Author: Momo Chan

1 While my husband was on his deathbed, his kidneys failing, I fell in love with his half-brother. When he recovered, he found a younger woman as his revenge. He paraded her at family dinners, forcing me to kneel and wipe her shoes. He had roses flown in from across the world for her, promising a love that would never die. He let her break into my safe and shatter the jade bracelet my mother had left me. I knew I was at fault, so I endured it all. But then, for her sake, he stole the appointment I had moved heaven and earth to get for his brother with a world-renowned specialist. His brother died because of the delayed treatment. That’s when I finally understood. Endurance was useless. Adrian and I were broken beyond repair. We were destined to spend the rest of our lives torturing each other. We were each other’s karma. … I watched, numb, as Liam’s body slid into the incinerator’s searing heat, reduced to a box of ash. I buried him myself. Staring at the brilliant, carefree smile etched on his headstone, the grief I had suppressed for so long finally broke free, a tidal wave threatening to drown me. I knelt before his grave, tears falling like broken pearls, each one a tiny hammer blow against the cold stone. I traced the outline of his face on the photograph, staying there from dawn until the sky bled into a bruised purple. “Liam, I have to go now,” I whispered, my voice raw. “Someone has to pay for what they did to you. Don’t go too far. Wait for me. Once I’ve had my revenge, I’m coming to find you.” I left the cemetery, my heart a cold, hard stone in my chest. Revenge. I would have it, no matter the cost. The sorrow had curdled into a white-hot rage. Liam didn’t have to die. I had practically crawled on my knees to get him that appointment with Dr. Kingston, the one man who could have saved him. But Adrian had used his right as my husband to cancel it, giving the spot to his precious little girlfriend for a common cold. By the time I found out, Dr. Kingston had already left the country in a fury. All I could do was hold Liam in my arms as he took his last breath. I slammed the accelerator to the floor, the car screaming down the highway like a soul fleeing hell. I dialed Adrian’s number. He answered instantly. “Clara, are you finally ready to crawl back and beg? If you get on your knees, I might just find it in me to forgive you. I might even help that bastard brother of mine.” His mocking voice crackled through the speaker, followed by a chorus of laughter from his friends. “Is the ice queen finally melting? See, what’s the point of being so stubborn? Just say you’re sorry. We’ll all be witnesses!” “Yeah, Clara! And bring a case of the good stuff. Show us you’re serious!” “And don’t forget a gift for Janice! You need to apologize properly if you want Adrian to lift a finger for that short-lived bastard Liam.” The last embers of my sanity burned away at the mention of his name. “Fine,” I rasped. “Give me the address.” I hung up, the roar of the engine a counterpoint to the frantic drumming of my heart. I screeched to a halt in front of the private club, snatched a security baton from the guard post, and stormed inside. I kicked the door of the private room off its hinges. Adrian looked up, his eyes filled with a lazy, arrogant amusement. “Well, well, Clara. Where’s the gift for Janice?” Marcus, the one who’d called Liam a bastard on the phone, sauntered toward me with a smirk. I swung the baton. A sickening crack, and blood erupted from the gash on his head. “Clara, you’re insane!” he shrieked. 2 Before anyone else could react, I grabbed Janice, who was standing there with a smug little smile on her face. I brought the baton down hard on her stomach. She let out a piercing scream, and Adrian finally snapped out of his stupor. He shoved me away, gathering Janice protectively in his arms. “Clara! Have you lost your mind? You’re like a rabid dog, biting anyone in your path!” he snarled, his face a mask of disgust. I walked toward him, my knuckles white on the baton. “Yes, Adrian, I’m insane. I went insane the moment you and this little tramp stole Liam’s only chance to live!” He scoffed. “Is it that spineless parasite again? Did he run crying to you? He really has mastered the art of—” I slapped him, the sound echoing in the silent room. “You don’t get to say his name. You murderer.” The slap ignited his fury. He stood up, jabbing a finger into my shoulder. “He was a nobody, a mistake. Why can’t I say his name? And don’t you forget, Clara, you are still my wife!” His eyes were filled with a cold violence. He grabbed me and forced me to the floor. “Now, my dear wife, apologize to my beloved Janice. If you’re good, I might be in a generous enough mood to help that half-breed live a few more days.” I struggled, but he was too strong, pinning me in front of her like an animal. I smiled up at him, a chilling, empty thing. “Fine. If you can save Liam, I’ll get on my knees and beg.” His face darkened for a second before the sneer returned. “Alright. Let’s see just how far you’ll go for him.” The moment he let go, I lunged like a starving wolf, tackling Janice to the ground. I sank my teeth into the soft flesh of her neck, wanting to tear out her throat. Adrian roared with rage and threw me across the room. My head hit the floor, but I felt nothing but a wild, exhilarating release. I started to laugh, a low, guttural sound, as Janice shrieked in terror, blood streaming down her neck. Adrian stormed over and hauled me to my feet by my collar. His eyes were chips of ice. “Clara, you push your luck! Get naked. Kneel on the floor and beg Janice for her forgiveness!” “Or what?” I wiped the blood from my lips, my gaze unflinching. I grabbed his tie, pulling his face close to mine. “Or you’ll kill me?” I whispered in his ear. Rage flashed in his eyes. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the necklace Liam had given me, dangling it in front of my face. My breath caught. I reached for it, but he clamped a hand around my throat, using the necklace to toy with me like a dog with a treat. “You want this? Then do as I say,” he purred, his voice a venomous whisper. “Are you so pathetic now that you have to resort to being a thief, Adrian?” I sneered. I had torn the house apart looking for it, blaming myself for losing the one precious thing Liam had left me. “We’re married, my love. It’s not stealing,” he said, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “Just take off your clothes and apologize to Janice, and I’ll give it back to you. Simple.” I closed my eyes. “Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll do it.” He sat back on the sofa, watching me with an unreadable expression. As I walked towards Janice, I stripped off my shirt, the cold air hitting my bare skin. I hesitated for a second, then unzipped my pants and let them fall. A chorus of jeers and lewd comments erupted from his friends. “Damn, Clara’s lost it, but look at that body…” “If she wasn’t Mrs. Thorne, I’d…” The words washed over me, meaningless. My hand went to the last piece of clothing, but just as I was about to remove it, Adrian shot to his feet. “That’s enough!” He strode over, grabbing my face, his voice laced with venom. “You make me sick.” “Apologize to her like that. Your body is disgusting to me.” He threw me to the ground. I crawled to my knees in front of Janice. “I’m sorry,” I choked out, my nails digging into my palms. The humiliation of apologizing to my love’s murderer was a physical agony. “Adrian, I’m scared,” Janice whimpered, trembling like a delicate flower. “Louder! And bow your head!” Adrian roared at me. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and slammed my forehead against the floor. “Janice, I’m sorry!” When I looked up, Adrian was staring at me with dark, glittering eyes. “You really do love that bastard, don’t you, Clara?” “You know what? I don’t think I want to give this back to you after all.” And with that, he threw the necklace out the eleventh-story window. “NO!” I screamed, a raw, primal sound, and lunged for the window like a moth drawn to a fatal flame. “Clara!” 3 The chain grazed my fingertips, but just as a flicker of hope ignited, Adrian yanked me back. I watched it fall, disappearing into the night, just like Liam had slipped through my fingers. “No! My necklace! Give it back!” I thrashed in his arms like a madwoman, trying to throw myself out the window after it. He dragged me back again and slapped me hard across the face. “What is this pathetic act, Clara? Playing the heartbroken lover for me?” he seethed, his face inches from mine. The sting on my cheek was nothing compared to the crushing weight of despair. I slid down the wall, a broken, sobbing mess. A hand touched my shoulder, and Adrian’s voice, suddenly stiff, broke through my grief. “Clara… stop crying. It was just a necklace. I’ll buy you another one.” I looked up, my eyes red and swollen, and grabbed the front of his shirt. “You think it’s that easy? We were supposed to leave each other alone, Adrian! Why did you have to interfere? Why did you have to take his life away?” “Why?” I wailed, a caged animal’s mournful cry. “I am your husband, Clara, have you forgotten?” he shot back, his own eyes turning red. “You humbled yourself for that parasite, you came back covered in bruises from begging for him. Where was my honor? What about my pride?” “My husband? You have some nerve! What about her? You bought out entire auctions for her! You paraded your affair in front of the whole world and used my dignity as your doormat! What about my pride then?” We were two warring nations, locked in a battle with no end. “Janice is different,” he said through gritted teeth. “So was Liam!” “Don’t you dare compare that trash to her!” “He wasn’t trash! He was your brother! Your own flesh and blood!” “Enough, Clara!” he yelled, ripping my hands off him. “It was a stupid necklace. If you don’t want my money, then go ask that bastard to get you a new one.” He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, his hands trembling as he tried to light it. I stumbled to my feet, tears streaming down my face. “He’s dead.” “He can’t give me anything ever again.” Adrian froze. The lighter clicked four times before a flame finally caught. “Dead?” he said, his voice strangely hollow through the smoke. “Good. Better that way. Cleaner.” A wave of pure, unadulterated hatred washed over me. I didn’t want his casual dismissal. I wanted him to hurt, to feel the same gut-wrenching pain I felt. I walked through the smoke and stood before him, a terrifying smile on my lips. I gently placed a hand on his abdomen. “Did you know? The kidney that’s keeping you alive right now… it was Liam’s.” “He was afraid you’d feel guilty, so he never told you. The man you despised most in the world gave you his life.” I stared into his eyes, watching his face go blank, then contort through disbelief, landing finally on a mask of pure agony. My smile widened. His pain was my only pleasure. “Why don’t you go thank him in person?” I whispered, my voice the devil’s own temptation. He just stared at me, his eyes a dead, bottomless pool. “Adrian, don’t listen to her!” Janice rushed to his side, clinging to his arm. “It wasn’t Liam! If it was, why didn’t he say anything that day, when you… when you had him beaten?” Her words were a steel blade, twisting in my already bleeding heart. “What did you say?” I rasped. Adrian moved Janice behind him, shielding her from my view. I went feral, pounding on his chest with my fists. “He saved you! How could you beat him? He was dying, and you wouldn’t even leave him in peace!” “Why aren’t you dead? You should be in hell! You both should be in hell!” I screamed and clawed and bit at him, and he just stood there, taking it all, his face a stony mask. Finally, exhausted, I slumped to the floor, my heart a hollow, aching void. “Adrian, I’m scared,” Janice whimpered. “I’ll take you home,” he said, his eyes lingering on me for a moment before he turned and left with her. The room, once filled with noise and people, was now silent, empty except for me. I staggered to my feet. What was the point of living? But how could I die, when my enemies were still breathing? I ran after them, getting to my car first. The moment Adrian’s engine started, I floored it, ramming my car straight into his. I just wanted them to die.

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1 My wife, Elena, bailed on our daughter’s Annual Spring Showcase, claiming a last-minute work emergency. She even insisted we skip it too. Seeing the disappointment cloud my daughter Sophie’s face, I decided to take her myself. The moment we stepped onto the school grounds, my blood ran cold. There, on the main stage, sat Elena. And next to her, nestled on a plush sofa like they owned the place, were her high school sweetheart, Adrian Vance, and his son. They looked for all the world like a perfect family of three. Elena was holding a microphone, speaking eloquently about achieving the perfect work-life balance. Every so often, she’d glance at Adrian, sharing a private, knowing smile. The crowd of parents and students erupted in applause. The adoration fueled her, a smug satisfaction spreading across her face. Even the little boy beside her wore a look of arrogant pride. Then came the Q&A. I shoved my way to the front and snatched a microphone from one of the ushers. “Excuse me, Ms. Sterling,” I called out, my voice booming through the speakers. “I have a question. Since when did you have a son? And does your husband know about it?” … My words hung in the air, instantly replaced by a wave of angry whispers from the parents and students around me. Their gazes, sharp with disdain, cut right through me. “Who is that guy? So rude.” “He’s probably just some nobody, jealous of Elena’s husband. Trying to get her attention this way. She runs a billion-dollar company; it’s not surprising she has a few delusional stalkers trying to worm their way in.” “Pathetic.” On stage, a flicker of panic crossed Elena’s face when she saw me, but she masked it in an instant. Adrian, however, wasn’t so composed. He put on a show of wounded indignation. “Elena, honey, what is he talking about?” I ignored him completely, my eyes locked on Elena. “You haven’t answered my question, Ms. Sterling.” She reflexively tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, then, in front of everyone, she took Adrian’s hand and squeezed it tight. “This,” she declared, “is my answer.” Adrian’s expression softened with emotion as he pulled her into a deeper embrace. The crowd collectively gasped, “Awww!” “This is true love, right in front of us! So brave!” “Elena Sterling is an absolute icon. A powerhouse CEO who adores her husband and child. She’s perfect!” Their glares toward me intensified, dripping with contempt. “Yeah, that shut him up. Tried to stir up trouble and got put in his place.” “Look at that loser. Does he really think he can compare to Elena’s husband? Everyone knows her husband holds a top position at Apex Holdings, that he’s her right-hand man. What a joke, comparing a titan like that to this… this nobody!” Just then, my phone vibrated. A text from Elena. “Ethan, don’t misunderstand. I promised Adrian I’d pretend to be Dylan’s mom for the day. He’s never had a mother, the poor thing. But you… you not only disobeyed me, you came here to publicly humiliate me. Stop this nonsense right now.” A cold, bitter laugh escaped my lips. Elena always had a fiercely competitive streak. It’s why, after we married, I poured everything I had into supporting her career, making her the General Manager while I managed the real power behind the scenes. But now, it seemed she’d forgotten who was king and who was the pawn. Apex Holdings was founded by my grandfather. I hold 75% of the shares. My fingers flew across the screen, firing off messages to the heads of HR and Legal at Apex. Today, in front of this entire audience, I was going to strip her of that title. My daughter, Sophie, couldn’t stand hearing them insult me. Her voice, though trembling, rang out with fury. “What are you talking about! That’s my mom, Elena, on stage! My dad is her husband! That man is the other woman—I mean, the other man!” The crowd burst into laughter, their mockery growing louder. “Like father, like daughter. So young and already a little gold-digger. Truly rotten to the core!” “Are you blind? Ms. Sterling is showing off her perfect family. How could they be fake?” Suddenly, the boy from the stage, Dylan, stormed over to us. He glared at Sophie with pure malice. “Who are you calling a homewrecker? Are you and your dad that desperate to latch onto a rich family? Have you no shame!” He raised his hand to strike her, but I caught his wrist in a vice grip. My gaze lifted past him, settling on Elena, who stood just a few feet away. “Elena,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “I’m giving you one last chance. Are you going to tell them the truth?” 2 Elena’s brow furrowed. After a moment, her voice came out, cold as ice. “I don’t know you, sir. I pride myself on my composure, but I will not tolerate you spreading these malicious lies about my husband and my son. Our corporate legal team doesn’t take these things lightly.” Sophie’s face crumpled in disbelief. “Mom, what are you saying? You don’t recognize Dad and me?” A fresh wave of derisive laughter swept through the crowd. “Give it up, little girl. You’re really committed to the act, huh? You should drag your pathetic father out of here before Ms. Sterling decides to really crush you. You common folk have no idea the power you’re messing with.” Even Sophie’s own classmates started chiming in, their faces twisted with disgust. “Sophie, you’re so gross. You always act so prim and proper, but you’re just trash underneath.” Sophie grabbed Elena’s sleeve, her voice pleading. “Mom, what’s wrong with you? Why are you saying you don’t know us?! Say something! Defend us! Didn’t you hear the horrible things they’re saying about Dad?” Elena yanked her arm away, shoving Sophie so hard she stumbled backward, a look of raw betrayal on her face. At the same time, Adrian intertwined his fingers with Elena’s, shooting me a triumphant, provocative smirk. In that instant, I understood. Adrian knew everything. I immediately pulled my daughter close. “Sophie, if she won’t claim you, then from this day forward, you don’t have to claim her either.” As the words left my mouth, Elena’s brow twitched almost imperceptibly. A moment later, my phone buzzed again. “Ethan, I already explained. I’m just being Dylan’s mom for one day. Can’t you have a little compassion? If I acknowledge you now, how are Adrian and Dylan supposed to face everyone? How can Dylan even show his face at school again? None of this would have happened if you hadn’t thrown this tantrum. You deserve every insult you get. Now take Sophie and go home and think about what you’ve done.” A humorless smile touched my lips. It seems she’s been sitting in the General Manager’s chair for so long, she’s forgotten who granted her that power in the first place. Just then, a teacher, acting as a mediator, hurried over, announcing that the showcase’s main event, the family fun run, was about to begin. As we walked toward the athletic field, Adrian brushed past me, a smug grin plastered on his face. “A kept man like you was always going to get dumped. Only a man with ambition, a man like me, is worthy of a successful entrepreneur like Elena. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll take your little brat and disappear.” I scoffed. A man with ambition? HR had already sent me his file. Adrian was a nobody Elena had fast-tracked into his position. He barely understood the company’s most basic operations. It was clear he knew I was Elena’s husband, but he had no idea I was the one who truly controlled Apex. My legal and HR teams messaged to confirm they had drafted her termination papers and our divorce agreement. They were on their way. I wasn’t leaving. I was going to stay and tear the masks off their hypocritical faces in front of everyone. I would get justice for myself and for my daughter. Elena and Adrian were escorted to the VIP viewing platform, where school administrators and fawning parents swarmed them with compliments. Elena held her chin high, basking in the glory, every inch of her radiating smug satisfaction. Meanwhile, Sophie stood at the starting line. She forced a small smile in my direction, and I gave her a thumbs-up. Then, in a flash, everything changed. Dylan suddenly darted onto Sophie’s lane and stuck out his leg. My daughter, caught completely off guard, pitched forward, slamming hard onto the track. I sprinted toward her. Her face was contorted in agony, beads of cold sweat dotting her forehead. Her knees were a bloody mess of scraped skin and gravel. A sharp pain lanced through my own chest. But the perpetrator, Dylan, was laughing, a triumphant look on his face. “That’ll teach you and your pathetic dad to mess with us! Let’s see you try that again!” Rage exploded in my chest. I was about to land a fist on his face when Elena threw herself in front of me, shielding him and Adrian. “That’s enough!” she snapped. “It was just kids playing around. Are you, a grown man, really going to make a scene over this?” My chest heaved with fury. “Playing around? Are you blind? Look at her! She’s in serious pain! That was a deliberate attack!” Adrian just chuckled languidly. He pulled a thick wad of cash from his wallet and scattered the bills over Sophie’s injured body, his eyes fixed on me. “This is what you two have been after all along, isn’t it? Money. Take this as compensation for her little scrape. Now get lost.” The onlookers erupted in laughter, their eyes filled with scorn as they sided with Elena and Adrian. “See? That’s what happens when you cross the powerful. You just have to suck it up and take it.” “They started it, trying to pick a fight with the Sterlings. They got what they deserved. Serves them right if her legs are broken!” “Her husband already paid you off! Now scram!” The school nurse was tending to Sophie. My daughter’s eyes, filled with tears, searched for Elena, pleading for help. But Elena turned her head away. The light in Sophie’s eyes dimmed. She reached for my hand. “Dad,” she whispered, her voice thick with pain. “You were right. As of today, I don’t have a mother anymore.” 3 Hearing Sophie’s words, Elena’s brow furrowed again, but this time she shot me a look filled with blame. My gaze swept past her, past Adrian, and landed on the sycophants who had cursed my daughter and me with such venom. I looked at them, one by one, and began to speak, my voice calm and clear. “The Peterson family, aluminum alloys. The Clark family, concrete supply. The Miller family, organic food processing…” As I named them, their smug expressions faltered, replaced by stunned confusion. I was right about every single one. Apex Holdings had its hands in countless industries, and all of them relied on my company to survive. “As of today,” I announced, my voice ringing with authority, “Apex Holdings is terminating all contracts with your businesses.” They stared, first in disbelief, then they burst out laughing, turning to Elena. “Look at this guy! He’s completely lost it. First, he claims to be your husband, and now he’s pretending he can sever our contracts on behalf of Apex.” “Who the hell do you think you are? Ms. Sterling hasn’t said a word! Call a damn ambulance; this guy needs a psych ward!” Elena’s expression darkened, her face a thundercloud. She stepped closer, hissing under her breath. “Ethan, my position at Apex is secure. What do you think you can possibly do? Do you really think anyone still listens to you? Get out of here. Now.” I gave her a long, meaningful look but didn’t answer. Instead, I turned back to the laughing crowd and to Adrian. “There’s one thing you all seem to have misunderstood. It’s true that Elena is the General Manager of Apex Holdings. But I am the one who calls the shots.” Adrian stared, then let out a teary-eyed laugh. “He really is insane.” “I’ve been working at Apex for a while now,” he declared, puffing out his chest. “My wife is the GM! I’ve never seen this lunatic before in my life. He probably doesn’t even know which way the front doors of the building face!” I simply smiled. My people were almost here. Adrian’s security clearance only got him as high as the 10th floor. He’d never set foot on the 35th, where my office was. The crowd roared with laughter, all except Elena. The look she gave me now was pure venom. I knew why. She was terrified. Suddenly, Sophie’s phone rang. She answered it, and a strangled scream tore from her throat. On speaker, a distorted voice snarled, “You little trash, learning to be a gold-digger from your deadbeat dad. So shameless…” I snatched the phone and hung up, realizing with a jolt that someone had posted today’s events online. And they hadn’t just posted it—they had twisted the story, smearing me and my daughter with vicious lies, even doxxing her by publishing her phone number and school information. My eyes shot to Adrian. He was smirking at me, his expression a mask of pure malice. He mouthed the words: “A little gift. Do you like it?” Sophie was trembling uncontrollably as her phone lit up again and again with hateful calls and notifications. The parents who were so eager to impress Elena now closed in on us, a tight circle of hate, their words like daggers. “See? The public knows the truth! You two belong in the gutter!” “Impersonating an Apex executive? Get ready to be sued into bankruptcy! Apex’s legal department is legendary. You won’t even have a house left to cry in!” Someone sneered, “Oh, I’m sure he’ll find somewhere to cry. A pretty boy like him can always find some rich old lady’s bed to crawl into!” Just then, two sleek, black Escalades roared to a stop at the school entrance. Someone with a sharp eye yelled out. “That’s the Apex Holdings logo! The executives are here!” The sycophants preened, puffing their chests out as if they shared in the glory. They advanced on me and Sophie, their mouths twisting into cruel smiles. “It’s over for you two now! Ms. Sterling wasn’t just making empty threats. This is the real deal! You’re going to lose everything!” One man held up his phone, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light as he live-streamed. “Hey everyone, it’s the follow-up to the viral story about the gold-digging loser versus the CEO! Hit that follow button; you’re not going to want to miss this! Watch a titan of industry absolutely destroy this pathetic nobody!” Adrian shot Elena a look of adoration, his face glowing with a mixture of surprise and delight. When he looked back at me, his arrogance was boundless. His son, Dylan, stood beside him, chin held high in triumph.

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1 My entire family left for a ski trip to the Aspen mountains, leaving me behind. “I didn’t know you couldn’t even ski or rock climb, Nora,” Sherry, the girl I was swapped at birth with, pouted. “If I’d known, I would’ve picked somewhere else.” My parents and brother rushed to console her, saying it wasn’t her fault—I was just too ‘uncultured’ for such things. If only Sherry never came back, I thought, watching their car disappear down the drive. Then the unthinkable happened. An avalanche tore through the resort. My parents and brother returned home, looking like shell-shocked ghosts. “Sherry didn’t make it out,” my mother wailed, pulling me into a crushing hug. “Nora, you’re our only daughter now.” But I felt no relief. No joy. Because a second earlier, a text had buzzed on my phone. It was from Sherry. “Nora! Mom, Dad, and Leo are all dead!” … My mother must have felt me go rigid in her arms, because she slowly pulled back. “What’s wrong, Nora? We’re back now. Don’t be scared.” Her voice was so gentle it was alien to me. She only ever spoke that way to Sherry. With me, her tone was always as cold and sharp as winter ice. I stared at the three figures standing in the doorway. Though their faces were bruised and their clothes were stained with patches of what looked like dried blood, they were unmistakably my mother, my father, and my brother, Leo. So why would Sherry say they were dead? No, wait. If my mother was telling the truth, Sherry was the one who didn’t survive the avalanche. So who sent me that text? “Let’s get you out of those filthy clothes,” Leo said, his voice hoarse. He helped our sobbing mother into the living room. “Nora needs a minute to process everything.” As they passed me, a wave of bone-deep cold washed over me, making me shiver. A comment I’d seen on a news article about the avalanche flashed through my mind. “A tourist caught in a slide that big? They’re gone. If your loved ones come home safe, take a good, hard look. Make sure they’re still human.” The commenter, who claimed to be a mountain guide, had tried to explain that victims of a disaster sometimes don’t realize they’ve died and are driven by a single, obsessive need to return home. He was relentlessly flamed and deleted the comment. Something that bizarre… Could it be happening to me? As if on cue, the last ray of sunlight vanished below the horizon, plunging the living room into a deep, oppressive twilight. Or maybe it was just my imagination, but the temperature in the house seemed to drop several degrees. “Nora, what are you doing just standing there? Close the door,” my father’s voice rasped from the shadows. The way he turned was… wrong. He didn’t just turn his head; his entire torso rotated with it, stiffly, like he was frozen solid. The hair on my arms stood on end. I took an instinctive step back, my hand fumbling behind me for the doorknob. My phone buzzed again, a frantic vibration against my palm. It was Sherry. She’d sent a picture. Three black body bags, lined up neatly in a row. A new text followed. “They just flew the bodies back. Where the hell are you, Nora? I told you to get a car and meet me.” BANG! An arm slammed the door shut behind me. I snapped my head up, my eyes meeting my brother’s. He was looking down at me, his face unreadable. “Nora,” he murmured, his voice a low whisper, “who are you texting?” 2 He took another step forward, his presence filling the cramped entryway. I hadn’t noticed it before, but his skin had a sickly, grayish pallor, like meat that had been left in a freezer for days. My back was pressed hard against the door; there was nowhere left to run. I frantically mashed the power button, the screen going dark, and forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. “It was just Grandma and Grandpa. Asking if I’d heard anything. I was just letting them know you were safe.” Leo paused, then nodded slowly. A flicker of something like sadness crossed his face. “Ah. It’s a shame about Sherry. She was so fragile… she didn’t make it until the rescue team arrived. You should probably break the news to them gently.” He sighed. “Oh, right. I should call the rescue team, let them know we’re okay. I lost my phone on the mountain. Let me borrow yours.” Before I could react, he snatched my phone and held it up to my face to unlock it with facial recognition. Panic flared in my chest and I lunged for it, a purely instinctual reaction. Leo seemed startled by my sudden movement and lost his footing. He crashed to the floor with a heavy thud. The phone flew from his hand, hit the wall, and shattered into a spiderweb of glass and plastic. “Nora, are you okay?” he said, scrambling to his feet. In a complete break from character, he didn’t scold me. Instead, he anxiously checked to see if I was hurt. “I’m so sorry. I’ll buy you the newest iPhone in a few days, I promise.” A lump formed in my throat. A crazy thought sparked in my mind: if they could always be this kind to me, did it really matter if they were human or not? “I’m fine, Leo. It’s just too dark in here. Let me get the lights.” Taking a deep breath, I reached for the light switch. A common saying echoed in my mind: ghosts have no shadows. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying that this was all just my terrified imagination running wild. Click. The chandelier blazed to life, bathing the opulent living room in brilliant white light. And behind all three of them, faint but distinct shadows stretched across the floor. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. My mother warmed a pot of milk for my father and Leo, but poured a glass of juice for me. “For your lactose intolerance,” she said with a soft smile. “You can have this.” I took the glass, stunned. It was cherry juice, my favorite. This was the same woman who used to call my condition a “poor person’s disease” and force me to drink milk until I was sick, insisting I had to “get used to it.” “Nora,” my father said, his voice heavy, a trace of guilt on his stern face. “Sherry’s master bedroom… you should move in there.” Leo looked at me with an apologetic expression and gently ruffled my hair. “And make sure you lock your doors and windows. Especially on the ground floor.” I lowered my head, taking small sips of the juice. The sweetness spread from my mouth to my heart, and for a moment, I didn’t want to think about Sherry’s messages at all. Leo was still talking. “Especially tonight. Don’t open the door for anyone. Especially not for Sherry.” “Who?” I asked, sure I had misheard. At that exact moment, the chandelier flickered violently. And then went out. In the suffocating darkness, I could feel three wooden faces turn toward me. Three voices spoke in unison. “Don’t let Sherry in.” 3 “What happened to the lights? Another power outage in the neighborhood?” my father grumbled, getting up to check the fuse box. The sudden darkness sent a shiver down my spine, but their last words were still ringing in my ears. I forced myself to ask, “Sherry? Why would she be at the door? I thought she was… gone.” The dining table fell silent for a moment. Then, my mother began to sob softly again. “She is. But just before she passed… she kept asking why. Why it wasn’t you in the avalanche. Why it wasn’t you who died.” Her words choked off into a sob. Leo sighed heavily. “We’re afraid her resentment might keep her here… she might try to harm you. It’s always better to be safe than sorry. We’ll be careful for now, and then find a good day to have a cleansing ritual performed for her.” I hugged my arms tight, my thoughts a tangled mess. Their explanation sounded plausible. And even though they had always favored Sherry, the concern they were showing me now was something I had only ever dreamed of. Sherry, on the other hand, had been my tormentor from the day I was welcomed—or rather, tolerated—back into this family. She was terrified of losing her parents’ affection, of going from princess to pauper overnight. The ski trip itself had been her idea; she’d specifically chosen the destination after learning I couldn’t ski or climb. Who was I supposed to believe? My father’s footsteps returned, accompanied by a string of curses. “Yep, the power’s out. We pay such high property management fees for what? Not even a backup generator. All they do is hand out candles.” He pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit four white candles. The wicks caught, casting an eerie, greenish glow. Leo’s face changed in an instant. He blew them all out in a single breath. “These candles are wrong! Dad, did the security guard hand these to you himself?” My father looked confused. “No, they were just sitting on the doorstep. If it wasn’t security, then who—?” He stopped mid-sentence. We’d had power outages before, but management had never distributed candles. Four candles. The exact number of people in this house. A shiver traced its way down my spine. Could it be… was Sherry’s ghost really here to torment us? Wait. If Sherry was right and my family’s bodies had been recovered, their names would be on the official list of victims. My phone was broken, but there was a laptop in Sherry’s bedroom. If I could just confirm who died, I could stop scaring myself. “I—I think I’m going to go to bed,” I said, pretending to be frightened as I stood up. “Lock your doors and windows, and don’t wander around. Call for us if you need anything,” my mother said, patting the back of my hand. Her palm was icy cold, the touch so chilling it jolted me. And it cleared my head. Their kindness… it felt too deliberate. Too forced. I could understand a change of heart after losing one daughter, but could it really be this sudden, this complete? I quickly locked myself in Sherry’s room. The laptop, however, hadn’t been used in ages and the battery was dead. I rubbed my throbbing temples. Just my luck. I’d have to wait for the power to come back on. I got up to close the window. The pale moonlight streamed into the room, casting my reflection on the glass. And behind me, standing in the darkest corner of the room, was Sherry. 4 “Ahhh—!” A scream tore from my throat, my mind blank with terror. My legs turned to jelly, refusing to move. I could only watch as Sherry crossed the room in two long strides and clamped a hand over my mouth. Her hand was devoid of any human warmth. Her clothes were soaking wet, as if she had just clawed her way out of an ice-filled crypt. Her eyes, stark white against black pupils, were wide and staring, practically pressed against my face. “Who are the people outside?” Sherry’s voice was flat and wooden, each word forced out. “Why do I hear Mom, Dad, and Leo?” I struggled frantically until she finally loosened her grip. I didn’t know how to answer. If my family’s story was true, and I admitted it was them outside, would Sherry remember she was dead and drag me down with her out of spite? But if I lied, how could I explain it? “Nora. Speak,” Sherry’s tone grew more menacing, her icy fingers tightening around my neck. But what if my parents’ story was the lie? What if Sherry was the real survivor? I had to take a chance. “Are you sure Mom, Dad, and Leo died in the avalanche?” I asked, turning her question back on her. Sherry’s brow furrowed in annoyance, a familiar habit whenever she had to deal with me. “Obviously. The rescue team dug them out themselves and filed the death certificates. How could it be fake?” she snapped. “I sent you the pictures. It’s hard to get a cab when you’re hauling three bodies, and it’s pouring rain out there. That’s why I asked you to pick me up. Were you just ignoring me on purpose?” The words tumbled out of her in a rush, and some color finally returned to her pale face. My heart rate began to slow, but my doubts weren’t completely gone. “If I didn’t pick you up, how did you get back? And why didn’t you use the front door? Why were you hiding in here?” Sherry stared at me, her eyes hollow. The vacant look sent a fresh wave of goosebumps across my skin. “You have the nerve to ask me that? I had to call a hearse from the crematorium to take them first before any taxi would even consider picking me up,” she said. “I got to the front door and heard Mom, Dad, and Leo talking, saying they couldn’t let me in. What kind of sick game are you playing, Nora? They’re dead!” Sherry shoved her phone in my face. The screen showed a call log to a local crematorium and a digital copy of the official victims’ list, with my parents’ and brother’s names clearly written. A crematorium wouldn’t just take bodies without verifying their identities. My mind went completely blank. Her story was just as plausible. But if she was telling the truth, then who were the three people outside? I stammered as I told her how my family had arrived before her, claiming that she was the one who had died in the avalanche. Sherry’s mouth fell open. Before she could speak, a loud, heavy banging echoed from the bedroom door. Knock-knock-knock-knock. Knock-knock-knock-knock. “Nora, was that you screaming? What’s happening in there?” It was my mother’s voice, laced with panic. Sherry’s face darkened instantly. She pressed a finger to her lips. “Don’t make a sound!” “People knock three times,” she whispered, her voice a ghostly breath. “Ghosts knock four.”

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The night before my wedding, my best friend Stella arrived with wine for an impromptu bachelorette party. When I opened the door, she hugged me, her clothes smelling of the cigarettes Matthew smokes. I have asthma; he quit for me eight years ago, but lately, the scent on him had grown stronger. Three days earlier, I finally asked him about it. He quickly turned his phone face-down, saying work was a mess and he had to leave town. I only saw his tired face and hurried to help him pack, ignoring the hidden phone and the smoke. As I thought back, Stella drank half the bottle, staring blankly at our wedding portrait on the wall. A tear rolled down her cheek. Dread filled me, but before I could speak, her phone buzzed. After ignoring it repeatedly, she grabbed her purse. “Work called—I have to go,” she slurred. “Aim the bouquet at me tomorrow!” She left in a rush, tear-streaked. But I saw the caller ID: my fiancé, Matthew. 1 The last shred of hope I was clinging to dissolved when a push notification lit up my phone. It was a video, shot from a hidden angle. In a dimly lit alley, a man held a woman locked in a fierce embrace. The man was tall and impeccably dressed in a suit; the woman, stunning in a slinky crimson dress. They looked like a scene from a movie, a perfect match. But it was the watch on his wrist that made my world stop. The diamond-encrusted face glinted, revealing the letters M & C etched around a cheesy little heart. My fifth-anniversary gift to Matthew. M for Matthew. C for Clara. And the woman he was kissing… dangling from her purse was a small, hand-knitted rabbit with a single red rose tucked behind its ear. I had made that for Stella. I’d clipped it onto her bag myself, just an hour ago. The comment section was a frenzy, a celebration of the “insane chemistry” between the “hot, mysterious couple.” Ten thousand comments, and every single one was a fresh twist of the knife in my heart. Twelve years ago, at seventeen, I’d said with a goofy grin, “Stella is the best person in the world to me.” When my parents tried to force me to change my college major, threatening to stop me from studying art, she was the one who helped me run away in the middle of the night. From that day on, she shouldered everything: rent, utilities, our living expenses, and my tuition. She worked at a downtown bar, singing and hustling to keep us afloat. When I wanted to drop out and get a job to ease her burden, she lit into me, screaming at me for the first and only time. Even then, the harshest words she ever said were aimed at herself. “Clara, do you want to end up like me? With people whispering ‘slut’ behind your back for the rest of your life?” Stella was two years older, but her family had bled her dry, so she never made it to college. She made her living singing in smoky bars. “Don’t you worry,” she’d said, her chin held high. “I can take care of you.” I remembered her expression, her voice, as clearly as if it were yesterday. A wave of nausea churned in my stomach. How did we get here? How did we end up like this? 2 Eight years of love, twelve years of friendship—all turned to ash in a single moment. For a man? Was he worth it? Stella, who never bought herself so much as a new bracelet, who used the same cracked phone for two years, had bought me the latest model the day it came out without a second thought. And when I finally started making real money as an illustrator, I didn’t get a mortgage; I bought her a car, paid in full. We were the kind of friends who would give each other our last dollar. We’d empty our own pockets to see the other happy. If she and Matthew had just told me they had feelings for each other, I would have stepped aside. I would have let them go. But why play me for a fool? Was the thrill of the secret worth destroying me? I wiped my tears and opened Stella’s social media profile. Back when I was a struggling art student, she was already a local celebrity, a singer with a devoted following. Every time she posted a video, she’d demand I like and comment, and she’d pin my comment to the top to drive traffic to my portfolio. The moment I became an established illustrator with a steady stream of commercial work, she stopped. “Linking yourself to a bar singer is bad for your brand,” she’d told me. “It’ll cost you clients.” But now, everything was different. Her last post was from a performance three days ago. The video was shaky, but in the frame, besides Stella on stage, you could clearly see a man’s forearm in a crisp white shirt. I didn’t need to zoom in. I knew it was Matthew’s. Three days ago. The day he told me he had to work late because of a problem at the office. How strange that “working late” meant spending the entire night at a bar, listening to her sing. September 11th. Matthew was “working late” again. In the background of Stella’s video, his reflection was clearly visible in a TV screen. They were in a hotel room. And he was still wearing the watch I gave him. September 1st. Stella was out of town for a week, helping a friend open a new bar. Matthew was on a “business trip” for five of those days. He came back with a bandage on his forehead and scraped knuckles. He said he’d gotten into a fight defending some girl from a drunk. And today. Matthew was “working late.” Again. I started crying, then laughing, then crying again. The past and the present crashed together in my mind, a chaotic mess of memories and lies. For a moment, I wished I was delusional, that I had imagined it all, because anything was better than this reality. We were supposed to get married tomorrow. My wedding dress was hanging in the closet. The hair and makeup artists were scheduled to arrive in eight hours. My bouquet was sitting on my vanity. I had practiced the bouquet toss eight hundred times, determined to make sure Stella would be the one to catch it. Everything was ruined. They say that after a complete breakdown, you become unnaturally calm, almost numb. I opened my laptop and started drafting an email to cancel the wedding. My eyes drifted back to my phone. Should I call them? Confront them? Listen to them stumble through a string of pathetic excuses before finally admitting their disgusting betrayal, only to turn it all around and blame me? Just then, my screen lit up with a notification. A charge on our shared credit card. I clicked on it. It was from a hotel. The room, priced at $1,888 a night, was one of their “fantasy suites.” Matthew and I had only been there once, the night he proposed. He really knew how to spend my money. Any thought I had of ending this with dignity vanished, consumed by a white-hot rage. I’m the kind of person who gets even. 3 I slammed the delete key and walked to my art studio. If they were so in love, then fine. I’d give them the wedding they deserved. A stack of unused invitation sleeves sat in the corner. I found a simple template online, typed in the names of our guests, and printed a new, thick stack. It was much faster than the ones I’d hand-painted, one by one. As I slipped the new inserts into the fancy sleeves, I saw their names on the paper, and a sharp pain twisted my stomach again. For me, it had been love at first sight with Matthew. He was on stage, the new student representative, dressed in a crisp white shirt and wire-rimmed glasses. He spoke with a calm, steady voice, an aura of cool detachment that made you want to be the one to break through it. The line of people trying to win him over stretched from the lecture hall to the campus gates. I was just another face in the crowd, the quiet art major who was always too busy with projects to “accidentally” run into him. But Stella knew. The day after she figured out I had a crush on him, she cornered him in an alleyway near campus as he was heading home. She had a lollipop stick hanging from the corner of her mouth, her voice pure swagger. “My girl here wants to get to know you,” she said, jerking a thumb in my direction. “Give her your number.” Matthew’s gaze landed on me, and he sighed, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. My hand trembled as I scanned his code. As I put my phone away, he turned his arm toward Stella. “What about you?” Stella just shoved me forward and strolled away. “Don’t have a phone,” she called over her shoulder. And later… when did they exchange numbers? I sealed the last invitation, clutching my stomach as I curled into a ball by the desk. Every memory of Matthew and Stella together replayed in my head. The way he would turn his head to laugh at her jokes, the way he’d play along with her antics, how he’d challenge her to drinking contests and then drive her home. I was so naive. I thought he was just being nice to my best friend because he loved me. Once the pain subsided, I grabbed my wedding dress and took a cab to the hotel. This wedding was supposed to be my dream, a fantasy I had spent a year and a half designing and supervising every detail of. Matthew wasn’t interested in any of it, and I never asked him to be. I only wanted his opinion on the invitations and the party favors. Now, I had to tear that dream down with my own hands and face the brutal truth. I had all the photos of us taken down, leaving only the two bare names at the entrance. Matthew & Clara. I whispered his name, and the suffocating weight in my chest began to lift. More than Matthew, I hated Stella. She was the one who pushed me to follow my art, the one who was with me through every struggle. She was more than a friend; she was my family. And the deepest cuts always come from family. I spent the entire night on the top floor of the hotel, just sitting. When specks of light began to dance across the floor, I pulled back the curtains and realized the sun was rising. In the ballroom next to mine, another couple’s family was bustling about, their faces beaming with joy as they prepared for the big day. I looked down at my own shadow. I was used to being abandoned, used to being alone. It wasn’t so bad. At nine o’clock, the wedding motorcade pulled up to the hotel entrance. The other bride, surrounded by a crowd of loved ones, walked through the doors toward her future. My eyes drifted to where the cars had come from, and then I saw him, tucked away in a corner. Matthew. He was chain-smoking in the shadows, one cigarette after another, until a hand snatched the last one from his lips. Stella ground the cigarette out with the heel of her shoe and, without a word, slapped him hard across the face. “Matthew,” she hissed, “don’t make me lose all respect for you.” 4 Like a guilty child, Matthew grabbed her arm. “Don’t go,” he pleaded. “Just stay a little longer.” They embraced, holding each other so tightly it was as if they were trying to merge into one person, to melt into each other’s bones. Watching them, I felt like the villain, the one who had cruelly kept them apart. A laugh escaped my lips. I had been so considerate, stripping the wedding down to the bare essentials to save him from the stress. All he had to do was show up, say his vows, and exchange rings. I never imagined he’d use the free time I gave him for a final, passionate rendezvous with another woman. I waited until they disappeared inside the venue. Then, I walked downstairs. Just as I’d instructed, a large trash bin was placed by the entrance. Beside it was a box of the new invitations, every instance of “Clara” replaced with “Stella.” I knew them. They’d be hiding backstage, whispering sweet nothings, too wrapped up in their drama to notice anything else. For the first time all day, a genuine sense of relief washed over me. Vengeance, it turned out, was the best therapy. The staff followed my orders perfectly. As guests arrived, their original invitations were collected, tossed into the bin, and replaced with the new ones from the box. A confused murmur rippled through the wedding hall. Matthew’s face was a mask of thunder. He knew something was wrong, but not what. He just didn’t want to be here. Don’t worry, I thought. I’m going to make this a day you’ll never forget. The hour struck. The lights went down. And I walked onto the stage, dressed in my pure white wedding gown, and took the officiant’s microphone. As Matthew and Stella watched in dawning horror, I spoke, my voice ringing through the silent hall. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the wedding of Matthew and Stella.” A single spotlight hit Stella. She looked up, a bitter smile playing on her lips, as if she’d been expecting this all along. “Clara…” she began. Matthew snapped out of his shock and lunged for the microphone. “Clara! That’s not funny! This joke has gone far enough!” I simply picked up a second mic. “Let’s take a look at their incredible love story, shall we?” Stella grabbed my wrist, her eyes begging me. “Clara, you can’t—” On the massive screen behind us, the picture from the alley flashed into view—their passionate kiss, followed by the unedited video of their desperate embrace from just moments ago. Matthew froze, his face draining of all color. Then, his shock morphed into rage. “That’s photoshopped! Those are fakes!” I laughed coldly. “So let’s all give them a round of applause—the whore and the liar. May they last forever!” Matthew tried to salvage the situation, turning to the stunned guests. “Everyone, I am so sorry. My fiancée… she’s been under a lot of creative pressure lately. She’s not herself.” His grip on my wrist loosened. I shoved the microphone into Stella’s hands, my voice a low whisper only she could hear. “Stella, we’re done.” This was my last act of mercy—not blasting this all over the internet and destroying what was left of her life. As for Matthew… I’d made sure to invite his CEO and his wife. His career was over. Stella’s eyes were a swirling mix of emotions. “Clara, I’m sorry,” she whispered. Then, her tightly clenched fist opened. A single piece of paper fluttered from her hand, drifting on the air and landing at the feet of a guest in the front row. She raised the microphone to her lips, her gaze locked on Matthew. “You want to know what that is, Matthew?” her voice boomed. “That’s the receipt for my abortion!” Matthew looked as if he’d been struck by lightning, stumbling back a step. I had started to leave, but now I paused, a curious spectator to my own tragedy. Let’s see how this plays out. Faced with public humiliation, would Matthew choose his reputation or his one true love? This was better than any soap opera. His eyes darted to me, desperate. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. He shook his head violently. “You’re lying! When did we ever sleep together?”

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Eight months pregnant, and I was at the hospital alone for a check-up. As I passed a park bench, I saw my husband, Vincent, who was supposed to be on an overseas business trip. He was kneeling, gently massaging the ankle of his childhood sweetheart, Stella. Vincent, always a man of few words, was now murmuring endless reassurances, making promises to soothe Stella’s petty pouting, letting none of her complaints fall on deaf ears. The sweet nothings I’d never heard from him made her giggle coquettishly. The Vincent I saw then was a stranger, a completely different person from the man I knew. This time, I didn’t collapse. I didn’t rush forward screaming and shouting like I used to. Instead, I slipped the wedding ring from my finger and tossed it onto the side of the road. In the third year of our marriage, I decided I wanted a divorce. 1 It was three in the morning when Vincent finally came home. He froze for a second when he saw me sitting on the sofa, then walked over, the faint scent of another woman’s perfume still clinging to him. “Why are you still up so late? Is the baby kicking up a fuss?” I shook my head and pushed the divorce papers across the coffee table toward him. “Let’s get a divorce.” Vincent let out a soft, weary sigh. He spoke with the casual, placating tone one might use with a child. “Oh, I see. Don’t you think it’s time for bed?” I unlocked my phone, pulled up the photo I’d taken that afternoon, and held it in front of his face. “I saw everything.” He paused for a fraction of a second, his expression unchanging, a familiar look of weary resignation settling on his features—the look that said I was overthinking things, as always. “I just see her as a sister.” With that, he sat down on the sofa opposite me, calmly waiting for the storm to break. He was prepared for the usual scene: me, hysterical and relentless, interrogating him, cornering him, demanding an answer he would never give. He would just sit there, silent, letting me unleash my fury, letting me smash things around the house until I collapsed onto the floor, exhausted. Then, he would shatter my remaining strength with a single, dismissive phrase. “Don’t be dramatic.” He would methodically clean up the chaos I’d created, replacing every broken object with an identical new one, putting everything back in its place. He would help me up, guide me back to our room, and, completely unfazed, even bring me a glass of water. “You must be tired. Have some water. It’ll soothe your throat.” Looking at Vincent’s impassive face, a profound exhaustion washed over me. It all felt so pointless. My emotional turmoil was just a performance to him, and in his eyes, I was no different from a madwoman. The eight-month belly was a heavy, leaden weight, and my legs were swollen and stiff. I calmly pushed myself up from the sofa and presented the signed divorce papers to him again. “Sign it.” My composure seemed to catch him off guard. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then finally relented with a condescending smirk. “Who put you up to this? Playing for such high stakes this time? Aren’t you afraid I’ll actually walk away?” “Fine, I’ll sign. Then you go to bed. Remember the baby.” He added, almost as an afterthought, “We have to go to my parents’ place in a few days. I’ll come and pick you up then.” I knew he wasn’t taking the divorce seriously. He thought that with me being eight months pregnant, an abortion was out of the question. To him, this was just a more sophisticated tantrum than smashing vases. Signing a piece of paper meant nothing; it was just a way to placate me. He scrawled his name with the practiced ease of someone signing a trivial document—messy and indifferent. After signing, he even noticed me struggling to stand and came over to massage my cramping legs, cooing at the baby in my belly. But this time, I was serious. 2 Everyone said I’d married a wonderful man. Mature, stable, and endlessly patient with all my moods. A rising star in the business world with a brilliant future, he was the perfect match for a pampered girl like me. And Vincent played the part perfectly. When we first married, I tried to be the perfect wife. I, who had never cooked a day in my life, tried to make him a meal and nearly burned the kitchen down. As I stood there crying in fear, Vincent came home. He said nothing, just quietly cleaned up the mess. “We have a housekeeper. Just tell her what you want to eat.” The dish I had painstakingly prepared was unceremoniously dumped in the trash. Whenever I clumsily messed something up, whenever I was heartbroken and falling apart, there was no comfort. My feelings were ignored, though he always efficiently fixed the problem. Then he would say: “Crying over something so small is pointless.” I thought that was normal. I thought I was just too clumsy, too sensitive. During my pregnancy, I couldn’t keep anything down. Morning sickness was an all-day affair. The constant nausea and discomfort, a double torment, made my temper increasingly volatile. I’d break down over the smallest things or burst into tears when I caught the scent of an unfamiliar perfume on his clothes. Vincent would just watch. Sometimes, he’d shut me in a room and let me scream and rage, never offering an explanation or a defense. “Pregnant women are sensitive. You’re overthinking it.” And yet, in his own way, he was good to me. He would drive four hours in the middle of the night to get me the specific cream-filled donuts I was craving. He would stand in line for five hours just to buy my favorite cake. He always remembered my cycle, ready with a cup of hot tea and a heating pad. Piece by piece, these gestures built a picture of a perfect, problem-solving husband. But my emotions, never acknowledged, never soothed, were like nails hammered into a board; the slightest touch sent a fresh wave of pain through me, leaving behind a scarred and splintered surface. Looking back on our three years of marriage, I realized I’d become a caricature of a bitter, nagging wife. 3 I packed a bag and went to my best friend’s place. Anna’s jaw dropped when she saw me on her doorstep, pregnant and hauling a suitcase. “You and Vincent had a fight?” she asked, her expression pure disbelief. “No way. It takes two to argue, and Vincent is basically a brick wall. I don’t believe it.” Before I could answer, a small, sweet-smelling bundle of energy launched herself at me. Anna’s four-year-old daughter, Lily, beamed up at me. “Auntie Aria, I missed you so much!” I smiled and stroked her hair. “See? Auntie came to visit you.” Anna gently pulled her daughter back. “You little rascal, be careful! Auntie has a baby in her tummy. Go get her a glass of water.” Watching Lily’s vibrant energy, I instinctively cradled my belly. A faint flutter, a tiny movement, answered my touch. I wondered if my baby would be just like her. I sat down, catching my breath, and got straight to the point. “I got a divorce.” Anna choked on her water. “A divorce? You? I don’t believe it.” “Vincent is so good to you! He remembers every little thing, drives across the state for your cravings, even lets you get away with murder at his company.” “And you,” she continued, “you’re head over heels for him. You analyze every little thing he does, get lost in your thoughts, cry yourself to sleep at the slightest hint of trouble.” “If you two could get a divorce, I’d give up on love entirely.” A tired smile touched my lips. “But that’s not what I wanted. He could handle any problem, but he could never handle my emotions.” “What he felt for me… it wasn’t love. It was a sense of duty.” Anna was speechless, her face etched with concern. “What about the baby? You want your child to be born without a father?” I bit my lip, feeling a wave of uncertainty as my hand went to my stomach again. Seeing my expression, Anna sighed in resignation. “Alright, forget it. Just get some rest for now.” I was drifting in a hazy sleep when a knock on the door startled me awake. A glance at the clock showed it was three in the morning. I opened the door to find Vincent standing there. He was holding a bag. “You didn’t tell me you were staying at a friend’s. You forgot your usual toiletries, and I brought them over, worried you wouldn’t be comfortable. I’ll come back to take you home in a few days.” He then turned to Anna, who had appeared silently behind me. “Pregnant women can be like that,” he said, his tone dripping with false apology. “Please bear with her. I really appreciate you looking after her.” I stared at him. He was so considerate, even bringing a gift for Anna. But he never once asked me why I had left. He just had his one-size-fits-all explanation: she’s pregnant, she’s hormonal, she’s irrational. As Vincent drove away, the passenger-side window rolled down. In the dim glow of the streetlights, I saw her. Stella’s profile. Three in the morning. A man and a woman, alone. A cold, humorless laugh escaped my lips. My heart felt surprisingly calm. So this is what it feels like to be completely numb. If all those unresolved emotions were the fuse, his infidelity was the final, crushing weight that made me certain: I had to get a divorce. 4 The first time I suspected Vincent was cheating was in our second year of marriage, at his company’s annual gala. That night, a torrential downpour swept through the city. I was late because I had been visiting my mother’s grave. Vincent was a man of rigid principles. Punctuality was paramount. So, he left me behind and went to the event by himself. The cemetery was in a remote area. I was soaked to the bone after waiting half an hour in the rain before a car finally stopped for me. By the time I arrived, the gala had already been underway for thirty minutes. I searched everywhere for Vincent but couldn’t find him. I called his assistant, whose voice was hesitant and stammering. “Mr. Blackwood ran into Ms. Stella on the way… she wanted to stop for bubble tea… He’ll probably be here in another half hour.” I waited. Finally, I saw them. Vincent and Stella, arm in arm, strolling into the grand hall. Rage erupted in me. I stormed over, tore Stella away from him, and grabbed the front of his suit jacket. My eyes were red with fury as I confronted him in front of everyone. “So you left me behind to go pick her up?” “Vincent, I am your wife!” Whispers rippled through the crowd. The accusations flew. Vincent, publicly humiliated, didn’t even flinch. Only after I had vented my rage did he speak, his voice smooth and placating. “Aria, Stella is like a sister to me. We grew up together.” He reached for my hand, but I slapped it away. With a sigh of theatrical helplessness, he pulled me into his arms. “My dear wife, you always misunderstand. Isn’t my devotion to you enough? What more do you want from me? Should I tear my heart out for you to see?” He looked out at the guests, his eyes filled with a look of indulgent apology, as if to say, forgive my wife, she has a bit of a temper. The onlookers chuckled knowingly. They saw me as the spoiled princess and him as the doting, world-class husband. Stella chimed in, her voice dripping with innocence. “Aria, please don’t misunderstand. There’s nothing between Vincent and me. If something were going to happen, it would have happened years ago.” I was half-convinced, calmed by Vincent’s gentle reassurances. But the fact that he had broken his own rigid rules for Stella left a deep unease in my heart. It was the first time I had ever seen him bend his principles for anyone. Later, I found out I was pregnant. Vincent’s attitude towards me didn’t change; if anything, he became even more attentive. I let the incident go, but life had another blow waiting for me. I accidentally saw his chat history with Stella on his computer. Their conversation was a constant stream of messages, back and forth, about everything from a stray dog on the street to planning her upcoming birthday. Their chat window was full, vibrant, and alive. I slumped in the chair and opened my chat with him. A month’s worth of my one-sided chatter, my attempts to connect, was met with his terse replies. “Okay.” “Fine.” “Got it.” I had always thought Vincent was just a man of few words. I never realized he saved his words, his stories, and his comfort for someone else. When I brought him lunch at his office, I discovered Stella had become his personal assistant. Vincent seemed rushed when he came out to meet me. As he leaned in, I saw it—a smudge of lipstick on his collar. I don’t remember how I got out of there. All I recall is the image of the overturned lunchbox and Stella crying in Vincent’s arms. It was the first time I had ever seen him comfort someone. He was so gentle, so patient. But I was already pregnant. I didn’t want my child to grow up in a broken home. I didn’t want my child to be without a father. Through countless nights, awake with pain and crying until my pillow was soaked, my spirit completely crumbled. I kept asking myself, what is the point of marriage? Is this what love is supposed to look like? But for the sake of my child, I swallowed the bitter pill and carried on.

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My period was a month late. The handsome doctor across from me asked, “Have you been with any other men? Besides me.” I flew into a rage. “Who the hell do you think you are?” He raised an eyebrow. “Your husband. Don’t you recognize me?” 1 I had just gotten back from a business trip and took a day off to see a doctor. My period was a month overdue. I sat in the exam room, facing a male doctor who was busy writing at his desk. Sunlight, filtered through the lush green leaves outside, fell across his minimalist white coat. Paired with a crisp, wrinkle-free shirt and tie, he radiated a cool, ascetic aura. The room was silent. He sat before the computer, his tall frame blocking the light from the window, casting his broad shoulders and narrow waist in a striking silhouette. “So, what seems to be the problem?” he asked, his head still bowed, his tone clinically detached. I tore my gaze away from his hands, straightened my back, and forced myself to speak. “Um, I haven’t had my period in a month, and I’ve been having some cramping… It’s not… some kind of gynecological issue, is it?” He glanced up at me from over the top of his glasses. His sharp, handsome features were framed by the lenses, a strong nose above thin, tightly pressed lips. He seemed distinctly unimpressed with me, his unfortunate patient. “Have you been with any other men? Besides me.” It took me a second to process it. This impeccably dressed doctor was hitting on me. I mean, there are a million ways to flirt, but using your professional position to harass a married woman? Seriously sleazy. A wave of humiliation and anger washed over me. “Who the hell are you? Is that how you talk to a patient?” The tip of his pen froze. He pushed his glasses up his nose, finally looking at me directly. “Your husband,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “You don’t recognize me?” I shot to my feet, grabbing my purse, my face burning. “I have a husband! Don’t you dare say things like that!” I had just gotten my marriage license a month ago. He capped his pen, leaned back in his swivel chair with his arms crossed, and studied me with a placid expression. His gaze was unnervingly direct, with a hint of amusement, as if he were enjoying a private show. My bravado faltered. “You’d better watch it, or… or I’ll… I’ll report you—” The words died in my throat. My eyes had fallen on a framed photo on the corner of his desk. It was an enlarged wedding photo. In it, I was beaming, my smile as bright as a sunflower. And next to me, looking stern and unsmiling, was this very same doctor. Holy. Crap. I had completely, utterly forgotten the man I had whirlwind-married a month ago. 2 The whole marriage thing had been incredibly sudden. I’m a moderately successful romance comic artist. I’m signed with an agency and spend most of my time traveling the world for inspiration. Getting married was my parents’ idea. All I remembered was that my husband worked at a hospital, was four years my senior, and had a good, family-oriented personality. My parents have always had impeccable judgment, so I closed my eyes and signed the papers. The day after we registered, I left for a month-long research trip to another province. We hadn’t even had a wedding reception yet. Now, a dead silence filled the exam room. Across from me sat the man I had so heartlessly abandoned. I clasped my hands in front of me like a guilty schoolgirl, my voice barely a whisper. “Honey…” So, he was a gynecologist. If I had known he worked at this hospital, I would have just called him. This whole screw-up was mortifying. Had I been staring at him earlier? God, he probably thought I was the kind of person who just gawks at handsome strangers on the street. Rupert Potter’s gaze was intense, as if he was waiting for an explanation. Just then, the door burst open as a security guard rushed in. “Dr. Potter, who’s filing a complaint?” Rupert’s expression was a delicate mix of amusement and challenge. He looked at me as if to say, Well? You wanted to report me? Go ahead. Oh, God. I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. I covered my face, bowed to the stunned security guard, and mumbled, “I’m so sorry, he’s… he’s my husband. I didn’t recognize him.” 3 By the time we left the hospital, it was nearly dusk. He had walked me through a full check-up and was now striding ahead of me, carrying my suitcase. My mom, having heard the whole sordid tale, was laying into me over the phone. “You abandon your new husband for a business trip right after getting married? You might as well be single! All you do is work, work, work! What good is all that money? Do you think a baby is just going to pop out of a rock?” I shot a guilty glance at Rupert and cupped my hand over the receiver. “Mom, stop yelling, you’re making me nervous!” “He’s your husband! What’s there to be nervous about? Be proactive tonight. I want a grandchild by the end of the year.” It wasn’t that I was opposed to having kids, but first, the man had to actually forgive me. A month-long trip, a threat to report him upon my return, and then I was supposed to make a move on him that very night? What kind of shameless hussy did that make me? Besides, a guy with a 100% head-turning rate like him was probably just using me as a shield against other women. There was no way he actually wanted to live under the same roof with me. Suddenly, Rupert turned to me. “What do you want to eat?” I was so startled I slammed the end-call button on my mom. “I want to go home,” I answered meekly. “And eat your cooking.” The moment the words were out, I wanted to bite my tongue off. What kind of relationship did we even have? Whose home? Whose cooking? A flicker of surprise crossed Rupert’s eyes, followed by a smile he couldn’t quite contain. “Alright. Get in the car.” The apartment was Rupert’s; I had never even seen it before. It was rush hour, and traffic was starting to build. Rupert stared at the sea of cars ahead, showing no intention of making conversation. Just then, my phone buzzed with a text from my editor. “Josie, the competition’s promo just dropped. You need to step it up. I need the cover art tonight. We are not losing to them.” My name is Josephine, but my pen name is Josie. I’m known for my bold, risqué art style, which has earned me a sizable fanbase. My 2D heartthrobs are famous worldwide. I sighed and texted back, “Boss, I’ve got zero inspiration for the male lead… I don’t want all my characters to look the same.” A few seconds later, a voice message came through. I hit play without thinking. My editor’s signature gravelly voice filled the car. “Use your husband as material! Observe, learn, and deliver for your fans. Didn’t you used to joke that if you ever got married, you’d mine your husband for every last drop of creative—and financial—worth?” I frantically jabbed at the screen, but the phone seemed frozen. The message played out in its entirety. And just as it ended, the cacophony of car horns outside seemed to cease by collective agreement. The silence in the car was deafening. Like a wooden puppet, I slowly, stiffly turned my head. Rupert’s glasses were perched loosely on his nose, his profile sharp and refined against the setting sun. His long index finger tapped a light, rhythmic beat on the steering wheel. He stared at the traffic ahead, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. It was a smirk. He hadn’t just heard it; he had understood every word. A hot flush of shame spread across my face, seeming to fill the entire car. Rupert suddenly tugged at his tie, loosening the top button of his shirt to reveal the handsome hollows of his collarbones and the elegant line of his neck. The air in the car suddenly felt thick and hot. My mouth was dry. The last rays of the sunset fell on my black dress, creating a strange, prickling heat. “Seen enough?” His polite smile snapped me out of my daze. I blinked and stammered, “I’m a comic artist…” “Mm, I know.” His tone was flat. The simple platinum ring I had picked out for him at random gleamed on his finger. My own hand was bare. I think I’d taken mine off at some point, complaining it was too tight. In the suffocating silence, I turned to him, desperate to explain. “My male leads are purely from my imagination. I never use real people as models…” He cleared his throat and looked away. “Mm, I’ve seen them. The anatomy is… impeccable.” The words caught in my throat. I wanted to die. By “anatomy,” he was probably referring to the legions of long-legged, muscle-bound men wearing nothing but pants. Though Rupert’s expression remained neutral, I could detect an undercurrent of amusement and resignation. He was laughing at me again. Weren’t doctors supposed to be busy? What was he doing reading romance comics and analyzing their “anatomy”? I decided to shut up. I counted the seconds in my head, an agonizingly long wait, until the car finally broke free from the traffic and pulled into a high-end residential complex. Lush trees and beautiful landscaping surrounded us, a fountain splashing in the distance. I got out of the car, but the gentle evening breeze did nothing to cool the chill in my heart. I followed behind Rupert, each step feeling like I was walking on eggshells. Sure, he was an attractive man. Highly educated, from a good family. But I’d been single for years, and this was the first time I was spending the night at a strange man’s house. Except it was a legal sleepover. What was I supposed to do? Pounce on him and give my mom that grandchild she wanted? Pin him against the wall the second we got inside? I trailed behind the tall figure of my husband, my mind racing. His apartment was on the second floor. As he opened the door, the living room lights flicked on automatically. Rupert bent down and pulled a pair of delicate women’s slippers from the shoe cabinet. Even in that simple motion, he was more stunning than any of the heroes in my comics. His physique was, for lack of a better word, perfect. Inspiration struck. Seeing me frozen in the doorway, Rupert effortlessly lifted my suitcase inside. The apartment was immaculately clean, a perfect reflection of his personality: efficient and minimalist. I mentally calculated the odds of successfully overpowering him. The height difference was… significant. Probably not a good idea. “There’s a spare set of keys on the right. They’re yours,” he said, before walking further into the apartment. The image of the stunning curve of his back as he bent over was seared into my brain. I kicked off my shoes, grabbed my suitcase, and made a beeline for the study, closing the door behind me. Through the study’s glass wall, I could see Rupert in the spacious, brightly lit kitchen. The setting sun cast a reddish glow on his white shirt. His forearms, firm and defined, were busy at the sink. The silver frames of his glasses added a touch of ascetic beauty. I couldn’t help but think of one of my character archetypes. The cool, aloof doctor with the suit and the great ass. Long legs, lean but muscular. And my editor’s words: “Draw him bigger.” I slumped into the chair, printed out my key points, and taped them to my monitor—a reminder that my goal was to cater to popular demand. The face… I’ll just use Rupert’s. He was handsome, after all, and the “coolly ascetic” type was very in right now. His legs were definitely long enough to meet my fans’ standards. As for the abs… well, I hadn’t seen them. I’d just have to draw them from experience. So, relying on my imagination, I created a rather tempting physique for my character. A firm, trim waistline, a rounded, perky backside, suit pants revealing a sliver of black sock, and shiny leather shoes… And, of course, a form-fitting white doctor’s coat. In the initial sketch, the cool, aloof man sat in an executive chair, legs crossed lazily, his eyes cold and distant. I smiled in satisfaction, took a screenshot, and sent it to my editor with a thoughtful note: Boss, should I make the butt perkier? It would make the waistline look even more alluring. I waited for about five minutes. No reply. I opened my tired eyes and checked the chat window. Huh? Where was the picture? My conversation with my editor was still on his last message, nagging me about the deadline. A roaring sound filled my ears. I shuddered. Oh, God. Who did I send it to? Please don’t let it be my parents. I still wanted to be a respectable human being. I scrolled frantically through my chats. And there it was. In my conversation with Rupert. The meticulously designed character art. And that… eager request for feedback. No, no, no, no! What have I done?! The study door flew open. I burst out, my hair a mess, praying that Rupert was still busy in the kitchen and hadn’t seen his phone. But the scene that greeted me was this: The dining table was set with four steaming dishes and a soup. Rupert, wearing an apron over his rolled-up shirt sleeves, was leaning against the table, holding his phone. His long fingers were slowly swiping across the screen. Reflected in his glasses was the bold artwork of a… coolly ascetic doctor. Thump. That was the sound of my heart stopping. He seemed to be typing. A moment later, my phone pinged. A reply from Rupert: Approved. Approved what? The perkier butt? Rupert slowly lifted his head, his expression unreadable. “Weren’t you hungry? Come and eat.” I don’t know how I made it to the table. I moved like a ghost, sitting down and staring at my plate, too mortified to look at him. But even without meeting his eyes, I could feel his dark, intense gaze on me. I’m so dead. I had just claimed my work was pure imagination, and he catches me using him as a direct model. How could I possibly explain this? “I wouldn’t mind if you took the measurements yourself.” I was in the middle of sipping my soup. Rupert’s sudden comment made me choke, coughing until tears streamed from my eyes. I clapped a hand over my mouth, my entire body turning the color of a boiled shrimp. Was he serious? Rupert slid his phone across the table to me, his gaze sharp and precise. “If you’re going to use me as your model, you should at least respect the facts.” His fingertip tapped on the chest muscles visible between the two unbuttoned buttons of the character’s shirt. I let out a sigh of relief and managed a weak laugh. “Right!” 4 After dinner, Rupert was in the kitchen washing dishes. I tiptoed into the bedroom, planning to take a quick shower before he was done. But my hand fumbled along the wall for a good while, and I couldn’t find the light switch. Was this place that high-tech? Voice-controlled, maybe? I probably didn’t have the authorization. The room was pitch black. I was about to back out when Rupert’s voice came from right behind me. “Why aren’t you going in?” His warm breath tickled the back of my neck, making the fine hairs stand on end. I flinched and spun around. A few drops of water had splashed onto Rupert’s shirt, making the fabric cling to his chest. He was a full head taller than me, and when he looked down, there was a subtle sense of pressure. I was instantly consumed by the guilt of a trespasser caught in the act. “I’m sorry,” I stammered, “I must have the wrong—” “You don’t.” Rupert stopped me from closing the door. He pushed it back open, backing me into the bedroom step by step. His tall frame blocked the light from the living room, and darkness enveloped us. With my sight diminished, my other senses were heightened. He was close, his presence quickly overwhelming me. I buried my head like an ostrich, too scared to say a word. “Go get changed.” For a second, I had the distinct impression he was about to kiss me. My face grew hot. “My clothes are… in my suitcase—” “There are some in the closet too. Go get them.” Rupert didn’t move, effectively trapping me in the bedroom. With no way out, I had to feel my way to the closet in the dark. I pulled open a random drawer and reached inside. Soft. Silky… Did I own anything made of this material? It was so thin. Rupert leaned against the doorway, his voice nonchalant. “That’s my drawer.” I suddenly realized what the cool, silky fabric in my hand was. I snatched my hand back as if I’d been electrocuted, my ears burning. “I’m sorry…” Rupert let out a soft, dry chuckle. He didn’t turn on the light, just leaned there, enjoying my predicament. He was definitely getting his revenge. I opened the drawer next to it, grabbed a few items of clothing, and fled into the bathroom. It seemed he had prepared for my arrival. Shampoo, conditioner, body lotion—everything was there. Toothbrushes and towels came in a matching couple’s set. I tried to wash away the heat with the shower, but the more I washed, the hotter I felt. Finally, I resigned myself to my fate, dried my hair, and prepared to face the world. When I unfolded the clothes, I saw it was a large men’s dress shirt. Droplets of water from my hair had already soaked a large patch of it. And what I had mistaken for underwear was… a pair of black stockings. “…” Water and a white shirt. A combination guaranteed to spark the imagination. I, Josie, had never been this humiliated in my entire life. I hid in the bathroom and sent a desperate text to my best friend. Her reply: “LMAOOOO are you insane? You want me to drive across town to rescue you from your own bathroom?” I slumped against the door, wearing Rupert’s damp shirt and clutching the stockings. “If you don’t come, I’m going to die.” “What’s there to be shy about in front of your husband? Just wear it. I promise you’ll be fine.” I smacked my forehead in despair. “I can’t…” “Can’t what? Can’t pounce on him?” “Josie, when you were 23, you made a plan to have a baby by 26. Your 27th birthday is in exactly 10 months. The stars have aligned. The time is now. If you don’t make a move, what do you expect me to do, tie him up and deliver him to your bed?” I’m a pushover. Easily swayed. Her words ignited a sense of mission in me. I’m 26. Is it so wrong to want a baby? And anyway, we were legally married. What was wrong with being a little bold? I pushed open the steamy bathroom door. The living room was dimly lit by a single wall lamp. And then, all my carefully constructed bravado vanished. Images of countless romance comic heroines flashed through my mind, followed by a series of blush-inducing, pixelated scenes. I regretted everything. I couldn’t do it. I made a mad dash for the bedroom. Just as I reached the door, I collided with someone. The faint, clean scent of antiseptic enveloped me. “What’s the rush?” His deep, husky voice melted into the darkness, the warm, yellow light casting an ambiguous glow. It was like a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart. My pulse skyrocketed. “Are you hot? Isn’t my shirt cool enough?” His voice was right next to my ear, his warm breath swirling in the shell of it. “Or is it because you’re wearing one too many layers?” I struggled, but couldn’t break free. My thoughts were sluggish. “I was wrong… please, just let me go…” I managed to squeeze out the words, my body trembling with each of his breaths. He was definitely seducing me. “Dr. Potter, save me, I’m losing all my strength…” He chuckled. “We’re just getting started. You’re not very resilient, are you?” My forehead rested against his shoulder; I couldn’t support myself anymore. Rupert’s arm suddenly tightened around me, lifting me off the ground. The moment my back touched the soft bed, his fiery kiss followed. In my mind’s eye, I could see my best friend giving me a thumbs-up from afar. Fireworks exploded in my brain. Faced with his playful teasing, I surrendered completely.

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My mother-in-law treated the whole family—even her pampered poodle—to a lavish, multi-thousand-dollar dinner at the city’s most exclusive restaurant. The only one not invited? Me. Staring at the pictures of their happy gathering on my social media feed, a bitter cold seeped into my bones. Without a second thought, I opened my banking app and deactivated the supplementary credit card she had in her possession. So, when the time came to pay the bill, that piece of plastic—usually so smooth and reliable—was declined. As all eyes in the restaurant turned to her, she scrambled like a cornered animal, frantically trying to call me, only to discover she was already blocked. Without me, let’s see how she’d talk her way out of this one. 1. My original plan for the weekend had been a simple family dinner. I just wanted to get everyone together, talk, and reconnect. It felt like ages since we’d all shared a proper meal. But my mother-in-law, Karen, shot the idea down instantly. My wife, Sophia, didn’t seem interested either. Defeated, I dropped it. I never imagined I’d wake up the next morning to an empty house. It wasn’t until I scrolled through my phone that the pieces clicked into place. Karen was hosting a grand feast for the entire family at The Crestwood, the most opulent restaurant in town. A video she posted showed a table teeming with relatives, laughing and clinking glasses. Uncles, aunts, cousins—even some distant second cousin I’d only met once was there. But the most galling sight was Karen’s poodle, perched on its own chair like a tiny, furry aristocrat, nibbling on a piece of premium abalone. She even zoomed in on it, a deliberate close-up, as if to make sure everyone saw. Every relative was there. The dog was there. But I was not. The image burned itself into my mind, a sharp, painful sting of exclusion. A hot surge of anger rushed to my head. I immediately called Karen. She picked up and hung up in the same motion. I tried again. Straight to voicemail. My stomach clenched. She’d blocked me. She wouldn’t even take my call. Next, I dialed my wife. It rang and rang before Sophia finally answered, her voice dripping with annoyance. “What do you want? We’re in the middle of dinner. Do you have to ruin the mood?” Her words were laced with contempt. My hand tightened around my phone, my knuckles white. “Sophia, what the hell is this?” I asked, my voice low and tight. “Do you people even consider me family? You invite everyone, the whole clan, but leave me at home? What, am I too embarrassing to be seen with you?” Just last night, they’d dismissed my idea of a family dinner without a second thought. Now I knew why. It wasn’t that they didn’t want a family dinner; they just didn’t want one with me. Sophia’s reply was sharp and dismissive. “Leo, what is your problem? So we didn’t invite you to dinner. It’s not a big deal. Why does a grown man have to be so damn petty?” I let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. Petty? “You invited relatives we haven’t seen in years, Sophia. You even gave the dog a seat at the table, but you left me behind—and now you’re calling me petty?” My voice trembled with a rage I could no longer contain. “In your eyes, in your mother’s eyes, what am I in this family? Am I worth less than a damn dog?” Before she could answer, Karen’s shrill voice cut in from the background. “Sophia, why are you wasting your breath on someone so classless? Just let him throw his little tantrum.” Sophia’s tone turned to ice. “Leo, are you seriously going to make a scene right now? Mom’s right, you have no class. You need to take a long, hard look at yourself.” Then, she hung up. I tried calling back. Blocked. She’d blocked me too. In that moment, a profound silence fell over me. It felt like the world had gone quiet, and a blade was twisting in my gut. This was the woman I’d loved for three years, the woman I’d given everything for. This was the “family” I had fought so hard to be a part of, only to be perpetually treated as an outsider. Honestly, this wasn’t the first time. In this house, I was always the odd one out, deliberately excluded from every family activity. I still remember Sophia’s birthday last year. We threw a big party for her, and everything seemed perfect. But after it was over, Karen posted a group photo to the family group chat and her social media. The caption read: “Happy birthday to my beautiful daughter! May our family be happy forever.” In the photo, Sophia was beaming, her arms linked with her mother and her uncle, surrounded by a constellation of smiling relatives. The only person missing was me. Her husband. Karen had expertly cropped me out, leaving only the blurred edge of my pant leg, a ghostly, out-of-place limb. If she could have removed it without cutting off someone else’s arm, I’m sure she would have. There were countless other humiliations, big and small. Each memory was a fresh stab of cold disillusionment. Just then, my phone buzzed. Karen had posted again. What I saw made my blood run cold. 2. It was another video. The lavish feast was just the backdrop. This time, the camera was focused on Sophia. She was smiling brightly, though she adopted a look of faux humility whenever she glanced at the camera. But it was the caption that hit me like a punch to the gut: “This amazing dinner is all thanks to my wonderful daughter! She even gave me her card and told me to spend whatever I want.” At the end of the video, Karen held up a gleaming gold credit card, waving it for the camera with a triumphant smirk. “Having a daughter is so much better than a son. She’s such a go-getter, supports the whole family. A great job, a big salary, and so good to her mother.” My heart sank into an icy abyss. I knew that card. It was my credit card—a supplementary card I’d given to Karen. Her ex-husband had left her years ago, and she’d raised Sophia alone. Out of respect for her struggle, I’d always tried to be considerate. I invited her to live with us and treated her like my own mother. So when Sophia suggested I get Karen a supplementary card, I’d agreed without hesitation. For years, she used it for everything: designer clothes, fancy dinners, even the occasional luxury handbag. Sometimes the spending sprees made me uncomfortable, but for the sake of peace, and to save Sophia from being caught in the middle, I always bit my tongue. It’s fine, I’d tell myself. We’re family. To fund her lifestyle, I’d been mercilessly frugal with myself. I ate at the office cafeteria every day. My clothes came from discount stores. But I never, ever imagined she would have the audacity to do this—to steal the credit for years of my silent sacrifice and pass it off as her daughter’s success. All to feed her pathetic, bloated ego in front of our relatives. Below the video, a flood of fawning comments appeared. Karen replied to each one. When someone asked about her son-in-law, her response was always the same: “Don’t even mention that loser. My daughter runs this family.” I could practically see her smug grin as she typed. Every word of praise was another slap across my face. In that instant, my heart didn’t just feel cold. It felt dead. “Fine,” I hissed at the gloating face on my screen. A bitter smile twisted my lips. “Since you think this is all your daughter’s doing…” I picked up my phone and opened my banking app. “…let’s see who really owns that card.” My finger descended, and with a single, decisive tap, I deactivated the supplementary card. The moment it was done, a massive weight lifted from my shoulders. I felt a sense of release so profound it left me lightheaded. “Now,” I muttered, “let’s see how you’ll handle the bill.” Let’s see the look on all those relatives’ faces when Karen, the generous matriarch, was exposed as nothing more than a parasite cut off from her host. Meanwhile, back at The Crestwood, the feast was winding down. Relatives leaned back in their chairs, patting their full stomachs with satisfied groans. Several expensive, untouched dishes still littered the table. Even the poodle had two uneaten pieces of abalone left in its bowl. “Sophia is just incredible. So successful.” “Seriously, we’d never get to eat like this if it weren’t for her.” Karen beamed, demurely waving off the compliments. “Oh, it’s nothing, really,” she said, though her face was alight with pride, soaking in every word of praise for her precious daughter. Carried away by the moment, she threw her hands up and announced magnanimously, “Don’t you worry, everyone! From now on, whenever we have time, we’ll do this again! With my daughter around, money is no object!” The relatives erupted in another round of applause and flattery. “We’ll be living the high life thanks to Sophia!” “That’s right! With a daughter like that, Karen, you can just sit back and enjoy!” Floating on a cloud of adoration, Karen grandly summoned the waiter. “Check, please!” The waiter presented the bill. “Certainly, ma’am. Your total comes to $2,570. How will you be paying?” With a practiced, fluid motion, Karen slid the gold credit card across the table. The waiter took the card respectfully and walked away. A moment later, he returned, his expression troubled. “I’m sorry, ma’am… but this card has been declined.” The smile on Karen’s face froze, every trace of her triumphant swagger vanishing in an instant.

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My father’s mistress stormed our home, planting herself on our sofa and smugly demanding my mother step aside. Furious, my mother immediately demanded a divorce. My father agreed in a heartbeat, wrapping his arm around the other woman and ordering my mother to get out. As my mom grabbed my hand to leave, I pulled away and linked my arm through my father’s. “I’m not leaving,” I said. “I’m staying with Dad.” My mother’s family called me an ungrateful viper. I treated the mistress with the utmost respect, and when she became pregnant, I doted on her tirelessly. She loved to tell people she’d gained a devoted daughter for free, that she’d never have to worry about being cared for in her old age. But she had no idea that there’s a certain kind of manipulation, a special kind of trap, known as praise-killing. 1. I was walking home from school, and before I even reached the front door, I could hear shouting. My parents’ voices were sharp and angry, but they were tangled with the voice of a woman I didn’t recognize. The moment I stepped inside, my mother’s voice, stretched to its breaking point, cut through the air. “Since you’ve brought your mistress here to stage a coup, let’s just get a divorce!” My father’s eyes flickered toward me. Seeing me just quietly setting down my schoolbag, showing no reaction, he boomed, “Fine by me! I’ve been putting up with you for years, always nagging, always controlling! Not an ounce of softness in you! And after all this time, you couldn’t even give me a son. Who’s supposed to inherit the family business?” My mother let out a bitter, humorless laugh. She grabbed my arm. “So it’s just me and our daughter who are in your way? Fine! We’ll leave. You can shack up with your little homewrecker and have your precious son!” A flicker of panic crossed my father’s face. “Lara is my daughter! You can’t take her!” Though he’d always wanted a son, I had to admit, my father had always doted on me. If I wanted something, he almost always gave it to me. My mother’s grip tightened. “We’ll see if Lara even wants to go with you. Lara, let’s go!” She pulled at my arm, but I stood my ground, unmoving. That’s when the other woman saw her opening. Her voice was syrupy sweet. “Now, now, you can’t force her. It doesn’t look like Lara wants to leave with you.” Her voice was gentle, her face a mask of innocence. No wonder my father fell for her. My mother shot her a venomous look, her voice rising. “Lara, you tell us. Who are you going with?” I gently pulled my hand from my mother’s grasp, turned, and linked my arm through my father’s. “Mom, I’m not leaving,” I said softly. “I’m staying with Dad.” 2. My father roared with laughter, one arm slung around his mistress, the other pulling me close. “That’s my girl!” My mother’s hand trembled as she pointed at me, speechless. Finally, the words tore from her throat. “Fine. Just fine. Like father, like daughter. Two heartless snakes in the same pit!” She spun around and slammed the door, the sound echoing through the house. I watched her leave, my face a blank mask, my nails digging so deep into my palms that they drew blood. “Dad,” I said quietly, “I’m going to pack a few things for Mom to take with her.” As I was folding my mother’s clothes, my father came into the room with the other woman. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Lara, don’t blame me. You’re too young to understand adult relationships. Eva and I… this is true love. Since you chose to stay, I hope you can accept her. A happy home makes for a happy life, right? I can’t focus on my business if you two aren’t getting along.” Eva stepped forward and took my hand, her touch warm and cloying. “Lara, if you’re not comfortable, you can keep calling me Aunt Eva after your father and I are married. I don’t mind at all.” I smiled inwardly at her magnanimous act. Trying to look like the bigger person so Dad will admire you? I won’t let you have that satisfaction. If this was a game of shamelessness, I could play it better than she ever could. I summoned a brighter, more enthusiastic smile and placed her hand back in my father’s. “Don’t be silly! If you’re marrying my father, you’ll be my mother. Mom,” I said, looking her straight in the eye, “congratulations on your wedding. I wish you and Dad all the happiness in the world.” A cheater and a homewrecker. Better to keep them chained together where they couldn’t ruin anyone else’s lives. Eva was stunned, clearly not expecting this reaction. My father, however, was beaming. He ruffled my hair. “Lara, you’re so grown up. So understanding. I knew I wasn’t wrong to spoil you all these years.” Seeing him in such a good mood, I seized the opportunity. “Dad, I’m starting my junior year soon. You know how tough it gets. I was thinking of taking an advanced prep course over the summer to make sure I can get into a top university.” 3. “Of course! My daughter is so ambitious, I’ll give you whatever you need!” He didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his phone and, with a grand flourish, transferred ten thousand dollars into my account. “This is a start. If you need more, just ask!” I gave him my sweetest smile. “You’re the best, Dad!” I picked up the suitcase I’d packed. “I’ll just drop this off for Mom. Bye, Dad. Bye, Mom.” As I walked away, I saw their reflection in the glass of the front door. He was holding Eva, kissing her passionately. I caught my own reflection in the car’s rearview mirror and allowed myself a cold, hard smile. This was just the beginning. First things first, I needed to win back my real mother and make sure she was on my side. I drove to my grandmother’s house and rang the bell. My uncle answered, his face a thundercloud. “What is that little traitor doing here? Go on, go back to your father and live the high life!” I held up the suitcase. “I’m just dropping off some of Mom’s things.” He reached for it, but an older, wrinkled hand shot out and stopped him. “We don’t want her charity. As if we can’t afford to buy a few new clothes.” It was my grandmother. She shoved me back, her breath coming in angry gasps. “Get out! You’re not welcome here! As of today, I don’t have a granddaughter!” The door started to swing shut. I dropped the suitcase, wedging my body in the opening. “Mom!” I yelled into the house. “You left! If I leave too, are you just going to hand everything over to them on a silver platter?” My grandmother and uncle froze. In that brief moment of hesitation, I pushed past them and into the house. My mother was sitting on the living room sofa, silently wiping away tears. When she saw me, her eyes turned red all over again. My heart ached. I rushed to her and wrapped her in a hug. “Mom, don’t cry. The only way we can get what we deserve is if I stay with him. You were with him for years, from when he had nothing until his business was a success. You can’t let that woman waltz in and steal it all!” 4. I showed her the banking notification on my phone. “Look, Dad just gave me ten thousand dollars. I’ll transfer it to you. To keep me and that woman on good terms, he’s going to keep giving me money and gifts. I’ll save everything for you. Once I graduate from college, I’ll cut them off and we can start a new life together, just the two of us!” She hugged me tightly, her voice thick with emotion. “But you’ll be miserable, having to see their faces every day!” I smiled. “It’s not a sacrifice. It’s an investment in our future. It’s worth it.” Miserable? Far from it. Leading them step by step into the trap I’d designed, watching them stumble around, blind and self-satisfied… it was going to be incredibly entertaining. All my life, people had been fooled by my sweet, innocent exterior, calling me a good, obedient child. Not even my own mother knew the truth: I have a dark streak. I enjoy the game, the intricate dance of manipulation. And now, a brand-new toy had been delivered right to my doorstep. It would be rude not to play. When I returned home, I made sure my eyes were red and puffy. As I expected, my father saw my tear-streaked face and immediately assumed I’d been given a hard time. He pulled me into a protective hug. “Don’t you ever go back to that witch’s house again. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” I dabbed at my eyes with a tissue. “But she’s my mother,” I sobbed. “It hurts that she’d treat me like that.” He immediately went to his safe and pulled out a thick gold chain. Eva’s eyes widened, but she didn’t dare say a word. He fastened it around my neck. “Your birthday is in a few days. Think of this as an early present. We’ll have a huge party for you.” A few days later, he did just that, throwing me a lavish birthday party and handing me a thick envelope of cash. I made sure to pose for photos with him and Eva, my arms linked through theirs. He was ecstatic, bragging to everyone about his perfect life: a beautiful wife and a devoted daughter. 5. The following months were a blur of studying for my final exams. I told my dad I needed to live in the dorms to focus. Thrilled by my diligence—and no doubt happy to have me out of the house so he and Eva could have their privacy—he readily agreed, setting up a generous monthly allowance for me. After covering my expenses, I transferred every remaining dollar to my mother. The semester flew by. When I came home for winter break, I found my father and Eva had prepared a feast to welcome me. “What a wonderful day! Lara’s home from school, and I have some great news to announce!” My father was grinning from ear to ear. I glanced at Eva’s gently rounded belly and the triumphant smirk on her face. I smiled brightly. “Am I going to be a big sister?” Eva nestled against my father’s side, feigning shyness as she nodded. “Congratulations, Mom and Dad!” I raised my glass to toast them. My father clapped me on the shoulder, his face glowing with satisfaction. “I couldn’t be happier. A smart, loving daughter, and a pregnant wife. What more could a man ask for? If it’s a boy, my life will be truly complete.” Eva rested a hand on her stomach, her chin held high. “Everyone says I’m carrying low. It’s definitely a boy. Don’t you worry, David. The Clark family business will have its heir.” They were so lost in their happy fantasy, they didn’t notice the flicker of ice in my eyes. Talking about a son inheriting everything, right in front of me, as if I didn’t even exist. Fine. If that’s how you want it, then I won’t hold back. But whether that son of yours will ever be born… that remains to be seen. 6. As Eva started to get up to get rice from the kitchen, I gently pushed her back down and took her bowl. “Mom, let me. You’re pregnant now, you should rest.” She watched, a smug smile playing on her lips, as I respectfully placed the steaming bowl of rice in front of her. “You’re such a good girl, Lara.” My father nodded in approval. As I served her food, I said, “It’s perfect timing, with my winter break. I can take care of Mom at home. You can focus on your business trips, Dad. I’ve got everything handled here.” Eva hesitated, her hand instinctively going to her belly. She gave me a wary look, as if trying to figure out my angle. But my expression was one of pure sincerity, impossible to fault. Hearing my father sing my praises, she had no choice but to force a smile and agree. The next day, I was up at dawn. I made breakfast and then slipped out of the house. Eva didn’t wake up until noon. She came downstairs to an empty house and frowned. When I returned, she was sitting on the sofa, looking thoroughly annoyed. She shot me a sideways glance. “Some caregiver you are. First day of break and you disappear. I was starving.” I put on a hurt expression and pointed to the dining table. “Mom, I made you breakfast before I left. You were still sleeping, so I went out to buy a few things…” My father walked in behind me and glared at Eva. “You’re getting spoiled. Lara is a high school student, and she got up at the crack of dawn to make you breakfast. Then she dragged me out to buy you new slippers because she was worried yours weren’t comfortable enough. And you, not a word of thanks, just complaints. She’s my daughter, not your servant.” 7. Eva’s eyes welled up with tears. “I’m carrying your son, a Clark heir, and you talk to me like that!” I saw my father was about to retort. I hid my smile and stepped in to play peacemaker. “Dad, please don’t. Mom is pregnant, her emotions are all over the place. We have to be more understanding. Besides, I did promise to take care of her. It’s natural for her to be a little anxious when she wakes up and I’m not here.” My father muttered under his breath, “Your own mother was never this dramatic when she was pregnant with you…” I scoffed internally. So now you remember how good she was? Pathetic. I pulled a new pair of slippers from my shopping bag and knelt at Eva’s feet. “Mom, these have extra-soft soles. They’ll be really comfortable. Your feet will probably start to swell soon, so I got them a size bigger.” Her expression softened as she watched me put the slippers on her feet. I helped her to the table with a cheerful smile, showing no sign of resentment. Then I went to the balcony to bring in the laundry. My father followed me, pressing a wad of cash into my hand. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this, Lara,” he whispered. I just smiled and gently pushed him toward the door. “It’s okay. Mom is carrying the future of our family. A little hardship is nothing. You should get to the office, Dad. You have a lot to deal with.” He left, beaming with pride. I turned back to look at Eva, sitting at the table like a queen waiting to be served, and my own smile widened. Just you wait. I’ll put you on a pedestal so high, the fall will be spectacular. And it will hurt so much more. Losing everything is far more painful than never having had it at all. 8. In the days that followed, my care for Eva was nothing short of meticulous. I supported her when she walked. I prepared whatever food she craved. I brought her a blanket when she was cold and a basin of warm water to soak her feet before bed. I was like a handmaiden from an ancient imperial court. Under my constant pampering, Eva’s weight ballooned. In less than a month, she gained thirty pounds. Her doctor issued a stern warning about her diet. But I had already stretched her appetite beyond her control. I served her six meals a day. In between the main courses, there was a never-ending parade of fresh fruit, milk, and expensive supplements like bird’s nest soup and sea cucumber stew—all, I claimed, to nourish her baby brother. Faced with such delicacies, her doctor’s orders were quickly forgotten. With my constant attention, it wasn’t just her body that expanded; her temper did too. I flattered her relentlessly, praising the baby in her womb as if it were a divine gift. She began to believe it, carrying herself with an air of immense self-importance, as if she were performing some heroic feat. She stopped being sweet and affectionate with my father. When he came home late from work, she would accuse him of cheating, her voice dripping with suspicion. Their arguments became more frequent. Each time, I would step in to calm my father down. Seeing Eva’s behavior, he became convinced that I was suffering under her tyranny at home. I would force a brave smile and tell him it was fine. Overcome with guilt and admiration, he would transfer thousands more dollars to my account as “compensation.” This cycle repeated itself several times a week. As their fights grew more bitter, my phone would chime with one deposit notification after another, not to mention the constant stream of small gifts my father brought home for me. I would sit in my room, watching the balance in my bank account grow, and laugh. Then I’d transfer every cent to my mother. 9. After weeks of being worshipped like a goddess, Eva finally let her guard down around me. She even started taking me with her when she met her friends for lunch. They were stunned to see me waiting on her hand and foot. Eva would preen under their attention. “This is my stepdaughter,” she’d announce proudly. “She’s just wonderful to me. See? I got a free daughter to take care of me. That ex-wife of David’s is such a loser. She lost her husband, and even her own daughter wouldn’t go with her!” I stood by silently, a placid smile on my face, as she bad-mouthed my mother. One of her friends shot me a nervous glance. “Eva, the kid’s right here. Lower your voice.” Eva waved a dismissive hand, not even looking at me. “What’s there to be afraid of? She’s a pushover. She chose her father, so she wouldn’t dare defend her mother. She knows who pays the bills.” I acted as if I hadn’t heard a thing, calmly refilling her teacup. “You must be thirsty from all that talking, Mom. Have some tea.” Her friends left that day marveling at what a well-behaved and devoted stepdaughter she had. Soon, everyone in her circle knew it. The winter break flew by. I looked at Eva’s swollen, ungainly form as she struggled to walk and smiled with satisfaction. It was time for the next phase of the plan. She was resting comfortably in bed. I placed a fresh set of clothes for her in the bathroom. “Mom, I have to go back to school soon, and I still have some homework to finish. I’m going to go upstairs and work on it. Your clothes are all ready for you when you want to take a shower.” She waved me away without a second thought and rolled over to sleep. I walked calmly to my room and closed the door. My hands were trembling with excitement. I put on my headphones, and the mechanical voice of an English language recording filled my ears, slowly calming my racing heart. The moment was almost here. I just wondered if she would be able to handle it.

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That simple refusal confirmed every wild suspicion in the room. Ignoring his rigid stance, I began to recite the relevant statutes from memory, a skill honed over years of practice, and pointed toward the baby in his arms. “Richard, you have a child. This isn’t just infidelity. This is tantamount to bigamy.” He remained unnervingly calm. “The child was an accident. But now that he’s here, I can’t let a Vaughn heir be cast out on the street. You’re overthinking this, Claire.” That’s when the dam inside me broke. All the composure I’d built crumbled into dust. “You told me you never wanted children!” I stared into his eyes, searching for a flicker of the man I once knew. “You said you hated them!” Finally, his composure cracked. He violently kicked a chair out of his way, stormed over, and grabbed my wrist. “Claire, have you made enough of a scene? We can talk about this at home! I have a perfectly reasonable explanation!” A reasonable explanation? While I was on a three-year assignment for our future, he, my husband, had taken a new wife. The man who swore he was child-free now had a plump, healthy son with a woman named Monica. I couldn’t begin to imagine what twisted logic he considered “reasonable.” The air between us crackled with ice. Suddenly, Monica stood up, inserting herself between us. “Richard, are you giving up on custody?” she asked, her voice a carefully crafted mix of challenge and vulnerability. “Fine. Then I’ll petition for sole, permanent custody. I don’t need a dime from you. I’ll find him a real, responsible father.” In the next instant, Richard’s grip on my wrist vanished. He was gone. The woman, Monica, held their baby, her gaze locked on Richard’s retreating back. It was only then that I truly saw her. She was draped in a diamond-studded couture gown, the very image of the high-society wife Richard had always said he wanted. Then I looked at myself. My severe, practical business suits. In his words, I didn’t have the first clue how to be a proper wife and mother. My chest felt like it had caved in. In eight years of marriage, Richard had never once given me the chance to be a mother. It started with layers of precautions and ended with him moving into a separate bedroom. I had told myself I could live with his choice, that our eight years together meant something. But the welcome-home gift after three years of grueling work in London wasn’t a party or a kiss—it was the sight of him holding the child I had always longed for. In front of a packed courtroom, Richard abandoned me again, chasing after Monica, terrified she might actually find a new father for his son. The Vaughn family was practically royalty in New York; an illegitimate child would be a scandal, but one they could easily weather. The court did not grant the divorce. I remembered my brother, Julian, a captain in the Chicago PD. Years ago, he had pressed the barrel of his service weapon to Richard’s temple. “You can marry my sister,” he’d said, his voice deadly calm. “But if you ever betray her, don’t think for a second I won’t find you.” Richard’s vows echoed in my memory, a ghostly reminder of a bridegroom who no longer existed. I pulled out my phone and dialed my brother in Chicago. “If the court won’t grant me a divorce,” I said, my voice cold as steel, “then let’s have it grant him a prison sentence.” I walked into the home I hadn’t seen in three years, ready to pack my bags and leave this life behind. I didn’t know when Richard had returned, but he met me in the foyer. The first thing I felt was a sharp, stinging slap across my face. “You took this case on purpose, didn’t you?” he snarled. “To humiliate Monica in front of everyone. Did that make you feel good, Claire? Did it make you feel powerful?” I clenched my fists, the nails digging into my palms. I couldn’t speak. Three years apart, and our reunion was this ugly, violent confrontation. Suddenly, it all felt so pointless. “Why did you refuse the divorce in court?” I asked, my voice flat. “I gave you an out.” A flicker of something—was it panic?—crossed his eyes. He ground his teeth. “What the hell is your problem, Claire? It’s just a child! Your own father had a child on the side, didn’t he? He abandoned you and your brother. Your mother put up with it, didn’t she?” He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a low, intense whisper. “Why can’t you?” His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist, the pain sharp and immediate. I stared at him, my eyes burning, the world shrinking to just his furious face. He knew. He knew my father’s affair and my mother’s subsequent death was the deepest wound of my life, a scar I never showed anyone. And he had just plunged a knife right into it. Seeing my silence, he grew more agitated. “It’s always cases, assignments in other countries, spouting legal jargon! For all these years, you’ve worn nothing but these soulless, black suits!” He paused, his lip curling in a sneer. “No man wants a hard-ass like you, Claire.” Then came the final, killing blow. “That’s why I said I was child-free,” he said, his voice dripping with venom. “Because the thought of being with you… it does nothing for me.” It was like a sledgehammer to the chest, shattering my ribs, my heart, my very soul. The shrill ring of a phone cut through my agony. Richard answered. I could hear Monica’s weak, panicked voice on the other end. “It was your wife, wasn’t it? She cut my brakes! If you didn’t want this baby, you could have just said so!” The line went dead. Richard’s face twisted into a mask of pure fury. He looked possessed. “Claire! What did you do to them? Did you touch them?” I was done with this man, this life. What more could I possibly do? Before I could answer, he was dragging me by the wrist, shoving me into his car. He deliberately prevented me from buckling my seatbelt, then peeled out onto the street, driving like a madman. We swerved through traffic, the tires screaming, until he deliberately smashed through a guardrail. I lunged for the steering wheel, but he threw me back against the passenger-side window with brutal force. “You have the guts to cut Monica’s brakes, but not enough to enjoy a little thrill ride?” he yelled over the engine’s roar. “If anything happens to them, Claire, I swear, this will be the last thing you ever experience!” Blood from a cut on my forehead streamed down my face, blurring my vision. He dragged me from the wrecked car and into the sterile brightness of a hospital, shoving me into a private room where, to my horror, his parents were already waiting. The moment they saw me, they looked at me as if I were a monster. His mother pointed a trembling finger at my nose, her voice laced with hatred. “Claire, I’m the one who begged them to have that child! If you have a problem, you take it up with me!” Her voice rose to a shriek. “Your body was useless for eight years, not a single sign of life! Monica gave this family a child in your place! You should be on your knees thanking her, not trying to kill her!” My heart thudded painfully. So, it was true. Monica wasn’t just his mistress; she was sanctioned by the Vaughn family. Not just Richard, but his parents, too, saw her as the real Mrs. Vaughn. No wonder she could parade around New York with that title, and no one dared to correct her. A wave of suffocating grief and injustice washed over me. A doctor entered, looking awkward after his examination. “Ms. Monica just has a sprained ankle. The baby is completely fine.” But Richard didn’t care. He had them moved to the most expensive suite in the hospital, with a dozen specialists on call. “What if there are internal injuries?” he raged, turning his glare on me. “If something had happened to that baby, you would have been happy, wouldn’t you!” His mother quickly covered his mouth. “Don’t say such unlucky things! This is our precious grandson.” Then, she turned back to me. “What are you standing there for? Apologize to Monica. Now.” His parents had always looked down on my family, my career. They said I was too visible, too aggressive, that I lacked the quiet dignity of a high-society wife. I gritted my teeth, my gaze sweeping over their hostile faces. “I didn’t do it. You can’t convict me on her word alone. You need evidence.” The words were barely out of my mouth when another slap cracked across my face. It was Richard, his chest heaving with rage. “Evidence? Evidence! Do you have any idea how fast I could have you disbarred? I’ll sue you into oblivion, and you’ll never practice law again!” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Eight years of marriage, erased by one woman and her child. As I looked at his enraged face, I was about to give in, to say whatever they wanted to hear, when my eyes caught something around the baby’s neck. A small, familiar chain. My heart seized. I looked at Richard, my voice a disbelieving whisper. “That’s my mother’s locket. You knew it was the only thing I have left of her. You stole it and gave it to him?” He stood there, hands in his pockets, without a trace of remorse. “It’s the only useful thing your mother ever left you,” he said coldly. “She failed to raise a decent daughter, but at least her trinket can protect the Vaughn family heir.” A roar filled my ears. I lost control. I lunged forward, a desperate, primal need to get it back consuming me. His parents shielded the baby. Monica clutched him, her face a mask of tear-streaked victimhood. “Please, just leave my baby alone!” she cried, ripping the locket from the infant’s neck. “Here, take it back!” A glint of silver flew through the air. It hit the marble floor with a sharp crack and split in two. My world stopped. My vision narrowed, my breath hitched. Everything went silent. A heavy shove sent me stumbling backward. “Don’t push it, Claire!” Richard yelled. He glanced at the broken pieces on the floor, his voice dismissive. “It’s a worthless piece of jewelry. Is it really worth all this drama?” Pushing it? Not worth it? I stared at him, my eyes burning with unshed tears, and a wild, broken laugh bubbled up from my chest. “Then agree to the divorce, Richard! Or who knows what I’ll be capable of next!” He froze, speechless. I never imagined that one angry, desperate threat would plunge me into a nightmare far worse than I could have ever conceived. Richard had the broken locket swept up and thrown out with the trash. That night, a torrential rain hammered the city. I was on my knees in a reeking landfill, digging through filth and garbage, searching for the pieces of my mother. My tears mixed with the rain as I screamed my anguish at the storm-blackened sky. “Mom,” I sobbed, “I finally understand the pain you went through.” My fingers were raw and bleeding, caked with mud, when the world finally went black. I collapsed amidst the ruins of other people’s lives. I woke to a splash of icy water. Richard’s face, dark and menacing, loomed over me. “Claire,” he seethed, “I really underestimated you.” “You threatened me yesterday, and today you acted on it. Where is the child? Tell me where you hid him!” He stared at me as if he wanted to rip open my chest and see the blackness of my heart. I curled my bleeding fingers into fists, pushing myself up from the cold floor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The next thing I knew, one of his bodyguards kicked the back of my knees, and I crashed to the ground. Monica rushed forward, her face a performance of despair. “Claire, please, I’m begging you, just give me my baby back. I’ll disappear, I swear. I’ll never go near Richard again!” Looking at her phony, tear-streaked face filled me with nausea. I couldn’t stop myself. I spat at her, my voice raw with fury. “You hid him yourself! You’re framing me, you understand that? This is a crime!” Richard’s hand struck me again, harder this time. He shoved his phone in my face. A grainy security video played, showing a woman with my build, wearing my coat, carrying a baby away. “Still lying? That’s you on camera. What else do you have to say?” His face was a mask of pure disappointment. “I never thought you were this venomous. To harm a helpless infant…” “That’s not me!” I screamed, my voice tearing from my throat. “That’s Monica! She set me up!” My mother-in-law, who had just arrived, rushed at me, pushing me hard. “You can’t stand Monica, can you? Today you kidnap her son, tomorrow you’ll kidnap her, and the day after that you’ll be coming for me!” Richard’s face went completely cold. Before I could say another word, he ordered his men to haul me to my feet. They tied my wrists to a pipe overhead. He picked up a thick leather belt, snapping it in the air with a menacing crack. “Let’s see how long you can keep your mouth shut, Claire.” One. Two. Three. The blows landed on my back and chest, each one a line of fire searing my skin. I could feel the flesh splitting open. By the tenth strike, Richard suddenly stopped. He handed the belt to a bodyguard. “Question her properly,” he commanded, his voice devoid of emotion. “I’m going to look for the baby myself. God knows what this lunatic is capable of.” His back, as he walked away without a second glance, blurred and disappeared from my vision. As Monica followed him, she turned, and in the one spot he couldn’t see, she gave me a triumphant little smirk. My wrists burned from the ropes. Tears streamed down my face. Richard had never trusted me. Not once. Crack. The sound pulled me back. The bodyguard had dipped the belt in cold water, and the next lash felt like being branded with ice and fire at the same time. “Talk! Where did you hide the young master?” Each strike exploded against my skin before the pain from the last one had even begun to fade. “Please… stop…” I gasped. “This is… illegal…” They laughed, the strikes growing more vicious. My agonized screams echoed through the empty warehouse. By the ninety-ninth lash, I had nothing left. I hung like a broken doll, a mass of torn flesh, no longer able to struggle. As my consciousness faded into a merciful gray fog, a man’s furious roar ripped through the air. “ENOUGH!” Through a haze of pain, I looked up and saw Richard, stumbling, running towards me. But just before he could reach me, the doors burst open. The room was flooded with police officers in Chicago PD uniforms. They swarmed him, surrounding him completely. The captain at the front, my brother, slapped a warrant against Richard’s chest. “Richard Vaughn,” Julian snarled, his voice shaking with rage. “Bigamy and aggravated assault. Who the hell gave you the balls?”

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A month into my first semester, I was already financially independent. Fetching water: $500. Grabbing packages: $500. Changing a duvet cover: $1,000. Providing emotional support for the queen bee: $2,000. So when the campus king and his scholarship-case girlfriend showed up looking for a fight, I was the first one to step up. You can insult me. But you will not insult my boss. For my troubles, the queen bee gifted me the latest iPhone 17 Pro Max. After graduation, while my classmates were clawing their way through recruitment season, I walked right into the Weasley Corporation headquarters by her side. Then, the Weasley family found their real, long-lost daughter. The party they threw to welcome her was the talk of the town. I found Victoria Weasley huddled in a dark corner, lighting a cigarette with a self-mocking laugh. “I guess I’m not a Weasley anymore,” she said, her voice laced with bitter humor. “You don’t have to stick around.” I just nodded and pulled a bank card from my pocket. “Thanks to you, these past few years, I’ve bought a car, a condo, and I’ve got a little saved up.” I met her gaze. “So… want to burn it all down?” … Victoria’s head snapped up. Her usually cool, imperious face was, for the first time in the seven years I’d known her, completely stunned. Victoria Weasley was like most heiresses: beautiful and imperious. The first time I saw her, during freshman orientation seven years ago, I was carrying a kettle of hot water. The queen bee acknowledged my friendly hello with a slight, regal tilt of her chin before thrusting another empty kettle into my hands. “Fill this one up for me, too.” I blinked, then rolled my eyes. I was about to tell her she was out of her mind when she pulled out a wallet, thumbed through a stack of crisp bills, and held out five hundreds. “For your trouble.” The thousand insults on the tip of my tongue vanished. I grabbed both kettles and scampered off like my life depended on it. From that day on, it was $500 for water, $500 for takeout, and $1,000 for changing her duvet cover. Victoria was so lavish with her money that I sometimes felt guilty taking it. She’d just raise an eyebrow and say coolly, “You do the work, I pay you for it. That’s how the world works.” And so I became her most loyal lackey. Correction: her most loyal assistant. But Victoria was different from the other trust-fund kids. She’d gotten into Auden University as a state scholar. While others were at fashion shows and shopping sprees, she was already interning at her family’s company. In just a few years, she had propelled Weasley Corp to new heights—so successful that her own family began to see her as a threat. Suddenly, fireworks exploded over our heads, forming the name “Lily” in the night sky. The name of the newly found “true” heiress. The Weasleys were putting on this extravagant show to legitimize her. Victoria and I exchanged a look. We both saw the same irony in each other’s eyes. Weasley Corp had just poured over a billion dollars into the new Northwood Project, and finances were tight. A city-wide spectacle like this had to have cost at least half a month of the entire company’s budget. After a moment of silence, Victoria stubbed out her cigarette and strode purposefully towards the brightly lit mansion. A small smile played on my lips as I hurried to catch up. I’d been to the Weasley mansion many times, but in the half-month since I’d last been here, it had been completely transformed. The courtyard, once filled with the vibrant roses Victoria had planted, was now home to rows of delicate, fragile gardenias. Very fitting for the new princess. My gaze fell on Lily, the center of attention. She was wearing a French-style princess gown that looked awkward on her, flanked by two men who once belonged to Victoria: her brother and her fiancé. Now, they looked more like Lily’s personal knights. Her eyes lit up when she saw me, and she gathered her skirts to walk over. “Avery! I’m so happy you could make it!” she chirped, her tone intimate, as if she wasn’t the same person I’d yelled at until she cried three years ago. “I know how amazing you are at your job. Don’t worry, you’ll have a place at Weasley Corp, just like when my sister was here.” She then covered her mouth with a theatrical gasp, her eyes wide with mock innocence. “Oh, Mason… did I overstep?” Mason Weasley, the eldest son, just ruffled her hair affectionately. “Of course not. You’re the rightful heir of this family. You can say whatever you want.” He then looked down his nose at me, as if bestowing a great favor. “Lily has a kind heart. You should be grateful she’s willing to keep you on.” Lily blushed and looked down. I had to physically restrain myself from rolling my eyes. As a senior executive at Weasley Corp, my employment was subject to a vote by the board of directors, not the whims of these idiots. Standing beside them, Blake Harrington looked thoroughly annoyed. He pulled Lily into his arms. “When is this ceremony going to start? I can’t believe Victoria occupied your place for so many years. I almost had to marry her. What a nightmare.” Lily tugged on his sleeve, whispering, “Don’t say that. It wasn’t my sister’s fault.” Blake was about to say more when a commotion at the entrance cut him off. I heard the murmurs of the crowd, followed by Blake’s voice, suddenly sharp and loud. “Victoria? Who let you in?” 2 Every head in the room turned towards the entrance. Victoria stood under the glittering crystal chandelier, a simple, elegant black velvet gown clinging to her frame. She effortlessly outshone every bejeweled woman in the room. Her expression was neutral. Her eyes met mine for a fleeting second before settling on Blake. “Blake,” she said, her voice calm and cutting, “I’ve been walking through this door for twenty years. Since when do I need your permission?” Blake was speechless, his face flushing with anger. Lily immediately peeked out from his embrace, her voice soft and trembling. “Sister, please don’t be angry. Blake didn’t mean it like that… He just… he just wasn’t expecting you…” As she spoke, her eyes welled up with tears. Mason, ever the protector, stepped in front of her. “Victoria, this is a welcome party for Lily. It’s not appropriate for you to show up uninvited.” “Uninvited?” Victoria let out a soft laugh as she glided forward. “Brother, have you forgotten? This party is being paid for by Weasley Corporation’s public relations budget. And I,” she paused, her gaze sweeping over the room, “am still a 5% shareholder in this company. As well as the original head of the Northwood Project. Do I need an invitation to see how my money is being spent?” Mason’s face froze. The guests began to whisper amongst themselves. “She’s right, she still has shares…” “And the Northwood Project was her baby…” Sensing the shift in the room, Lily forced a sickly-sweet smile. “Sister, I’m so happy you’re here! You lived in this house for over twenty years. We can be sisters, the daughters of the Weasley family together. We’re all family!” She even tried to take Victoria’s hand. Victoria sidestepped her without a second glance. Lily’s hand hung awkwardly in the air. She looked at Mason and Blake, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Blake wrapped a protective arm around her, snarling at Victoria, “Don’t be so ungrateful, Victoria! Lily is trying to be nice, and you’re still putting on your queen bee act? Look around! Who do you think you are anymore?” Mason’s expression darkened. “Victoria, those shares were a gift from Grandpa to his most beloved granddaughter. Since you’re not his biological granddaughter, those shares aren’t rightfully yours.” He offered a condescending smile. “Of course, for the sake of our years as siblings, and for all you’ve done for the company, I won’t cheat you. I’m prepared to buy your shares back at market value.” He looked down at Lily, his eyes full of adoration. “And return them to their rightful owner.” Lily looked up at him, her eyes shining with tears of gratitude. Victoria simply nodded. “Fine. We can discuss the details at the office on Monday.” The whispers grew louder. “Is she crazy? Everyone knows Weasley Corp is on the rise. Selling her shares now is like throwing money away.” “Well, she’s not a Weasley anymore. It’s smarter to take the money and run…” A sleazy voice cut through the chatter. “Well, well, what’s all the commotion?” I looked up to see a man in a flashy pink suit swaggering over, champagne flute in hand. It was Tristan Vance, a notorious playboy and one of Victoria’s former suitors. He leered at Victoria. “Well, if it isn’t the great Victoria Weasley. Oh, my mistake, the former great Victoria Weasley. Kicked to the curb and still putting on airs? I hear you’re in a tight spot. How about you consider my offer? I may not be a Weasley, but I can certainly take care of you…” He didn’t finish, but his eyes raked over her body, leaving no doubt as to his meaning. A few stifled snickers echoed through the crowd. Blake and Mason did nothing, clearly enjoying the show. Victoria didn’t say a word, just shot me a quick, pointed glance. I inwardly cursed. The queen bee had caught me enjoying the drama. I cleared my throat and stepped forward. Lily’s face paled. “Avery, you…” I ignored her and walked straight up to Tristan. “Mr. Vance, if I recall correctly, your father still hasn’t covered the thirty-seven million you lost in Vegas last month. I hear all your credit cards have been frozen. Are you planning on taking out a loan shark’s money to ‘take care’ of our Ms. Weasley?” 3 Tristan’s face turned a shade of beet red. “You… What nonsense are you spouting?” I kept my smile in place, pulling a business card from my clutch and tucking it into the pocket of his stiff suit jacket. “This is for the venture capital firm under Ms. Weasley’s name. We specialize in assisting small to medium-sized enterprises facing temporary financial difficulties. Given your current situation, perhaps you could apply for our distress fund? The interest rates are very reasonable.” A dead silence fell over the room, followed by a wave of poorly suppressed laughter. Tristan, trembling with rage, crumpled the card in his fist. He shot me a venomous glare. “You’re nothing but a dog on Victoria’s leash. She can’t even save herself now. What gives you the right to bark here?” I just shrugged, completely unbothered, and stepped back to my position just behind Victoria. Through it all, Victoria’s expression hadn’t changed. She turned her cool gaze back to the stone-faced Mason and Blake. “It seems I’m not welcome here after all. Fine.” She gave a slight flick of her hand. I immediately understood and handed her the file I’d been holding. Victoria casually tossed it onto a nearby table. “A few of my humble suggestions for the future development of the Northwood Project. Consider it a… welcome gift. For the company, and for the new heiress.” Without another word, she turned and walked out. I smiled, following her, but paused as I passed Lily. “Miss… oh, I suppose I should call you Miss Weasley now,” I whispered, my voice low enough for only her to hear. “That dress you’re wearing? It’s last season’s couture. Victoria donated it because she was tired of it.” The color drained from Lily’s face. Outside, the night air was sharp and cold. Victoria didn’t look back once at the house she had called home for over twenty years. “What did you say to her?” she asked. “Nothing much,” I shrugged. “Just reminded her she’s wearing your hand-me-downs.” A genuine smile finally broke through Victoria’s composure. “Let’s go.” I looked up and saw the familiar fire reigniting in her eyes. “Didn’t you say something about burning it all down?” I pulled out my phone and brought up a business proposal I had prepared weeks ago. “The Northwood Project,” I said. “We’re going to do it ourselves.” Victoria looked surprised. “You were already planning this?” I just gave a slight nod. Someone had been digging into the switched-at-birth story for a while. As Victoria’s right-hand woman, I was an obvious target for them to try and flip. They had offered me a contract that would have set me up for life. But all I could see was an image from seven years ago: me, a poor student, being pushed into a corner by bullies. And Victoria, walking out of the sunlight, extending a hand to me. So now, seven years later, I was walking back into the darkness to pull her out. Victoria was quiet for a moment. Then she reached out and messed up my hair. “You’re a good dog,” she said, her voice rough with emotion. I laughed, ducking away. “Assistant, boss. The word is assistant.” She dropped her hand, her gaze fixed on the glittering lights of the Weasley mansion in the distance. Her voice was calm, steady, and filled with a cold fire. “Then let’s show them,” she said. “Who the real heir is.”

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