Author: Momo Chan

My CEO boyfriend just gave the promotion he promised me to someone else. And demoted me to a satellite office. He casually told his friends, “Chloe needs this platform more. Evelyn is stronger anyway; she can go to the New York branch and open up the new market.” “It’s her own fault for refusing to hand over the design drafts for the Starlight Collection to Chloe. A little reality check will teach her how to make the right choice. Don’t worry, I know Evelyn better than anyone. Where else could she possibly go without me?” My mind went completely blank. Among my luggage scattered on the floor was the anniversary gift I had specially bought for Liam. I left the group chat, blocked his number, and threw the gift in the trash. Then, I accepted the job offer a rival company’s partner had sent me. He had no idea. He could throw away our future for Chloe. But I could throw him away, too, and choose my own path. Liam’s words cut through my heart like a knife. He used to say his partner had to be a capable, independent woman, not someone relying on family connections. So I started from the very bottom. The Creative Director position was a promise he made to me five years ago. He promised that once I secured that role, we’d get married. But now, he handed it to someone else on a silver platter. Without even having the decency to tell me to my face. In the group chat, someone asked him, “What if Evelyn actually accepts the relocation?” Liam laughed it off. “Are you kidding? She worked harder than anyone for this promotion, pulling all-nighters just to be closer to me. There’s no way she’d agree to move that far away from me… You guys just don’t get it.” The guys in the chat started hyping him up, calling him a boss. Then someone else chimed in. “But what if she really does? She’s incredibly protective of her projects. She’d never just let someone else take them.” Liam paused for a few seconds before typing back, his tone turning cold. “Cut the crap.” “Evelyn can’t live without me. Last time I went to New York for a merger, she found an excuse to fly out to see me within three days. This relocation is miles away. There’s no way she’d agree to it.” “To her, I’m way more important than any job title or project. She’ll back down. Just watch.” After that, the chat went dead silent. After a long pause, someone finally ventured, “Liam, isn’t that a bit harsh on Evelyn? I mean, she built the Starlight Project from scratch. Everyone knows that. You should at least talk to her.” Liam let out an annoyed sigh. “Ugh, I don’t want to deal with it.” “You know how dramatic Evelyn can get. If she finds out I gave the director position to Chloe, she’ll blow up. It’s easier this way. Less drama.” The group chat buzzed again. “True, Chloe’s family has way more influence anyway.” “Liam really is the man.” … Those casual jokes crushed what was left of my spirit. I wanted so badly to call him, to scream and demand answers. But my thumb hovered over the screen, unable to press dial. In the end, I just stared blankly at the ceiling, completely numb, and buried myself under the covers.

Staring at the ceiling, my mind drifted. How could someone change so fast? The Creative Director position was his promise to me five years ago. He told me it wasn’t just a job—it was the throne he saved for me, the starting point where we could stand side by side and receive everyone’s blessings. He had said, “Once you’re in that seat, we’ll get married. I want the whole world to see that the woman I chose deserves the absolute best.” But just when our future was finally within reach, he let go of my hand and ran toward someone else. If he wanted to give the position to Chloe, I wouldn’t even have hated him if he had just been honest. But why keep me in the dark? Did he really think so little of me? If I was such a nuisance, what was that late-night proposal, when he slipped a ring on my finger and promised me forever? Was the night too dark, the lights too dim, for him to see who he was actually promising his life to? I curled into a ball, hiding in the dark, and finally let the tears fall. The irony was, I wasn’t the one who couldn’t survive without him. He was the codependent one. Every time I took on a major project and we had to be apart, he would get incredibly anxious. He only calmed down when he dragged me back to the core decision-making table by his side. So while I steadily built my career, I constantly pulled him along with me. Liam was right about one thing—I had always written him into my future. I was willing to compromise for love, as long as it didn’t compromise my integrity. But that didn’t mean I would let him walk all over me. I closed the company portal I had accidentally opened, wiped my tears, and logged out of my work email for the last time. He had his schemes, but I had my backup plan. From now on, our paths diverged. I had just finished washing my face when my phone buzzed with a FaceTime call from Liam. “Babe, pick up! I need to see you!” When I didn’t answer, he sent several more FaceTime requests before finally texting: “We’re all at our usual spot. Everyone’s waiting for you. Come over, I’ll send my driver to pick you up.” But I was done. “Tired. Staying in,” I replied. The reply came instantly. “Are you sick? I’m coming over.” “No. Don’t come,” I texted back, frowning. Just as I hit send, a text from Chloe popped up. “Evelyn, I’m so sorry. I practically begged Liam to let me tag along. I didn’t know it would upset you. I can leave right now. As long as you come, I don’t mind going home.” The text reeked of fake sweetness. Before I could reply, my phone started blowing up with notifications from the group chat, tagging me repeatedly. “Evelyn, what is your problem? Can you not stand Liam having other friends? Your jealousy is getting out of hand.” “Are you seriously throwing a tantrum just because Chloe is prettier and more popular than you? Get over yourself.” I froze, my instinct to explain myself dying instantly when a direct text from Liam arrived. “Evelyn, I invited Chloe. If you’re mad, take it out on me. Why are you targeting her?” “Whatever. Come or don’t. We actually get things done faster without you here anyway.” Right after, someone posted photos of them at a high-end restaurant in the group chat, with a passive-aggressive caption: “Dinner tastes so much better without certain people bringing down the vibe.” Unbelievable. I left the group chat, blocked every single one of them, and then blocked Liam on Snapchat, FaceTime, and my contacts. He used to be my pinned contact. Now, he was just trash in my blocked list.

To be honest, when Chloe first joined us as a representative for our partner company, I actually considered her a friend. Back then, Liam even warned me, saying she wasn’t as innocent as she seemed and told me to keep my distance. I spent so much energy trying to smooth things over between them to make the partnership work. But that changed at the annual charity gala. Chloe traded her clunky glasses for a stunning red silk gown, and overnight, Liam’s tune changed completely. He never told me to stay away from her again. Instead, they grew closer and closer. He started introducing her to our most important clients and investors. By the time I realized what was happening, my hard-earned professional network had been handed over to her. Liam treated Chloe with a strange, delicate tenderness. Once, after Liam and I had a massive blowout over a major investment decision, we didn’t speak for three months. I told him, “If you think Chloe aligns better with your vision, I’ll step down from the executive team.” But Liam actually cried. He held me and said, “You’re the only one I care about, Evelyn. Chloe’s family is going through a rough patch and her company is sinking. I’m just helping her out of pity while integrating their assets.” And I, like a fool, believed him. He treated me like an idiot. Their “strategic partnership” became a convenient shield for their constant flirting. And now, he had officially kicked me out of the game just to clear a path for her. I felt like the biggest joke in the world. By the time I snapped out of my thoughts, the sun had set. My mom came home and noticed my sour expression. She smiled softly. “Fight with Liam again? He called me saying you blocked him. He wants you to unblock him.” I muttered a vague excuse and headed out. HR had scheduled my final transition meeting. When I entered the conference room, the prime seat to Liam’s right—which had always been mine—was empty. Without hesitating, Chloe slid right into it. Liam didn’t object. He casually accepted the cup of coffee she handed him, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on me. He was waiting for me to bow my head and apologize. Too bad for him. I walked past them and sat at the far end of the long conference table. “Alright, everyone,” Liam announced, his voice professional. “Starting today, Chloe will be taking over as Creative Director. She will also head our partnership with Vanguard Group. Evelyn will be relocating to our New York branch to oversee the expansion.” Ethan, the senior executive from Vanguard Group, suddenly looked at me and smiled. “What a coincidence. Our headquarters in Paris is actually looking for a Creative Director with exactly your caliber, Evelyn.” I ignored the VP’s question and opened my mouth to speak to Ethan, but Liam stood up, grabbed my arm, and pulled me out of the conference room. “Evelyn, when are you going to stop this?” Liam hissed the moment the door shut. “First the silent treatment, and now you block my number?” “I’m warning you, unblock me right now, or don’t even think about stepping foot in my office again.” I stared at his angry face for a second. “Good. I wasn’t planning on it anyway.” Liam’s face flushed with anger. “Fine! Don’t come crawling back begging for my attention later!” I turned to leave, but he suddenly grabbed my wrist again, his eyes softening slightly with a strange urgency. “The transfer deadline is tonight. Review the relocation package and benefits again. Make sure you didn’t miss anything…” Before he could finish, Chloe stepped out of the room with a folder. “Liam, babe, I’m a bit confused about this European market budget draft. Do you have a few minutes?” “Sure, let’s take a look,” Liam said instantly, focusing his attention on her papers. I let out a cold laugh and walked away. By the time Liam looked up to say something else, I was already at the door. “Evelyn, make sure you double-check those contract details! Double-check them!”

Please. He really thought his word was law. He probably thought the threat of being shipped off to New York would scare me into giving up my projects and begging him to let me stay. Keep dreaming. Since he didn’t have the guts to tell me the truth, I played along. He thought dealing with my feelings was too much work, and honestly, explaining myself to him was exhausting. Thank God my brain finally started working again. Back in the room, Ethan noticed my tense expression. After the meeting adjourned, he invited me to a small private cocktail party to take my mind off things. As I was leaving the venue later that evening, I ran into Liam standing near the entrance, his face dark. He glared at Ethan, his expression murderous. I knew he was jumping to conclusions, but I couldn’t care less. I walked right past him, treating him like a ghost. Near the entrance of the parking garage, I bumped into him again, this time talking to one of our VPs. “Liam, seriously, you need to talk to Evelyn,” the VP was saying. “Are you really okay with sending her to New York alone to start from scratch?” Liam scoffed. “She’s expanding our market. Why wouldn’t I be okay with it? Besides, she’s definitely signed the relocation agreement by now. She’s just throwing a tantrum to get my attention.” I paused, stepping right into their line of sight. Liam quickly dismissed the VP. Ethan gave me a polite nod and walked ahead to give us space. Liam cornered me against my car. “Going to parties behind my back and hanging out with our rivals? You’re getting pretty bold, aren’t you, Evelyn?” “Did you think this would actually make me jealous?” He grabbed my wrist, his voice dropping into that familiar, casual tone. “Fine, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you the other day. We’re good now, right? Did you sign the transfer papers?” Then, he hesitated before adding, “Also… do you mind taking a quick look at Chloe’s budget draft? She’s struggling with the numbers.” I stared at him in dead silence. The tension became thick enough to cut with a knife. Right on cue, the click of high heels echoed through the garage. Chloe sauntered over, pouting. “Liam, the legal team is being so mean to me. Can you come help me look at this contract?” Then, pretending to notice me for the first time, her eyes widened in fake surprise. “Oh! Evelyn! You’re here too? Don’t tell me you saw the industry press release about me being here and decided to follow us?” “Please don’t get the wrong idea. I just wanted to learn, so I begged Liam to bring me. I’m still so new to this and need all the exposure I can get.” Ugh. There it was again—that grating, manipulative tone. I had zero energy to play along with her little drama. Taking advantage of Liam’s momentary distraction, I yanked my hand free and went to open my car door. But Chloe stepped right in front of my car, blocking my way.

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After we got back together, I changed every single habit Alexander hated. I stopped calling him to ask where he was. I stopped getting jealous over nothing. I stopped making a scene over the little things. Even when I found a delicate diamond bracelet in his suit pocket. I simply took it out and placed it quietly on the vanity. He thought I had finally learned to be understanding. He thought I finally realized how hard he worked for our future. What he didn’t know was that my one-way ticket to Paris was already booked. I was leaving him. For good. *** Alexander paused when he walked into the bedroom and saw the bracelet on the vanity. His face darkened. He loosened his silk tie but didn’t head straight to his study like he usually did. Alexander had sharp, aristocratic features and a chillingly handsome face. He carried the heavy, natural authority of a man who ruled a business empire. But right now, he pinched the bridge of his nose, looking incredibly exhausted. “Sophia dropped that,” he said. “There was a yacht party hosted by her father last night. She drank on my behalf, and the sea breeze was freezing, so I let her wear my coat. She must have slipped her bracelet into the pocket and forgotten about it.” He looked at me, making an explanation he would usually deem beneath him. “I’ve told you a thousand times, Zoey. She’s only the daughter of my grandfather’s oldest business partner. The Wright and Reynolds families have massive joint ventures. I have to play nice.” “Past, present, future—there is absolutely nothing between us.” I remained silent. Seeing my lack of reaction, a rare crack appeared in his always-calm composure. A look of sheer helplessness—something I had never seen on his face before—flickered in his eyes. “What do I have to do for you to believe me?” I smiled gently. “Nothing. I believe you. I’m not angry.” It was like throwing a heavy punch only to hit empty air. Alexander’s face went blank for a second. “…Then why are you acting like this?” I glanced at my watch, calculating the time I needed to get to JFK Airport, and offered a quick excuse. “You always said you didn’t like listening to useless details. I have an appointment to handle some personal business, so I need to head out early.” I turned to grab my purse, completely ignoring how his face suddenly fell. “You don’t usually go out at this hour,” Alexander said, his voice dropping. “It takes at least forty minutes to get downtown from here. You’re leaving way too early.” I hadn’t prepared for him to pay this much attention. I was forced to look up and meet his sharp, analyzing gaze. “It’s first thing in the morning. Instead of going to the office to handle the files for tonight’s charity gala, who are you running off to see?” Just as the suspicion in his eyes began to deepen… *Ding—!* A custom ringtone echoed through the room. It was Sophia. Alexander’s sharp gaze instantly shifted. His eyes flickered, looking guilty for a split second. “It’s Mr. Reynolds. I need to take this.” He immediately threw his suspicion of me to the back of his mind, turning to walk out onto the balcony. “Go ahead and make your own plans.” I nodded, quickly grabbing my handbag and coat. But before I could close the front door, he called out to me from the balcony, sliding the glass door open slightly. “Be careful on the road.” His voice was low, carrying that familiar, dismissive tone he used when he was trying to placate a child. “The jewelry set I ordered for you will be delivered tonight.” “I promised you before—I will never miss another anniversary.” “Happy seventh anniversary.” “I’ll see you tonight, Zo.” My hand froze on the doorknob. On our last anniversary, he had abandoned me at our dinner table to accompany Sophia to her father’s birthday gala. I had been in so much pain back then. Yet now, hearing him mention it, my heart didn’t even flutter. “You should answer your phone,” I whispered, not looking back. “Don’t keep her waiting.” After all, Sophia couldn’t wait. And my flight wouldn’t wait either. As for our anniversary… This year, next year, and every year after that—I would be permanently absent. ***

I barely made it onto the morning flight to Paris. Once I sat down in my first-class seat, a wave of dizziness hit me. I had skipped breakfast in my rush. Instinctively, I reached into my handbag. Sure enough, my fingers brushed against a box of artisanal chocolates. Ever since I had fainted at a high-society gala years ago due to severe stress-induced hypoglycemia, Alexander had made it a strict habit to slip a box of chocolates into my bag before any major event. As the sweetness melted on my tongue, the dizziness quickly faded. But right after, a lingering, suffocating bitterness rushed up my throat. Seven years together. How did Alexander and I end up here? In the beginning, I truly believed his excuse—that Sophia was just a family friend he had to indulge for the sake of business. That was why Alexander always kept his distance from me in public, introducing me merely as his “Executive Assistant,” while treating Sophia with utmost care as his “family sister.” When the manager of the Wright Group’s European division made my life a living hell at work, Alexander did nothing. But when someone slightly inconvenienced Sophia’s project, that person was fired the next day. People in their wealthy circle secretly nicknamed Sophia “the future Mrs. Wright.” They said it right to my face—the face of the “assistant” who was never publicly acknowledged. I forced myself to understand his pressure. But that “special treatment” eventually bled into our private life. Alexander stood me up again and again, canceling our dates the moment she called. Our first explosive fight happened on a cold night a year ago. I was scrolling through Instagram and saw a grid of photos posted by a mutual friend. Alexander, who had told me he was locked in a grueling, all-night global board meeting, was actually attending the Monaco Yacht Show with Sophia. I had begged him for months to take me to that very show. He had rejected me coldly: *“Those events are mindlessly superficial. It’s not appropriate for you to attend as an assistant.”* I remembered tugging on his sleeve back then, teasing, *“But I heard they’re debuting a limited-edition yacht this year. Can’t we just go look?”* Alexander hadn’t even looked up from his tablet. *“Going to those vanity shows is a waste of time.”* Yet in those Instagram photos, he was the picture of elegance, smiling warmly at Sophia. There wasn’t a single trace of annoyance on his face. When Alexander finally came home that night, I asked him in a flat, dead voice: “How was the Monaco Yacht Show?” A flash of surprise seemed to cross his eyes. Or maybe I was just hallucinating. Because a second later, his face became completely blank, devoid of any guilt. “Did you hire someone to stalk me?” My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a giant, icy hand. I couldn’t breathe. “Do I need to stalk you?” “The pictures of you and her at the show are all over social media!” My chest heaved violently as I struggled for air. “Alexander, if you want to break up, just say it! You don’t have to lie to me like this!” Alexander’s expression didn’t even change. He was as calm as a detached spectator. “If you don’t even have basic trust in me, then I have nothing to say.” “Zoey, I’ve been networking all day. I don’t have the energy to fight with you.” No guilt. No explanation. Compared to my hysterical, messy self, he was so painfully dignified. He didn’t even forget to place the yacht show’s souvenir brochure neatly on the coffee table. The luxurious yacht on the cover felt like a sharp blade, stabbing straight through my chest. All the resentment and humiliation I had suppressed for years suddenly boiled over. The last thread of my sanity snapped. In a fit of rage, I grabbed the brochure and hurled it at the floor. The envelope wasn’t sealed. The items inside tumbled out, scattering across the hardwood floor with a soft clatter. I didn’t even look down. I just stared at Alexander with bloodshot eyes. We glared at each other, like two enemies on a battlefield. After a long, agonizing silence, he grabbed his coat and slammed the door as he left. I stood there like a statue, frozen in the cold apartment. Until something rolled against my foot. I looked down. My breath caught. It was chocolate. A scattered mess of handmade, customized chocolates. My heart softened again. I decided I wanted to talk to him. To fix us. ***

But for three whole days, Alexander didn’t answer my calls, and he didn’t come home. I swallowed my pride, typing a message through my tears: *“I’m sorry for throwing a tantrum without talking to you first.”* *“But it’s a fact that you lied about the global meeting to go to the yacht show with her.”* *“Tonight is our sixth anniversary. I’ll be waiting for you at home.”* *“Can we please just sit down and talk?”* I waited from sunrise to sunset. He never showed. As the clock neared 11:00 PM, I finally made up my mind to drive to his family’s estate to find him. But on my way to the parking garage, I ran into Marcus Rossi—the manager Alexander had kicked off the project team. He had been drinking, his eyes wild with rage. He dragged me into a dark alleyway. “Fucking bitch! I don’t dare touch the future Mrs. Wright, but you think I won’t touch a pathetic little ‘assistant’ like you?” I screamed. I called Alexander’s private number over and over, but it just went to voicemail. If it hadn’t been for a security patrol car passing by and scaring him away, my injuries would have been far worse than just a sprained ankle and bruised wrists. When my phone suddenly lit up and started ringing in the back of the police car… I let out a sharp, traumatized gasp. Seeing his name on the screen, the strength that had held my spine straight all night collapsed instantly. I broke down, crying hysterically into the receiver. “Alex—” “Hello?” Sophia’s voice answered, thick with sleep and a soft, irritated whine. “…Who is it… so late…” In the background, I heard Alexander’s deep, muffled voice close by. Sophia seemed to cover the mouthpiece, whispering softly to him, “It’s fine, go back to sleep… I think it’s just Zoey.” Then she spoke back into the phone. “He drank too much at the downtown club tonight and just fell asleep. If it’s about work, can it wait until tomorrow?” My throat felt like it had been stuffed with burning coal. The raw flesh of my throat felt scorched, blistered, and torn. The pain was so intense I wanted to rip my own vocal cords out. Simply pressing the button to end the call felt like it took every ounce of life left in me. I went to the police station alone, limping, looking utterly wretched. By the time the paperwork was done, the clock on my phone hit 12:01 AM. I finally received another call from Alexander. His tone was as arrogant and detached as ever. “Have you realized your mistake yet?” In that second, I understood. He had done this on purpose. All those unanswered calls on our anniversary. It was his punishment for my “lack of trust.” Tears streamed down my swollen face, burning my scraped skin like battery acid. When I spoke, my voice was a broken, raspy whisper. “Alexander, let’s break up.” There was only a second of silence on the other end. Then, Alexander let out a cold scoff. “Fine. Don’t regret it.” He hung up without a shred of hesitation. He agreed to the breakup as if throwing away a piece of trash. ***

In the beginning, the hardest part was falling asleep. I couldn’t stop tossing and turning, replaying every single detail of our seven years together. I was terrified that I had misjudged him, that I had unfairly sentenced our relationship to death. I went through our text history over and over. But the more I read, the more miserable I became. The sadness slowly twisted into a dark, suffocating resentment. I began to hate Alexander. Six years. Six whole years of my life. I hated how easily he had discarded me, without a single ounce of care. At 4:00 AM one night, in a fit of agony, I blocked and deleted him from every single social media platform. I dragged myself out of bed, packed every single item he had ever bought me into heavy boxes, and shoved them into the back of the storage locker. I thought doing this would bring me peace. But it felt like trying to swat a mosquito that was draining my blood, only to end up covered in my own wounds. I still had to attend essential business galas as his “former assistant” or “ex-project lead,” pretending nothing was wrong. But only I knew that a massive piece of my heart had been violently carved out. That piece had belonged to Alexander. It had rotted away. To survive, I had to amputate it. But I forgot that when the wound is too deep, the body bleed to death anyway. My emotional dam completely broke when I ran into him at a charity gala a month later. Alexander was as poised and commanding as ever. In fact, he looked even more radiant, as if my absence hadn’t affected his life in the slightest. Sophia was clinging to his arm, looking up at him with a blushing, secret smile. After that night, I stopped sleeping entirely. I couldn’t keep any food down. Since Alexander didn’t have public social media, I began obsessively stalking Sophia’s Instagram. I analyzed every single post, every geotag, looking for traces of him. I kept this up until my blood sugar crashed, and I fainted during a networking cocktail hour. I woke up in a hospital bed. Alexander finally condescended to visit me. It was the twenty-ninth day after our breakup. He sat by my bed, casually spinning the matching silver promise ring on his finger. “You’ve lost weight, Zo.” I stared at him, my eyes hollow, my mind completely numb. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. Alexander let out a satisfied, victorious smile. And just like that, we got back together.

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“Don’t call me Daddy! I’m not your father!” My mafia husband snarls, shoving our seven-year-old daughter away right before she can blow out her birthday candles. Sophie stumbles backward. Her little party crown slips off her head and lands on the floor. Nobody says a word. Fifty guests. Capos. Wives. Men who kill for the Hale family. Every one of them watches my daughter fall apart. I rush forward and catch Sophie before she hits the table. Her body shakes. She doesn’t cry. She just looks up at me, confused. “Julian.” My voice comes out low. “What the hell are you doing?” He doesn’t even look at me. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out an envelope. Tosses it onto the cake. The white frosting smears across the paper. “Paternity test,” he says. Loud enough for the whole room to hear. “Sophie isn’t mine.” The whispers start at once. My hands go cold. “That’s a lie,” I say. “She’s your daughter. You know she is.” Julian straightens his tie. Calm. Collected. He just destroyed a child’s birthday. He doesn’t care. “The DNA doesn’t lie, Riley. Maybe you should think about who else you were fucking seven years ago.” I can’t breathe. Before I can speak, my mother stands up from the head table. I think she’s going to defend me. I think she’s going to tell Julian he’s lost his mind. Instead, she walks over to me and slaps me across the face. The slap is loud. “How dare you,” she hisses. “You’ve shamed this entire family. Wasn’t it enough that you stole Elena’s life? Now you bring a bastard into a respectable marriage?” I press my hand to my cheek. The sting spreads across my whole face. Elena. Of course. I look past my mother, and there she is. Elena—the woman my parents believed was their blood daughter. Their lost heir. The one who replaced me overnight. She’s standing next to Julian, holding his arm. Her eyes are red. She wants everyone to think she’s been crying. Then I catch her smile. She’s enjoying this. “Riley,” my father says from his seat. He doesn’t stand up. Doesn’t even raise his voice. “We’ll discuss the family holdings tomorrow. You owe Elena that much.” Family holdings. They don’t care about Sophie. A seven-year-old just got called a bastard at her own birthday party, and they’re already carving up my family shares. Sophie tugs on my sleeve. Her voice is barely a whisper. “Mommy, can we go home?” Home. Where is that now? I pick her up. She buries her face in my neck. I can feel her tears soaking through my dress. I turn to Julian one last time. He’s already looking at his phone. Elena leans into his shoulder, whispering something. He smirks. I don’t say a word. I carry my daughter through the ballroom, past the staring guests, past the ruined cake. Nobody stops me. Nobody follows. The valet brings my car around. I buckle Sophie into the backseat. She still has her party crown in her hands. “Mommy?” she says quietly. “Yeah, baby?” “Is it true? Is he not my daddy?” My throat closes. I look at her in the rearview mirror. She looks exactly like Julian. The same jawline. The same dark eyes. Anyone with eyes can see it. “He’s lying,” I say. “I promise you, he’s lying.” She nods. But something in her face has changed. Something that shouldn’t change in a seven-year-old. I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles go white. Julian thinks I’ll crawl back. He thinks I’ll cry and beg and wait for him to forgive me for something I never did. He’s wrong. I pull out of the driveway and head toward Hale Tower, the clean front Julian runs for the family. If that test is fake, there has to be proof. And I’m going to find it tonight—even if I have to tear his desk apart with my bare hands. But when I get there, the lobby lights are still on, and I hear Julian’s voice drifting through the half-open door of his corner office. He’s laughing. —

I press my back against the wall outside his office. The hallway is dark. No one else is around. Julian’s voice comes through the cracked door. Easy. Proud. “You should’ve seen her face,” he says. “She looked destroyed.” Another man laughs. Marcus. Julian’s underboss. His drinking buddy. The man who never says no to Don Hale. “What about the kid?” Marcus asks. “She really isn’t yours?” Julian snorts. “Of course she’s mine. You think I’m stupid? Look at her face. She’s my clone.” I grab the wall. He knows. He’s always known. “So the DNA test—” “Fake.” Julian says it casually. He sounds bored. “I paid a family doctor to switch the results. Cost me ten grand. Worth every penny.” My nails dig into my palms. “Elena needed something to use against Riley,” he continues. “Her parents—well, Riley’s parents—they’ve been too slow to hand over the family holdings. Elena’s the blood heir, but Riley’s name is still on everything. The trusts. The clean businesses. The family shares. All of it.” Marcus whistles. “So you humiliate Riley in public, make everyone think Sophie’s not yours, and suddenly the whole family turns on her.” “Exactly. Now her parents will cut her off themselves. Elena gets everything she’s owed, and I get to keep the family alliance on track. Elena already promised me forty percent of the clean assets once the transfer goes through.” I can’t breathe. This was never about Sophie. This was a deal. “What about Riley?” Marcus asks. “You think she’ll actually leave?” Julian laughs again. That laugh I used to love. “Leave? Riley?” He takes a sip of something. I hear the glass clink. “She’s obsessed with me. She has been since college. She’ll cry for a week, I’ll send some flowers, take her to dinner, and she’ll come crawling back. She always does.” “And if she doesn’t?” “Then I’ll let her go. She walks away with nothing. No money, no shares, no family. Where’s she gonna go? No family protection. No money. A kid. No skills. She’ll be back in two weeks.” Marcus laughs. “Cold, man.” “Smart,” Julian corrects him. “There’s a difference.” I stand in that hallway for a long time after they move on to talking about golf. My hands stop shaking. I feel dead inside. Seven years. Seven years. I built his home. I raised his daughter. I helped grow his empire. I brought the alliances. I handled the books while he slept. And he just called me a woman with no skills. I walk back to the elevator. I barely recognize myself in the elevator doors. Mascara under my eyes. My mother’s handprint on my cheek. But her eyes are dry. I get in the car. Sophie is asleep in the backseat, still clutching her paper crown. I don’t drive to Julian’s house. I drive to my parents’ compound. Not because I think they’ll help me. I know better now. I’m going because everything I own—my documents, my trust papers, my shares—is locked in the study safe. And I need to get them before Elena does. The gates open automatically. The compound gate still opens for me. For now, the Hale guards still think I belong here. I carry Sophie inside and lay her on the couch in the foyer. She doesn’t wake up. She’s exhausted. I head down the hall toward the study. The light is already on. I push the door open and find my mother sitting behind the desk. Elena is standing next to her. My papers are spread across the desk. Trusts. Territory papers. Property papers. My mother looks up at me with no warmth in her eyes. “Good,” she says. “You’re here. Sit down. We need to talk about what you owe the real heir.” —

I don’t sit down. “Those are mine,” I say, looking at the papers on the desk. “Every one of them has my name on it.” My mother folds her hands. “Your name. On papers that belong to this mafia family. This family took you in, Riley. Don’t forget that.” Borrowed. Twenty-six years. They raised me since I was three months old. Birthdays, holidays, school plays. I called this woman Mom every single day of my life. So that’s what I am now. Not family. Property. Elena touches a tissue to her eyes. She’s wearing one of my old cashmere sweaters. The cream one I left in my closet last Christmas. “I’m not trying to take anything from you,” Elena says softly. “I just want what’s fair. You had my life for twenty-six years. My parents. My home. My name. My protection.” She pauses. “I had nothing.” I stare at her. She has practiced every word. “I earned those shares,” I say. “I worked for three years before I got a single—” “Enough.” My father’s voice comes from the doorway behind me. He walks past without looking at me and stands next to my mother. “We’ve spoken to the consigliere. You’ll sign tomorrow morning. The trusts, the family shares, the downtown apartment—all of it goes to Elena.” “And if I don’t sign?” He finally looks at me. “Then we take the paternity test to the Families. Julian’s already given us a copy. Every Don in the city will hear what you did.” “It’s fake,” I say. “The test is fake. Julian admitted it.” My father’s face doesn’t change. “Do you have proof?” No. I don’t. I was standing in a dark hallway, alone. “That’s what I thought,” he says. Elena reaches across the desk and touches my hand. Her fingers are cold. “Riley, I know this is hard. But think of it as giving back what should’ve been mine. You can start fresh. You’re strong. Everyone says so.” I pull my hand away. I look at the three of them. My mother. My father. The stranger wearing my sweater. “What about Sophie?” I ask. My mother’s mouth tightens. “What about her?” “She’s your granddaughter.” “She’s from your marriage. Your problem. Not this family’s.” A child with no blood claim. No protection. That’s what they mean. I look at the desk one more time. My whole life is spread out there. Twenty-six years. A stack of papers they want me to hand over to a woman I met six months ago. “I’m not signing anything,” I say. I turn around and walk out. My father calls after me. “You have until Friday, Riley. After that, we take it to court ourselves.” I don’t answer. I pick Sophie up from the couch. She stirs, wraps her arms around my neck. “Mommy, are we going to Grandma’s house?” “We just left, baby.” “Oh.” She rests her head on my shoulder. “Did Grandma give me a birthday present?” My throat closes. “Not today. But I’ll get you something better. I promise.” I carry her to the car. The porch light turns off behind us. My mother did that. Before I’m even out of the driveway. I buckle Sophie in and sit behind the wheel. No husband. No parents. No money. No home. No protection. Julian froze the bank accounts. My parents are ready to strip me of everything. My best friend won’t even answer my calls because she’s scared of Julian. I have a quarter tank of gas, a sleeping child, and the clothes on my back. I open my contacts and scroll. Old friends. Former colleagues. People who owe me favors. Not a single one of them will go against Julian. Not one. My thumb stops on a name I haven’t called in seven years. Silas. The man Julian once called “the only Don in this city who could ruin me.” The man I turned down seven years ago because the Hale family seemed safer. I stare at the number. My finger hovers over the green button. In the backseat, Sophie coughs. Then again. A rough, rattling cough that doesn’t sound right. I reach back and touch her forehead. She’s burning up. I don’t think anymore. My thumb hovers over Silas’s name. Then Sophie coughs again, harder this time. I almost press call. Then I stop. I can still make it to a hospital. —

Sophie’s cough gets worse every minute. By the time I pull into a gas station, she’s wheezing. Her forehead is so hot I can feel it through my sleeve when she presses against me. “Mommy,” she whispers. “My chest hurts.” I unbuckle her and hold her in the front seat, rocking her. She’s limp. Too limp for a kid who was running around a party three hours ago. I need medicine. A doctor. A bed. I pull out my wallet and try my credit card at the gas station register. Declined. I try the second one. Declined. Julian. He froze everything. Every account. Every card. I have eleven dollars in cash. I get back in the car and drive toward St. Mary’s on Fifth. They treat kids first. But it’s forty minutes away. Sophie moans in the backseat. My phone rings. For one stupid second, I hope it’s Julian calling to say this was all a nightmare. It’s Megan. My best friend since freshman year. “Megan, thank God. I need help. Sophie’s sick and Julian cut me off. Can I bring her to your place? Just for tonight—” “Riley.” Her voice is tight. Careful. “I heard what happened at the party.” “It’s not true. The test is fake—” “I can’t get involved.” She cuts me off. “Julian’s family controls Brad’s business. If I take your side, Brad loses everything. I’m sorry. I really am.” She hangs up. I stare at the phone. Eight years of friendship. She was my bridesmaid. Sophie’s godmother. Gone in fifteen seconds. Sophie coughs again. Deep. Rough. My stomach drops. I drive. I don’t know where. Just away. At ten p.m., I pull into a motel outside Hale territory. The sign says forty-nine dollars a night. I have eleven. I carry Sophie to the front desk anyway. Maybe they’ll let me pay in the morning. Maybe I can leave my watch until morning. Julian gave it to me on our third anniversary. The clerk looks me over. Smeared makeup. Wrinkled dress. Sick kid in my arms. “Card or cash?” he says. “I can leave my watch. It’s worth—” “We don’t do that.” He doesn’t even let me finish. “Card or cash. No exceptions.” “Please. My daughter is sick. I just need a bed for a few hours.” He leans back in his chair. “Lady, this isn’t a shelter. Card or cash. Try Grover Street. They take walk-ins until midnight.” Sophie lifts her head. Her eyes are glassy. “Mommy, I’m cold.” The clerk glances at her, then back at me. Not a single thing changes in his expression. “Grover Street,” he repeats. “Left at the light.” I walk back to the car. Sophie is shaking now. Not just coughing—shaking. I wrap my blazer around her and blast the heat. A shelter. He told me to go to a shelter. Twelve hours ago, I was hosting a catered birthday party in a house with six bedrooms. I sit in the driver’s seat and cry. Just for thirty seconds. I give myself that. Then I pick up my phone. Don Kent Silas. Seven years ago, he told me something I never forgot. We were standing outside a restaurant, and he’d just told me he was in love with me. I turned him down for Julian. Safer. More respectable. Better family connections. Silas looked at me and said, “If you ever need help—protection, money, anything—you call me. I don’t care if it’s been ten years.” It’s been seven. I press the call button. Three rings. “Riley?” His voice is deep. Alert. He sounds wide awake. “Silas. I need help.” My voice cracks on the last word. Silas doesn’t answer for two seconds. “Tell me where you are.” “Highway 9. The Bluebell Motel. My daughter is sick and I have no money. Julian—” “I know what Don Hale did. I heard an hour ago.” His tone shifts. Harder. “Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move. I’m sending someone.” “Silas, I don’t—” “Riley.” His voice drops low. Steady. “Let me help you. Just this once. You can yell at me tomorrow.” I almost laugh. Almost. “Okay,” I whisper. Fourteen minutes later, a black SUV pulls into the lot. One of Silas’s men opens the back door. Inside: a blanket, water, and kids’ fever medicine. My hands shake as I give Sophie the medicine. She swallows it without fighting. She’s too tired to fight. Silas’s man takes us straight to a private Kent clinic. Not St. Mary’s. Doctors come running the moment we arrive. A nurse takes Sophie from my arms. “Don Kent called ahead. We’ve been expecting you.” “Please help her,” I say. They take her through double doors. A nurse leads me to a waiting room with leather chairs and fresh coffee. I sit down. My legs give out. My phone buzzes. A text from a number I don’t recognize. *She’ll be fine. I’m on my way. —Silas* I stare at the message until the words blur. Then another text comes through. This one from Julian. *Don’t use the kid to guilt-trip me. We’re divorcing in three days. Hope you found somewhere to sleep tonight.* I read it twice. Then I delete his number. —

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I am the youngest lead surgeon for aortic dissection in the country. A lot of people say these hands of mine can snatch lives right back from death. But four years ago, I couldn’t snatch back my own daughter. That day, my assistant Mia placed an emergency consultation form in front of me. One glance at the family member’s name and my fingertips went rigid. The chart slipped from my hands and hit the floor with a dull thud. Adrian Blackwood. That name—I will never forget it as long as I live. Seven years ago, I was still Clara White. Back then I was pregnant and unmarried when I married the heir to the most powerful mafia family on the East Coast. Everyone said I was a woman chosen by fate. Only I knew it was the beginning of my nightmare. The year Lily turned three, Adrian took her to the countryside estate behind my back. For seven straight days I searched for her like a woman gone mad. I later found out he’d taken my daughter only to keep Sophia Hayes’s son Noah company. Sophia, the woman he’d grown up with. The day I found Lily, her congenital heart condition had flared. Her lips were blue-violet, her little body curled on the lawn, crying out for Daddy. But Adrian scooped up the boy who’d only scraped his knee, got in the car, and never once looked back. My daughter died that day. Mia bent down, picked up the consultation form, and asked me carefully: “Dr. Hart, are you taking this surgery?” I pushed the form back to her. My voice was cold, without a single ripple of inflection. “Initiate resuscitation. Follow standard consultation protocol.” “As for the lead surgeon, assign someone else.” “I’m recusing myself.” Mia froze completely. She’d been with me for years. No matter how dangerous the aortic dissection, no matter how high-risk the neonatal resuscitation, no matter how hopeless the case no one else dared touch, she had never seen me back down. She clutched the consultation form, her voice barely above a whisper: “Dr. Hart, this child is only seven years old.” My fingers faltered, just slightly. Seven. If Lily were still alive, she would have been seven this year. But she was frozen forever at three. I looked up at Mia. “When have I ever refused an emergency case?” “Resuscitation proceeds as normal. Consultation proceeds as normal. The treatment plan stays the same.” “Just assign a different lead surgeon.” Mia had no answer for that. Then, suddenly, a commotion erupted in the hallway outside. Someone was crying. Someone was arguing. Rapid footsteps hammered closer and closer. Mia’s face changed. “Dr. Hart, the family is forcing their way in.” I didn’t move. Through the half-open door, I heard a man’s voice—low, commanding, suffocating. “I don’t care what protocols your hospital has.” “I want the best doctor. Now.” That voice was like a rusted blade, ripping open a wound I thought had scarred over long ago. Adrian Blackwood. Four years, and he hadn’t changed a bit. Still accustomed to controlling everything. Still accustomed to ordering everyone around. Still accustomed to grinding rules beneath his heel with sheer power. Mia looked at me, caught between a rock and a hard place. “The family insists they won’t feel reassured until they’ve seen you. You have the highest success rate for aortic dissection surgery in the entire hospital.” I looked away. My tone left no room for negotiation. “Find another doctor.” “Don’t make me repeat myself.” Mia didn’t dare push further. She silently retreated to the side. I leaned against the wall, my fingernails slowly digging into my palms. Four years ago, on the third day of Lily’s disappearance, Adrian had been just as “calm”. He’d stood before me in a crisp suit, his expression indifferent. “They’ll find her. I’ve already sent people.” “You don’t need to panic like this.” At the time, I was clutching Lily’s little blanket, having cried until my voice gave out entirely. He stood right beside me and didn’t even extend a hand. I found out later that Lily hadn’t wandered off at all. He had taken her. Sophia had said Noah had been in a terrible mood lately, and the only time he’d settle down was when Lily was with him. So Adrian took my daughter to the countryside estate. Without asking me. Without telling me. By the time I got to the estate that day, Lily had been off her medication for seven straight days. She was crouched on the lawn, her small face turning purple, both hands clutching her chest, crying: “Mommy, it hurts.” I begged Adrian like a madwoman to drive her to the hospital. His car was right there at the gate. But Sophia screamed that Noah had fallen. So Adrian picked up the boy who’d only scraped his knee, got in the car, and never once looked back. I knelt on the gravel road, holding Lily, begging him. “Adrian, please, save Lily first.” “She really can’t hold on.” The sound of that car door slamming shut. I’ve remembered it for four years. After that, I divorced him. I left the Blackwood family. I changed my name. I went back to the hospital. I started from the bottom as the most junior surgeon, practically living inside the operating room. Cases no one else dared take, I took them. Dissection surgeries no one else would touch, I did them. Again and again I pulled patients back from the edge of death, and again and again I dragged myself out of the abyss. Until today, everyone knows that Dr. Evelyn Hart’s hands can snatch a life back before the aorta ruptures. But Adrian doesn’t know that. All he knows is that his son needs me now. And I am his only hope.

The door was thrown open while I was reviewing imaging for my next surgery. A group of people stormed down the cardiothoracic center hallway. The man at the front had bloodshot eyes, a loosened tie, and an overcoat carrying the chill of the small hours. Behind him trailed four or five bodyguards in black. Hospital security had been trying to stop him the whole way, but the bodyguards brushed them aside with ease. The head of security was drenched in sweat. “Sir, this is a medical area. You can’t barge in like this. You’ll interfere with the doctors’ work.” Adrian didn’t even glance at him. His gaze landed on the consultation form in Mia’s hands, and he closed the distance in long strides. “Where is Dr. Hart?” “Get my son’s surgeon out here. Now.” “Money is no object.” “Whatever you want—name the figure.” Mia took half a step back under the force of his presence and instinctively glanced in my direction. I stood at the far end of the corridor beside a pillar, most of my body hidden in shadow. From there, I could see Adrian’s profile clearly. Four years on, he was colder than before—more like a man who had truly assumed control of the Blackwood family. But that air of superiority hadn’t changed one bit. He didn’t see me. Or rather, it would never cross his mind that the woman he had personally driven to the brink could be standing here again—the one person he had no choice but to beg. His voice was ice. “The moment Dr. Hart agrees to operate, I’ll wire twenty million dollars.” “If you waste a single second, St. Catherine’s cannot afford the consequences.” “Don’t talk to me about rules.” He swept his gaze over everyone, eyes like blades. “Rules are for people without power.” The security chief tried once more to explain. Adrian raised a hand and flicked it. The bodyguards immediately blocked the man off. “I’ve done my research on this hospital.” “The best aortic dissection surgeon in the country is right here.” “You have the capability to treat him, yet you deliberately stall.” “That’s called disregard for human life.” Disregard for human life. Those words falling from his mouth, so light—like an accusation that cost him nothing at all. I stood in the shadows and nearly laughed out loud. The day Lily’s lips went from blue-violet to ashen gray, he carried another woman’s child away. Did those four words ever cross his mind then? Adrian glanced at his watch. “One final hour.” “If Dr. Hart does not appear within one hour, I will make everyone in this hospital pay—from the board of directors down to the last cardiothoracic surgeon.” The corridor fell deathly silent. Mia looked at me, white-faced. Adrian’s back was to me. He never turned around. His son’s life was a life. My daughter’s, apparently, was not. That car door slamming shut four years ago—he’d probably forgotten all about it. Or maybe he never cared to begin with. But the life he owes—someone has to collect.

Dean Morrison was summoned by the head nurse almost immediately. His forehead was slick with sweat, but he forced himself to speak: “Mr. Blackwood, this is a hospital. Emergency treatment has to follow protocol. As for Dr. Hart—” “I don’t care about protocol.” Adrian cut him off. “I want the person.” “You said the most capable surgeon is Dr. Hart. Then get her here.” Morrison tried to continue, but the sharp click of heels echoed from the other end of the corridor. “Adrian!” Sophia practically threw herself at him. Her face was ashen, her eyes rimmed red, and she seized his arm. “What’s happening? Is Dr. Hart here yet?” “Noah can’t wait any longer!” Her voice trembled, yet it still carried that same entitled shrillness. “He’s only seven! You’re going to make him lie in there waiting for what?” “For you people to hold your meetings and plod through your procedures?” Adrian put an arm around her and murmured: “I’m handling it.” “Soon.” Sophia couldn’t calm down. She turned on Morrison. “There’s a child in there, not some case file for you to drag your feet over!” “I want an expert who can actually save him, not some random body you’ve trotted out to placate me!” A few cardiothoracic surgeons finally spotted me in the corner, their voices dropping one after another. “Dr. Hart, just go ahead and see them.” “The child has acute aortic dissection. You’re the only one in this hospital who has the best chance.” “If this drags on any longer, none of us can bear the responsibility.” I leaned against the pillar and didn’t move. Just then, Adrian’s gaze swept in my direction. He looked at me once, then frowned—clearly impatient. “What’s this supposed to mean?” He turned to Morrison. “I’m looking for Dr. Hart. Why are you bringing me some young doctor?” Morrison answered immediately: “Mr. Blackwood, she is Dr. Evelyn Hart.” “Her?” Sophia looked me over too. Her eyes raked me up and down, full of skepticism and displeasure. “Is this some kind of joke?” “My son is in critical condition, and you’re putting a woman this young at the operating table?” The deputy chief steeled himself to explain: “Mrs. Blackwood, Dr. Hart is our strongest specialist in this area. Her success rate—” “What I want is someone who can save his life.” Sophia cut him off, her face cold. “Not your pretty talk.” “If something goes wrong, who takes responsibility? You? Or her?” I stood there, still saying nothing. The mask covered most of my face. After all these years, it wasn’t strange they didn’t recognize me at first glance. Besides, at this moment their eyes were fixed on Noah in the operating room—they weren’t going to look closely enough to figure out who I was. Adrian clearly didn’t buy it either. His expression grew even darker. “I’ve done my research.” “The best aortic dissection surgeon at St. Catherine’s is Dr. Hart.” He stared at the dean. “I want her. Not whoever you’re pushing out to placate me.” Sophia clenched her fingers, her breathing ragged, but she still managed that cutting edge. “My son can’t afford to wait.” “You’d better not gamble with his life.” The words had barely left her mouth when the corridor PA system crackled to life. “Cardiothoracic OR requesting backup—aortic dissection patient’s blood pressure continues to drop, vitals unstable. All relevant physicians report immediately.” This time, the hallway went completely quiet. Every pair of eyes landed on me. Morrison’s voice was tight: “Mr. Blackwood, the Dr. Hart you’re looking for—it’s her.” Adrian stared at me. He clearly hadn’t expected that the lead surgeon he’d mobilized every connection to find would be me. Sophia froze for a moment, then frowned. “Dean, are you certain there’s no mistake?” “My son’s life is not a game.” Morrison rushed to explain: “Dr. Hart may be young, but she has the highest success rate for this type of surgery in the entire hospital.” “Given the situation, she’s the one with the best chance.” Sophia’s face was grim, but she finally held her tongue. Adrian looked at me, his tone cold and hard. “Since it’s you, then get in there and operate.” “Everything else can wait until the child is saved.” I looked up at him. “So your son’s life is the only one that matters? Other people’s dignity and careers—those don’t count?” Adrian’s eyes darkened. The next second, he pulled out his phone. “The State Medical Board?” “I’d like to file a complaint against the cardiothoracic department at St. Catherine’s.” “A critically ill child can be treated, yet they refuse to operate. Disregard for human life.” “Send investigators immediately.” The line went dead. The air in the corridor snapped taut. Within minutes, calls flooded in from hospital administration and risk management. Morrison hung up and his face had gone white. “They’re demanding a full incident report immediately.” “The cardiothoracic emergency corridor is being placed under administrative oversight.” “All physicians involved in the consultation are to have their clinical privileges suspended pending investigation.” Several doctors panicked at once. Morrison hurried over to me, his voice nearly pleading. “Dr. Hart, please just take this case.” “This department didn’t get to where it is overnight. If this blows up, everyone is finished.” The deputy chief whispered: “Once a suspension of clinical privileges hits the record, who’s ever going to trust us at the table again?” “Please. Just help us out.” Adrian pocketed his phone and looked at me, still imperious. “Ready to operate now?” “Do it, and I withdraw the complaint immediately.” “Money, compensation, conditions—name them.” He paused, his voice dropping lower. “But if you keep stalling, the consequences of this entire department being suspended and investigated today—that falls on you.” Sophia finally couldn’t hold back, staring at me with reddened eyes. “Everyone is saying only you can do this, and you’re still standing here doing nothing. What exactly do you want?” “Do you need every single person here to grovel before you’ll save my son?” “You know perfectly well no one can replace you!” The corridor was terrifyingly still. Adrian stepped closer, his voice so low it scraped like frost. “I’ll say this one last time.” “You will take this surgery.” I looked at him. “Besides threats, is there anything else you know how to do?” That sentence ignited him completely. Sophia snapped too, the words tearing out of her: “If it were your child lying in there, could you really stand here this unmoved?” Every eye was on me. I looked at this man who would stop at nothing, and the irony hit me like a wave. Four years ago, he had stood before me exactly like this. Only back then, the ones he was protecting were Sophia and her child. And the one he trampled underfoot was my daughter’s life. I raised my eyes to Sophia, my voice so quiet it was almost ice. “As a matter of fact, I did have a child once.” I stared at them both and spoke, word by word: “And the person who watched her die and did nothing is standing right beside you.”

The moment my words fell, the corridor went so silent you could have heard a pin drop. Adrian’s eyes locked onto me, and something in them finally changed. It wasn’t simple anger. It was more like suspicion being pried open by force—carrying with it a dawning, belated dread. That line— I did have a child once —had finally given him something to grasp amid the chaos. He was beginning to overlap the doctor named Hart standing in front of him with the woman from his memory, the one who should have vanished long ago. Piece by piece, the images were converging. His voice sank. “What did you mean by that?” I didn’t answer. He stared at me, his brow knotting tighter and tighter. “Do you know me?” He took a step forward, his voice colder still. “Or are you telling me you came here today because of me?” Sophia sensed something was wrong, too. Her eyes were still red, but her fingers clenched instinctively. “What exactly are you trying to say?” “Noah is still in there. Who are you trying to scare with this nonsense?” I looked at her. My expression didn’t shift. Sophia, seeing me stay silent, only grew more frantic. “Everyone knows you’re the only one who can do this surgery.” “You clearly can save him, but you’d rather stand here and waste time.” “You just want to force us to our knees, don’t you?” Adrian’s gaze never left my face—as though he were trying to see through the mask, to make something out. After a long moment, he could no longer suppress that rising unease. His voice was low and strained. “Who… are you?” I looked at him, and suddenly I found it laughable. So after all these years, he could barely even recognize me. He only ever remembered the people he chose to remember. As for those he’d discarded, betrayed, ground into the dirt—why would they be worth keeping in mind? Sophia stared at me. “Noah is only seven. He can’t hold on much longer!” I spoke, my tone faint: “Seven.” “What a coincidence.” “If my daughter hadn’t died, she’d be seven this year too.” Sophia went still. I looked at her. Her expression froze. The panic in her eyes was almost impossible to hide. Adrian seemed to finally remember something. His gaze on me sharpened, and then turned complicated. I didn’t continue looking at them. I simply said, evenly: “Withdraw the complaint.” “Restore everyone’s clinical privileges.” “Do that, and then we can discuss what comes next.” Adrian stared at me, his eyes dark. “Why should I?” “Because right now, I’m the only one with the best chance of saving him.” I met his gaze. “You don’t have another option.” He stared at me for several seconds. In the end, he pulled out his phone and made the call. “It’s me.” “The complaint I just filed—withdraw it.” Ten minutes later, Morrison received the news. Complaint withdrawn. All physicians’ clinical privileges restored. No further action. Adrian put his phone away. His voice was pressed very low. “Now, can you go in?” I looked at him, my tone so flat there wasn’t a single ripple in it. “What I agreed to was giving you a chance to talk.” “Not letting you withdraw a complaint and then stand here giving me orders again.” Adrian’s face went dark. “You played me?” “Played you?” I tugged the corner of my mouth. “Compared to what you’ve done, this is nothing.” His fury ignited almost instantly, his hand already reaching for his phone. “I can make that call again anytime and have your entire department suspended.” “Go ahead.” I looked at him calmly. “But let me remind you—it’s not that this surgery can’t be done by someone else.” “It’s that the moment you switch surgeons, the success rate drops to a number you wouldn’t dare bet on.” That sentence nailed him where he stood. His chest heaved violently, his finger pressed against the phone, but he didn’t move again. Because he knew I was telling the truth. Just then, a nurse came sprinting down the corridor, her voice shaking. “Dr. Hart, the patient’s blood pressure is still falling—it’s dropped below fifty!” “If we don’t get on the table now, it’ll truly be too late!” Sophia’s legs buckled, her face white as paper. This time, she was genuinely terrified. She stared at me, tears finally falling, but her voice still held a last sliver of its edge. “What do you want?” “Do you actually want to watch my child die?” Adrian’s eyes locked on me. It was as though he had finally crushed every last scrap of pride. “Name your terms.” “Money. Status. Resources.” “Whatever you say, I’ll agree to it.” I said, coldly: “I don’t want any of that.” His brow knotted even tighter. “Then what grudge do you have against us?” I didn’t answer. The alarm from the operating room suddenly shrieked again. Shrill, urgent, shredding everyone’s nerves. The nurse’s voice was nearly breaking: “Blood pressure is still dropping!” “Dr. Hart, if this goes on any longer, the child will die on the table!” Sophia collapsed into sobs. And in Adrian’s eyes, something appeared that had never been there before. Not anger. Not a threat. Fear. He was finally feeling it—the same desperation I had felt four years ago, kneeling on that gravel road, clutching Lily, begging him. I looked at him and asked, softly: “Adrian, do you know what it feels like to watch your child die right in front of you?” His pupils contracted sharply.

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The prom after-party had descended into chaos by the time the spinning bottle stopped, pointing straight at Natalie. “Of course I have a boyfriend.” Her gaze slid toward Byron, the boy I had loved for ten years. The room fell silent. Then everyone erupted. I looked toward the corner, where Byron sat. He had told me countless times, “Celeste, on prom night, I’ll tell everyone that when I become Godfather, you’re going to be my wife.” But now he was slouched on that leather sofa, not even looking at me. Someone whistled. “Prove it.” Natalie smiled. She stood and walked straight to Byron. She cupped his face, bent down, and kissed him in front of everyone. He didn’t push her away. He reached up and deepened the kiss without so much as glancing at me. I dropped my gaze. My ten years were over. … Whistles. Screams. Applause. The noise hit me like a wall. “Oh my God! I knew it!” “When did this happen?” Natalie straightened, a pretty flush on her cheeks. “The day Byron became Godfather,” she said. “That was when he finally stopped hiding us.” Every eye in the room fixed on the new couple. No one saw me in the corner. No one noticed the breath leaving my lungs. I watched Byron lift a hand and casually wipe his mouth. “Come on, tell us. Who made the first move? We want details!” The crowd pressed in around them. Natalie gave Byron a coy little look. “It wasn’t anything dramatic. The day he became Godfather, I texted him to congratulate him…” She laid it all out: asking him to meet her by the lake, taking his hand, the way he hadn’t pulled away, how naturally it had all happened. Every detail drew louder teasing. Every detail sent another glance in my direction. “Wait, wasn’t there something between Byron and Celeste? They grew up together! Wasn’t Celeste supposed to be Byron’s future wife?” “Who told you that? Byron never even looked at her that way. He probably just treated her like a sidekick.” “Celeste? The tomboy nobody even sees as a girl? Why would Byron want her?” “Exactly. Who would want her? Byron is the Godfather. He has standards.” “You guys know about her seafood allergy, right? That ER thing? Byron made her pasta with shrimp paste and didn’t even remember she was allergic. Sent her straight to the hospital.” “Natalie wanted that full-ride scholarship back then. Celeste was her only real competition. You figure it out.” “That’s brutal. Natalie really went all in.” Natalie wore a look of perfect innocence, without a shred of remorse. Victory shone in her eyes. “Celeste, I’m truly sorry. I did mention the scholarship to Byron. He must have been so focused on helping me that your allergy slipped his mind. Please don’t blame him. If you have to blame someone, blame me.” Everyone could see how little Byron cared. Everyone except me. Or maybe I had known all along. Byron had started keeping his distance when I was fifteen. Sometimes I would see him on the street, and he would duck his head and walk past me like I was a stranger. Once, I caught up to him and asked what was wrong. “I’m afraid you’ll be targeted by rival families. I’m afraid you’ll be in danger,” he said. Back then, it had made me dizzy with hope. I thought it meant he loved me too. Then I saw him with Natalie, tucking a strand of windblown hair behind her ear, smiling like he had stepped into sunlight.

That day, I walked over to ask what was going on. His smile vanished, and his voice turned cold. “Need something?” I told myself he was only putting on an act, protecting his authority as Godfather in front of outsiders. Then he unfollowed me on Instagram and deleted our photos from his page. I told myself he was only cleaning up his social media so no one could identify his “weak spot.” Now I finally understood why that excuse had never felt convincing. He wasn’t afraid of rival families. He was afraid Natalie would see–afraid she would be upset. He had used the trust I placed in him to destroy my chance at a full-ride scholarship. He had handed me that plate of pasta so gently, his voice soft, his movements careful. This was the boy who had grown up beside me, ridden bikes with me, and written in my yearbook that we would love each other forever. And because of another girl, he had forgotten the one thing that could have killed me. That day, I used my EpiPen and missed the final scholarship interview. My eyes burned. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, sharp and metallic. I looked at Byron and forced the words out. “Is it true?” He sat beside Natalie, frowning. “Does it matter? It can’t be changed now.” His tone was flat, as if we were talking about what to have for dinner. It felt like a hand had closed around my throat. I couldn’t say a word. He didn’t care. Not about the eighteen years we had spent growing up side by side. Not about the future we could have had. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood, clinging to the sharp sting to keep myself from falling apart. I stood up and ran out. Laughter followed me out, turning my escape into one final humiliation. “Celeste! Don’t go! You put up with him ignoring you before, so why act hurt now?” “Is she actually crying?” “Let her go home and cry! Byron was never with her. Why is she being so dramatic?” I stood for a long time on the dark suburban street while the night wind dried the tears on my face. My phone lit up with a message from Byron. [Where are you? Come back. Don’t make this ugly.] I stared at the words and became seven years old again, small for my age, always unwanted when the neighborhood kids played games. Byron had been the one to take my hand and tell me he would always stay with me. That boy had once been my shield against the whole world. Now he was telling me not to make things ugly. [It was just truth or dare. Come back. I’ll explain.] Just truth or dare. My hand trembled around the phone. The memories wouldn’t stop. When I was ten, I came down with a brutal cold. My father wasn’t home, and Byron climbed over our backyard fence to bring me cough syrup. The neighbor’s golden retriever chased him for three blocks. When I was twelve, I lost the spelling bee. He tossed his first-place trophy into the trash and told me losing didn’t matter; next time, he would help me win it back. When I was fifteen, a boy at homecoming made a filthy joke and reached for my skirt. Byron hit him so hard the boy ended up badly hurt. Byron needed three stitches above his own brow, but he grinned at me and said it didn’t hurt at all. Had he changed? Or had he always been like this, and I had refused to see it? Had I been lying to myself all along? I decided to believe him one last time. I clenched my teeth, turned around, and ran back. Full of hope, I pushed open the door. A bucket of ice water came crashing down from above the doorframe, soaking my hair, blurring my vision, and plastering my T-shirt and jeans to my skin until every curve of my body showed. I stood there shaking while the crowd burst into laughter and the boys looked me up and down with filthy eyes. “Holy shit! She actually came back!” “Natalie, how did you know she would come back?” Natalie only smiled, her eyes fixed on Byron’s neck. “Byron, a bet is a bet. Give me the necklace. Now.” Natalie leaned into Byron, her fingers sliding over his neck before tracing lazy, suggestive circles on his chest.

Natalie laughed. “Your favorite fallback girl. One call, and she comes running.” Byron’s gaze skimmed over me. Then he lifted a hand and unclasped the silver chain around his neck. Half an antique compass pendant hung from it. I wore the other half. I had loved that pendant the moment I saw it. Byron had no money then, so he saved every dollar he earned boxing until he could buy it for me. “Our lucky charm,” he said. From then on, we each wore one half and never took them off, not even in the shower. I had imagined we would wear them until our wedding day, when we would finally fit the two halves together. Now he was handing his half to Natalie. She held it up to the light, her smile bright and vicious. “So pretty. It’s mine now. And so are you.” I wiped ice water from my eyes and stared at Byron. He glanced at me, and the sneer on his face disappeared. “What? Do I need your permission to give away something that’s mine? I bought it.” No explanation. No apology. Just a bucket of ice water, a room full of malice, and his indifference as he ground our vows under his heel. He was no longer the boy who would fight the whole world for me. “Let’s go. I booked a room downtown. Karaoke next! Keep the party going!” The crowd surged toward the door. As Natalie passed me, she shoved me. I pitched forward and fell, my knees slamming into the floor. Pain shot through both knees. She looked back with a sweet, innocent smile. “Oops. Celeste, did you trip?” Then she hooked her arm through Byron’s and walked out with a sway of her hips. He let her pull him along. As he passed me, he lowered his head for one brief glance. It was so brief I couldn’t tell what was in it. Then he looked away. And left with her. I knelt on the cold floor while blood from my knees mixed with the ice water dripping from my hair. Drip. Drip. Barely audible. Somehow unbearable. I could not go home. If Dad saw me like this, his heart would break. I didn’t have much cash on me. I had spent almost all of it on the cufflinks Byron liked best, so the only place I could afford was a cheap motel. I stood under the hot shower for a long time, waiting for my body to remember how to feel. When I came out, my phone screen was lit. Every notification was from Byron. [Your dad called. Asked when you’re coming home.] [I said you were with me. Go back early.] [Where are you? Are you safe?] Then came a FaceTime request. I hesitated, then answered. His face filled the screen, still unfairly handsome. When he saw the room behind me, he frowned. “You’re in a motel? Which one?” “None of your business.” Silence. Then his voice hardened into a command. “Stay there. Don’t move. I don’t want to deal with your dad.” Back then, my father had believed Byron loved me too. Quietly, he had given Byron enough help to secure his position as Godfather. Now my father was just someone he had to deal with. “Byron.” I looked straight into his eyes through the screen and asked one last time, “The compass pendant. Are you really giving it to her?” He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. “You said it was ours. You said we would put the halves together on our wedding day.” Silence. “You gave it to Natalie. So what am I?” He swallowed. “It’s just a cheap piece of metal.” I laughed. “Right. Cheap. Worthless. Just like me.” “Celeste…” He frowned, and I hung up. Half an hour later, someone knocked on the door. It was a delivery driver. Inside the bag were a tube of antibiotic ointment for scrapes and a warm box of mac and cheese. I sat on the edge of the motel bed while my phone kept buzzing. In the class Instagram group chat, someone had posted a video. Natalie and Byron were singing at the party. Natalie leaned on his shoulder, drinking. Together, they sang a Taylor Swift love song. The comments came pouring in. “Oh my God, the way Byron looks at her. I’m dying.” “They are perfect together! Kiss already!”

In the video, Byron was smiling at Natalie with pure adoration. He had never looked at me that way. Not once in eighteen years. The video froze at the moment Natalie leaned close to him, her lips parted. Then Natalie updated Instagram. She posted two photos: one of her and Byron at the party, and another of her full-ride award certificate. Caption: The perfect ending. A full ride. And someone who loves me. The comments from mutual friends stung. [So jealous! Future wife of the Godfather!!] She replied with a heart emoji. [Someone is definitely losing her mind over this!] [That tomboy. Yeah, the one hiding behind her screen and stalking this!] I locked my phone and fell back onto the cheap mattress. Water stains blotched the ceiling, and the fluorescent light stabbed at my eyes. I thought of all the years I had worked myself to the bone for that scholarship. I had given up cheer tryouts, studied until three in the morning, sacrificed every weekend, and filled more than a dozen binders with review notes. I had been one step away from that dream. With the scholarship, I could have opened the bakery I wanted in Boston someday. He didn’t know that every plan I had made for after graduation led to Boston, the place he wanted to go. He had said he loved the East Coast. Loved the snow in Boston. And now? I sat up, picked up my phone, and accepted UC San Diego’s offer. California. The place Byron would never go. He hated summer. Said he could not stand the California sun. Back then, my father had urged me to leave myself a way out, so I had applied to a college in a place I thought I would never set foot in for the rest of my life. But suddenly, the thought of palm trees and West Coast sunshine sounded damn good. California. The farther from him, the better. When the green acceptance banner appeared, I turned off my phone and dumped the cold mac and cheese into the trash. He knew I hated cream. The smell made me sick, and he had still bought it for me. He didn’t remember details like that. Just as he had known I was waiting for him and still never once walked toward me. The next day, I planned to go back to school and pack up my things. But the moment I stepped into the hallway, every glance that landed on me was loaded with contempt. “Ran off to a motel to hook up on prom night. Nasty.” “Who?” “Who else? That tomboy. Someone got a video.” I stopped walking. Natalie stood a few yards away, surrounded by cheerleaders. She was holding up an iPhone, playing a video. The video showed the motel hallway from the night before: me, soaked through, holding a room key. “Desperate to get laid, huh?” Natalie covered her mouth and laughed, each word dipped in poison. Whispers spread around me. Stares cut into my skin. I walked over and stopped in front of her. “Delete it.” “Why should I?” She tilted her head, all innocence. “You went to that dump of a motel all by yourself. That’s not my fault.” “You’re spreading rumors.” “Am I?” She turned to Byron. “Byron. Tell everyone. Did she go there to meet some guy?” Byron stood to the side. He looked at the video on her phone, then at me. “Byron.” My voice shook. “Tell her. Tell her why I was there last night.” He knew exactly what had happened. Every single thing. Even if he no longer cared about me. Even if eighteen years meant nothing. At the very least, he could tell the truth. Right? He looked me in the eye, his voice casual. “If you’re innocent, you have nothing to fear, right?” I thought I had misheard him. “What?” “If you didn’t do anything wrong, what are you scared of?”

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1 At the arcade, I stepped back to buy tokens, glancing at my phone. When I looked up, Logan and Natalie were gone. Balancing two water bottles and their jackets, I pushed through the crowd. I stopped before a nearby photo booth. The curtain hung slightly open. As the flash popped, I saw them clearly. Logan wore pink bunny ears, leaning into Natalie as they shaped a heart with their hands. They looked like stars in a teen romance film. Five minutes earlier, I’d offered him those same ears. He’d brushed me off, annoyed. Childish, he’d said. Only idiots wear that stuff. It wasn’t the headband he hated. It was me. I didn’t open the curtain. I left their things on a trash can. Over the loudspeakers, a bright pop song played as I turned and walked toward the exit. I was done playing the background character. The sun hadn’t fully set by the time I walked out of the amusement park gates. The colorful lights along the entrance flickered on one by one, illuminating the laughing faces of the people streaming inside. I was the only one moving in the opposite direction, wading against the tide of the crowd. My hands were empty now. My chest felt just as hollow, as if someone had carved a piece right out of me. Instead of calling a cab, I took the slowest bus home. The vehicle swayed and rattled violently over the asphalt. Leaning my head against the cool window pane, I watched my own reflection in the glass. My eyes were bloodshot. But I didn’t cry. I only remembered the way I had held out those bunny ears to Logan in front of the claw machines. I had smiled, begging him, Just wear them for a second, please? Just once. He hadn’t even spared them a glance, turning his face away instantly. Grow up, Autumn. Why do you always care so much about these pointless things? Yet only minutes later, he had lowered his head, letting Natalie slip the exact same headband over his hair. It wasn’t the headband that was pointless. It was me. During our high school homecoming festival, I had bought an absurdly oversized headband too. The school field had been packed with people that day. I had chased him all over the grass, waving the silly accessory in the air. Even though he complained about how embarrassing it was, he still bent down, letting me adjust it on his head. When our classmates started teasing him, he simply tapped my forehead with his knuckles. Don’t buy something this ugly next time. But he kept it on until the festival ended. I had truly believed that was love. Now I understood that even the sweetest indulgence could expire. People changed. When I unlocked the front door of my house, the warm scent of pot roast drifted from the kitchen. My mother peeked out from the doorway, a bright smile on her face. “You’re back? Where’s Logan?” My hands paused as I kicked off my shoes. Tonight was supposed to be the first time Logan formally came over to have dinner with my parents. I had told him about it three days in advance, and my father had even canceled his evening business meeting just to be home. But now, the dining table sat quiet. I looked down, carefully aligning my shoes side by side. “He probably has some things to take care of. He’ll be late.” My mother’s smile softened, her voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “What’s wrong? Did you two have a fight?” I shook my head, telling her it was nothing. Truthfully, I didn’t even know if this counted as a fight. I was just suddenly so exhausted that even anger felt like an unnecessary luxury. We waited until nine in the evening. The food on the table was reheated, and then it went cold again. My father glanced toward the front door several times, but in the end, he didn’t say a word. When the doorbell finally rang, my mother visibly let out a breath of relief. Logan stood on the porch, the chill of the night wind clinging to his jacket. As soon as he stepped inside, he reached out and touched my forehead. “Why are you so pale?” The gesture was so natural, so practiced. A sharp ache flared in my chest, and I almost let myself be fooled by the familiar warmth of his touch. But in the next second, he pulled a small box of bandages from his pocket, his brows drawing together. “Next time you decide to run off, at least say something. Natalie was wearing high heels and walked all over the place trying to find you. Her heels are completely raw.” He tossed the box onto the console table. “I bought an extra pack of these. If your feet are blistered too, go ahead and use them.” I stared at the little cardboard box, unable to squeeze out a single word. He had finally remembered that I might be hurting too, but only as an afterthought, a spare item he grabbed while buying medicine for Natalie. At the dinner table, Logan was perfectly polite. He spoke respectfully to my parents, proactively ladled the soup, and answered my father’s questions about college schedules with poise. But his phone never left the table, resting right beside his hand. When the screen lit up, I caught a glimpse of Natalie’s name. It still hurts a bit, her text read. Am I being too dramatic? Logan set his fork down. I already knew what he was going to do before he even moved. Sure enough, he stood up and reached for his coat. “Mr. and Mrs. Miller, I’m really sorry, but I have to run.” My mother blinked, startled. “But you haven’t even finished your dinner.” He gave a low, apologetic explanation. “Natalie is home by herself, and she doesn’t know how to clean the wound properly.” I finally spoke up, my voice remarkably quiet. “She just scraped her heel. Do you really have to go?” Logan paused and looked back at me. In those eyes, eyes I had adored for so many years, there was only weariness and a flash of deep irritation. “Autumn, can you stop making everyone clean up after your tantrums?” In that moment, the entire world seemed to fall dead silent. It was so quiet that I could hear the kitchen sink faucet dripping, a single, rhythmic drop splashing against the metal. After he left, my mother stood by the table, staring at the empty seat for a long time without saying a word. My father quietly picked up his chopsticks, placed a piece of pot roast into my bowl, and spoke softly. “Let’s eat.” Looking at the food in my bowl, a sudden, hot sting rushed to my eyes. I had loved Logan for a very long time, so long that even my parents had spent years tip-toeing around us, trying their best to protect my feelings. But today, I finally realized that he could easily make time to eat with my family, and just as easily abandon us all for a single text from Natalie. I stared at the box of bandages sitting on the entryway table. It felt as though I had finally figured out exactly where I stood in his life. I barely slept that night. As soon as the first light of dawn broke through the curtains, I sat down at my desk. Stack after stack of college prep materials sat piled on the wooden surface: mock exams, mistake journals, half-finished study guides. For the past few months, every ounce of my energy had been poured into these pages. I had wanted to take a gap year to study and retake my entrance exams, not because I was passionate about any particular school, but because I wanted to get closer to Logan. I didn’t want to be the one left behind. But looking at these papers now, for the first time, a profound sense of emptiness washed over me. I couldn’t tell if I was trying to move forward for my own sake, or if I was desperately chasing someone who had never once planned to slow down and wait for me. At breakfast, my mother pushed a bowl of warm oatmeal toward me. Watching the steam rise into the air, I spoke quietly. “Mom, I’m not doing the prep year.” My mother’s spoon froze in her hand. My father looked up from his paper. They both knew how long I had prepared for this. They also knew that on the day high school graduation results came out, I hadn’t cried because of my scores. I had cried because Logan was already set to go to Boston, while my grades had kept me far, far away. My mother asked tentatively, “Is it too exhausting? Do you want to sleep on it?” My father remained quiet for a long moment before asking, “Have you really thought this through, or are you just upset right now?” I stared down at the oatmeal, my voice barely a whisper. “It’s not that I don’t want to work hard. I just realized that this path was never really mine to begin with.” The moment the words left my mouth, my eyes welled up. During our junior year, after our first major mock exam, I had scored terribly in math. After evening study hall, I had hidden beneath the concrete bleachers on the dark sports field, crying my eyes out. Logan had found me there, carrying a stack of scrap paper. He squatted down on the steps beside me, breaking down every single problem, explaining them patiently until the streetlights flickered on. Before we left, he had squeezed my hand. Hang in there, Autumn. I’ll wait for you in Boston. I had treated those words like a North Star. I believed that as long as he was waiting ahead, I could eventually catch up if I ran fast enough. But now I saw the truth. He had never actually stopped walking. He had simply stood far ahead, looking back to toss me a comforting phrase, while I ran myself ragged for years trying to reach him. At noon, I went back to the high school to return my prep course enrollment materials. Just as I reached the stairwell, Natalie came running up behind me, clutching a thick bundle of study guides, sweat beaded on her forehead. “Autumn, perfect timing!” She smiled, catching her breath. “Logan and I stayed up last night highlighting the key sections for you. See if these help.” I froze. Before I could say anything, she leaned in and lowered her voice with a little laugh. “He told me you’d still be throwing a fit today. I actually bet him a coffee that you wouldn’t last past lunch before talking to him again.” My ears started to ring. So my heartbreak was nothing more than a casual wager between them. While I was drowning in misery after walking away, they were sitting together, laughing and guessing how long it would take for me to crawl back. Logan descended the stairs behind her. Seeing me, his eyes fell on the notes in Natalie’s arms. His tone was perfectly flat, as if nothing had happened. “Natalie stayed up incredibly late working on those for you. Don’t go throwing someone’s kindness back in their face.” I looked up into his eyes. The last embers of warmth in my heart died out, leaving only cold ash. “Logan,” I said, my voice shockingly steady. “Let’s break up.” He stiffened. But the brief flash of surprise on his face vanished almost instantly, replaced by that familiar, condescending certainty. “Autumn, figure out what you want to do with your own life before you start making threats. Stop using breakups as a tool just to show everyone you’re throwing a tantrum.” Listening to him, the final thread of hope I held for him snapped. I didn’t repeat myself. I walked past them, pushing through the double doors of the academic counselor’s office. The counselor looked up, surprised to see me. “I thought you were enrolling in the exam prep classes?” I handed over my paperwork. “I’m not doing the prep year. I want to finalize my admission to Austin State.” The counselor flipped through the forms. “Austin is halfway across the country. Are you absolutely sure?” I nodded. As my pen touched the confirmation line, my hand trembled slightly. But I didn’t stop. The moment my signature was finished, a sudden weight lifted from my chest. It felt as though I had finally set down a heavy pack I had been carrying for far too long. After that day, Logan didn’t contact me again. He seemed utterly convinced that I would regret my decision, so he didn’t even bother to ask why. Natalie, however, was still active in our group chat. She sent photos of the study guides she had organized, along with pictures of the spreadsheets she had stayed up making. Autumn, I’ve got everything ready for you. Whenever you change your mind, just let me know and I’ll drop them off. I stared at the name of our group chat. I had created it when we graduated from middle school, naming it Inseparable. Back then, I truly believed the three of us would walk through life side-by-side forever. Logan would explain the difficult problems, Natalie would keep the mood bright, and as long as I followed them, I would never be left behind. Now I saw that the person who got left behind didn’t have to wander off. All it took was for the other two to take one step forward together, leaving me standing outside their circle. I typed back a brief message: No need. I was about to add that I was no longer doing the prep year, but Logan’s message cut in first. She works a part-time job during the day and stays up late organizing notes for you at night. And all you have to say is ‘no need’? Do you even have a heart, Autumn? I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering in the air. A second later, a system notification popped up. You have been removed from the group chat. Looking at those words, I didn’t even feel surprised. But somewhere deep inside, another small piece of my world quietly crumbled away. I cleared the chat history, changed into my uniform, and headed to the bookstore where I worked. I had taken this summer job to save up money for prep class materials. Even though I didn’t need the money for that anymore, I still wanted to finish my shifts for the month. At least when I was busy, my mind wouldn’t drift back to Logan. It was nearly ten at night when the store closed. After checking the locks, I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked toward the bus stop. The alleyway was bustling during the day, but at night, it grew so quiet that the only sound was the low hum of the streetlights. Halfway down, I heard footsteps behind me. A cold shiver crept up my spine. I quickened my pace, preparing to run, but my bag strap was suddenly snagged from behind. I was yanked backward, my shoulder slamming hard against the brick wall. The thick, sour stench of alcohol hit me instantly. Fear seized my throat, my voice cracking. “Let go of me!” A hand reached out to smother my scream. In the middle of the struggle, someone rushed out from the shadows. A heavy canvas bag swung through the air, crashing hard against the man’s shoulder. “Autumn, run!” It was Natalie. Her face was white as a sheet, her hands shaking, but she stood firmly between me and the man. The man swore loudly, shoving her away with brute force. Natalie lost her footing on the slick asphalt. As she fell, her right hand landed directly on a pile of broken glass. Blood pooled onto the pavement almost instantly. My mind went completely blank. I dropped to my knees, practically crawling over to support her. My fingers shook so violently that I couldn’t even hold my phone straight, dialling the emergency number twice before it finally went through. By the time we reached the hospital, I was still in a daze. But Logan had already arrived. He must have run the entire way, his chest heaving as he burst through the doors. Seeing Natalie’s hand wrapped in bloody gauze, all the color drained from his face. He kept pace with her stretcher as they wheeled her into the emergency room, never once looking in my direction. It was only when the doctor mentioned that she would need stitches, and that she shouldn’t use her hand for a while—which would undoubtedly affect her art portfolio showcase next week—that Logan finally whipped his head around to look at me. His gaze was so icy that it stole the breath right out of my lungs. “Are you happy now?” I froze, a loud ringing filling my ears. He took two steps closer to me. “If you hadn’t been throwing this ridiculous tantrum, why would Natalie have been following you in the dark? If she wasn’t trying to help you, would her hand be in this condition?” I stared at him, my lips parting, but I couldn’t form a single word. I had been terrified too. I had almost been assaulted. But he hadn’t asked if I was okay. He only saw that Natalie had been hurt because of me, and he had already decided that I was the one who deserved the blame. During our freshman year, a group of older boys had cornered me in an alley behind the school. Logan had pulled me behind his back, his expression deadly cold as he warned them to back off. When he walked me home that evening, he had draped his school blazer over my head. Don’t worry. Next time you have to walk home in the dark, call me first. I had cherished that promise for years. But now, when real danger had actually found me, he stood before me and only wanted to know why I was dragging others down with me. I looked down at the dark bruises forming on my wrists. Suddenly, I didn’t even have the strength to defend myself. By the next morning, the news had already spread through school. At first, people simply asked me what had happened in the alley. But as the day went on, the rumors twisted into something unrecognizable. Some said I was fooling around with a stranger in the dark. Some said Natalie had nearly ruined her portfolio showcase just to save me from my own mess. Others claimed that I had been emotionally unstable since the breakup, which was why I had caused such a scene. I tried to explain the truth. But everyone I spoke to looked at me with pitying, skeptical eyes. The more I tried to clear my name, the more guilt-ridden I appeared to them. Before noon, my homeroom teacher called me into her office. She poured me a cup of warm water, her voice incredibly gentle. “Autumn, I know you went through a terrible scare last night. But Natalie’s portfolio showcase is next week, and the school is counting on her results.” I kept my eyes glued to the paper cup. The steam rose in lazy spirals, blurring the worksheets on her desk. She continued, “For the next few days, please don’t make any public statements about the rumors. Let’s wait until her showcase is over before we clear everything up.” “And what about the things people are saying about me right now?” I asked. The office fell quiet. She sighed softly. “Summer will be over soon, Autumn. People forget things quickly.” A bitter laugh threatened to bubble up in my throat. Because I was the one taking the damage, I could afford to wait. Because Natalie was the one who needed protection, not a single risk could be taken on her behalf. After leaving the office, I went to the hospital. Natalie was leaning against the pillows, her hand wrapped in a thick layer of white gauze. Her eyes welled with tears the moment she saw me. “Autumn, I’m so sorry.” I stood by the doorway, refusing to take another step into the room. Her voice was barely audible. “I didn’t know the rumors would get this bad. My mom and the teachers said we can’t afford any distractions right now. I promise I’ll explain everything the moment my showcase is finished.” “And what about the meantime?” I asked. She lowered her head, looking at her lap. “Can you just bear with it for a little while? Please?” I looked at her, suddenly unable to tell if her tears were from genuine guilt, or if she was simply terrified that my reputation might drag down her golden future. Just then, Logan pushed the door open. Almost instinctively, he stepped in front of Natalie’s bed, shielding her in a quiet, natural gesture of protection. It was a subtle movement, but to me, it was sharper than any spoken word of favoritism. He looked at me, his tone almost calm. “Autumn, let’s leave things as they are for now. Natalie has her showcase next week, and the school can’t have any negative press. Don’t rush to make excuses. Once she’s done, I’ll help you explain.” “And what about me?” I asked quietly. He went quiet for a few seconds. “You’ve always been the strong one, Autumn.” When those words landed, the last of my feelings went entirely numb. It didn’t hurt anymore. I didn’t want to cry. It was as if some vital thread inside me had finally snapped clean in two. When I returned home, the prep books were still spread across my desk. I closed them, one by one. The mistake journals filled with my handwriting, the study schedules, the reference books Logan had lent me over the years—I packed every single item into a cardboard box. In the end, the only things I left out were my ID card and my admission letter to Austin State. My mother stood beside me, helping me fold my clothes. Halfway through, her hands stopped. “Are you really not going to look back?” I pulled the zipper of my suitcase shut. “No.” The next morning, my father drove me to the airport. During the entire ride, he didn’t mention Logan once. It was only when we reached the curb and he lifted my bags out of the trunk that he looked at me, his eyes filled with quiet concern. “Call us the moment you land.” I nodded. My mother pulled me into a tight embrace. She didn’t say a word, but I could feel her shoulders trembling slightly against mine. As I walked into the terminal, my phone began to vibrate incessantly in my pocket. Logan’s name flashed on the screen, call after call. I didn’t answer. Then came the flood of texts. Where are you? Autumn, come back. Let’s talk. Don’t just disappear on me again. Looking at that last line, a faint smile touched my lips. Even now, he still thought I was just throwing a tantrum. He still believed that once I was done crying in some dark corner, I would quietly crawl back to him on my own. As the boarding announcement echoed through the terminal, I deleted his text thread. Waiting in the boarding line, my mind drifted back to the afternoon of our high school graduation. He had carried my backpack for me, standing by the school gates. The warm summer sunlight had painted his shoulders in gold. See you in Boston next year, he had said. I had nodded so hard my neck hurt, truly believing that was our future. But now, I pulled my carry-on forward. I wasn’t heading to Boston. And I certainly wasn’t heading to him. The gate agent took my boarding pass with a warm smile. “Have a safe flight.” “Thank you,” I murmured. Right before I stepped onto the jet bridge, my phone buzzed one last time. It was a message from my mother. Logan just came to the house. He saw the box of prep books you left behind. He asked me if you really didn’t want any of those books anymore. I stared at the screen for a few seconds, then shut it off. I stepped into the cabin. This time, I didn’t look back.

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I was famous for being the ultimate good girl in our city’s elite social circle, but I had still managed to pull off three incredibly reckless stunts. First, dating the notorious playboy, Dominic. Second, proposing to him. Third, getting brutally dumped by him. Today, I added a fourth to the list: I ended up in a hotel bed with my blind date. And now, there is a fifth. The hotel belongs to Dominic. 1 I never imagined that seeing Dominic again would happen under these circumstances. Outside the elevator doors, he stood with his arm wrapped tightly around his new flame, his face dark and icy. The guys standing behind him were entirely frozen, their jaws practically on the floor. Inside the elevator, my legs were weak as my blind date pressed me firmly against the wall, taking my mouth in a deep, bruising kiss. “Holy shit…” Someone in Dominic’s group couldn’t help but let out a shocked whisper before quickly shutting his mouth, casting an awkward glance at Dominic. After all, the fact that Dominic and I had been together for three years was hardly a secret. “Hah.” Dominic tightened his grip on his new girl’s waist, looking at the two of us as we finally parted. He let out a low, mocking scoff, then raised an eyebrow, his face darkening further. “Aren’t you two coming out? Or do you plan on putting on a live show right there in the elevator?” Embarrassment flooded my senses. My ears burned hot enough to bleed, and the haze of the alcohol in my system instantly cleared. I quickly grabbed my date’s hand and pulled him out of the elevator. We stepped out as they stepped in. As we brushed past each other, I kept my eyes glued to the floor. A sharp, suffocating ache wrapped around my heart like a tightening net, squeezing until it was hard to breathe. But just as I took a step forward to leave, a loud sneer echoed from behind me. “Man, Dominic, your ex plays dirty. If she’d been this wild when she was with you, maybe you wouldn’t have gotten bored so fast.” 2 Bored. My entire body went rigid. The invisible net tightened, carving deep into my chest until it bled. Dominic and I had once been the most unexpected couple in high society. He was the wild heir, a reckless playboy who treated the world like his personal playground. I was the quiet, obedient daughter who followed every rule to the letter. No one expected Dominic to pursue me so publicly. For my sake, he claimed to have settled down. He tried to be good, spent fortunes to make me smile, and once even drove across the state in the middle of the night just to buy the lemon tarts I said I wanted. For three years, he took care of me with an intensity that made me believe the myth. I truly thought the playboy had reformed, and that he loved me. Until a proposal two months ago shattered my beautiful delusion. I would never forget the room filled with red roses, the velvet box in my hand, and the sheer joy in my chest as I waited for him to come home. But when the front door opened, I was met with the sight of Dominic wrapped around a beautiful girl, kissing her with a desperate hunger. They couldn’t even wait to get to the bedroom, tearing at each other’s clothes right there in the hallway. When Dominic finally noticed the lights were on, his eyes narrowed. He shielded the girl in his arms and stared at me, momentarily stunned. “Daphne? I thought you were in Chicago for your violin performance. Why are you…” His eyes swept over the carefully decorated room, finally landing on the banner hanging on the wall: Marry me, I say yes. Dominic frowned. When he looked back at me, the warmth in his eyes was entirely gone, replaced by a cold, mocking amusement. “Well, looks like the secret is out,” he said, sounding more annoyed than guilty. “Honestly, it’s probably for the best. I was getting pretty tired of playing the reformed playboy anyway.” 3 Tears spilled over my cheeks. I clenched my fists, my voice trembling as I struggled to process his words. “Why?” Dominic pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a sharp, frigid laugh. “Because you are just so incredibly boring, Daphne. I got tired of you a long time ago.” Boring? Tired of me? I stared at him in utter disbelief, the pain temporarily eclipsed by shock. “If you were tired of me, why didn’t you just say so?” We weren’t together for three days. It had been three years. If he wanted to break up, I wasn’t the type to beg or cling to him. Why did he have to drag it out and humiliate me like this? Dominic shrugged, his arrogant expression unchanged, but he felt like a complete stranger. “I needed a girlfriend who was quiet, low-maintenance, and respectable to keep my family and the company board off my back. You fit the bill perfectly.” He needed me. So his entire pursuit, his three years of perfect devotion, had just been a well-orchestrated act to satisfy his family? “But now,” Dominic looked around the room at my proposal decorations, letting out a soft sigh, “it seems you’re a bit too needy to just be a pretty ornament on the shelf. You think a little affection means we’re bound for life. That’s way too much drama. If we got married, your expectations would only get worse.” “Exactly,” the girl in his arms chimed in, throwing a contemptuous look my way. “Dominic, didn’t I tell you I’m much better? If you want the quiet girl act, I can do that too, and I promise I’m way more exciting than her. Congrats on getting your freedom back.” She stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. Dominic hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes sliding over to me. Then, he cupped the back of her head and dragged her into a deeper kiss. In the silent apartment, the only sound was the wet, desperate noise of their lips parting and meeting. I began to laugh through my tears, remembering what my best friend, Gemma, had warned me when we first started dating. A playboy might settle down, Daphne, but never believe he’s doing it for you. The worst thing you can do is give your whole heart to a man who is only acting on a whim. If you do, you’ll lose everything. She was right. He acted on a whim, and I lost everything. “Oh, is this the ex?” Back in the elevator, the woman in Dominic’s arms let out a sharp, mocking gasp. “An elevator show? How wild. Dominic, how could you ever bring yourself to break up with someone this exciting?” Dominic’s dark eyes locked onto mine as he tightened his grip on her waist, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “She’s a dead fish in bed, babe. No matter how much she tries to wiggle now, she’s still a bore.” 4 All the color drained from my face. For all my education, I found myself entirely speechless in the face of such crude humiliation. My hands clenched into tight fists. For a split second, I wanted to turn around and slap him. But then, a warm arm wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me into a firm chest. The man who had been standing silently beside me squeezed my shoulder, leaning down to murmur in my ear. “Do you want me to carry you?” I gasped slightly, trying to blink back the tears. Before I could answer, Dominic’s deep, irritated voice cut through the air from the elevator. “You two. Your room tonight is on the house.” My date tightened his grip on my shoulder, turning around to look at Dominic with a calm, challenging smile. “Oh?” Dominic didn’t look at him. His eyes were pinned entirely on me, dark and storming. “Daphne was with me for three years, after all. Since you’re staying at my hotel, consider it a professional courtesy. I’ll even have some toys sent up to your room to help you out, since her skills are so basic, I doubt you’ll have a very satisfying night without them.” A round of mean laughter erupted from the guys in the elevator. My face burned with humiliation. We had never even slept together, so where was he getting these disgusting lies from? “You! We never even—” “Thank you for the offer,” my date cut in, his tone remarkably smooth and unaffected. But his next words made the entire lobby go dead silent. “But instead of relying on someone else’s old habits, I’d much rather take my time teaching Daphne myself. We have our whole lives ahead of us to learn. You, on the other hand, won’t ever get that chance again.” Dominic’s eyes flared with anger. His fists clenched, and he took a menacing step forward, but the elevator doors slowly slid shut, cutting him off. 5 Even after we swiped the card and entered the room, my face was still burning hot. That entire exchange had been incredibly intense. This man, who had seemed so gentle, polite, and refined during our blind date, was suddenly speaking with such quiet, dangerous confidence. The bathroom door clicked open. Sebastian stepped out, his hair damp and messy. His white dress shirt was completely soaked, clinging to his skin and outlining the sharp shape of his muscles. I quickly averted my eyes, staring intently at a flower vase nearby. Sebastian sat down on the sofa across from me, his face slightly pale. “I apologize for my behavior in the elevator, Daphne. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” I shook my head quickly. “No, please don’t apologize. You did nothing wrong, you were just dragged into my mess.” If I hadn’t made the stupid decision to suggest a quiet lounge for our blind date just to prove I wasn’t “boring,” we wouldn’t have ended up here. I hadn’t realized someone would slip something into my drink. Because I didn’t really drink, Sebastian had noticed the cocktail looked incredibly strong and swapped glasses with me. He had taken the hit for me. In my panic, I had just wanted to find the nearest hotel so he could take a cold shower. I hadn’t even realized the establishment belonged to Dominic’s family. “I’m so sorry, Sebastian. This has to be the worst blind date in history.” Sebastian rubbed his hair with a towel, his dark eyes fixed on the floor as his lips curved into a soft, amused smile. “It was definitely eventful.” 6 In the hotel lobby. Dominic walked out of the elevator, his expression murderous. The friends following him didn’t seem to notice his foul mood, clapping him on the shoulder with a laugh. “Man, who knew Daphne had that in her? She’s not just a pretty girl who plays the violin. Honestly, a good girl who does whatever you teach her sounds kind of hot. That guy looked like he had money, though. They’re probably tearing up the sheets right now…” A loud crash echoed through the lobby as Dominic kicked a metal trash can over. He shoved his new girl away, his knuckles white as his chest heaved. With a low curse, he turned around and slammed his hand against the elevator button. The doors opened immediately. His friends stared in shock as Dominic stepped back inside, aggressively slamming the door-close button as if the panel owed him money. “Is he really that pissed?” Marcus, Dominic’s childhood friend, stared at the closed doors with a frown. He asked a quiet, unrelated question. “Have you guys noticed that Dominic has been acting completely off for the last two months?” The others blinked. “Off? How?” Since the breakup, Dominic had jumped right back into his old lifestyle: drinking, racing, partying with different girls. He was the same old playboy. Well, except for the times he would stare blankly at his phone for hours. But that was about it. In the elevator, Dominic stared at the rising numbers, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth clicked. He slammed his fist against the wall, his voice a low growl. “Daphne, don’t you dare.” 7 Sebastian had to take another cold shower. The good news was the drugs were finally leaving his system. The bad news was he was completely exhausted. A loud thud from the bathroom startled me. Forgetting all propriety, I rushed inside. Sebastian was sitting on the tiled floor, one knee pulled up, leaning against the wet wall. The cold water was still spraying over him, and he looked up through the mist, offering a helpless, apologetic smile. “I ran out of energy. I’m sorry.” In that moment, he looked exactly like a sad, soaked golden retriever. His dark eyes were wide and vulnerable, melting away any awkwardness I felt. I quickly turned off the water and helped him up, letting him lean his weight against me. The icy temperature of his skin shocked me. It was winter, and soaking in cold water like this was a guaranteed way to get pneumonia. “Here,” I grabbed a large towel from the rack, standing on my tiptoes to wrap it around him. But as I pulled the towel tight, the height difference worked against me. The fabric caught, pulling Sebastian forward. Our bodies collided, leaving zero space between us. Our noses brushed, and we both froze. Sebastian was nearly a head taller than me, but he stood perfectly still, looking down at me with an intense, unreadable gaze. Water droplets rolled down his sharp jawline, dripping onto my collarbone and wetting my shirt. The air in the room grew thick and heavy. “What? Are you two planning on putting on a bathroom show next?” A cold, sarcastic voice cut through the silence from the doorway. Startled, I immediately let go of the towel and stepped back. Dominic stood at the entrance of the bathroom, holding a master keycard in his hand. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his eyes burning with a dark, suppressed fury as he stared at us. 8 Sebastian’s brow furrowed, but he remained far calmer than I was. He took a step forward, shielding me behind his broad frame, and looked at Dominic with a cool smile. “Did you come up here to deliver those toys yourself, Dominic?” “Of course.” Dominic let out a harsh laugh, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. His expression was dripping with arrogance. “Maybe I should just join you two? I can guarantee you’ll have the absolute ride of your lives.” Anger finally flared in my chest. “Dominic, are you insane?” Why was he doing this? Was he just trying to ruin my life, or did he enjoy humiliating me? Dominic’s eyes locked onto mine, dark and dangerous. “I thought you wanted something exciting? This seems perfect. But speaking of insane…” He walked slowly into the bathroom, looking Sebastian up and down with blatant contempt. “Hey mate, how much do you charge for a night? Are you clean? Have you been tested? I might play dirty, but I don’t touch trash. How about I pay for your medical exam first?” I was completely speechless. “Dominic, you need to get your head checked.” Humiliating me in the lobby wasn’t enough; he had to follow us to our room to insult Sebastian? He was acting as if I had cheated on him. “It seems,” Sebastian said with a quiet chuckle, his tone perfectly conversational, “that you’ve mistaken my profession. Let me introduce myself. I am Sebastian Sinclair, CEO of the Sinclair Group. I am the blind date Daphne’s grandmother personally selected for her.” 9 Sebastian’s words were quiet, but they carried an immense weight. The Sinclair Group had primarily operated overseas until recently, which was why Sebastian wasn’t widely recognized in our local social circles yet. But the mention of “Daphne’s grandmother” was enough to prove his pedigree. She would never select anyone but the best for me. Dominic froze. The arrogant confidence he had walked in with evaporated the moment he realized Sebastian wasn’t some cheap escort he could bully. “A blind date?” Dominic turned his gaze back to me, his eyes tight with a desperate, tense energy. “You went on a blind date? And you came straight to a hotel with him? You actually like him?” I didn’t even bother to answer. What I did with my life was none of his business. Did our breakup come with a lifetime surveillance package? “Speak!” Dominic’s voice cracked with a dark intensity. “Do you like him?” “Yes, I do,” I snapped, entirely done with him. “Now, can you please get the hell out of our room?” Dominic’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles popped, and for a second, I thought he was going to swing at Sebastian. But he just stared at me for a few agonizing seconds before letting out a rough, bitter laugh. “Fine. You’ve grown a spine, Daphne. But remember, this hotel is mine. If anyone is leaving, it’s the two of you.” He offered me a dark, twisted smirk. He was entirely serious. I was so angry I couldn’t even speak. I was so consumed by fury that I completely missed the dark, desperate storm brewing in his eyes. 10 Sebastian was still too weak to drive, so his assistant came to pick him up. I stood by the car door, feeling incredibly guilty as I waved goodbye. “Sebastian, I am so incredibly sorry. Goodbye.” Sebastian leaned against the leather seat, offering a warm, reassuring smile. “Goodbye, Daphne.” I watched the car pull away, knowing deep down that “goodbye” probably meant we would never see each other again. Who would want to go on a second date after a disaster like this? Getting kicked out of a hotel by your date’s ex-boyfriend was a story for the history books. Sighing, I pulled out my phone and opened Sebastian’s contact info, typing out a message. Sebastian, I am so… I paused. I had said “sorry” so many times today that the word felt entirely cheap. “Forget it,” I muttered to myself. “It’s better to just leave it.” I turned around to head toward the main lobby of the garage to call a cab. But the moment I turned, I realized a figure was standing in the shadows behind me. I let out a sharp scream, dropping my phone. Dominic stepped out of the darkness, his face pale and cold. Before I could run, he grabbed my wrist and slammed me against the concrete pillar. His mouth fell onto mine, crushing my lips in a desperate, angry kiss. “Let go!” I struggled against his grip, but his hands were like iron. In desperation, I bit down hard on his lip. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. Dominic hissed in pain, finally pulling back, but his arms remained locked around me, pinning me to the pillar. He ignored the blood dripping down his chin, his dark eyes staring into mine with a terrifying intensity. “Did you like kissing him? Was it exciting? Is he better than me?” “Let go of me, Dominic,” I said, my voice dead and cold. Dominic let out a low, desperate laugh, the blood smeared across his lips making him look wild and dangerous. “You said you loved me. You proposed to me. How can you move on to another man so quickly?” 11 I looked at him, my eyes filled with a quiet, burning rage. “What does it matter to you?” Dominic raised an eyebrow, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. His voice was laced with a dark, trembling anger. “We were together for three years, Daphne. I can’t even ask? Is this how you’re going to treat me now?” I clenched my fists. “Ask? Dominic, you are unbelievable. You humiliate me, you insult my date, and now you’re acting like the victim? Are you worried I’ll become too much of a bother again?” Dominic froze, his expression tightening. Then, he let out a bitter, mocking laugh. “Is this your way of playing hard to get, Daphne? Are you doing all of this just to get my attention?” I stared at him, finding his arrogance almost pathetic. “You really need to get your head checked, Dominic. Your narcissism is a disease.” Dominic’s eyes narrowed. “Daphne, don’t push this too far.” “I was always boring to you, wasn’t I?” I smiled coldly. “Go enjoy your precious freedom. Our little show ended a long time ago.” I gave him one last look, a look filled with absolute disgust, and walked away without turning back. Behind me, Dominic watched my figure disappear into the shadows of the garage. For the first time, a flicker of confusion appeared in his eyes, followed by a sudden, terrifying panic that he couldn’t quite comprehend.

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Flirting with Dax was the sweetest thing ever. Normally, I did not even use his real name. Whenever we were alone, I would playfully call him, “Husband.” He would immediately blush from his collar up to his hairline, muttering stiffly, “Don’t say that.” Sure, got it. I would absolutely do it again next time. Until I saw the comments. [Stop shouting, sister. The moment his childhood best friend gets back, he is going to tell you to stop joking like that in front of everyone.] [She is happily calling him husband now, but he is really just too polite to embarrass her.] I froze in my tracks. Dax was standing by the entrance of the corner store, holding the strawberry milkshake I had mentioned wanting. “Anything else?” I took the bag, the smile fading from my face. “No, that is it.” “Thanks, Dax.” 1 Dax visibly hesitated. He stood there holding the plastic bag from the store, the thin material rustling softly in the cool night breeze. Just minutes ago, I had casually mentioned wanting a strawberry milkshake. He had scoffed, saying, “You are not a kid,” but his feet had already carried him inside. In the past, I would have pressed my face against the glass window, beaming at him. When he walked out, I would have drawn out my words, teasing him. “Thanks, husband.” Then I would watch him turn red. Dax was incredibly shy. It was not a fake, performative shyness either. It was genuine. The first time I called him that was at the diner near campus. I had forgotten my wallet, and he swiped his student ID to buy us both burgers and fries. Holding my fork, I grinned and said, “Thanks, husband.” Dax nearly choked on his soda. His ears flushed so red they looked sunburned. “Sadie,” he muttered, lowering his voice, “don’t say that.” I blinked. “Should I call you babe instead?” He looked even more uncomfortable. “No.” “Mr. Dax?” “…” “Boss?” “Just eat your fries.” That was when I figured him out. Dax looked cold and distant, a quiet, straight A student with the kind of sharp, handsome face that regularly ended up on the campus confession pages. He was the classic untouchable heartthrob. But a little teasing, and he completely unraveled. It was adorable. I did not have any bad intentions. I just loved seeing him try so hard to keep his cool when he was actually panicking inside. And he never got truly angry. Every time he told me to stop, he would still bring me coffee the next day, save me a seat in class, and wait for my lectures to end. I thought it was a mutual flirtation. I thought we both knew what we were doing. But the comments said otherwise. They said he was just too polite to push me away. The wind outside the corner store felt cold. I pulled the milkshake out of the bag and tried to push the straw through the lid. My hand shook slightly, and I missed twice. Dax reached out. “Let me.” I instinctively went to hand it over. Halfway through, the comments flashed in my mind. My hand went rigid. “No, it is fine.” Dax looked at me. “You are going to spill it.” I looked down. He was right. Before, I would have pushed it into his hands without a second thought. Help me, husband. He would scowl, tell me to stop calling him that, and then carefully pierce the lid for me. Now, I pulled the straw back, lined it up, and forced it through myself. I pushed too hard, and a drop of pink liquid splashed onto the back of my hand. Dax’s forehead creased, and his hand moved toward his pocket for a tissue. I was faster. I pulled a napkin from my bag and wiped it off. “All set.” Dax’s hand hovered in midair. I pretended not to notice, taking a sip of the sweet milkshake. It was sugary, but a bitter taste settled in my mouth. “Is something wrong today?” Dax asked. I kept my teeth on the straw. “Nothing at all.” He watched me. “What did you just call me?” My chest tightened. “Dax.” “Why?” I looked up at him, forcing a smile. “Weren’t you always telling me not to call you those other names?” Dax was quiet for a few seconds. The streetlights cast long shadows from his eyelashes across his cheeks. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quietly. I wanted to ask him what he did mean. But the comments were already drifting across my mind again. [Of course he didn’t mean to be harsh, he is just too nice to say it track blankly.] [The worst part of being the side character is mistaking his politeness for affection.] [Once his childhood friend Isla gets back, he will start keeping his distance. She will realize then how embarrassing her wishful thinking was.] I swallowed the question. “Yeah, I know,” I said, keeping my tone light. “I won’t do it anymore.” Dax stared at me. “I wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea,” I added. His forehead creased instantly. “Who would get the wrong idea?” “Everyone,” I said. “Do you care what everyone thinks?” I wanted to say no. But as the words reached my lips, I realized there was no point in denying it. I did not want to get the wrong idea either. I did not want to be standing there like a fool when he finally told me to stop joking in front of a crowd. I took another sip. “Yeah.” Dax did not say another word. We walked back to the dorms side by side. Normally, I would fill this walk with useless chatter, complaining about homework, pointing out a cute dog, or joking about wishing the school would burn down before my 8 AM class. Dax usually did not say much, but he would listen. Sometimes he would look at me when my rants got too ridiculous. Even that quiet look felt sweet back then. Tonight, I was silent. It was so quiet that when we reached the steps of my dorm, Dax suddenly stopped. “Sadie.” I paused. “Yeah?” He pressed his lips together, looking like he wanted to say something. But in the end, he only managed, “Are we still going to the library tomorrow?” Before, I would have said, Of course, wait for me at our usual spot, husband. Now, I just nodded. “Sure. Thanks, Dax.” His face darkened completely. But I waved and turned away before he could say anything else. “See you tomorrow.” 2 When I got back to the room, my roommate Tessa was putting on a face mask. Seeing me, she immediately sat up. “Back so early? Didn’t your boy Dax keep you downstairs for another ten minutes of lingering goodbyes?” I set the milkshake on my desk. “No.” Tessa squinted. “Did you guys fight?” “No.” “Your face says otherwise.” I sat down and unzipped my backpack. “Really, we didn’t.” Tessa leaned closer. “Then what is up? Usually you come back grinning like you won the lottery. Tonight you look like you are about to fail calculus.” I let out a weak laugh, but my eyes quickly cast downward. “I was just thinking, have I been a bit too much lately? Like, crossing boundaries?” Tessa blinked. “You?” “Yeah.” “With Dax?” I nodded. Tessa ripped the face mask off. “Aren’t you guys literally flirting every single day?” My hands paused on my books. “Do you think so too?” “Duh,” Tessa said. “If he didn’t like you, would he save you a seat every morning? Would he run down to get you a milkshake just because you mentioned it? Would he just blush and tell you to behave when you call him husband?” “Maybe he is just really nice,” I murmured. Tessa stared at me in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?” I looked at her. “Dax? Nice?” she scoffed. “He doesn’t say more than three words to anyone else.” I did not answer. She did not know about the comments. She did not know his childhood friend was coming back. She did not know that one day, Dax would tell me to stop making those jokes in front of everyone. Seeing that I was genuinely upset, Tessa softened her tone. “Sadie, did someone say something to you?” I shook my head. “No.” “So you are really going to stop teasing him?” I pushed the milkshake a little further away. “Yeah. I’m going to stop.” Tessa sighed. “Well, Dax is going to lose his mind.” I smiled faintly. “No, he won’t.” The comments drifted across my vision again. [Of course he won’t lose his mind. It saves him the trouble of dealing with her.] [The worst thing in a situationship is when one person gets too ahead of themselves. It is smart of her to pull the brakes now.] [Isla comes back tomorrow. The school forum is going to blow up. They grew up together, who is this random girl compared to her?] Looking at those words, my heart took a slow, heavy dip. The next day, news of Isla’s return spread everywhere. She was Dax’s childhood friend and had been a prominent figure on campus before she took a year off to go abroad for medical treatment. Now she was back. People on the campus forum were digging up old photos of them. High school academic competitions, family dinners, and one incredibly blurry photo from a sports meet. In that photo, Isla was standing by the finish line, and Dax, looking exhausted after a run, was leaning over with his hands on his knees. She was handing him a bottle of water, and he was reaching for it. I stared at that photo for a long time. It was just a bottle of water. I had given him water before too. But the comments kept coming. [The classic childhood friend entry. High school memories always win.] [Dax was never the type to accept water from just anyone back then.] [A corner store milkshake really can’t compete with years of shared history.] I put my phone face down. Tessa muttered beside me, “People on the forum are so annoying. It is a bottle of water, and they are writing a whole romance novel about it.” I smiled. “Maybe people just like a good story.” “And you? Aren’t you mad?” I shook my head. “Why would I be mad?” I was not his girlfriend. I did not even have the right to be jealous. When I went to the library that afternoon, I deliberately arrived ten minutes late. Normally, Dax would be the one waiting for me, and today was no different. He was sitting by the window, a vacant chair saved next to him. On the desk sat an iced latte. Half sweet. No ice. Exactly how I liked it. My steps faltered. Dax looked up, and the tension in his eyes seemed to ease slightly when he saw me. “You’re here.” I sat down and pushed the cup back toward his side of the table. “You don’t have to buy things for me anymore.” Dax looked at the cup. “You’re not drinking it?” “I just had water.” He was quiet for a moment. “You said yesterday you wanted one.” I froze. I had indeed casually mentioned it because the classroom had been freezing during our late lecture. Before, knowing he remembered such minor details would have made me ecstatic. Now, it only made my chest ache. The more he remembered, the easier it was for me to get the wrong idea. I pushed the cup right to the center of the table. “Thanks, but you really don’t have to go to the trouble.” Dax’s grip on his pen tightened. “Sadie.” I kept my eyes on my book. “Yeah?” “Since yesterday, you’ve done nothing but thank me.” I blinked slowly. “It is polite to say thank you.” He watched me. “You never used to say it before.” I thought about it. Before, I would have said: You are the best, husband. How did you get so perfect, Dax? Are you secretly in love with me or something? And his ears would turn bright red. Now that I thought about it, I really had lacked boundaries. “I was being childish back then,” I murmured. The tip of Dax’s pen stopped on the paper. “Childish?” I nodded. “Yeah.” He let out a short, frustrated breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “Who told you that?” I shook my head. “No one.” The comments rolled by. [At least she is self aware now.] [Isla is almost at the library. Get ready for the drama.] [Backing off now keeps things graceful. Better than waiting for him to shut her down in public.] My chest tightened. Almost immediately, there was a quiet murmur near the entrance of the library. Someone whispered, “Isla’s here.” I looked up. Isla was wearing a soft blue sweater, her long hair falling over her shoulders. She looked a bit pale, but she was beautiful. As she walked in, several heads turned. She saw Dax and smiled. “Dax.” It sounded so natural. Unlike me and my ridiculous, teasing nicknames. Isla walked over, her gaze landing on me. “And who is this?” Before Dax could speak, I quickly smiled. “I’m Sadie. We are in the same department.” We are in the same department. Clean, polite, and distant. Isla nodded. “Nice to meet you.” She sat down across from Dax and pulled out a binder. “I just got back and I’ve missed so much. You mentioned I could borrow your notes?” Dax looked at me, not answering her right away. I began packing my books. He asked, “Where are you going?” “I’m going to study vocabulary over by the stacks,” I said. “You can’t study here?” I smiled. “You two should catch up. I won’t disturb you.” Dax’s brow furrowed deep. “Sadie.” But I had already gathered my things and walked behind the bookshelves. 3 I spent half an hour behind the shelves trying to memorize words, but none of them stuck. My ears kept straining to hear the quiet conversation from their table. Isla’s voice was soft, and Dax barely spoke, just giving brief answers. They really were just looking at notes. There was no flirting, no crossing of lines. But a heavy weight settled in my chest anyway. There was an effortless familiarity between them. Without needing much explanation, the moment Isla mentioned a topic, Dax knew exactly which textbook she meant. When she said, “You still have that old habit,” Dax paused before replying, “Can’t seem to break it.” I had no part in that history. I had only known him for six months. In those six months, I had used jokes and teasing to slowly chip away at his silence. I thought I had gotten close to him. But the moment Isla returned, I realized how shallow that closeness really was. The moment I took back the nickname, we were nothing more than ordinary classmates. My eyes grew hot as I stared at the vocabulary list. [Don’t look, it only hurts more.] [Isla didn’t even do anything, but the power of a childhood friend lies in how natural it is.] [She thought she was special, but she is realizing there is a line she can’t cross.] I closed the book. When I left the library that evening, Dax came running out after me. Isla was already gone. He stood at the bottom of the steps, holding the untouched latte. “Sadie.” I stopped. “What’s wrong?” He held the cup out to me, his lips parting as if to speak, but he hesitated. I did not take it. “It is fine, you drink it.” Dax looked down at the cup. “It is half sweet.” “Yeah.” “I don’t drink sweet things.” My heart gave a small squeeze. He did not like sweet things. This was meant for me, and I knew it. But I could not take it. Taking it would mean slipping back into old habits. I forced a smile. “Then throw it away.” Dax’s face darkened instantly. “What is wrong with you lately?” The evening wind swept up the library steps. I clutched my books, my fingers completely numb from the cold. “Nothing’s wrong.” “Yesterday you called me Dax.” “That’s your name.” “You didn’t use to call me that.” My chest ached. What did I use to call him? I wanted to ask, but I did not dare. Those nicknames were just my one sided jokes. Husband. Babe. Boss. No matter how happily I said them, they were never real. I lowered my eyes. “I didn’t have any boundaries before.” Dax stared at me. “Say that again.” My nose tingled. It was rare for him to speak in such a cold, sharp tone. But it only proved the comments were right. He had probably been tolerating me for a long time. Now that Isla was back, he finally had a reason to draw the line. “I won’t make those jokes anymore,” I said softly. Dax was silent. After a long pause, he asked, “Including those names?” I nodded. His grip tightened, slightly crushing the paper cup in his hand. “Why?” I tried to keep my voice steady. “Weren’t you always telling me to stop?” Dax froze. “I’m finally listening to you,” I added. [Damn.] [That actually hurts.] [He spent all this time telling her to stop, and now he is realizing she actually did.] Dax stared at me, the usual cold calm in his eyes completely shattered. He opened his mouth to speak. But from a distance, a voice called out, “Dax!” Isla was standing under a streetlight, holding her phone. “Did you leave your keys in my bag?” Dax looked back. I took a step backward. “Go ahead.” He did not move. I gave him a small smile. “My dorm is close by.” With that, I turned and walked away. This time, he did not follow. Behind me, I heard Isla catch up to him. I heard her ask, “Did you two have a fight?” Dax did not answer. I quickened my pace. At least I had walked away first. I had not let it reach the point where he would tell me to stop in front of a crowd. I had saved some of my dignity. 4 Over the next few days, I became an expert at keeping my distance. When we met, I called him Dax. My texts were strictly about coursework. When he saved me a seat, I said thank you. When he asked to get food, I told him my roommate was waiting. When he offered me a drink, I declined. At first, Dax would scowl. But as the days went on, he grew quieter and quieter. I figured he would get used to it soon. After all, having one less person constantly teasing him and calling him husband should have been a relief. But Tessa could not stand it anymore. While I was brushing my teeth, she snatched my phone. “What is going on with you two?” I wiped my face with a towel. “Nothing.” “Nothing? Dax sent you eleven texts, and every single one of your replies reads like an official university announcement.” I reached out. “Give me my phone.” Instead of handing it over, Tessa read aloud. “Dax: I can grab you breakfast before our 8 AM class tomorrow.” “You: No need to trouble yourself, I’ll get something on my way. Thanks.” “Dax: I thought you hated the dining hall eggs.” “You: I eat them now.” Tessa looked up at me. “Sadie, you eat dining hall eggs now?” I stayed silent. She scoffed. “Just yesterday you said those eggs smelled like a midlife crisis.” “…” Tessa kept reading. “Dax: Are we still going to the movie on Saturday?” “You: I can’t go, I need to work on my paper.” She slammed the phone onto the desk. “Didn’t you buy those tickets two weeks ago? You literally said you wanted to watch it with your future boyfriend.” “I said future boyfriend,” I mumbled. “I didn’t say it was him.” Tessa looked like she wanted to shake some sense into me. “Sadie, cut the crap.” I looked down, saying nothing. [The side character is officially exiting the stage.] [This is graceful. At least there is no big dramatic scene.] [But his mood has been terrible lately, even Isla noticed.] My chest tightened. Tessa suddenly said, “Isla came to find me today.” I froze. “To find you?” “Yeah. She asked if you were misunderstanding something.” Tessa leaned against the desk, crossing her arms. “She said she and Dax aren’t like that. She only came back to catch up on classes. She also said Dax looks like he is going through a devastating breakup.” My heart skipped a beat, but I quickly forced the feeling down. “She’s probably just joking.” “I don’t think so,” Tessa said. “And do you think he is enjoying the peace? He was watching you sit next to someone else in the library today, looking like he was about to snap his pen in half.” “I was sitting next to a project partner,” I protested. “A guy.” “It was schoolwork.” “You wouldn’t have cared about schoolwork before.” She was right. Before, if Dax had sat next to another girl, I would have slid right in next to them with a grin. Am I interrupting your chat with this pretty girl, Dax? He would blush and tell me to stop playing around, and I would sit right beside him anyway. Now, I did not play around anymore. I did not have the right to. I took my phone back. Dax’s latest message was still on the screen. “Are you free tomorrow? I want to talk.” I stared at the words for a long time before replying. “Sure.” I hesitated, then added: “Dax.” The screen immediately showed “typing…” but it took a long time before a single word came back. “Okay.”

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1 I had worked at Horizon Holdings for three years without a single late arrival on my record. This afternoon, the layoff notice went up. Right there on the third line was my employee ID. Fine by me. It took me exactly ten minutes to hand over my responsibilities, pack my things into a cardboard box, and walk out. But right at the main entrance, the CEO’s daughter blocked my path. She looked completely innocent. “Um, firing you was just a little show for my boyfriend. You can come back to work now.” I looked at the exit clearance papers in my hand, covered in official red stamps, and then looked back at her. “Miss Sinclair, do you think if I eat this piece of paper right now, we can pretend none of this happened?” … Monday, 11:40 AM. Twenty minutes before lunch. I was still debating whether to grab a turkey sub or some takeout tacos when Lily from Administration rushed over to my desk. “Luke! The bulletin board! Go look, quickly!” Her face was pale, like she’d seen a ghost. I let go of my mouse and walked down to the end of the hallway. A crowd of colleagues had already gathered around the board, whispering and buzzing with nervous energy. I squeezed through the gap and cast my eyes over the paper. Notice of Third-Quarter Personnel Optimization and Restructuring Underneath was a list of employee IDs and names. Third line. ID: HZ-20210315. Name: Luke Benson. Department: Technical Operations and Infrastructure. Oh. I stared at those words for three seconds. Then I turned around and walked back to my desk. The quiet murmurs of my coworkers followed me. “Luke is on the list?” “Isn’t he the guy who maintains the entire company system?” “It’s not like he’s the only one who can do that job, right?” Right. I wasn’t the only one. I sat back down in my chair and pulled open my desk drawer. There wasn’t much inside. A thermos, an unopened pack of wet wipes, and a thick LSAT prep guide, something I had bought on my very first day at Horizon and hadn’t opened once. I swept everything into a small cardboard box. Then I sent a quick message to Marcus, my department head: “Marcus, I saw the list. How do you want to handle the transition of my tasks?” Marcus replied instantly: “Wait, you’re on the list? I haven’t even looked yet… hold on, don’t pack up, let me ask around.” I didn’t wait. I opened my computer, updated the last-modified dates on my three main server maintenance documents, and saved them to the shared network drive. Then I composed a brief email to the department group. Subject: Ops Transition Memorandum The body of the email contained only one sentence: “All system admin credentials, server configurations, and third-party API documentation are saved in the shared drive under the folder ‘Luke Benson – Ops’. If you run into issues, refer to the documents.” Send. I checked the time. Exactly eight minutes had passed since I saw the notice. I shut down the computer, unplugged my flash drive, and unclipped my ID badge. The box wasn’t heavy, easily cradled in one arm. I stood up and took one last look at the cubicle where I had sat for three years. On the divider, there was a sticky note from last year: “Remember to swap out the backup hard drives in the server room on Friday.” I peeled it off, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the trash. My colleagues watched me in silence. No one spoke. No one came over to say goodbye. That was fine. When layoffs happen, the survivors are usually too busy feeling relieved and terrified of being next to offer any real sympathy. I walked to the HR office and knocked twice. Audrey, the HR supervisor, opened the door. She froze when she saw me. “That was fast.” “Let’s get the paperwork over with,” I said. Audrey gave a slightly awkward smile and handed me a stack of papers. Termination agreement, non-compete waiver, final payroll confirmation. I signed them one by one. “About the non-compete,” Audrey said quietly. “Standard protocol means we wouldn’t usually waive this for someone of your level, but since you were put on the list, management decided to release you from it directly to keep things simple.” I nodded. No non-compete meant I could go to a competitor tomorrow. I guess that was the only real perk of getting laid off. As I signed the last line, Audrey stamped the documents with the official corporate seal. “Thanks for your hard work, Luke. Your severance will be deposited by the end of the month.” “Sounds good.” All in all, ten minutes. Three years of my career, wrapped up and filed away in ten minutes. I walked out of the HR office with my cardboard box, crossed the lobby, passed the bulletin board, and stepped into the elevator. I was alone in the elevator car. I looked down at the box. The thermos, the wipes, the pristine LSAT prep book. It felt incredibly light. I wasn’t even sad. Three years at Horizon, earning eighty thousand a year, a perfectly average salary. My daily grind consisted of maintaining the company’s internal intranet, keeping the servers running, and dealing with various messy software integrations. To put it bluntly, I was just the IT guy. Firing the IT guy was a standard corporate move. The elevator doors opened on the first floor. The bright midday sun made me squint. A few people were bustling across the lobby, paying no attention to me. I headed toward the glass entrance doors. And then I stopped. Someone was blocking the exit. Specifically, a young woman wearing a cream-colored dress and high heels. Sienna Sinclair. The only daughter of our CEO, Arthur Sinclair. A mythical figure around the office. She rarely ever set foot in the building. But here she was today, standing right in front of me. She glanced at the box in my hands, then at the empty space on my shirt where my badge used to hang. “Are you Luke Benson?” she asked. I nodded. “Look…” She glanced around, dropping her voice to a whisper. “The whole firing thing? It’s not real.” I stared at her. “Excuse me?” “I had them add your employee ID to the list,” she said casually, as if she were talking about the weather. I didn’t say anything. She continued to explain, “My boyfriend, Zach, is a bit of a jealous type. He hates the idea of some guy constantly coming around to help me fix my laptop or whatever. I just wanted to put on a little show for him to make him feel secure, to let him see that you were gone.” “So you just…” “Yeah, it was just a little act. Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to my dad later, and you can just come back tomorrow like nothing happened.” She finished speaking and flashed me a sweet smile. It was so sweet that for a second, I thought I was losing my mind. “Miss Sinclair.” “Yes?” I shifted the box to my left arm and reached into my pocket with my right hand, pulling out a sheet of paper. My official termination letter. Complete with the bright red HR stamp and signatures. “The paperwork is already done.” Sienna’s smile faltered. “What do you mean?” “It means I’ve already signed the exit agreement, HR has stamped it, my severance is locked in, and my non-compete is waived.” I gave the paper a gentle wave in front of her face. “Legally speaking, once this is signed by both parties, the employment relationship is officially over. It’s binding.” “Why… why did you sign it so fast?!” “My name was on the list. Did you expect me to sit around and wait for a formal farewell party?” Sienna was stunned. She clearly hadn’t anticipated that anyone would execute their exit paperwork within ten minutes of a layoff notice. “Wait a second, let me make a phone call right now…” “Miss Sinclair,” I interrupted, stepping around her. “A piece of advice.” “Next time you want to put on a show, make sure you brief your actors first.” Then I walked out. Behind me, the sharp click-clack of her heels hurried after me. “Wait! Luke! Stop right there!” I didn’t look back. The security guard at the door looked at me, then at Sienna chasing after me, completely bewildered. I gave him a nod. “Take care, Gary.” “Take care, Luke,” Gary replied automatically. And then he watched the CEO’s daughter stand frozen at the glass doors, looking like a lost mannequin in her high heels. The sun was warm. And for my first day of unemployment, the sky looked incredibly blue. 2 First thing I did when I got home was draw the curtains. Second thing was toss the cardboard box into a dusty corner. Third thing, I collapsed onto the couch and turned on the TV. A food documentary was playing, focusing on slow-smoked Texas brisket. The bark on the meat looked perfectly dark, the fat glistening and rendering down. Perfect. I watched the screen for about ten minutes before my phone buzzed. It was a message from Marcus, my old boss. “Luke, did you really leave? I just talked to HR, and they said you signed the papers. Why didn’t you wait for me?” I replied with a simple “Yep.” My phone buzzed again. “Man, don’t panic. Let me see if I can get them to roll it back…” “Don’t bother, Marcus. The ink is dry, and honestly, it’s fine.” “But…” “All the handover documents are in the shared drive. The passwords are there too. Just have Pete take over.” “Pete? He barely knows how to install a printer driver…” “Then he’ll have to learn.” I flipped my phone face-down on the couch and went back to watching the brisket. Half an hour later, the phone started vibrating violently. It wasn’t Marcus this time. It was the departmental group chat. Messages were flying in one after another. Pete: “@All, uh… the internal payroll and HR portal Luke used to manage is down. Does anyone have the admin password?” Three minutes later. Pete: “Urgent! Anyone? I’m locked out.” Five minutes later. A guy from Marketing popped into the chat: “Our project tracking platform is completely inaccessible. It says the security certificate expired. Who’s running this?” Ray: “…That was Luke’s domain.” Marketing: “Where is he?” Ray: “He’s gone. Laid off today.” Marketing: “WTF??” I quietly left the group chat. Not my circus, not my monkeys. The brisket segment finished, followed by a piece on wood-fired Italian pizzas. My phone buzzed again. A direct message. From Ray. Ray and I got along well enough, occasionally grabbing beers after work. “Luke, I’m looking at your handover folder on the shared drive. Quick question…” “Yeah?” “The ‘Core Credentials Master List’ is password-protected. What’s the key?” I stared at the screen for three seconds. “It’s in the metadata tooltips.” A minute later… “I don’t see any tooltips?” “Hover your mouse over the file icon and hold it there for two seconds. A dialog box will pop up.” Two minutes later… “Luke, it popped up. But it says: ‘This master password is tied to the active administrator’s security token. Upon employee termination, access is automatically revoked. Please contact your IT Systems Architect to reset.’” “Then contact the IT Systems Architect to reset it.” “Who the hell is the IT Systems Architect?” “Up until ten o’clock this morning, it was me.” There was a long silence from Ray. So long that I thought his phone had died. Then he sent a single word: “Damn.” I locked my phone and went into the kitchen to boil some pasta. Before the water even reached a boil, there was a knock on my door. I walked over and peered through the peephole. A middle-aged man in a slightly rumpled suit stood there, clutching a briefcase and wiping sweat from his forehead. I didn’t recognize him. “Can I help you?” I called out. “Mr. Benson? I’m from Horizon Holdings’ administration department. My name is Mason.” I opened the door. Mr. Mason took a deep breath, trying to summon a professional smile. “Mr. Benson, look, regarding this afternoon—” “I’m not coming back.” His smile froze. “I haven’t even said anything yet—” “You’re here to ask me to come back to work, aren’t you?” The look of sheer panic on his face told me everything. “Well, Mr. Sinclair sent me personally. He said there was a massive clerical error in the layoff list. Your employee ID was never meant to be on there. It was all a misunderstanding…” “Mr. Mason.” I leaned against the doorframe. “You have a copy of the exit agreement I signed, right?” “Well, yes—” “Take a look at the stamp on it. Is that the official corporate seal?” “Yes…” “And the date? Is it today?” “Yes, but—” “Then do you really think a legally binding bilateral contract can be dissolved by calling it a ‘misunderstanding’?” Mr. Mason’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed. He looked exactly like a fish gasping for air on dry land. “Mr. Benson, please. If you could just come back to the office, we can negotiate the terms of the agreement—” “I appreciate your hustle, Mr. Mason, but my pasta is on the stove. If I don’t get back to it, it’s going to turn to mush.” I gently closed the door. Through the wood, I could hear his muffled voice: “Mr. Benson? Luke? Please reconsider! I’ll wait out here!” I went back to the kitchen, drained the pasta, and tossed it with some garlic, olive oil, and red pepper flakes. Simple, clean, and perfectly al dente. It tasted infinitely better than anything from the company cafeteria. Eventually, the hallway went quiet. Mr. Mason had left. I finished my meal, washed the dishes, and decided to take a nap. My phone screen kept lighting up, notifications piling up on the lock screen. I glanced at them. One of them was an automated system-wide email from Horizon Holdings. Subject: Retraction of Third-Quarter Personnel Notice I clicked it open and read the first couple of lines. “Due to an administrative data entry error, Employee ID HZ-20210315 (Luke Benson) was mistakenly included on the list. The notice regarding said employee is hereby retracted…” Too late. I tossed the phone onto my nightstand. Time for a nap. I was a free man now. 3 At 3:30 PM, my landline rang, waking me up. Yes, I still had a landline. Usually, it was only used by delivery guys or telemarketers. I groggily picked up the receiver. “Hello?” “Luke Benson? This is the Office of the Chairman at Horizon Holdings.” The voice was deep, authoritative, and instantly recognizable. My sleepiness vanished. Arthur Sinclair. The big boss of Horizon Holdings. Sienna’s father. I sat up. “Hello, Mr. Sinclair.” “Luke, today was an absolute mess. I’ve already dealt with the people responsible. I want you to know that I value your contribution to this company very highly.” His tone was incredibly warm, almost apologetic. “Here’s what we’ll do. You come back to your position tomorrow. I’ll bump you up a grade, increase your base salary to a hundred and twenty thousand, and make sure your full performance bonus for this quarter is paid out. How does that sound?” From eighty thousand to a hundred and twenty thousand. A fifty percent raise. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted. But… “Mr. Sinclair, I have one question.” “Go ahead.” “Who authorized my name to be on that layoff list in the first place?” Silence stretched over the line for two seconds. “Well… it was processed through Administration.” “And why would Administration put my name on there?” Another three seconds of heavy silence. “Luke, I will launch an internal audit into this matter—” “Mr. Sinclair, I heard it was Miss Sinclair who requested my employee ID be added.” Silence fell again, thick enough to cut with a knife. Five full seconds. “Luke, regardless of the circumstances, I want to personally apologize on behalf of the company.” He didn’t confirm it, but he didn’t deny it either. That was all the confirmation I needed. “Mr. Sinclair, it’s a very generous offer. But I’ve already signed the termination papers. And,” I paused, letting the words hang, “your HR department officially signed my non-compete waiver.” The sound of Arthur Sinclair’s breathing grew noticeably heavier. “They did what?” A waived non-compete meant I could legally start working for their direct competitor this very afternoon. No garden leave. No cooling-off period. Audrey had simply followed the standard protocol for mid-level employees. The system wasn’t designed to catch the fact that the “mid-level” guy held the keys to the entire castle. I was the only one who understood Horizon’s system architecture, server setups, and third-party API keys. Allowing a person with that level of institutional knowledge to walk away with zero restrictions is what corporate risk managers call a catastrophic vulnerability. “Mr. Sinclair, I don’t bear any ill will. But from a legal perspective, I’m a free agent now. I have no obligation to Horizon.” “Luke—” “You should probably look into how your internal operations are being run. Have a good evening.” I hung up. Then I unplugged the landline. I lay back down and stared at the ceiling. To be honest, my palms were sweating during that call. Arthur Sinclair was a billionaire, after all. But every word I said was a fact. They had set their own house on fire. Why should I be the one to carry the water buckets? I rolled over to try and get back to sleep when my cell phone buzzed. It was an unknown number. I hesitated, then answered. “Mr. Benson? Hello, I’m Fiona, the VP of HR at Zenith Solutions.” Zenith Solutions. Horizon’s fiercest rival in the region. “Hi, Fiona. What can I do for you?” “Well, word travels fast. We heard you parted ways with Horizon today.” “You have good sources.” “It’s a small industry,” she said with a light chuckle. “We were wondering if you’re open to new opportunities. We actually have an opening for an Infrastructure Director. The base salary starts at three hundred thousand, plus equity. We’d love to discuss it.” Three hundred thousand. More than triple what I was making at Horizon. “Fiona, how did you even know who I was?” “To be frank, we’ve been watching the infrastructure setup at Horizon for a long time. Your work speaks for itself in our circles.” I remained quiet. “If you’re free, we’d love to grab coffee and chat.” “Let me think about it,” I said. I hung up. The day was starting to feel surreal. This morning, I was an eighty-thousand-a-year IT guy. Now, a competitor was offering me three hundred thousand to lead their team. And just eight hours ago, a wealthy girl had used my career as a cheap prop to play relationship games with her insecure boyfriend. Life is a weird, dark comedy. 4 The next morning, I grabbed a coffee and a croissant from the bakery down the street. I sat on a park bench to eat. The morning sun was pleasant, and nearby, an old man was walking a corgi. The corgi’s wobbly walk was surprisingly therapeutic to watch. My phone rang. Ray. “Luke, everything is burning down.” “Not my problem, Ray.” “No, listen to me. The entire intranet portal collapsed this morning.” I took a bite of my croissant. “How bad?” “The SSL certificates expired. Every single browser-based internal system is throwing security warnings. No one can log in. Pete spent the whole night trying to fix it, and now two hundred employees are sitting at their desks staring at blank screens. Nobody can do a damn thing.” “The renewal process is fully detailed in the handover docs.” “Pete says he can’t understand the script.” “Again, not my problem.” Ray sighed. “Look, there’s more. Do you know how much stuff the company realized you were managing only after you walked out?” “How much?” “I ran an audit. The internal portal, the mail servers, the shared drives, three external client APIs, the financial database, the security gate system, the timecard tracker, the conference room booking system, the VPN… seventeen core systems in total.” “Yeah. I built them.” “The issue is, when you built them, the company never officially classified them as separate assets. Your job description was literally just one line: ‘Responsible for general IT infrastructure maintenance.’” “So they thought firing me just meant getting rid of a guy who replaces keyboards.” “…Exactly.” I laughed. I actually laughed out loud. Right there on the bench, with half a croissant in my mouth, choking slightly on my coffee. The corgi got startled and trotted away. “And then what happened?” “Then Sinclair called an emergency board meeting this morning. He apparently ripped Administration and HR a new one. Audrey took the brunt of it because she signed your non-compete waiver.” “Audrey was just following standard procedure.” “Sinclair doesn’t care. He thinks she let the golden goose walk.” “I’m hardly a golden goose.” “Well, you are to Horizon right now. Zenith is already boasting that they’re recruiting you. Did you know that?” “I got a call yesterday.” Ray’s tone shifted, becoming more complex. “Luke, did you plan this?” “What do you mean?” “The ten-minute exit. Did you calculate that they wouldn’t react in time?” I took another sip of coffee. “Ray, do you really think an employee who gets casually discarded as a pawn needs to spend his time worrying about the company’s operational safety?” He didn’t reply. “And honestly,” I added, “I didn’t plan anything. I just didn’t care.” “A guy earning eighty thousand, treated like a ghost in the corner, gets laid off. So he signs the papers, packs his box, and leaves. That’s standard. They just forgot that the ghost was the one holding up the ceiling.” Ray remained silent for a long moment. “You’re cold, man,” he finally muttered. I smiled but didn’t argue. Finished my breakfast, threw the trash away, and heard my phone buzz again. A new contact request on my personal messaging app. The name: Sienna. The message: Mr. Benson, do you have a moment to talk? I stared at it for a few seconds. Accept. She typed back almost instantly. “Mr. Benson, I am so incredibly sorry about yesterday. I really didn’t think it through.” “Okay.” “My dad said we can offer you a promotion, a massive raise, whatever terms you want.” “Your dad already called me yesterday.” “Then why didn’t you accept??” Two question marks. I could picture the frustrated pout on her face. “Because I don’t see the point.” “What do you mean you don’t see the point?” “I don’t see the point in coming back.” A long pause. Then she sent a massive block of text. “Please let me explain. That layoff notice was truly just a stupid show for Zach. He’s been so insecure lately, constantly questioning why I had to contact you to troubleshoot things. I thought if he saw your name on the list, he’d drop it and feel secure. I was going to have HR quietly reinstate you this afternoon. I had no idea you’d sign everything and leave in ten minutes!” Reading her words, a profound sense of absurdity washed over me. Here was her logical chain: Boyfriend gets jealous -> Boyfriend is upset -> Put an innocent employee on a layoff list -> Pretend to fire him -> Reassure boyfriend -> Call employee back -> Act like nothing happened. In this entire equation, “Luke Benson” wasn’t a human being. I was a prop. A disposable tool. Something to be used and discarded without a second thought. “Miss Sinclair, I understand your reasoning.” “So you’ll—” “But did you ever consider a very simple possibility?” “What?” “That if you casually fire someone, they might actually choose not to come back?” “But why wouldn’t you—” “And yet, here we are.” She sent a sweating, awkward emoji. I couldn’t tell if she actually felt bad or was just out of arguments. “Mr. Benson, name your price.” “I’m not for sale.” “What??” “I said, I’m not for sale. I’m not a piece of inventory, Miss Sinclair. You don’t get to pull me off the shelf, use me, and then try to put me back when you realize you made a mess.” This time, the silence lasted so long I thought the conversation was over. Then, she sent one last message. “If you don’t come back, my dad is going to be furious with me. And honestly, it won’t look good for your reputation in this industry if you burn bridges like this.” Looking at the screen, a strange feeling washed over me. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t resentment. It was a clear sense of validation. Validation that leaving was the absolutely correct choice. “Miss Sinclair, is that a plea for help, or a threat?” She didn’t reply. I slipped my phone into my pocket, stood up, and brushed the crumbs off my jeans. The sky was still blue. Day two of freedom was turning out to be great. 5 Day three of unemployment. I spent the morning cleaning the apartment, dusting off the bookshelves, and setting up a folding chair on the balcony with a hot mug of coffee. The morning sun was warming my face. For three years, I had never realized how beautiful the morning light was on my balcony at 9:00 AM. Mainly because I was usually crammed into a crowded subway car at this hour. My phone rang. Fiona from Zenith Solutions. “Luke, have you had a chance to think about our offer?” “Fiona, let me ask you something first.” “Of course.” “How did you guys find out I was laid off so quickly? You called me literally half an hour after I signed the papers.” She let out a soft laugh. “To be frank, Luke, we have our eyes on Horizon. Word of your exit leaked within thirty minutes of you signing that waiver.” Thirty minutes. A major competitor knew about my termination within half an hour. Horizon’s internal security was practically a sieve. “Would you be open to dropping by our office tomorrow at two? It’s not a formal interview, just an informal chat with our leadership.” “Sure, I can do that.” I hung up and took a sip of my coffee. Before it could even cool down, a loud car horn blared from the street below. A moment later, my apartment buzzer rang. I got up and checked the security camera. Standing at my door was a young man in his early twenties, wearing a perfectly tailored navy suit, a luxury watch on his wrist, and hair styled with military precision. He was handsome in a generic, catalog-model sort of way. But there was an undeniable sneer playing on his lips. I opened the door. “Are you Luke Benson?” his voice was dripping with arrogance. “And you are?” “Zachary.” Sienna’s boyfriend. The jealous guy. The indirect catalyst for my sudden unemployment. I looked him up and down. “What do you want?” He tilted his chin up, looking down his nose at me. “I’m here to make things clear. Stay away from Sienna.” I blinked, momentarily speechless. It was fascinating how reality could sometimes be cheesier than a bad reality show. “Look, man,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m already unemployed. You know that, right?” “I do.” “Then coming to my apartment to tell me to stay away from your girlfriend seems a bit… unnecessary.” “I just want to make sure you don’t try to crawl back,” he said, stepping closer. “Guys like you get fired and then try to play the victim to get back in her good graces. I’m just setting boundaries early.” I laughed. Not a bitter laugh, but a genuine chuckle at the sheer absurdity of it. “Zachary, my entire relationship with your girlfriend consists of fixing her laptop twice. Once because her MacBook wouldn’t connect to a projector, and once because she spilled coffee on her keyboard. We’ve spoken maybe twenty words to each other. I have zero interest in her.” He frowned, clearly not believing me. “Then why did she put your name on the layoff list?” “You’d have to ask her that.” “I did. She said she did it to make me feel secure.” “And do you?” He didn’t answer. But his tense posture said it all. “So what is this?” I asked, tilting my head. “You came to a laid-off employee’s apartment to mark your territory? Are you living in a movie, Zachary?” His face flushed red. “Watch your mouth—” “I’m being serious. Did you tell your girlfriend you were coming here?” He stiffened. “No.” “So you snuck over here to threaten her ex-coworker.” I nodded slowly. “You know what that is?” “What?” “A psychological issue. It’s called pathological control.” I said it calmly. “Your girlfriend used an innocent man’s livelihood as a toy to appease your insecurities, and now you’re showing up at my door to puff your chest. The two of you deserve each other.” Zachary’s fists clenched tightly, a vein pulsing on his temple. But he didn’t swing. Whether it was to preserve his expensive suit or because he was calculating the legal cost of an assault charge, he held back. “You’ll regret this,” he spat out. “Doubt it.” “Horizon can blackball you from this entire industry with one phone call.” “Is that so? Someone else tried to warn me about that yesterday.” “Who?” “Your girlfriend.” Zachary’s jaw tightened. “You both have the exact same script,” I said, stepping back to close the door. “It’s actually kind of sweet. Match made in heaven.” “You—” “Have a safe drive back, Zach.” I shut the door. Through the peephole, I watched him stand in the hallway for a few seconds before kicking the wall in frustration. He winced, clearly hurting his foot, and limped away. I leaned against the door, reflecting on a simple truth. The worst part of being a regular guy in corporate life isn’t a lack of talent. It’s being treated as background noise while rich people play their games. They fight, they make up, they play power games, and they never once stop to think about the people they trample on. But that was fine. From now on, I wasn’t going to be anyone’s background prop.

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1 Nicknames littered my childhood. Clumsy. Space cadet. Social disaster. My best friend and girlfriend claimed they were affectionate, reserved for those who loved me most. During a quarterly presentation, my girlfriend called me “Clumsy” before the whole office. Laughter erupted; the director frowned. My face burned as I stumbled through the slides. My friend just ruffled my hair. “Don’t mind her. You are a bit slow.” On a retreat, she mocked my nervous stutter. He laughed hardest, adding, “Stop, she’s sensitive,” even as he saved a video of it to his favorites. Last week, I closed a million-dollar deal alone. At dinner, she toasted, “Our little space cadet!” The client’s expression soured. Later, they killed the deal. In my car, crying, my friend tapped the window with a tissue. “Don’t cry. Just don’t let her drink next time.” I wiped my eyes, submitted my resignation on Slack, and tossed the tissue back. Eight years, from high school to now. I once thought we’d go far. I rolled up the window and started the engine. Congratulations, Agnes. You finally learned to walk alone. … “Who approved your resignation?” Owen’s voice came through the receiver, calm and casual, as if he were asking what I wanted for lunch. I wedged the phone between my shoulder and my ear, continuing to pack clothes into my suitcase. “HR did. Standard procedure.” “I told you not to do anything rash.” He paused, his tone softening slightly. “I can help you talk to the client about the deal. I still have some leverage with their manager.” I zipped up the suitcase and looked at the one-way ticket to London sitting on the desk. “No need, Owen.” “What are you even doing?” A hint of impatience finally crept into his voice. “You’ve known Susan since high school. You know she speaks without thinking. Is it really worth all this drama?” Is it worth it? A million-dollar account, three months of follow-ups, forty-seven emails, eleven draft revisions. And he was asking me if it was worth it. “I’m not dramatic,” I said, sliding the passport and ticket into the side pocket of my backpack. “I just want a change of scenery.” “A change of scenery? Your college English was barely conversational. Where are you even going?” I didn’t answer. He let out another sigh, that familiar, patronizing sigh I had heard a thousand times. “Fine. Cool off for a couple of days. Susan and I will take you out for dinner this weekend so we can talk things through.” “I won’t be here this weekend.” A brief silence followed on the other end of the line. “What does that mean?” “My flight is the day after tomorrow.” This time, the silence lasted much longer. I could hear him rustling around, probably looking for his lighter. “Where?” “London. A friend’s company has an opening, and I’m going to try out for it.” “Are you…” He sounded choked up. “Are you serious?” I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were still slightly puffy, my lips dry, my entire face washed out and tired. “I am.” “Agnes.” He used my full name, his voice dropping an octave. “Are you just trying to get a rise out of me?” I almost laughed. For eight years, he had always assumed every decision I made was just an emotional tantrum. “No.” “Then explain it to me. Why are you suddenly packing up and leaving?” Why? Because you and Susan teamed up to turn me into a running joke, and you didn’t even realize how much it hurt. Because every milestone I reached was easily brushed away by her casual, demeaning remarks, while you always took her side, telling me “she didn’t mean anything by it.” Because I was finally exhausted. But I didn’t say any of that. “I just want to see the world.” “By yourself? You get lost taking the subway in Chicago…” “I have to go,” I cut him off. “I still have packing to do.” “Agnes…” I pressed the end call button. The moment my screen went dark, a message from Susan popped up. “Agnes! I heard you’re quitting? What a joke, haha! What are you going to do without me and Owen? Stop playing around. Let’s hang out this weekend. I’ll buy you dinner to make up for it, okay?” She followed it with a string of cute, pleading emojis. I stared at the words What are you going to do without me and Owen for a long time. I didn’t reply. I tossed my phone onto the bed and dragged my suitcase into the living room. On the coffee table lay a shiny butterfly hair clip that Susan had left behind last week. I picked it up and threw it straight into the trash can. The doorbell rang. I opened it, and there she was. Susan stood on the doormat, wearing a cream-colored knit dress, her hair styled in loose waves, holding a bag of fresh fruit. “You’re actually packing?” She peered past me into the apartment, her eyes widening in exaggerated shock. “Oh my god, Agnes. Are you seriously leaving?” I stepped aside to let her in. She placed the fruit on the coffee table, turned around, and her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Is this because of what happened at dinner? I told you I had too much to drink, Agnes. You wouldn’t really leave just because of that, would you?” Her voice trailed off as she looked down, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. “What am I supposed to do if you leave?” That was Susan. She always knew exactly when to play the victim, making sure everyone else looked like the bully. “It has nothing to do with you,” I said. “I just wanted to go.” She looked up, her teary eyes wide. “Really? You’re not mad at me?” “No.” “Then… can you stay?” She grabbed my hand, her nails painted a soft cherry blossom pink. “Or at least wait until Owen gets back? He can definitely help you find a way to…” “Susan,” I gently pulled my hand back. “My flight is at six o’clock the day after tomorrow.” She froze. Something flickered deep within those pretty eyes, vanishing so quickly I couldn’t catch it. Then, she smiled and reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Then I have to come to the airport to see you off.” “You don’t…” “I have to,” she insisted, looking at me with absolute sincerity. “You’re my best friend.” My best friend. As she said those words, I remembered her calling me “clumsy” in front of our key clients. I remembered her impression video being shared and laughed at hundreds of times. I remembered the exact moment Owen laughed the loudest. “Whatever,” I said. She gave me a tight hug, resting her chin on my shoulder. “Agnes, don’t you dare forget about me once you’re over there.” I kept quiet. As she let go, my phone buzzed on the bed. It was a message from Owen. “I don’t approve of this.” Five words. No punctuation. I stared at it for two seconds, then locked the screen. 2 After Susan left, I continued packing. I reached into the very back of my closet and pulled out a dusty metal tin. Inside were the scraps of the last eight years. A birthday card Owen had written for me in high school: Happy birthday, Agnes. I hope you grow braver and braver. A braided friendship bracelet Susan had made, a red cord with a tiny bead. She had told me it was a lifetime bond, something we’d never take off. And photos. Dozens of photos of the three of us. I was always standing on the very edge, smiling the hardest. I placed the metal box on the top shelf of the closet, a spot I could barely reach. I wouldn’t take it with me, but I wouldn’t throw it away either. At 11:00 PM, Owen called again. I didn’t pick up. He sent six messages, which I ignored. The seventh was a voice note. My finger brushed against the screen, and his voice filled the quiet room. “Agnes, you’ve ignored my calls six times now. Are you trying to start a fight? If you have something to say, just say it. Stop with the silent treatment.” Silent treatment. I let out a bitter laugh. Me quietly packing my bags was the “silent treatment.” But what did you call eight years of mocking me in public? Playful teasing? I turned off my phone and had the best night of sleep I’d had in months. The next day was my last day before the flight. I went to the office to finish my exit clearance. My desk was completely cleared, save for a sticky note left by the colleague sitting next to me. Agnes, wishing you the absolute best. Don’t look back (in a good way). I peeled it off, tucked it into my pocket, and headed to HR to sign the final papers. When I stepped out of the elevator, I ran right into Owen. He was standing in the lobby, dressed in a sharp suit, hands in his pockets, looking at me with a complicated expression. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “I came to pick you up.” “I don’t need a ride.” He blocked my path, looking down at me. “Agnes, can you please talk to me like a normal person?” “I am talking to you normally.” He frowned, reaching out to pat my hair, just like he had done for the last eight years. I stepped back, avoiding his touch. His hand froze in midair. “You’re actually furious,” he said, slowly lowering his hand. “I already told you, I can talk to the client again…” “The deal is dead, Owen,” I interrupted. “And that’s worth quitting over?” “Yes.” He took a deep breath, his tone softening into something gentler. “Agnes…” “Don’t call me that.” He choked on his words. In eight years, I had never cut him off like this. He was used to my mild temper, my absolute compliance. He was used to me nodding along to whatever he said. “Fine,” he said, taking a step back. “Let’s go find a place to sit down and talk, Agnes.” “There’s nothing to talk about.” “You’re flying to London tomorrow. Who do you even know there? You can’t even navigate a new city without getting lost…” “I’ll learn.” He had that look on his face again. Like he was dealing with an unreasonable child, stubborn and immature, someone who constantly needed his guidance. “Susan was crying all day yesterday,” he said suddenly. “She feels like she’s the reason you’re leaving.” I remained quiet for a moment. “Good. She should.” Owen’s face darkened. “What is that supposed to mean? You won’t even accept her apology now?” I looked at him. He was always defending her. When the deal fell through, it was my fault for not keeping her sober. When she humiliated me, it was my fault for being too sensitive. When I quit to start fresh, it was me being dramatic. And now that she was crying, his first instinct was to come and scold me on her behalf. “Owen,” I asked quietly. “Have you ever thought about one thing?” “What?” “If Susan had been the one humiliated in front of the clients that night, would you have told her to just ‘make sure Agnes doesn’t drink as much next time’?” He froze. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. I stepped around him and pushed through the heavy glass doors of the lobby. The bright afternoon sun made my eyes water. Behind me, his footsteps hurried to catch up. “Agnes, what time is your flight tomorrow? I’ll drive you to the airport.” “Don’t worry about it.” “I’ll drive you,” he repeated, a touch of authority slipping into his tone. I didn’t turn back. “Just drive Susan instead.” The moment I left the office grounds, I let out a long breath. For the first time in eight years, the road ahead didn’t feel so daunting. When I got home, a bouquet of sunflowers sat on my kitchen counter. They were my favorite. The card was written in Susan’s neat, loopy handwriting: Agnes, let us take you to the airport tomorrow. No excuses! Promise me we’ll be best friends forever. I picked up the bouquet and threw it straight into the trash. Right on top of her butterfly hair clip. 3 My alarm went off three times at 4:00 AM before I finally dragged myself out of bed. After a quick shower, I rolled my suitcase out into the dark hallway. The elevator doors slid open, and Susan was already standing inside. She was wearing a pink hoodie, her hair thrown up in a messy bun, completely makeup-free, with dark circles under her eyes. “Oh, thank god. I thought you might sneak down the fire stairs to avoid us,” she said with a bright laugh, reaching out to grab my suitcase handle. “Come on, Owen is waiting downstairs.” I looked at her. “I told you guys I didn’t need a ride.” “Oh, stop being like that,” she said, dragging me along by the arm. “You’re leaving, and we don’t even know when you’ll be back. Let us do this for you.” Downstairs, Owen’s car was idling under a streetlamp, headlights cutting through the early morning fog. He got out, quietly loaded my suitcase into the trunk, and opened the door for us without saying much. The ride was incredibly quiet. Susan sat in the passenger seat, and I sat in the back. Ten minutes into the drive, she turned around to look at me. “Agnes, make sure you eat properly when you get there. Your stomach has always been sensitive.” “I will.” “And don’t overwork yourself. You get stressed easily, and too much pressure keeps you awake at night.” “I know.” “FaceTime me whenever you miss me. What’s the time difference again? Five hours? When you’re waking up, I’ll just be getting off work…” “Susan,” Owen interrupted quietly. “Let her rest.” Susan pouted slightly and turned back around. In the rearview mirror, I caught Owen’s gaze drifting back to me for a fraction of a second. I shifted my eyes toward the window, watching the streetlights blur past. When we reached O’Hare, Owen pushed my luggage cart while Susan kept her arm linked through mine. Just like old times, the three of us walking together. Only this time, I was in the middle, not trailing behind. Because this was the last time. At the check-in desk, I grabbed my boarding pass. Susan threw her arms around me, holding me tight. “You absolute idiot,” she mumbled, burying her face in my shoulder. “Who’s going to go shopping with me now?” I patted her back gently. “You have Owen.” She let go of me, wiping a tear from her eye. She shot a look at Owen, giving him a subtle nudge. Owen stepped forward, holding a brown paper bag in his hands. “Some snacks for the flight, and…” He hesitated for a second. “Text me when you land safely.” I took the bag and nodded. Then I turned around and walked toward security. “Agnes.” His voice called out from behind me. I stopped, but I didn’t turn back. “If things don’t work out over there, you can always come back.” There was a slight tremor in his voice, a faint hint of worry. But only a hint. Because deep down, he still believed I’d return. He still believed I couldn’t survive without them. He had believed that for eight years. I didn’t say a word. I just dragged my carry-on bag into the security line. As the line moved forward, I glanced back one last time. From a distance, I saw Susan talking animatedly to Owen, gesturing wildly with her hands. Owen was looking down at his phone, typing away. They didn’t look particularly sad. It was the relaxed posture of two people who had just sent a friend out to grab groceries, fully expecting her to return shortly. I turned around. Gate B12. I found my seat on the plane, buckled in, and opened the brown bag Owen had given me. A sandwich, a bottle of water, a pack of mints. And at the very bottom, a sticky note. Written in Susan’s rounded, bubbly handwriting: Hey space cadet! The world out there is pretty scary. We know you won’t last long before you start missing us, but don’t worry, Owen and I will be waiting to welcome you home! (ᵔᴥᵔ) I stared at the words for a long time. As the plane began taxiing down the runway, I ripped the note in half and stuffed it deep into the seatback trash bag. Twelve hours later, I touched down at Heathrow. I turned on my phone, and a barrage of thirty-seven notifications popped up, mostly Susan’s emojis and frantic voice messages. Owen had sent just one: Let me know when you arrive. I replied with a simple: Arrived. Then I closed the app. My college roommate, Naomi, was waiting for me at the arrivals gate, holding up a cardboard sign with a funny, terrible drawing of a stick figure. “Agnes, welcome to your brand new life!” I dragged my suitcase toward her, feeling the cool, damp London breeze on my face. I took a deep breath. New air. And absolutely no one here was going to call me a space cadet. 4 During my first week in London, jet lag kept me awake at odd hours. Awake at 3:00 AM, I sat on the window sill of my rented room, staring at the streetlamps outside. My phone screen lit up. Susan had updated her social media, posting a gallery of nine photos, all of her and Owen. At a diner, a movie theater, a shopping mall. The caption read: Agnes leaving has made life so boring. Had to drag this guy out to keep me company. You’re responsible for my entertainment now, Owen! In the comments, mutual friends from back home were teasing: “Are these two finally going to make it official?” “The childhood sweethearts are over, is the best friend stepping in?” “Did Agnes leaving finally clear the path? lol.” Owen had replied to one comment: Don’t talk nonsense. Susan had reacted with a blushing emoji. I stared at the screen, trying to process the feeling. It wasn’t jealousy. It was a cold, quiet sense of finality. My departure hadn’t left a void in their lives; it had completed them. Without the clumsy third wheel hovering around, they could finally slide into place next to each other. Naomi walked in, holding two mugs of hot chocolate. “Why are you awake staring at your phone…” She glanced at the screen. “Is that your ex-friend and the childhood sweetheart?” “Yeah.” Naomi handed me a mug. “Turn it off. Tomorrow is your first day of work.” I took a sip of the sweet, warm drink, letting the heat burn the tip of my tongue. I put Susan’s notifications on mute. And Owen’s too. My first day at the new office was a blur of unfamiliarity. The fast-paced environment, new faces, and a completely different workflow. During the meetings, I took frantic notes, trying my best to keep up. But nobody laughed. Nobody imitated my nervous stutter. Nobody looked at a successful task I completed and said, “Wow, she actually pulled it off.” At lunch, a colleague complimented a specific detail in my marketing proposal. It was a simple, normal piece of professional feedback. But it almost made me tear up. I worked late that night, leaving the office around 9:00 PM. On the tube home, I received a message from Owen. “It’s been a week. How are you settling in? Is the work okay?” I replied: “It’s fine.” He quickly typed back: “Susan said you muted her posts. She’s really hurt by that.” I didn’t reply. He sent another: “Agnes, what are you still mad about? She already apologized.” Always the same script. She was hurt, so I had to be the one to soften. She apologized, so I had to be the one to forgive. But what about the million-dollar account I lost? What about the dignity I stripped away in front of my peers? What about the eight years of quiet humiliation? None of that mattered. Because I was Agnes. Agnes was slow, Agnes was sensitive, Agnes was easy to appease. Agnes would never stay mad. I closed the chat, opened my work email, and began preparing for the next morning’s presentation. Two weeks passed, then three, then four. I slowly found my rhythm in London. The work became second nature, and my turnaround time for strategy drafts cut in half. Naomi pointed out that I was smiling a lot more. Owen’s messaging patterns began to shift too. It went from once a day, to three times a day, to constant updates morning, noon, and night. It started as casual check-ins, but quickly grew invasive. “Who did you have lunch with today?” “Is your new teammate a guy or a girl?” “It’s the weekend. Why aren’t you replying to my texts?” I kept my replies brief, or ignored them altogether. By the fifth week, at 4:00 AM London time, my phone began to buzz with an incoming FaceTime call from him. 5 I let it ring, refusing to answer. Then came a text message: “Agnes, I need to talk to you.” “Talk tomorrow. I’m asleep.” “Now.” I let out a slow sigh, sat up in bed, and accepted the call. On screen, Owen was sitting on his balcony, the city lights of Chicago sparkling behind him. He looked exhausted, dark shadows under his eyes. His collar was unbuttoned, his hair messy, as if he had been running his hands through it all night. “Agnes.” “Yeah.” He stared at his screen for several seconds, just looking at me. “Are you ever coming back?” “I like it here.” “I didn’t ask if you liked it,” his voice dropped, turning sharp. “I asked if you’re coming back.” “Not anytime soon.” He closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them, he said something I completely didn’t expect. “Susan confessed to me.” The air in my room seemed to freeze. “Last week,” he continued, his tone flat. “She said she’s always had feelings for me.” My fingers gripped the edge of my blanket tightly. “And… did you accept?” He didn’t say anything. And that silence was all the answer I needed. I felt a sudden wave of self-deprecation wash over me. The last lingering, foolish hope I had carried in my heart for years shattered completely. He wasn’t calling because he missed me. He was calling to tell me this, expecting me to play the role of the mature, supportive childhood friend who would offer her blessing. “Congratulations,” I said, forcing a small smile. Across the screen, he seemed to let out a breath he’d been holding. “You’re not upset?” I shook my head. “Agnes—” “Agnes,” I corrected him. He froze again. “Right. Well, Susan wanted me to apologize to you again. She hopes that when you come back, the three of us can still…” “I’m not coming back.” His expression hardened. “What is that supposed to mean?” “It means I’m not coming back, Owen.” Outside my window, the London sky was beginning to pale. I looked at the face that had been the center of my world for eight years, and smiled softly. “Goodbye.” I ended the call. His stunned expression was the last thing I saw before the screen went black. It wasn’t anger, and it wasn’t indifference. It was the look of a man who had suddenly realized that something he took entirely for granted was actually, truly gone. I couldn’t fall back asleep after that. The next morning, I dragged myself into the office with heavy eyes. Naomi noticed immediately and quietly handed me a double espresso. “The dynamic duo again?” “For the last time,” I promised. She nodded, letting the subject drop. The work week flew by in a blur of meetings and tight deadlines. My role in the cross-border e-commerce division required me to negotiate directly with international clients. My spoken English, hesitant at first, grew sharper and more confident with every call. During our weekly review, the director singled out my latest project proposal, praising its clear data and unique perspective. Nobody chimed in to say, “Wow, she actually managed to do that.” It was just normal, professional recognition. When I stood up to thank the team, my voice was steady and completely clear. Later that afternoon, I received an unexpected message. It wasn’t from Owen, and it wasn’t from Susan. It was from Tristan, our high school class president. “Agnes? I heard you’re in London. I’m heading there next week for a business trip. Free for dinner?” Tristan. He had sat behind me in high school before heading off to Cambridge for his master’s degree, eventually landing a job in the financial district. We weren’t incredibly close back then, but we weren’t strangers either. It was a refreshing, uncomplicated connection. No nicknames, no teasing, just a polite “thanks” whenever we shared study notes. “Sure,” I replied. On Friday night, he took me to a quiet restaurant overlooking the Thames. Dressed in a sharp suit, he was a head taller than he had been in high school, but his warm smile was exactly the same. “You’ve changed a lot,” he said, handing me the menu. “You seem much more confident.” “Do I?” “In high school, you barely made eye contact when you spoke. Now, you hold your head high.” I looked down at the menu, feeling my ears warm slightly. “I think it’s just the environment.” “What kind of environment?” “One where nobody calls me space cadet.” He paused, his fork hovering. “Who called you that?” “Nobody important,” I smiled. “Just old history.” The dinner was effortless. We talked about our careers, life in London, and old school memories. Not a single word made me feel small or self-conscious. When the bill came, he reached for it. “Let me know if you ever need anything while you’re here. You don’t have to carry everything on your own.” “Thanks, Tristan.” On the way back, I posted my very first photo of London on social media. It was a shot of the Thames at night, captioned: Dinner with an old friend. London nights are beautiful. Five minutes later, Susan’s comment appeared. “Oh wow, Agnes has a new friend! Is it a guy? Make sure you don’t get scammed over there, you’ve always been so terrible at reading people…” I stared at the comment for two seconds, then deleted it. Three minutes later, Owen called. I let it ring out. Then came his text: “Who did you have dinner with?” “A former classmate.” “A guy or a girl?” “How is that any of your business?” The chat remained silent for several minutes. Then he sent: “Agnes, Susan and I aren’t together.” I blinked. “Didn’t you say she confessed to you?” “She did, but I didn’t say yes.” “…You didn’t say anything when I asked last time.” “You asked if I accepted, and before I could explain, you hung up,” his text read, sounding slightly defensive. I leaned back against the taxi seat, watching the city lights blur outside the window. How typical. His silence was a “no” in his head, but to me, it was a default “yes.” Because he never bothered to explain himself. Because he always assumed I would just wait and understand. “What’s the point of telling me this now?” I typed back. He didn’t reply immediately. After a long pause, he sent: “Agnes, there are things I hadn’t figured out before.” “And have you figured them out now?” “I’m trying to.” “Take your time then.” I locked my phone. The taxi pulled up to my apartment building. It was 11:00 PM. The night wind was cold, but my mind was remarkably clear. It wasn’t that I didn’t care anymore. It was just that I no longer needed his answers. When I walked upstairs, Naomi was curled up on the couch watching a show. “Back from your date?” “It wasn’t a date.” “Right, right, not a date,” she said without looking up. “Your phone has been buzzing off the hook, by the way.” I checked my phone. Susan had sent a long voice message. I clicked play, listened to the first second, and paused it. “Agnes, did you seriously block me? What is your problem with deleting my comments? I was just trying to look out for you…” I marked the message as read and closed the app. That night, I slept peacefully, without a single dream.

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