Author: Momo Chan

My mother-in-law was in acute kidney failure and needed dialysis, but my husband, the head of nephrology, let his intern—and mistress—handle the procedure. The intern fumbled with the machine. “Dr. Wright,” she cooed, “there are so many tubes and buttons. I don’t know what to do~” My husband, Toby, patiently spent ten minutes teaching her, ignoring the nurse’s warning about the incorrect parameters. He insisted it was good practice for her. The result? The intern set the flow rate wrong, causing a fatal air embolism. My mother-in-law convulsed and died on the spot. To comfort his crying mistress, Toby wrapped his arms around her and walked out of the ER. He shot me a cold, dismissive glance. “Go,” he ordered, “get your mother’s body out of here. And sign this waiver. It was an equipment malfunction.” “Your mother didn’t have much time left anyway,” he added, his voice devoid of emotion. “Maggie is just starting her career. We can’t let some old woman ruin her future.” I froze. He actually thought the woman lying in that room, the one he had just used as a teaching tool, was my mother. A cold smile spread across my face. “I’m afraid I’m not the right person to sign that.” 1 Toby’s face immediately darkened. “What’s that supposed to mean? You refuse to sign?” His brow furrowed, his impatience palpable. “Audrey, I’m warning you, don’t even think about suing for malpractice. It won’t end well for you.” Maggie peeked out from his arms, her voice a timid whisper. “Audrey, your mother was such a kind woman. I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to make things difficult for Dr. Wright. Just sign it. It’s for the best.” I ignored her saccharine performance and raised my phone, activating the voice recorder. “Of course, I understand,” I said, my voice as calm as if I were discussing the weather. “It was an equipment malfunction. These things happen.” I paused. “But I’m not sure the hospital administration will just take my word for it. Why don’t I record you saying it, too? Just so I have something to show them.” Toby looked at me like I was an idiot. “Are you insane? It’s your mother who died, not mine. What do I care?” Then I remembered. Last month, I had taken my mother-in-law for a check-up. The results showed early signs of kidney failure. She had begged me not to tell Toby, worried it would distract him from his career. But he had found the report. My mother-in-law had been there, her eyes pleading with me. So I had lied. I told him it was my mother’s report. I finally understood the strange, unreadable look in his eyes that day. It was gloating. Seeing me just standing there, holding my phone, Toby’s patience snapped. “Fine, fine! I, Toby Wright, agree that it was an equipment malfunction. Happy now?” he snarled. “Now get lost. Can’t you see Maggie is traumatized?” He shoved past me, his arm around his precious intern, and strode towards his office without a backward glance. Maggie, nestled in his arms, looked back at me, a triumphant, mocking smile playing on her lips. I watched them go, slowly lowering my phone. I sincerely hoped he could maintain that same arrogant swagger in a little while. 2 The hospital’s risk management department soon called me in for a meeting. They looked uncomfortable; Toby was both the doctor involved and a family member of the deceased. It was a messy situation. Before they could even start, I handed them the waiver and the recording. “This is what my husband wants,” I said calmly. “He said that at her age, accidents are bound to happen. We can’t blame the hospital, and we certainly can’t blame the doctors.” The committee members exchanged stunned glances. After the meeting, I went to the morgue to handle the paperwork. And there they were again, Toby and Maggie, hand in hand, looking sickeningly sweet. Toby immediately blocked my path, shoving another piece of paper in my face. “Sign it.” It was an organ donation form. The temperature in the room dropped. “His mother was a devout Buddhist,” I said, my voice cold. “She wanted to leave this world whole, just as she entered it. I will not agree to this.” Maggie let out a snort of laughter. “Audrey, you’re so old-fashioned. What does it matter once she’s ashes?” She smirked. “With a disease like that, she must have done some pretty terrible things in a past life. This is what you call karma. She deserved it.” Toby nodded in agreement. “Audrey, your mother didn’t contribute much in life. Let her do some good in death. Maybe she’ll earn enough good karma for a better reincarnation. It’s like produce at the market; it’s only valuable when it’s fresh. Let it sit too long, and it’s worthless. Understand?” I was trembling with a rage so profound it made me nauseous. Was this man I married a monster in a white coat, or the devil himself? “Toby! That was your mother, too! Have you no soul?” I cried. “I will never agree to this!” I tried to leave, but he grabbed my wrist, his grip like a vice. “You ungrateful bitch. I’ve been too nice to you.” He raised his other hand. I stared him down. “You lay a hand on me, and I swear, my parents will destroy you.” CRACK! The slap was so hard my ears rang, and stars exploded behind my eyes. The stinging pain was nothing compared to the agony in my heart. The humiliation and shock were a bucket of ice water dumped over my head. “Your parents?” he sneered. “What are they going to do? Without them, you’re nothing.” He forced my hand down onto the form, pressing my thumb into the ink pad and then onto the signature line. He shoved me, and I fell to the floor in a heap. I clutched my cheek, staring up at him in disbelief. This was the man who once couldn’t even bear to speak a harsh word to me. 3 Maggie immediately clung to his arm. “Don’t be angry, honey. She’s not worth it. Your hands are too precious.” Toby’s fury melted away as he looked at her. “You’re right, my love. She’s not worth it.” He looked down at me, his eyes like chips of ice. “Let me make this clear, Audrey. If you donate the body, your mother earns some good karma. If you don’t, she’ll be disposed of as medical waste. Your choice.” He turned to leave, but Maggie stopped him. “You must be exhausted after your surgery, Dr. Wright. Why don’t you go rest? I can handle this. It’ll be good practice, right? You always say practice makes perfect.” He tweaked her nose affectionately. “Clever girl. Go on, then. Think of it as a preview for your anatomy class.” The moment he was gone, Maggie’s sweet smile vanished. She walked over to the gurney and ripped off the white sheet. She picked up a scalpel, brandishing it near my mother-in-law’s eyes. “Old bat was half-blind anyway. These corneas are useless.” She then picked up a bone saw, waving it over the corpse’s head. “And her brain is probably so shriveled up, no one would want it for a specimen.” I retched, a silent scream building in my throat. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t protect you. Just a little longer, I told myself. I will make them pay in blood. She began to cut, pulling out organs and tossing them onto the floor with disgust. She even took out her phone, snapping pictures of her gruesome work and sending them to Toby. His voice message came back, full of praise and affection. “My Maggie is so talented and brave. Don’t worry about making a mess on your first dissection. It’s not like Audrey’s mother has any valuable organs anyway. Just think of it as practice. A worthy end for her.” Maggie grinned at me. “Your mother’s body is in worse shape than the cadavers in the lab. What a waste of my time.” I took a deep breath, forcing down the bile and rage. I lunged forward, my fingers trembling, and snatched the phone from her hand. A tear I couldn’t hold back splashed onto the screen. I held the phone to my mouth and said, each word a shard of glass, “Toby. I want a divorce.”

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The police called me to the scene. When I arrived, his secretary was still on her knees beside the body, wailing my husband’s name. She was a wreck. But I wasn’t looking at her. I was looking at the shimmering ghost of Chris, hovering in the air just above them. Perhaps some betrayals are so vile, not even hell will claim the soul. 1 The officer beside me cleared his throat, a touch of awkwardness in his voice as he broke the silence. “Mrs. Quinn.” That single sound was enough to halt the secretary, Molly, in the middle of a desperate sob. Maybe Chris really had loved this woman down to his very bones. He’d lost his life in the crash, yet she had walked away with nothing more than a few minor cuts and bruises. But Chris’s love… I glanced at the translucent figure of the man watching the scene unfold and couldn’t help but let out a soft, contemptuous sound. Chris’s love changed colors more easily than a chameleon. When Molly turned to look at me, her face was a mask of shock, which quickly morphed into rage. She scrambled to her feet, her face flushed a deep crimson, and launched herself at me. The ghostly version of Chris reacted just as the living one would have. He tried to step between us, to shield her, terrified that I might lay a hand on his precious Molly. But he was nothing but air. He could only watch in frustration as she passed right through his incorporeal form and lunged for me. “Molly, be careful,” he muttered, his brow furrowed in concern. Then his gaze snapped to me, a silent, furious warning. “Vivian, I’m warning you. Don’t you dare touch her.” It was a scene that had played out a dozen times before. Except this time, it seemed I was the only one who could hear him. Molly’s hands clawed for my shoulders, her expression twisted with malice. She was clearly not here to offer condolences. I instinctively recoiled, my brows knitting together. An officer caught her just before she could tackle me, preventing her from tumbling to the floor. “Ma’am, you need to calm down,” the officer said firmly, his voice layered with professional patience. “Mr. Quinn’s final arrangements are the responsibility of his wife, Mrs. Quinn.” He emphasized the word “wife,” and it was clear he’d already pieced together the sordid little triangle. Molly froze, her expression turning monstrous, like something out of our son Leo’s nightmares—ugly and repulsive. “Officer, I want to file a report!” she shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at me. “His crash—it was her! It had to be! It was no accident!” The officer let out a weary sigh. Seeing she was completely unhinged, I took another step back, seeking refuge behind him. The last thing I needed was to get scratched up by a madwoman. Chris had already drifted to Molly’s side, his cold, spectral eyes fixed on me. I couldn’t read his expression, but I didn’t have to. I was certain he suspected me, too. 2 The lead officer looked helpless. Just as he was about to speak, I cut him off, my gaze fixed on Molly. “Without any evidence, that’s slander. I can sue you for it.” Molly ground her teeth, her fury barely contained. Finding the whole display tedious, I offered her a piece of advice. “I suggest you go home and start packing up all the little gifts Chris gave you.” I paused for effect. “After all, everything he bought you was marital property. My son Leo and I are his sole legal heirs. What do you think the odds are that I’ll be coming to collect every single penny he spent on you?” Molly’s theatrical sobbing stopped dead. Her face went pale. Seeing she’d finally quieted down, the officer gestured for a policewoman to escort her out. As Molly was led from the room, Chris tried to follow. But the frustrating part? He reached the doorway only to be snapped back by some invisible force, pulled back into the room with me. I shot him a vicious little smile. Serves you right. “Mrs. Quinn, we’ll leave you to handle Mr. Quinn’s affairs,” the officer who brought me here said gently. I assumed they’d done their due diligence before contacting me. The crash was a genuine accident. On the drive over, they’d asked a few routine questions about Chris’s life and left it at that. I had no desire to look at Chris’s face, especially not after a car wreck. I didn’t need the image of his mangled features haunting my dreams. I made a quick call to my assistant and my lawyer to handle the arrangements and prepared to leave. I’d rushed here, and while I’d asked our nanny, Mrs. Gable, to pick up Leo from preschool, I was still worried. Leo had never been close to his father, which made him incredibly attached to me. I was afraid he wouldn’t go to sleep without me there. After signing the necessary paperwork and confirming with the police that my assistant was on his way, I headed straight for the airport and booked the next flight home. 3 And just like that, it was confirmed. Chris, or what was left of him, was tethered to me. I watched his translucent form drift near the ceiling of the airplane cabin and narrowed my eyes. Well now, this could be fun. The moment I landed, a video message from Mrs. Gable popped up on my phone. In it, Leo was dressed in his adorable dinosaur pajamas, his big, innocent eyes blinking slowly. He refused to sleep, calling for me over and over. It was only when Mrs. Gable told him I was watching through the camera that he sat up, managed a wobbly smile, and spoke to the lens. “Mommy, I wanna sleep with you. Can you come home, please?” He was five, almost old enough for elementary school, but his voice was still thick with that sweet, babyish lisp that could melt any heart. I hurried my steps. My assistant had a car waiting, and in less than an hour, I was home. Mrs. Gable was reading a picture book with Leo in the living room. The moment he heard the door, he scampered over to greet me. I scooped him into my arms, murmuring comforting words as I carried him to his room. I tucked him in, read him his favorite story, and finally, his breathing evened out into the soft rhythm of sleep. While I was tending to Leo, I noticed Chris sitting on the cushioned window seat in the corner of the room. He’d never shown much interest in Leo, probably because the boy was a product of a marriage he’d grown to resent. The few times he was home, he rarely spent time with our son. It was no surprise, then, that Leo hadn’t mentioned his father once. I heard Chris’s faint, ghostly whisper. He was muttering to himself, asking why Leo never asked for his dad. I found it laughable. After placing a soft kiss on Leo’s cheek, I quietly left his room and went to the master bedroom. 4 I wasn’t about to play games with him. I sat down on the edge of the bed and spoke into the empty air. “Leo is five years old. In those five years, how many times have you actually been there for him?” “Did you ever take him to the park? Ever read him a bedtime story? Hell, our driver knows him better than you do. What exactly do you expect him to remember?” I stared at the space where I knew he was standing. We had been married for ten years. He had been sleeping with his secretary for three. The translucent figure suddenly met my gaze, his form wavering slightly. The usual composure of the great CEO Chris Quinn was gone, replaced by sheer astonishment. “You can see me.” I didn’t answer, just gave him a look one might reserve for a complete idiot. Chris sighed, a sound like rustling leaves, and drifted over to my vanity. He sat down, staring at the mirror, and seemed to freeze for a few seconds when he saw no reflection. I let out a cold laugh, crossing my arms. “So, Mr. Quinn. It seems even in death, you can’t get away from me.” The moment I discovered his affair with Molly, I had filed for divorce. He refused, citing all the classic excuses: he couldn’t live without me, Leo needed a father. He fought every petition, every motion. At one point, I took him to court, but I lacked concrete proof of the affair. Since Molly was his secretary, their constant proximity could always be explained away as work. After countless failed attempts, I had temporarily given up. But I’d found a silver lining. An invisible ATM who never came home, never caused trouble, and always paid the bills. It was a pretty sweet deal, actually. So, I began quietly purchasing real estate in Leo’s name and focused on rebuilding my own career. I had to be prepared for the day he would inevitably blindside me with his own divorce papers. I never expected to be planning his funeral instead. Chris had no siblings, and his parents had passed away years ago. This meant that every asset, every stock, every last penny to his name now belonged to me and Leo. His legally protected wife and his biological son. What a generous man he turned out to be. 5 We didn’t speak for the rest of the night. I fell asleep surprisingly quickly. The next morning, my assistant sent me the cremation certificate, along with a short video of Chris’s body being moved into the incinerator. Chris, who had been brooding in a corner, drifted over, curious about what I was watching. His eyes widened as he saw his own mortal shell sliding into the flames. “You’re not even a little sad, are you?” His voice was muffled, heavy with disbelief. He watched as I calmly took a sip of my coffee, his ghostly brow knitting into a tight knot. I ignored his question, finished my coffee, and went to wake Leo for preschool. Receiving no answer from me, Chris began to lose his composure. He floated closer, his voice rising in anger. “Vivian!” Leo, still drowsy and blissfully unaware of the spectral tantrum, giggled in my arms. “Mommy, I’m gonna bring lots of snacks to share with my friends today!” he announced, his sleepiness replaced by excitement. He chattered happily all through breakfast and while brushing his teeth, his little hands gesturing wildly. A real smile touched my lips. I helped him pack his favorite treats into his little backpack. 6 After dropping Leo off, I had a quick online meeting with my lawyer, then headed to Chris’s company headquarters. Chris seemed to be in the middle of a silent, sulking protest. He floated along beside me, arms crossed, saying nothing. Or perhaps he was just eagerly anticipating his reunion with Molly. He was in for a disappointment. Men are often so much slower to see the truth about certain things. Especially about certain women. When we arrived at the office, Molly was nowhere to be found. Chris’s other secretary, a professional and discreet woman named Ms. Hayes, was already aware of the situation. My lawyer had called ahead, so she knew why I was there. She had efficiently scheduled a board meeting for two o’clock. Ms. Hayes led me into Chris’s expansive office. “You can wait in here, Mrs. Quinn. I’ll bring you the relevant files.” She paused, hesitating for a moment before walking over to a large filing cabinet. She slid it aside, revealing a hidden door. “There’s a small suite in here if you need to rest.” Behind the door was a bedroom, complete with a large bed, a wardrobe, and an en-suite bathroom. My stomach clenched. The thought of what Chris and Molly might have done in here was enough to make me want to leave immediately. In fact, the entire office felt contaminated. The more I thought about it, the more nauseous I became. “This place is filthy,” I said, taking a half-step back and subtly wiping my nose, avoiding Chris’s gaze. “I think I’ll wait in your office, Ms. Hayes.” The silent ghost of Chris finally stirred, his gaze burning into me. I ignored his fury and gestured for Ms. Hayes to lead the way. Left with no choice, she quickly showed me to her own, much smaller, office. 7 I spent the morning reviewing documents and consulting remotely with a specialist my assistant had found. By now, Chris understood exactly what I was planning. As Ms. Hayes and I headed to the corporate cafeteria for lunch, Chris trailed behind me, his ghostly voice a venomous stream in my ear. It was almost funny. We met at seventeen, started dating at eighteen, married at twenty-three. In all that time, I had never once seen the great Chris Quinn lose his cool like this. “Vivian, how could you sell my shares?!” “You bitch!” “This is all mine! What right do you have?!” Chris had come from a modest, middle-class family. He’d built this company from the ground up, a true prodigy among his peers. He had proposed to me when we were twenty but insisted on waiting until he was twenty-three to marry, all because he wanted to give me a better life. And then, in our seventh year of marriage, he cheated. While Ms. Hayes went to get our food, I finally responded to him. “It’s mine now.” I offered no further explanation. He froze, his translucent eyes turning a furious, blood-red. “Vivian! I hope you rot in hell!” After lunch and a short break, it was time for the meeting. I hadn’t even reached the conference room when I heard a familiar voice from inside. It was Molly. I leaned against the doorframe, glancing back at Chris. The flicker of hope in his eyes was so pathetic it was almost comical. What a foolish, foolish man. “To all the board members,” Molly’s voice drifted out, trembling slightly. Chris desperately wanted to go inside, his gaze darting back and forth to me. But I remained right where I was, forcing him to listen from the hallway. “With Mr. Quinn’s passing…”

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It was supposed to be my wedding day, but my fiancé, Cade, stood in front of the limousine, blocking my way. “I’m not here for you today.” I froze, completely lost, as his groomsmen erupted in laughter behind him. “Game over, boys,” Cade announced, a triumphant smirk on his face. “I won.” “Damn, Cade, you actually did it. You tamed the ice queen.” “Pay up,” Cade said to his friends. “Bet money and wedding gifts. I want every cent.” Then, my sister, Lily, appeared. She was wearing a wedding gown identical to mine. Cade took her hand and helped her into the limousine. The car sped away. I tried to run after it, but my family swarmed around me, forming a human cage. My brother, a top-tier actor, blocked my path. “Cade is in love with Lily. He’s marrying her. This is their wedding day, so you will behave.” My mother, a famous actress, clasped my hand. “Audrey, darling, your sister suffers from severe depression. She’s suicidal. Cade is the only one who can keep her stable. Just… let her have this.” My father, a billionaire tycoon, just snorted. “You’ve already had eighteen years of the life that should have been hers. Letting her have one man is the least you can do. It’s a bargain, really.” Then, they had their security drag me back to the house and lock me inside to prevent me from causing a scene at the hotel. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. In fact, I could barely contain the smile spreading across my face. 1 As the bodyguards shoved me into the mansion, a calm, digital voice echoed in my mind. Host, do you confirm you wish to exit this world via death? “Confirm.” Please select your method of death. “I want to leap from a building. I want to die right in front of Cade and the Blackwood family. I want to scar them for life.” Generating method of death… Method confirmed. Upon successful death, Host will be rewarded with one hundred million dollars. This selection cannot be changed. “Confirm.” This was my twenty-first year in this world, and the third year since Lily, the real heiress, had been found. I’m a transmigrator. In this life, I was the “fake” daughter of a billionaire, swapped at birth with my “sister,” Lily. I was an orphan in my previous life, so when I first arrived here, I thought I’d won the lottery. I had a loving mother and father, and a brother who protected me from everything. But that all shattered on my eighteenth birthday, the day my father brought Lily home. Now, every door and window in the mansion was locked. They’d posted guards to watch me. “Miss Audrey,” the housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, sneered, brandishing a baseball bat. “You’d best stay put. For your own good.” Her expression was menacing, like a wolf guarding a hen house. I took two steps toward the door, and a searing pain exploded in my leg as she swung the bat. I collapsed, crying out. “Miss Lily gave me specific instructions,” she said, looming over me. “If you misbehave, I am to break your legs.” Suddenly, she screamed at the top of her lungs. “She’s trying to escape! She’s going to ruin the wedding! Stop her!” Several burly security guards immediately advanced on me, clubs in hand. 2 I scrambled backward in terror. “What are you doing? I’m not running! You can’t just attack me!” “Oh, we know what you’re thinking, Miss Audrey,” one of them growled. “Even if you’re not running now, you will be later.” “It’s easier to just break your legs now,” Mrs. Gable added with a vicious smile. “That way, we know you won’t be crashing Miss Lily’s big day.” “My parents will hear about this!” I yelled, my voice shaking. “And what will they do?” she laughed. “I’ll just tell them you were trying to escape and fell from the second-story window. They won’t lift a finger.” “Do it!” They swarmed me, their clubs rising and falling. I heard the sickening crack of my own bones. My white wedding dress blossomed with crimson, a horrifying sight. But they didn’t stop. It was as if their goal wasn’t just to stop me, but to kill me. “If I die here today, the Blackwoods will destroy you!” I gasped. “You still think you’re their precious daughter?” Mrs. Gable spat. “You’re just some stray they took in by mistake! They wanted to throw you out the second they found Miss Lily. It was your brother who begged them to keep you. Said they could just treat you like a stray dog!” “Trying to steal Miss Lily’s fiancé? You don’t deserve to live!” A horrifying realization dawned on me, and I started to laugh, a broken, hysterical sound. “So this isn’t about the wedding. You’re trying to murder me.” “An accidental fall during an escape attempt… entirely plausible, don’t you think, Miss Audrey?” Panic seized me. I could die, but not like this. This wasn’t the death I had chosen. What if the system didn’t count it? What if I couldn’t go home? Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, I lunged forward, tackling the guard in front of me. I crashed into a small altar where my mother had lit a candle for Lily’s well-being. The candle tipped over, its flame instantly catching on the heavy drapery. The room went up in flames. “You little bitch! You set the house on fire!” In the chaos, I dragged my shattered body out of the mansion. The estate was covered in security cameras; they wouldn’t dare follow me past the gates. I stumbled onto the main road, a gruesome sight in my blood-soaked wedding dress, dragging my broken leg. I tried to hail a cab, but car after car swerved around me, the drivers horrified. Finally, a young woman pulled over, her eyes wide with concern. “Oh my god, do you need help?” I begged her to take me to the hotel. The hotel was owned by my father; the staff all knew me. The security guards and front desk clerks stared in shock but didn’t dare stop me. When I reached the entrance to the grand ballroom, my family was there, greeting guests with brilliant, happy smiles. The moment they saw me, those smiles froze and shattered. 3 This was the wedding of the year, crawling with reporters. The second they saw me, a frenzy of camera flashes blinded me. My brother stalked toward me. “What are you doing here?” he hissed. “Useless guards, can’t even watch one girl! Look at you! Did you do this to yourself just to ruin this for us? Is this how desperate you are for a headline?” My mother rushed over, her face a mask of worry. “Audrey, what happened? Is that… is that blood on your dress?” “Yes, it’s blood. My blood. Lily’s people beat me half to death. I barely escaped.” My father slapped me, hard. The taste of copper filled my mouth. “You shameless brat! You just can’t stand to see your sister happy, can you?” My mother grabbed my arm. “Audrey, you said Lily’s people did this?” My brother pulled her away. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s paint. She’s always been a drama queen, pulling stunts for the cameras!” He seized my wrist and started to drag me away. I stumbled and fell. As I hit the marble floor, my broken leg was exposed to everyone. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. The bone of my shin had pierced the skin, a jagged white shard against the bloodied flesh. I had dragged myself here on that leg. A normal person would have passed out from the pain. But the system, in its mercy, had activated a pain-dampening protocol. I felt nothing. My mother covered her mouth, tears streaming down her face. “Audrey… oh god, you’re so badly hurt!” For a second, I saw a flicker of pity in my father’s eyes. “How did you let this happen to yourself?” Even my brother, who had been spitting venom just moments before, was speechless. Cade pushed through the crowd and saw me lying there. “Audrey?” I lifted my blood-streaked face to look at him. “Perfect timing. I have a few questions for you.” Lily arrived, a vision of angelic purity in her white gown, her face stained with tears. “Audrey, this is the most important day of my life. Must you destroy it?” she sobbed, her body trembling. “Why do you hate me so much? You’ve already stolen everything that was mine! All I wanted was Cade! Can’t you just let us be happy?” My brother reached for me. “I’ll take you to the hospital.” “Brother!” Lily’s voice was a desperate wail. “The ceremony is about to start! You’re leaving?” She looked at me, her eyes full of poison. “This is just one of her tricks. Do you really believe I would do this to my own sister?” My brother dropped my hand as if it were on fire. “Audrey, you are sick,” he spat. “To frame your own sister, you would mutilate yourself like this. Go to the hospital on your own. And don’t worry, the Blackwood family has no use for a cripple. We’ll pay for the best doctors to fix your leg.” I knew then that nothing I could say would matter. I gritted my teeth and pulled myself to my feet. “I just have a few things to say. Then I’ll go.” My eyes found Cade. “Our entire relationship… it was just a bet with your friends, wasn’t it? You never had any real feelings for me. Yes or no?”

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After my fiancé canceled our wedding for the ninth time—losing another bet to his gorgeous assistant—I set an ultimatum: if the tenth wedding was called off, I’d marry someone else. He just chuckled. “Hanna, you gave me a kidney. Who else would marry you?” Then he smirked, “Besides, who’d want a walking hospital bill?” On our tenth wedding day, his assistant Rianne sent him a one-way ticket to New York. The bet: find her at the airport in an hour, and she’d stay for the ceremony. Richard’s face fell. He tore off his boutonnière and ran. An hour later, Rianne posted an Instagram photo of them embracing at JFK, caption: “Someone who truly cares will find you in a crowd of thousands.” Standing frozen in my lace gown, I began unbuttoning it, then called a number I hadn’t dialed in years. “Ian Glover,” I said, voice steady. “Is that offer to marry me still open?” A sharp breath. “Yes. For you, Hanna? It’s a lifetime offer.” 1 A wave of awkward silence washed over the grand ballroom. The cream of the city’s high society, all dressed in their finest, exchanged uncomfortable glances. A few whispers of support started to ripple through the crowd. “This is the tenth time! Richard is being utterly absurd. How can he keep ditching Hanna West for some assistant?” “Exactly! After everything she’s done for him. She gave him her kidney, for God’s sake. Her own father, Harrison West, practically disowned her for it.” Their sympathetic gazes felt like tiny needles on my skin. Even strangers could see how far past a joke this had gone. Richard’s mother, Amelia, rushed over, her face a mask of frantic composure. “Hanna, darling, you need to tell everyone,” she urged, grabbing my arm. “Just say there was an emergency at the office, a major crisis he had to handle. For now, just invite the guests to start dining.” I looked at the woman who had always claimed to love me like a daughter, a suffocating tightness seizing my chest. “Amelia, do you really think these people are fools? I’ve made that excuse nine times. You want me to say it a tenth?” Her expression hardened instantly. “You’ve said it nine times already. What’s one more?” she snapped, her voice low and sharp. “You claim to love my son, yet you won’t even do this one small thing for him? That doesn’t sound like love to me.” She said it so matter-of-factly, as if she were commenting on the weather. The past two years flashed before my eyes. Ever since Richard had hired Rianne Vance, the brilliant Ivy League Ph.D., as his executive assistant, our wedding had become a recurring nightmare. He always accepted her ridiculous bets on our wedding day. And he always, always lost. The first time, he lost a game of dares and had to give the entire wedding venue to Rianne for her birthday party. Our guests arrived to see a giant screen flashing “Happy Birthday, Rianne!” Their jaws practically hit the floor. The second time, he lost a game of dice and had to down an entire bottle of scotch, landing himself in the emergency room. The third time… Each time, he’d put on a pained expression. “Hanna, I’m doing this for the company. Rianne is a genius, an incredible asset. I have to keep her happy. It was a bet, and I lost. I can’t go back on my word, or she’ll think I’m a dishonorable boss.” A sharp pain lanced through my heart. They always played their games on our wedding day, and he never once won. Did he really think I was that stupid? I remembered the last time, the ninth time. The bet was a hundred-meter dash to my wedding dress, which was displayed on a mannequin. Richard, a towering six-foot-one with the build of an athlete, was feet from the finish line when he suddenly tripped, collapsing dramatically just short of the goal. Rianne, barely a step ahead, snatched the gown. “Well, Richard,” she’d chirped, a triumphant glint in her eyes. “You lose to me every single time. Are you sure you’re not doing this on purpose? Maybe you just don’t want to marry Hanna.” She held the dress against herself. “Tell you what, let me try this on. I bet I’d look stunning.” A flicker of something—admiration, desire—had crossed Richard’s face. He smiled indulgently. “Fine. You won. The dress is yours.” His excuse to me later was pathetic. “We can’t have a wedding without a dress, can we? A bet’s a bet, Hanna. I’m a man of my word.” He had been so close. His hand could have reached it in a second. One more second, and I would have been his wife. That was the closest I had ever come to happiness. Amelia was still whispering frantically in my ear when the grand doors of the ballroom burst open. Richard strode in, Rianne clinging to his arm. “Hanna, I lost again,” he announced, his voice carrying across the silent room. “Took me an hour and one minute to find her. You know me, I’m a man of my word. You wouldn’t want me to look bad, would you?” “The timing is all off for today’s ceremony,” he continued breezily. “We’ll just have to reschedule.” Right there, in front of Rianne, he walked over to our huge wedding portrait, lifted it off its easel, and tossed it into a nearby trash can along with his crumpled boutonnière. A collective gasp echoed through the hall. The sheer contempt in that gesture turned every eye on me, their pity curdling into disdain. The heiress of the West fortune, reduced to a pathetic joke. I saw the smug, victorious gleam in Rianne’s eyes and felt a bitter smile touch my lips. “Richard,” I said, my voice clear and cold. “How about we make a bet? Let’s see if you’ll lose on the eleventh try.” 2 Richard’s face tightened with irritation. “Hanna, I only make these bets with Rianne. Don’t butt in.” I slowly raised my hand, the massive diamond on my ring finger catching the light. “I bet,” I said, my voice ringing with newfound strength, “that by the time we schedule our eleventh wedding, Thorne Industries will be bankrupt.” The color drained from his face. He lunged forward and shoved me hard in the chest. “Hanna, what the hell is wrong with you? You’ve become so venomous. Just because I didn’t marry you today, you’re going to curse my family’s company?” “Rianne was right,” he sneered. “You’re all beauty and no brains, just using that kidney to guilt-trip me.” A wave of fury, hot and sharp, finally broke through my numbness. I stumbled back, catching myself on a table. “If you’re sleeping with her, Richard, then just marry her!” I shouted, my voice trembling. “You don’t have to keep staging these pathetic, humiliating games to torture me!” Rianne’s face flushed a theatrical red. “Ms. West, how could you say something so disgusting?” she cried out. “Richard and I are just trying to foster a positive and fun work environment! Your vulgar accusations are completely uncalled for.” She turned to me, her voice dripping with faux pity. “Look, if you’re that desperate to get married, I’ll be sure to let Richard win the next bet. Okay?” She stepped closer, linking her arm through mine as if we were friends, and hissed into my ear, “Have you no shame, Hanna? Jilted ten times and you’re still here, barking like a pathetic stray. If I were you, I’d have crawled into a hole and died by now. Let me spell it out for you: Richard is sick of you. He wants me.” She pulled back just as quickly, her expression one of innocent exasperation. “Richard, remember that bet you lost last time? The one where you promised to cut off Hanna’s hair to make a wig for Gigi? I didn’t even hold you to it. Why is she making such a scene now?” Richard’s face softened into a look of dopey adoration. He pulled a pair of scissors from a nearby floral arrangement kit and handed them to her. “A bet’s a bet,” he said with a helpless shrug. “I can’t lose face in front of my staff.” My blood ran cold. I stared at him in disbelief. I remembered him stroking my hair, his voice full of admiration. “Hanna, your hair is like black silk. Promise me you’ll always keep it long, for me.” After the transplant, my health had deteriorated. My hair started falling out in clumps. Richard had brewed special herbal remedies for me every day to help it grow back strong. And now, for Rianne’s dog, he was going to let her cut it off. He placed the scissors in her hand, then looked at me as if explaining something to a child. “It’s just hair, Hanna. Poor Gigi lost all her fur after her last treatment. Dogs have pride too, you know. She’s so depressed she won’t even eat. Just let us make a little wig for her.” Before I could even speak, Rianne grabbed a handful of my hair. A vicious light flashed in her eyes as she brought the scissors close to my scalp and, with a sharp, cold snip, severed a thick lock. The tip of the blade scraped my skin, a stinging pain that shot through me. I tried to push her away, but in my weakened state, I was no match for her. Snip. Snip. Snip. She hacked away, leaving my hair a ragged mess. She held up the shorn locks with a look of disgust. “Richard, you said her hair was beautiful. It feels like dried straw. Gigi wouldn’t be caught dead in this.” With a flick of her wrist, she tossed my hair into the trash can. Richard just patted her hand consolingly. “It’s okay. If you don’t like it, we’ll buy something better tomorrow.” Gasping for breath, I stared at them. A primal rage I never knew I possessed surged through me. With the last of my strength, I lunged, snatching the scissors from her hand and plunging them into her chest. The blood bloomed instantly, staining my hands. Rianne gasped, clutching her chest as she staggered backward into Richard’s arms. The ballroom erupted into chaos. “She stabbed her! Oh my God, Hanna West just tried to kill someone!” My body trembled uncontrollably, but my grip on the bloody scissors was firm. “Are you satisfied with this bet, Richard?” I asked, my voice a ragged whisper. 3 For the first time, I saw a crack in Richard Thorne’s arrogant facade. Pure, unadulterated panic. He clutched Rianne tightly, his other foot lashing out to kick me away. “Somebody call 911!” he roared. His eyes, when they met mine, were filled with a chilling, absolute loathing. “You’re insane, Hanna,” he spat. “No wonder your father wanted to beat you senseless. No wonder your mother threw herself off a building. You’re a heartless, toxic viper.” His words struck me like a physical blow, plunging me into an icy abyss. My body trembled so violently I could barely stand. He knew my deepest wounds, and he had just ripped them open with relish. He was terrified for the woman in his arms, so he tore my soul to shreds to even the score. My hair, a butchered mess, framed my pale face. My body finally gave out, and I collapsed onto the floor in a heap of torn silk and broken pride. The paramedics arrived. He lifted Rianne into his arms and rushed her toward the ambulance. Just before he left, he threw one last, venomous look over his shoulder. “Hanna West, this isn’t over. You’ll pay for this. Assault with a deadly weapon, in front of all these people.” The guests began to file out, shaking their heads in pity and disgust. My tenth wedding had ended in a spectacle of blood and violence. I remained on the stage, a lone figure in a ruined gown, until the last person had gone. Then, the police arrived. “Are you Hanna West?” an officer asked, his tone professional but wary. “We’ve received a report of an alleged assault. We need you to come with us.” My voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “Was it Richard Thorne who called you?” The officer nodded. I swallowed the metallic taste of blood and bile rising in my throat and followed them to the squad car, my entire body shaking. In the interrogation room, they asked me about my motive, about the sequence of events. I told them everything, my voice a monotone drone. A female officer looked at me with a flicker of compassion, taking in my mangled hair and the dried blood on my dress. “Ms. West,” she said gently, “he’s clearly moved on. Why are you still hanging on to a man like that?” Why? Her question echoed in the sterile room. Was it because he offered me a single piece of candy when I was drowning in a sea of misery? My parents’ marriage was a business merger. To save his failing company, my father had abandoned the woman he’d loved for five years to marry my mother. Not long after, his ex-girlfriend secretly gave birth to his son. My father didn’t find out until the boy was six. Consumed by guilt, he began dividing his life between our home and hers. My proud, elegant mother froze him out. She threatened divorce, but their family businesses were too deeply intertwined. It was impossible to untangle them. Finally, when I was twelve, she succumbed to her depression and jumped from a skyscraper. In an instant, I was motherless. Six months later, my father remarried. Just like that, they were a happy family of three, and my hatred for him grew with every passing day. I started skipping school, hiding out in internet cafes. When my stepbrother, three years my senior, slapped me and called me an uneducated brat, I grabbed a kitchen knife and slashed his arm. “I’m an orphan,” I screamed at him. “At least I’m not a bastard like you.” That night, my father tied me up and took a cane to me, beating me until my skin was raw before locking me in the basement to “reflect.” I was barely conscious when Richard Thorne found me. He snuck me out, carried me on his back. He was the one who comforted me, who told me I had a reason to live. From that day on, he became my entire world, the sole pillar supporting my fragile existence. My love for him was more than just romance; he was my lifeline. Hours later, Richard arrived at the station, a solicitous Rianne leaning on his arm. When the police asked about a resolution, Richard’s gaze was glacial. “We will not be settling this out of court. She needs to be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. She was violent as a child, and she’s violent now. If she doesn’t learn her lesson, there’s no telling what she’ll do next.” Rianne tilted her chin up, her eyes burning with righteous indignation. The female officer sighed and pulled me aside. “Ms. West, he’s still your fiancé. Just go apologize. Show some remorse. We can probably make this go away.” Seeing the unyielding look in my eyes, she sighed again. “Look, I get that you’re angry, but if he presses charges, you could be looking at a year in prison. With your health… are you sure you’d make it out of there alive?” Her grave expression sent a chill through me. With a high-class manipulator like Rianne pulling the strings, it was a real possibility. I walked back into the room and bowed my head. “I’m sorry, Ms. Vance. I acted impulsively. Please, forgive me.”

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After my divorce, I disappeared. I changed my appearance and identity, remarried, had a child, and built a quiet, ordinary life. Everyone, including him, likely thought I’d eventually come back defeated. Seven years later, I returned to Sebastian Murray’s city, expecting him to have married Sophie Reed—the woman he’d promoted at my expense. But at a gala, I saw him. Still strikingly handsome, still single. He didn’t recognize me, yet whispers followed him: “Sebastian, still hung up on his ex-wife. Who will inherit his fortune?” The words confused me. If he loved me, why did he leak my most private photos the night I won my career’s top award? Why did he let my reputation be destroyed until I had to flee in disgrace? … Seven years ago, on the day I was supposed to fly to Cannes to accept the award for Best Actress, my private photos exploded across the internet. Overnight, I went from being a celebrated actress to a pariah, a target for public scorn. I remember staring at the vile comments, my fingertips trembling, before racing home to demand an explanation from Sebastian. But the conversation I overheard from behind his study door froze me in my tracks. “Mr. Murray, isn’t this a bit too harsh? Mrs. Murray has fought her way up in this industry for years. This could destroy her career. She might never work again.” Sebastian’s voice was calm, chillingly detached. “This award was meant for Sophie. For the future of Sophie’s career, what’s sacrificing her once?” My back was pressed flat against the cold wall, a bone-deep chill seeping into my soul. An assistant’s fawning voice continued, “You’re a true visionary, sir. It only took three steps to have Joanna Wells wrapped around your little finger.” “First,” the man gushed, “when she was just starting out, you had the agency trick her into signing doctored contracts designed to trap her.” “Second, you used the fifty-million-dollar penalty clause to force her into those compromising photoshoots.” “And for the third act, you swooped in like a white knight to ‘save her.’ Of course, she fell right into your arms, loyal and obedient, working herself to the bone to become the biggest earner for your company.” “She’s more loyal than a puppy, and you don’t even have to pay her a real salary!” Sebastian’s next words were like a sword through my heart. “This industry is a filthy place. With Joanna clearing the path, breaking the ground, Sophie’s journey to the top will be smooth and clean.” The assistant, noticing the uncharacteristic softness in Sebastian’s eyes whenever he mentioned Sophie Reed, asked, “Then why did you marry Joanna, sir? Did the act become real?” Sebastian swirled the red wine in his glass and scoffed, as if his hand had been forced. “Three years ago, Sophie had just gotten her license. She… she accidentally hit Joanna and her mother. The three-month-old baby Joanna was carrying, and her mother… neither of them made it.” “It wasn’t Sophie’s fault,” he added quickly. “She was terrified. It was Joanna and her mother who didn’t get out of the way in time.” My legs gave out from under me. I bit down on my hand, the coppery taste of blood filling my mouth, just to stop myself from screaming. Three years ago. I had been pregnant, taking a walk with my mother, when a speeding car slammed into us. When I woke up, it was to the sight of my mother’s cold, lifeless body. I had shattered, and Sebastian had been there to hold me, to comfort me. “Joanna, my love,” he had whispered, “I will turn this city upside down to find the monster who did this. I swear I will get justice for our baby and your mother.” A month later, he came to me with a look of defeat. “The police said all the surveillance cameras in the area were malfunctioning that night.” “But it’s okay, Joanna,” he’d said, pulling me close. “I’m all you have now, and I’m all you need. I will protect you. I will love you forever.” “Marry me.” I looked down at the wedding band on my finger. This marriage, this life I thought was my salvation, was built on the blood of my mother and my unborn child. Inside the study, Sebastian’s voice continued. “I was afraid Joanna would press the issue and drag Sophie into it. So I offered to marry her. The title of Mrs. Murray was… compensation.” “And as for my Sophie, if I can’t give her my name in this lifetime, then I will give her the world in her career. I will stop at nothing to lift her up.” The brutal truth crushed the last bit of air from my lungs. I fled, scrambling away from that house, that cage. I didn’t stop running until I was blocks away, collapsing in an alley where I finally let out the sobs I had been holding back. When the tears ran dry, my hands shaking, I scrolled to the very bottom of my contacts and dialed a number that had burned in my phone for years. He answered on the first ring. My voice was a raw, trembling whisper. “Does your sister still need my kidney?” “I’m willing to donate it. But I have one condition.” “I want Sebastian Murray and Sophie Reed utterly and completely destroyed.” A low chuckle on the other end. “Done.” After hanging up, I immediately called my lawyer and had him draft the divorce papers. My heart hammered against my ribs when I saw the settlement clause: I would receive half of all Sebastian’s assets. It was a promise he’d made to me years ago, a promise he never dreamed I would be the one to invoke. I had just finished reviewing the documents when he came home. “You’re back? Why didn’t you call me?” he asked, his voice laced with concern. “Security said they never picked you up, and you weren’t answering your phone.” I said nothing. He probably assumed I was still reeling from the photo leak. He scooped me into his arms and carried me to the sofa. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his face buried in my hair. “I thought those photos were destroyed years ago. I never imagined they kept copies.” “I promise you, I’ll take care of this as quickly as possible.” I looked into his eyes, those clear, dark pools, and saw not a single flicker of guilt or deceit. How many lies had he told me over the years? I felt exhausted, hollowed out. “I’m tired,” I said, pushing him away gently. “I’m going to take a shower.” The next morning, Sebastian was already gone when I woke up. I opened my laptop. The top trending story was still about my scandal. But right below it were several new headlines, all about Sophie Reed. #POPULAR STARLET SITS ON DIRECTOR KING’S LAP, PAIR LATER ENTER HOTEL, WOMAN LEAVES DISHEVELED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT# #A-LIST ACTRESS IN HOTEL SCANDAL, SUSPECTED TO BE ‘S. REED’# #SOPHIE REED’S WHEREABOUTS LAST NIGHT UNKNOWN# I clicked on the article. The woman in the grainy photos was wearing a mask, but I recognized her instantly. It was Sophie. No wonder Sebastian had left so early. He was already in crisis mode, doing damage control for her. I let out a bitter laugh, printed the divorce agreement, and slipped it into the middle of a thick stack of contracts on his desk. I knew his habits. He never double-checked paperwork, just flicked the corner and scrawled his signature. Then, I started to pack. When I opened the door to my walk-in closet, a chilling realization hit me. Every single gift Sebastian had ever given me—a dress, a necklace, a handbag—Sophie had an identical one. Even my wedding ring had a counterpart on Sophie’s finger. Hers, I now noticed, was a much better match for Sebastian’s own band. I ripped the ring from my finger and threw it into a drawer, slamming it shut. Just then, my agent called, her voice frantic. “Joanna! Did you know Mr. Murray just called a press conference?” “You have to watch the livestream! He’s going to clear your name, I’m sure of it!” I clicked the link. The conference was just beginning. Sebastian stood at the podium, adjusting the microphone as camera flashes strobed across his handsome face. The camera pulled back to reveal Sophie standing beside him, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Good morning, members of the press,” Sebastian began. “I’m here today to address the recent online speculation regarding an artist from my company.” He paused for dramatic effect. “The rumors that one of our actresses was involved with a director to secure a role are, I can confirm, true.” A wave of gasps and frantic murmurs swept through the room. I gripped a sofa cushion, my brow furrowed. Why would he admit it? My eyes darted to Sophie. As she lowered her head, I caught a fleeting, triumphant smirk on her lips. A cold dread washed over me. “However,” Sebastian continued, his voice ringing with authority, “the woman in those photos was not Sophie Reed. At the time the pictures were taken, she was at the office with me, discussing a script.” The reporters and the live chat exploded. “Then who was it?” someone shouted. Sebastian’s gaze found the camera, his voice clear, each word a hammer blow. “It was my wife, Joanna Wells.”

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After twenty years of marriage to Jason, I found out he was missing a kidney. The other one was nestled safely inside the body of Olivia Preston, the one that got away. “Don’t tell Olivia,” he’d said. “I’m afraid it’ll stress her out, and that’s not good for her health.” His friend, Mark, had laughed at him. “If you’ve been carrying a torch for Olivia all this time, and now her husband’s dead, why not just divorce your wife and marry her? Wouldn’t that be easier?” Jason lowered his gaze, coughing softly into his fist. A self-deprecating smile touched his lips. “In my condition? What good would marrying me do her? I don’t want to be a burden. Besides, she’s not like Claire. I couldn’t bear to see her tied to a kitchen sink for me.” My vision blurred. I looked down at the two large paper bags in my hands, filled to the brim with herbal remedies and expensive supplements. I turned on my heel and threw them straight into the nearest trash can. 1 The click of the front door opening brought the conversation in the living room to an abrupt halt. Jason glanced at my empty hands. “Weren’t you supposed to be picking up my prescription from the clinic? Where is it?” He asked it so casually, not even waiting for my answer before gesturing to his friend. “Mark drove all the way out here. Go whip something up in the kitchen. We’re going to have a proper lunch.” I stood frozen in the doorway, a chill seeping into my bones. My throat felt clogged with something thick and sticky, a scream I couldn’t force up or swallow down. My eyes were fixed on his abdomen as I took one mechanical step after another toward him. “Claire, did you hear a word I said…?” “Claire!” Jason’s pupils constricted as he shoved me away, his voice sharp. But I clung to the hem of his shirt. There it was. The pale, thin scar I’d seen for nearly two decades. Now, it gaped at me like a monstrous mouth, mocking my ignorance, my stupidity. I vaguely remembered eighteen years ago, when his mother had fractured her ankle. We’d wanted to bring her to the city to stay with us, to make it easier to care for her. But she was stubborn, insisting she wouldn’t be comfortable and wasn’t used to city life. She demanded to go back to her home in the country. So, we drove her back. The very next day, Jason left for a work trip. I, on the other hand, had taken a month off from my job. It wasn’t until his mother was fully recovered and I returned to the city that I learned Jason had been hospitalized. I’d rushed to the hospital, frantic with worry, and that’s when I first saw the scar. But back then, it was fresh and raw, a testament to a vulnerability that had washed away all my questions. My lips parted, but the sound that escaped was dry and raspy. “What did you say this scar was from?” Jason swatted my hand away, irritated, and smoothed his shirt down. He ignored me, turning to Mark with an apologetic look. “Sorry about this, man. You had to see that.” “She’s not usually like this…” I wouldn’t be dismissed. I stepped in front of him again, tears streaming down my face against my will. “Jason! You tell me right now, how did you get this scar!” Mark, sensing the volatile atmosphere, awkwardly rose from his chair. “Hey, I just came by to catch you up on some old friends. Mission accomplished. We’ll get together again some other time.” He practically fled. The moment the door clicked shut, the forced smile on Jason’s face vanished, replaced by a mask of pure exasperation. It was as if his patience had finally snapped. “Claire, are you done yet?!” Before I could answer, a frantic pounding echoed from the door. Mark was back, his voice urgent and panicked. “Jason! Olivia—she’s on the roof at the funeral, she’s going to jump!” 2 The color drained from Jason’s face. I watched, paralyzed, as his expression became a canvas of pain, panic, and desperation. Any lingering sliver of hope I’d clung to, any desperate wish that this was all a misunderstanding, evaporated into nothing. My hand fell limply from his arm. I summoned every ounce of strength I had left to ask him one last time. “Jason, you told me the scar on your stomach was from appendix surgery. Was that… was that the truth?” He frowned, his mind clearly elsewhere. “I have to go. We can talk about this when I get back.” And just like that, he turned and left without a second glance. After he was gone, I made a phone call. To his cousin’s husband, Dr. Mason—the very surgeon who had supposedly performed Jason’s “appendectomy.” In less than a minute, a secret buried for eighteen years was unearthed. Dr. Mason tried to smooth things over on the phone. “Look, Claire, Jason just said he wanted to help someone. There was nothing else between them. To this day, the woman doesn’t even know who her donor was.” “You’ve been married for so many years; you know him better than anyone. If he’d really wanted something with her, he would have used the kidney as leverage to get tangled up with her long ago.” “Think about it. Other than this one person he’s held a candle for, he’s been good to you, to your family. He doesn’t smoke, he doesn’t drink, he gives you his whole paycheck to manage. He talks over every big decision with you.” He ended with a piece of paternalistic advice: “Claire, trust me on this. You could marry another man, and he likely wouldn’t measure up to Jason…” In a few short sentences, he had twisted Jason’s basic marital duties into bonus points, painting his profound betrayal and infidelity as some kind of noble, self-restrained virtue. I was so furious I hung up on him. I sat alone on the sofa as the day bled into night. Jason didn’t come back. He didn’t even call. I looked around at the home I had painstakingly built and maintained for twenty years, and a wave of defeat and self-doubt washed over me. I couldn’t understand it. I felt so wronged. Jason and I had met after being set up by mutual friends. At the time, he was just a math teacher, fresh back in town, and I was a clerk at a small company. After a few dates, we decided we were a decent match and got married at the end of that year. Over the years, while our marriage wasn’t built on a foundation of passionate love, we had both worked hard to maintain our little family. Just as Dr. Mason said, Jason was a model husband on the surface. No drinking, no gambling, no vices. On holidays and anniversaries, he’d buy me a small bouquet or a piece of jewelry to make me happy. He’d bring me to work functions, where his colleagues would praise his clean-cut lifestyle and tell me how lucky I was to have a husband like him. But was I really supposed to feel lucky? Did I not also abstain from drinking, gambling, and all the rest? Did I not return the favor on Valentine’s Day and his birthday with equal effort and sentiment? The salary he “handed over” was never truly mine to control. For any significant expense, I had to provide a detailed explanation and justification for any discrepancy in our savings he hadn’t anticipated. In layman’s terms, I was merely his custodian. He’d essentially hired a free accountant, burnishing his own image in the process. And what about me? Ever since that “appendectomy,” Jason’s health had taken a nosedive. His mild diabetes worsened to type 2. That, combined with the chronic gastritis and herniated discs that came with his profession—ailments that might seem minor to others—became the central focus of my life. On top of my own job and the endless list of household chores, I had to constantly monitor his diet and lifestyle. For his diabetes, I memorized the doctor’s list of forbidden foods until I could recite it in my sleep. I prepared his breakfast and lunch every single day, packing them for him to take to school. He complained that the weekly physical therapy sessions were a waste of money, so I secretly spent months learning massage techniques from a professional so I could treat him at home. When his mother fell gravely ill, I was the one who had to make the sacrifice and take a leave of absence from work to care for her, so as not to jeopardize his chances for a promotion. Didn’t all my sacrifices earn me the right to his loyalty in this marriage? Why should I feel grateful and content simply because he hadn’t physically cheated?! The sound of a key in the lock broke through my thoughts. Jason, who had been gone for a full day and night, appeared in the doorway, weariness etched into every line of his face. He looked surprised, almost flustered to see me awake, like a man caught in the act. My heart seized. A second later, a woman’s silhouette emerged from behind him. As if to shield her from my questions, Jason’s tall frame almost completely enveloped Olivia. “Olivia… creditors have been staking out her place. She has nowhere else to go…” Seeing no reaction from me, Jason took a defensive step back. “If you mind, she can sleep on the couch…” I cut him off with a cold laugh. “And if I didn’t mind, were you planning on sharing our bed with her?” His face flushed a deep crimson, his embarrassment quickly morphing into righteous anger. “Claire, there’s nothing sordid between us! Stop being so disgusting!” 3 I stared at the two of them, my teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached. “Jason! You bring a widow into our home and you have the nerve to talk to me about decency?!” Before Jason could respond, Olivia, who had been hiding behind him, stepped forward. Ignoring his attempts to stop her, she walked right up to me. I studied the woman before me. She had a gentle, graceful air, a delicate frame. Though she was about my age, she looked a decade younger. Every gesture exuded a scholarly refinement that matched Jason’s. No wonder he’d never forgotten her. Olivia stood before me, her demeanor poised and calm. “You misunderstand. In fact, I should thank you.” I eyed her coldly. “Thank me?” She nodded, her voice as soft as silk, a stark contrast to my own hysteria. “When you think about it, he’s saved my life twice.” “You’re his wife, so thanking you is the same as thanking him.” She paused, then glanced at Jason with a look of profound gratitude. “I only found out today that he was the one who saved me back when my kidneys were failing.” “And today… if he hadn’t lent me that fifty thousand dollars, I don’t know what I would have…” “Olivia!” Jason cut her off sharply, his eyes darting nervously toward me. “It was an emergency, I…” My mind went completely blank. I stumbled back into our bedroom and frantically searched through the drawers. The two bank cards and the emergency cash we kept were all gone. I looked up at the man before me, my body shaking uncontrollably. I grabbed the water glass from the nightstand and hurled it at him. Jason didn’t flinch. The glass struck his forehead with a dull thud before falling to the floor and shattering. A trickle of dark red blood oozed from a cut above his eyebrow. Olivia gasped and rushed to dab at the wound with a tissue, her tone toward me hardening. “You don’t have to be so dramatic. I’ll pay you back the money. If you’re worried, I can write you an IOU. We can even add interest, at the market rate…” She pulled out a pen and paper, ready to write then and there. Jason snatched them from her hand and glared at me, his face a mask of fury. “Her husband just died, and she’s being hounded by creditors for her house! How is she supposed to pay it back? Are you trying to push her over the edge?!” “Claire, I always thought you were a reasonable person, but you’re acting like a shrew! You have no compassion at all!” “I’ve been too compassionate, Jason!” I roared, the blood rushing in my ears. “That’s why you felt you could donate a kidney to another woman behind my back, leaving me to deal with your lifetime of health problems!” “You want to talk about decency? Tell her to give you your kidney back, and then we can talk!” “Claire!” Jason’s voice cracked, his brown eyes staring at me as if I were a madwoman. He took a deep, steadying breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was chillingly calm. “You’re being irrational. We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down.” With that, he turned and started to lead Olivia out. He even used his foot to carefully sweep the shards of glass aside, clearing a safe path for her. The sight sent another jolt of rage through me. I lifted a small wooden stool and threw it with all my might. “Jason! I want a divorce!” He instinctively pulled Olivia into a protective embrace, taking the full impact of the stool on his back. He didn’t turn around, didn’t argue. He just said, flatly, “Fine. As you wish.”

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On our fifth wedding anniversary, Josh Mason finally showed up, holding a baby. “Accept this child,” he said, his voice low and steady, “and you can remain Mrs. Mason.” A wave of murmurs rippled through the guests. Everyone knew how desperately I loved Josh. Everyone assumed that, just like every other time, I would yield. I rose to my feet, and with a gentle push, sent the champagne tower behind me crashing to the floor. I stared coldly at the man before me. “As you wish,” I said, my voice cutting through the chaos. “Let’s get a divorce.” Josh’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Is it really so hard for you to adopt a child?” Adopting a child wasn’t the hard part. The hard part was being expected to raise the child he’d had with his old flame. 1 Shards of glass and champagne flew everywhere, turning the elegant ballroom into a disaster zone. The fifth-anniversary party I had spent nearly a month planning was ruined. My husband, Josh, seemed to have completely forgotten what day it was. His eyes were fixed on the baby in his arms. He dismissed my outburst as a tantrum over his tardiness. After calming the guests, he walked over to me, the baby still cradled in one arm. He reached out and wrapped his other arm around my waist. “Stop making a scene, Evelyn. You’re scaring everyone.” I twisted out of his grasp. “If you’re so set on this, then let’s adopt a different child. I don’t want this one.” It was the last compromise I could offer, and one final test for him. “Why not? Evelyn, I know you love children. Isn’t it a good thing for us to finally have one of our own?” “Evelyn, just look at him. He’s so plump and fair, absolutely adorable.” Josh held the baby out for me to see, his face earnest. He took my hand, trying to guide it toward the infant, trying to force me to accept this new reality. The baby in the swaddling clothes was pristine, looking no more than two or three months old. His features favored his mother—Sierra Thorne, the one that got away. He waved his tiny arms and smiled at me, a cherubic expression that could seemingly heal all the world’s ills. “See? He’s smiling at you,” Josh beamed. “I told you he was meant to be with us.” He had failed the test. Utterly. A thousand tiny needles pricked at my heart. I snatched my hand back, my patience wearing thin, and took several steps away from him, putting a chasm of space between us. He thought that by ambushing me here, in public, on our anniversary, he could force my hand. He thought I wouldn’t dare to say no. But I found I could no longer maintain the polished facade of Mrs. Mason. 2 My gaze shifted to a figure standing behind him, and a bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Josh, are you so insistent on adopting this child because of her?” In an instant, Sierra Thorne became the focal point of every eye in the room. She stood frozen, her eyes welling with tears as she tried to defend herself. “Mrs. Mason, Josh and I are ancient history. How could this baby possibly be ours?” “I never said the child was yours and Josh’s, Ms. Thorne. Why are you in such a hurry to deny it? Or is it that the child is yours and Josh’s?” “I… I…” Sierra bit her lip, rendered speechless. The whispers in the crowd grew louder, the gazes sharper, all of them aimed at Sierra. “So that’s why. I was wondering why Mrs. Mason, who’s always so agreeable, was putting her foot down this time. The baby isn’t adopted, it’s the mistress’s.” “Mistress or not, I heard she’s Mr. Mason’s first love. She’s his personal secretary now, you know.” “If it wasn’t for old Mrs. Mason disapproving back in the day, she’d be the one who’s Mrs. Mason now.” “Who cares if she’s his first love? She interfered in a marriage, got pregnant out of wedlock—that makes her the other woman, period. Let’s not forget, the real Mrs. Mason is Evelyn. She and Mr. Mason are legally married. Who the hell is Sierra Thorne?” Sierra’s face was ashen, a single tear clinging to her eyelash. She looked desperately toward Josh. “That’s enough, Evelyn!” Josh stepped forward, pulling Sierra behind him protectively. He shot a single look across the room, and the chatter died instantly. After all, everyone in Crestwood was wary of the Mason family’s influence. “Sierra is just my secretary. Don’t make things difficult for her.” A profound weariness washed over me. I finally understood that I couldn’t follow my grandmother-in-law’s advice to live a good life with him anymore. It was impossible. I looked down at the wedding ring I had worn for five years. The sharp, stinging pain bloomed in my chest again. I twisted it off my finger. “I’m done being Mrs. Mason.” I threw it. The diamond ring sailed through the air in a perfect arc before landing in the swimming pool with a soft splash. Just like our marriage—it began with a grand spectacle and ended in silence. Leaving Josh and the guests staring in shock, I gathered the hem of my gown and walked away. In their eyes, I had always been the graceful, composed Mrs. Mason who always considered the bigger picture. But tonight, I had lost all dignity. And I didn’t care. 3 The party broke up in disarray. That night, Josh didn’t come home. The housekeeper told me he had taken Sierra and her son home. I didn’t call him. He didn’t send a single message. When Josh returned the next morning, I was in the middle of breakfast. He handed his coat to a maid and pulled out a chair to sit down. Halfway through my toast, my appetite vanished. I stood up to leave, not sparing him a glance or a word of greeting. He suddenly called out behind me. “Don’t you have anything to ask me?” What did he want me to ask? About the baby? About where he was last night? The old me would have screamed at him, thrown a hysterical fit. And what would I have gotten for it? Josh’s brow was knitted in a frown of impatience. “Stop being so unreasonable. Sierra and I just have a professional relationship.” A professional relationship that produced a child. A professional relationship that, just last night, had resulted in a picture on Sierra’s social media of them kissing, wrapped in a passionate embrace. Now that I was too tired to care, too exhausted to ask, he was demanding to know why. I turned slowly. He was watching me, an expectant look in his eyes. I averted my gaze, walked to the cabinet, and retrieved a manila envelope. I placed it on the table in front of him. “Josh, let’s get a divorce.” His face froze. “Over something this small, you want a divorce?” He always did this—minimized everything, making it seem like I was the one at fault, the one being irrational. My nails dug into my palms. I looked at his nonchalant expression. “The baby wasn’t adopted at all, was he? He’s your son with Sierra Thorne.” The day the baby was born, I had just finished my last surgery when a colleague in the OB/GYN department told me Josh was there to pick me up. I didn’t even change out of my scrubs, rushing down, afraid of making him wait. I found him outside the delivery room. A nurse was holding a newborn, congratulating him. “Congratulations, Mr. Mason. It’s a healthy baby boy.” Josh held the child, his eyes shining with a joy he couldn’t hide. Sierra lay weakly on a gurney, her eyes glistening with tears, the very picture of pitiable beauty. “Josh…” she whispered. He stroked her hair and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “You did so well, Sierra. Thank you for giving me a son.” I stood there, thunderstruck, convinced I had misheard. One of the nurses couldn’t help but ask, “Mr. Mason, didn’t you say she was your sister?” His expression soured instantly. “If a word of this gets out,” he threatened, his voice dropping to a low growl, “you know the consequences.” I tried to tell myself it was a mistake. Josh wasn’t that kind of person. But I was wrong. I had been wrong from the very first time he’d suggested we adopt a child. 4 A flicker of surprise crossed Josh’s face, but it was quickly masked. He calmly pulled out a cigarette and lit it, showing none of the panic of a man who’d just been exposed. “Evelyn, you know that in our circle, it’s not exactly unheard of for a man to have a woman on the side.” It wasn’t unheard of. Especially when that woman was the love of his life. But unlike the other wives in our circle, I couldn’t tolerate it. I couldn’t just look the other way. Josh took a long drag from his cigarette. “And you should also know that if you hadn’t driven Sierra away back then, the title of Mrs. Mason would have never been yours.” From the very beginning, no matter how many times I tried to explain, he believed I was the one who forced Sierra to leave the country. A month before our wedding, I had asked him directly. He was the one who said he wanted to marry me. Now, somehow, it was all my fault. The thick smoke stung my eyes, and I coughed, tears welling up. Josh glanced at me, then stubbed out the cigarette with his long, elegant fingers. He knelt in front of me. He frowned, his thumb gently wiping a tear from my cheek. “Are you that upset? You seemed pretty tough at the party last night.” “Don’t worry. I promised my grandmother that you would always be Mrs. Mason.” “If you want, we can bring the child here for you to raise. Grandma has always wanted a great-grandson, and Mason Industries needs an heir.” “If you’re not willing, Sierra can raise him herself. I’ll set them up somewhere, make sure she never bothers you.” Listening to him, I couldn’t help but laugh. I didn’t even want the title of a wealthy wife anymore. Why on earth would I want to raise another woman’s child? 5 At the hospital, I went to the Chief of Staff’s office. He held my resignation letter, asking me one last time. “Are you sure about this, Evelyn? The conditions there are harsh, and it’s dangerous. It’s nothing like working here.” I didn’t hesitate. “I’m sure. I’ve already passed the interview. Please, just sign it.” For the past five years, I had strived to be the perfect Mrs. Mason, managing his social life on top of my demanding career. From now on, I didn’t have to play a role for anyone. I just had to be myself. I was immensely grateful that I had never listened to Josh and quit my job as a doctor. Otherwise, I’d be completely lost right now. After leaving the office, I finished my handover, packed the few personal items from my locker, and said goodbye to my colleagues. On the way home, I received a call from Grandma Mason. She wanted Josh and me to come to the family estate for dinner. The fifteenth of every month was their standing family dinner. I watched the scenery blur past the car window, hesitating before finally dialing Josh’s number. “What is it?” His voice was cold, and I could picture the icy expression on his face. I clutched the phone. “Grandma wants us to come to the estate for dinner.” “Got it.” He’d been like this ever since Sierra returned—distant and cold. The abrupt way he hung up told me exactly who he was with. 6 The sun was setting by the time I reached the estate. Because Josh and I were so busy, and Grandma didn’t want to live with us and be a bother, we had agreed to this monthly dinner, a promise to always come back no matter what. Grandma Mason’s face lit up when she saw me, but her smile faltered when she saw I was alone. “Evie, dear, why are you by yourself? Where’s Josh?” “He had a last-minute meeting,” I said with a practiced smile. “He’ll be here later.” I handed my things to a servant and helped Grandma inside. Josh arrived just as dinner was being served. He fell into his old habit of peeling shrimp for me and placing choice pieces of food in my bowl. I didn’t refuse, silently eating what was given to me. We barely spoke a word throughout the meal. After dinner, Grandma Mason pulled me into her room. She asked if Josh and I were fighting. I didn’t know how to answer. Telling her the truth felt cruel. As if reading my mind, her cloudy eyes focused on me. “Did that rascal do something to hurt you? You tell Grandma, and I’ll teach him a lesson.” I shook my head. “Grandma, if I told you I wanted to divorce Josh, would you be angry with me?” “Evie, don’t you worry. I will make sure you get justice.” Her voice trembled with sudden emotion, and she started to rise, ready to confront her grandson. 7 I quickly calmed her down. “It’s no use, Grandma. He doesn’t have me in his heart. You can’t force feelings. I spent five years trying and I still couldn’t reach him.” “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life tied to him. It will only bring us both more pain.” “Divorcing him is a decision I’ve thought about for a long time. It’s not an impulse.” Grandma’s aged hands covered mine. She let out a long sigh. “I had hoped you and Josh could find happiness together, support each other. I never imagined it would come to this.” “Alright then. A girl as wonderful as my Evie deserves someone better.” “Grandma, I actually came to say goodbye.” Her voice grew agitated. “What are you talking about? Even if you divorce Josh, as long as I’m here, this will always be your home.” A warmth spread through my chest. “I’ve been accepted by Doctors Without Borders. I leave in two days.” Grandma Mason froze, her eyes slowly turning red. “Evie, listen to Grandma. Just stay here in Crestwood. Don’t go anywhere.” I knew what she was worried about. My parents had been with Doctors Without Borders. They had died on their last mission, providing aid in a war zone. I remembered that day vividly, throwing a tantrum on the floor, begging them not to go. My mother had stroked my hair gently. “Be good, Evie. Mom and Dad are doctors. We have to go where we’re needed. We promise, this is the last time. When the mission is over, we’ll come back and never leave again.” “You listen to your grandma, and don’t cause any trouble.” She was a liar. She promised she would come back, but she broke her promise. The Sullivans and the Masons had been friends for generations. After my own grandmother passed away, I was taken in by the Mason family. Grandma Mason treated me like her own granddaughter. 8 Grandma Mason made Josh kneel in the courtyard. I knew she was doing it for me, to give me some sense of justice, but what was the point? It wouldn’t make him love me. She didn’t relent, not even by noon the next day. Under the blazing sun, beads of sweat dripped from Josh’s forehead, but he remained silent, his back ramrod straight. Somehow, Sierra got word and showed up. “Why are you here? Go back,” Josh rasped, his voice raw. “And watch you suffer? No.” With tears in her eyes, Sierra squared her jaw, clutched her baby, and knelt before the family. “Grandma, it’s all my fault. Please, don’t punish Josh.” Grandma Mason looked down at her, her voice dripping with ice. “Don’t you dare call me that, Ms. Thorne. I haven’t earned that title. I’m disciplining my own grandson. What does that have to do with you?” Sierra’s face paled, but the sound of her baby’s cries seemed to give her courage. “I know you look down on me, Grandma. But this child is Josh’s. He is a Mason. Are you going to deny your own blood?”

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My husband, Harry Shaw, lost his memory in a car accident. He didn’t forget a single person or a single thing in his life. Except for me. His best friend teased him, “You’ve got some nerve. Better watch out, or you’ll be the star of your own midlife crisis, begging for her back.” Harry’s expression was dead serious. “Even with amnesia, I know for a fact I could never fall for a manipulative woman like her. If I really married her, it must have been a marriage of convenience.” “My type has never changed. I love women who are pure and kind.” Outside the door, I stared at the photo on my phone of Harry and a young woman named Lily kissing. I smiled. It took an accident for me to finally hear what he truly thought. I immediately called my lawyer. An hour later, I pushed the door open. “Here are the divorce papers. Sign them.” 1 My sudden entrance froze the air in the room. Harry’s friend, Michael, coughed awkwardly, trying to smooth things over. “Eleanor, Harry’s just had an accident. His head’s not on straight. You know how he is. Everyone in Crestwood knows he’s completely obsessed with you.” If I hadn’t overheard Harry’s words just moments before, I might have believed him. I might have still believed that Harry was head-over-heels in love with me. I let out a soft, humorless laugh, but Harry cut me off. “I don’t know why I supposedly loved you for the past decade, but the me of today doesn’t remember loving you. I want to correct my past mistake.” His brow was furrowed, his expression grave. “Let’s keep our business between us. Don’t drag other people into this. They’re innocent.” He looked at me as if I were some kind of monster. I scoffed and slapped the divorce papers onto his chest. “Of course.” “Sign the papers. We’ll file tomorrow.” Without looking up, Harry flipped through a couple of pages and signed his name with a flourish. “Well, that’s a surprise. I’m shocked a woman like you isn’t trying to take me to the cleaners.” His words stopped me in my tracks. A woman like me? What kind of woman was that? Before I could ask, Michael, sensing the shift in my expression, jumped in. “Hey, you two, just calm down! Isn’t this a little hasty?” “Filing for divorce tomorrow? Do you even have your marriage certificate with you?” Michael’s intention was to get us to slow down, to talk things through. But his words had the opposite effect. Harry and I both froze, our eyes meeting for a brief, charged moment. He quickly looked away, his disgust palpable. Harry and I were childhood sweethearts. We got married the moment we were legally able. I still remember our wedding day: April 1st, April Fool’s Day. I had said it was an unlucky day for an anniversary and suggested we find a more auspicious date. But Harry had pouted, his face a mask of disappointment. “We promised we’d get married the day after your birthday. I can’t wait another second.” He’d cajoled me, “Your birthday and our anniversary, back-to-back. Isn’t that the best kind of luck? It’s a gift from the heavens!” He’d even wiped away a fake tear. After we got the certificate, Harry took eight different photos of it from every conceivable angle and posted them all online. Our friends flooded his feed, teasing him for being so smug, warning him that an April Fool’s wedding might be a sham. It was just a joke, but Harry had panicked. He snatched the certificate from my hand, his expression deadly serious. “It’s not a sham.” And with a swift rip, he tore it to shreds. He grabbed my shoulders, his voice filled with righteous conviction. “Without a marriage certificate, you can never divorce me!” The memory was so vivid I could almost see his boyish, innocent smile. But in a flash, it was replaced by the impatient, scowling face of the man before me. The handsome planes of his face were now etched with fine lines. Still handsome, but no longer the Harry I remembered. I took a deep breath, straightened my shoulders, and walked toward him. Under his suspicious, wary gaze, I picked up the divorce papers. “We were so young and foolish,” I said with a laugh. “Look at the trouble we’ve made for ourselves now.” I turned to leave. As I opened the door, I ran into Lily, who was holding a thermal lunch box. Her tight-fitting dance leotard hugged her slender, youthful frame. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead. The moment she saw me, she flinched and bowed her head. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Shaw.” Her timid demeanor reminded me of when she first accepted my sponsorship. She was as shy as a rabbit. But I knew better now. This was no herbivore. “Go on in,” I said, my voice flat. “He’s been waiting for you.” My words startled her. Her shoulders trembled. Harry’s voice, sharp and angry, cut through the air. “Eleanor! Watch your mouth!” 2 The tension that had momentarily dissipated returned, thicker than before. I turned back, a bitter laugh escaping my lips, and met Harry’s furious gaze. “Lily is still a student. She’s a very sensitive girl. Were you trying to ruin her with those words?!” He was so angry he was struggling to breathe, his recently injured body heaving. “Can’t you see she’s about to cry?” “Why are you still so malicious?” My family, the Calloways, was a complicated one. In my younger years, I’d fought tooth and nail with my father’s illegitimate son. Harry had been the one to protect me, to help me reclaim what was rightfully mine. Back then, I had asked him if he thought I was a manipulative, wicked woman. He’d said, “My Eleanor is just smart. Besides, I’ll always be with you.” That promise of “always” had carried us through seven years of marriage. Seven years in which, due to my fragile health, we were never able to have a child of our own. He knew how much I wanted a child, so he suggested we sponsor one. Lily was the child we sponsored together. On paper, it was a joint act of charity, but over the years, I was the one who looked after her, who cared for her. I never imagined that when she came to Crestwood for college, she would end up in Harry’s bed. “Mrs. Shaw, I’m so sorry!” Lily’s sudden apology, delivered from her knees, broke through my thoughts. “It was my fault. I got into a fight with my roommate and I shouldn’t have called Mr. Shaw to pick me up. Then he wouldn’t have been in the accident.” “It’s all my fault. I was being presumptuous, thinking I had a home to go to…” As she spoke, she slapped herself, once, twice. The sight of it was too much for Harry. “Eleanor! Stop this nonsense! Lily has a performance in two days! Help her up!” He started to get out of bed. Lily scrambled to his side, helping him, her face streaked with tears. “Mr. Shaw, I’m so sorry…” Their hands clasped together. Harry’s eyes seemed to well up as well. “Don’t cry, Lily.” When he turned to look at me again, the pain in his eyes was replaced by disgust. “The accident had nothing to do with Lily. Instead of dealing with the aftermath, you come here to harass her. You have no sense of the bigger picture. So petty!” I had seen the surveillance footage and the dashcam video from the accident. At the moment of impact, Lily was in the passenger seat, crying and pulling Harry’s hand toward her chest, whispering, “Mr. Shaw, my heart hurts.” The police officer watching the video with me had scratched his head in embarrassment, muttering something about a TV drama villain coming to life. I didn’t know what “aftermath” Harry expected me to “deal with.” Was I supposed to play the fool? I scoffed. “I guess I don’t have the grand perspective of Mr. Shaw’s little angel.” I opened the door and kicked the lunch box Lily had dropped out of my way. As the door closed behind me, I heard Harry’s enraged shout: “Eleanor!” Just after I left the hospital, I received a voice recording from Lily. In the recording, I heard Harry’s deep voice. “Lily’s birthday is coming up. How about Mr. Shaw buys you a house, so you’ll have a home of your own?” “Can I pick it out myself?” Harry chuckled. “Of course. Whatever Lily likes.” “I like the villa on the west side of town. That’s where I first met you.” There was a two-second pause, followed by the sound of heavy breathing and a woman’s soft moan. I slammed my phone shut. Harry must have loved Lily so much that he had forgotten all about the other woman on the west side of town. That was our first home, the home we still lived in. Even after I took back control of the Calloway family company and could afford any house I wanted, I never moved. Harry had once asked me why, and I told him it held our memories. He had teared up then, swearing to love me for the rest of his life. Now, another woman was coveting that house, and all he could remember was that it was where he first met Lily. My assistant spoke cautiously from the driver’s seat. “Ms. Calloway, Mr. Shaw is only like this because of the amnesia…” I held up a hand to silence her. How ironic. Harry remembered everything, except how to love me. 3 The day Harry was discharged from the hospital arrived quickly. He and Lily were laughing as she pushed his wheelchair into the living room. I was grooming my cat, Patches. Lily’s shriek startled both me and the cat. “Eleanor, put the cat in the other room! Lily is allergic to cats.” Harry clumsily maneuvered his wheelchair to shield a pale-faced Lily. I didn’t even look up. “If she’s allergic, she can leave. No one’s asking her to stay.” A second later, Lily’s tearful voice filled the air. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Shaw. I just saw that you weren’t here to pick up Mr. Shaw, so I took it upon myself to bring him home. I overstepped.” “I’ll leave right now.” Harry grabbed her wrist, his face dark. “You failed to fulfill your duties as a wife. Lily helped you, and you have the audacity to criticize her!” “And from today on, Lily is living here. You will keep your cat under control, or you’ll have me to answer to.” My hand, holding the brush, froze. I looked up at him. “Answer to you? And how will you make me answer?” Patches had been his eighteenth birthday gift to me. Back then, I was a Calloway in name only, treated worse than my father’s illegitimate child. No one remembered my birthday. Even the maids bullied me. Harry gave me Patches, a symbol of completeness, and told me that from then on, he and the cat would be my family. I couldn’t keep a pet at the Calloway mansion, so he had taken care of him until we got married. He should have been the one with the deeper bond with Patches, but now, the look in his eyes was ice-cold, as if he were looking at a common, annoying pest. Harry didn’t answer my question. I thought it was just an empty threat. Until I returned from a week-long business trip and couldn’t find Patches anywhere. Lily emerged from the kitchen when she heard my voice. She leaned in close, a smile playing on her lips. “Are you looking for that cat?” she whispered. “Such a pity. He’s dead.” The sound was soft, but the smile on her face grew wider. She played a recording. The sound of Patches’ tormented struggles filled the living room. His shrill, piercing cries made my hair stand on end, a bone-deep chill seeping into me. “What did you do to him?” “What did you do to him?!” I grabbed her by the throat, my voice rising with each repetition of the question, my eyes wide with horror. A cold voice from the top of the stairs broke the moment. “Eleanor, let her go.” “Where is Patches?” Harry looked down at me, his expression disdainful. “He was just an animal. If he’s dead, he’s dead. Don’t take it out on Lily.” “He caused Lily to have an allergic reaction and end up in the hospital. Death was too good for him.” He announced my cat’s death with the same flat, emotionless tone he might use to comment on the weather. “Today is Lily’s birthday. Don’t ruin her mood over an animal.” At the mention of Lily’s birthday, a smile finally appeared on his face. “I’m planning to transfer the deed of this house to Lily. Come upstairs and sign the papers.” He turned his wheelchair and started to leave, not giving me a second glance. I was about to follow him, to argue, but I was stopped by Lily’s scream and the sound of a slap. When Harry turned back, he saw Lily, her cheek red and swollen, clutching her face and sobbing. “Mrs. Shaw, I didn’t want Patches to die either! You’re right to hit me!” She looked at me, tears streaming down her face. “As long as it makes you feel better, you can hit me as many times as you want!” She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, a willing martyr. I had to laugh. A masterclass in playing the victim. “Eleanor, there’s a limit to your antics! Do you really think you run this house?!” The Harry who used to look at me with such tenderness, who used to believe me and defend me without question, was gone. In his place was a man whose eyes were filled with a chilling hatred, as if he wanted to tear me to pieces. Our eyes met. I let out a cold laugh. I turned and slapped Lily across the face. I have never been a pushover. If I could survive the viper’s nest of the Calloway family, I could certainly handle this. “I didn’t give you that first slap. But this one,” I said, my voice low and dangerous, “you’d better remember it.” Smack! “This one was from Eleanor Calloway.” Smack! “This is my house. No one can protect you here. Not even Harry Shaw.” 4 As I raised my hand for a third slap, Harry grabbed my wrist. He shoved me back. “Eleanor, apologize to Lily,” he warned, his voice low and menacing. “Or don’t expect me to show you any mercy for old times’ sake.” I laughed, a wild, hysterical sound. “Old times’ sake?” “What are you going to do to me? The same thing you did to Patches?!” Harry just shot me a look of disgust, as if to say I was being ridiculous. Then he turned to Lily, his face filled with concern, and gently examined her cheek. He blew on it softly, like he was comforting a child, whispering, “Pain, pain, go away.” The tender gesture was a cruel echo of the boy I once knew. They left together, hand in hand. Harry didn’t look at me once. He just threw one last sentence over his shoulder. “We have twenty days left in the mandatory cooling-off period for the divorce. I don’t want to see you again during that time.” I slowly sank to the floor. My assistant rushed in to help me, but her hand came away covered in thick, sticky blood. “Ms. Calloway! You’re hurt!” A pair of scissors from the kitchen island was embedded in my lower back. My phone buzzed. A text message. [Does it hurt? These are the same scissors I used to cut off that animal’s tail. 😉 ] I moved out of the villa after that. I kept the scissors, a constant reminder of my hatred. The day before the cooling-off period ended, I went to the hospital to have my dressing changed. As I was leaving, I saw Harry and Michael. “You’re not even divorced yet, and Lily is two months pregnant. This is an affair!” Michael was berating him. Harry, however, just smiled gently. “You don’t understand. Eleanor and I have reached the end of the road.” “I love Lily.” “It wasn’t until I met Lily that I realized how terrifying Eleanor is.” The smile on his face faded. “Her father brought his illegitimate son home, paved a golden path for him. But Eleanor managed to cripple the boy and destroy her father’s reputation in the company, forcing him to step down. Now he’s locked away in a mental institution where no one can see him.” “A woman that manipulative… isn’t that terrifying?” I had never hidden my methods from him. Back then, he had praised me for my intelligence. Now, he was calling me malicious. As I was leaving the hospital, I received a text from Lily with a picture of her ultrasound. [Harry says you’re a barren hen. ~] The next day, after Harry and I finalized the divorce, he spoke. “Eleanor, my memory is back. But I know for sure that I don’t love you anymore.” I nodded. “I know.” “You know?” I smiled. “I also know that you never lost your memory in the first place.”

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After I took a tumble down the stairs, Eleanor finally agreed to leave work to take care of me. But just as we were pulling up to the hospital, she got a call from a client and had to turn back. Later, as I was dragging my fractured leg downstairs to pay the bill, I saw her childhood best friend, Rupert, post a picture of her tending to his knee. The caption read: Who knew a grown man could be so clumsy? Good thing I have my Ellie to patch me up. That’s when I knew. There was no client. Our mutual friends didn’t dare comment. Only I did. I left a single like, and a reply: An idiot needs a babysitter. You two should just get together. 1 Eleanor was a workaholic. So when she said a client needed her, I understood. I even told her to prioritize her work, to go back and not worry about me. But then, as I hauled my broken leg down to the billing office, I saw it. The picture Rupert had posted. Eleanor, kneeling at his feet, dabbing antiseptic on his scraped knee. And that caption: Who knew a grown man could be so clumsy? Good thing I have my Ellie to patch me up. Something thick and hard lodged itself in my throat. I blew up at her over the phone. Her voice was frayed with impatience. “You get angry over everything,” she said. “If I’d told you the truth, do you really think you could’ve rested and recovered peacefully?” After that, my messages went unanswered. Radio silence. That night, my body rejected the anesthetic. I woke up multiple times during the surgery, drowning in waves of agony. When they wheeled me out of the operating room, there was no one there for me. A kind nurse saw me struggling and helped me downstairs. Still no word from Eleanor. I was left to juggle work emails and calls on my phone while navigating the hospital on crutches, a dead weight chained to my leg, hobbling up and down floors to pay bills and pick up prescriptions. The same sweet nurse took pity on me, running those errands for me when she could. The day I was discharged, a message from Eleanor finally appeared. I’m coming to get you. I knew what that meant. It was her way of turning the page, of wiping the slate clean. It was always like this between us. She hated fighting. Whenever I confronted her about Rupert, she’d give me the silent treatment, letting me stew in my own anger. Then, when she was ready to move on, she’d reach out. By then, my fury would have burned itself out, leaving nothing but embers. She could turn my emotions on and off like a switch. This time, the silence lasted for nearly half a month. In the past, a message like that would have sent a jolt of relief through me. I would have been thrilled that she was finally making time for me. But now? Nothing. A flat, calm sea. The days I’d spent fighting through this alone had cooled my head considerably. I typed back a simple reply: Don’t bother. I’ve already checked out. Her response was immediate. Then I’ll pick you up from home. No need, I’ll get a cab. I’m already on my way. Wait for me. I’ll be there in thirty. 2 Thirty minutes bled into an hour. No sign of Eleanor’s car. The sky had bruised from dusk to a deep, starless black. It was 9:30 PM. Not a single text from her. I didn’t ask. After another ten minutes, I gave up, opened the Uber app, and ordered a ride. It was 10:30 PM by the time I got home. The driver, a kind older man, saw me fumbling with my crutches and insisted on helping me up the five flights of stairs. The hallway light was busted, and there were no security cameras, so I kept a video call going with a buddy as we climbed. The driver didn’t seem to mind my caution. He got me to my door, gave a small nod, and left. Still nothing from Eleanor. I didn’t text her to demand an explanation. I just went inside, sent the driver a generous tip through the app, and collapsed onto the sofa. A new notification lit up my phone. It was Rupert’s Instagram. He’d posted another picture. That familiar silhouette was there, dabbing at another scrape on his arm. The caption was practically giddy: Barely five minutes after Ellie leaves and I take another tumble. Seriously, what’s wrong with me? LOL. The way she scolds me while wrapping my scrapes is just too cute! 3 I’d never been comfortable with the fact that Eleanor had a childhood best friend like Rupert. Every interaction felt like a small jab to the ribs, but I couldn’t stop myself from watching their every move. The weirdest part was when he added me on social media out of the blue. It turned out Eleanor had given him my contact. “I’m busy with work,” she’d explained. “Rupert’s all alone in New York. If he needs anything, maybe you can help keep an eye on him.” I, a person who rarely checked my feed, became a chronic scroller, my blood boiling with every flirty post he made featuring my girlfriend. It always ended in a massive fight. In the past, a post like this would have sent me into a rage. I would have called Eleanor, demanding she explain herself. But this time, I just tapped the ‘like’ button and left a comment. An idiot needs a babysitter. You two should just get together. My phone rang. It was my boss, Ms. Vance. I picked up. “Ethan,” she said, her voice crisp and direct. “I’ve spoken with corporate. We can raise your salary to one-point-three million. What do you say?” Our company was expanding its market presence. The London office was desperately looking for a new director. They had specifically requested me, but I’d turned it down every time, using the distance as an excuse. “And listen,” she continued, “I got approval for fifteen days of leave every five months. You can still fly back and see… your girl. How does that sound?” So, she’d known all along. It was never about the distance. It was about how far I’d be from Eleanor. I let out a short, sharp laugh. “That won’t be necessary, Ms. Vance. I don’t need the vacation days. When do I leave?” There was a stunned silence on the other end, then her voice bloomed with excitement. “End of the month! You got it, Ethan! No backing out now!” “I’ll start the transfer paperwork tomorrow.” 4 I was buried in a mountain of backlogged work on my laptop, so completely absorbed that I didn’t hear the front door open. When I finally looked up, Eleanor was standing there, her brow furrowed in a slight frown. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?” I glanced at my mobile. Sure enough, a few missed calls from around midnight. “I went to the hospital to pick you up. You weren’t there,” she said, a clear note of irritation in her voice. “Oh, really?” My tone was light, almost surprised. “My bad. I figured you weren’t coming tonight, so I just grabbed an Uber.” She looked at me as if she’d misheard. In the past, if she was even a minute late, I would have been on the phone, demanding to know where she was. That would have inevitably led to her accusing me of being suspicious, triggering another one of her cold spells. I would never have just carried on with my own plans without a word. She sighed, a long, weary sound. “Look… Rupert fell again. He has a congenital bone condition; even a small fall could mean a fracture. I couldn’t just leave him.” “Mm-hmm.” I didn’t even let her finish, just offered a placid, noncommittal hum. “Ethan?” She seemed taken aback. “Yeah?” I glanced up from my screen, feigning confusion. Her frown deepened. “You’re not mad?” “Mad about what?” I offered a small smile. “You two are childhood friends. I get it. It’s fine.” She took a deep breath and sat down beside me on the sofa. “You’re still angry, aren’t you?” “Nope,” I said, my smile unwavering. “I stopped caring about that stuff a long time ago.” She let out another soft sigh, her fingers finding mine and lacing through them. “I know I was wrong. I’m admitting it first this time. Can we just… let it go?” I chuckled lightly. “Seriously, it’s fine. You don’t have to do this. You’re making it into a bigger deal than it is.” A flash of pure shock crossed her features. This was the first time she had ever conceded first. And I had just refused her olive branch. The truth is, when someone no longer lives in your heart, it’s impossible to get angry at them. I checked the time and closed my laptop. “It’s getting late, Ellie. I’m going to bed.” I pushed myself up, but a searing pain shot through my leg, and I crumpled to the floor. 5 “Ethan!” Eleanor lunged, grabbing my arm. I gently pushed her hand away, my voice devoid of any anger. “I’m okay. Just forgot my crutches.” She frowned. “Why do you need crutches?” I answered with an airy calm. “It’s fractured.” In that instant, she froze. Perhaps she was remembering the excuse she’d just given me—that she was afraid Rupert might have a fracture. Her expression became a tangled mess of emotions. “I’m so sorry…” It was the first time she had ever truly apologized. She bent down to help me up. “Let me help you to bed.” To my own surprise, I shook my head and pushed her away again. “It’s okay. Could you just grab my crutches for me? They’re by the door. I can make it myself.” She didn’t move. “Wouldn’t it be better if I helped you?” In the past, if she’d offered any physical closeness, I would have melted into her arms. But now, the offer held no appeal. I smiled faintly. “No, thanks. I can manage on my own.” Her gaze was sharp, probing. “You’re still angry, aren’t you?” I paused. “No, really.” It was strange. She couldn’t stand it when I was angry, but now that I wasn’t, she seemed just as unhappy. She took a step closer. “If you’re angry, just say it. It’s not like I won’t listen. Why are you being like this?” 6 Eleanor hated conflict. She had a mind like a steel trap, capable of dismantling any argument, yet she’d repeatedly turned down invitations to join the university debate team. In her professional life, she was a woman of few words. When I was angry, her first instinct was to flee. “I’m exhausted from work every day,” she used to say. “I don’t have the energy for your baseless accusations! The reason I listen to Rupert is because he’s fragile. We grew up together; what’s wrong with me being a shoulder for him to lean on? If I actually liked him that way, where would that leave you? Besides, he never criticizes me! Can you just stop comparing yourself to him for once?” Those words used to pierce me like shards of glass. Now, remembering them, I felt nothing. Instead, I was just curious why she suddenly wanted to hear me out. I sighed. “I’m not angry. I’m really not.” Her breathing was uneven. “Then why won’t you let me help you?” “Because…” I kept the gentle smile fixed on my face, as if the memory of waking up in agony was a distant dream. “When I came out of surgery… I was alone then, too.” She stared, unblinking. “You had surgery?” I nodded. “You seemed busy. I didn’t want to bother you.” The corners of Eleanor’s eyes reddened. When she looked at me again, there was something new in her gaze… a flicker of pain. “You should have told me.” I shook my head. “It’s over now. If I could get through it alone then, I can certainly manage now that I’m recovering.” She looked down, her breath deepening. When her eyes met mine again, they were swimming with guilt. “So you’re blaming me for not being there.” I was done explaining. “I’m really not. Can you please just get my crutches? I want to go to sleep.” “If you’re not angry, why won’t you let me take care of you?” she pressed, stepping even closer. I was too tired to argue. I gave up, hopping on one foot, stumbling toward the door where I’d left the crutches. “Just drop it. Let’s go to bed.” Her fists were clenched at her sides. I ignored her, grabbed my crutches, and made my way to the bedroom. As I lay down, I heard her voice, sharp with fury. “Fine. Be that way. I’m going to go take care of Rupert!” The front door slammed shut. I glanced at the bedroom door, flicked off the lamp, and rolled over, closing my eyes. Within minutes, I was sound asleep. 7 I met Eleanor in the student union back in college. I was captivated by her sharp intellect and a profound, quiet confidence I’d never seen in anyone else. It took me ages to work up the nerve to ask her out. We’ve been together for six years—three in college, three after. And for almost all of it, my world has revolved around hers. My classmates from our graduating year are pulling in millions now, while I’m still hovering around six figures. Thinking back to when I was top of my class, I realize just how much I’ve let slip by. I didn’t text Eleanor again. My days were a simple loop: finish my work, then study for my certifications. Ms. Vance had hinted at another salary bump if I passed. Eleanor, for her part, hadn’t contacted me since she stormed out. That wasn’t unusual. She was never one for texting what could be said in person. Our typical dynamic was me sending her a barrage of updates about my day, to which she might reply with a perfunctory “Ok” or “Got it.” It never used to bother me. Not until I saw her chat logs with Rupert, the easy back-and-forth, the inside jokes. That’s when my composure finally cracked. That fight, like all the others, ended with her giving me the silent treatment. Thinking about it used to twist my stomach in knots, prompting me to find some new excuse to start another argument. Now, the memory just floats by, weightless. The prospect of a pay raise was infinitely more compelling. I had been planning to ask Eleanor out for a meal, to finally have the talk about our relationship. But she beat me to it. She sent me a picture of a reservation number for a private dining room. Let’s have dinner. I glanced at the restaurant I was about to order takeout from and realized, with a jolt, that it was the same place. Old habits die hard. This was Eleanor’s favorite spot. I had once secretly learned how to cook all of their signature dishes, hoping to surprise her. But she always said eating at home was a hassle; it was quicker to just go out. My culinary efforts were left to languish. Another habit I needed to break. Okay, I replied. 8 At 7 PM, I pushed open the restaurant door. I was off the crutches by then, but my walk was still a clumsy, uneven limp. A waiter kindly showed me to the private room. As the door opened, the first thing I heard was a peal of laughter. “No way! Your man really said that? If it were me, I wouldn’t be so petty!” Rupert was sitting right next to Eleanor, leaving only the seat directly across from them for me. I froze for a second, not expecting a third person. Eleanor looked up, a small, practiced smile on her face. “Oh, you’re here. We were just talking about old times.” Her eyes darted over my face, searching for a reaction. “Right. Carry on, then.” I returned her smile with one of my own and calmly made my way to the empty seat. Eleanor’s expression flickered. I turned to the waiter. “Could we get a menu, please?” The menu was in my hands for less than a second before it was snatched away. Rupert leaned intimately toward Eleanor, his finger tapping the page. “Ellie, this one’s amazing. And this one, and this…” She laughed softly. “Come on, you’re the one who wants it, aren’t you?” His eyes were full of a playful, adoring light. “No, it’s really that good.” Eleanor took the menu from him, checked off the items he’d pointed to, and handed it to the waiter. The waiter hesitated, looking at me. It was only then that she seemed to remember I was there. “Oh, right,” she said, passing the menu to me. “See if there’s anything you want.” I knew that look. It was the same analytical gaze she used to give me back when we first started dating, whenever I was giving her the silent treatment. The same look she’d have in those rare debate tournaments, searching for the fatal flaw in her opponent’s argument. She was watching me, waiting for me to crack. But I just glanced at the menu and smiled. “Looks good. Rupert has great taste.” Her hand, resting on the table, flinched. She looked at me as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. I passed the menu back to the waiter. “That’ll be all, thank you.” 9 After the menus were gone, a shadow fell over Eleanor’s face. Rupert, oblivious, draped an arm around her shoulder and grinned at me. “Heard you were mad at Ellie. Don’t worry, I gave her a piece of my mind for you!” I was in the middle of replying to a client’s message. I looked up and smiled politely. “Oh, that? It was nothing. Just a small thing.” Rupert clearly didn’t think so. He leaned in closer to Eleanor, pinching her cheek. “Hey, don’t take it personally, man. We’ve been like this since we were kids. I’m not interested in this block of wood, so you can relax!” I smiled again and went back to my phone. “Actually,” Rupert continued, his voice taking on a theatrical tone, “the reason Ellie takes such good care of me is because she kind of owes me her life.” Eleanor playfully swatted his arm. “Oh, stop it.” “No way! I can tell you never told him the story!” Rupert was practically glowing with self-importance. “You see, Ethan, when we were little, Ellie had a huge fight with her parents and ran out into a thunderstorm. I went looking for her and took a really bad fall. My leg never healed right. Turns out I have a congenital low bone density. That one fall almost crippled me for life!” Eleanor laughed, but her eyes were fixed on me. “Ethan’s not the jealous type. You don’t have to explain.” I looked up from my phone and echoed her smile. “She’s right. I stopped caring about that a long time ago.” Eleanor’s face went dark. The dishes began to arrive. I reached for a piece of the crispy-skin pork belly, but before I could get it, her chopsticks intercepted mine, snatching the piece and placing it in Rupert’s bowl. “Here,” she said with a soft smile. “You love this dish, don’t you?” All the while, she was watching me from the corner of her eye. I just smiled, picked up another piece for myself, and continued responding to a client’s voice message with my free hand. Her expression soured instantly. “You,” Eleanor said suddenly, her voice sharp. “Go sit on the other side.”

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The moment I sank into the bath, a low hum filled the air. A drone hovered outside my bathroom window, its red light blinking. Instead of jumping up, I curled into a ball, grabbed the shower rod, and swept the curtain across the window. After scrambling into a robe, I rushed to the window—it was still there. I yanked the curtain open and recorded it with my phone until it zipped away. I immediately shared the video in our building’s group chat: “Whose drone is this? Spying outside bathrooms—have you no shame?” Residents erupted: “That’s the one outside my window days ago!” “I was undressing! This is harassment!” I tagged property management, who promised an “immediate investigation.” I thought it was over. I never imagined the drone had just begun—and now, it was only targeting me. 1. The property management investigation went nowhere. They claimed there were too many blind spots in the security camera coverage to identify the operator. Judging by the silence in the group chat, my neighbors weren’t being bothered anymore. The drone was now my personal stalker. I live on the 16th floor. The view is expansive, which also means I’m completely exposed. Day one, it hovered outside my living room window, its camera lens aimed squarely at me. I drew the curtains. Day two, it circled my bedroom window at midnight. I bought heavy, blackout curtains and plunged my apartment into perpetual twilight. Day three, I was cooking in the kitchen. I turned my head, and there it was. A cold, electronic eye, separated from me by a single pane of glass. I felt like an animal in a glass cage, observed at will by an unseen keeper. I called the police. An officer came, took my statement, and then gave me the line. “Ma’am, without evidence of physical harm or a clear recording of you in a private setting, it’s very difficult to press charges. We recommend you take extra precautions.” Extra precautions? I kept every curtain drawn, living in a self-imposed darkness 24/7. I was starting to feel like I was molding over. That night, I was watching a movie with the volume cranked up. A piercing whine suddenly sliced through the film’s soundtrack. The drone’s propellers. It was practically plastered against my window. I stormed over and ripped the curtains open. A small spotlight had been attached to it. A harsh, white beam of light stabbed through the darkness, aimed directly at my eyes. I stumbled back, my eyes stinging, tears streaming down my face. It was taunting me. A surge of pure rage flooded my senses. I grabbed an apple from the counter, slid open the window, and hurled it with all my might. The drone dodged it with a nimble dip. It wobbled smugly in the air for a moment, then flew off. I watched it disappear. Upwards. I was on the 16th floor. There were more than a dozen floors above me. I shut the window and sat in the dark, listening to the frantic drumming of my own heart. This wasn’t over. 2. The next day, I took a half-day off work. I went to an electronics surplus store. “Do you have any high-powered laser pointers?” I asked the man behind the counter. He pulled a long, unmarked box from under the counter. “This one can hit a target three miles away. Creates a visible beam at night. Don’t point it at anyone’s eyes. It’ll blind them.” “I’ll take it.” That evening, I sat on my sofa in the pitch-black living room, and I waited. I’d left a small crack in the curtains. Sure enough, at 9 PM sharp, the familiar buzz returned. It circled at a distance first, as if scouting for danger, before slowly approaching my window. The spotlight clicked on again. Now. I raised the laser pointer, aimed through the crack in the curtains, and centered the beam on that glowing camera lens. I pressed the button. A brilliant green line shot out and landed squarely on the drone’s eye. The drone jolted violently, as if it had been burned. The light from its camera instantly died. It twitched erratically in the air for a few seconds, then scrambled away in a panicked retreat. A wave of grim satisfaction washed over me as I watched it flee. That night, I slept soundly for the first time in weeks. The next morning, I felt refreshed and ready for work. I opened my front door, and a putrid stench hit me like a physical blow. My door was smeared with a thick, dark red liquid, still dripping goo onto the welcome mat. It smelled like rancid animal blood. The keyhole of my lock was completely filled with hardened glue. My key wouldn’t go in. The door couldn’t be locked from the outside. I stood there, my stomach churning. 3. I didn’t clean the blood. I didn’t touch the lock. I called property management, my voice eerily calm. “My door has been vandalized with some kind of filth and the lock has been destroyed. I need you to send someone to handle it. Also, please check the hallway security footage.” The building manager arrived quickly, his face paling at the sight. “Ms. Vance, this… this is despicable! We’ll check the cameras right away!” I nodded, went downstairs, bought a new deadbolt, and called a locksmith to forcibly remove the old one and install it. My phone was quiet all afternoon. Just before quitting time, the manager called back, his tone apologetic. “Ms. Vance, we reviewed the footage, but… the person was wearing a hoodie and a face mask. We can’t see their face.” “Which floor did they come from?” I asked. “…The 17th.” I hung up. The 17th floor. A package I’d ordered arrived that evening. A smart video doorbell, complete with motion detection and cloud storage. I installed it myself in under thirty minutes. With that done, I ordered takeout, sat on my sofa, and watched the live feed of my front door on a spare phone while I ate. They would be back. I waited for two nights. Nothing happened. The drone didn’t reappear. It seemed they had given up. On the third night, I was reading when my phone buzzed. A notification from the doorbell app. “Motion has been detected at your front door.” I immediately pulled up the live stream. A figure in a black hoodie was creeping toward my door. He was carrying a small bucket. Just as I’d predicted. He stopped in front of my door, twisted the lid off the bucket, and raised it to splash its contents. I pressed the two-way talk button on the app. “Don’t move.” My voice, broadcast through the doorbell’s speaker, wasn’t loud, but it cut through the silent hallway like a knife. The figure froze, sloshing some of the liquid from the bucket. He looked up in terror, his eyes fixing on the tiny doorbell. “I’m recording this,” I continued. “Turn around now, take the stairs, and I can pretend this never happened.” He stood there, paralyzed, clearly weighing his options. “You have three seconds. Three… two…” Before I could say “one,” he dropped the bucket and bolted for the stairwell. I watched him vanish from the screen and saved the video clip. In that split second when he looked up, his mask had slipped just enough to reveal the lower half of his face. A young face, twisted with malice. 4. I didn’t post the video to the group chat. That would only make them more careful next time. I needed a knockout blow. The next day, my internet slowed to a crawl. Videos buffered endlessly, and web pages took ages to load. I called my service provider. After running a diagnostic, they said the line was fine, but my data usage was abnormally high. A number of unauthorized devices were connected to my network. I logged into my router’s admin panel. Sure enough, the list of connected devices was filled with unfamiliar names. One of them stood out: “KK-Drone-Controller.” KK? I suddenly remembered something. There was only one family on the 17th floor. Apartment 1701. The last time I was in the management office, I had glanced at the resident file for 1701. The owner: Sharon Keller. Her son: Kyle Keller. KK. They had been piggybacking on my Wi-Fi the entire time, using my own network to control the drone that was spying on me. No wonder they always knew exactly when I was home. A fire ignited in my chest. I didn’t change the password. Not yet. I opened my laptop and started searching. “How to track devices on your Wi-Fi.” “IP address location.” “Network forensics.” It took me all day, but I found a method. Using specialized software, I could capture the data packets being sent by any device connected to my network. While the data itself was encrypted, I could see which servers it was communicating with. The “KK-Drone-Controller” was constantly pinging a cloud server belonging to a major drone manufacturer. I even found the server’s IP address. I screenshotted everything—the MAC address of the device, the server logs, all of it—and saved it. Only then did I go back into my router settings, blacklist “KK-Drone-Controller,” and change my Wi-Fi password. The next morning, I had just woken up when my doorbell began to ring incessantly, accompanied by furious pounding. I looked through the video feed. A middle-aged woman’s face, contorted with rage. Sharon Keller. Kyle’s mother. “Open this door! You open up right now! You little witch, what did you do to our internet?!” she shrieked, hammering on the door. I activated the speaker. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Don’t play dumb with me! My son said it was you! It was working fine yesterday, and now we can’t get online! What are you trying to pull?!” She had just admitted it. I smiled. “Oh? Are you sure you know how your internet works?” The woman outside fell silent. “Wh-what are you talking about! We have our own service!” “Is that right? Well, that’s funny. I was checking my router yesterday and found an unauthorized device that’s been stealing my Wi-Fi. The device name was ‘KK-Drone-Controller.’ I’ve already filed a police report and given them the device’s MAC address and all the evidence of the servers it was connecting to. The police said that theft of service, if severe enough, is a federal crime.” I heard a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the door. Then, dead silence. A few seconds later, the woman erupted like a cornered animal. “You’re a liar! You vicious little tramp, how dare you frame my son!” She started kicking the door, screaming every curse word imaginable. I didn’t engage further. I muted the speaker and calmly went to make myself a cup of coffee. Listening to her impotent rage from outside my door, I took a sip. It had never tasted so sweet. 5. Sharon Keller’s tantrum lasted for fifteen minutes before neighbors and property management finally persuaded her to leave. The world was quiet again. That evening, the power in my apartment went out. It wasn’t a tripped breaker. My neighbors’ lights were all on. Only my unit was plunged into darkness. I turned on my phone’s flashlight and checked the breaker box. All the switches were in the correct position. I called management. “Ms. Vance, please hold on. We’ll send an electrician right over.” As I waited, a deep sense of unease settled over me. My video doorbell was offline without power. I was blind to what was happening outside my door. I dragged a heavy chair and wedged it under the doorknob. And then I heard it. Soft footsteps. They stopped right outside my door. Next, the faint, metallic scrape of metal on metal. Someone was picking my lock. Every hair on my body stood on end. I held my breath and tiptoed to the door, pressing my ear against the cold steel. Whoever it was, they were clumsy. After several minutes of fumbling, they couldn’t get it open. I heard a muffled curse. They seemed to give up. Then came a different sound. A soft hissing. Like something being squeezed into the keyhole. Superglue. They were trying to lock me in. What if there was a fire? The thought sent a jolt of ice through my veins. I crept to the kitchen and pulled the longest, sharpest carving knife from the block. Just then, my phone rang. It was the electrician. “Ms. Vance, I’m on your floor, but the door to the utility closet in the hallway is locked from the outside. I can’t get in. Let me go find the master key.” My heart sank. They had locked the utility closet, too. Almost simultaneously, I heard the person outside my door react to the sound of my phone. The footsteps started again, this time running frantically toward the stairwell. I rushed to the door and peered through the peephole. The hallway was empty. I yanked the door open. The acrid smell of glue filled the air. The keyhole was completely sealed. Down the hall, the utility closet door had a heavy-duty U-lock clamped around its handles. They weren’t just trying to harass me. They were trying to trap me. I backed into my apartment, my heart pounding against my ribs. My phone lit up again. A text from an unknown number. “Enjoying my gifts? This is just the beginning.”

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