand, laughing at a joke. The moment he saw me, the smile froze on his face. “Leah? What are you…” I leaned against the doorframe to steady myself, offering a polite smile to the table. Then, I looked directly at him. “Lester, we need to talk.” The room fell dead silent. Every eye in the room turned to us. Lester set his glass down and stood up, moving to hold my elbow. “Let’s talk about this at home…” “Let’s get a divorce.”

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Twenty years together. For the first time in my life, I picked up Leo’s phone. A contact saved under the name “Crybaby” had sent a selfie. Her cheeks were flushed and broke out in hives from weeping. “Leo, do I look pretty when I cry?” A cold dread washed over me, freezing me from the inside out. The next second, the bedroom door opened and Leo walked out. Seeing the phone in my hand, he calmly reached out. “Give it back.” My knuckles turned white. “Aren’t you going to explain this?” His face remained entirely devoid of emotion. “There’s nothing to explain. It’s exactly what you think. I’m having an affair.” My voice shook. “Why?” He lit a cigarette, looked at me through the rising smoke, and let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Because she’s better at crying than you are. Does that count as a reason?” … The silence in the room became absolute. I watched the gray-white plume of smoke rise from his fingertips, drawing a thin, hazy boundary between us. His gaze drifted past the smoke, landing coldly on my face. “See?” he said, his tone carrying a familiar, weary condescension. “You’re doing it again. Silent, saying nothing. You don’t even have the decency to get red-eyed.” He turned and began walking toward the balcony, clearly done dealing with me. “Leo,” I called out. He stopped, but he didn’t turn around. There were so many questions clawing at the back of my throat. I wanted to ask him when it started. I wanted to ask him how he could do this to me after everything. I wanted to ask him what he meant by “better at crying.” We had dated for ten years and been married for ten. Twenty years in total. I was thirty-six now. My entire adult life had been woven into his. When was the last time I had actually cried in front of him? I couldn’t remember. But I remembered the year he got hurt. He was twenty-two, freshly out of college and trying to launch his first startup. He got into a brutal altercation with some local thugs and was badly beaten. I remember standing in the sterile, fluorescent-lit hospital hallway, sobbing so hard I couldn’t catch my breath. When he finally woke up, his face still covered in dried blood and bruises, he reached out with a trembling hand to wipe my tears. His voice was a barely audible rasp. “Baby, don’t cry. Crying is the most useless thing in the world.” “Don’t worry about me. I’m really okay.” From that day on, I stopped crying. No matter what life threw at us, I held it in. When his startup failed and we lived on instant noodles while working seventy-hour weeks, I didn’t cry. When his mother passed away and I had to physically hold him up at the funeral, I didn’t cry. When I suffered a miscarriage so violent it nearly took my life, I kept the physical and emotional agony entirely to myself. I didn’t cry. And later, when he started staying out all night, claiming he was buried in corporate meetings, and I sat alone on the living room sofa watching the sky turn from black to gray, I didn’t cry. The man who taught me that tears were a useless weakness was now telling me he had cheated because another woman was better at it. I swallowed those unasked questions one by one. They felt like rusted nails sliding down my throat, leaving the taste of iron in my mouth. Finally, I spoke. “Do you want to draft the divorce agreement, or should I?” He didn’t move. After a few seconds, he tilted his head to look at me. “Donna,” he said, using my full name, a patronizing smile playing on his lips. “How old are you again?” I didn’t answer. He put the cigarette back between his lips and turned to face me fully, leaning against the balcony doorframe with a lazy, casual posture. “You’re thirty-six, right?” “A woman’s prime only lasts so many years, and yours passed a long time ago. Besides, you don’t have a job, you have no income, your body isn’t what it used to be, and let’s face it—you aren’t exactly a beauty anymore.” “What do you actually have left? Oh, right,” he paused, as if a particularly amusing thought had just struck him. “We’ve been married for ten years without a single scrap of protection, and you’ve never managed to get pregnant once. You don’t even know how to have a baby.” “If you leave me, who on earth do you think would want you?” I froze, paralyzed by the sheer cruelty of his words. I had known this man for two decades. I remembered him at eighteen, running toward me across the high school soccer field after scoring a goal, boasting and grinning. I remembered him at twenty-two, lying in a pool of blood, desperately whispering my name. I remembered him at twenty-five, after his first major business success, getting drunk at a celebratory dinner and holding me tight, whispering, “Donna, I love you. I can finally give you the life you deserve.” The cigarette burned down to the filter. Leo stubbed it out on the balcony railing. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen but didn’t pick up. But I saw it clearly. The caller ID: “Crybaby.” A sudden wave of nausea hit me, acid burning the back of my throat. I bit my lip hard to force it down. Leo slipped the phone back into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and extracted a black credit card. “Here’s your allowance for the month.” He held it out. I made no move to take it. He let out a short, dismissive scoff, stepped forward, and shoved the card directly into the pocket of my silk robe. Then he took a step back, studying me. His eyes swept down and up, as if assessing a piece of property to make sure it was still secure. “Donna, you’re not a girl anymore. Throwing a fit at your age doesn’t look like flirting, and it certainly isn’t cute. It just makes you look like a bitter, hysterical housewife.” “So be a good girl and don’t make a scene. Just pretend you didn’t see anything. Pretend you don’t know.” “It’s better for you, and it’s better for me.” The front door clicked shut. He was gone. I stood there in the quiet house. The credit card in my pocket felt like a hot iron searing through the fabric into my skin. The nausea returned, stronger this time. I didn’t fight it. I rushed into the bathroom, gripped the edges of the porcelain toilet, and dry-heaved until my ribs ached. Nothing came out. I slumped against the cold tile floor, resting my forehead against the side of the bowl. My chest throbbed with a dull, heavy ache, and my eyes stung with a dry heat. I wanted to cry. I wanted to sob until my chest collapsed. But not a single tear fell. It was as if my body was mockingly reminding me: “See? He taught you too well. Tears are useless.” And now, he had fallen for a woman who wept at the drop of a hat. But it didn’t matter anymore. It was over. All of it. I stood up, washed my face, and began gathering every piece of jewelry, every designer handbag, and every expensive trinket he had bought me over the years under the guise of “household expenses” and anniversary gifts. I packed them all into a single box and left it in the center of the kitchen island where it couldn’t be missed. Then, I opened my phone and sent a text to my best friend, Beryl. “Come pick me up. I want to go home.” After sending the message, I drove straight to a family lawyer’s office to have a divorce petition drawn up. Only when the paperwork was in my hands did I head to Leo’s office. Just as I reached the lobby, the elevator doors slid open. Leo emerged, carrying a young woman in his arms. Her face was buried in his chest, obscured by her long hair. Seeing me, Leo’s eyes flickered with a brief, cold indifference. He didn’t say a word, stepping past me as if I were a stranger, heading toward his parked car. I stepped into his path, blocking him. I held out the divorce papers. “Sign it.” Leo didn’t even glance at the document. “Get out of the way. I have an emergency. I don’t have time for your tantrums right now.” I didn’t budge. My voice was entirely level. “Leo, I am not throwing a tantrum.” He looked at me as if I had just told a particularly pathetic joke. Without saying another word, he shoved me aside with his free arm. He placed the woman into the passenger seat and drove off. I watched the sleek black Maybach disappear into the city traffic. A sudden, quiet curiosity washed over me. I wanted to see what his “emergency” was. I raised my hand and hailed a passing cab. “Follow that Maybach.” The cab rode through the city streets, eventually pulling up outside a luxury villa in the quiet, wooded suburbs on the edge of town. I paid the driver, stepped out, and walked toward the Maybach parked in the driveway. But as I drew closer, I stopped dead in my tracks. The car was rocking in a slow, rhythmic motion. I froze. A bitter, icy chill spread through my limbs. An emergency. This was the emergency he couldn’t delay. The muffled sounds of a man’s low groans and a woman’s soft, breathless whimpering seemed to echo through the quiet afternoon air, amplifying until they filled my head. But I didn’t run. I stood there, a silent, hollow statue, witnessing the physical betrayal of my husband with another woman. After what felt like an eternity, the car door clicked open. Leo stepped out, wrapping his designer suit jacket around a flushed, tear-stained young woman. When he caught sight of me standing there, he paused for a brief second, then let out a low, mocking laugh. “You actually followed me? You’re really going to make a scene over this?” I said nothing. I simply lifted my numb arm and held out the papers once more. “Sign.” Leo stared at me for ten long seconds, the amusement fading from his eyes, replaced by a cold sneer. “Fine. Wait here.” He scooped the girl up and carried her into the villa. I stood in the driveway. I watched the sun dip below the horizon, letting the darkness swallow the yard. I watched the stars appear, and then watched them fade as the sky turned a pale, bruised purple. I stood there from dusk until dawn. When the morning sun finally broke through the trees, burning my sleep-deprived eyes, the front door of the villa opened. Leo walked out, holding the young woman’s hand. For the first time, I got a clear look at her. She was young, her face full of youthful collagen, wearing a piece from the latest haute couture collection. Her hair was tied back in a high ponytail, and when she smiled, deep, playful dimples showed in her cheeks. Leo was looking down at her, talking softly. It was a look of tender, protective adoration I hadn’t seen directed at me in over a decade. My chest felt incredibly tight, my eyes burning with dryness. But still, no tears came. As they approached, Leo saw me. A flicker of genuine shock crossed his features, as if he couldn’t believe I had actually stood there all night. The girl gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. She immediately clutched Leo’s arm, and tears instantly welled in her eyes, spilling over her perfect cheeks. “Leo, this is all my fault,” she whimpered. “If I hadn’t kept you in bed yesterday, your wife wouldn’t have had to stand out here in the cold all night.” Leo’s face immediately softened with intense pity. He reached out, gently wiping her tears away with his thumb. “Oh, sweetie, don’t say that. It has nothing to do with you,” he murmured, his voice thick with indulgence. “You just cry so beautifully, I couldn’t bring myself to leave.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead. I pressed my lips together, fighting the urge to look away. Leo finally turned his gaze to me, tossing his chin toward the car. “You want the divorce? Fine. Get in. We’ll go to my office and discuss the terms.” I didn’t argue. I walked over and reached for the front passenger door handle. Before my fingers could touch it, my arm was violently grabbed and yanked backward. “Mimi always sits in the front,” Leo said coldly, shielding the girl as he guided her into the seat. “You sit in the back.” I had been standing on my feet for nearly fourteen hours. My legs were entirely numb, stiff from the morning chill. When he pulled me, my knees gave way. I stumbled backward and collapsed onto the gravel driveway. A sharp, jagged stone sliced through my jeans, tearing into my knee. I gasped as a sharp, hot pain flared up my leg. When I looked up, Leo was already in the driver’s seat, leaning over to carefully buckle Mimi’s seatbelt. He hadn’t even looked back to see if I was standing. Holding back a grimace, I forced myself up and climbed into the back seat. During the entire drive to the office, the two of them flirted and whispered in the front. I kept my eyes fixed on the window, watching the suburban trees give way to high-rises, feeling completely detached from the reality inside the car. In his spacious corner office, Leo threw a set of documents onto the mahogany desk in front of me. “I’m leaving you the house. That’s it. You don’t get another dime of my assets.” “For the past ten years, you’ve done nothing but sit at home while I built this empire. You contributed nothing to my success, so I owe you nothing.” “So think carefully, Donna. Do you really want this divorce?” “Without me, the comfortable life you’ve grown accustomed to is gone. You will never find another man who can provide for you the way I did.” “But me? There’s a line of young, beautiful women waiting to take your place. And you? If you’re lucky, you’ll end up as some middle-aged guy’s stepmother, and even then—” “Fine,” I said, cutting him off. I couldn’t bear to listen to his voice for another second. Leo froze, his mouth half-open. I picked up the pen, flipped straight to the final page of the agreement, and pressed the nib to the signature line. “Donna!” He slammed his hand down on the paper, his face darkening with sudden rage. “I am giving you one last chance to think this through. Are you seriously going through with this?” “Yes.” I smiled, gently brushing his hand off the document. “I am absolutely going through with this.” I signed my name quickly and cleanly, then slid the paper back across the desk to him. “Now, you sign.” Leo’s expression grew increasingly hostile. “Donna, is all of this really necessary over a minor slip-up? Do you have to be so—” “Leo!” I suddenly raised my voice, the raw, suffocating pain I had kept buried deep inside finally fracturing my composure. “You cheated on me! You slept with another woman, and you have the audacity to ask if this is “necessary”? Do you have any idea how utterly repulsive you are?” Leo stared at me, momentarily stunned by my outburst. Then, he grabbed my shoulders, his grip tight and defensive. “We’ve been together for twenty years, Donna! Twenty years without a single break! People get sick of physical objects after that long, let alone another human being. It’s natural.” “And besides, if you’re so lonely, go find another man. I won’t stop you.” In that moment, looking into his eyes, I realized the boy I had loved at eighteen was entirely dead. The man standing in front of me was a hollow, rotting stranger. I pushed his hands off my shoulders with all the strength I had left. “Don’t touch me, Leo. Don’t make me despise you any more than I already do.” “Just sign the papers.” Leo stood in silence for a few moments. Then, with a harsh scowl, he snatched up the pen. “Fine. If you want to ruin your life, go ahead. Let’s see how long you survive—” He had barely scrawled the first letter of his name when the office door burst open. “Leo… I’m bleeding,” a faint, trembling voice cried out. Mimi stood in the doorway, clutching her stomach. Blood was seeping through her white designer skirt, dripping onto the carpet. Her face was deathly pale, her eyes wide with terror. “Leo, my stomach hurts so bad…” I stared at her, my mind momentarily blanking out. The sight of her clutched abdomen, the bright red blood—it was a mirror image of the afternoon I had lost my own child years ago. So. He had gotten her pregnant. I turned to look at Leo, but before I could even register his expression, a blur of motion passed by me. He had already scooped Mimi into his arms, rushing past me and out the door. His face was a mask of pure, frantic terror. The divorce agreement sat on the desk, bearing only the first letter of his name. I walked over, picked up the pen, and carefully finished his signature, mimicking his handwriting perfectly. Back when he was first starting the company, he used to be so exhausted that he would fall asleep while reviewing contracts. Out of sheer love and pity for him, I had spent hours practicing his signature so I could sign the routine business agreements on his behalf. After thousands of documents, our handwriting had become indistinguishable. I took the signed agreement straight to the courthouse to file for an uncontested dissolution of marriage. On my way out, I contacted a real estate agent and put our house on the market at a below-value price for a quick cash sale. Then, I texted Beryl and sat on a bench by the curb to wait for her. Thirty minutes passed, but she didn’t show up. Just as I was about to call her, my phone rang. It was Leo. “Donna, if you have a problem with me, come say it to my face. Don’t send your psychotic friend to harass Mimi in her hospital bed.” Before I could even ask what he was talking about, the line went dead. I took a cab to the hospital. As soon as I stepped onto the maternity ward, I heard Beryl’s furious voice echoing down the hallway. She had just slapped Leo across the face, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. “You disgusting piece of trash! She gave you twenty years of her life! Twenty years! And now that you’re rich and powerful, this is how you treat her? You cheat on her and get some cheap little girl pregnant? How do you sleep at night?” Leo’s face was dark, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Why should I feel guilty?” “For ten years, she’s lived off my hard work like a parasite. She’s a cold, emotionless machine who doesn’t even know how to cry, let alone give me a child. Why should I waste the rest of my life bound to her?” “Leo!” Beryl’s voice cracked, her entire body trembling with rage. “She stopped crying because of you! And do you have any idea why she couldn’t get pregnant? She did it to—” “Beryl, that’s enough!” I stepped into the corridor, cutting her off, and pulled her back by the arm. Then, I looked at Leo. “I’m sorry for the disruption,” I said quietly. Leo stared at me, a brief shadow of confusion crossing his eyes. Before he could speak, a weak, pathetic cry of “Leo…” drifted out from the hospital room behind him. His expression hardened back into disgust. “Donna, you are genuinely pathetic. I don’t ever want to see your face again.” “I’ll sign those papers when Mimi is out of the hospital. Not a second before.” I wanted to tell him that he didn’t need to bother, that it was already done. But he had already turned his back on me and walked into the room. Beryl tried to push past me to go after him, but I held her tight. “Let it go, Beryl,” I whispered, my voice exhausted but steady. “It’s over. We have a flight to catch. Let’s go home.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “529597”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

An indie-darling actress and her soft-boy younger brother were building their entire brand around being “humble and unbothered.” But during a hit reality show, they “accidentally” let slip some massive secrets: their grandfather is a legendary Hollywood titan, they grew up in the ultra-exclusive gates of Beverly Park, and the sister’s boyfriend is none other than the city’s most mysterious, old-money heir. The internet immediately lost its mind: [My lord and lady! Where do I sign up to be your live-in maid? I will work for free!] [How is it possible to be this gorgeous and this successful?!] [Drop the tutorial on how to be reborn into this family, please!] Standing off to the side, my sister and I were completely dumbfounded. Excuse me? Since when did my family have a secret set of siblings we’d never heard of? … My sister, Flora, and I started out as child actors. We’ve worked ourselves to the bone since we could walk. I was the type to take any role—from the leading lady in a prestige drama to a minor character who gets killed off sixty seconds into the pilot. Flora, on the other hand, was a method actress to her core; she once shaved her head without a second thought just to play a troubled teenager. In the industry, they called us the “hustle sisters.” To promote our respective new projects, we agreed to guest-star together on the country’s most popular variety talk show, “The Round Table”. Of course, the producers wanted drama. The viewers quickly noticed that the show had invited another set of siblings to serve as our direct foils. The sister, Kylie Holloway, was famous for her effortless “clean-girl” aesthetic, while her brother, Lewis, had starred in a few obscure indie art films. They branded themselves on being low-key, detached, and above the petty drama of Hollywood. Basically, the exact opposite of our relentless hustle. The kicker? Not long ago, the Holloway siblings had hinted in an interview that their grandfather was the creative mastermind behind the legendary 1996 Centennial Olympic ceremonies. The clip went viral on TikTok, racking up millions of views. Internet sleuths even dug up photos of their alleged daily hangout spots, which just so happened to be inside the gated estates of Beverly Park—where land is practically paved with gold. Fans swooned, calling them real-life trust-fund royalty who were just “deigning to experience normal life.” With the producers framing us as opposites, a toxic fan war erupted overnight. [Oh my god, no wonder the Holloways have such an elegant vibe! They’re literally Hollywood royalty.] [Finally, some actual class on our screens instead of the usual desperate try-hards.] [I watch reality TV for this kind of effortless, old-money energy, not to see Valerie and Flora Lancaster acting like desperate attention-seekers.] [Well, when you come from nothing, you have to claw and scrape for every second of screen time. Sad, really.] [If our precious Kylie cared about clout, she’d have destroyed those two Lancasters years ago.] Even our publicists started panicking. “Maybe you girls should tone it down?” they warned us. “Don’t steal the spotlight. If you look too aggressive, the internet will tear you apart. Besides, they have serious backing. Let’s play it safe.” “Yeah… in this economy, people want to romanticize the easy life of the rich. They don’t want to watch the grim reality of working-class grinders.” I was genuinely baffled. “Grinders?” I comforted them. “What’s wrong with working hard? We earn every cent we make with our own sweat. There’s absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.” And honestly, I couldn’t understand why everyone was losing their minds. Just because their grandfather supposedly planned the Olympics? My grandfather “actually” did that. Flora thought about it for a long time too. “It’s weird,” she whispered. “The people who actually own those Beverly Park estates are currently living in Europe. And as far as I can recall, we don’t have any neighbors named Holloway.” We brushed it off. Work was our priority, and we had a show to shoot. Soon enough, the day of filming arrived. “The Round Table” was a massive hit, and the entire episode was being broadcast live. We were set up in a cozy, rustic courtyard, gathered around an outdoor fire pit to drink tea and chat. Flora and I naturally took our seats in the quiet corner, wanting to stay out of the way. Meanwhile, the Holloway siblings walked in and sat right in the center seats without a moment’s hesitation. The sheer entitlement was palpable. The host immediately handed them the microphone. “It’s incredible,” the host said, beaming. “You two have kept such a low profile in the industry, but it turns out your grandfather is none other than the legendary director Charles Holloway.” Charles Holloway. My grandfather. Flora and I both froze. The familiar name pulled our attention straight to them. By a bizarre stroke of luck, they shared my grandfather’s last name. But my grandfather had actually taken my grandmother’s surname—Lancaster—when they married, building his empire with her family’s immense wealth. He only kept “Holloway” as his professional director pseudonym. That was why Flora and I went by Lancaster. Kylie tilted her head, letting the camera catch her soft, unbothered expression. “That’s all in the past, really. We just want to focus on doing our jobs.” Lewis gave a boyish, dimpled smile that was practically engineered to make fans swoon. “Yeah, Grandfather is eighty now. If he finds out we made him go viral again, he’ll never let us hear the end of it. He hates the fuss.” The live chat stream instantly erupted. [Oh my god, this is literally a movie come to life.] [Can we talk about their dynamic? Kylie is the poised, cool older sister and Lewis is the sweet, playful younger brother. That dimple is killing me!] [They clearly have such a warm relationship with their grandpas. So wholesome!] Beside me, Flora snorted. She quietly tapped her phone screen and slid it over to show me a photo she’d just received. It was a picture of our grandfather, currently kneeling on a pile of LEGO bricks in his living room. “I just texted Grandfather,” Flora whispered, suppressing a laugh. “I asked him if he had a secret family he forgot to tell us about.” “And?” “He panicked and started kneeling on LEGOs to prove his absolute innocence to Grandma.” I shook my head, tapping her forehead to quiet her down. “Don’t say anything yet. We’ll let PR handle this later. Knowing Grandfather’s temper, he’ll probably log onto his verified account and start a digital war anyway.” Unfortunately, our hushed whispering and suppressed giggles didn’t escape the cameras. The live chat noticed. [Wait, what is up with the Lancaster sisters? Are they seriously jealous of someone else’s pedigree?] [Look at those smirk faces. That is so mean-spirited…] [Don’t be so harsh, maybe they’re just curious. I mean, given their B-list status, it’s not like they’d ever get to run in the same circles as the Holloways.] [Gross. I actually liked them before this, but seeing them act like bitter mean girls in front of actual class is disappointing.] [Are we seriously still tearing other women down in this day and age? Get a grip.] If I could see the live comments, I would have had a thousand questions. But the host, sensing the rising engagement, immediately pointed the microphone at Flora and me, eager to play up the contrast. The host smiled warmly. “With genes like that, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before you two surpass your grandfather’s legacy. But why don’t you ask Valerie and Flora for some advice? After all, they’re the reigning hustle queens of the industry.” Kylie gave us a brief, dismissive glance before looking away. Her posture practically radiated aristocratic disdain. “Of course. But Lewis and I prefer to take our time. We want to polish our craft and select meaningful scripts, rather than just taking any mindless gig that comes our way.” Lewis nodded, his tone dripping with faux-innocence. “I really admire how the sisters can spend three hundred and sixty-five days a year on dusty soundstages. I could never do that. I can only perform when a character truly speaks to my soul.” My eyebrows twitched. That wasn’t just a subtle dig; it was an open insult. The passive aggression was staggering, yet the live audience ate it up. [Oof, look at Valerie’s face. She’s fuming!] [I mean, they’re not wrong. Calling them ‘hustlers’ is just a nice way of saying they can’t book prestige roles, so they have to accept trashy network television.] [Exactly. Valerie has won some minor awards, but look at her sour expression. She can’t even fake a smile.] [Makes you wonder how they actually got those awards in the first place.] [Can all actors please take notes from the Holloways? It’s so refreshing to hear someone speak the truth!] I clenched my jaw. Years of media training kept me from starting a screaming match on live television. If my family saw me getting into a petty argument with some D-list influencers on a variety show, I’d never hear the end of it. But Flora didn’t have my restraint. She had always been the fiery one. She snatched the microphone, her striking, sharp features hardening. “I’m sorry,” Flora said, her voice icy and deadpan. “I didn’t realize my grandfather had adopted two new grandkids.” “You have some nerve claiming you’re going to surpass his legacy on a couple of indie shorts.” The chat went chaotic. [Did she just claim Charles Holloway is her grandfather? Are the Lancasters serious right now?] [I was literally just thinking, how does Kylie have the audacity to compare herself to Charles Holloway?] [Wait, but their last name is Lancaster. How are they related to Holloway? Did she lose her mind and just start lying?] [Exactly! And why can’t a granddaughter make a joke about her own grandpa? Flora is just bitter because she has zero class.] Kylie’s expression faltered, her polished facade slipping for a fraction of a second. Another guest on the show, eager to defuse the tension, spoke up. “Wait, you’re saying Charles Holloway is your grandfather? But that’s impossible. I remember seeing a viral article a few weeks ago showing him out with his grandchildren, and it was a brother-sister duo.” Hearing this, Kylie quickly regained her composure. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull,” Kylie said smoothly. “But Grandfather has always told me that if I work hard, I’ll make him proud one day.” She paused, reaching into her clear phone case to pull out a slipped-in piece of paper. “He actually wrote me a personal note of encouragement. I keep it with me everywhere I go.” She subtly angled the paper toward the main camera lens. Lewis lifted his chin proudly. “Oh, Kylie, don’t fall into their trap. If Grandfather is watching this right now, he’s probably laughing his head off at how desperate some people are.” Flora stared at the handwriting on the note and froze. “That… is actually Grandfather’s handwriting.” Being the hothead she was, she looked ready to lunge forward and tear the paper from Kylie’s hands. “How dare you use his personal autograph to pull off a scam like this!” I placed a firm, calming hand over Flora’s wrist. “Easy,” I murmured. A few weeks ago, Grandfather had been invited to present at a major film festival, and Flora and I had gone to pick him up from the venue. At the time, Flora had just chopped her waist-length hair into a severe pixie cut for her upcoming military drama. The paparazzi photos from that night had been incredibly blurry—just a grainy shot of Grandfather walking with a woman and what looked like a young man with short hair. To the public, it looked like a brother and sister. And right after those photos leaked, Kylie had started dropping hints in interviews about her “legendary grandfather.” It had been a calculated play from the very beginning. I leaned in and whispered the realization to Flora. I wanted to see exactly how far these two were willing to push this lie. Flora gave me a subtle thumbs-up beneath the table. “Brilliant, sister.” But to the outside world, our quiet whispering looked like defeat. The chat, already biased toward the “chic, old-money” Holloways, turned on us completely. [I don’t even know what Flora was trying to pull. The real heiress is literally sitting right there with receipts!] [The instant karma is sending me! Who just tries to claim a legendary director as their grandpa on live TV?] [She carries his handwritten letter in her phone case. You can’t fake that. My face hurts from laughing at the Lancasters.] The producers were ecstatic. They had expected a simple promo gig, and instead, they had landed the exclusive reveal of Charles Holloway’s grandchildren—complete with a massive family feud. The director immediately sought to capitalize on the drama. “We’ve all heard that Kylie and Lewis live in the exclusive gated community of The Summit,” the director spoke into the earpieces. “Since our studio lot is actually just ten minutes away from those estates, would you mind taking us on a quick tour to see how the other half lives?” Flora and I exchanged a look of pure bewilderment. The Summit was incredibly exclusive, with only a handful of multi-million-dollar estates. Since when could any random person just breeze past security and film a reality show there? Kylie’s expression tightened slightly at the request. “I… I didn’t expect the paparazzi to track our address,” she hesitated, looking appropriately delicate. “I’d really have to ask my family first. Security is quite strict.” The other guests gasped. “Are you going to call Charles Holloway himself?” “Oh my god, I am his biggest fan! If we even get a glimpse of him, my life will be complete!” “Seriously, the man is a total recluse these days.” As the excitement built, Lewis chimed in with a sly grin. “Kylie, are you going to call your boyfriend? He’s the one who actually handles the estate logistics anyway.” That sent a shockwave through the room. For weeks, there had been rumors that Kylie was dating a mysterious, ultra-wealthy heir who also lived in The Summit. Kylie’s cheeks flushed a delicate, practiced pink. “Yes, I just texted him. He said we can go ahead and do a quick walk-through.” With their narrative perfectly aligned, they had successfully solidified their status as Hollywood royalty. The live comments went wild: [Oh my god. Her grandfather is a cinematic genius, she lives in The Summit, and her boyfriend is a literal billionaire heir. How do I unlock this lifestyle?] [Please let me be your housemaid! I’ll clean the marble floors for free!] [They are literally the main characters of the universe.] [Reincarnation goals.] I don’t know what kind of lie Kylie spun to the gate guards at the community entrance, but within twenty minutes, the entire production crew and camera team were marching up the winding, manicured streets of The Summit. But as we got closer, a strange sense of dread settled in my chest. Wait. Why were we walking toward my street? For a brief, terrifying second, I wondered if my parents had actually adopted a secret set of siblings without telling me. But then Kylie turned right, stopping directly in front of the massive, modern estate right next to mine. I froze. Because that house belonged to my childhood best friend—and the man I’d been unofficially seeing—Will Harriet. And Kylie had just claimed she needed to ask her boyfriend for permission to enter. Had Will been seeing Kylie behind my back? Beside me, Flora let out a quiet, wicked chuckle. She nudged my arm, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, well. Will has been out of the country for months, and he comes back to a live-in girlfriend? Now “this” is a show.” She leaned in, whispering, “Valerie, remember: don’t lose your cool.” I ground my teeth. “Oh, I’m perfectly cool.” The estate was breathtaking. I watched in silence as Kylie stepped up to the massive double doors, punched in a very familiar passcode, and pushed the door open. She turned to the crew with a welcoming, slightly apologetic smile. “My grandfather and my boyfriend aren’t home right now, so I’m sorry you won’t get to meet them. But please, make yourselves at home and have some refreshments.” Before she could even finish her sentence, a figure appeared at the top of the grand spiral staircase. It was Will. He was dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, his tie perfectly knotted, looking every bit the cold, aristocratic heir he was. He looked down at the sudden influx of strangers in his foyer, his eyes instantly turning to ice. Until his gaze landed on me. Our eyes met across the cavernous room. He arched an elegant eyebrow. “What is going on?” his eyes seemed to ask. In the live chat, an eagle-eyed viewer recognized him immediately. [Holy crap!!! That’s Will Harriet! The actual heir to the Harriet shipping and real estate empire! I saw him once at a charity gala in New York—he is ten times more gorgeous in person.] [Kylie is literally winning at life. How did she bag him?] [Wait, is it just me, or did Will look straight at Valerie the second he walked out?] [Please, Valerie was probably just staring at someone else’s boyfriend like a thirsty fan girl. Classic social climber behavior.] The other guests on the show gasped in awe. “Oh my god, is that Kylie’s boyfriend?” “They look like they belong on a magazine cover!” “Hi, Mr. Harriet! Nice to meet you!” Everyone was whispering and grinning, but I noticed that Kylie’s face had gone completely bloodless. Her hands were trembling as she stood frozen at the base of the stairs. Will looked at the cameras, then at the fawning guests, and pieced together the situation with effortless ease. A cold, dangerous smirk touched his lips. He began walking down the stairs, initially heading straight toward me. But when he saw the warning glare I shot him, he stopped in his tracks, looking like a kicked puppy, and reluctantly turned his attention back to the crowd. I wanted to see exactly how he was going to explain this. Will’s gaze swept over the room, landing squarely on Kylie. His voice, usually warm when he spoke to me, was now sharp enough to cut glass. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “But since when did my house get a new mistress?” “Or are we calling home invaders ‘girlfriends’ now?”

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I was born with a quiet, peculiar curse: I can see the threads of devotion. They grow from the center of a chest—a thin, luminous cord of crimson that snakes out and anchors itself to the wrist of the person they love most. The deeper the shade of red, the more consuming the passion. Ten years ago, the first time Damian looked at me, his cheeks flushed, and a pale pink thread drifted from his chest to bind itself around my left wrist. Over the years, through his confession, his proposal, and finally our wedding, that thread deepened until it glowed like a hot ember—intense, bright, and seemingly permanent. Until the first semester of my pregnancy, on the morning he had promised to finally accompany me to my twelve-week ultrasound. I looked at him, and my heart stopped. A second thread had sprouted from his chest. It didn’t reach for me. Instead, it slithered across the hardwood floor, snaking out toward the front door, reaching for someone I couldn’t see. Suddenly, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, a guilty shadow crossing his face, and walked out onto the balcony to answer it. When he slid the glass door open again, his expression was a mask of practiced anxiety. “Babe, there’s a massive crisis at the office. I have to run in and handle it. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. We’ll reschedule the scan.” As he spoke, the second thread pulsed, its crimson hue darkening with terrifying speed. It was in that quiet, devastating moment that I knew. Our marriage was already over. 1 Just as Damian was grabbing his coat for my ultrasound, his phone rang. Through the quiet of our bedroom, I caught the faint, high pitch of a woman’s voice on the other end, though I couldn’t make out the words. Damian shot me a quick, defensive look. He hung up, snatched his car keys off the dresser, and practically bolted for the door. “Babe, something went sideways with one of our accounts. I have to get there right now,” he said, not looking me in the eye. “We’ll do the ultrasound another day, okay?” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I was staring, paralyzed, at the second red thread trailing from his chest. Over the past two months, that cord had grown thicker, vibrant with a life of its own, while my own chest felt increasingly hollowed out by a cold, creeping dread. Right now, that second line was taut, pointing directly toward our front entryway. Then, the doorbell rang. Damian froze, his hand hovering over the doorknob. When he opened it, a young woman stepped inside. She was carrying bags of gourmet takeout and fresh seafood, kicking off her heels and reaching into our shoe cabinet for a guest slippers with a familiarity that made my stomach turn. She set the containers on the kitchen island, completely at home. And there, coiled around her wrist, was the other end of Damian’s second crimson thread. It hummed between them, thick and tangled. “Hi! I’m Lexi, Damian’s new assistant,” she said, offering a bright, polished smile. “I heard you’ve been having a rough first trimester and keeping things pretty bland. Damian loves this seafood place down the street, so I thought I’d bring some over for you both.” Damian shifted on his feet, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second. “Don’t overthink it, Maeve,” he muttered quickly. “She’s just a dedicated assistant stopping by on her way to the office.” My nails bit into the palms of my hands, my voice trembling. “Was she the ‘crisis’ on the phone just now? Is this the urgent business you had to handle?” A flicker of impatience crossed Damian’s handsome face, but as his eyes traveled down to my slightly rounded stomach, his expression softened into something resembling guilt. “Don’t start, Maeve. You’re pregnant. You shouldn’t be stressing yourself out. Let me help you up to bed.” But before he could step toward me, Lexi suddenly gasped, doubling over and clutching her stomach. “Oh, gosh,” she whispered, her voice laced with sweet, performative distress. Damian bypassed me entirely, his hands instantly reaching out to steady her. “What is it? Are you okay? Do I need to take you to the clinic?” “It’s just… my monthly cramps,” Lexi murmured, looking up at him through her lashes, her voice dripping with calculated vulnerability. “They get so bad sometimes.” Without another word, Damian led her to the kitchen, his movements fluid and practiced as he began simmering a pot of herbal tea and heating up comfort food. He had never made that tea for me. He had never looked that frantic when I spent my mornings hovering over the toilet, retching until my throat burned. A sudden, sharp ache bloomed in my lower abdomen. I gripped the edge of the dining table to keep my balance, my hand slipping and knocking my prenatal folder to the floor. The ultrasound papers scattered across the hardwood like dry leaves. Damian glanced over his shoulder, his eyes cool and detached. “You should really go lie down, Maeve.” Then he turned right back to Lexi, blowing gently on the mug of tea he’d prepared for her. When they finally prepared to leave together, Lexi paused at the door, her smile small and triumphant. “Thanks for renting that apartment for me, Damian. And for always keeping me close. Once I learn how to make that chicken recipe you like, I’ll bring some over.” Damian’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “You don’t have to do that. I’m a much better cook anyway. I’ll just make it for you.” They walked out into the cool morning air side by side, their silhouettes matching perfectly—exactly the way he and I used to look when we were still in love. The cramping in my belly intensified, a dull, heavy throbbing. I reached for my phone and dialed Damian’s number. Once. Five times. Ten times. No answer. Only the hollow drone of voicemail. Clutching my stomach, my face slick with cold sweat, I called my sister. “Don’t move,” Natalie said, her voice sharp with instant panic. “I’m on my way.” When Natalie burst through the front door, her eyes swept over the empty, quiet house. “Where the hell is Damian?” I couldn’t even find the breath to answer. Her face darkened with a fierce, protective anger as she carefully helped me into her car. Twenty minutes later, I was lying in a cold VIP hospital room. The OB-GYN stared at the ultrasound screen, his forehead creasing into a deep, troubled frown. “Where is the father?” the doctor asked. Natalie took a deep breath, stepping closer to the bed and squeezing my hand. “I’m her sister. You can tell us.” The doctor sighed, pointing to the dark, silent shape on the monitor. “The fetal heart rate is extremely weak, and development has essentially stalled. I’m so sorry, Maeve, but we need to prepare for a D&C. The pregnancy is no longer viable.” The words felt like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of me. I clutched the edge of the paper sheet, tears spilling silently into my hair, crying until my throat was raw. It was nearly dawn when Damian finally walked into the hospital room. “Damian,” I whispered, my voice cracked and broken. “The baby…” “Maeve, you really shouldn’t have treated Lexi like that yesterday,” he interrupted, his tone laced with irritation. My entire body went rigid. The words I was about to say dissolved like ash on my tongue. “She went out of her way to be nice, and you made her feel incredibly unwelcome,” he continued, pacing at the foot of my bed. “She’s just a young girl who speaks her mind. Do you really have to be this insecure?” I pulled the blanket up to my chin and closed my eyes, the last lingering embers of my desire to communicate with him dying out. While he was in the bathroom showering, his phone buzzed on the bedside table. For the first time in our ten-year relationship, I picked it up. The password was still my birthday. I unlocked it and opened his messages. Lexi’s name was pinned at the very top, saved under a single, devastating contact name: “My World”. I clicked on her profile and scrolled through her social media. It was a digital archive of their intimacy. Photos of them on weekend getaways, matching keychains from his business trips, Lexi standing by his side at corporate galas while I stayed home, nursing my morning sickness alone. I slowly lifted my gaze and looked at his chest. The original thread—the one that had bound him to me for a decade—was now a faint, translucent pink, practically invisible in the sterile hospital light. But the second thread, the one tied to Lexi, was a violent, pulsing red. 2 The next evening, Damian brought a massive bouquet of peonies—my favorite—to the hospital, his eyes filled with a performative guilt. “I’m sorry about yesterday, Maeve,” he murmured, kissing my forehead. “Tomorrow is the weekend. I’m clearing my entire schedule. I’ll stay here, and we’ll get through the next doctor’s visit together.” But by noon the next day, he wasn’t there. Instead, my phone rang with a FaceTime call. When I answered, his face popped up on the screen, bright and animated. “Hey, babe! Lexi insisted on making us lunch to apologize for the misunderstanding. Why don’t you take an Uber over to her place? She’s honestly so sweet, always thinking about others.” He spoke about her with a gentle, protective warmth that he hadn’t used with me in years. In his eyes, Lexi was the angel, and I was merely the obstacle he had to manage. After a long silence, I agreed. I needed to see it. I needed to let the reality burn itself into my retinas so I would never, ever doubt my decision. The address he sent was in a luxury high-rise only ten minutes from our home. Lexi opened the door, wearing a silk robe that draped over her shoulders with the casual grace of a woman who owned the space. And right behind her stood my husband, wearing a pair of comfortable linen loungewear that matched hers perfectly. “Maeve, please, come in! Make yourself at home,” Lexi chirped, though her eyes remained ice-cold. “Take a seat. I’m just going to help Damian finish up in the kitchen.” I stood in the entryway, the silence of the apartment pressing in on me. Driven by some quiet, masochistic urge, I walked toward the open kitchen. “Ow!” A sharp cry cut through the air. Lexi had burned her finger on a pot of boiling water. Damian immediately dropped his spatula, grabbing her hand and pulling it under the cold tap, blowing on her skin with a look of sheer, unadulterated panic. “Are you okay? Do we need to go to the emergency room?” A bitter laugh threatened to choke me. During all those lonely weeks of my pregnancy, he had never found the time to sit with me through a single doctor’s appointment. But for a tiny blister on his assistant’s finger, he looked like his entire world was collapsing. Lexi smiled, leaning into his shoulder. “I’m fine, silly. I just wanted to help you.” Damian gave her a playful, fond shove. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth. Get out of my kitchen. Go sit with Maeve.” He guided her out by the waist, his eyes finally catching mine. His expression cooled instantly. “Lexi is still young, Maeve. Be nice to her.” He offered the brief, dry instruction before turning back to the stove. The air in the living room felt thick and suffocating. As I looked around, I noticed the expensive mid-century modern furniture, the framed art, and the unmistakable presence of dual sets of everything—two matching mugs on the counter, two matching toothbrushes in the bathroom cup. Lexi sat across from me, her sweet smile not reaching her eyes. “I have terrible insomnia, you know. The walls in my old place were paper-thin. Damian was worried my lack of sleep would affect my performance at the office, so he rented this place for me.” She leaned back, running a manicured finger along the rim of her glass. “To make things easier, I keep a wardrobe of his clothes here. He has so many late-night client dinners, and he gets so tired. It’s easier for him to crash here. That way, he doesn’t disturb you while you’re trying to rest.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. “Lunch is ready!” Damian called out. Lexi jumped up excitedly. “Yay! All my favorites—shrimp and lobster!” Damian sat right next to her, naturally picking up a shrimp and peeling it with practiced ease before dropping it onto her plate. When he noticed I hadn’t touched my fork, his brows knit together. “What’s the issue now, Maeve? Why aren’t you eating?” I looked up, staring directly into his eyes. “Damian, how is it that after ten years, you still can’t remember that I am violently allergic to shellfish?” His hand froze. The color drained from his face. Lexi immediately put her fork down, her eyes welling with instant, dramatic tears. “Oh my god, Maeve, I am so, so sorry! It’s all my fault. I should have asked if you had any allergies.” Damian’s guilt instantly morphed into defensive anger. He slammed his fork onto the table. “Can you stop being so incredibly difficult, Maeve?” he snapped. “You’ve completely ruined the lunch she spent hours making, and now you’ve made her cry. Apologize to her.” A sharp, familiar cramp flared in my lower abdomen. I stood up, grabbing my coat, and walked out without saying another word. I stood on the sidewalk outside the building for five minutes, the cold wind biting at my face. I waited, foolishly, to see if he would run down after me. He didn’t. Instead, my phone buzzed with a text message. “Babe, Lexi is absolutely devastated and won’t stop crying. I’m going to stay and calm her down, and then I’ll head straight home. I love you.” He sent that “I love you” every single day. It had started as a fierce promise, but somewhere along the line, it had degraded into a mindless, automated script. We were already strangers. 3 It was past midnight when the front door clicked open and Damian walked in. He didn’t even take off his coat before starting in on me. “Maeve, I don’t understand you. How could you humiliate Lexi like that in her own home?” I turned from the window, looking at him under the dim lamplight. “Damian, do you honestly think your relationship with Lexi is normal? You treat her so well that anyone would think “she” was your wife.” He flinched, a flicker of panic crossing his eyes before he quickly masked it with indignation. “I’m the CEO of Stone Enterprises, Maeve. Taking care of my key employees is part of the job. You’re about to be a mother. When are you going to grow out of this petty jealousy?” “Taking care of her doesn’t require you to play husband in her apartment,” I said, my voice dead and flat. Damian’s face flushed with anger. “Enough! Lexi is a sweet, innocent girl. If anyone hears you talking like that, you’ll ruin her reputation.” No explanations. No frantic denials. His first, instinctual reaction was to shield her from harm. It was a reflex, as natural to him as breathing. A sudden, stabbing pain ripped through my abdomen, so intense that my knees buckled. I slumped onto the sofa, clutching my stomach. Damian’s anger evaporated instantly. He rushed over, kneeling beside me and grabbing my hands. “I’m sorry, Maeve. I lost my temper. Please, don’t get worked up. If you’re hurting, let’s go to the hospital right now.” His face was painted with the exact same devotion I had fallen in love with. But when I looked at his chest, the thread connecting him to me was nothing but a pale, dying shadow. I pulled my hands back, my voice quiet but absolute. “Damian, I can see the threads. I’ve always been able to. And right now, you have two. One is tied to me, and the other is tied to Lexi.” He stared at me, bewildered, before letting out a soft, nervous chuckle. “Threads? Maeve, what are you talking about? You’re letting the stress of the pregnancy get to your head. Tomorrow, I’m finding you a therapist.” “If you want me to feel safe,” I said, ignoring his dismissiveness, “fire her. Block her number. Cut her out of your life completely.” Damian’s face hardened again, his patience snapping. “Will you stop this madness?” he groaned, standing up and grabbing his car keys. “Lexi is in the middle of a massive career transition. She needs my mentorship. I can’t just abandon her because of your delusions.” He headed for the door, throwing his coat over his shoulder. “You need to cool off. Call me when you’re ready to be reasonable.” I let out a soft, hollow laugh as the front door clicked shut. He didn’t understand that my baby and I were the ones who needed him. Or maybe he did understand, and he simply didn’t care. Ten minutes later, my phone pinged with a notification. Lexi had posted a new photo on her Instagram. The caption read: “I wish my favorite person could stay by my side every single night.” But it wasn’t the caption that made my blood run cold. It was the photo. Clutched in Lexi’s hand, wrapped around her wrist, was a hand-carved olivewood prayer bead bracelet. On our first anniversary, Damian had been in a terrible car accident on his way to buy my favorite strawberry cake. The doctors told me he might never wake from his coma. I had spent three weeks walking the grueling spiritual trail of the Camino de Santiago on bleeding knees, praying at every sanctuary, until I found a remote monastery where an old monk gave me those blessed beads. The day I slid that bracelet onto Damian’s wrist, he opened his eyes. He had held me close, crying, swearing he would love me for the rest of his life. I hadn’t realized his lifetime would be so incredibly short. My hands shook so violently I could barely hold the phone. I dialed his number. It rang and rang, finally connecting on the sixth attempt. “Where are you?” I demanded. “The office,” he replied, his voice smooth and untroubled. “Why is Lexi wearing my prayer beads, Damian?” The silence on the other end stretched, heavy and defensive, before he sighed. “She saw them on my desk and liked them, so I let her borrow them. It’s just a piece of wood, Maeve. Why do you have to make a federal case out of everything?” “Damian—” “I have work to do. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The line went dead. I sat in the dark, tears streaming down my face, until the sun began to rise. At 8:00 AM, I picked up my phone and sent him a text. “I’ve thought about it. You’re right. There’s no point in fighting anymore. Come home for lunch today, I’ll cook.” He replied almost instantly. “I knew you’d understand, babe! I’ll bring home that strawberry cake you love. Love you.” The text practically bounced with relief. But Damian didn’t know that this wasn’t a reconciliation. It was our final meal. 4 I spent the morning on the phone with a family lawyer, drafting the divorce agreement. By the time I walked into the kitchen to start cooking, the sharp pain in my lower belly flared again, worse than before. Doubling over, I realized I couldn’t stand long enough to chop vegetables. Defeated, I ordered a spread of his favorite dishes from a high-end restaurant down the street. It was nearly 4:00 PM when Damian finally let himself in. The food on the dining table had gone completely cold. He glanced at the spread, his brows furrowing slightly. “I already ate at the office, Maeve. Why did you order so much?” I looked at his chest. The pale pink thread that had once connected him to me was gone. There was only Lexi’s crimson cord, vibrant and thick, pulsing with every beat of his heart. I stared at the empty space where my thread used to be, a strange, hollow calm settling over me. “Damian, you need to take me to the hospital. The baby—” Before I could finish, his phone screen lit up with a video call. He raised a finger, signaling for me to be quiet, and answered with a voice so tender it made my stomach wrench. “Hey, Lexi, what’s wrong? Take a breath. Tell me what happened.” On the screen, Lexi was sobbing, holding up her hand. “Damian… I was trying to cook dinner for you, and the knife slipped. I cut my hand. There’s so much blood…” Damian’s face went pale with terror. “Don’t touch anything, Lexi. I’m coming right now.” He grabbed his coat and ran for the door. As his hand touched the knob, he paused, as if suddenly remembering I was in the room. He didn’t turn around. “I’ll call the driver to take you to your appointment, Maeve.” The door slammed shut, the sound echoing through the empty house. A white-hot spike of agony ripped through my pelvis, and I felt a sudden, terrifying warmth gush between my thighs. Trembling, I dialed Natalie’s number, but before she could answer, the world went entirely black. When I opened my eyes, the stark white ceiling of the hospital room stared back at me. Natalie was sitting by my bedside, her eyes swollen and red. She forced a fragile, heartbreaking smile. “Hey,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “The doctors… they saved you. That’s what matters.” I slowly lowered my hand to my stomach. It was flat. Empty. A single tear slipped down my temple, disappearing into my hair. Natalie quietly handed me her phone. Lexi had just posted a new photo—a close-up of her hand resting in Damian’s. On Damian’s left hand, the simple gold band I had placed on his finger was gone. In its place was a matching platinum promise ring. The caption read: “The man of my dreams is finally, truly mine.” The comments below were flooded with congratulations. During my three days in the recovery ward, Damian’s automated text arrived every single morning at exactly 9:00 AM. “I’ll make it up to you for the ultrasound, babe. Love you.” Word for word. A pre-programmed script he hadn’t even bothered to turn off. I stared at the screen, my heart entirely numb, and deleted the messages without replying. When I was finally discharged, I took a taxi back to the house to pack my things. The moment I unlocked the front door, the sound of laughter drifted from the living room. Damian and Lexi were curled up on the sofa, giggling like newlyweds. When Damian saw me, his smile froze, a flicker of awkwardness crossing his features. “Maeve… you’re back. Lexi’s lease was up, and since this place is so big, I figured she might as well move in. It just made sense.” He had stopped trying to hide it. He didn’t even care enough to lie anymore. “Fine,” I said quietly. I walked past them into the master bedroom. My clothes had been pulled from the hangers and piled onto the floor to make room for Lexi’s colorful wardrobe. The bedsheets were crumpled and smelled of her perfume. A wave of intense nausea hit me, and I had to lean against the wall to keep from vomiting. I ignored the clothes on the floor. I grabbed only my passport, my birth certificate, and my legal documents, stuffing them into a small duffel bag. Then, I slid my wedding ring off my finger and tossed it into the trash can by the door. When I walked back out, Damian was waiting in the hallway, his brow furrowed. “Where are you going? You just got home.” As he spoke, his eyes fell to my midsection. He froze. “Your… your stomach…” Before he could process what he was seeing, Lexi’s voice shrieked from the guest bedroom. “Damian! Oh my god, come quick! There’s a massive spider in here, I’m terrified!” Damian’s head whipped toward her voice, his panic instant. Without another word to me, he bolted down the hall to save her. I didn’t wait. I walked out of the house, pulled my phone out, and booked a one-way ticket to Boston. A day later, Damian was tossing a piece of scrap paper into the bedroom trash can when a glint of metal caught his eye. He reached in and pulled out my wedding ring, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs. A knock at the door broke the heavy silence of the house. He rushed to open it, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. “Maeve, did you forget your—” But it wasn’t me. A courier stood on the porch, holding a tablet. “Delivery for Damian Stone. Sign here, please.” Damian signed with trembling fingers and took the thick manila envelope. When he slid the contents out and saw the signed divorce papers, the breath left his lungs in a sudden, violent gasp.

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The giant screen in the university auditorium was playing a looped video of my downfall. The footage showed me walking out of Julian Sterling’s private lounge in the middle of the night, my clothes disheveled. Then, the screen cut to several fake PayPal transaction screenshots, accompanied by bold, blood-red text: *Vivian Vance slept her way into the prestigious Hudson Spring Fellowship!* The crowd erupted. Countless judging eyes and phone cameras turned toward me, standing in the very back row. “No wonder Julian protected her so much before. She was just paying him in bed.” I squeezed the art tube in my hands. Inside was a painting I had spent three grueling months working on. It held my two-year, unspoken crush on Julian. Julian was the only light in my dark world. After my mother died, my stepsister, Melanie, did everything she could to ruin me. It was Julian who had always stood in front of me, shielding me from her attacks. With tears stinging my eyes, I hurried backstage. I needed to ask Julian what was going on. But just as my hand touched the doorknob, a man’s cynical laughter drifted through the door. “Julian, that was brutal. With that security footage and the fake transaction logs, Vivian will never be able to show her face in the art world again.” “She brought this on herself. She was the one who got Melanie exiled to Paris years ago. Doesn’t Vivian care so much about her deceased mother’s ‘innocent’ reputation? Let’s see how she likes being branded a cheap climber herself.” My entire body went numb. Then, Julian’s voice, cold as ice, pierced through the door. “She owes Melanie. It’s time to pay it back.” Someone cheered. “So, when are you going to tell her you’re actually Melanie’s fiancé? If she finds out the guy she’s been in love with for two years was just setting a trap for Melanie’s revenge, she might actually lose her mind.” Silence fell over the room for a second. Then came Julian’s detached tone. “We’ll wrap this up as soon as Melanie lands in New York.” I felt as if a lump of bloody cotton was lodged in my throat. I couldn’t breathe. So, all his gentleness, his protection, the warm soup he sent me late at night… they were all just bait in a trap he laid for Melanie’s sake. *Click.* The door was pulled open from the inside. Julian saw me standing there. A flash of surprise crossed his eyes, but he quickly masked it with his usual, hypocritical tenderness. “Why are you standing here? I’ll handle the drama outside. Don’t listen to their rumors.” He reached out, habitually trying to cup my face. I took a step back, dodging his hand. At the end of the hallway, a crowd of onlookers was waiting for me to break down, waiting for me to throw myself into Julian’s arms like a desperate dog begging for help. Instead, I calmly tossed the art tube—the one containing three months of my heart and soul—into the trash can next to me. “Julian, the painting is ruined. You don’t deserve it anyway.” Ignoring Julian’s shocked expression, I turned and walked out into the freezing rain, my back perfectly straight. That cheap affection—I didn’t want it anymore. By the time Julian chased me outside, the rain was pouring. He held an umbrella over my head, his tone carrying the usual arrogance of a savior. “Going back to the dorms will only get you mobbed by paparazzi. Be good. Let me take you back to the Vance estate.” — ###

**Vivian’s POV** If this were yesterday, a single “be good” from him would have made me swallow any amount of grievance. But now, it only made me sick. I pulled my wrist out of his grip. “No, thank you.” Julian frowned, about to snap, but the phone in his pocket began to buzz. He glanced at the screen, and his cold, harsh expression instantly melted into soft warmth. I knew who it was. Melanie was back in New York. Julian answered the call right in front of me, his voice so gentle it could pour like honey. “Hey, don’t worry. I’ve suppressed the news. Your father is hosting a welcome-back dinner for you tonight. I’m on my way.” Hanging up, he looked at me, drenched in the rain, his patience finally wearing thin. “How long are you going to keep throwing this tantrum?” I looked at him and suddenly smiled. “Julian, in what capacity are you attending the Vance family dinner tonight?” Julian’s face stiffened. He didn’t answer. I didn’t give him another glance. I turned and walked straight into the storm. When I arrived at the Vance mansion, what awaited me wasn’t a dry towel, but a brutal slap across the face from my father. *Slap!* The force knocked my head to the side, and blood trickled from the corner of my mouth. My father threw a printed withdrawal statement at my face. “Do you want to disgrace this family completely? Melanie’s welcome dinner is tonight, and the Sterling family is coming. Sign this. Admit that you used improper means and withdraw from the fellowship. Don’t drag your sister’s name into your dirt!” Eleanor, Melanie’s mother, sat on the sofa, sighing hypocritically. “Vivian, once a girl’s reputation is ruined, she should learn to be sensible. Don’t make things difficult for Melanie.” No one asked if I was framed. In the Vance house, even my breathing was considered a sin. I wiped the blood from my lip, picked up the statement, and said coldly, “Fine. I’ll attend the dinner tonight.” Back in my cramped attic room, I reached into the deepest drawer and pulled out a manila envelope. Inside was my acceptance letter from the Carmel Art Restoration Studio in California. My Snapchat was sitting on a message from the program director. They would only hold my spot for three more days. I took a picture of the acceptance letter and sent it back. “I’ll report in three days.” I was leaving. I was going to disappear completely from this living hell created by Julian and the Vance family. But before I left, I was going to tear off their hypocritical masks with my own hands. Melanie’s welcome party was incredibly grand. She wore a custom haute couture gown, looking like a delicate white rose, socializing effortlessly among the elite guests. The moment Julian walked in, Melanie naturally slipped her arm through his, calling out sweetly, “Julian!” Julian looked down at her, his eyes filled with pure adoration. Halfway through the party, my father clapped his hands and announced loudly, “Tonight, besides welcoming Melanie home, I have another piece of great news! The Vance and Sterling families have agreed on an alliance. These two are deeply in love, and their engagement party will be held next month!” Thunderous applause broke out. All the guests turned their malicious side-glances toward me, standing in the dark corner. — ###

**Vivian’s POV** They were all waiting for me—the “discarded toy Julian got tired of”—to go crazy. Instead, I set my glass down and walked straight toward the happy couple. Melanie pretended to be innocent, grabbing my hand. “Vivian, you don’t hate me for keeping this from you, do you? Julian and I… our families were worried you’d feel awkward, so we didn’t say anything sooner.” Julian stared at me, his brows knitted tightly. A flicker of panic, which even he didn’t seem to realize, flashed in his eyes. But I just curved my lips, my voice ringing clear throughout the hall. “Why would I? Congratulations, Julian.” Julian’s face went instantly cold. A flash of jealousy burned in Melanie’s eyes. She grabbed my arm and forced me toward the VIP lounge. “We haven’t caught up in so long, Vivian. Come talk to me.” The moment the lounge door shut, Melanie’s sweet disguise shattered into pieces. “Nice act,” Melanie sneered maliciously. “Aren’t you dying of jealousy inside? Your mother stole my mother’s place, so I’m going to take everything from you! Now everyone knows you’re just as dirty as your mother was. How are you going to compete with me?” “My mother married my father before she even knew you existed!” I balled my hands into fists. Melanie suddenly let out a creepy laugh. She grabbed a glass from the table, smashed it hard onto the floor, and then grabbed my hand, slamming her own palm down onto the jagged shards! Blood gushed out instantly. The door was kicked open, and Julian rushed in. Melanie immediately collapsed into his arms, sobbing. “Vivian! I was just trying to ask you to stop bothering Julian! Why did you stab me with glass?!” I stood there, my own hand dripping with blood from the flying shards. But Julian didn’t even look at me. He swept Melanie up into his arms. As he walked past me, his gaze was like a knife. “Vivian, do you have to be this sick to be satisfied?” I looked at my bleeding hand. I didn’t shed a single tear. In the study, my father was furious. “Get on your knees!” I stood tall, staring coldly at the man who was biologically my father. “I didn’t push her.” “You dare talk back?! If Melanie’s hand is ruined and she can’t paint, I will ruin your life!” My father grabbed an inkstone and hurled it at my feet. Outside the door, Melanie leaned against Julian, her hand wrapped in thick gauze, crying dramatically. Julian looked down at me like I was a stubborn criminal. “Kneel and apologize to Melanie. Do it, and I’ll pretend this never happened.” “And if I don’t?” A cruel light flashed in Julian’s eyes. “Then the scandal about you sleeping your way into the Hudson Fellowship will hit the front page of every major outlet tomorrow morning. Vivian, don’t force my hand.” How hilarious. The man who pushed me off the cliff was now standing on high ground, demanding my gratitude. — ###

**Vivian’s POV** I suddenly laughed, so hard that tears almost came out. “Julian, what makes you think you can still threaten me?” The study fell into a dead silence. My eyes, which used to be filled with endless love for him, were now completely dead. I didn’t want him anymore. My father waved his hand impatiently. “Lock her in the pool house storage room! Don’t let her out to embarrass us before Melanie’s engagement party!” Several bodyguards brutally dragged me away. As I passed Julian, I stopped, my gaze sweeping over the two men who had pushed me to the edge. “You both want me to disappear, right? Fine. I’ll give you exactly what you want.” Julian’s heart skipped a beat for some reason. He instinctively called out, “Vivian!” But the only response he got was the cold *click* of the storage room lock. The dark storage room had no heating. It was freezing like an ice box. I pulled out my burner phone, which I had hidden in my sleeve, and dialed my best friend, Chloe. “Are they insane?! They locked you up like a dog?!” Chloe’s voice was shaking with rage over the line. I looked out the window at the dark night sky, my voice eerily calm. “Chloe, I’m going to Carmel.” “When?!” “In three days.” During these three days, I needed to gather all the evidence of Melanie framing me and my mother. I was leaving, but I wasn’t running away with my tail between my legs. I was going to dump every bit of dirt they threw at me right back onto their faces! I was locked up for two days. The Vance family told everyone I was sick and couldn’t see anyone. Julian came once. He looked at me through the barred window, holding a box of medicine. “Melanie has decided not to press charges.” I was looking through my mother’s old sketchbooks, not bothering to look up. Julian set the medicine on the window sill. “Your hand needs antibiotics.” I glanced at it. “Thank you, Melanie’s fiancé.” Hearing that, Julian’s face darkened. He stayed silent for a moment before speaking quietly, “You didn’t use to talk to me like this.” “I didn’t know who you really were back then.” His breath hitched. “Vivian, I admit some things were handled poorly, but you need to think about why Melanie was sent abroad in the first place. She’s fragile, and she spent two years alone in Paris. You owe her an apology.” I finally looked up. “She applied for that exchange program herself. Her signature is on the application, and the recommendation letter was signed by my father, not me.” Julian froze. “You can look it up if you don’t believe me,” I said. “Though, you probably don’t want to.” Julian’s brows knitted tightly. He opened his mouth to say something, but his phone rang again. It was Melanie, crying on the other end, saying her hand hurt and she was scared of scarring. He looked at me one last time, but in the end, he turned and left. Chloe snuck in through the back fence at dawn on the third day. She brought me a maid’s uniform and pressed a small flash drive into my palm. “I found the original backstage footage from the auditorium. The guy who edited it was from the student union, and he’s tight with Melanie. Also, the security guard’s cleaning cart had a dashcam on it when the lounge incident happened. I got that footage too.” — ###

**Vivian’s POV** I gripped the flash drive tightly. “Thank you.” “Don’t thank me, just go,” Chloe whispered. “If you don’t leave now, your father will literally drag you to the engagement party and force you to apologize on live stream.” I changed into the uniform and followed Chloe out the back gate. I didn’t take a single thing Julian had ever bought me. I only took my ID, my mother’s sketchbooks, a few old clothes, and my acceptance letter. Chloe’s car was waiting at the corner of the street. Seeing how pale I was, Chloe couldn’t help but curse, “The Vance family and Julian are literally a pack of wolves—” “Save your breath,” I smiled softly. “They aren’t worth the energy.” After dropping me off at a temporary motel, Chloe still didn’t feel safe leaving me alone, so she insisted on staying the night. We squeezed into the small bed, neither of us sleeping much. Chloe cursed the Vance family until her throat was hoarse, then suddenly went quiet. “Vivian… are you scared?” “Yes,” I admitted. I was scared of the unfamiliarity of Carmel. I was scared that my hand injury would affect my painting. I was scared that the Vance family and Julian wouldn’t let me go, and I was scared that in some weak moment, I would soften because of some old memories. Chloe rolled over and hugged me tightly. “Go anyway. Being scared is no reason to stay.” I nodded in the dark. I finally had someone with whom I didn’t have to pretend to be strong. And because someone knew I was scared, I found the courage to take the next step. First, I went to the university. My rejected painting from the Hudson Spring Exhibition was piled in the corner of the storage room. The canvas had been splashed with black ink, the title *Spring Rain on Hudson Street* smeared into an ugly mess. The storage manager looked apologetic. “Vivian, the administration ordered us to discard this.” I knelt down, touching the wooden frame with my uninjured hand. “I’ll discard it myself.” I took the painting with me and handed the flash drive to a professor I trusted. The professor’s face darkened after watching it. He asked if I wanted to release it immediately. I shook my head. “Please keep a copy of the original for now. Once I leave New York, submit it to the board.” The professor looked at me. “Are you sure about this?” “I am.” When I left the campus, the sun was just rising. Sitting in the taxi, it was the first time I hadn’t sent Julian a single text. Outside the window, New York was slowly waking up. The streetlights faded into the distance, and I suddenly felt a weight lifting from my chest. I wasn’t unwanted. I was just finally choosing to walk away. I couldn’t leave New York immediately, though. The director of the Carmel Studio notified me that some paperwork required my physical presence at Columbia University’s administration office, which would take at least two days. Chloe almost lost her temper, but I remained calm. “It’s fine. It gives me time to tie up loose ends.” By the time I went back to campus to finish the paperwork, the wind had already begun to shift. Since my professor had submitted the original video, the university had put my suspension on hold. However, the anonymous school forums were still filled with hate, claiming I had bribed the professor to clear my name, or that I was using Julian’s influence to get off the hook. — ###

**Vivian’s POV** I didn’t reply to any of the threads. I went to the records office to retrieve my files. When I came out, I ran straight into Melanie. Her hand was still wrapped in gauze, and she was surrounded by a few of her classmates. Seeing me, her smile faltered. “What are you still doing at school?” “Paperwork.” “For Carmel?” Melanie sneered. “That place is a barren desert. You’re actually going? Well, makes sense. Staying in New York would only remind everyone of your cheap scandal.” I stared at her. “Whether I leave or stay has nothing to do with you.” Melanie’s eyes flashed with anger. She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper only the two of us could hear. “You think getting some footage will save you? Vivian, don’t forget. Your mother’s reputation is still in my mother’s hands. If we want to, she will always be a dirty homewrecker.” My fingers tightened around my files. Melanie always knew exactly where to stab me. If she had mentioned my mother in the past, I would have lost my mind. But this time, I just looked up. “Then you better make sure your story has no loopholes.” Before Melanie could react, Chloe came rushing from the other end of the hallway, holding up her phone. “So sorry to interrupt, but I was just live-streaming! Melanie, care to explain to the viewers what you mean by ‘her mother’s reputation is in your mother’s hands’?” Melanie’s face drained of color. The surrounding students began to whisper. I didn’t stay to watch the drama. I hugged my file folder tightly and walked away from the crowded hallway. I was done fighting with Melanie. I knew where I was going, and I knew how I would speak for myself from now on. That live stream quickly went viral on the university forum. People started questioning Melanie’s sweet, innocent persona. Some even traced the hate threads about me and realized they all originated from the same few IP addresses. I didn’t participate in the online discussions, but I took screenshots of every single thread. I no longer expected others to fight for my justice, but I would make sure every piece of malice left a paper trail. That night, the Vance family sent a car to pick me up. The driver said my father demanded I return home immediately. The Sterling family elders were also there. Chloe tried to stop me, but I thought about it and said, “I’ll go.” “Why?!” “For the last time.” The Vance mansion was brilliantly lit. Julian was sitting on the sofa, looking noticeably more exhausted than a few days ago. Seeing me walk in, his first question was actually, “Where have you been staying?” I didn’t answer. My father slid a new statement toward me. “Melanie’s engagement is around the corner. We can’t have any negative press. Sign this. Admit that you and your friend edited that live stream to frame Melanie.” I looked down at the paper and suddenly laughed. It was amazing how biased a human heart could be. I picked up the pen. But instead of signing, I ripped the paper in half right in front of my father’s relieved face. “I am never taking the fall for any of you again.” — ###

**Vivian’s POV** Julian stood up abruptly. “Vivian!” I looked at him. “And that includes you, Julian.” My father raised his hand to strike me, but this time, I didn’t flinch or look down. I stared straight into his eyes, my voice steadier than I ever thought possible. “You can slap me, but it won’t make that paper real. You can disown me as your daughter, but you will never use me to save Melanie’s face again.” The maids in the living room froze. My father’s hand stayed suspended in mid-air, as if he was realizing for the first time that his silent, submissive daughter had finally grown thorns. Julian was staring at me too. The annoyance in his eyes was still there, but beneath it was something else—something like shock, as if he had never seen me look so fierce. I used to think that when pushed into a corner, sacrificing myself to keep the peace was the right thing to do. But tonight, I refused. And so, the humiliation that was meant for me stayed right where it belonged—with them. I didn’t stay at the Vance house that night. Julian chased me out to the courtyard, grabbing my wrist. The wound on my hand hadn’t healed yet, and his grip made me turn pale with pain. He instantly let go, his voice softening. “Let me drive you.” “No.” “Vivian, we need to talk.” I looked at him, realizing how tragically late those words were. When I wanted him to explain, he was comforting Melanie. When I wanted him to believe me, he was forcing me to apologize. When I was locked in the storage room, he only cared about whether Melanie would press charges. Now he finally wanted to talk, but I had nothing left to say. “Julian, I’m leaving for Carmel tomorrow.” His face paled. “Who gave you permission to leave?” I smiled softly. “See? You don’t want to talk, Julian. You just want to control me.” Julian froze. A car pulled up at the gates. Chloe poked her head out the window. “Vivian, get in!” I shook off Julian’s hand and ran to the car. Chloe hit the gas immediately. Julian’s hand was left hanging in the air, his eyes finally filled with genuine panic. “Vivian! Don’t try to scare me by running away!” I looked at him through the glass. “I’m not trying to scare you.” As the car sped off, Chloe cursed all the way. I didn’t say anything. I leaned against the headrest, watching the New York skyline disappear behind us. I grew up here, lost my mother here, and gave my heart to Julian here. Now that I was leaving, it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. Chloe’s rants finally quieted down. She didn’t tell me not to be sad; she just said, “Even if you’re hurting, don’t look back. You don’t run back to the knife that stabbed you.” Hearing those words, the ache in my chest finally found a place to rest. It turned out that having someone on my side didn’t require me to prove my worth first. The next morning, I went to the bank, deactivated the credit card my father had given me, and dropped off every single gift Julian had ever given me at the Sterling Group’s front desk. The receptionist recognized me, looking incredibly awkward. “Miss Vance, Mr. Sterling isn’t in today.” “That’s fine. Just make sure he gets this.” On top of the box was a neat list, detailing when and where he had given me each item. No complaints, no questions, just a clean return.

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On the night before my wedding, my friends threw me a bachelor party. Halfway through, my friend Mason Reed gave me a suggestive look and said: “We’ve got something even hotter planned, and we booked three strippers for you so you can have one last wild night before marriage.” I shook my head and refused. “You guys have fun. I can’t do anything that would hurt my fiancée.” But Mason said to me: “You’re way too old-fashioned! Yesterday, my friend hooked up with a woman who was about to get married, and she was crazy in bed.” As he spoke, Mason took out his phone and showed me his chat messages with that woman. I froze. That woman’s Ins profile picture was exactly the same as my fiancée’s. I forced myself to control my emotions and acted like nothing had happened. The next day, the wedding went on as planned. Smiling, I walked onto the stage with my fiancée on my arm, then pressed the remote. On the big screen, the chat records, audio recordings, and videos were all there. The whole room exploded.

I looked at the screen of Mason’s phone, and in a gaming group chat, a man was bragging about his one-night stand. “A woman about to get married is seriously wild.” “I love this kind, mature and forward.” I looked at the woman’s profile picture and wondered why it looked so familiar… I snatched the phone out of my friend’s hand. I zoomed in on the screenshot. It showed a chat between a man and a woman: “You’re getting married tomorrow, and I really can’t bear to let you go.” “Then come see me tonight.” “What am I coming to see you for? Aren’t you afraid your husband will find out?” “What kind of husband is he to me? The wedding hasn’t happened yet, so I’m still yours. Whenever I think about getting married, I get anxious, so come keep me company.” Attached after that were a few blurry chest photos with no face shown. Coincidentally, the woman’s profile picture was half of a heart. It was exactly the same as my fiancée Chloe Bennett’s profile picture. I remembered that she had been the one who suggested we use the same Ins profile picture. Mason, sitting beside me, did not notice that something was wrong with me. “Look, this woman’s getting married tomorrow, the same day as you. But she’s still hooking up with her ex the night before the wedding. What a slut, haha…” I pretended to stay calm and said nothing. Then I walked to the restroom and called Chloe. The phone rang several times, but no one answered. My heart tightened. The woman Mason had just shown me, the one actively cheating and flirting with her ex, could not really be Chloe, could it? Finally, the call went through. I listened to the voice on the other end of the phone and let out a long breath, thinking maybe it really was just a coincidence. Plenty of people used the same social media profile picture, and plenty of people got married on the same day. How could I suspect someone who was about to become my legal wife? Besides, Chloe’s family were all very conservative Christians. Her whole family was against sex before marriage. Even on the night of our engagement, when I wanted to get intimate, she refused me and insisted on giving herself to me completely on our wedding night. How could I suspect her? I was such a jerk. “It’s nothing, nothing, I just… missed you. Is your room all set up?” I asked her with a guilty conscience. I did not dare tell her the gossip I had just heard. Otherwise, as smart as she was, she would definitely guess why I had called. “It’s almost… mm… all cleaned up.” “What’s wrong, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” I asked nervously. “I’m fine, I’m fine. I accidentally bumped into the cabinet. If there’s nothing else, hang up, okay? Don’t you have to get up early tomorrow to pick me up? Don’t be late.” “Don’t worry, I definitely won’t be late. You should also get some… rest.” I had just finished speaking. On Chloe’s end, she hung up on me in a hurry. I had originally wanted to be sweet with her for a couple more sentences. Forget it, she had been busy for days, so she must have been tired too. After I came out of the restroom, my buddy saw I seemed fine and started yelling at me again: “Come look, come look, this is so damn exciting. That guy posted something even crazier in the group…”

Mason shoved his phone in front of my eyes. There was a new chat on it. “This is so exciting and feels so damn good. My ex-girlfriend and I were right in the middle of it when her husband suddenly called, and it almost scared the hell out of me.” “But my ex-girlfriend is seriously badass. She didn’t let him notice anything was wrong at all.” “My ex-girlfriend was wearing a wedding dress and talking to her own husband on the phone while she was under me, and damn, that felt incredible, haha.” Looking at that string of laughing emojis, I felt a wave of rage I could not hold back shoot straight to my head. Chloe’s voice had sounded off for a split second just now. I had not thought much of it at first. But at this moment, this man with the username “Kyle Harding” was bragging in the group and describing the scene in real time, so I had no choice but to suspect it. The female lead was Chloe, the woman who was about to marry me. “Damn, bro, that’s insane.” “I’m so jealous, man. Can you start a livestream?” “So jealous, start a livestream and let us see. Good things are meant to be shared.” In just a minute or two, the people in the group had already started egging him on. No, I could not just sit there and wait. Blind guessing was useless. I had to confirm whether the woman cheating on the night before her wedding was Chloe or not. Otherwise, tomorrow’s wedding could not happen.] “Idiot, you’re just talking out of your ass, aren’t you?” After I sent that sentence, the entire screen full of envy paused instantly. I waited a little while. “Kyle Harding” finally saw it. “Bro, are you just bitter because you can’t have it?” “I can understand if you’re jealous and resentful, but if you’re cursing me out, are you insane? It’s not like I fucked your wife!” That one sentence hit me right where it hurt. The person he might have fucked really could be my wife. But it also might not be. The reason I cursed at him was to confirm it. On my end, I was gritting my teeth so hard that I bit red marks into my lip. Mason finally realized something was wrong. He looked at the line in the group that said, “Did I fuck your wife?” Then he turned and looked at me. “Shit, it’s not really your fiancée, is it…” He did not dare keep going. Then he quickly added: “No, no way, Ethan. We must be overthinking it.” “Whether or not it’s Chloe, we can just confirm it.” My eyes were bloodshot, and I looked at him with something almost savage in my face. Then I quickly lowered my head and started typing on the phone. “Idiot, just because you say you’re fucking someone else’s wife, are we supposed to believe you?” “I think you’re just bluffing, acting all by yourself, chasing attention, and enjoying praise from people who don’t know the truth. Is that fun?” I needed to provoke him and make him reveal key proof. And then. Snap, he really threw a photo straight into the group. “Idiot, see if I’m lying or not.” I ignored his insults and quickly tapped the photo with my finger, enlarging it…

The photo showed only a back. Not even the head was in the shot. She was indeed wearing a wedding dress. And the hem of the wedding dress had already been lifted up onto her back. It was easy to imagine what had just happened. Or what was currently happening. I zoomed in and searched bit by bit, but I found no useful information. So I kept provoking him: “Idiot, I can tell you’re not bragging.” “But you don’t even dare photograph the back of her head, so how am I supposed to know whether the broad back under you belongs to some huge dude from the front, haha.” After I said that, the people in the group started blindly stirring things up too. “Exactly, bro, what kind of photo is this? We can’t even tell if it’s a man or a woman. You’re not really bragging, are you?” “Could it be an AI picture, haha?” “Record a video, record a video. We want to see a live video…” The situation completely got out of control. “Shut the fuck up, all of you. Did you all eat shit with those mouths? Believe it or don’t, I don’t care.” … A few seconds later, he still could not help but tag me in the group. “No, bro, something’s off about you!” “I feel like you’ve been provoking me this whole time. Fuck, did I really fuck your wife?” “Or do you know my girlfriend…” I did not reply right away and slowed myself down. I knew he was starting to panic too. After all, this was a local group. Even if most people did not know each other, there was always a chance that someone nearby might recognize someone. Who could stay calm and not be afraid when it felt like you had been caught by the actual partner while seducing someone in a relationship? “Bro, why aren’t you talking? Do you really know my ex-girlfriend?” Seeing that I had achieved my goal, I stopped scaring him. “You’re overthinking it. I’m just from out of town and here to clear my head.” “I joined a random group because I wanted locals nearby to recommend good food and fun places, but who knew I’d run into you bragging?” While I kept him steady in the group, I privately added him as a friend. What if he left the group and ran off in a bit? The notification sounded quickly. [The other party rejected your friend request.] Rejected? I added him again and attached a note: [Accept it, or I’ll call the police and report you for spreading a woman’s private photos, and you won’t get away.] This time, that man accepted my friend request very quickly. “Bro, what exactly do you want?” he asked me directly in the private chat. “Don’t overthink it. I’m just curious. If I don’t see what your girlfriend looks like, I really won’t be able to sleep tonight.” “You don’t need to be scared either. I’m really not local, so there’s no way I know you or the bride under you. If you don’t believe me, you can check my Ins posts and see if you recognize me.” I waited for a while, but the other side never replied. I guessed they had really gone to look through my posts. But I was not afraid, because the account and phone both belonged to Mason. They would not find anything useful. Besides, there was another point: they definitely would not dare make a big deal out of this. So they could not run anymore. “I can’t let you see my ex-girlfriend’s face. Ask for something else.” The fish had taken the bait. “Bro, that’s kind of stingy. You’re enjoying something that good yourself, and you won’t even let someone else take a look?” “Ask for something else, or if you want a woman, I’ll pay to get you the best escort in town. How about that?” “How can a paid escort be as exciting as your bride? Fine, if you won’t show her face, take a full-body shot so I can at least see her figure and satisfy my craving.” Even if I could not see her face, as long as it was Chloe, I would be able to confirm it through other features. Snap! A full-body photo was sent over, showing her from the back. I immediately zoomed in on the back of her head, because there was a mark there that could confirm whether she was Chloe…

In the end. I really found it. I zoomed in on the photo and looked again and again. I could not help kicking the stool beside my foot away. The heart-shaped red mole behind her ear was so glaring. If having the same profile picture could be a coincidence. If the strange sound she made during the phone call could be argued away. Then this photo was ironclad proof. Chloe Bennett, the woman who was going to have a wedding with me in just a few hours. Had cheated! I took out my phone. I wanted to FaceTime her. I wanted to ask her how she could be so shameless. But just as I was about to dial, Mason suddenly grabbed my hand. “Ethan, what are you doing?” “What am I doing? What do you think I’m doing? I want to kill someone. I want to go kill the bastard who fucked my fiancée right now, and while I’m at it, kill that bitch Chloe too.” After saying those two vicious lines. It was like all the energy in my body had been drained dry. I knocked something behind me over. I collapsed to the floor. I covered my face, and tears kept pouring down. “My fiancée cheated. My fiancée cheated…” I had truly never imagined something like this would happen to me. Just dozens of minutes ago, I had still been imagining tomorrow’s romantic scene. Now everything was destroyed. Everything was gone. Mason patted my shoulder. He said nothing, but he still helped me come back to my senses. The wedding would be held in just a few hours, and I had to make a decision. I owed my parents, relatives, and friends some kind of explanation. But as for that bitch Chloe. I would never take her back. Since she was this shameless, I would give her exactly what she deserved. “Let me use your phone again.” I reached my hand out to Mason. Seeing that I had calmed down, he did not hesitate. He handed it over directly. I opened the chat box with “Kyle Harding” and started typing: “Bro, I can tell from her back that your girlfriend is top-tier. Talk it over with her. How much would it cost to let me have a turn?” I wanted to catch them in the act. I wanted to nail Chloe down completely. “Are you sick? You wanted to see the photo, and I showed it to you. Now you want a turn too? Do you really think I’m some idiot you can mess with?” “Ten thousand dollars to let me have a turn, or I’ll post your business online. You two choose.” “I’m just here to travel and clear my head. If you agree and I have fun tonight, I’ll get in a car and leave afterward. In the future, none of us will see each other again, and none of us will know each other, so don’t worry.” The other side stopped replying again. I did not know whether Chloe disagreed. Or whether they were scared. But they no longer had a choice. “I think the bride beside you probably doesn’t want her business exposed either. Even if it’s only a back view, people who know her can still recognize her, don’t you think?” I was threatening them. I was betting that they did not want to make this bigger. Then I directly transferred ten thousand dollars to him. “Bear Inn, Room 520. I hope you keep your promise and get lost right after you’re done.”

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Three years after our divorce, my ex-husband, Julian, showed up at my door holding a massive bouquet of red roses. He had that same smug, confident smile I used to know so well. “Chloe, I kept my word. I’m back, right on time, to take you back.” Three years ago, he played a game of Truth or Dare with his friends and lost to his childhood friend, Serena. Serena had proposed a dare: “I want to see if you and Chloe are actually true love.” “So, get a divorce and don’t see each other for three years.” “If she still wants to remarry you after three years, I’ll admit it’s true love.” Julian had never set any boundaries with Serena. We fought about her constantly because of things like this. At the time, I thought there was no way he would agree to something so ridiculous. But to my horror, he agreed without a second thought. “Sure! A bet’s a bet!” His friends tried to talk him out of it: “Dude, think about this. Divorce is a major deal!” But he just looked at me with absolute certainty. “I trust our relationship. Chloe only loves me in this lifetime. She will definitely wait to remarry me!” I didn’t say a word. He didn’t realize that was the very last chance I was ever giving him. My thoughts snapped back to the present as he tried to shove the roses into my arms. I didn’t take them. I stepped back, my voice completely flat. “Sorry, my husband doesn’t let me accept flowers from other men.”

A confident, knowing smirk played on Julian’s lips. “Still mad?” “Alright, alright. I’m here now, aren’t I?” “Babe, stop being childish.” His tone was dripping with patronizing affection. He honestly thought I was just playing hard to get to punish him. Just like he used to, he stepped forward and reached out to pull me into his arms. I took another step back, my expression freezing over. “Control yourself, Mr. Gray.” His hands froze in mid-air. The gentle, mock-tender look in his eyes never wavered from my face. “Did I really make you that mad this time?” “Just tell me what you want, and I’ll buy it for you. Anything to make it up to you.” He was still so utterly convinced that a few sweet words and a credit card could fix the wreckage he left behind. As he spoke, he took another step toward me. For every step he took forward, I took one back. The look in his eyes shifted, darkening with a sudden urge to conquer, to force me to submit. “Julian, three years is a long time. It’s enough to change everything.” He nodded, seemingly agreeing. “True.” I backed up until my shoulders hit the cold brick wall. There was nowhere left to run. He slammed both hands on the wall on either side of my head, trapping me in his space. It was the same old wall-pinning trick he used when we were dating. Back then, he loved trapping me in corners under the moonlight just to kiss me breathless. “So, did you give me a son or a daughter?” He murmured, reaching out to gently stroke my cheek. At the mention of the child, a sharp, stabbing pain flared in my chest. Three years ago, he knew damn well I was pregnant. Yet, after losing a stupid game, he still divorced me just to please his precious Serena. And for three years, he completely vanished. Not a single text, not a single phone call. Yet here he was, standing before me with the sheer audacity to assume I had quietly given birth to his child and waited around like a loyal dog for his return! A mocking laugh escaped my lips. Before I could tell him that I had aborted that pregnancy, Julian’s phone started buzzing. He pulled it out. The caller ID flashed with the name: *My Princess*. That was his contact name for Serena. I had seen it countless times during our marriage. I remembered how he used to pat her head and tell everyone that she had been his little princess since they were kids. He never cared about how I, his actual wife, felt. And just like before, he answered her call instantly. “Julian, you need to come quick… my cramps are so bad, my stomach hurts so much…” Serena’s whiny, tearful voice echoed through the speaker. Panic instantly flooded Julian’s eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m coming right now.” He hung up. He reached out and hastily patted the top of my head, like he was soothing a harmless pet. “I have to go check on Serena first. I’ll come back to find you later tonight.” Before the words had even fully left his mouth, he was already running down the street.

Serena was still up to her old tricks, using Instagram to passive-aggressively flaunt her hold over Julian. Her latest post showed her lying in Julian’s arms, looking pale and sweaty. Julian’s hand was resting gently on her stomach, rubbing it. Her caption read: *Since we were kids, he’s always been the one who loves me most. No matter how busy he is, or who he’s with, the second I’m not feeling well, he drops everything to fly to my side. He really is the best man in the world!!!* I casually tapped the heart to leave a like. In fact, over the past three years, Serena had posted her “flexes” every single day. For three years, she posted 1,095 brag-posts on Instagram, and I liked every single one of them. She boasted about everything. For instance, she didn’t have a job, but Julian gave her his black card to spend whatever she wanted. She lived in the house that was supposed to be our marital home. She used my old things whenever she wanted, or threw them in the trash if she felt like it. For the past three years, they lived exactly like a married couple. I knew she was doing it entirely to torment me. But every like I left was nothing but my pure contempt and indifference. Serena, however, convinced herself that I was just going crazy with jealousy, desperately trying to make my presence known. The next time I saw Julian, he walked into my coffee shop with Serena clinging to his arm. They were wearing matching beige casual outfits. Julian, who had always insisted on wearing stiff, formal suits when he was with me, was wearing a trendy, relaxed blazer today. Back when we were married, I had begged him to wear matching outfits with me. He always brushed me off, saying he hated changing his style. Serena looked around my coffee shop, her eyes scanning the place with mock pity. She gasped dramatically. Julian frowned, looking at me with disapproval. “I gave you so much money in the divorce. Why are you doing such grueling manual labor?” When we divorced, I demanded half of his assets. He had signed them over without hesitation, probably thinking it was just a temporary deposit. I stopped wiping the espresso machine and looked up at him, my face entirely blank. “Because I want to. And it has absolutely nothing to do with you.” Julian’s face didn’t change. He still thought I was just throwing a tantrum. Serena offered me a fake, sugary sweet smile. “Chloe, it’s been three years. How have you been?” “Great.” Serena seemed taken aback by how calm I was. Just then, Julian’s phone rang. He turned around and walked outside to take the call. The second he was out of earshot, Serena’s sweet mask fell off. Her smile turned into a smug, venomous sneer. “Cut the act, Chloe. But don’t get your hopes up too high.” She looked down her nose at me, a cold laugh escaping her lips. “Even if you remarry Julian this time, so what?” “His mother still despises you. Her perfect daughter-in-law has always been me.” “Julian is only marrying you out of a sense of obligation.” “In fact, he only came to find you today because I gave him permission.” “And you’ll have to sign a prenup.” “By the way, I drafted it myself.” She reached into her designer bag, pulled out a document, and threw it onto the counter. I looked down at it with sheer amusement. The terms were hilarious. I would have zero claim to any of the Gray family’s assets. After marriage, I was not allowed to call his mother “Mom”—I had to call her “Mrs. Gray.” I was forbidden from identifying myself as Julian’s wife in public; to the world, I had to remain his “ex-wife.” This absurd, insulting document actually made me laugh out loud. I slid the papers back over to her. “If Victoria loves you so much, why are you still just his side-chick?” “It’s been three years, Serena, and Julian still sleeps with you without giving you a ring. How pathetic.” Serena’s face flushed with rage. She raised her hand, ready to slap me. But then, the sound of Julian’s approaching footsteps echoed from the doorway. Her expression changed faster than a theater mask. Tears immediately welled in her eyes, and she adopted a look of tragic, selfless understanding. “Chloe, I really do want you and Julian to be happy. I just want him to have a good life.” “As his childhood friend, his happiness is all I care about. This prenup is just a formality, please don’t be mad at him…” She was still the same cheap actress she was three years ago. And Julian, seeing her tears, lost all ability to think rationally, as usual.

“Serena, what’s wrong?” Julian immediately pulled Serena into his arms, his eyes filled with intense concern. Serena shook her head, putting on a brave, suffering face. “It’s nothing… it’s my fault. Don’t blame Chloe.” The more she played the victim, the more Julian was convinced I had bullied her. “Chloe!” He barked at me, his face turning incredibly cold. “Apologize to her right now!” He spoke to me like a master commanding a servant. A cold smile touched my lips. He frowned, looking at me with frustration. “Serena grew up with me. She’s like a sister to me!” “She is my family. Can you stop being so incredibly hostile to her every single time?” “Even if it’s just for my sake, can you try to be nice to her?” I remained silent. I had seen this exact show countless times three years ago. I was completely sick of it. Just as I was about to kick them out of my shop, my phone on the counter began to ring with a FaceTime call. The caller ID read: *My Baby Boy*. Julian’s eyes lit up the second he saw the screen. Before I could stop him, his hand shot out and swiped the green button to accept the call. I quickly snatched the phone back. My two-year-old son’s adorable, chubby face appeared on the screen. “Mommy, I miss you!” Hearing that sweet little “Mommy,” Julian practically vibrated with excitement. He was absolutely certain that I had given birth to his son. I quickly mumbled a few words to my son and hung up just as Julian lunged to grab the phone to talk to him. “Let me see my son!” He was grinning from ear to ear, his anger from a moment ago vanishing as if it had never existed. Beside him, Serena’s face turned incredibly dark. “He is not your son,” I said, my voice ice-cold. “Don’t ever come near me again, you pathetic psychopaths.” He didn’t even get mad, still trying to play the understanding partner. “Alright, stop fighting. I know you’re mad.” “But I really miss you and our boy.” At that moment, I realized that a self-absorbed narc like him would never believe I had moved on until he saw my husband with his own eyes. Suddenly, Julian spoke up again. “My mom’s birthday is in a few days.” “You’re a great cook. Prepare a few of her favorite dishes.” “Use this opportunity to fix your relationship with her.” “Now that you’ve given her a grandson, she won’t be hard on you anymore.” Ah. So he did know. He knew that during our three years of marriage, his mother had treated me like dirt. Victoria had always looked down on my middle-class background. Even though I was Julian’s legal wife, Victoria never allowed me to attend any family dinners. If she was present at an event, I wasn’t even allowed to sit at the same table as her. And during all of his mother’s psychological abuse, Julian had always remained completely silent. A mocking sneer played on my lips. “Julian, tell me. Why didn’t I even have the right to have dinner with your mother back then?” He hesitated for a second before mumbling, “Well… that’s just because you didn’t know how to please her.” Serena chimed in helpfully, “Chloe, begging your elders isn’t embarrassing. Mrs. Gray actually loves it when people crawl back and beg on their knees.” She was openly mocking me. I let out a dry laugh, locking my eyes onto Julian’s. “Julian, it’s been three years. The world has moved on.” “I am married. And the child is not yours.” Then, I turned to Serena. “Maybe you should try begging on your knees more often. Who knows? Maybe Victoria will finally let you through the front door.”

Serena burst into tears. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” she sobbed, covering her face as she ran out of the shop. Julian’s face twisted in fury. He glared at me. “How long are you going to keep up this stubborn act!” With that, he ran out to chase after Serena. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a text from my husband: *Hey beautiful, the project is officially wrapped up. I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon.* A wave of relief washed over me. I figured that once Julian saw Alexander in the flesh, he would finally stop his delusional fantasies. The next day, right after I arrived at the coffee shop, I got a frantic call from my son’s daycare teacher. She said that a man claiming to be my son’s father and a woman claiming to be his godmother had just taken Leo away. My heart instantly jumped into my throat. I drove like a maniac straight to the Gray estate. When I burst through the doors, my blood ran cold. Serena had put my son inside a massive dog enclosure, forcing him to sit on the floor with a bunch of shedding dogs and cats. Leo had been severely allergic to animal dander since birth. He couldn’t touch dogs or cats under any circumstances. My poor baby was sobbing hysterically, his face flushed bright red. Red, angry hives were already breaking out all over his neck. Serena completely ignored my son’s panic. Instead, she was trying to force a black cat into his trembling arms. “Don’t be scared, Leo. This cat is three years old, so technically she’s your big sister.” “She’s my favorite baby. Hold her! Don’t be so rude, crying so loud is going to scare her.” My son screamed, waving his tiny hands to push the animal away. The black cat, startled, lashed out with its sharp claws, leaving several bloody scratches across my son’s face. Leo let out a piercing shriek of pain. Serena tutted. “Look what you did. You scared my baby cat.” Her eyes were filled with a sick, threatening gleam as she stared down at my sobbing toddler. “Get your hands off my son!” I screamed, charging forward in a blind rage. Just as my fingers were about to reach Leo, Julian suddenly materialized from the side, grabbing me from behind and dragging me back. “Serena was just trying to be nice and let Leo play with some pets.” My eyes were bloodshot. I spun around and slapped Julian across the face with all the strength I had. “My son is highly allergic to animal dander!” “He can’t be around animals!” I tried to push past him to grab Leo, but Julian grabbed my wrists in a vice grip. Serena looked at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Today is my cat’s birthday. She loves playing with kids.” “I just thought since Leo is coming back to the Gray family, they should get to know each other.” As she spoke, the black cat on Leo’s lap was still scratching frantically. My son’s arms, neck, and face were covered in angry red welts and bloody scratches. Serena added helpfully, “Don’t worry, my pets are fully vaccinated. They’re very clean. I sleep with them every night.” Looking at my son, who was crying so hard he could barely breathe, panic consumed me. I thrashed wildly against Julian’s grip. Julian held me tight, trying to soothe me. “He’s a boy, Chloe. Don’t raise him to be so soft.” “He’s going to inherit the Gray Group one day. We need to build his courage. He can’t be afraid of a stupid cat.” Suddenly, Leo’s eyes rolled back, and his head slumped forward. I let out a guttural scream. “He’s going into anaphylactic shock!” Only then did Julian realize how grave the situation was. I broke free, scooped my limp son into my arms, and ran toward my car. Julian and Serena scrambled to follow me to the hospital. When we arrived, Leo was immediately rushed into the emergency room. A doctor walked out holding a consent form. “Are you the father or mother? I need a signature immediately.” Julian stepped forward eagerly. “I’m the father! I’ll sign!” But just as his hand reached for the pen, a deep, commanding voice boomed down the hallway. “Since when did my son become yours?”

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For three years, I thought my husband was just too busy with work. Until late one night, I stumbled upon a file on his tablet titled The Mental Deterioration Plan. High-frequency noise in the dead of night, slow-acting sedatives mixed into my aromatherapy candles. Step by step, he was driving me “insane.” He stole my father’s life’s work, forced me to my knees in the ruins of my childhood home, all to clear the name of the real killer. But he had no idea. Every single pill he forced me to swallow was hidden under my tongue. Every manic episode was just an act. By the time he thought I had drowned myself in the ocean, I was standing on a stage in Paris, wearing a hearing aid, accepting the highest honor in international design. Everything they took from me, I will take back ten times over. Summer’s POV I got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. Passing the study, I noticed Ethan’s tablet screen glowing on the desk. He hadn’t locked it. The screen was open to a hidden folder he had just viewed. I went to turn it off for him, but the moment my fingers hovered over the screen, my heart stopped. “Summer’s Mental Deterioration Plan.” Below it were the step-by-step instructions: “2:00 AM – 4:00 AM: Activate the high-frequency acoustic device in the attic to induce auditory hallucinations.” “Monday, Wednesday, Friday: Infuse bedroom aromatherapy with slow-acting neurotoxins to disrupt memory retention.” At the very bottom, the digital signature read: Ethan. Standing in the chill of the air conditioning, my fingertips went completely numb. I tapped deeper into the folder and found saved chat logs between Ethan and Chloe. Chloe: “The cathedral is almost finished, but Summer still holds the intellectual property rights. If she ever snaps out of it and sues me for plagiarism…” Ethan’s reply: “Don’t worry. I’ve already drafted the transfer agreement. As soon as the gala ends, I’ll have her sign it. After that, the cathedral belongs to you.” Ethan added: “Summer is heavily medicated. Her brain is mush. Getting her to sign will be child’s play.” I stared at the screen, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the edge of the desk. That cathedral was my father Charles’s lifelong dream. He had drawn tens of thousands of drafts for that building. I was the one who went with him to get his signature stamp made. But three months ago, just as the cathedral was nearing completion, my father was publicly accused of plagiarism. A man who had spent his entire life building an honorable reputation leaped from the top floor of the half-finished cathedral in utter humiliation. He died on impact. Ethan was convinced my father had pushed his younger sister, Lily, into the ocean to drown years ago. So Ethan married me. He showered me with affection, only to poison me and set a trap. It was all a sick game of revenge for his sister, designed to slowly drive the entire family to our graves. But he didn’t know the truth. Lily hadn’t been pushed by my father. She had been pushed by Chloe to cover up the fact that Chloe had stolen my father’s original blueprints. Now, they didn’t just want to steal my father’s legacy and win the gold award with his designs. Tomorrow, they wanted to strip me of the property rights forever. A sudden, violent spasm hit my stomach. I leaned against the desk, bent double, and dry-heaved violently. The pain curled me into a ball on the floor, my fingers clawing at the gaps in the hardwood. I pulled so hard that one of my fingernails snapped in half, blood pooling on the floor. But I couldn’t feel the physical pain. My mind was flooded with the image of my father’s broken body on the concrete. And the image of Ethan’s fake, tender smile as he held me every night, coaxing me to take those “calming pills.” He drove my father to suicide! He locked me up like a madwoman! The man who poisoned me day after day was the husband I had loved for three years! The sound of the front door unlocking echoed from downstairs. Ethan was home. I stared at the door, my fingers trembling. Moving as fast as I could, I plugged a flash drive into the tablet and copied every single byte of data. Then, I wiped the screen, placed the tablet back in its exact position, and made sure there wasn’t a single trace of it being moved. I pulled two tiny, flesh-colored earplugs from my pocket. They were high-grade noise-canceling plugs I used to use. They could block out almost all external sound. I pushed them deep into my ear canals. The world went instantly quiet. Only the heavy, ragged sound of my own breathing remained. The study door opened. Ethan walked in, dressed in a sharp black suit. His expression was soft. But when he saw me collapsed on the floor, a cold flicker passed through his eyes. “Summer? Why are you sitting on the floor in the dark?” Ethan rushed over, kneeling down to grab my freezing hands. The moment his skin touched mine, goosebumps erupted all over my body. I wanted to rip his lying face to shreds. I wanted to scream at him and demand why he murdered my father. But I forced the hatred down. I knew that if I fought back now, I would never get the blueprints back. I wouldn’t even make it out of this house alive. I had to play the part of a completely broken, insane woman. “Ethan…” I let him pull me into his chest. My body shook violently as I let my tears spill onto his sleeve. “The noise is back. There are bugs crawling in my brain, eating me from the inside. Ethan, am I really going crazy?” I cried, burying my face in his chest, my fingers tearing at his white shirt. The blood from my broken nail left a dark red smear across his clean fabric. Ethan gently stroked my back. His touch was soft, like he was petting a favorite toy. “It’s okay, Summer. It’s just hallucinations. You’ve been under too much stress lately.” His voice was deep, dripping with fake concern. But I knew the truth. At this very moment, the high-frequency transmitter in the attic was blasting at maximum volume. Ethan was watching me lose my mind, completely cold-blooded. “Here, take your medicine. You’ll feel better after a nap.” Ethan pulled out a small white bottle, tapped out a blue capsule, and handed me a glass of warm water. I stared at the blue capsule. The slow-acting poison meant to rot my brain. Without hesitation, I washed it down with the water. But as the capsule slid past my teeth, I used the tip of my tongue to wedge it firmly into the pocket of my cheek. “Good girl.” Ethan ran his fingers through my hair, a flash of smug amusement in his eyes. “Let’s get you to bed. Tomorrow, I’m taking you to the design awards. Chloe is winning the gold, and she needs her best friend there to support her.” Supporting the woman who murdered my father. He really knew how to twist the knife. I lowered my head, letting my long hair hide the burning rage in my eyes. “Okay,” I whispered obediently.

Summer’s POV Once Ethan was sure I was calm, he left the room with a few reassuring words. I bolted to the bathroom. The second the lock clicked, I threw myself over the toilet. I shoved my fingers down my throat, my nails scraping against the raw flesh of my tonsils. I gagged violently, tears streaming down my face. Finally, the blue capsule, slick with saliva and stomach acid, splashed into the bowl. The blue coating had already begun to dissolve, releasing a bitter, chemical stench. Staring at the dissolving pill, my entire body shook. If I had swallowed it tonight, I would have been a stuttering, mindless shell of a human by tomorrow morning. Ethan wanted me crazy. I didn’t have time to grieve. I had to transfer the cathedral’s intellectual property immediately. I flushed the toilet, watching the poison swirl away. I grit my teeth and looked up at the mirror. My face was ghostly pale, my eyes bloodshot, and a smear of dried blood stained the corner of my mouth. I closed my eyes and practiced a vacant, twitchy smile. Only when my reflection looked exactly like a textbook psychiatric patient did I open the door and step back out. In the bedroom, Ethan was standing by the nightstand. He held a white ceramic jar, lighting the aromatherapy candle with a match. Seeing me enter, he blew out the match and waved me over. “Summer, I had this special lavender blend made just for you. It’ll cure your headache.” I walked over. The thick, sweet scent of lavender filled the air. But beneath the floral notes was a faint, metallic tang, like rotting fish. The slow-acting neurotoxin. The chemical designed to destroy my nervous system. “It smells wonderful, Ethan.” I leaned meekly into his chest, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath of the tainted air. Ethan stroked my back, his hand moving like he was petting a dying cat. But I could feel his body tensing. He was watching my face, waiting for the reaction. I let my head slide onto his shoulder, letting my eyes glaze over before slowly closing them. “Ethan… I’m so sleepy. I’m going to close my eyes for a bit…” I mumbled, letting my limbs go limp as I drifted onto the mattress. “Sleep, sweetheart. I’m right here.” Ethan lifted my legs onto the bed and pulled the duvet over me. He sat by the edge of the bed for a few minutes. Once he was certain I was dead to the world, he stood up, switched off the lights, and quietly slipped out of the room. The moment the door clicked shut, my eyes snapped open. They were sharp, clear, and completely alert. Ethan had no idea that I had secretly swapped the poisoned wax in that jar with pure, organic lavender wax weeks ago. I slipped out of bed and reached into the deepest corner of my closet, pulling out a hidden burner phone. I dialed a number. The line rang once before a gravelly, older voice answered. “Summer?” “Robert, it’s me,” I whispered, my voice cold as ice. “My father’s reputation is gone. I can’t let them take the last thing he left behind.” Robert was my father’s most trusted legal counsel. “Summer, are you sure about this? If you secretly transfer the patent rights and Ethan finds out, he will ruin you.” Robert’s voice was thick with worry. I gripped the phone, my knuckles aching. “I don’t have a choice.” I spat the words through my teeth. “Ethan is going to force me to sign the cathedral over to Chloe tomorrow. I have to move every single design patent into my father’s offshore private trust before he can touch them.” “Understood. I’ll handle it immediately. It’ll be done within two hours. But Summer… what are you going to do tomorrow?” I didn’t answer. I silently hung up the phone. I turned my head and looked at the closet, where the white gown Ethan had chosen for me hung. In the pale moonlight filtering through the window, the dress looked like a shroud. I closed my eyes and lay back down in the dark.

Summer’s POV The next morning, Ethan woke me up early. He leaned down and kissed my forehead, his voice tender. “Morning, Summer. Time to get dressed.” I sat up obediently. Ethan walked to the closet, opened the doors, and pulled out the white gown. A few minutes later, I stood in front of the vanity mirror in the dressing room, my back arched as I struggled to reach the zipper. A pair of warm hands covered mine from behind, smoothly taking the metal clasp from my fingers. Ethan stared at my reflection in the mirror, a faint smile on his lips. His movements were light, his fingers brushing against my spine as he slowly pulled the zipper up. The dress was a fraction too tight. As the metal teeth scraped against my skin, my body instinctively tensed, a small shiver running down my back. Ethan placed his hands on my shoulders, parting my long hair to one side. He leaned down, pressing his face against my neck. His warm breath fanned across my cold skin, his voice as gentle as always. “Summer, today is a big day. If the reporters ask you anything, just say exactly what we practiced yesterday, okay?” The tone was the same one you’d use to coax a difficult child. It made my blood run cold. I stared blankly at his reflection. “Okay.” Half an hour later, I was led into the grand hall of the International Design Awards. The red carpet was swarming with media. The flashing lights were blinding. Chloe, dressed in a stunning gold gown, was holding the trophy that belonged to my family. She smiled radiantly for the cameras. When she saw Ethan leading me inside, she picked up her skirt and walked over, grabbing my hand. She leaned in close, whispering venomously in my ear, “A brain-dead bitch belongs in an asylum. But I have to thank you. Even as a cripple, you still had to crawl out today to hand me my trophy.” I heard every single word. My eyes remained vacant, but I bit the inside of my cheek until the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. Ethan kept his arm wrapped around my waist, his posture protective and doting. To anyone else, he looked like the ultimate devoted husband. With this sickeningly sweet display, he guided me toward a row of microphones. The cameras focused on us instantly. Ethan leaned down, his voice a warm whisper in my ear. “Tell the press that the cathedral design was just a manic scribble you did, and that Chloe completed it entirely on her own. Apologize to her, Summer. Be a good girl.” I looked at the reporters eagerly waiting, then at Chloe’s smug, triumphant grin. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, they were wide with pure, unadulterated terror. “Ah!” I let out a blood-curdling shriek and violently slammed my hands forward, knocking the heavy microphone stand into the press row. The metal stand crashed onto the marble floor, causing the speakers to erupt in a deafening screech of feedback. “Bugs! There are bugs biting me!” I flailed my arms wildly, my palm connecting with Chloe’s face in a brutal, resounding slap! SMACK! The force of the blow was massive. Chloe stumbled back several steps and collapsed onto the floor, the gold trophy flying from her hands and shattering into two pieces. “Summer! What the hell are you doing?!” Ethan’s face twisted in horror as he reached out to grab me. I ducked under his arms, screaming as I ran toward the massive promotional banner on the stage. I clawed at the fabric, ripping Chloe’s face to shreds with my fingernails. “Red bugs! They’re crawling out of the blueprints! They’re eating my dad’s brain!” I howled, digging my nails deep into my own face and neck, leaving red welts across my skin. Blood trickled down my collarbone, staining the chest of my pristine white gown. The entire venue erupted into chaos. Screams and shutter clicks filled the air. “Don’t let them bite me! Ethan, save me!” I threw myself into Ethan’s arms, my body convulsing as I forced white foam to bubble at the corners of my mouth. Ethan held me tight, rubbing my back, his face filled with panic and concern. But from an angle no one else could see, a brief flash of relief washed over his eyes. He truly believed I had finally lost it. “I’m incredibly sorry, everyone. My wife’s condition has flared up. Please excuse us,” Ethan announced coldly. He scooped up my shaking body and marched out of the venue. The camera flashes strobed wildly behind us. I lay limp against Ethan’s shoulder, my warm blood soaking into the fabric of his white shirt. Over his shoulder, I stared coldly at the shattered gold trophy lying on the red carpet.

Summer’s POV Ethan brought me back to the estate that night. A private doctor treated the scratches on my neck and face. Once the door was locked, I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling until dawn. The next afternoon, hearing Ethan’s footsteps downstairs, I slowly dragged myself out of bed. I messed up my hair, tore at the collar of my pajamas to expose the fresh bandages on my shoulder, and made myself look as utterly broken as possible. Only then did I walk downstairs, bare feet padding softly on the stairs, mimicking a sleepwalker. Ethan was sitting on the living room sofa. As I reached the landing, I heard Chloe’s soft, whimpering voice. “Ethan, I don’t blame Summer. She’s sick. It’s not her fault she hit me.” Chloe sat on the sofa, holding an ice pack to her swollen cheek. “I’m just worried that if she stays like this, it’ll delay the progress on the West District Theater…” Ethan poured her a glass of warm water, his tone dripping with sympathy. “You’re too soft-hearted.” I took that cue to walk down the last few steps, my eyes vacant, my hair a wild mess. Seeing me, Chloe instinctively shrunk back behind Ethan. Then, she stood up with the glass of hot water and walked toward me. “Summer, you’re awake? Here, have some water.” Just as I reached out, Chloe’s wrist violently jerked. The boiling water splashed directly onto the raw, freshly scabbed wounds on my knees. “Ah!” Chloe stumbled back, looking horrified. “I’m so sorry! My foot slipped… I didn’t mean to.” As she retreated, the sharp heel of her stiletto came down hard on my right hand, pinning it to the floor. She pressed directly onto the cracked, broken fingernail. A blinding white pain shot up my arm. I clamped my jaw shut, my entire body violently trembling. Ethan rushed over. He didn’t check on me. Instead, he guided a trembling Chloe back to the sofa before turning to me. He grabbed my bleeding hand, pulling me up. He didn’t call for a doctor. Instead, he locked his fingers around my shoulders and dragged me to my feet. His touch was still gentle, but his grip was like iron, locking me in place. “Summer, what you did at the gala yesterday was wrong. You hurt Chloe. Good girls don’t do that.” Ethan smiled, using his thumb to wipe away the tears of pain spilling from my eyes. His gentle voice made my stomach turn. “When we do something wrong, we have to apologize. Apologize to Chloe.” I froze, staring at him in disbelief. “You want me to apologize to her?” “Just say you’re sorry, and we can put this behind us.” “No!” I rasped. Ethan’s face darkened. He forced his weight down on my shoulders, slowly pushing my body down toward the sofa where Chloe sat. His massive palms held me in a vice grip, forcing my knees to slam onto the cold hardwood floor. The scabs on my knees split wide open. The pain made my vision go black. Suffocating under the humiliation, I dug my nails into my bleeding palm. I forced my head down, grit my teeth, and whispered, “I’m… sorry…” Only then did Ethan let go. He used a silk handkerchief to wipe the blood from his hands, then picked up a yellow hard hat from the table and handed it to me. His voice was warm again. “Since you’ve apologized, I need you to do something for me. Go to the West District Theater and get the acoustic readings.” I stared blankly at the yellow hard hat before reaching out to take it. As long as Chloe needed it, Ethan wouldn’t hesitate to squeeze every last drop of value out of me. Because everyone knew that only my ears could detect the most precise acoustic frequencies. Twenty minutes later, at the West District Theater construction site. The empty, concrete shell of the building was freezing. The wind howled through the open window frames. The moment I stepped into the subterranean acoustic testing room, the heavy steel door behind me slammed shut. The sound of a deadbolt sliding into place echoed through the chamber. I spun around. Through the double-paned acoustic glass, I saw Chloe standing on the other side. She held the control cables in her hand, a twisted, vicious grin on her face. “Summer, that slap from yesterday? It’s time to pay it back.” In the center of the testing room stood a massive high-frequency decibel transmitter. Chloe laughed coldly as she slammed her palm onto the console, twisting the frequency dial all the way into the red zone. SCREECH. A piercing, high-frequency wail exploded inside the sealed concrete room. The sound felt like a white-hot iron needle driving straight through my ear canal and piercing my brain. I collapsed to the floor, clutching my ears as cold sweat drenched my back. The sound was everywhere, bouncing off the concrete walls, vibrating through my skull, literally tearing at my eardrums. Warm, sticky fluid began to seep through my fingers. Blood splattered onto the cold concrete. As the world around me dissolved into a terrifying, silent void, my vision darkened, and I passed out. When I finally opened my eyes, the smell of sterile bleach filled my nose. I lay motionless on the hospital bed, staring blankly. The door clicked open, then locked from the inside. A man in a sharp grey overcoat walked over to the bed. He had incredibly dark, deep eyes. It was Christian, Ethan’s ultimate rival in the business world. He bent down, looking at me. “Stop acting. I know you’re not entirely deaf, and I know you’re not crazy.” I didn’t move. I didn’t even blink. Christian let out a low chuckle. “Don’t be scared. Your dear husband ruined your father for a mistress. You want survival, and I want power. We share the same enemy.” He leaned in close to my ear, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I can fix your ears. I can get you out of the country safely, and I can even stage a fake death for you.” “The price? Give me the evidence that Ethan stole your father’s designs.” I opened my eyes and looked at him. I had already lost everything. I was on the verge of losing my hearing entirely. There was nothing left to fear. “Deal,” I rasped, my throat raw.

Summer’s POV After Christian left, I lay on the hospital bed. I thought I would just wait for his plan to unfold and slip away quietly. But the next morning, the burner phone on my bedside table buzzed. An unknown number had sent me a video. I tapped it open. In the video, a massive excavator was smashing into a red-brick estate. The walls crumbled into dust. That was my father’s life’s work, his personal archive and memorial. In the bottom right corner of the frame, a woman’s hand, wearing a diamond bracelet, was wrapped around Ethan’s arm. It was Chloe. Then, a text message popped up: How tragic. The home you cherished so much is gone. My brain short-circuited. I didn’t care about the IV drip in my hand. I yanked it out violently, tearing the skin. Blood splattered onto my hospital gown. I didn’t even put on shoes. I ran out of the hospital barefoot. By the time I stumbled onto the gravel driveway of the estate, the archive was mostly rubble. Only a single red-brick archway remained, standing lonely amidst the ruins. I tried to charge past the gates like a madwoman, but two security guards tackled me, pinning me into the sharp gravel. “Let me go!” The jagged stones sliced into my knees, blood quickly soaking through my gown. Ethan stood a few feet away, dressed in a flawless black suit, holding a black umbrella. Chloe clung to his arm, giggling behind her hand. Pinned under the guards, I forced my head up, glaring at him with wild, bloodshot eyes. “Ethan! Tell them to stop! That is my father’s only legacy! He didn’t plagiarize anything! He was framed!” Ethan walked over slowly, stopping just out of reach. His leather shoes were splattered with mud. He frowned slightly, then knelt down, gently peeling my bleeding fingers off his trousers. “Summer, the ground is dirty. Get up, okay?” He brushed the dust off my shoulders, his voice soft, but his eyes were completely dead. I fell to my knees in the rubble, slamming my forehead against the sharp stones. “I’m begging you! Ethan, please!” I threw away every ounce of my dignity, pounding my head against the ground. “Make them stop! His brushes are in there, his photos… please…” My forehead split open, blood and dirt smearing across my face. Ethan stood over me, holding his umbrella, looking at my bloody face with a flash of disgust. “Summer, stop this. You look like a lunatic.” His voice was still gentle, but it was devoid of any human warmth. “Your father is dead. What’s the point of keeping this trash?” Chloe sneered from the side. “Exactly, Summer. Even if you keep it, you can’t protect it.” My nails dug into the dirt until they bled. Seeing the excavator crane rise again, I broke down completely. I crawled to Ethan’s feet, grabbing his ankles, sobbing hysterically. “I’ll sign the papers! I’ll give up everything! It all belongs to Chloe! Just… don’t let them demolish the rest… please…” Ethan looked down at me, a look of smug satisfaction finally washing over his face. He bent down, using his handkerchief to wipe the blood from my forehead. “See? If you had been this good from the start, we wouldn’t be here. Sign this, and I’ll leave the archway standing.” He shoved a waiver of inheritance and a pen into my bloodied hand. My hand shook uncontrollably. The blood dripping from my broken nail dragged a thick, red streak across the signature line. I thought that by dragging myself through the dirt, I could save the last piece of my father. I handed the paper back, trembling. Ethan took the document, verified the signature, and tossed it to his secretary. “Good girl,” he murmured, his voice dripping with mock affection. But a second later, he stood up, turned his back on the archway, and said to the foreman, “This structure is a safety hazard. Level it.” My pupils shrunk to pinpricks. A primal scream ripped from my throat: “Ethan.” CRASH! The heavy iron wrecking ball smashed into the red-brick archway, turning my father’s final legacy into a pile of generic dust. Ethan wrapped his arm around Chloe, turned on his heel, and got into the waiting black town car. The car roared to life, splashing mud all over my hospital gown as it sped away. I collapsed into the muddy gravel, staring at the debris. My eyes were bloodshot, devoid of tears. I crawled forward, inch by inch, using my blood-slicked right hand to clutch a single broken red brick. I pressed my face against the cold stone, imagining it was my father’s warm hand. I remembered him holding my hand, teaching me how to draw. I remembered the last words he said to me before he jumped: I’m sorry, Summer. Now, everything was gone. Clutching the brick, the tears finally spilled over. I lay in the ruins, and then, I began to laugh hysterically. “Ethan… you really are a monster!”

Summer’s POV I don’t remember how I got back to the estate. I only remember the private doctor using tweezers to pick the gravel and dirt out of my open wounds one by one. A week later, the cuts on my knees had scabbed over. Ethan tossed a pair of white silk stockings and a heavy wool trench coat onto the bed. He reached out, his fingers tracing my cheek. “Tonight is the joint venture gala. It’s on a yacht in international waters. Behave yourself, don’t act crazy, and I’ll let you enjoy the ocean breeze.” But the moment we boarded the yacht, every step up the stairs tore my fresh scabs open. Thick blood soaked through the white stockings, making me break into a cold sweat from the pain. Ethan’s hand tightened around my shoulder, his grip tight enough to bruise my bones. He whispered in my ear, “We have international investors here tonight. If you act up, I will throw you straight into a psychiatric facility.” I let him drag me into the shadows of the ballroom. Across the room, Chloe, clad in a custom designer gown, was holds a glass of champagne, laughing with the elite. The crowd surrounded her, praising her as the architectural genius behind the modern cathedral. Meanwhile, I was discarded in the darkest corner of the room. I hadn’t had a drop of water since yesterday. My empty stomach twisted in pain, and I had to pinch the flesh of my thigh hard just to stay conscious. I was waiting for midnight. The time Christian and I had agreed upon. Right now, in the blind spot of the yacht’s security cameras, jumping into the black ocean was my only way out. My only chance to escape Ethan forever. The clock on the wall finally struck twelve. I stood up, using the wall for support. I moved slowly, making sure not to draw any attention. Amidst the clinking glasses and loud laughter, I pushed open the heavy wooden doors and stepped onto the deck. It was pitch black outside. The ocean wind cut through my clothes like knives, making me cough violently. I gripped the railing. Below me, the black waves of the open sea churned violently. I unbuttoned the wool coat, took it off, and folded it neatly, placing it on the deck. I shed the coat, and I slid off my wedding ring, placing it on top. I was going to leave the broken, tortured version of Summer on this boat forever. To Ethan, this would look like a desperate suicide. But to me, it was the first day of my life. I climbed over the iron railing, standing on the narrow ledge over the abyss. “Summer! What the hell are you doing?!” Ethan’s panicked roar shattered the wind behind me. I turned my head. Ethan was sprinting toward me, his hands outstretched. His eyes were bloodshot, his voice trembling in the wind. “Get down from there. Who said you could stand there?” I looked at him, and for the first time in three years, a genuine, beautiful smile crossed my face. I pulled the flesh-colored earplugs from my ears, tossed them into the black sea, and spoke, my voice raspy but clear. “Ethan. We’re even.” Just as his fingers brushed the hem of my dress, I leaned backward, falling into the dark water below. “Summer.”

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