Author: Momo Chan

1 I was reborn as the daughter of a villainous, cannon-fodder character. When I was one, I managed to give myself a raging fever, forcing him to abandon his plan to join the main antagonist in a bloody turf war. When I was three, I orchestrated a fall that fractured my leg, making him miss his fated encounter with the story’s female lead. When I was five, I used a local predator as a pawn to stop my father from helping the antagonist target the male lead, Ethan Reed. And now? My cannon-fodder father is screaming, his voice laced with pure terror, “Ethan, you son of a bitch, get your kid’s hands off my daughter! Get them off her! NOW!” Can you picture it? A man who lived for arson, murder, and every crime in the book, transformed overnight into a desperate single dad. To be honest, calling him a villain is giving him too much credit. After all, I’ve never heard of a villain who, right at the start of the story, ends up blinded in one eye, with a shattered leg, and dumped into the ocean by the male lead as shark bait. The real antagonist of this novel was a different breed entirely. He was dangerously beautiful, fought the hero, coveted the heroine, and flew into unpredictable rages, lashing out at anyone in his path. He danced on the edge of a knife until the very end. But my father? The moment he died, the main plot was barely 10% through. The remaining 90% was dedicated to the tempestuous, angsty romance between the main couple and their life-or-death struggles with the true villain. So, “villainous cannon fodder” is the best he gets. Right, Dad? 2 My father, Damian, leaned against the windowsill, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The smoke veiled his sharp, handsome features, giving him an air of untamed arrogance. He was only twenty, yet he possessed none of the lingering awkwardness of youth. Instead, he carried the cold, ruthless edge of a man forged in a world of blood and violence. A hero’s face with a side character’s fate, I thought with a sigh. Well, it’s standard procedure, the System chimed in my head. Any guy who pines for the female lead has to be hot, even the cannon fodder. It’s rule number one. At one year old, I was practicing my first steps. A baby’s bones are soft, my body still a stranger to balance. Inevitably, my left foot tripped over my right, and I face-planted onto the plush carpet. My worrywart of a father had already padded every sharp corner in the house with foam, terrified I’d stumble and crack my head open. So, in a few days, I mused internally, he’s supposed to go to that shootout with the main villain and get a piece of shrapnel in his eye, turning him into a one-eyed monster? The System’s tone turned grave. Correct. This is a prequel event, not detailed in the book. By the time he officially appears, he’s already lost an eye. It’s the catalyst for his descent into a twisted, violent rage. But remember, Host, you can’t just reveal the plot. The universe will literally silence you if you try. Just then, Damian noticed me waddling towards him. “Shit,” he muttered, hastily extinguishing the cigarette in an ashtray and throwing the window wide open. He waved his hand, trying to dissipate the lingering smoke. “I come to my own room for a damn smoke, and you follow me in here? Are you that clingy? Go on, get out! Don’t breathe this crap in.” For a moment, I forgot I was a baby. The acrid smell of smoke stung my nose. I immediately spun around, covering my face. “Dada… stinky,” I mumbled, making a break for the door. Rejected by his own daughter. He had to change his shirt and rinse his mouth out three times before I finally let him pick me up. He gave me a mock-stern look. “Next time you see me smoking, you stay away. Got it? Keep your distance.” I nodded, patting his handsome face with my tiny hands, nearly drooling. Say what you will about my dad being a cold-blooded bastard just like the main villain, but damn, he was gorgeous. I managed to string a few words together. “Dada… stay with me. These days.” A one-year-old’s language skills are a work in progress, so words came out in clumsy bursts. He cradled me against his chest, letting me touch his face as he sank into the sofa. A rare, gentle smile softened his features. “Alright, princess. I’ll spend the next few days with you.” Then, his phone rang. He answered it with a single, clipped word. “Lucian?” The main villain is calling? Oh no, don’t tell me he’s calling about… A rich, melodious voice drifted from the phone. “Damian… day after tomorrow… the arms deal… You and me. If they try to pull a fast one… we’ll burn their whole operation to the ground.” I froze. The prospect of action seemed to jolt my father from his languid state. “That old fox Vargas was never going to play fair,” he said, his voice sharp with excitement. “You jacked up the price on him. You think he wasn’t holding a grudge? This isn’t a deal, it’s an ambush.” I slapped my hand against his cheek. “Bah!” He gently pulled my hand away, giving my fingers a squeeze. “Don’t mess around, princess. Daddy’s talking business.” I glared at him. Your business is getting yourself maimed, you idiot! You’re going to lose an eye! But he couldn’t hear my silent screams. He just shifted my position on his lap to make me more comfortable. “Ga-ga-goo!” I protested again. Lucian chuckled on the other end, his voice a lazy purr. “Oh? Is the little piglet with you?” A surge of fury shot through me. “You… pig! Your family… pigs!” Just because I had a healthy baby appetite and was a little chubby, that asshole had branded me a pig. I remembered the first time I met him. Lucian had been dressed in a wine-red suit, his exquisitely beautiful face looking like something straight out of a dark fairytale. His fox-like eyes held a cold, detached glimmer despite the smile on his lips. He was less a man and more like a blood-fed poppy blooming in the depths of hell—utterly stunning and lethally dangerous. As a connoisseur of pretty faces, I was instantly mesmerized and reached out my arms for him to hold me. Then the beautiful man opened his mouth. “Damian, are you raising a piglet? She’s so fat, I’m surprised she hasn’t broken her stroller.” My world shattered. No girl, not even a baby, likes being called fat. Not even by someone that gorgeous. So when he leaned in to get a closer look, my outstretched hands balled into fists, and I landed two solid punches right on his pretty face. From that day on, I was “the Piglet.” “Your daughter can talk now?” Lucian teased. Damian scratched under my chin. “Just started a few days ago. You know what her first words were? She said, ‘Dada, I love you.’ I nearly passed out from happiness.” “Come on, little one,” Lucian cooed through the phone. “Say ‘Uncle’ for me.” “Piggy… pig,” I babbled sweetly. Damian sighed. “I told you she holds a grudge.” Lucian fell silent for a beat before smoothly changing the subject, steering the conversation back to bloody business—skinning their rivals, breaking legs, the usual gruesome topics. Fearing he’d scare me, Damian set me down on the floor to play and took the call out on the balcony, enthusiastically plotting mayhem with his best friend. When they were done, he scooped me up with one arm and prepared my bottle, his movements now practiced and sure. “Sorry, princess, I have to break my promise. I have something really important to do for the next few days. You be a good girl and wait for me at home, okay? Tell Mrs. Gable if there’s anything you want to eat.” I clutched my bottle, looking up at him with my most pathetic, wide-eyed expression. “Dada… you no go. Stay… with me.” He knelt, stroking my head. “I can’t. This is important.” I stared at him, my gaze unwavering. He met my eyes without flinching. Wailing used to be my go-to trick for derailing his criminal enterprises. But as a one-year-old, it would look less like a baby’s instinct and more like a temper tantrum. I had to be smarter. “Okay,” I whispered, defeated. But secretly, I asked the System, Hey, you have an item in your shop that can induce a high fever, right? We sure do, Host! Are you thinking…? I’m not letting my dad get disabled. How long does it last? Three days, the System replied cheerfully. And completely free of side effects! Perfect. 3 Just as Damian was geared up and ready to ride into battle with Lucian, I swallowed the tiny pill from the System. One minute later, I felt a wave of lethargy wash over me. Five minutes later, my body felt like it was on fire. Mrs. Gable, our housekeeper, had just finished making me a bowl of porridge. The moment she touched my skin to pick me up, her hand recoiled. “Good heavens!” She snatched me up, her face pale with panic, and rushed me to the car. The driver floored it, the tires screeching as we sped towards the hospital. On the way, she took my temperature, her hand trembling. 104°F! My face was flushed, my entire body ached, and I whimpered for my father. Mrs. Gable frantically dialed his number. “Sir, it’s Chloe! She has a fever…” The background on his end was noisy; I could faintly hear an airport announcement. His voice was tight with confusion. “What did you say? Chloe has a fever?!” “I was about to feed her,” Mrs. Gable explained in a rush, “and she was burning up. I just checked—it’s 104! We’re on our way to Mercy General Hospital now!” “What?!” he yelled. I squirmed in her arms, my voice a pathetic whine. “Dada… hot… waaaah… Dada…” “I’m coming back right now!” he shouted, his voice cracking with panic. “Chloe, don’t cry, Daddy’s on his way.” I could hear Lucian in the background. “What? You’re just leaving? What about me?” Damian’s voice was ice. “My daughter is sick. I’m going to take care of her. You handle those bastards yourself. You’re more than capable.” A dial tone was Lucian’s only reply. 4 My existence was the result of a scheme meant to trap Lucian, but his best friend, Damian, had walked into it instead. A one-night stand with my birth mother, and poof, I was conceived. Ten months later, she dumped me and a paternity test on the steps of the family mansion. Lost in the haze of the fever, I dreamt of those early days. Before I came along, my father’s motto was: There’s nothing money can’t solve. He promptly hired three top-tier nannies, offering them an exorbitant salary, hoping to pawn me off so he could continue his life of crime with Lucian. It didn’t work. I cried. Constantly. I cried when I wet the bed. I cried when I needed a diaper change. I cried even after I was clean. I cried when the nannies held me, and I cried when they didn’t. I cried when I was hungry, and once I was fed, I used my newfound energy to cry even harder. My wails echoed through the entire villa, a relentless siren of infant misery. The only time I was quiet was when my father was there, shaking a little rattle to distract me. The experienced nannies were at their wits’ end. They could only turn to me, the source of their torment, and my biological father, with pleading eyes. Damian stared back, utterly lost. Finally, unable to bear the noise any longer, he approached, letting the nannies guide him as he clumsily took me into his arms. Like magic, the crying stopped. I gazed up at him, gurgling happily and reaching for his face. “It seems the young miss is very fond of you, sir,” one of the nannies offered, trying to flatter him. Damian stared down at my tear-and-snot-streaked face, his expression pure disgust. “Don’t smile. You’re already ugly. Smiling just makes it worse.” I paused. Then, with great effort, I filled my diaper. A pungent odor slowly wafted through the air. Damian’s face turned a shade of green. The nannies’ smiles froze. “You little brat,” he seethed through clenched teeth. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?!” I just blinked at him innocently. What? I’m just a baby. I can’t control my bowels. His obsessive need for cleanliness kicked in. He felt phantom filth crawling all over him and was about to shove me back into a nanny’s arms and run for the shower. But I wrapped my tiny hand around his index finger and cooed. “You want me to clean you up?” he asked, his voice dripping with disbelief. “To change your diaper?!” I blinked again. “Not a chance!” he snarled. “Who do you think you are? I hired professionals for this. Don’t push your luck.” One minute later, Damian was grimly taking a lesson from a nanny on how to handle a baby’s messy diaper. He laid me on the changing mat and peeled off the soiled diaper, tossing it away like a grenade. The same hands that could expertly disassemble a firearm were now gingerly wiping my bottom with warm, wet cloths. After rinsing and drying me, he awkwardly applied diaper cream and fumbled with the tabs of a clean diaper. He stared at me for a long moment, his face a mask of irritation. “You’re the little queen of this castle, aren’t you?” I giggled, holding onto his finger. Something shifted behind his eyes. That cold, cynical heart of his was struck by something impossibly soft. He poked my cheek, creating a small dimple. “You little monster,” he chuckled. “Ahhh,” I replied. “I guess you’re not so bad,” he admitted. “Almost cute.” And with that, my father began his long, grueling, and utterly transformative journey into fatherhood. 5 When Lucian video-called a few months later, he did a double-take. “Damian… what the hell happened to you?” he asked, bewildered. My father looked like a ghost. His face was pale and drawn, his usually sharp, arrogant eyes were shadowed with a half-dead exhaustion. His hair was a mess, stubble shadowed his jaw, and the designer shirt that had fit him perfectly before now hung loosely on his thinned frame. Worse, he was multitasking—dangling a rattle with one hand to soothe me while reviewing a stack of corporate documents with the other. The ruthless mobster had been transformed into a haggard, sleep-deprived dad. Me, on the other hand? I was perched in my crib, plump and rosy-cheeked, babbling contentedly. “The last time you looked this bad was after you took a bullet to the chest and spent three months in the hospital,” Lucian mused. “Is raising a kid really that hard?” “If I hadn’t taken that bullet for you,” Damian snapped, “I wouldn’t be in this mess!” Lucian just clicked his tongue, completely unrepentant. His gaze flickered to me, cold and dismissive. “If you really don’t want to raise her, just dump her on a nanny. Or find a good family to adopt her out. She’s just a little girl. Is she really worth all this effort?” For men like them, who had walked in darkness their entire lives, who had betrayed family and spilled blood to survive, sentiment was a weakness. They were naturally cold-hearted, incapable of loving even themselves, let alone a troublesome infant. Damian shot him a glare, annoyed by his attitude. He reached for a cigarette, then remembered I was there and stopped himself. “She’s not ‘just a little girl.’ She’s my daughter. And I’ll raise her because I damn well want to.” “Fine, have it your way,” Lucian said with a shrug. “Not my problem. Anyway, I came to talk about our joint venture. That project in the West End…” “WAAAAAH!” My peaceful babbling instantly erupted into a deafening, house-shaking scream. Damian panicked. “Oh, my little princess.” He dropped the documents, scooped me up with practiced ease, and gently patted my back. “Is my baby hungry? Daddy will go make you a bottle right now.” Lucian stared, dumbfounded, as his notoriously cold and intimidating best friend—a man who could probably kill a bull with his bare hands—was suddenly radiating the holy light of fatherhood. “About the venture…” Lucian tried again. “Didn’t you hear my daughter crying?” Damian cut him off, his voice sharp with impatience. “She’s crying! I have to make her bottle. I’ve been running on fumes for months, between her and work. We’ll talk about business another time.” He hung up without another word. Lucian just stared at his blank screen. “…The hell?” The next day, Lucian showed up in person. He came bearing gifts—two cases of formula and a mountain of baby toys. Damian, who had just finished feeding me, decided to let his previous transgression slide and sat down to discuss business. After they finalized their plans, Lucian finally deigned to look at me again. He reached out and gently pinched my cheek. I gifted him a gummy, milky smile, my eyes wide and bright. I babbled sweetly and held up my arms, asking to be held. Even a hardened killer like Lucian wasn’t immune to a baby’s charm. My smile seemed to momentarily daze him, and he instinctively lifted me into his arms. Maybe human infants aren’t so bad after all, he probably thought, a flicker of warmth in his cold heart. “You…” In the next second, Lucian’s body went rigid. He felt a warm, wet sensation spreading across his hand and seeping into the fabric of his expensive suit. I tilted my head, my expression one of pure, angelic innocence. “OH, GODDAMMIT!” the villain shrieked. … Lucian’s obsession with cleanliness was even worse than my dad’s. He spent the next two hours scrubbing himself raw in the shower. Meanwhile, I was back in my dad’s arms, happily blowing bubbles. Take that, you big meanie. Serves you right for telling my dad to get rid of me. Damian was trying hard to hide his amusement, but he still put on a show of scolding me. “That’s your uncle, Chloe. You can’t be so rude.” I just cooed in response. When Lucian finally emerged, my dad had already changed me, fed me, and lulled me to sleep with a soft lullaby. Lucian glared at my sleeping form. “That little brat did it on purpose!” “Keep your voice down,” Damian warned, his tone sharp. “Don’t wake her up. It took me forever to get her to sleep.” Lucian extended a malicious finger towards my face, intending to poke me awake. “I don’t care! She messes with me, she doesn’t get to sleep.” “Go ahead,” Damian said coldly. “If you want to be treated to the sound of a screaming baby for the rest of the night, be my guest.” Lucian froze. He glowered at me for another moment before begrudgingly admitting, “She’s a good-looking kid. Takes after you.” He paused. “What’s her name, by the way?” Damian went silent. “You’re kidding me,” Lucian said, staring at him. “You still haven’t named her?” It was true. My dad usually just called me “princess,” “little monster,” “kiddo,” or “sweetheart.” So, the two of them, a crime lord and his top enforcer, spent the next hour poring over a dictionary. Damian was incredibly picky. Nothing seemed good enough, grand enough, for his daughter. Finally, tired of the debate, Lucian simply wrote a name on a piece of paper. Chloe. “It means ‘blooming,’” he said, his voice surprisingly soft. “Let her have a life that blooms in the sun, not in the shadows like us.”

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Three years after our breakup, my ex Sarah appeared at my door—pregnant and abandoned. Out of pity, I covered her hospital bills. During childbirth, complications arose. With her last breath, she begged me to raise the baby. I agreed. To support the child, I took a shady job, got arrested, and was expelled from university. I wrecked my body with manual labor, all to raise the boy. Years later, when he’d become a successful doctor, Sarah reappeared—alive—with my brother. “You were just raising our son,” they said, tossing me cash. My own parents admitted they’d always known. Even the son I’d sacrificed for looked at me with disgust. That night, I drank myself into the path of a car. When I opened my eyes, I was back at the hospital—the day Sarah went into labor. 1. “The patient has an amniotic fluid embolism. We’re losing her,” a nurse said, rushing out with a newborn in her arms. “We did everything we could.” She thrust the wailing infant into my arms. I stood there, frozen. “She seems to have something to say to you. Dad, you should go in now.” The word “Dad” sent a chill down my spine. In my past life, Sarah had found me in her third trimester, spinning a story about being used and abandoned. For the next few months, I was the one who paid for everything, who took her to every check-up, who got her admitted to the hospital. I thought my duty would end once the baby was born. I never imagined she would bribe the doctors and nurses to fake her own death, trapping me with guilt and moral obligation, turning me into the ultimate fall guy. I was a college student, barely scraping by, trying to study and raise a child at the same time. To make extra money, I fell for a trap set by my roommate and started working for a shady telemarketing company. Less than two weeks in, before I saw a single paycheck, the police raided the office for fraud. I was arrested and expelled. Without a degree, I couldn’t find a decent, well-paying job. But the baby was growing, and so were the expenses. I worked myself to the bone, taking any odd job I could find, from dawn till dusk. My back ached constantly. I skipped meals during the day and lost sleep at night, but I was young, and my body held up… for a while. When it was time for kindergarten, my parents, who had never shown any interest before, suddenly insisted I send him to an expensive private school. “Kids these days are different,” my father had said sternly. “The competition starts in preschool. If he falls behind at the starting line, his whole life will be a struggle.” At the time, I was so focused on doing what was best for the boy that I never questioned their sudden concern. I just listened as they suggested I sell one of my kidneys. “You have two, after all. You won’t die without one,” they’d urged. “But if this child misses this opportunity, it will affect him for the rest of his life.” I let them talk me into it. I sold a kidney, and my health immediately began to decline. Soon, I was living on painkillers. Somehow, I managed to get him through childhood, through his master’s and doctoral degrees, until he landed a coveted position as an attending physician at a top-tier hospital. And that’s when Sarah, my dead ex-girlfriend, reappeared, holding my brother Jackson’s hand. They thanked me for my sacrifice, and Sarah tried to dismiss decades of my life with a check for thirty grand. I refused it. “Alex is my son. I don’t need a thank-you fee.” Jackson just laughed at me. “I’m his biological father. My blood runs in his veins. You can’t change that.” My parents sided with him, patting my shoulder. “Evan, he really is your brother’s son. You should let them be a family.” The moment my parents admitted it, I felt the blood reverse in my veins. No wonder they had been so invested in his upbringing. But as his grandparents, they never contributed a dime. They just squeezed every last drop of life out of me for their precious grandson, waiting to swoop in and reap the rewards. I told them all to get lost. But then Alex appeared, standing protectively in front of his real parents. He pointed a finger at me, and his words were daggers. “You’re not my dad. Don’t think your kidney failure is my problem. I’m not paying for your treatment!” My heart shattered. Years of back-breaking labor and a missing kidney had finally caught up with me. My body was failing, and it was all for him. That night, I got drunk on a street corner, stumbled into traffic, and died in a pool of my own blood, my eyes wide open with regret… Thinking of this, I looked down at the infant in my arms, and my blood ran cold. “Dad?” the nurse prompted again, urging me toward the delivery room. I shoved the baby back into her arms. “What are you talking about? This isn’t my child.” In my past life, I was so consumed with grief for Sarah that I never noticed that from the moment he was born, my name was listed as the father on his birth certificate. It made it easy for everyone to believe he was mine after her “death.” “Sir, what kind of joke is that?” The nurse looked flustered and tried to push me toward the room. “The mother is fading fast. You need to see her.” I let out a cold laugh and went in anyway. Sure enough, there was Sarah, her face artfully pale, looking like she was on death’s door. A theatrical masterpiece. “Evan, I’m dying. The baby… can you…” “No,” I cut her off, my voice hard as steel. “But your name is on the birth certificate as his father. Please, just raise him for me. He’ll take care of you when you’re old, he’ll be a good son.” A good son? The man he became wouldn’t just refuse to care for me; he would actively wish for my death. Seeing I wouldn’t budge, Sarah went for the grand finale, her eyes rolling back as she pretended to lose consciousness. Instantly, the doctor and nurse she’d paid off rushed in, pushed me out of the room, and began their “emergency resuscitation.” A few minutes later, the doctor came out and informed me that Sarah had died. He told me to take the baby and handle the paperwork. I just shook my head and turned to leave. The nurse blocked my path, her voice loud and accusatory. “Sir, are you abandoning your child?” Her shout drew a crowd. People started whispering, and a few even pulled out their phones to record me, muttering that they should call the police. I took the baby from her, my voice calm. “I’m not married. How could I have a child?” “But the mother said you were the biological father!” the nurse insisted. An old man in the crowd couldn’t contain himself. “You bastard! You knock up a girl and then won’t even take responsibility for your own kid? You’re going to hell for this!” The nurse fanned the flames. “His name is right there on the birth certificate, in the father’s section. I just don’t understand why you won’t acknowledge him.” The chorus of condemnation grew louder. “Your hospital has a strange sense of humor,” I said, forcing myself to remain calm. “For a child born out of wedlock, don’t you think a DNA test would be the first step?” I looked directly at the nurse. “Or does this hospital operate on a ‘write-a-name, make-a-dad’ policy? If I put your name down as the mother, does that make him your son?” She was speechless. The crowd, however, loved the idea, and started clamoring for a DNA test to prove what a scumbag I was. The young nurse stood there, completely lost. Just then, the doctor reappeared. “DNA testing is handled by the lab. If you insist, follow me.” Something about his calm demeanor felt wrong. After they drew my blood in the lab, I noticed most of the crowd had dispersed, though a few busybodies were still hanging around, eager for the finale. “I’ve put a rush on it for you. The results should be back this afternoon.” I nodded. A few hours of waiting was a small price to pay to be free of this nightmare forever. But when the results came in that afternoon, I was the one who was stunned. The report showed a 99.99% probability of paternity. “The results are in. You are the father,” the doctor stated flatly. My mind was a chaotic mess. Then, a memory from my past life surfaced. Right before she “died,” Sarah had given me a small lock of hair, claiming it belonged to the baby’s real father, so I could register his birth. Lost in grief and pity, I had accepted it without a second thought. I never stopped to wonder how she could have predicted her own death with enough clarity to prepare a lock of hair. A cold smirk touched my lips. If Sarah could bribe a nurse, she could certainly bribe a lab technician. Swapping out my blood sample for a pre-prepared one from the real father would be child’s play. “If you still have doubts, we can run the test again,” the doctor offered. “But the fee…” I waved him off. It wouldn’t matter how many times they ran it. Just then, my phone rang. It was my parents. “Your brother told us you have a child now?” my mother’s voice was sharp. I remembered how, in my past life, I had been the one to call them. They had immediately screamed at me for being irresponsible, for having a child out of wedlock, saying I wasn’t half the man my brother was. Then they’d demanded I bring the baby home and take on my responsibilities. Looking back, their hypocrisy was breathtaking. I stayed silent. My father took the phone and started yelling. “You disgrace! Bring that child home right now!” The irony was thick enough to choke on. “He’s not my son. It’s none of my business.” I said flatly. “The biological father is probably dead or gone. Sarah never mentioned him. I’ll just leave him at the hospital. They can send him to an orphanage.” My father was so furious he was sputtering. My mother got back on the line, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “Evan, when you make a mistake, you have to take responsibility. We know you were just foolish for a moment. We’re willing to accept this child.” Of course you are, I thought. He’s your precious Jackson’s son. “There’s just one problem,” I said. “I’m broke. After you cut off my allowance, I had to borrow money for Sarah’s hospital bills. If the baby comes with me, he’s going to starve.” I could hear my father coughing with rage in the background. My mother immediately changed her tune. “I’ll send you some money right now. Go buy the baby some formula. That poor thing, losing his mother at birth, he’ll never even have breast milk…” She hung up. A moment later, a notification popped up on my phone. A transfer of fifty dollars. Just enough for a single can of formula. I laughed out loud. I had truly underestimated my mother’s shamelessness. She wouldn’t spare an extra dime for me my entire life, but she expected me to pour my soul out for my brother’s child. I often wondered, even if they favored my brother, how could their hearts be so biased? As I was pondering this, the doctor called. He said the baby’s condition had worsened, and he’d been moved to the NICU. “He has pneumonia. He likely inhaled too much amniotic fluid during birth, causing a lung infection.” I listened, my mind elsewhere. In my past life, the baby was perfectly healthy. I registered him at the local precinct just days after he was born. Why was he sick this time around? I looked through the glass at the tiny infant. The man he became had cruelly severed all ties with me. Logic told me to walk away. But right now… he was just a helpless baby. “The treatment will cost around twenty thousand dollars,” the doctor said. “You can pay at the billing office. We’ll do everything we can.” Twenty thousand dollars. A painful memory struck my heart. At this exact time, I had just received a major national scholarship for academic excellence. The prize money was exactly twenty thousand dollars. In my past life, shortly after I told my parents about it, my mother claimed she needed surgery for a stomach issue and took the money. A dark suspicion formed in my mind. I called my mother. “Mom, you had a check-up recently, right? Is everything okay?” She paused for a second, then laughed. “I’m perfectly healthy, honey. Don’t you worry about me. You just take care of that child.” After hanging up, I realized I had been a pawn in their games in both lifetimes. But if I fell for the same trick again, I would deserve whatever I got. … Days passed, and I didn’t tell my family about the baby’s condition. Finally, Jackson couldn’t wait any longer and called me, asking when I was bringing the baby home. “Jackson, the baby is very sick. He might not be coming home for a while.” “But pneumonia…” Jackson blurted out, then quickly corrected himself. “What kind of illness takes so long to treat? Even if it was pneumonia, it should be better by now!” I pretended not to notice his slip-up. “I wish it were just pneumonia,” I said, my voice heavy with fake sorrow. “The doctor says he has a congenital heart defect. He needs surgery.” “What? A heart defect? That’s impossible!” my brother shouted. “Are you sure the doctor isn’t mistaken?” My voice cracked as I insisted, “Would I lie to you about something like this? If you don’t believe me, ask the doctor yourself.” He hung up immediately. I knew he was calling the hospital. He had tried to trick me into giving up my scholarship money for a fake case of pneumonia. He had no idea that the cost of heart surgery was far more than twenty thousand dollars. A short while later, my brother and my parents stormed into the hospital, their faces etched with worry. “Doctor, how much will the heart surgery cost?” my mother asked, her voice trembling. “Around three hundred thousand,” the doctor said, glancing at me. “And that’s just for the surgery. It doesn’t include the cost of recovery and aftercare.” My parents collapsed to the floor. Even my brother stood frozen, utterly lost. “We don’t have that kind of money,” I said, helping them up. “Maybe… maybe we should just give up on the treatment…” My father slapped me across the face, calling me a monster. “We have to save him,” my mother sobbed. “We’ll find a way to get the money.” She pulled my father and brother aside, and they began to discuss selling their house. I smiled coldly to myself. Who but his biological father and grandparents would go to such lengths? “Evan,” my mother said, turning to me. “You mentioned you got a scholarship. It’s not much, but every little bit helps.” “The money doesn’t get deposited until next month,” I lied. “I’m worried the baby can’t wait that long.” My father cursed me again for being useless, then started calling a real estate agent. Less than a week later, they had the three hundred thousand. They had to sell the house in a rush, at a huge loss. They transferred all the money to my account. Since I was the baby’s legal father, it made sense for me to handle the payments. Seeing that much money in my account gave me a strange feeling. The baby didn’t have a heart defect. The doctor had lied to them. This corrupt hospital was willing to invent a case of pneumonia to scam me out of my scholarship; for a much larger sum, they were more than happy to switch sides and help me scam my family. In my past life, when I was dying of kidney failure, they wouldn’t even give me a carton of milk. But the moment this child was in trouble, they sold their house without a second thought. Was I not their biological son? “The house is gone. Once the baby is better, you’ll take him with you to school and raise him,” my father ordered. “In fact, once you get that scholarship money, you should just drop out and get a job to support him.” “Dropping out is not an option,” I said calmly. “The university has already offered me a full scholarship to study abroad. I’ll be leaving soon.” I saw my brother’s eyes narrow, staring at me with pure hatred. “Study abroad? With what money?” my mother demanded. “The university is covering all my expenses. You don’t need to worry about it.” “What about the child? You have to take responsibility!” my father yelled, raising his cane to strike me. “Are you even human?” How ridiculous. I was inhuman for refusing to raise my brother’s child? “If you dare to leave, I’ll kill myself!” my father threatened, actually moving toward a wall as if to ram his head into it. “Let’s see if the university still wants you when you’ve been branded for driving your own father to his grave!” I shook my head, my fists clenched. “I’ll take the child with me,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’ll raise him abroad. He’ll get a good education there.” Hearing this, my parents’ expressions softened. The chance for the boy to get an international education was a golden opportunity. Jackson looked conflicted. “If you don’t agree,” I added, “I can leave him with you. Or I can drop him off at an orphanage.” “No! You have to take him with you!” Jackson decided firmly. My mother looked like she wanted to object, but a sharp glance from Jackson silenced her. A month later, I officially registered the baby. Just like in my past life, I named him Alex. This time, as I held him in my arms, my heart was a storm of conflicting emotions. … Once I was abroad, free from the interference of my parents and brother, life was still hard. But with the three hundred thousand dollars and my own relentless hard work, I managed to build a successful career. Over the years, my family tried to call me countless times, but I never answered. I was determined to sever all ties. But it seemed fate was intent on binding me to them. More than a decade later, I returned to the country. I had two reasons: to handle the paperwork for my child’s enrollment at Stanford and to conduct a personnel review at our company’s domestic branch as a representative from headquarters. I had just stepped out of my Rolls-Royce when I ran into Jackson, who was working as a sales manager there, right at the entrance to the lobby.

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My husband, Ryan, got back from a night of fishing and started putting on makeup. I screamed at him, shoving him into the bathroom and telling him to wash that crap off his face. But when I turned around, Ryan was standing right behind me. “Who were you just talking to?” he asked. 1 My soul just about left my body. I whipped my head back toward the bathroom. It was empty. Not a soul in sight. I’d heard stories before. Things about how people who fish at night can easily run into… something unclean. Had Ryan brought one of them home? He just smiled, his arms wrapping tightly around my waist, telling me not to be scared. But if his hands were on my waist… whose hands were these, cold and firm, closing around my neck? I thought I was going to lose my mind. Ryan did his best to soothe me, telling me it was all in my head. He promised that after dinner, he’d take me to a church, and we could get a blessing. Only then did I finally manage to catch my breath. 2 Just then, a message popped up on my phone. It was from Charlie, Ryan’s only fishing buddy. He was asking if anything strange had happened after Ryan got home. A chill shot straight down my spine. I quickly typed out everything that had just happened. Charlie’s reply came back instantly, frantic. It happened. I knew it. My heart leaped into my throat. Charlie told me that while they were fishing last night, Ryan’s phone had fallen into the river. But instead of sinking, it just floated there on the surface. He remembered hearing a story when he was a kid: if something falls in the water and doesn’t sink, it’s because something underneath is holding it up. The moment you reach for it, it’ll pull you down to take your place. But Ryan, worried about his expensive phone, reached for it anyway. Sure enough, something yanked him straight into the water. The weird part was, a moment later, Ryan swam back to the surface on his own. The real problem started after he got out of the water. Ryan never smokes, but that night, he bummed four or five cigarettes off Charlie, one after another. The way he held it, the way he inhaled… he looked like a man who’d been smoking for a decade. Charlie had just talked to a friend of his who knows about this stuff. He was certain Ryan had been possessed by something from the river. He said the only way to fix it was to take a piece of Ryan’s personal clothing, something he wears close to his skin, and burn it by the river where it happened. It would call Ryan’s soul back. He told me he was already on his way, almost at my apartment building. He said I needed to grab something and come downstairs immediately. And he gave me one last warning: whatever I did, don’t let Ryan know. And don’t believe a single word he says. I etched his words into my mind. 3 I bolted into the bedroom, grabbed a few pairs of Ryan’s boxers, and stuffed them into my purse. I was just about to make up an excuse—an emergency at work, something I had to run and deal with—when Ryan called out from the kitchen that dinner was ready. I hesitated. I had to make this look natural. Maybe I should just have a few bites. But the second I sat down at the table… Ryan looked at me, his expression unreadable. “Has Charlie contacted you?” My heart hammered against my ribs. I forced a laugh. “Charlie? Why would he contact me?” “Because he drowned last night,” Ryan said, his voice flat. “While we were fishing.” My world exploded. If Charlie was dead… who had I been texting? 4 I fought to keep my composure. This thing, whatever it was, knew Charlie would tell me the truth. So it was trying to discredit him first. I couldn’t fall for it. I feigned shock. “What? That’s horrible! Why didn’t you call the police?” Ryan sighed, a weary sound. “Charlie’s dead, but his body is still walking around.” I didn’t understand. He explained. Last night, it was Charlie’s phone that fell into the river. And just like Charlie had said, it floated strangely on the surface. Ryan, having written horror novels for years, knew immediately that something was wrong, that there was something sinister in the water. But Charlie, stubborn as always, didn’t believe in any of it. He reached for his phone, and a hand dragged him under. Ryan was about to call 911 when Charlie climbed back onto the bank. He thought everything was fine, but then Charlie grabbed him and tried to pull him into the water too. It took everything Ryan had to break free and escape. When he got home, he did some research. A young couple had drowned in that same river last year. According to the lore, if a spirit hasn’t been dead for three years, it can’t claim a replacement. So the male spirit had taken over Charlie’s body. The reason Charlie—the thing inside him—tried to pull Ryan into the water was so the female spirit could possess him. It just hadn’t expected Ryan to get away. “So it will come for you,” Ryan finished, his eyes dark with worry. “It knows I won’t fall for its tricks again, so you’re the next target. It will try to lure you to the river, so the other one can take you.” My blood ran cold. I quickly searched the local news on my phone. He was right. A couple had drowned there last year. “So… the you that came home and put on makeup… was that the female spirit?” Ryan nodded grimly. “It was probably looking for an opening.” A knot of fear tightened in my stomach. “An opening?” 5 “In the books I’ve read,” Ryan explained, “these water spirits need an opening—a fated connection—to possess someone. Charlie falling into the river was the male spirit’s opening. For the female spirit to find hers, she has to use the connection Charlie already has.” He looked at me. “Charlie doesn’t have a girlfriend. I’m his only close friend. So her opening is either me… or you.” Another shiver wracked my body. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” “If I had,” he said, his voice low, “it would be like handing her the opening on a silver platter. It would have put you in even more danger.” “So what do we do now?” I asked, my voice trembling. “A water spirit can only survive out of its element for three days. As long as we don’t leave the apartment for three days, they can’t touch us. Then we can find an expert to go to the river and perform a rite to send them on their way.” I finally let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. At least there was a plan. Everything, for now, had a logical, if terrifying, explanation. I was about to finally take a bite of food when a flash of color under the table caught my eye. My husband was wearing my black silk stockings. A new wave of panic crashed over me. What if he was the one possessed by the female spirit? And what if this dinner, right here, right now… was the opening she was waiting for? I couldn’t think about it. I had to get away. I had to contact Charlie—the real Charlie, or whatever was left of him—and figure this out. I pushed my chair back, mumbling an excuse about not having an appetite and needing to lie down. But just as I was about to close the bedroom door, Ryan was right behind me. “I’ll lie down with you for a bit.” My sanity finally snapped. 6 But strangely, as he lay beside me, he just held my hand, his grip firm. Was he trying to keep me from escaping? I didn’t dare move a muscle. After a few minutes, he started to snore softly. I took my chance, slowly, carefully, trying to slip my hand from his. Suddenly, his body jerked. He looked like he was having a nightmare, his face contorted in a struggle. He gasped, his voice a strangled whisper, “Honey! Don’t trust him! Don’t trust him!” My mind reeled. Don’t trust who? Charlie? Or him? But looking at the situation now, whether Charlie was a threat or not, something was definitely wrong with Ryan. My thoughts raced. I had to get out. Get out now. But as I sat up, Ryan’s expression smoothed over, returning to normal. “Where are you going?” he asked calmly. A chill seeped into my bones. “The bathroom,” I stammered. He didn’t say anything else. I rushed into the bathroom and locked the door behind me. My hands shook as I pulled out my phone and messaged Charlie. He replied instantly. I knew something was wrong when you didn’t come down. I called my friend, the expert. She’s on her way up to your floor right now. Just as I read the message, a sharp knock-knock echoed from the front door. My heart leaped. I burst out of the bathroom, ready to throw the door open. But Ryan was faster. He got to it first. My breath caught in my throat, my mind flooded with images of what was about to happen. But when the door opened, it was just a courier with a package. I was completely bewildered. Was Charlie lying to me? I peeked through the crack in the door, glancing down the hallway. Standing near the elevators was a woman in a long white dress, her dark hair hanging loose around her face. She was staring directly at our apartment. She didn’t look like any kind of spiritual expert I’d ever imagined. But maybe they had a different style these days. I tried to calm myself. Then Ryan slammed the door shut, his face pale with terror. “It’s over!” he whispered, his voice shaking. “That female ghost… she’s found us!” 7 My head felt like it was going to explode. From a purely visual standpoint, that woman did not look normal. But I was already sure something was wrong with my husband. That meant I couldn’t afford to think Charlie was the problem anymore. And if Charlie wasn’t the problem, then this woman wasn’t a problem either. Which meant the more afraid Ryan was of her, the safer she probably was for me. All I had to do was stay alert, find a chance to get out, and I would survive. But then, my husband opened the package from the courier. Inside was a small box of ritual supplies: powdered crimson and yellow parchment. He then went into his office and came back with a book titled A Compendium of Taoist Sigils. He meticulously copied a symbol from the book onto a piece of parchment, set it on fire, and let the ashes fall into a glass of water. He held it out to me. “Drink this.” I recoiled. “It’s a genuine Five Thunder Talisman,” he said urgently. “It’s for protection.” I was lost again. If Ryan was possessed by a ghost, why would he be able to draw a sacred Taoist symbol? And more importantly, why would he be foolish enough to use a talisman against a real-life spiritual master? Unless… unless Ryan was fine. Unless Charlie, realizing Ryan was protecting me, had brought the female ghost directly to our door to get to me. That had to be the logic. But then I remembered the stockings. I couldn’t get the image out of my head. Why would he be wearing my stockings? Ryan let out a heavy sigh. “If I can’t save you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “I was going to try and trick the spirit into taking my body instead.” My heart shattered into a million pieces. He was trying to sacrifice himself for me. And I had suspected him, thought he was the monster. I was a fool. Without another thought, I took the glass and drank the ashy water down. I would trust him completely. Ryan then drew another sigil. He explained his plan. “In a minute, that ghost is going to knock four times. When she does, I’ll open the door and slap this sigil right on her forehead. If that doesn’t stop her, you need to slap her across the face, as hard as you can. The combination of the two should be enough to completely destroy her.” I nodded, committing every word to memory. Just then, the door rattled. Knock. Knock. Knock. Three times. But… wasn’t it supposed to be four?

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On my daughter Lily’s birthday, her only wish was to visit the amusement park with her mother. But my wife Amelia had rented the entire park to impress her first love, Julian. Her assistant shredded our tickets. “Ms. Astor is busy,” she sneered. Through the fence, I saw Amelia locked in a passionate kiss with Julian. Lily squeezed through, calling “Mommy!”—only to be kicked away. “You know we lost our baby,” Amelia hissed. “Are you tormenting us with this… thing?” She strapped my sobbing daughter onto the drop tower and started the ride. “No one stops it until I say so,” she ordered staff before leaving with Julian. When I finally broke into the control room, blood already stained the ground. Cradling Lily’s broken body, I collapsed before Amelia’s mother. “Amelia killed her,” I rasped. “She’ll pay.” 1 “She’s still alive! If we get her to the hospital now, we can save her!” the Astor family doctor shouted after checking Lily’s pulse. But the moment we arrived at the emergency room, Amelia’s assistant blocked our path again. I fell to my knees, slamming my forehead against the cold tile floor. “If Amelia wants to take her anger out on me, fine. Let her torture me. But please, let me get a doctor for my daughter. I’m begging you.” Eleanor tried to shove him aside. “If you delay my granddaughter’s treatment, I’ll have you buried with her!” The assistant’s eyes widened in panic as he saw the blood pouring from Lily. “But… Ms. Astor has already sent all the doctors from this hospital away.” “That bastard!” Eleanor immediately started calling other hospitals, but the answer was the same everywhere: Amelia, determined to give Julian a new child to make up for the one they’d “lost,” had paid a fortune to hire every top specialist in the city. They were all at her beck and call, preparing her for another pregnancy. I held my daughter, her small body growing colder in my arms, my hands shaking uncontrollably. Just then, someone hurried through the doors. “Ms. Astor sent me…” I scrambled toward him, my heart seizing with a desperate hope, only to realize it wasn’t a doctor. It was a delivery guy. “Ms. Astor asked me to bring these bandages,” he said, holding out a small paper bag. “She also said to tell you, and I quote, ‘a little blood isn’t a death sentence. Stop bothering me over every little thing.’” “That monstrous daughter of mine!” Eleanor slapped the bag of bandages to the floor and collapsed, clutching her chest. “That parasite Julian ran off with three hundred million from the company ten years ago and left us bankrupt! Now he’s back, poisoning our family, twisting Amelia’s mind until she murders her own child! I will not let that bastard get away with this!” She pulled out her phone. “I’m calling Amelia right now. I’ll make her come back here and kneel before you to apologize.” But the call went straight to voicemail. A moment later, my own phone rang. It was Amelia, her voice tight with suppressed rage. “David, are you determined to ruin my day? If you hadn’t killed my baby with Julian out of sheer jealousy, he wouldn’t be in so much pain right now! What’s wrong with me comforting him? Do you have to be so petty that you run crying to my mother?” She didn’t even pause for breath. “And that daughter of yours! You’ve spoiled her rotten. She’s a spoiled, demanding brat who thinks a single drop of blood is the end of the world. I’m not a doctor, what good would I be?” “You wanted the amusement park, so Julian and I gave it to you. You said the child was bleeding, so I sent bandages. If you use one more excuse to bother me and Julian today, David, I swear you will regret it.” She was still screaming into the phone, but her voice had become a distant buzz. Nothing mattered anymore. I whispered Lily’s name, stroking her small, stiff, ice-cold hand. “Amelia,” I said, my voice hollow, “believe it or not, I never hurt your child with him. I never even knew you were pregnant with his child.” The life drained out of me, leaving only an empty shell. “You killed my daughter. I’m divorcing you.” There was a pause on the other end, followed by a cold, derisive laugh. “Trying to play dead to get my attention again? David, your acting is getting pathetic.” She hung up. I stood there, soulless, clutching my daughter’s body. I walked over to Eleanor. She took one look at me, at Lily, and understood that there was no hope left. Tears streamed down her face. “This is my fault,” she sobbed. “I never should have used the fact that I saved your life all those years ago to force you to marry Amelia, to force you to save the Astor Corporation from ruin.” “But David,” she pleaded, her voice breaking, “for the sake of everything we’ve been through, please… give Amelia one more chance. Before Julian came back, the three of you were so happy. She has you in her heart, David. She does. It’s just that scumbag Julian… he’s poisoned her mind again.” Her words stirred a memory, and a bitter, desolate laugh escaped my lips. Ten years ago, Julian had abandoned Amelia after a horrific car accident left her in a coma. He’d cleaned out the company’s accounts—three hundred million dollars—and vanished. The Astor Corporation went bankrupt, and the family couldn’t even afford her hospital bills. That’s when Eleanor found me. I was a vice president at a rival firm by then. She, a woman of her stature, got on her knees and begged me to marry her daughter—a woman who might never wake up—and salvage the family business. I was eternally grateful to her. Years ago, when my own mother was dying, Eleanor had hired the best doctors for her and funded my education through college. To repay that debt, I agreed. I spent three years rebuilding the Astor Corporation from ashes. I sat by Amelia’s bedside, helping her transition from a hospital bed to a wheelchair, and then, finally, to her own two feet. After she gave birth to our daughter, Lily, I stepped back from the company to be a full-time father, allowing Amelia to return to the corporate world she loved. For ten years, I gave Amelia and the Astor family everything I had. And now, I had lost my daughter—the only precious gift the Astors had ever given me. I looked at Eleanor, her face streaked with tears, and slowly shook my head. “I gave her ten years of my life. She had no right to trample on my devotion like this.” “The debt I owed your family was paid a decade ago. Now… now I’m here to collect what Amelia owes me.” My eyes burned as I placed my daughter into the crematorium with my own hands. The flames roared to life, and a violent tremor ran through my entire body. “Lily,” I whispered, my voice cracking, “Daddy will get justice for you. I promise.” Eleanor wept beside me. “After what I’ve done to you, I have no right to stop you. But David… if Amelia comes to her senses, can you find it in your heart to give her another chance?” “When my daughter was crying her name, begging for her, why couldn’t she give her a chance?” I wiped the last tear from my eye. Armed with a death certificate, I went home to pack my and Lily’s things. The moment I stepped through the door, I was hit by a thick, acrid smell. Little blue foil packets were scattered all over the floor. Julian saw me and shot me a provocative glare, his movements against Amelia becoming rougher. “Amelia, darling, your husband’s back. Should I leave? We wouldn’t want to upset him. He might force poor Lily to put on another one of her little shows. Such a shame, learning to lie and deceive at such a young age.” Amelia’s voice was sharp. “David, you stand right there!” she commanded. “I haven’t even settled the score with you for killing my child with Julian! Don’t think for a second I won’t make you pay.” “I told you, I didn’t even know you had a child with him, let alone harm it,” I said, my voice flat. “I’m tired of repeating myself. Believe what you want.” “Talk is cheap,” Amelia sneered. “You know, you don’t even deserve to be Lily’s father. Maybe I should just let Julian raise her. He’d be a much better father.” I ignored them and started up the stairs. Amelia grabbed my arm, her eyes narrowing with a flicker of suspicion. “If you don’t want me to give Lily to him, that’s fine too. I’ll just have another baby with Julian to make it up to him. But you have to promise not to be jealous. You have to accept Julian into this family.” “Do whatever you want,” I said coldly. A flash of confusion crossed her face, quickly replaced by a smirk. “If you’re really going to be so understanding, then clear out the master bedroom. Julian and I will need it to try for our baby. And while you’re at it, come over here and open these packets for us. And hand us a wet wipe.” “Oh, and Julian was a little too rough earlier,” she added, a cruel glint in her eye. “He tore my limited-edition lingerie. You can stitch it up for me.” A small, foul-smelling piece of lace and a handful of foil packets hit me in the face. The sharp edge of a packet sliced a thin, bloody line across my cheek. Disgust churned in my stomach, but I had no energy to fight them. I brushed the lingerie off my shirt, tore open the packets, and threw them on the table in front of them. “Can I go now?” Amelia looked confused, almost lost for a moment. But then Julian, still draped over her, started moving again, and the sounds of their passion filled the room. I ignored them and went upstairs. I folded Lily’s little clothes one by one. I pulled out the photo album I had made for her, filled with pictures of her smiling, vibrant face. It felt like she was still alive. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Just yesterday, she was chirping at my side, “Daddy, don’t be sad. Mommy’s just too busy with work to play with us. She works so hard. For my birthday wish, I’m not going to ask for Mommy to play with me. I’m going to wish for Mommy to get a good day’s rest.” A sob escaped my lips as I hugged the clothes that still carried her scent. My daughter was so thoughtful, so considerate of her mother. And that same mother had sent her to her death on her birthday. After packing everything, I contacted my lawyer and prepared to leave. As I came downstairs, I saw the two of them, disheveled, leaning against the kitchen counter. Julian’s exposed chest was covered in red marks. “Mr. Hayes,” he said, his voice oozing false sympathy, “Amelia is only doing this to make up for the pain you caused me. Don’t blame her. And please, stop teaching your child to do such wicked things. What if she grows up to be just like you?” He feigned a look of realization. “Oh, I heard today is Lily’s birthday. I’m so sorry. You see, today is the 5,200-day anniversary of when Amelia and I first met. She swore she’d throw a grand celebration for me on every anniversary. That’s why she had to leave you and Lily behind.” His words were an apology, but his face was a mask of triumph. “I baked a mango cake to show how sorry I am. I hope you’ll eat it and accept my apology.” I had no patience for his hypocrisy. All I wanted was to lay my daughter to rest. Seeing me walk toward the door without a word, Amelia assumed I was snubbing Julian. She had a bodyguard slam my head against the kitchen island. “David, have you lost every last shred of decency?” she spat. “Julian is a kind man who refuses to hold a grudge against you and your daughter, and you have the audacity to act so high and mighty?” “Where’s Lily? Where are you hiding her? Get her back here right now to eat this cake and get on her knees to apologize to Julian.” “Lily’s dead,” I gritted out, the pain in my head blinding. “If you want her to eat cake, then Julian can go to hell and feed it to her.” “How dare you say something so vile! You’d curse your own daughter just to win a petty, jealous game!” Amelia’s face was contorted with rage. “Did you think I didn’t know what you did back then?” “Julian was by my side after the car crash. He told me everything! I gave birth while I was in a coma, and you killed our baby! You drove Julian out of the country and seized control of the company. You’ve done every evil thing imaginable.” “I’ve tolerated you for ten years because you stayed by my side and took care of the house. But you just can’t be satisfied, can you? You keep bullying Julian, and now you’re cursing my own daughter!” A bodyguard pinned my arms. Amelia grabbed a slice of the greasy cake and started shoving it into my mouth. The scent of mango filled my lungs, and I began to cough and gasp for air as my throat started to swell shut. I struggled wildly. “Stop it! Amelia, have you forgotten? I’m allergic to mangoes…” Amelia froze for a second, then her face hardened again. “You did so many unforgivable things to Julian. This is just an allergy. It won’t kill you. Stop being such a dramatic weakling. You are going to eat this entire cake and then you are going to get on your knees and beg Julian for forgiveness.” My eyelids were swelling. Breathing became a desperate struggle. I closed my eyes, resigning myself to the darkness. Seeing me go limp, Amelia finally stopped, a flicker of panic in her eyes. “Where is his allergy medication?! Find it, now!” After she forced the pill down my throat, my airways slowly opened. I blinked, my eyes red and swollen. Amelia let out a breath of relief, her expression awkward. “There. Now you and Julian are even. Just swear that you will never hurt or harass Julian or his future children again.” Her face lit up with a new idea. “Julian is a rising star in the business world now. You, on the other hand, do nothing but enjoy a life of leisure at home. You should also swear to help him raise his children. You’ll treat them as if they were your own.” “I promise,” she added magnanimously, “I’ll even set aside one or two days a week to spend with you and Lily.” When I didn’t respond, her patience wore thin. “What are you still angry about? If you hadn’t interfered back then, if you hadn’t killed our baby and forced Julian to flee the country, if I hadn’t been forced to marry you to save the company, my child with Julian would be the same age as Lily now.” “The happy life you and Lily have now was stolen from Julian! What right do you have to be upset?” I couldn’t listen to another word. “Don’t you dare mention my daughter’s name again!” I interrupted. “You can have Julian back. I’ve already sent you the divorce papers.” She scoffed. “Fine. I’ll hire the best lawyers and fight you for custody of Lily. A kept man like you doesn’t stand a chance against me.” “If you don’t want to be separated from Lily, then get on your knees and apologize to me. Right now.” That was the last straw. I pulled out Lily’s death certificate and threw it in her face. “Amelia! Read it yourself! Lily is dead! You killed her!” The black and white words “CERTIFICATE OF DEATH” and the name “LILY HAYES” seemed to hit her like a physical blow. She staggered backward. “That’s impossible…” Suddenly, Julian cried out. “What? How can that be? Lily’s nanny just texted me. She said Lily can’t find you and won’t stop crying.” He turned to Amelia. “The assistant mentioned he went to the hospital this morning. You don’t think he went there to forge a death certificate, do you?” A sharp slap cracked across my face, sending me tumbling down the stairs. From the top of the landing, Amelia’s furious voice rained down on me. “David, you are so consumed with jealousy that you would curse your own daughter? You would forge a death certificate just to hurt Julian?” “You are unfit to be a father!” she shrieked, incandescent with rage. “Even a beast doesn’t eat its own young. You’re worse than an animal!” I struggled to my feet. “Amelia, you are a complete and utter fool.” I reached for the photo album on the floor, but Amelia’s stiletto heel slammed down on my hand, pinning it to the ground. “Get out!” she screamed. “You pathetic scum! Don’t you ever set foot in the Astor house again! And don’t even think about taking anything that belongs to me or my child with you!” On her command, the bodyguards smashed our luggage and threw the pieces into the trash bins outside. The photo album, the one Lily and I had so lovingly made together, was torn to shreds and thrown out after it. My eyes burning, I knelt down, trying to gather the last memories my daughter had left me, but the tiny pieces slipped through my fingers. Julian opened a window. A gust of wind swept through the yard, scattering the torn photographs like ashes. “Oops,” he said with a fake gasp. “I was just trying to air out the smell of vomit Mr. Hayes left behind. The house stinks.” “Ignore him,” Amelia said, her voice filled with contempt. “He doesn’t even care if his own daughter lives or dies. Do you really think he cares about some stupid photos? He’s just putting on a show for me.” A hollow, bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Amelia, remember what you did to me and my daughter today. I swear, one day, you will pay for it.” I staggered back to the funeral home. A staff member, her face full of sympathy, handed me a small urn shaped like a pink kitten. “I heard your daughter’s birthday wish this year was to go to the theme park with the pink kitten mascot,” she said softly. “I thought… she might like a box like this. I hope… I hope she can find peace.” A lump formed in my throat. I hugged the urn, tears streaming down my face. A complete stranger wanted to grant my daughter’s last wish, a wish her own mother had ignored. “On behalf of Lily, thank you,” I said, bowing deeply. After finalizing the funeral arrangements, I met with my lawyer. I gave him the surveillance footage from the amusement park and the signed divorce papers. “She doesn’t deserve to be Lily’s mother,” I said, my voice raw. “I want everyone to know what she did.” I choked back my tears and spent the last of my savings on a custom-tailored suit. I wanted to say goodbye to my daughter with dignity. But as I was preparing for the funeral, my heart a shattered mess, Amelia appeared at my apartment. The moment I opened the door, one of her bodyguards kicked me square in the chest. “Do you think I’m a patient woman?” she snarled. “Do you think I will tolerate you endlessly harassing Julian?” “You found out I was planning a birthday celebration for him, that I was having a custom suit made. So, in retaliation, you told every designer in the city not to work with him. You wanted to humiliate him, didn’t you?” I knew immediately what had happened. A designer friend of mine, wanting to avenge me, had blacklisted Julian throughout the entire fashion community. I wiped a trickle of blood from my lip. “So what if I did? You two murdered my daughter. Why should you get to celebrate anything?” Amelia kicked me with the pointed toe of her high heel. “When are you going to stop with this nonsense? Stop cursing your own child!” “How did I kill my daughter?” she demanded. “No matter how much I despise you, I would never harm my own flesh and blood! In fact, I’ve been more than good to Lily!” “You wanted the park I booked for Julian, so I let you have it. She wanted me to play with her, didn’t she? I personally sent her on the ride myself. What more could you possibly want?” She scoffed. “Don’t tell me you can die from a simple amusement park ride. Your lies are getting more ridiculous by the minute.” She snatched the suit from my hands, threw it on the floor, and stomped on it. “You said Lily was dead, right? Then what’s her father doing ordering such an expensive suit? Getting all dressed up to find your next sugar mama?” A sharp pain shot through my heart. I grabbed the suit and shoved her out the door. “Amelia, I hope you can still speak with such confidence three days from now.” I could hear her cursing from the hallway. I collapsed onto my bed and fell into a numb, dreamless sleep. That night, another knock echoed through the apartment. Annoyed, I wrenched the door open and found Julian standing there. He shoved past me into the room. I immediately grabbed for him. “Well, well,” he sneered, snatching the pink kitten urn from the small memorial I had set up in the living room. “She really is dead.” “Good riddance. With your daughter dead, and you dead next, the entire Astor fortune will be mine.” “Put that down!” I roared, my eyes turning red as I lunged at him. Suddenly, a hand grabbed my hair and yanked me back. “You bastard, David! Julian came here to apologize to you, and you dare attack him!” Julian hadn’t expected Amelia to be there. His eyes darted around nervously. When he saw her gaze fall on the urn in his hands, he immediately started shouting. “That’s the box! He used the powder in that box to poison our baby! I remember it perfectly! Now he’s trying to use it to kill me!” “You’re lying!” I screamed. “That’s my daughter’s urn! Give me back my daughter’s urn!” “You dare curse Lily again!” Amelia slapped me hard across the face. “Who has a pink urn? The lies you tell to hurt Julian are getting more and more pathetic!” She took the box from his hands. As I screamed in anguish, she raised it high and smashed it onto the floor. “NO!” I howled, scrambling forward, but she kicked me away. “Trying to grab your box of poison? Who else are you planning to harm?” With a sickening crack, the urn shattered, scattering ash and tiny, unburnt fragments of bone across the floor. A raw, primal scream tore from my throat. The pain in my chest was so intense I couldn’t breathe. Amelia’s face, once flushed with anger, slowly drained of all color, turning a ghostly, horrified white as she stared at the scattered remains. “What… what is this…?”

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For the third time, the scent of another man’s cologne clung to my fiancée. A scent identical to the one her male assistant, Vincent, always wore. The realization settled in my gut, cold and sharp. Isabelle was cheating on me. I didn’t play games. I told her the engagement was off. She wept, swearing she would cut all ties with Vincent, that she would only ever love me. And for the sake of our families’ long-standing alliance, I gave her one last chance. Three days later, at the annual Thanksgiving Gala, Isabelle walked in, pushing Vincent in a wheelchair. When I confronted her, her voice was a raw, desperate shriek. “Toby, you can buy my obedience, you can force my hand, but you will never have my heart!” “Vincent loves me! Even if you break his other leg, even if you kill him, he will never leave my side!” “We have no regrets! This is for true love!” A shocked silence fell over the grand ballroom, followed by a wave of scandalized whispers. In the blink of an eye, I was no longer the wronged fiancé. I was the villain—the ruthless monster who had stolen another man’s love and crippled him for it. Faced with a hundred pairs of accusing eyes, I smiled. Fine. If they wanted a monster, I would give them one. 1 After Isabelle’s heart-wrenching accusation, a strange hush fell over the ballroom. The initial confusion in the guests’ eyes had curdled into pure contempt. “I can’t believe the Crane heir is like that…” “Forcing her to marry him? And he broke the other guy’s leg? That’s monstrous.” “You never really know someone, do you? The Crane Corporation is a dynasty, but the man set to inherit it is a tyrant.” “No wonder Miss Slate was so distraught. The poor woman is living a nightmare…” The whispers washed over me like a tide of filth. I stood my ground, my expression unreadable, my gaze fixed on Isabelle and the man in the wheelchair before her, Vincent Shaw. Emboldened by her own “courage” and the room’s reaction, Isabelle clutched the handles of Vincent’s wheelchair, tears streaming down her face. She looked like a martyr, ready to die for her cause. On cue, Vincent lifted his head. His face was pale, his eyes a carefully crafted mix of agony and noble restraint. He spoke, his voice trembling as if fighting back immense fear. “Mr. Crane… it’s all my fault. I couldn’t help falling in love with Isabelle. She has nothing to do with this…” “Please,” he begged, “I’m on my knees. Spare the Slate family. Spare Isabelle…” He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for the inevitable. He straightened his back. “If you still need your pound of flesh, take it from me. I’m the one you want.” “Beat me. Kill me. I, Vincent Shaw, will not utter a single word of complaint. Just… please… don’t hurt her.” This declaration of selfless love immediately won him a fresh wave of sympathy. Murmurs of admiration for Vincent’s bravery rippled through the crowd, punctuated by sighs of pity for Isabelle’s tragic fate. Every arrow of blame was now pointed directly at me: Toby Crane, the powerful, ruthless heir who crushed true love under the heel of his boot. Isabelle let out a sob and threw her arms around Vincent. “Vincent, don’t say another word! I won’t let you sacrifice yourself for me! If we die, we die together!” What a performance. A heart-wrenching melodrama. If I weren’t the fiancé they’d betrayed, I might have even applauded their “epic, earth-shattering” love. I laughed. The sound, sharp and devoid of humor, cut through the tense atmosphere. The whispers died. All eyes were on me. “Take it from you?” I repeated his words, my voice quiet but laced with a chilling frost. “Vincent, what exactly do you think you are? Do you honestly believe you’re worthy of my dedicated attention?” I took two steps forward, my gaze sweeping past him to land squarely on Isabelle. “Isabelle, three days ago, you cried these same tears when you swore to me you would never see this man again, begging for my forgiveness.” “Tell me, are these tears any more genuine? Or do they just shine brighter with an audience?” 2 Isabelle’s face went white, her eyes darting nervously. But she quickly tightened her embrace on Vincent and screeched, “That’s enough, Toby!” “I was terrified! You forced me to say that because I was afraid of what you would do to him!” “But I see now that hiding won’t solve anything! You were never going to let him go!” “You just want to strangle our love in its cradle!” “True love?” I arched an eyebrow. “So your version of ‘true love’ involves wheeling your lover into a public gala to be pitied by strangers? This is how you protect what you have?” I let out a soft, contemptuous chuckle. “Your love seems rather cheap.” “You—!” Isabelle choked on her rage. Vincent quickly grabbed her hand, patting it soothingly before turning his pained gaze back to me. “Mr. Crane, I know you hate me. I ruined your future with Isabelle, and for that, I am truly sorry. I accept any revenge you have planned.” “Humiliate me, hurt me, do whatever you want. But please, don’t tarnish the memory of the love she once had for you.” My brow twitched. “You both keep calling me ruthless, a monster who forced you into this marriage…” I paused, my eyes turning to ice. “Since I’m already wearing the label, wouldn’t I be disappointing everyone—including you two—if I didn’t live up to it?” I stepped closer, looming over the “star-crossed lovers.” Vincent instinctively tried to wheel himself back, but he was trapped. Isabelle threw herself in front of him, her voice a mixture of fear and bravado. “What… what do you think you’re doing? You wouldn’t dare hurt him in front of all these people!” “Relax,” I said, my tone deceptively light. “I won’t lay a finger on him. Not right now, anyway.” My eyes drifted down to the plaster cast on Vincent’s leg. “A broken leg needs time to heal,” I said, my words dripping with insinuation. “After all, you might have a long road ahead of you.” “Or perhaps… you’re headed somewhere you won’t be needing your legs at all.” Without another word, I turned my back on their shocked faces and the sea of judgmental eyes. I walked straight out of the ballroom. The moment I got in my car, Isabelle’s father called. “Toby, my boy… about Isabelle… her mother and I spoiled her rotten. She can be so impulsive.” His voice was slick with false apology. “You were wronged tonight. On her behalf, I am deeply sorry.” He paused, clearly expecting me to offer a polite platitude. I remained silent. He cleared his throat and continued, his tone shifting to one of helpless inquiry. “But Toby, no matter how angry you were… you shouldn’t have… you really shouldn’t have sent men to break Vincent’s leg.” “That was… a bit extreme, don’t you think? It’s not good for the Crane family’s reputation.” I cut through his carefully constructed act with a cold laugh. “Mr. Slate, which one of your eyes saw me send anyone to break his leg?” There was a beat of silence on the other end, then his voice rose, filled with the righteous indignation of an elder. “Who else could it have been? Toby, let’s be realistic. The moment Vincent and Isabelle got a little close, this happened. We’re not fools.” My laugh was devoid of any warmth. “Fine. If you’re so certain it was me, Mr. Slate, then I’ll wear the accusation. In fact, I’ll claim his other leg, too. You should tell him to get comfortable in that wheelchair.” “You—!” The mask of the concerned father finally cracked, his voice turning sharp and shrill. “Toby! Are you trying to burn everything to the ground? After all these years between our families, you’d destroy it all for an outsider?” “I am,” I replied, my voice clipped and final. “Mr. Slate, your family chose a side. I’m simply honoring your decision. Let’s tear it all down. It’s cleaner that way.” 3 Two years ago, at a Crane family dinner, Mr. Slate had pulled my father and me aside. After a few pleasantries, he cautiously brought up a verbal marriage agreement made between my late grandfather and his own. As the Slate family’s fortunes had waned, the pact had been all but forgotten. Mr. Slate’s words were earnest, his posture almost subservient, as he spoke of the old friendship between our families. “Richard,” he’d said to my father, “I know this is presumptuous. But my father’s greatest wish was to see Isabelle settled. It’s our fault, really. The Slate family just hasn’t kept up…” He sighed, watching my father’s face. My father was a man of his word, especially when it came to his own father’s wishes. “Nonsense, David,” he replied. “If our fathers intended this, then it’s our duty as their sons to see it through.” Having met Isabelle, I had agreed. From that day forward, the Crane Corporation began to prop up Slate Industries. Once a struggling second-tier company, they were now flooded with massive orders, given access to unlimited lines of credit, and introduced to our most valuable contacts. Their business shot up like a rocket. Within two years, they went public, securing their place among the city’s elite. Mr. Slate transformed from a man who bowed and scraped into the proud chairman of a publicly traded company. As for Isabelle, I had fulfilled my duties as a fiancé. She loved jewelry, particularly the work of one European designer. I commissioned the artist to create a one-of-a-kind diamond necklace and earring set for her birthday, a project that took six months. She was the envy of all her friends. At every business dinner and private party, I treated her with the utmost respect. When a spoiled heir once spoke to her disrespectfully at a reception, I publicly humiliated him. The message was clear: Isabelle Slate was under my protection, and no one was to treat her as anything less. I had used my resources to build her family an empire. I had used my patience and wealth to win her affection. I never imagined my reward would be this: a meticulously planned betrayal and a public crucifixion. Back home, I called my father and laid out the night’s events, including Mr. Slate’s absurd phone call. He was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “The Crane family does not allow itself to be manipulated.” “If the Slates have chosen to disregard our history, then do what you must. I will back you, no matter what.” With my father’s blessing, all restraints were gone. I sent out a series of directives. Effective immediately, Crane Corporation and all its subsidiaries were to terminate all business contracts with Slate Industries. All our partners were to be notified that any continued association with Slate Industries would be considered a hostile act against Crane Corporation. The orders went out in the dead of night. The vast, cold machinery of my family’s empire began to turn. The next morning, Crane Corp released a formal, impeccably worded statement announcing the termination of our partnership. It was like dropping a boulder into a calm lake. The financial news outlets exploded. Slate Industries’ stock plummeted the second the market opened. It fell so fast that trading was automatically halted within thirty minutes. I sat in my office, calmly watching the waterfall of red that represented their company on my screen. Soon, my personal phone rang. Isabelle’s name flashed on the display. I answered. Her voice was a hysterical shriek, a far cry from the tragic heroine of the previous night. “TOBY! ARE YOU INSANE? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU’RE DOING?!” “RETRACT THAT STATEMENT NOW! OR I’LL MAKE YOU REGRET IT!” I didn’t bother to respond. I hung up and blocked her number. Threats? She clearly hadn’t grasped who held all the cards. But the Slates’ counterattack came faster—and was far dirtier—than I’d anticipated. By noon, the tide of public opinion began to turn. 4 Major social media platforms and forums were flooded with “exposés” about me. The posts were alarmingly uniform, clearly part of a coordinated campaign. The smear tactics focused on three key points: First, that I was a ruthless tyrant. An “anonymous ex-employee” claimed I was a dictator at work who verbally abused staff, alleging I once bullied a veteran employee into a stress-induced resignation over a minor mistake. The post was accompanied by a blurry photo of me looking stern. Second, that my personal life was a moral cesspool. A so-called “insider” revealed that despite my engagement, I kept multiple mistresses, even listing the names of several college students and vague dates and locations, described with salacious detail as if witnessed firsthand. Third, and most damningly, that I was a psychopath who would stop at nothing to get what I wanted. This narrative, building on the events of the gala, painted me as a monster consumed by jealousy who had hired thugs to brutally break Vincent’s leg to force Isabelle into submission. A classic “if I can’t have you, no one can” pathology. This narrative was amplified by an army of bots and paid trolls, who spammed comment sections and pushed hashtags like #CancelCraneCorp, #JusticeForIsabelle, and #SupportTrueLove to the top of trending lists. They had successfully twisted a business dispute into a personal vendetta, painting Crane Corporation as an evil empire crushing two innocent lovers. Then, to capitalize on the momentum, Isabelle and Vincent went live on a popular streaming platform. On screen, Isabelle sat with red, swollen eyes, nestled against Vincent in his wheelchair. They both looked like martyrs who had endured unspeakable persecution. They recounted my “atrocities” with tears in their eyes, describing how their pure, beautiful love was being systematically destroyed by me and my family. Vincent’s performance was masterful. With pained, noble expressions, he told the camera, “I don’t blame Mr. Crane. I only blame myself for being too far beneath Isabelle. It was my low status that brought this disaster upon us… But our love is not a crime. We will fight to the end. For this love, we have no regrets!” The chat exploded. It was a deluge of vitriol from trolls and duped viewers. “TOBY CRANE MUST DIE,” “CRANE CORP GO BANKRUPT,” “I’m crying for Isabelle and Vincent,” the comments scrolled past in a blur. Any stray voice of reason was instantly drowned in a tsunami of hate. The meticulously planned media blitz worked. After its morning collapse, Slate Industries’ stock miraculously rebounded. Fueled by “sympathy investors” and speculators betting on their “brave resistance” against a corporate giant, the stock surged into the green. Meanwhile, Crane Corporation’s stock began to tank. The sudden storm of negative PR had investors worried about brand damage and potential legal risks. I stared at the two starkly contrasting lines on my monitor. One, representing the Slates, soaring against all odds. The other, representing my family, in freefall. The cold light of the screen illuminated my face as a grim smile touched my lips. Go on. Dance. Perform. Did you really think your pathetic little media circus could shake the foundations of my family’s legacy? Did you believe the pity of strangers and a few nasty comments could actually hurt me? How naive. You’ve mistaken the battlefield of business for a stage. And you’ve forgotten the real rules of the game. Just as Crane Corporation’s stock hit its daily trading limit, plummeting as far as it could go, Vincent called. The act was gone. His voice was dripping with undisguised triumph. “So, Toby. Now do you see how things stand?” “Out of pity for the two years you spent licking Isabelle’s boots, I’ll give you two choices. One, you pay a fifty billion dollar ‘break-up fee,’ and we all walk away. Two, you watch your family’s empire crumble into dust and become a broke, forgotten nobody.” I walked to the window, watching the endless stream of traffic below. “I’m choosing option three,” I said calmly. “I’m going to send you and the entire Slate family to hell.” There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by a furious roar. “You’re fucking insane—” I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I hung up and turned off my phone. For the next two days, our stock remained depressed. The online hate campaign continued to rage. The atmosphere in the company was thick with tension, but I went about my business as usual. On the morning of the third day, when the company’s losses surpassed one hundred billion, I picked up an encrypted phone and sent a short message. “You can begin.”

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From childhood at St. Jude’s Home, my best friend Chloe and I were known as the toughest girls around. My sharp tongue made people cry; her fists “persuaded” them. Even the guard dog hid when we passed. At eight, we were poking an anthill when the director brought a wealthy couple—the Hestons, one of the nation’s richest families. They claimed Chloe was their long-lost daughter, but she threw a fit. “Without Vivian, I’d have been bullied to death!” she wailed. “If you don’t adopt her too, I’m not leaving!” I dropped my stick, wiped my face, and smiled sweetly. “I’m the best-behaved child here. Adopting me is your best deal!” The director’s face twitched as if he’d swallowed rotten garbage. Bullied? Best-behaved? Do you hear yourselves? Desperate to be rid of us, he made a choice that would haunt his ancestors. … “That’s right, Mr. and Mrs. Heston!” he gushed. “Chloe and Vivian are our two sweetest girls. They’re inseparable. Why don’t you just take them both?” The couple hesitated. “Well, raising another child isn’t a problem,” Mrs. Heston said slowly, “it’s just… we already have an adopted daughter at home…” Chloe and I shot each other a look. A fake heiress? Oh, hell no. I couldn’t let Chloe walk into that lion’s den alone. What if this girl was some two-faced, scheming witch? Chloe wouldn’t stand a chance. “Sir, ma’am,” I pleaded, my eyes wide with fake concern. “Chloe is very sensitive. A new environment all alone could lead to depression… or even suicide. If you take me with her, I promise I’ll take good care of her!” The couple flinched. Chloe immediately started bawling on cue. “That’s right!” she howled. “If you say no, I’ll hang myself from your front gate tonight! Waaah!” They caved instantly. Mrs. Heston looked at me. “We can take you, but you’ll have to get along with your new sister at home…” “I’ll be the best big sister ever! Don’t you worry, Mom!” The director looked like he was about to burst into tears of joy. “Wonderful! Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Heston, on your two lovely new daughters!” As they were led away to handle the paperwork, I grabbed Chloe’s hand. “Chloe, you’re a real one! You didn’t forget our pact to get rich together!” She rolled her eyes. “I was just worried you’d get beaten to death for that mouth of yours after I left.” I cackled. “Love you, girl! That fake heiress didn’t even show up today. Bet she doesn’t want you back. If she’s one of those manipulative types, I’ll handle her.” Our strength at St. Jude’s had always been our teamwork. I’d verbally eviscerate our enemies until they were seeing red, and she’d knock them flat the second they lunged. When it came to mind games, Chloe was a rookie. She squeezed my hand back, her eyes shining with gratitude. “Vivian, our future of fabulous wealth is all on you now!” “Don’t worry,” I declared. “I’ve got this.” When the Hestons returned, they smiled seeing us holding hands. “It’s so wonderful that you girls are so close. That puts our minds at ease.” In the car, Mrs. Heston told us about the family. We learned that besides the fake heiress, Isabelle Heston, Chloe also had a biological older brother who was two years her senior. He was the reason she’d gotten lost when she was three. The fact that the culprit himself hadn’t bothered to show up spoke volumes. Clearly, he wasn’t thrilled about his long-lost sister’s return. Sure enough, as soon as we stepped out of the car, we saw a sullen-faced teenage boy standing at the entrance to the mansion, arms crossed. When Chloe and I held hands and called out “big brother!” in unison, Leo Heston’s face cracked. “You adopted another one?” He only relaxed after being told that I, the other adoptee, had no inheritance rights. “I’m warning you two,” he snarled, “don’t you dare bully my sister, or you’ll have me to deal with!” I immediately ducked behind Chloe, my voice trembling. “Chloe, why is he playing favorites? If he’d been this protective of you back then, he wouldn’t have let you get lost and suffer in an orphanage for all those years…” The subtext was clear: You moron. You show zero remorse for losing your own sister, and now you’re threatening her to protect the impostor? Are you for real? Mr. and Mrs. Heston’s faces darkened. Leo looked like he was about to explode, but I quickly pinched Chloe’s side. She got the message and covered her face, bursting into tears. “If my brother doesn’t like me, I should just go back to St. Jude’s! Vivian, let’s go!” Mr. Heston snapped. He slapped Leo hard across the face. “You brat! Is this how you welcome your sister home? Get out of the way!” Leo clutched his cheek, glaring at us, but didn’t dare say another word. Chloe and I exchanged a triumphant look. Round one: victory. But the moment we stepped inside, we saw Isabelle, the fake heiress, standing on a stool, sobbing as she tried to loop a rope over the chandelier. Oh, great. The pity party has already started. Before anyone could react, I barked, “Hey! No indoor swinging!” Chloe executed a perfect slide tackle, knocking the stool and Isabelle clean over. Before Isabelle could even get the noose around her neck, she was sent sprawling on the floor. “Aah!” she cried out in pain. The whole family rushed to help her up. Seeing the rope and the toppled stool, they surrounded her in a panic. “Isabelle, honey, what on earth are you doing?” Isabelle looked up at us, her eyes swimming with tears. “It’s all my fault,” she sobbed to Chloe. “I’ve stolen your identity for so many years and made you suffer. Let me pay for my sins with my life!” She turned to her parents. “Please, don’t blame Mom, Dad, or Leo. Just… promise me you’ll take good care of them in my place.” Mrs. Heston hugged her tightly. “Don’t be silly, sweetie. In our hearts, you’ll always be our daughter!” Leo glared at us. “This has nothing to do with you, Isabelle. Let’s see who dares to blame you!” Isabelle buried her face in Mrs. Heston’s shoulder and shot me a look of pure, triumphant provocation over her arm. Yep, a Grade-A, certified witch. Trying to drive a wedge between us? Not on my watch. I unleashed my signature weapon. “So, you must be the adopted sister, Isabelle. So sorry about that, my mistake! I honestly thought someone was breaking the rules and trying to swing from the lights!” I tilted my head. “Wait a minute, were you trying to hang yourself? Honey, nobody uses a crystal chandelier for that. And that knot? A slipknot. It would’ve come undone the second you put any weight on it. You wouldn’t have died, but you might’ve brought the whole fixture down on someone’s head!” Chloe, scrambling up from the floor, chimed in. “Yeah, super dangerous! Good thing I was here to… uh… lend a foot.” Everyone looked up at the chandelier. They saw I was right. Mr. Heston’s face turned grim. “This is ridiculous! What if you had hurt your sister?” Seeing her plan fail, Isabelle looked at me and sniffled, “I’m sorry, sister. I just wanted to atone…” “You’ve got the wrong girl, sweetie. I’m your adopted sister. She’s the sister you need to apologize to.” I pushed Chloe forward. “Go on. Try again.” Leo puffed out his chest, stepping in front of Isabelle. “Dad! Isabelle was just trying to make things right! It was Chloe and Vivian who deliberately made her fall! They have no manners!” That did it. He could insult me all day, but nobody insults my best friend. “Leo, I know you want to play the hero, but you can’t just spew garbage from your mouth,” I snapped. “You want to talk about manners? Chloe grew up in an orphanage because you lost her. You’re the one who ruined her life, and you have the audacity to criticize her upbringing?” “This girl stole Chloe’s identity, her family, her entire life! How is she supposed to have ‘manners’?” “Your logic is so ass-backwards. I bet a dung beetle could crack open your skull and think he’d hit the jackpot!” My verbal barrage stunned the room into silence. Only Chloe was moved, squeezing my hand with tears in her eyes. “You’re the best, Vivian! I love you!” When Leo finally processed what I’d said, his face turned purple with rage. “How dare you talk to me like that?!” “Oh, I’m just getting started with you! Now it’s her turn!” I jabbed a finger at Isabelle. “And you! Who are you trying to fool with this damsel-in-distress act? You’re more full of crap than a landfill!” “Weren’t you supposed to be sick in bed? You seemed to have plenty of energy for your little suicide performance just now!” “Let me guess, the only thing you’re ‘sick’ of is the fact that Chloe’s back, and you can’t be the one and only princess anymore, right?” I’d hit a nerve. Isabelle looked panicked and tried to argue, but I cut her off. “Faking sick, faking suicide, trying to manipulate everyone… did my best friend ever once ask you to ‘atone’ for anything? We’re all supposed to be princesses here, so why are you the only one acting like a psycho?” Isabelle’s face went pale. All she could sputter was, “You… you… you!” I scoffed. “You what? If you have a stutter, go see a doctor. If you’ve got a problem with your brain, try reading a book!” Realizing she couldn’t win a war of words, Isabelle switched back to her weak, innocent persona. “I’m sorry, Chloe. It’s my fault. I was just so scared you’d hate me.” She turned to me. “Vivian, you can yell at me all you want. Just please, don’t take your anger out on Mom, Dad, and Leo.” Here we go again. This girl had no new tricks. I was done with her. I turned to the stunned Hestons. “I hear we’ll be in the same class as our sister from now on?” They nodded dumbly. “Great. We can help her out at school. So, where are our rooms?” Mrs. Heston quickly led us upstairs. Isabelle followed, red-eyed, and pushed open her own bedroom door with a grand, magnanimous gesture. “If you don’t mind, sister, you can have my room. It was always meant to be yours…” Leo charged in front of us again, foaming at the mouth. “Isabelle, this is the princess room Mom decorated just for you! These uncultured brats don’t deserve it!” Seeing the storm brewing in my eyes, Mrs. Heston shot him a warning look. She turned to Chloe with a gentle smile. “Chloe, dear, you can have any room in the house. Think of it as our way of making up for lost time.” Chloe glanced at Isabelle’s frilly, pink nightmare of a room with disgust. She then pointed to a much larger room down the hall with better light. “We’ll take that one! It’s big enough for me and Vivian.” Leo nearly lost his mind. “Are you serious? That’s Mom and Dad’s bedroom!” I smiled sweetly at Mrs. Heston. “Mom, you did say any room. You wouldn’t go back on your word, would you?” Her smile was strained, but she nodded. “Perfect! We’re exhausted from the trip. You guys should get some rest, too!” With that, I pulled Chloe into the room and slammed the door, leaving the petrified family standing in the hallway. The next few weeks were a blur of shopping. After eight years of scraping by, we were finally living the dream of swiping a credit card without looking at the price tag. We had carloads of designer bags and boxes delivered, transforming ourselves into a pair of bona fide heiresses. Every time Isabelle made a snide remark about our spending, I would shut her down with a verbal smackdown. When insults failed, she resorted to petty tricks. Day one, she “accidentally” dropped a vase from the top of the stairs, aiming for our heads. Chloe caught it with one hand without even breaking stride. Day two, she “accidentally” knocked a tureen of hot soup toward Chloe at the dinner table. Chloe deftly redirected it, sending it splashing all over Isabelle, who shrieked in pain. Day three, she snuck her own diamond necklace under our pillow and then brought the whole family in to “catch us in the act.” I simply played the footage from the hidden camera I’d installed, showing her planting it herself. Cornered, she tearfully claimed she had just wanted to “give us a surprise.” After failing at both verbal and physical warfare, Isabelle finally backed off. But we knew she was just biding her time. Sure enough, a month later at the assembly of our new elite private school, she stood before the entire student body with red-rimmed eyes. “These are my new sisters,” she announced. “My parents recently brought them home from an orphanage. Please take good care of them!” In one sentence, she had painted us as the charity cases, the fake heiresses. The students looked at her with pity. “Wow, the Hestons can just adopt kids whenever they feel like it?” “Poor Isabelle, now she has to share her parents’ love…” I smiled and nudged Chloe to pull out the DNA test results. “That’s a funny way of putting it, Isabelle,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’ve been squatting in my best friend’s home for eight years, and you’re the one playing the victim?” “And for the record, you’re just as adopted as I am, so maybe drop the ‘poor little princess’ act?” I addressed the stunned crowd. “Hi everyone! I’m Vivian, the best friend of the real Heston heiress, Chloe. And yes, I was also adopted by the Hestons. Not because they’re rolling in cash, but because they were afraid certain people,” I said, pointedly looking at Isabelle, “might try to bully Chloe. They wanted me here to protect her. Just like I’m doing right now.” The auditorium went silent. Then all eyes turned to Isabelle, filled with scorn. “Wait, so she was the fake one all along?” A group of girls who clearly disliked Isabelle started to jeer. “Of course! She always acted like she was royalty. Turns out she’s just a wannabe.” The laughter was like a slap across Isabelle’s face. She looked like she was about to burst into tears. From that day on, she was branded the school’s resident two-faced fake. To salvage her reputation, she threw herself into piano and ballet lessons, hoping to outshine us with her grace and poise. In response, I started taking stand-up comedy and improv classes. Chloe signed up for kickboxing and Tai Chi, honing her natural talents to a razor’s edge. Isabelle’s dream of overshadowing us never materialized. At every school festival, my comedy routine and Chloe’s finale—breaking a cement block on her chest—completely eclipsed her boring performances. I became a campus celebrity for my wit, while Chloe became the school’s unofficial protector. With us around, bullying and fights practically vanished. By the time we were sixteen, the two little devils from St. Jude’s had somehow grown into well-adjusted, surprisingly popular young women. Mr. and Mrs. Heston adored us and were planning a press conference to officially introduce us to the world. “It’s time Chloe got some shares in the company for her eighteenth birthday,” we overheard Mr. Heston telling his wife. “She’s our biological daughter, after all. And the company has taken a hit from Preston Corp lately. We need a strategic marriage to stabilize things. Luckily, the Preston heir isn’t opposed to meeting. We’ll see which of the girls he connects with…” Isabelle, who was listening from the shadows, clenched her fists. A venomous smile crossed her face. For the next two years, Isabelle and Leo did a complete 180. They not only stopped antagonizing us but actively tried to be friendly. Leo even offered to mentor Chloe in the family business after she started college. Isabelle transformed into a sweet, doting little sister. On our eighteenth birthday, they showered us with gifts and well-wishes. Just before the party, they announced they had a surprise for us: a private fireworks show from a nearby hilltop.

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Three years I’ve spent trying to save the resident gloomy villain, and his darkness score is still maxed out. He won’t talk to me. Won’t let me get close. Every gift I give him, he cuts to shreds and throws away. But when the story’s heroine appeared, he was the one blushing, head bowed, offering her a piece he’d poured his soul into. That was when I finally gave up hope. I found the heroine and laid my cards on the table. “I’m planning on leaving the country,” I told her. “From now on, could you take Matt Croft into your family’s care?” 1 Matt had run away from home again. It was the third time this month. After a whole afternoon of searching with no leads, I reluctantly had to summon the System, who was supposed to be on vacation. Being dragged back to work on your day off would sour anyone’s mood, and the System was no exception. The moment it materialized, it launched into a tirade. “Are you kidding me, Summer? You have got to be the worst Host I have ever seen!” “It’s been this long, and Matt’s darkness score is still off the charts?” “Can you please, for the love of god, tell me how you managed to make him hate you this much?” I lowered my head in shame. The System was right. I was useless. Three whole years. The word Matt had said to me more than any other was “hate.” He hated seeing me. Hated talking to me. Hated me being anywhere near him. Hate, hate, hate… Maybe it was the miserable look on my face, but the System’s tone softened slightly. It sent an address to my phone. “Here,” it said, its voice calmer. “He’s at this location.” “Don’t worry too much. It’s not like he’s going to disappear for good.” “Let me just run a quick diagnostic on his current emotional state—” The System paused. A moment later, its voice was filled with confusion. “What the hell?” “Why did Matt’s heart rate just skyrocket? His darkness score is plummeting!” “This… This is the signature of attraction, isn’t it?” 2 The System told me Matt must have met someone incredibly important, someone extraordinary to him. By the time I rushed over, more than half an hour had passed. The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. I found Matt sitting in an old gazebo tucked behind a rock garden on the estate, his sketchbook resting on his lap as he drew with intense focus. And standing beside him was a girl with a high ponytail. She was wearing a simple white dress, looking cute and vibrant. Every few moments, she would let out a gasp of admiration. “Oh my god, this composition is absolutely flawless.” “I’m an art student too, and I can tell you right now, you’re a genius!” “Where do you go to school?” “My mentor is on the board of the European Art Association. I could recommend you to him, you know!” “And of course, I know plenty of professors at the top art schools here in the States. They would all be blown away by your talent!” … A genius? Yes. I knew that from the day I accepted this mission. Matt Croft was, without a doubt, a genius. The kind of once-in-a-generation painter whose exhibitions could ignite the artistic soul of an entire city, whose most casual doodle could fetch a fortune at auction. But this was also the same person who showed signs of autism from a young age, which by his teenage years had morphed into an atypical form of bipolar disorder. Sometimes he was manic and anxious. Other times, he was consumed by a deep, depressive gloom, capable of not speaking a word for days on end. Then, in high school, disaster struck. The Croft family’s corporation faced a sudden economic crisis and was on the brink of bankruptcy. Matt’s parents had died in an accident shortly after he was born, leaving only his elderly grandfather to manage the vast family enterprise. The old man couldn’t withstand the pressure. He suffered a stroke that landed him in the hospital. Before he passed, he used the last of the family’s assets to hire a caretaker for his grandson—someone to look after Matt’s daily life and his fragile mental state. He also entrusted this caretaker with one final task: to find a real estate mogul by the name of Miller. Mr. Miller was an old friend, a brother-in-arms from their youth to whom his grandfather owed his life. The Miller family had moved abroad years ago, and they had somehow lost touch. “But he’ll remember,” Matt’s grandfather had said, his voice a ragged whisper. “Our grandchildren, Emily and Matt, they even had a childhood engagement pact.” “With the Croft family in such dire straits… I can only ask them to take Matt in and look after him for a while.” 3 The System’s voice buzzed in my ear. “Host.” “I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now, right?” “The girl in the white dress standing next to our young villain is the heroine who just returned to the country.” “Emily Miller.” Yeah. I’d figured. Because the heroine, Emily, was an art student. In the original story, the caretaker the Croft family hired was no good. He was a two-faced grifter, skimming from the top, and treated Matt horribly. When the Croft empire finally crumbled, he took the money and ran, leaving the already psychologically fragile teenager stranded and alone in the middle of nowhere. As for finding the Miller family? He never even tried. Matt suffered immensely after that. He couldn’t even afford to stay in school. He worked odd jobs, saved every penny, only to be scammed and beaten, even having one of his legs broken. Finally, he met a true mentor, a brilliant art professor at a university. His talent was discovered, and he clawed his way up from the very bottom… only then did he become the revered artist everyone knew. By that time, the heroine had already become a rising star in the design world. And at last, Matt finally met Emily Miller. He learned about the childhood engagement pact. But by then, looking at his own scarred and broken body, he no longer had the courage to pursue her. In the story’s tragic conclusion, on the eve of Emily’s wedding to another man, Matt leaped from the roof of a skyscraper. His suicide note read: My life was ruined by that caretaker. If only he had found Emily back then, my life could have been perfect, without a single regret. 4 To change Matt’s fate, I took the place of that corrupt caretaker when I entered this world. In this reset timeline, Matt’s grandfather met me at the orphanage where I grew up and sponsored my education. When he passed away, he left me a portion of his remaining assets and begged me to look after his grandson. So, I began to take care of Matt with every ounce of effort I had. He didn’t know how to manage money, so I opened a bank account in his name, researching investment strategies to make his grandfather’s inheritance last as long as possible. His mental state was fragile, so I devoured books on psychology and took him to see specialists. He loved to paint. I, a STEM major who knew nothing about art, dragged myself to nearly a hundred exhibitions in a single year, all for the slim hope of having something to talk to him about. … But even with all that, Matt’s attitude towards me remained cold and dismissive. It was as if no matter how hard I tried, he would never let me into his world. Even during his manic episodes, he’d rather smash everything in sight than let me bring him his medication in the studio. The reason was simple: I didn’t understand art. He didn’t want a boring, mundane person like me trespassing in his creative sanctuary. But now… His attitude toward the heroine was completely different. He listened intently to her opinions on his work, slowly articulating his own thoughts in return. When Matt finished the piece, he carefully removed it from his sketchbook. He held it out to Emily, an offering. The tips of his ears were tinged with red. “Can I… Can I get your number?” he stammered. “My name is… Matt. Matt Croft.” Emily paused for a second. As she pulled out her phone, she tilted her head and scratched her nose thoughtfully. “Huh?” she said. “You know… I feel like I’ve heard that name somewhere before.” 5 In the original story, the heroine had her own destined partner. Even when she met Matt again later in life, her feelings for him never went beyond friendship. That’s why the System’s mission wasn’t for me to deliver Matt to Emily. It was for me to guide him away from the main characters, to reshape his personality outside the confines of the original plot and change his tragic ending. But now… I think I might have messed things up. Matt had met the heroine ahead of schedule. And it seemed to be love at first sight. The System started screaming in my ear. “Go get that dark-hearted brat back here, you useless block of wood!” “If you just stand there spacing out any longer, Emily’s radiance will only make him hate you more, you idiot!” Right, right. I was supposed to drag Matt back. I sighed, bracing myself. I walked over and stood between him and Emily, gently tapping Matt’s shoulder. “Matt,” I said softly. “There you are. Let’s go home, okay?” “I’ve been looking for you all afternoon. I made dinner. Aren’t you hungry?” 6 The moment he saw me, the faint smile on Matt’s face vanished, replaced by an icy mask. His lips pressed into a thin, hard line as he shot me a look of pure annoyance, his brow furrowing deeply. It was Emily who spoke, her tone surprisingly warm. She turned to me, her eyes blinking with curiosity. “You know Matt? Are you two friends? Do you have a date tonight or something?” I was about to answer when Matt cut me off sharply. “No!” His voice was laced with an urgency, as if he couldn’t distance himself from me fast enough. “She’s not my friend. She’s just the hired help,” he spat. “Just some kid my grandfather picked up from an orphanage.” “She’s nobody.” … As the words hung in the air, I heard the System suck in a sharp, embarrassed breath. Even Emily looked taken aback, shifting uncomfortably. She shot me an apologetic glance before looking at her watch, trying to smooth things over. “Does being the hired help mean she can’t be your friend?” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “What’s with the high-and-mighty tone? Besides, she’s been looking for you all afternoon. You should at least let someone know when you go out.” “Don’t do that again. You’ll make her job much harder than it needs to be!” Her voice was so kind. Even her scolding was laced with warmth, making it impossible to be angry. She really was the heroine. She’d extend her kindness even to a complete stranger like me. And thanks to her, Matt, who had been teetering on the edge of a manic episode, visibly calmed down. He lowered his head and quietly began packing his things. Slinging his art portfolio over his shoulder, he threw a glare my way. “What are you staring at?” he muttered, striding ahead. “You’re the one who wanted to go back so badly.” 7 If I hadn’t shown up, Matt and Emily could have spent more time together. Naturally, his animosity towards me deepened. On the way back, he deliberately kept his distance, his voice dripping with contempt as he questioned me. “You looked for me all afternoon?” “Summer, how are you always so free? Don’t you have a life of your own?” “I know my grandfather left you a salary, but there wasn’t that much money left. It can’t be worth you dedicating your entire existence to this job…” “Look at that girl back there. She has her own passions, her own talent.” “Not like you. All you do is hover around people, like a pathetic little shadow. It’s so damn annoying.” … I kept my head down, unable to find the words to defend myself. Before the car accident that led me to the System, I was just an ordinary person. Now, in this world, I wasn’t part of the main cast, had no special abilities, and no family. My college tuition came from the inheritance my grandfather left for Matt’s care. And even then, I had to endure his scorn. The System chose that moment to twist the knife. “Host.” “Matt’s darkness score just went up again.” “His mood was perfectly stable when he was with the heroine…” “Looks like she makes him a lot happier than you do!” —It was obvious, really. But if the heroine could soothe him better than I ever could, then what was the point of a disposable NPC like me? The Miller family was already looking for Matt anyway, now that they knew about the Crofts’ bankruptcy. If I just delivered him to Emily, wouldn’t that solve everyone’s problems? Once the thought took root, it was impossible to shake. I ran to catch up with Matt, grabbing his sleeve. “Matt,” I asked, my voice direct. “If I quit this job, if I wasn’t around anymore… would you be happier if someone else took care of you?” It was a stupid question, I know. I’ve never been good with words. He looked down at me, his expression turning cold and hard. After a long moment, he let out a bitter, mocking laugh. “Summer, are you insane?” he sneered. “Who do you think you are? Someone irreplaceable?” “If you want to leave, then leave. Get out right now.” “I don’t need you.”

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The day I found out my adoptive parents had finally located their real daughter, I was drowning in guilt. As the “fake” heiress, I got her number and sent a barrage of texts, trying to smooth things over before she even arrived: “Sweetheart, I’m so, so sorry. I’ve been living a life of luxury in your place for all these years.” “Sweetheart, our parents have arranged everything, and from now on, we’re going to be sisters! I’m already so excited to meet you!” “Sweetheart, please don’t listen to any rumors. The whole family already loves you, especially me! I love you the mostest!” … The day the real heiress was set to arrive, I was buzzing with anticipation, waiting with my adoptive parents to welcome her. The next second, the front door swung open, and a gorgeous six-foot-one stranger walked in. “Mom, Dad,” he said. “I’m home.” Me: ??? Hold on. How did my sweet, delicate, heiress… turn into a dude? 1 For the twenty years I was raised by the Harrisons—the family that owns one of the country’s largest fortunes—they treated me as their own flesh and blood. I was cherished, spoiled, and protected from every imaginable hardship. I grew up swimming in boundless love and privilege. But on the morning of my twentieth birthday, everything changed. I accidentally overheard my adoptive parents in a private conversation. My adoptive mother, usually the picture of composure and elegance, sounded strained, her voice thick with tears. “Are you certain? Is this truly our biological child?” she whispered. My adoptive father’s excitement was palpable. “The DNA test is right here. It’s him. He is our son.” My mother sobbed quietly for a moment before asking, “When… when will we bring him home?” My father patted her hand reassuringly, his voice low with promise. “Soon.” “However, even though we intend to make arrangements for both children, I’m just worried about Summer, that she might…” … He didn’t finish the thought, but I understood completely. They had found their biological child, who had been missing for years. And they were worried that I, their adoptive daughter, would behave like one of those wicked “fake daughters” from novels—spiteful toward the true heir. How could they think that? I, the imposter, had occupied the true heir’s place. I had enjoyed twenty years of comfort, wealth, and security in the Harrington estate. Meanwhile, the real Harrington heir had suffered untold hardship out there. If I treated him poorly, what kind of ungrateful wretch would that make me? I would be betraying the years of kindness and careful love my parents had given me. 2 That evening, I sought them out and preemptively confessed. “Mom, Dad, I heard your whole conversation and your plans.” “You don’t need to worry. I agree to everything you discussed.” My adoptive parents exchanged startled looks. Then, a mix of surprise and joy washed over their faces. “You heard? You agree to everything?” my mother asked, her voice trembling. I nodded decisively. “Yes.” My father’s voice wavered slightly as he asked cautiously, “Summer, are you sure you don’t need time to think? This concerns your entire future…” What was there to think about? It was only right that the true heir should take his place in the family. I nodded again. “No need to consider. I agree entirely.” My mother finally recovered from her shock, her earlier anxiety replaced by overwhelming emotion. She gripped my hands tightly. “That’s wonderful, my darling! I was so worried you would disagree…” “Oh, you wonderful girl. Even if you find your own biological family someday, you must still call me Mom. That thought makes me so happy…” She then slipped the exquisite diamond bracelet from her wrist. It was an antique piece, passed down from my grandmother, which my mother rarely allowed anyone to see. “This was your grandmother’s. I’m giving it to you now.” The fact that she was giving me this treasure, which she guarded so fiercely, showed how desperately she wished for me and the returning heir to get along. I stared at the sparkling bracelet on my wrist, secretly vowing. I would treat the true heir with nothing but kindness. 3 Under the pretense of “building a connection,” I asked for the true heir’s contact information. My mother’s doting smile was practically unstoppable. “Yes, yes, build a connection! You two will be spending a lot of time together soon.” I pulled up the true heir’s profile. The avatar was completely black, with no nickname and no personalized status. I gasped, a chill running down my spine. I couldn’t imagine how much this poor child must have suffered over the years. They should be a vibrant young adult, but the harshness of life had clearly forced them into a cold, “do not disturb” persona. Filled with guilt, I sent the first message: [Adrian, hello. I’m Summer Harrington.] They replied instantly. The tone was exactly as my mother had described: cold and distant. [I know. They told me.] See? Referring to his own biological parents as “they.” It was a clear sign of emotional trauma, making him cautious around anyone trying to get close. I felt deeply sorry for him. [Waaah, Sweetheart, I am so sorry. I’ve occupied your place and enjoyed this good life for so many years…] Adrian: [No need to apologize.] [You were adopted. You didn’t ‘occupy’ anything that was mine.] I was stunned. Who said that a harsh environment couldn’t produce a beautiful soul? This vulnerable person, having suffered so much, showed no resentment, even finding a reason to excuse me. Tears sprang to my eyes. [Sweetheart, you are truly the best.] [Sweetheart, from today on, I am your family. Don’t worry, I promise to take care of you.] [I love you I love you kissy kissy smooch smooch…] Adrian replied with six dots: [……] A moment later, a new message popped up: [Don’t call me that.] Me: [What? Call you what?] This time, Adrian was silent for a full fifteen minutes before replying: [That… ‘Sweetheart.’ ] Me: [Why?] Adrian: [Don’t you think that kind of affectionate term is moving a little too fast?] I immediately refuted him: [Given our relationship, isn’t it perfectly normal for me to call you Sweetheart? How is that fast?] [Sweetheart, you need to get used to it quickly, because I’m going to call you that forever.] [A lifetime, in fact.] Adrian: [……] Adrian: [To be honest, I’m still considering their offer, so you don’t need to be so hasty.] Considering what? If he should come home? It seemed he was still wary of the family and, perhaps, of me. I rushed to reassure him. [Please don’t overthink things, and don’t listen to any gossip outside.] [Everyone here loves you, especially me. I love you the mostest!] After sending those two messages, Adrian’s chat bubble showed he was perpetually typing. One minute, two minutes, three minutes… Fifteen minutes passed before he finally sent a message, sounding slightly suspicious. [Have you… ever met me?] Oh, so that was what he was worried about. While I hadn’t met him, my guilt and my desire to compensate and protect him were absolutely genuine. But to ease his mind, I decided to tell a small white lie. [Of course! Mom showed me your photo.] [The moment I saw you, I just knew you were a truly wonderful person.] [Have you ever heard of ‘love at first sight’? That’s how I feel about you. I swear, I genuinely like you.] Adrian: [… You genuinely like me?] Me: [Of course!] Adrian: [… Ahem.] [Well, whatever. It doesn’t affect me.] [I have to go now. The chicken broth is on the stove; I need to tend the soup. Goodbye.] … His words were jumbled and confusing. I was completely bewildered, yet I zeroed in on one crucial piece of information—Adrian was cooking for an entire family? A surge of protective fury immediately welled up inside me. I was furious. 4 The next day, I ordered eighteen extravagant, five-star meals to Adrian’s current address. I also paid my family’s housekeeper, Mrs. Peterson, to go help Adrian clean his house. I even arranged for a few bodyguards to discreetly watch over him. Later, from the pile of old clothes Mrs. Peterson brought back, I found a pair of men’s boxer briefs. I almost laughed from sheer indignation. Dressing a delicate young woman in oversized men’s coats and pants was bad enough, but even her most intimate clothing was masculine? Fighting back my rage, I grabbed my phone and messaged Adrian: [You wear boxer briefs? They make you wear boxer briefs?!] Adrian was silent for a long moment. Then slowly typed: [?] Adrian, utterly baffled: [… What else should I be wearing?] This poor girl was so innocent she didn’t even know what she should be wearing. I opened my favorite online boutique. I sent him a link to the lingerie I bought frequently. [I’ve bought this pink lace number so many times! The quality is amazing, super comfortable! I’m wearing this exact one right now!] [And for the bra…] Words wouldn’t do it justice. I flipped my camera and recorded a quick demonstration of the item I was wearing, tugging playfully at the straps and lace, explaining enthusiastically: [Sweetheart, look at this style! Isn’t it gorgeous? The fabric is so soft, it doesn’t itch at all on your skin…] The moment the video sent, the chat box exploded with frantic new messages. Adrian’s emotion was more intense than I’d ever seen: [Summer Evans!] [You! You must never send that again! And stop saying such strange things!] [You, you, you! Summer! Show some decency!] 5 I burst out laughing. [With our relationship, what is there to be embarrassed about?] [Oh, speaking of bras, what about your measurements? I need to know your cup size.] Adrian: [………… Enough.] Me: [Enough is big enough? They say if you massage them, they’ll grow bigger, you know! I was thinking of trying it out!] [Hehehe, how about I practice on you? Once you get home, let me help you with your measurements and see if we can make a difference…] Adrian: [………… Shut up.] I tutted. [Why are you so stingy? What’s the harm in letting me have a little look, given our connection?] [……] Adrian stopped replying entirely. I waited a few minutes, then worriedly checked with Mrs. Peterson. [Mrs. P, where is Adrian?] Mrs. Peterson: [She was blushing furiously, threw her phone down, and rushed into the bathroom to take a shower. Is something wrong, dear?] [No, nothing at all.] I was relieved, but I couldn’t help but marvel. Taking a shower and going to bed at nine in the morning?

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To enter Sterling City’s elite, I forged a new identity: Hope, the lost granddaughter of master Alistair Finch. My target was Andrew Burke, the city’s untouchable tech mogul. I buried my true self, polishing every rough edge until I was flawless as jade. It was the only way, I thought, to stand beside my radiant, distant moon. I believed if my performance was perfect, we could share a lifetime under that moon. Then I saw my ever-calm husband publicly explode over a wild-haired coffee shop girl, destroying a billion-dollar deal. I stayed to clean his mess at a gallery gala. But on the terrace, I overheard a world-shattering talk: “Andrew, your ‘artist’ wife is quite dutiful, playing nice with the sharks for you.” “She’s the perfect facade for my new-money mansion—a perfect fake.” “A painter from the projects… thinks mixing colors can hide her poverty?” Through the phone, Andrew’s lazy chuckle rang with amusement. He knew. He’d always known. He had been acting, too. 1 My heart felt like it had been plunged into ice water, the shock so cold it was numbing. “I heard that old mentor of hers, the one she supposedly learned from, is desperate for cash. Telling everyone he has a ‘star pupil.’ I give it three months before the whole story blows up. Then Mrs. Burke’s ‘art prodigy’ halo is going to shatter into a million pieces.” “I’ll bet a month!” That was Leo, Andrew’s childhood friend and a well-known gallery owner. “That forgery of Dusk Over Riverstone Ridge was damn good, I’ll give her that. But you can’t hide the soul of a craftsman. You see the way she pontificates about Rembrandt’s use of chiaroscuro? Like she’s cramming from a textbook, desperate to prove she’s read a book or two. It’s pathetic.” Andrew let out another soft laugh, his tone casual. “I’ll bet… a year. Her pride is her weakness. She’ll do anything to keep that secret buried, probably pay the old man off. It won’t be a problem, not for a while.” He sighed, a light, theatrical sound. “Old Mr. Sterling was so insistent I marry his granddaughter, that girl who can’t paint anything but pretty little flowers. I wasn’t having it.” “Then Hope showed up, right on cue. She’s a technician, not an artist, but her hands… her hands are magic. I needed a world-class forger to get Sterling’s Moonglow out of his vault. If she could paint me a flawless counterfeit, he’d be too distracted to meddle in my marriage ever again.” He paused. “And watching her try so hard, every single day, to play the part of the ethereal, secluded artist… honestly, it’s been quite amusing.” The blood froze in my veins. So, Andrew had known from the start. My talent, my skill, was nothing more than a tool for his elaborate heist, a performance for his entertainment. A burst of laughter echoed from the main hall. Andrew suddenly shushed them. Through a gap in a modern sculpture, I saw a young woman sitting on a bench in the lounge area, looking dejected. She was wrapped in Andrew’s cashmere coat, a piece that cost more than my first year of rent. The moment she looked up, Andrew silenced his friends. “Keep it down. Don’t bother her. She pulled three all-nighters for her graduation exhibit. She’s exhausted.” Leo clicked his tongue. “Seriously, Andrew? She’s a student. Her work is… juvenile. What do you even see in her?” Andrew propped his chin on his hand, his gaze fixed on the girl. “Unlike Hope’s work, which is technically perfect but has no soul, Zoe’s is real. An ordinary piece of paper comes alive under her brush. It’s that raw, unmarketable honesty… that’s what draws me in.” Just then, the girl, Zoe, stood up as if to leave. She carefully slipped off the coat and handed it back to Andrew. “Mr. Burke, thank you again for buying my painting at the auction. I promise I’ll pay you back…” “You don’t have to.” “No, I insist,” she said, her lip trembling with a stubborn pride. “I don’t want my first sale to be… charity.” A smile touched Andrew’s lips. He reached out, his finger lightly tracing a stroke of color on her canvas. It was a gesture of incredible tenderness. “Alright, alright, you win. How about this? Host a solo exhibition at my gallery. I’ll give you the main hall.” Zoe’s eyes widened. “But… I’m just a student. My work isn’t ready…” “Forget about résumés. You have a gift, Zoe. You’ll stun them all.” She hesitated for only a second before nodding. A sharp pain, like the edge of a palette knife, twisted in my chest. That main hall at Andrew’s gallery… it had been promised to me. The minimum requirement for an artist to exhibit there was a major international award. My artistic identity was a sham, but the smaller awards I’d won, those were real. I’d entered countless competitions, building a believable history to bolster the lie of my heritage. Andrew was often away on business for his art foundation in Italy. I was so afraid he’d find my knowledge lacking that I devoured books on art history, learned restoration techniques, and spent every spare moment haunting museums and libraries. And now I knew. None of it had ever mattered to him. I finally understood. You didn’t have to be perfect to earn his affection. You just had to be someone else. Andrew gently helped Zoe pack her art supplies. “My gallery always has space for a genius.” 2 Zoe beamed, a genuine, unburdened smile. Hidden in the shadows, my limbs grew numb. I felt like I was about to collapse. I stumbled back to the event organizer’s office. He was still hoping I could smooth things over. “Mrs. Burke, this is a very awkward situation for us. You see…” He gave me a strained smile. In the past, to expand Andrew’s network in the art world, I had endured so much. I’d sipped wine with greasy collectors, listening to their half-baked theories on art, and plastered a polite smile on my face. Not anymore. I wasn’t that fool any longer. I stood up and grabbed my clutch. “Mr. Davies, your business with my husband is your own to solve. I have other matters to attend to. You’ll have to excuse me.” I walked out of the gallery like a zombie, my body moving on autopilot, and returned to the Burke estate. Andrew’s mother was in the living room, perched on a rosewood chair, sipping a rare single-origin tea. She heard me enter but didn’t bother to look up. “The luncheon with the museum board tomorrow, have you confirmed the artist list for the dinner gala?” she asked, her voice crisp. “And for the biennial in Europe next month, the butler has emailed you the itineraries for our family friends. I expect you to arrange everything personally.” “Hope, we allowed you into this family to be its artistic face. You are expected to handle these duties flawlessly. Otherwise, what’s the difference between marrying you and some common craftsman from a print shop?” Craftsman. The word stabbed into my heart again. I stood silently at the entrance, then turned toward the staircase without a word. “Stop! Are you deaf? Or is all that supposed culture you affect just an act?” I paused on the first step, my back still to her. “Find someone else,” I said, my voice flat. “I’m tired.” Her stream of venomous words followed me up the stairs, but I tuned them all out. I slammed my bedroom door shut, the sound a welcome finality. Memories rushed back, and I suddenly remembered the first time I saw Andrew Burke. I was working my way through college as a dogsbody in a small gallery, restoring broken frames. It was my first glimpse into the world of high-end art, a world that made me feel small and crushingly poor. One day, I accidentally smudged the packaging of a client’s painting. He exploded. “Watch where you’re going, you clumsy little gutter rat!” he screamed, his finger jabbing at my face. “Do you have any idea what this is worth? More money than your kind will ever see in a lifetime!” I just stood there, a prisoner in the dock, apologizing over and over, my face burning with a mixture of humiliation and shame. Then Andrew stepped in, his voice as cool and smooth as silk. “It’s a decorative piece, hardly a masterpiece. Is it really necessary to terrorize a young woman over it?” The way he signed the check to cover the perceived damages—effortless, elegant, utterly dismissive—is burned into my memory. My heart had hammered in my chest. For the first time, I felt the chasm between our worlds. I was an art student, just like the names on the gallery walls, but because I was born poor, I was destined to be trod into the mud, a nameless craftsman. But I didn’t want to be a craftsman. I wanted to be an artist. I wanted a life that glittered. And I wanted the man standing before me. In that moment, a dangerous cocktail of desire and ambition gave birth to an audacious plan. I forged paintings. I wove lies. All for a ticket into the hallowed halls of the art world. All to stand beside him. And in the end, I succeeded. Only to discover it was all a game to Andrew. He didn’t love my perfect technique; he was captivated by the clumsy, amateurish scrawls of an intern. All because she was real. How utterly laughable. I picked up my phone and called my lawyer, telling him to draw up divorce papers. It was time to end this. I tossed and turned in bed for hours. Andrew didn’t come home until well after midnight. I could hear his mother’s muffled complaints from the living room before he came upstairs. He still smelled faintly of turpentine. The scent of Zoe’s studio. He unfastened his cufflinks as he spoke. “Mother said you were rude to her today. Go down and apologize later.” I lay still, my back to him. He gently patted my shoulder. “What’s wrong, darling? You seem upset.” He leaned over and pressed a kiss to my forehead. The same gentle touch, but this time, I felt nothing but cold. I forced my voice to be steady. “It’s nothing. I just don’t feel well.” “By the way, how did things go with the auction house?” “They’re not resolved.” Andrew paused for a second. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll cut ties with them if I have to. The last thing I want is for you to be upset.” A bitter laugh almost escaped my lips. I wanted to ask him, who was it he didn’t want to be upset? But in the end, I said nothing. “Okay.” 3 I didn’t sleep a wink. The next day when I went to the gallery, the girl was already there. Zoe. She was even prettier and more innocent-looking in person, like a wildflower that had never been tamed. She was also completely clueless about the business of art. At the exhibition planning meeting, she didn’t understand the basic principles of lighting design, and her curatorial proposal was a mess of incoherent thoughts. Andrew was notoriously demanding with his staff. But with Zoe, he was a bottomless well of patience. I held my tongue until the meeting was over, then followed Andrew to his office to discuss the next quarter’s exhibition schedule. Zoe offered to pour me a glass of water. Her wrist tilted, and icy water splashed all over my silk blouse, blooming into a dark stain. The documents on the table were soaked. I finally snapped. “What is wrong with you?” She slammed the glass down, her face a mask of defiance and stubborn pride, but said nothing. “Don’t you think you owe me an apology?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm. Her temper flared. “It was an accident! Why do you have to be so aggressive? Don’t think you can bully me just because you’re the boss’s wife.” Beside us, Andrew watched with an expression of pure admiration. So this was the raw authenticity he found so appealing. I was about to let her have it when he grabbed my hand, running interference for her. “She’s just a kid, Hope. She doesn’t have much experience. Let me apologize to you on her behalf, alright?” My heart stuttered. I pulled my hand away. The matter was dropped, unresolved. After we finished discussing work, I prepared to leave. Andrew cleared his throat. “I have a dinner meeting tonight. You go on home, don’t wait up for me.” I knew him too well. He had a tell—he always adjusted his cufflinks right before he lied. “Alright.” Back in my office, I got Zoe’s number from HR and sent her a friend request. Sure enough, just after eight o’clock, she posted an update to her story. Andrew was in the picture. They had gone to a gritty night market near the art academy. The background was a chaotic jumble of street food stalls. This was a man who drank only one specific brand of imported water, now sitting on a plastic stool, eating spicy street-side noodles with her. It was almost funny. I scrolled through her feed. The few posts she had were all about Andrew. [Turned twenty today, and Mr. V. got me my first set of expensive art supplies! But I still love my old brushes best, hehe.] [The big boss’s first time at the night market! He was frowning the whole time but still remembered to pick the cilantro out of my bowl for me!] The more I read, the tighter the knot in my chest became. Just then, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. My heart seized when I read the message. It was him… my old mentor, the one I’d cut all ties with. [Hope. You need to help me. You think just because you’re famous now, you can pretend I don’t exist?] [I’m rotting in a basement, and I swear I’ll drag you down from your pedestal with me!] [Don’t forget where Dusk Over Riverstone Ridge came from. Five million dollars, and I’ll keep your secret safe.] I didn’t reply. My hands trembled as I deleted the message. I suddenly remembered the bet Andrew and his friends made that night at the gallery. They were betting on how long it would take for me to be exposed. My old mentor was a ticking time bomb. Sooner or later, he would explode. But I was done living in fear. So I would be the one to light the match. 4 Andrew didn’t come home until the next morning. He gave a vague excuse about a business dinner that ran all night. But I’d already seen it on Zoe’s feed. There was no dinner. He had driven her out to her favorite spot for landscape painting. They had watched the stars and painted the sunrise together. At breakfast, my mother-in-law spoke up. “The Burke Foundation’s annual charity gala is approaching, Hope. It’s time you started the preparations.” The gala was their family’s most important social event of the year, attended by a who’s who of politics, business, and the arts. I listened as she droned on, then asked, “What date is the gala?” “The twentieth.” My phone was still vibrating. One threatening text after another. [You little bitch! If you don’t answer me, I’m coming to your house!] I hesitated for a moment, then typed a reply: [You want money? Meet me on the twentieth, at the venue for the charity gala.] 5 The days ticked by. The twentieth drew closer. For some, it was a date of dread. For others, a source of joy. Zoe’s social media was a daily diary of her time with Andrew. He skipped out of the office to help her find inspiration in the countryside. He spent a weekend with her at an artist’s market, hawking her little paintings that no one was buying, just to “experience life.” A picture showed the two of them squatting on a curb, sharing a single roasted sweet potato. Every post, every photo, was a poisoned knife twisting in my heart. The threatening texts from my mentor continued unabated. The language grew more and more vile. He called me a treacherous snake, a talentless copyist. He said I was destined to rot in a basement, a ghost painter for the rest of my life. The sealed-off memories broke open again. Him, drunk, tearing up a piece I had spent two weeks on. Locking me in a windowless cellar, forcing me to copy a painting for three days straight without sleep. Beating my hands with the wooden stretcher of a canvas, screaming that I had no real talent. My head felt like it was about to split open. The pain in my chest was so intense I was shaking. I had to dig my nails into my palms, breaking the skin, just to stay calm. The twentieth was almost here. Money couldn’t save me. The glittering dream couldn’t save me. To pull myself out of this swamp of lies, I had to rely on myself. And myself alone.

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Suddenly, I could see everyone’s true identity. My best friend’s rich boyfriend had the words “Married Man, Ten Million in Debt” floating over his head. My own broke boyfriend? “Missing Heir to the Richest Family in the Country.” Right at that moment, my best friend was in the middle of a lecture, trying to convince me to break up with him. “It’s better to be a rich man’s mistress than a poor man’s wife,” she insisted. “Good looks don’t pay the bills.” “Your boyfriend could work his entire life and still not afford the toilet in my husband’s house.” 1 In the lavishly decorated Western restaurant, my best friend’s boyfriend, Jason, casually flipped through the menu. “Two orders of the M9 Wagyu Beef Wellington. The meat’s incredibly tender here.” “And two of the seared foie gras with sea urchin and caviar.” “The charcoal-grilled blue lobster… that’s a pretty big portion, so one should be enough.” With every item he named, the color drained a little more from my face and from my boyfriend, Fred’s. I stared down at the menu, a cold sweat breaking out on my back. The steak was $1,388 an order. The foie gras was $798. The blue lobster was a staggering $2,688. Add in the appetizers, salads, and desserts… dinner tonight was going to cost well over ten thousand dollars. And tonight, it was our turn to pay. Jason was my best friend Maya’s new boyfriend. They hadn’t been dating long before she excitedly insisted on a double date. Last week, Jason and Maya had treated us to a hot pot dinner. When it was time to pay, Jason conveniently got a call from a major client. He rushed out to meet them, and Maya ended up paying the bill. With my coupon. My company had a partnership with the hot pot place, and they’d given us a few $200 gift certificates for the holidays. You could use one per meal. I remembered it clearly: after the coupon, the total came to $360. 2 Fred is a firm believer in returning a favor. Since they had treated us, it was only right that we treat them back. When I suggested it to Maya, Jason had waved his hand with a magnanimous smile. “Hey, we’re all friends here. No need to be so formal.” Then he immediately called and booked a table at this restaurant. What were his exact words? “You don’t have to take us anywhere fancy. Just a casual meal is fine.” His idea of “casual” was a dinner that would cost me two months’ salary. After setting down the food menu, Jason picked up the wine list. “This restaurant owns its own vineyard in France. Their reds are exceptional. You have to try one.” “Let’s go with this Grenache. It’s got a rich, fruity body with a crisp, oaky finish.” Under the table, Fred’s hand tightened on mine. My heart gave a violent lurch. That bottle of wine cost $39,888. Fred and I had just graduated from college this year. We’d landed decent jobs at good companies, but we were still just interns. I made $5,600 a month; he made $6,800. We both came from rural, working-class families. We had fought our way to this metropolis through sheer academic grit. But the cost of living in the city was crushing. And the weight on our shoulders was immense. My mother’s health was poor, so I sent half my salary home every month for her medicine. Fred’s income had to cover our food, transportation, and rent. After six months of scrimping and saving, we had managed to put away just over $30,000. Thirty thousand dollars. In a rich man’s restaurant, that wasn’t even enough to buy a single bottle of wine. 3 The wine and food would be at least fifty thousand. Was I supposed to take out a payday loan to treat them to dinner? Maya leaned against her boyfriend’s shoulder, her face glowing with happiness. “Jason, how do you know so much about all this?” “Thank you for showing us this world. I would have never dared to step into a place like this on my own.” I was torn. My rational mind was screaming at me not to bankrupt myself just to save face. But my heart ached at the thought of embarrassing my best friend. Just as I was hesitating, the waiter collected the menus and turned to leave. Fred suddenly looked up. “Excuse me,” he called out. “We’d like to cancel that order.” “I bought a group deal for this restaurant online. We’ll just have that set menu, please.” A wave of relief washed over me. I gave Fred a mental thumbs-up. He had said what I was too afraid to say. But Maya’s expression changed in an instant. She shot to her feet, her voice high and shrill. “Fred, what is the meaning of this?” “Jason is only having dinner with you two because of me! You won’t even let him order what he wants? Are you trying to humiliate me?” She then whirled on me. “Anna! I told you to stop digging through the trash for a boyfriend!” The other diners were all staring at us. The situation was excruciatingly awkward. So awkward, in fact, that I started to hallucinate. What the hell? Why was there a line of glowing text floating above everyone’s head? 4 I rubbed my eyes hard. The text was still there, bigger and clearer than before. Jason pulled Maya back down, patting her shoulder with an air of good-natured patience. “Don’t be angry, honey. It’s my fault. This is just what I normally eat. I didn’t realize the prices would be a bit steep for them.” “How about this,” he continued. “We’ll skip the wine, but let’s keep the rest of the food.” Maya was a mess of distress and indignation. “How can we do that? You always like a little drink after dinner. I can’t let you change your habits for me.” The waiter stood there, holding the menu, looking utterly confused. Fred held out his phone. “I’m paying, so you’ll listen to me. We’ll have the group deal set menu. Here’s the voucher.” Maya jumped up again, furious. “Forget it! Who wants your stupid group deal? I can’t stand you broke losers. Jason, let’s go!” The group deal wasn’t exactly cheap. It was $1,288—a month’s worth of groceries for Fred and me. 5 They stormed out, leaving Fred and me staring at each other, with the bewildered waiter still standing beside our table. “Sir, should I still bring out the food?” I tilted my head up, squinting to read the text above his head: “Working Four Jobs to Survive.” Fred shook his head. “No, that’s alright. Thank you.” He then took my hand, his expression uncertain. “Anna, let’s go home?” he asked tentatively. I looked at him, really looked at him. Fred and I had been classmates in high school and college. In high school, he was the unattainable, handsome loner that every girl had a crush on. But right now, the text above his head was far more captivating than his handsome face. “Missing Heir to the Richest Family in the Country.” Did that mean what I thought it meant? As a devoted reader of web novels, I was very familiar with tropes like special abilities, system interfaces, and reincarnation. Could these words be… my superpower? The ability to see everyone’s true identity? I craned my neck, my eyes wide with excitement, and scanned the room. “Soon-to-be Bankrupt Heir.” “Housewife Addicted to Cheating.” “Pervert Who Likes Taking Upskirt Photos.” “Fugitive with a $500,000 Bounty.” Wait a minute. $500,000? 6 A whirlwind of nerves, excitement, doubt, and shock played across my face, scaring the hell out of Fred. He stood up, flustered, and started stammering an explanation. “Anna, I know what I did was embarrassing. But fifty thousand dollars… that’s enough to pay for your mom’s medicine for two years. I just couldn’t bring myself to spend it on one meal.” “Saving face is temporary. Living our lives responsibly is what matters. Please don’t be mad at me, okay?” I barely heard a word he said. My attention was entirely fixed on the fugitive. He was sitting in a corner, cutting into a steak. He wore large, black-framed glasses that obscured half his face, and his hat was pulled down low. When he heard the commotion from our table, he glanced over briefly before quickly looking away. “I’m just going to the restroom.” I tossed the words over my shoulder at Fred and walked towards the restrooms with a straight back, feigning nonchalance. Once inside a stall, I immediately dialed 911. There was a police station just a few blocks from the restaurant. I composed my face and walked out of the restaurant, then quickly ducked around a corner, my eyes glued to the entrance. Fred followed me, his face a mixture of worry and confusion. “Anna, what are you doing? Let’s just go home. I can make you some noodles.” “Shh, be quiet!” I clamped a hand over his mouth, my gaze never leaving the glass doors. Fred looked puzzled, but he didn’t ask any more questions. He just stood there quietly, waiting with me. The police arrived faster than I expected. Within five minutes, the restaurant was surrounded by squad cars. When the fugitive was led out in handcuffs, I saw the text above his head change: “Fugitive Apprehended.” 7 The whole night felt like a dream. Fred went with me to the police station to give a statement, and I signed the “Bounty Claim Confirmation” form. The female officer who took my statement was incredibly friendly. “Thanks to your timely call, we caught him just in time. He had a knife on him. His plan was to have one last nice meal, kill a few rich people, and then kill himself.” “You didn’t just help us catch a criminal; you saved several lives. The reward money should be in your bank account in about a week.” $500,000. Just like that. Fred was so excited his face was flushed, and he walked out of the station with a clumsy, uncoordinated gait. “Anna, you’re a genius! How did you know that guy was a fugitive?” I grinned and took his hand. “I’m just broke. When I have nothing to do, I scroll through wanted lists, hoping to get lucky and spot one. And what do you know, I actually did!” After the initial euphoria wore off, Fred finally calmed down. He cupped my face in his hands, his eyes full of concern. “Anna, you don’t have to push yourself so hard. I’ll work hard to give you a good life. What you did was so dangerous. What if he had noticed you?” I looked at the brightly glowing words above his head and thought, damn, this man is handsome. On the way home, Fred lectured me about the risks, imagining a hundred different ways it could have gone wrong. His worrying nearly put me to sleep. So much had happened that I had completely forgotten about Maya. Fred, exhausted, fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. I, on the other hand, stayed up half the night on my phone, researching the richest man in the country. The more I looked, the more confused I became. The billionaire’s last name was Sterling. He was a self-made man who started as a construction foreman and made his first fortune in real estate. But according to all reports, he only had one very private daughter. There was no mention of a son. And Fred… he didn’t look anything like Mr. Sterling. 8 The next morning, I was woken by a furious pounding on the door. I glanced at my phone. It was almost noon. Fred had already left for work. To make extra money, he had taken a weekend job, spinning like a top with no days off. On the table was the breakfast he had made for me. Bang! Bang, bang! The knocking continued, as if someone was trying to break the door down. I hurried to open it and was met with Maya’s fiery, enraged eyes. “Anna! It’s the middle of the day!” Above her head floated a few shimmering golden words. “Hopeless Romantic.” It was fitting. Maya was indeed a hopeless romantic, with a vast and varied dating history. In high school, she fell for her tutor. During college orientation, she fell for her drill instructor. After graduation, it was a senior colleague at her internship. She even managed to fall in love with her personal trainer at the gym. She met Jason because he was a major client for her company. She worked at an ad agency, and her boss had put her in charge of a new project. Before the project made any headway, she and Jason were already a couple. 9 “Anna, you need to break up with Fred. Right now!” Maya stormed into the apartment without even taking off her shoes, planted herself on the sofa with her hands on her hips, and glared at me. “I told you not to date a poor man, but you wouldn’t listen! What are you keeping him around for? A man who needs a group deal coupon to eat out? For God’s sake, have some standards!” Her baseless tirade completely soured my good mood. My face hardened. “Maya, what happened yesterday was Jason’s fault, wasn’t it? He knew we’re just regular office workers. Why did he order such an expensive bottle of wine? Anyone with manners knows you don’t order the most expensive thing on the menu when someone else is treating. It’s basic etiquette.” Normally, when someone is treating you, you politely pick something moderately priced and let the host take the lead. But Jason? He ordered the most expensive items without a second thought for whether we could afford it. Maya rolled her eyes and sneered. “What are you trying to say, Anna? Jason was just being nice! He was afraid you country bumpkins wouldn’t know how to order in a fancy restaurant, so he did it for you! Instead of thanking him, you’re turning it around on him. You’re not just poor, you’re petty too!” I couldn’t stand her constant use of the word “poor.” What was wrong with being poor? We didn’t steal or cheat. We worked hard for our money. We had never taken a single penny from anyone. 10 She wasn’t always like this. Maya and I had been best friends since kindergarten. We were in the same class through elementary, middle, and high school. We only separated when we went to different colleges. When we were kids, my parents worked long hours and often weren’t home until late. Maya would always invite me over for dinner and share her secret stash of snacks with me. The Maya I remembered was warm, kind, and loyal. When had she become this person? “Alright, alright, stop with the long face,” she snapped. “You’re breaking up with Fred, and I’ve already found your next boyfriend for you. He’s a friend of Jason’s, a multimillionaire. Go change. You’re having lunch with him.” I almost laughed out loud. I was about to retort when the door opened and Jason walked in, a look of disdain on his face. “Maya, what’s taking so long? Mr. Liu will be here at eleven. We can’t keep him waiting.” Maya’s face instantly broke into a flirtatious smile. “Jason, what are you doing here? We’ll be ready in a minute.” She turned and glared at me. “What are you waiting for? Go get changed! Wear that white dress you wore for your birthday. You look good in that one.”

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