Author: Momo Chan

I accidentally got pregnant with the heir to the Prescott fortune, and he threw a black card at me with instructions to keep myself and the baby comfortable. I was in the middle of some much-needed retail therapy when his “one that got away”—fresh from a European conservatory—ambushed me. She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at my face, calling me a gold-digging whore trying to trap a man with a baby. Just as I was about to show her what a real fight looks like, a tiny sigh echoed in the space between my ribs. (Oh, for God’s sake. Mom’s about to do something stupid again. Last time, she went head-to-head with the ice queen, got tricked into a “miscarriage,” and ended up dying alone in some roach-infested studio apartment.) (She has no idea. If she just played the delicate flower for two seconds, the scales in Dad’s heart would tip so far they’d break.) Wait. Play the delicate flower? Oh, I was born for this role. 1 “You poor thing. Turning yourself into a walking incubator, all for a bit of money.” The voice was cool and laced with a theatrical pity that set my teeth on edge. “Asher only needs an heir, you know. He will never love you.” I looked up into a face so perfect it seemed computer-generated. Seraphina Dubois, the world-renowned concert pianist. The ghost of a girl Asher Prescott supposedly never got over. She stood there in a couture champagne-colored gown, poised as a swan, but her eyes held the kind of disdain you reserve for something you’ve just scraped off your shoe. I was literally balling my fists, ready to give her a masterclass in survival of the fittest, when a tiny, world-weary sigh reverberated through my womb. (Here we go. Mom’s about to blow it.) (Last time, she fought Seraphina tooth and nail. It got her a conveniently arranged car accident, a lost baby, and a lonely death in a one-room apartment in Queens.) (Doesn’t she get it? With a guy like Dad, you have to play the victim. He’s already halfway on your side!) What? My battle-ready stance froze mid-flex. The victim? Honey, I’m an expert. (Stop arguing! Now! Clutch your stomach, cry, and fall into Dad! It’s not that hard, Mom, come on!) The baby’s voice was a lightning strike, illuminating a path I hadn’t seen. I understood instantly. The warrior mask I’d been wearing dissolved. In its place, a pale, fragile woman emerged. My body swayed, a picture of instability. I pressed one hand to my lower belly, stumbling backward as perfectly formed tears welled in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. “Miss Dubois, please… don’t say things like that…” My voice was a choked whisper, so fragile a stiff breeze might shatter it. “The baby… the baby can hear you… I… I feel so dizzy…” Seraphina was momentarily stunned by my sudden transformation, her brow furrowing with a mixture of impatience and contempt. Just as she was about to unleash another volley, I spotted the tall, imposing figure approaching behind her. With practiced precision, my knees gave out. “Ah—!” I cried out, letting my body fall backward. But I didn’t hit the cold, polished floor. I landed securely in a strong embrace that smelled of expensive cologne and cold power. Asher had followed us, likely expecting a scene. He didn’t expect to catch a damsel in distress. The primal, male instinct to protect kicked in instantly. He looked down, his gaze falling on my ghostly pale face and the hand clamped protectively over my stomach. His brow snapped into a severe line. “What the hell happened here?” His voice was a low, dangerous rumble. I didn’t speak. I just clung weakly to his sleeve, the tears falling faster now, painting the perfect picture of someone who had been deeply wounded but was too scared to say a word. The first crack appeared in Seraphina’s flawless composure. She clearly hadn’t anticipated my level of commitment to the role. “Asher, I was just talking to her. She just…” Before she could finish her lie, Asher cut her off, his voice like ice. “That’s enough.” He scooped me into his arms bridal-style and strode toward the exit without a second glance. As he passed Seraphina, he didn’t even bother to look at her. Nestled in his arms, I cracked open one eye just enough to send a silent, triumphant smile over his shoulder to the woman who now stood frozen in place. (Nice! The Damsel in Distress, Act One. Nailed it!) my unborn child cheered from within. (Dad’s a sucker for this knight-in-shining-armor routine. He can’t help himself.) 2 In the hospital, the sterile, antiseptic smell began to cut through the fog of my performance. A doctor stood before us, holding a tablet, his expression grim. “The patient’s emotional distress is causing uterine contractions. She’s at risk of a miscarriage and needs complete bed rest.” Asher stood beside me. At the word “miscarriage,” his gaze turned into a blade of ice, aimed directly at Seraphina, who stood, equally pale, in the doorway. It was the first time I had ever seen him look at her with anything resembling blame. A barely perceptible tremor ran through her body. I was settled into a private suite in the VIP wing, and Asher refused to leave my side. After a while, I “slowly” regained consciousness. I didn’t cry. I didn’t throw a fit. I just stared silently at the IV needle taped to the back of my hand. Then, with my other hand, I reached over, my movements weak but filled with a quiet finality, and tried to pull it out. “What are you doing?!” Asher’s hand shot out, clamping down on my wrist. His voice was thick with suppressed fury. I lifted my head, my eyes glistening with unshed tears, and looked at him. My expression was one of shattered, resigned calm. “Mr. Prescott, I’m so sorry.” “I never should have become an obstacle for you and Miss Dubois.” “I’ll leave now. I won’t bother you again.” I tried to push myself out of the bed, each movement a portrait of agony, my face paling even further. This strategic retreat was a direct assault on the control-obsessed psyche of a man like Asher Prescott. His child, his… woman. As if anyone else had the right to decide their fate. He pushed me back down onto the mattress, the force of it betraying the storm raging inside him. “My child. My decision,” he growled, his voice a low command. “You’re not going anywhere until I say so.” His tone was so absolute it startled me. Then, the tears I’d been holding back began to fall, silent, streaming down my face. Not the loud, hysterical sobbing of a tantrum, but the heartbreaking, muffled weeping of someone who has given up all hope. It was a cry scientifically engineered to trigger a man’s guilt and protective instincts. And it worked. The hard lines of Asher’s face softened slightly. He even looked, for a moment, like he wanted to wipe my tears away, his hand hovering awkwardly in the air before retreating. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a folder and a sleek, black credit card, tossing them onto the nightstand. “That’s the property transfer for the Greenwich estate. And an Amex Centurion card, no limit.” His voice was still cold, but the words were pure gold. “Move in. Rest. And don’t cause any more trouble.” He gave me one last, long look, then turned and left the room. I stared at the documents and the card, my heart doing a victory lap. (Whoa! Mom, you’re a genius! One part damsel in distress plus one part strategic retreat equals a private estate and a black card!) (Dad is totally eating this up. The whole ‘I protect what’s mine’ narrative? It’s his favorite fantasy!) My baby’s praise was intoxicating. I picked up the black card, holding it up to the light, admiring its sleek, understated power. As of today, I was a woman with no limits. Just as I was basking in the glow, the door swung open. It was Seraphina. Her public mask was gone, replaced by an expression of pure, venomous jealousy. “Don’t get cocky, Maya.” “How long do you think your pathetic little tricks will work on Asher?” “He loves me. You’re nothing but a broodmare.” I leaned back against the pillows, lazily waving the black card in my hand. “Is that so?” I smiled, a picture of unbothered calm. “Because right now, your Asher is laying his entire world at the feet of this ‘broodmare.’” “Things have changed, Seraphina. In this day and age, love alone won’t keep you warm at night.” 3 I dutifully moved into the sprawling, secluded estate in Greenwich. But I didn’t go on a wild shopping spree, maxing out the unlimited black card like some lottery winner. (Mom, you’re finally using your brain. The real final boss isn’t Seraphina; it’s my dad’s grandmother, the Prescott family matriarch.) (There are two kinds of people she despises: gold diggers who reek of new money, and people like Seraphina, those pretentious types who talk about art and philosophy.) (To her, playing the piano is just a frivolous hobby, something for the help. It’s not ‘serious work.’) Heeding my baby’s warning, I pivoted my strategy. I hired a team of top nutritionists, and my daily meals were tailored to a strict prenatal regimen. I dismissed most of the superfluous household staff, keeping only a cook and a cleaner. I didn’t spend my newfound free time at spas or designer boutiques. Instead, I went to the estate’s library, found a collection of classic literature and a few guides on calligraphy, and started to teach myself. I even bought a beautiful porcelain tea set and began studying the quiet art of the tea ceremony. My goal was to transform myself into a vision of grace, tranquility, and traditional elegance. Sure enough, less than two weeks later, a vintage, deep-green Bentley with discreet diplomatic plates rolled silently up the driveway. Matilda Prescott, the true power behind the Prescott throne, had arrived for an unscheduled inspection, her own staff in tow. When the news reached me, I was wearing a simple linen dress, sitting by the window, practicing my calligraphy. My lettering was amateurish, clumsy even, but my posture was perfect, my expression one of deep concentration. That was the first thing the matriarch saw when she entered the room. She didn’t look at me. Her sharp eyes swept the villa first. No mountains of shopping bags, no signs of loud parties. The house was as quiet as a monastery. A flicker of surprise, almost imperceptible, crossed her face, but her expression remained a stony mask. “You’re the one they call Maya?” she finally asked, her voice aged but strong. I put down my pen, rose to my feet, and gave her a small, respectful bow. “Mrs. Prescott. It’s an honor to meet you.” She offered no pleasantries in return. Instead, she gestured to one of her attendants, who promptly set up a chessboard on the table between us. “Do you play?” “A little,” I answered honestly. “But I’m not very skilled.” “Sit.” It was a test, plain and simple. I took a deep breath and sat across from her. My chess skills were, as I’d said, terrible. Within half an hour, she had decimated my defenses. I had no chance. But I never grew flustered or impatient. When I lost, I conceded gracefully, my demeanor humble and respectful. Halfway through the game, her private phone rang. It was Seraphina, no doubt calling to tattle on me. Her syrupy voice drifted from the receiver: “Matilda, darling, Asher is…” Matilda Prescott’s brow furrowed in annoyance after just two words. Her eyes flashed with displeasure as she ended the call without a word. “Tiresome,” she muttered under her breath. When the game ended in my complete and utter defeat, her gaze fell upon a small, warming bowl on the desk beside me. “What is this?” “It’s a tonic for the baby, Mrs. Prescott,” I explained softly. “My nutritionist recommended it.” She studied me for a long, silent moment, her eyes, weathered by decades of power and intrigue, seeming to peer directly into my soul. Finally, she slipped an antique sapphire pendant from her own neck and placed it on the chessboard. “Wear this. It will keep you calm.” Her tone was still cold, devoid of any warmth. I accepted it with both hands, my mind racing. (Take it, you fool! That’s not just any necklace!) My baby was practically doing somersaults. (That’s a Prescott family heirloom! It’s only given to the woman the family officially recognizes as the next matriarch! Congratulations, Mom, you just passed the first round of interviews!) 4 Seraphina must have heard through the grapevine that I had somehow earned the matriarch’s approval. The news reportedly sent her into such a rage that she nearly smashed her multi-million-dollar Stradivarius. Head-on attacks weren’t working. Tattling to the matriarch had backfired. She decided to change tactics, to use the one weapon she believed gave her an insurmountable advantage: her “art.” A short time later, a high-profile charity gala was announced, set to take place at New York’s most exclusive hotel. The host of the event was none other than Seraphina Dubois. She called me personally, her voice dripping with flawless, saccharine politeness, to insist that I attend as her guest of honor. I knew it was a trap. But I also knew I couldn’t refuse. The night of the gala, I arrived in an elegant but understated gown that Asher had selected for me. Seraphina was the center of attention, a queen holding court. When she saw me, she glided over, a champagne flute in hand. “Maya, darling. I’m so glad you could make it.” Her smile was a perfect, predatory thing. Halfway through the evening, Seraphina took to the stage and made a stunning announcement. She intended to donate her most prized personal possession—a classic painting titled Madonna and Child—directly to me, as a blessing for my unborn baby. A spotlight instantly swiveled and pinned me in its glare. Every eye in the room turned to me. Two attendants wheeled out a massive, velvet-draped easel. With a flourish, Seraphina unveiled the painting. On the canvas, a serene mother held her infant son, her expression a holy, sorrowful mixture of love and piety. The assembled elites began to murmur in admiration. “My God, Seraphina is just too kind, too generous!” “I’ve heard of this piece! She acquired it at a small, private auction in Geneva. It’s her absolute favorite.” “To have her man stolen by a rival and still offer such a profound blessing… that’s a level of class most people can only dream of.” Seraphina stood on the stage, bathing in their praise, looking for all the world like an angel gracing us with her presence. She held a microphone out towards me. “Maya, please, come and accept my most sincere blessing.” I was trapped. Roasted alive on a spit of public opinion. If I accepted the gift, I was admitting to her superior grace and my own lowly status. If I refused, I was petty, ungrateful, and publicly insulting the city’s artistic darling in front of all of New York society. Just as I was caught between a rock and a hard place, my baby’s internal alarm system went into overdrive. (Mom! Do not accept it! Don’t even touch that painting!) (I remember this from an article I read in my last life! The artist who painted this went completely insane right after finishing it! He murdered his own wife and child, claiming the baby in the painting was cursing him!) (This isn’t a blessing, it’s a curse wrapped in canvas! She wants to mess with your head, to make you stare at it day and night until you’re a paranoid, weeping mess with prenatal depression!) A cold sweat broke out across my back. My hesitation hardened into resolve. So, you want to play dirty? Fine. Let me teach you how the real game is played.

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For five years, I was a ghost. Five screenplays. That’s what it took to turn my boyfriend, an unknown actor scrounging for bit parts, into the industry’s newest leading man. And on the night of his greatest triumph, he stood on stage, clutching his award, and professed his love to the innocent-eyed drama student he mentored. “Thank you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “to my muse.” The girl, dissolving into perfect, camera-ready tears, whispered, “You shine so brightly, Ryan. I only ever dared to write down each word for you, hidden away in the shadows.” The internet exploded. They were a fairytale. A Hollywood dream. And I, the real author, was dismissed in his official statement as a “hired writer who’d lost her spark.” My agent’s advice? “Swallow it. He’s promised you the next script.” I laughed. That night, I created an account. I wrote a single post. “Hello, everyone. I’m Thea, the writer of Echoes in the Dark.” 1 On the live broadcast of the awards ceremony, Ryan Hayes looked every bit the star in his custom tuxedo. He stood in a halo of light, the perfect amount of ecstatic disbelief gracing his handsome features as he gripped the golden statuette—the highest honor in our world. I sat in my dark living room, the glow of my laptop screen illuminating my face. The file for his acceptance speech was still open. I had written it. Every word calibrated, every pause engineered for maximum effect. For Echoes in the Dark, the film that made him a legend, I had pulled seven all-nighters in a row. When I finally sent the last draft, my heart felt like it was being squeezed in a fist, each breath a painful gasp. The doctor called it severe cardiac strain. He said I was one deadline away from a fatal heart attack. I hid the diagnosis. I traded it for his glory tonight. “…thank you to the Academy, to my team,” his voice, rich and smooth, poured from the speakers. “But tonight, the person I need to thank the most… is someone very special.” My heart skipped. I sat up straighter, my back rigid. On the couch beside me was a pillow he’d signed in silver ink: “For Thea, my favorite ghost.” For five years, I had written from the shadows, building him, script by script, from a nobody into the man on that stage. We had a deal. The moment he won, we would go public. He would take my hand in front of the world and tell them that I, Thea Hayes, was the architect of his career. On the screen, his gaze swept over the adoring crowd. “She built the entire world of this film for me. She is my muse. Without her, the Ryan Hayes you see here tonight wouldn’t exist.” My breath caught. That wasn’t the line. The camera followed his gaze, panning across the audience before settling on a seat in a discreet corner. A young woman in a simple white dress stood up. Long hair, a face scrubbed clean and radiating innocence. It was Maya, the film student he sponsored, the one he always talked about. The spotlight found her instantly. Her eyes welled up, tears brimming, threatening to fall but never quite spilling over. Ryan extended a hand toward her, his voice softening to a tender murmur. “Maya, come up here. This belongs to you as much as it does to me. My brilliant ghost.” Clutching her dress, Maya walked onto the stage that was supposed to have been mine. She took the microphone from Ryan, her voice a trembling, tear-choked whisper. “Ryan, you’re just… you’re too much. I… I only ever dared to write down the little words that flickered in my mind, for you. I never imagined…” Her broken sentences were a masterpiece. They were all the audience needed to write the rest of the story themselves: a tale of a brilliant artist discovering a hidden gem, of humble genius rewarded. And just like that, every sleepless night, every word I’d bled onto the page, became her quiet, selfless devotion. Every plot twist I’d agonized over became a product of their soul-deep connection. I, Thea, on the night of Ryan Hayes’s coronation, had been erased. I was nothing more than a nameless extra in their sweeping love story. Instantly, the internet was on fire. #RyanAndMayaFairytale #ActorRewardsMuse #MayaTheGenius My phone buzzed violently. It was my agent, Diane. I answered, my own voice feeling foreign in my ears. Her tone was ice. “Thea. You’re watching. For the good of everyone, you will say nothing.” “The good of everyone?” My voice was a dry rasp. “Diane, I wrote that script.” “We know,” she snapped, her impatience palpable. “But the ‘pure, undiscovered talent’ narrative plays better than ‘bitter ghostwriter in the attic.’ Thea, you need to accept where you are. To be blunt, your spark has been running on fumes for a year. The fact that Ryan still uses you… that’s a blessing.” A blessing. So that’s what the last five years of my life, the very marrow of my bones, amounted to. A tool, easily replaced. My fingers tightened around the phone, my knuckles turning white. Sensing my silence, Diane dangled the bait. “Just keep your head down. No drama. Ryan promised. His next tentpole project—the script is yours. It’s an S-plus production. Don’t be an idiot.” She hung up. The living room was deathly quiet. My eyes drifted over the stacks of screenwriting books, the boxes of old drafts, the framed awards on the wall—my awards, the ones Ryan had never allowed me to publicly claim. Suddenly, the pain in my chest was gone. When you push agony past its limit, all that’s left is a cold, clean numbness. I rose slowly and walked to my laptop. I opened a web browser. Using my driver’s license, I registered a new Twitter account. In the bio, I typed a single line. “Hello, everyone. I’m Thea, the writer of Echoes in the Dark.” 2 My tweet was a single stone dropped into the raging ocean of the internet. It made a tiny ripple, then was immediately swallowed by a tidal wave of mockery and vitriol. “Who is this psycho? Desperate for her 15 minutes of fame.” “LMAO, this is the most pathetic attempt to ride someone’s coattails I’ve ever seen. Jealous much?” “Jilted ex-girlfriend? Or just a stalker? This is a new low.” “Honey, if you’re gonna make a claim like that, you need receipts. Nobody believes a random tweet.” Ryan’s fanbase was a terrifyingly efficient army. They descended on my account, flooding my mentions and DMs with a torrent of filth. I didn’t respond. I just watched it all unfold, a silent observer to my own crucifixion. Late that night, Maya went live on Instagram. No makeup, wearing a plain white t-shirt, she broadcasted from a spartan-looking dorm room. Her eyes were puffy and red, her face pale. She was the very picture of persecuted innocence. “I don’t know how all of this happened…” Her voice broke as she bowed deeply to the camera. “I’m so sorry for taking up everyone’s time. I… I’ve always admired Thea. I’ve read her early work. She’s incredibly talented.” She praised me first, a masterful move. Then, the pivot. A single, perfect tear slid down her cheek. “But… inspiration… you can’t control it. When Ryan and I would talk about the story, ideas would just… they would just pour out. It was like we were two halves of the same soul. I honestly didn’t mean for any of this to happen… If my existence has hurt Thea in any way, I am so, so sorry.” It was flawless. She was the innocent, the humble admirer of my past work, a helpless victim of her own overwhelming talent and a once-in-a-generation connection. In the same breath, she subtly painted me as a has-been, a technician who could only write formulaic, soulless commercial scripts while she was the true artist, the one who communed with Ryan’s soul. Just then, my phone rang. It was Ryan. “Thea, stop it. You’re embarrassing yourself.” His voice was laced with a hangover and undisguised annoyance. “I’ll have accounting wire you the final payment for Echoes tomorrow. Double. Just delete the tweet, keep your mouth shut, and you’ll get paid for the next one.” He didn’t even bother to ask, to argue, to explain. He just used money as a muzzle. “And if I don’t?” I asked softly. A cold, humorless laugh came from his end. “Thea, don’t push me. You can’t win against me, and you can’t win against the studio. Don’t burn the last bridge you have.” He hung up. I held the cold phone in my hand and smiled. He was right. How could I possibly win? He was the beloved new star, backed by a mountain of money and a ruthless PR machine. And I was just a ghostwriter, a lemon squeezed dry, ready to be discarded. The next day, I went back to the apartment Ryan and I had shared for five years—the place that had also been my studio—to pack my things. I had just wrestled a heavy box of manuscripts to the door when I ran straight into Maya. “Thea. Thanks for taking care of Ryan all these years. I’ll take it from here.” She smiled, her eyes dropping to the box in my arms. “And I should thank you for this, too. A writer like you, with no real spark, just a lot of discipline… you were born to be a ghostwriter. The perfect person to do the grunt work for our love story.” A needle of pain pierced my heart, but my face remained a mask of calm. My silence seemed to infuriate her. She picked up a mug of steaming coffee from a nearby table. With a theatrical little gasp of “oops,” she let her hand slip, sending the entire scalding contents splashing across the box in my arms. It was the original draft of Echoes in the Dark. Five years of my life, covered in my own frantic, hand-written notes. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry, Thea! I’m so clumsy!” she cried out, her voice dripping with fake alarm. I lost my composure. I lunged forward and grabbed her wrist. “Maya!” This was exactly what she wanted. The instant my fingers closed around her arm, she let out a blood-curdling scream, threw herself backward against the wall, and slid dramatically to the floor. “Ahh! Thea, don’t hit me! I know you hate me, but you can’t assault me!” she shrieked, clutching her arm and sobbing hysterically. The apartment door swung open at that exact moment. Ryan, looking like he’d rushed back from a photoshoot, saw the scene: Maya, crumpled and weeping on the floor, and me, standing over her, my hand on her wrist, my face a mask of fury. He didn’t ask a single question. He didn’t even look at me. He bolted forward and shoved me, hard. Caught off balance, I stumbled back, my head hitting the cold wall. The box fell from my arms, scattering the coffee-soaked pages across the floor. Ryan knelt, gathering Maya into his arms, murmuring soft comforts. “It’s okay, Maya, I’m here. You’re safe.” Then, he turned to me, his eyes filled with a disgust so profound it stole my breath. “Thea, I was so wrong about you. I knew you’d lost your talent, but I didn’t know you were this venomous.” Every word was a perfectly aimed dagger, twisting into a heart that was already in shreds. “She’s a kid, just starting out. And you pull this kind of shit on her? Can’t you stand to see anyone else succeed?” I stared at him, at the triumphant smirk peeking through Maya’s crocodile tears, and the sheer absurdity of it all washed over me. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. What was the point? In this tableau, any explanation would sound like a lie. Seeing my silence, the disgust in Ryan’s eyes hardened into something colder. He pulled out his phone, dialed Diane, and put it on speaker. “Diane, call legal. Terminate Thea’s contract. Effective immediately. My team has no room for a vindictive, washed-up hack.” His voice was glacial. “I never want to see her again. Thea, you’re fired.” 3 The next day, a termination letter from the studio’s legal department was delivered by courier to the cheap motel I was staying in. The reason cited was “breach of contract via disclosure of confidential company information, causing severe reputational damage to the studio’s talent.” They weren’t just firing me. They were demanding I repay all my earnings from the past year and pay an eight-figure sum in damages. At the same time, the production company I had registered, which the studio had funded, was being forcibly dissolved and its assets seized. This wasn’t a termination. It was an execution. They wanted to leave me with nothing but a mountain of debt I could never possibly repay. Before I could even process the letter, my phone buzzed with a text message. It was from Ryan’s number. I opened it. It was a photo. Maya was curled up in his arms like a cat, and the background was our bedroom—the bedroom we had shared for five years. Ryan’s arm was wrapped around her, his head bent to kiss the top of her hair. It was a scene of domestic bliss that felt like a violation. Beneath the photo was a single line of text: “Thanks for making room, Thea.” A wave of nausea washed over me. Moments later, I heard a commotion outside. Peeking through the blinds, I saw movers from one of those junk removal services, unceremoniously dumping my belongings onto the curb. The sofa I’d picked out. The pillows I’d cried into during late-night writing sessions. Even the one he had signed, “For Thea, my favorite ghost,” was tossed into the dirt. Ryan wasn’t even giving me the dignity of packing my own life away. I closed the blinds, shutting out the world. Over the next few days, I learned the true meaning of being blacklisted. Ryan’s studio put the word out to every production house and streaming service in the business: anyone who hired Thea Hayes was an enemy of Ryan Hayes. The dozens of résumés I sent out vanished into a black hole. Producers who had once showered me with praise now ignored my calls and left my texts on “read.” The exile was swift and absolute. Worse, though, was the doxxing. Maya’s fans, somehow, found my location. My motel room door was pelted with garbage. Threatening notes were slipped underneath it. Every knock sent a jolt of fear through me. I unplugged my laptop. I turned off my phone. I sealed myself off from the world. I didn’t cry. I didn’t rage. I simply sat on the floor of that dingy room, surrounded by the wreckage of my life, and began to calmly, methodically, take inventory of my legacy. The coffee-stained manuscript pages. I carefully blotted each one, smoothing out the wrinkles. The words were blurred, but they were the raw, undeniable proof of my process. I found all my old laptops and hard drives. From the very first day I worked with Ryan, I’d had a habit: I recorded every important conversation. Every draft, every outline, every revision of every script—I had saved every version, each with a timestamped digital file. It was a writer’s instinct, a subconscious need to protect my work. I never thought these files would become my arsenal. As I sorted through an encrypted folder, my hand froze. The folder was two years old. It was labeled: Daybreak. I clicked it open. Inside was the complete world-building bible, detailed character biographies, a 30,000-word beat sheet for the entire series, and… the full scripts for the first three episodes. My heart began to hammer against my ribs. I remembered something. Before I even started writing Echoes in the Dark, Ryan’s team had pushed me to begin developing their next S-plus project, Daybreak. To protect this new world, the one I had poured all my ambition into, I had done something different. Before I ever submitted it to the studio, I had registered the copyright for the Daybreak treatment, bible, and pilot script under my own name. And the development contract I’d signed with the studio contained only a vague clause about an “option to license.” It never mentioned a transfer of the underlying rights. They thought they could just kick me to the curb and the project would be theirs. They thought they could install their new muse, Maya, and seamlessly steal my creation. They were wrong. My hand trembled as I gripped the mouse. This was my checkmate. Just then, my reconnected laptop pinged with a news alert. The headline read: [Golden Boy Ryan Hayes and Genius Newcomer Maya Linwood to Launch S-Plus Epic, Daybreak, with Press Conference Next Week!] The accompanying photo was of Ryan and Maya, beaming, their arms around each other. The conquerors. I looked at the glowing screen, at their triumphant faces, and I started to laugh. Tears streamed down my face, but this time, they were not tears of sorrow.

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The night my husband cried into his pillow for the third time in a week, I pretended to be asleep. Again. It started six months ago, the day his old flame, Isabelle, moved back from Europe, newly divorced. From that moment on, something in him shifted. His gaze, his moods, his very essence became tethered to the ghost of the girl he once loved and lost. He was a good husband, a wonderful father. Every asset we owned—the house, the savings, the investment accounts—was in my name. His entire salary was direct-deposited into my account without him ever seeing a dime. He fought it. I know he did. He was trying so hard to be honorable, to respect the boundaries of our marriage, to keep his feelings for her locked away. But then he sold one of his kidneys behind my back. He took the money and bought Isabelle a small condo. That’s when I placed the divorce papers on the table, along with a bank check for half of our liquid assets. “You don’t have to sell your organs to fund your romance, Ethan,” I said, my voice calmer than I felt. “This should be enough to cover it.” 1 Panic seized him. He didn’t touch the papers. Instead, he shot his hand up as if taking an oath, his eyes wide and frantic. “Nora, I swear on my mother’s life, on my whole family, nothing happened with Isabelle. We haven’t slept together. We haven’t even kissed. We haven’t held hands.” He looked like a child caught in a lie, terrified by my composure. His eyes, usually so steady, began to swim with moisture. In ten years of marriage, with an eight-year-old son between us, this was the first time the word ‘divorce’ had ever been spoken. It was the first time I had ever seen him look so broken, so utterly unlike himself. “What about holding her?” I asked quietly. A flicker of guilt crossed his face. He dropped his gaze, his voice thick with shame. “Twice. We hugged twice. Not for more than a minute either time.” He looked back up at me, his voice pleading. “Nora, I know I messed up. I lost my sense of perspective. I don’t want this family to fall apart. Please… please don’t leave me.” A sharp pain, more ache than anger, tightened in my chest. Even now, with his heart emotionally cheating on me, my first instinct was to protect him from the very torment he was putting himself through. I couldn’t erase ten years of his goodness, of his devotion, just because of this. I forced myself to remain steady. “I don’t hate you, Ethan. Even if we divorce, you’ll always be Sam’s dad. Always. But more importantly, I want you to be happy.” I took a breath, the words tasting like ash. “If our marriage has to end, I’d rather it be with a clean cut than a slow, painful death.” His panic intensified, a thousand unspoken arguments dying on his lips. I left him there, giving him the space to process. I didn’t expect Isabelle to come to me. She arrived at my front door holding a fruit basket and a six-pack of the specific organic probiotic yogurt my son loves—a brand that’s hard to find, one you’d only know about if someone told you. Ethan had obviously been doing his homework for her. “Hello, I’m Isabelle,” she said, her smile gentle. “May I come in?” She was more polite than I’d imagined. More beautiful, too, with an effortless elegance. A decade hadn’t touched her. She looked exactly the same as she did in the photograph Ethan kept hidden in a password-protected file on his laptop. “Please,” I said, battling the storm of emotions inside me as I led her to the living room and poured her a glass of water. Her eyes drifted around our home, a subtle, scanning appraisal. I met her gaze directly. “If you like this house, I can make sure Ethan gets it in the settlement.” I meant it. This wasn’t me being generous; it was me being realistic. I’d been a stay-at-home mom for ten years. The savings, the properties—they were all the result of Ethan’s relentless hard work. I had seen the blood, sweat, and sleepless nights he’d poured into building this life. I couldn’t bear the thought of him walking away with nothing. Isabelle’s composure faltered. “Oh, no, you’ve misunderstood. That’s not what I meant at all.” She leaned forward, her expression a mask of sincerity. “I heard from Ethan that you were talking about divorce. I came to talk you out of it.” She sighed, a delicate, practiced sound. “I truly never intended to disrupt your family. I had no idea Ethan was still… holding on to that time in our lives. He told me you two had an arranged marriage. That while there wasn’t love, there was a deep family bond. You shouldn’t throw that away over an impulse.” A bitter taste filled my mouth. “He told you there was no love between us?” Isabelle fell silent, her silence a deliberate confirmation. Just like that, the sliver of respect I might have had for her vanished. She was just like all the others, hiding her thorns under a layer of soft wool. As she stood to leave, she “accidentally” tripped on the leg of the coffee table, crying out in pain as she crumpled to the floor. And right on cue, the front door opened. Ethan was home. 2 Isabelle let out a soft sob, making a show of trying to push herself up, her body seemingly too weak to manage it. The worry in Ethan’s eyes was a physical thing, a wave of raw emotion he desperately tried to suppress the moment he saw me watching him. He schooled his features into a mask of neutrality, but it was too late. The shift was a needle to my heart. I kept my own voice even, a deliberate act of calm. “What are you waiting for? Go help her.” Isabelle looked up at him, her eyes glistening with manufactured tears. “Ethan, don’t be mad at Nora. It’s not her fault. I’m fine.” The implication hung in the air, a poisonous suggestion that I had pushed her. I offered a small, dismissive smile. Ethan was frozen, torn. He, who always listened to me, hesitated, his eyes screaming that he wanted to rush to her side but was terrified of my reaction. He was trying to spare my feelings, but he didn’t realize his eyes had already betrayed him. “I’m just going to use the restroom,” I said, my voice level. I was offering them a moment of privacy, an act of grace I wasn’t sure they deserved. When I returned, Isabelle was gone. The fruit basket and the yogurt were gone with her. Ethan rushed to explain, his words tumbling out. “I didn’t ask her to come. She just wanted to help, to explain. She doesn’t want us to divorce either.” I managed a faint smile. How could a man so brilliant be so blind to her intentions? “Honestly, Ethan, I think she loves you more than I do. You two are a better—” “I bought that salmon you like,” he interrupted, holding up a grocery bag. “I’ll start dinner. You go watch some TV.” He fled to the kitchen before I could finish my thought. A better fit. For ten years, he had taken care of me so completely that I still didn’t know how to cook a proper meal. I used to think that kind of care was love. Now, whether it was love or not didn’t seem to matter anymore. From the perspective of family, of someone who genuinely cared for him, I was willing to step aside and give him what he truly wanted. Our son, Sam, came home from school, and we ate dinner together, the conversation flowing as it always did. The first piece of fish Ethan picked up with his chopsticks, he placed in my bowl—a habit so ingrained that Sam had picked it up, too, often adding his own contributions to my plate. “Mom,” Sam said suddenly, “can we go to Grandma’s this weekend?” The thought of facing Ethan’s mother while we were navigating a divorce was too much. “Maybe in a little while, honey.” Sam’s face fell, his lower lip pushing out in a pout. Ethan saw the flicker of annoyance in my eyes and immediately turned on our son. “Hey, you listen to your mother. In this house, Mom is the boss. I listen to her, and you listen to her. Don’t you dare make her upset, you hear me?” Sam, used to this dynamic, just rolled his eyes. “Dad, you’re so whipped. You’re always sucking up to Mom.” It was true. Ethan had always, without fail, put me first. He shot a nervous glance my way now, as if seeking my approval. Later that night, in bed, he wrapped his arms around me from behind, burying his face in the curve of my neck. His voice was a heavy murmur against my skin. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lost focus. I’ll fix it. I promise.” How could he fix it? A part of his body was already gone. I said nothing, my heart aching with a dull, persistent pain. Just after midnight, her call came. Inevitable. Ethan, thinking I was asleep, tiptoed out of the room, phone in hand, and shut himself in the bathroom. Two minutes later, I heard the faint click of the front door closing. He said he would change, but the ghost of his past had beckoned, and he had followed. 3 The next morning, I was in the kitchen, awkwardly following a YouTube tutorial for making pancakes, when Ethan returned. He rushed straight to the bedroom first, and only when he didn’t find me there did he track the smell of burning batter to the kitchen. He gently took the apron from around my waist, like a parent shooing a child away from the stove. “Let me do it. You go back to bed for a little while.” He handed me his phone, a video already cued up. “Isabelle had an emergency appendectomy last night. She doesn’t have any family here, so she had to call me to take her to the hospital. I recorded it so you wouldn’t misunderstand.” He watched me, his expression earnest, desperate for me to believe him. I handed the phone back without watching. Whether it was true or not no longer mattered. “You just had major surgery yourself,” I said softly. “You need to take it easy. You only have one kidney now; you can’t overexert yourself.” His face crumpled with guilt. “I’m sorry. I was being stupid.” “If you’re really sorry,” I said, my voice firm, “then let me do this.” I pushed him out of the kitchen and locked the door from the inside. After a long struggle, I emerged with a plate of burnt, salty pancakes and a fresh cut on my index finger. Ethan’s eyes filled with tears when he saw it. He gently cleaned the cut, applying antiseptic and a bandage with a tenderness that made my own eyes burn. Sam saw the scene and piped up with his usual refrain, “Mom, you’re the luckiest woman in the world. Dad treats you like a princess.” It wasn’t just our son. Everyone said it. Everyone told me how lucky I was to have a husband like Ethan. If this were just a simple case of emotional infidelity, maybe I could have looked the other way. But I had seen the evidence of his struggle. The prescriptions for antidepressants hidden in his desk drawer. The research on electroconvulsive therapy on his browser history. He was torturing himself, caught between his guilt and his obsession. Ever since Isabelle returned, he hadn’t had a single night of peaceful sleep. He called her name in his dreams and woke up crying silently in the bathroom. He was drowning in a severe depression. I knew he was trying, with every fiber of his being, to hold our family together. But I was more afraid of losing him to his own private hell than I was of losing his love. The next day, he came home with a duffel bag half-full of cash. “Isabelle gave the money back,” he said, his voice hopeful. “Nora, can you please just forgive me this one time?” He didn’t know that fifteen minutes earlier, I’d received a text from her. Thanks for making this so easy for us. Don’t worry, the money Ethan gave me for the condo can just come out of your joint assets. That way, you won’t lose out. Attached was a photo. It was the inside of a closet, filled with brand-new men’s clothing—Ethan’s size. Taped to the closet door was a picture of her, radiant in a white dress, clinging to Ethan’s arm. I looked at the crisp, new bills in the bag. “Give it back to her, Ethan. You know I don’t care about the money.” I went to our bedroom and retrieved a debit card. “We have about six million in savings. This card has three million on it. The other half is for me and Sam.” I tried to have the conversation again, to be calm and rational, but the moment he saw the card, he panicked, shoving it back into my hand. “I am not getting a divorce. Just give me some time. We can go back to how things were.” His grip on my hand was tight, trembling. His eyes were wet again. My heart broke for him. I pulled him into a hug, stroking his back. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “Don’t be afraid of hurting me. We were an arranged match, remember? There was no great love story. We have a family bond, not a romance.” I pulled back to look him in the eye. “You’ve given me so many good years, Ethan. I’m grateful. And because I’m grateful, I want you to be happy, not shackled by duty. I truly believe we both need to be free.” He clung to me, his tears soaking the collar of my shirt. “I want this family,” he choked out. “I don’t want a divorce.” 4 I couldn’t get through to him. My only other option was Isabelle. She couldn’t quite figure me out, but she was clearly delighted that I was willing to step aside. “Ethan is a man with a powerful sense of duty,” I told her over coffee. “A powerful sense of responsibility to his family. Even if there’s no love left in our marriage, he’ll hold on for our son’s sake.” I paused, letting the next words land. “If you really want to be with him, your best bet is to get him drunk and get him into bed. It’s probably the only way to force his hand.” Her eyes narrowed, searching my face. “Are you seeing someone else? Is that why you’re in such a hurry to end it?” “No,” I said honestly. “I’ve seen how much he loves you. It’s killing him. After ten years together, I don’t want to watch him suffer. And my son deserves a father who is mentally healthy. So I’m willing to let you have him.” My words seemed to move her. She placed a hand over mine. “I will love him with everything I have,” she promised. “We’ll be so happy.” It didn’t take long for her to make her move. She sent me a photo from her bed, the sheets tangled around Ethan’s sleeping form. Come and catch us. It’ll make the divorce go faster. But I couldn’t. I didn’t have the strength. I was already in the ICU. Lying on the cold operating table, my consciousness fading, I could faintly hear a doctor on the phone with Ethan. His voice was strained with terror. “We have the money. Just please, you have to save my wife.” A tear slid from the corner of my eye. Oh, Ethan. Why does your sense of honor have to be so damn strong? I wish you could have just been a complete bastard. It would have made letting you go so much easier. He rushed to the hospital, Isabelle trailing behind him. The doctor’s voice was grim. “Your wife has had a major heart attack. The chances of saving her are low. Even if we do, she’ll likely be in a persistent vegetative state.” Ethan didn’t hesitate for a second. “Save her. Even as a vegetable, save her.” The doctor pressed on. “It’s not just the heart attack. She has an underlying heart condition that’s causing other complications. The medical bills will be in the millions. It could be a bottomless pit. I have to be honest with you—you’ll most likely lose both her and the money.” The fear in Ethan’s eyes was overwhelming, but his voice was firm. “Save her.” “Okay. The nurse will bring the consent forms. You’ll need to sign.” The moment the doctor finished speaking, Ethan pulled out his phone and dialed his real estate agent. “I have five properties. I need you to sell them all. As fast as you can.” Isabelle’s face went pale. “Ethan,” she said, her voice a low, urgent whisper. “I know you’re a good man, and you can’t just let Nora die. But you have to be realistic. The doctor is telling you it’s hopeless. Risking everything you have is… it’s reckless.” She took a step closer, her voice dropping. “Have you thought about me? About us? Today is my ovulation day. We were just together. I get pregnant easily, Ethan. There’s a ninety percent chance I’m carrying your child right now. You’re not just going to walk away from that responsibility, are you? Please, listen to me. Don’t do this. We’ve done all we can.” She tried to frame it as logic, as caring for him. “If you ignore me, if you choose to bankrupt yourself for Nora, then it means she’s more important to you than I am. And if that’s the case, we should never see each other again.” It was a blatant power play. She was so sure he would choose her that she even made a show of turning to leave. Just then, a nurse hurried over with a clipboard. “Have you decided? Do you want us to proceed with resuscitation?”

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Audrey and I grew up in the same manicured suburban world. She was in love with the boy next door, the polished and polite Ethan. I was in love with the boy downstairs, the cold and commanding Rhys. We were on our own separate, fruitless quests until the day we discovered that both Ethan and Rhys were in love with the new girl, Tessa. I held on for a while, then let go. Audrey, however, said she was going to keep trying. I yelled at her, told her she was a fool, and then, for my own sanity, I left the country for grad school. Seven years later, I flew home. Audrey picked me up from the airport. I smiled and asked her how things were going with Ethan. She took a sip of her wine, paused for a long moment, and then said, very quietly, “Sloane, I’ve decided to give up on Ethan.” 1 Honestly, I never thought I’d hear those words come out of Audrey’s mouth. I can still remember the day Rhys and I imploded. I had pleaded with her, my own heartbreak still raw. “Audrey, just let it go. They’re completely under her spell. In their eyes, Tessa is this delicate, helpless little thing, and we’re the villains.” “It’s just a guy,” I’d pushed. “Come with me. Get out of here. A change of scenery will do you good.” I remember how she just smiled at me. She was beautiful. She’d always been the perfect one—top of our class, homecoming queen, with a personality so genuinely kind it was almost infuriating. I could never understand what kind of spell Tessa had cast on Ethan, what made him choose a girl who was so obviously a pale imitation of what he could have had with Audrey. She shook her head gently. “My feelings for Ethan are about me, Sloane,” she’d said. “They don’t depend on him.” It was the kind of line that would sound cheesy coming from anyone else, but from Audrey, it just made your heart ache for her. I sighed, a mix of frustration and pity. “Fine. Just… try not to regret this later.” After that, I left. Audrey must have known I couldn’t stand to hear their names, because she never mentioned Ethan or Rhys in our calls. But our circle of mutual friends was a tangled web, and gossip was unavoidable. Little pieces of their story found their way to me across the ocean. I heard that Tessa, after stringing both of them along, finally chose Rhys. I heard that Ethan got blackout drunk, and Audrey stayed with him all night. I heard that Audrey followed Ethan to the same university. I heard that Audrey and Ethan were finally together. … Eventually, Ethan posted it on Instagram, making it official. It was a picture of Audrey. They were in a restaurant, the city lights glittering behind them like a thousand tiny stars. She was smiling at the camera, her eyes so full of soft, genuine love it felt like you could feel it through the screen. She was stunning. Their hands were tightly clasped on the table. At the time, I was truly happy for her. She had loved him since we were kids. After all those years, it felt like she had finally earned her happy ending. So I commented with a single word: Congratulations. After that, I got buried in my thesis, and my contact with everyone back home dwindled. Until today. I’m back, Audrey’s here to pick me up, and we’re sitting in a quiet wine bar. I’d asked about her and Ethan. I expected a blush, a happy sigh. I never, ever expected her to be so calm, her voice so light, as she told me, “Sloane, I’ve decided to give up on Ethan.” I stared at her for a second. She was looking down into her glass, her head bowed. The dim, intimate lighting of the bar cast a glow from behind her, obscuring her expression. All I could see was the sweep of her lashes—long, dark, like the fanned wings of a bird about to take flight. Her tone was so casual, as if she were talking about the weather. It took me a moment to find my voice. “But… you’re engaged, aren’t you?” A small, brittle laugh escaped her. Audrey was always so gentle, her interactions with the world were defined by a soft warmth. This was the first time I’d ever seen such a cold, cynical look on her face. She lifted her eyes to meet mine, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “People get divorced, Sloane,” she said, her voice still impossibly light. “An engagement is even easier to walk away from.” I was silent. I didn’t know what to say. Audrey and I were polar opposites. She was the quiet, gentle soul; I was the outspoken, impulsive one. When we were little, our parents used to joke about swapping daughters. My mom wished I had a fraction of Audrey’s grace, and her mom wished she had a spark of my fire. That all stopped after I pinned the neighborhood bully to the ground and made him cry for his mommy. Back then, I was the kid who was always covered in dirt, a little tornado in pigtails. And Audrey would be right there behind me in her pristine dress and patent leather shoes, her hair in a perfect princess braid, quietly holding my backpack. She was my lookout when I was about to pummel some kid for pulling her hair, her voice a tense whisper: “Sloane, a teacher’s coming!” We were inseparable from the first day of kindergarten. Our friendship was ironclad—though it faced its first real test when we hit that awkward, confusing age of first crushes. I was secretly into Rhys, she was secretly into Ethan, and for a horrible few weeks, we each suspected the other was in love with the same boy. Fueled by a diet of 90s teen dramas, we both subscribed to the sacred rule: you don’t go after your best friend’s crush. We danced around it, hiding our feelings awkwardly, until I couldn’t take the tension anymore. I confronted her directly. She refused to say. So I went first. “I like Rhys.” She just blinked at me, her brain trying to catch up. “What? Wait. You like… Rhys?” I narrowed my eyes. “So who do you like?” A blush crept up her neck, and she looked down, mumbling into her chest. “Ethan.” “Ugh,” I groaned. “You like that pretty boy? He’s always got that fake smile plastered on his face. What’s the point of being handsome if you’re that boring?” She shot me a glare, firing right back. “And Rhys? He walks around like everyone owes him money. It’s so childish.” We went back and forth, each defending our chosen champion, until we both just dissolved into laughter. She sighed, a real, happy sigh. “This is great.” And it was. It really was. Back then, liking someone was so simple. I fell for Rhys because the pack of neighborhood kids I’d been terrorizing for years finally decided to stage a coup. They cornered me, ready for revenge, when Rhys, who had just moved in, took them all on, one against ten. He dusted off his hands and sneered, “A bunch of guys ganging up on one girl? Pathetic.” Then he turned to me and held out his hand. “Don’t worry. What’s your name?” I instantly morphed into a timid little lamb, hiding the wiffle ball bat I’d been holding behind my back. “Sloane,” I whispered shyly. He grinned, took my hand, and walked me home. “Cool. I just moved in downstairs. I’ve got your back from now on.” I put on my best damsel-in-distress act and nodded sweetly under my mother’s baffled gaze. Audrey’s crush on Ethan was even simpler. He was a year older, a grade ahead of us. He was brilliant, the one who always gave the student address at school assemblies. Audrey was a straight-A student, too. I figured it was a meeting of the minds, a mutual admiration between honor students. Because we all lived so close, the four of us became a unit. We were the golden kids, the ones everyone knew. On the night of my sixteenth birthday, we celebrated on the beach, and I made a wish with all the sincerity a sixteen-year-old could muster: “I hope the four of us stay like this forever.” A month later, we started our sophomore year of high school and met Tessa. 2 Tessa. The clumsy, quiet work-study student. The first week of school, she managed to spill a cup of scalding hot coffee all over my arm. I hissed, sucking in a sharp breath as the skin instantly blistered. But before I could even react, she was the one who cried out, her face tilted up, eyes already brimming with tears. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—” She looked so pathetic that I swallowed the angry words on the tip of my tongue. I just stared at the two huge, angry red welts forming on my skin, the stinging pain making me wince. Rhys, who was beside me, took one look at my arm and then shot her a death glare. “Don’t you have eyes?” he said, his voice dripping with ice. She flinched and stared at the floor, her tears now falling in silent, fat drops onto the linoleum. The sight of it was irritating. “Forget it,” I said. “It’s fine. It was an accident.” That was how we met. To be honest, I never gave Tessa a second thought. We were in the same homeroom, but she had all the presence of a ghost. Northwood Academy was one of two things: a place for the exceptionally brilliant scholarship kids or a playground for the children of the city’s elite. Tessa didn’t seem to fit into the first category, and judging by her worn-out clothes and the perpetual anxiety in her posture, she definitely wasn’t one of the latter. Someone once wondered aloud if maybe her dad was a teacher at the school. No one cared enough to find out. This wasn’t some TV show; the rich kids and the smart kids were too busy competing for Ivy League spots to bother with bullying some nobody. People like Tessa weren’t targeted; they were simply ignored. It’s a cruel kind of reality. She and a quiet, overweight boy sat in the back corner, blending into the wallpaper. The first time I really saw her was when she got into an argument. Her deskmate, the quiet boy, was standing in the aisle after class, blocking the way. The guy behind him, Greg, waited a beat before sighing loudly. “Some people shouldn’t be allowed to block traffic,” he muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. Tessa, who was normally silent, shot to her feet. “You can’t talk about people’s bodies like that,” she said, her face bright red. I knew Greg. He was from a wealthy family, arrogant and mouthy, but not malicious. Being called out in public like that wounded his pride. He sneered at Tessa. “Excuse me? He’s been standing there like a statue for five minutes. And you’re his knight in shining armor? How touching.” He smirked. “You two are a perfect match.” Tessa looked like she’d been slapped. She stood there, crimson-faced, unable to form a single comeback. Her deskmate, however, was quick to distance himself. “I don’t even like her,” he mumbled. A few people snickered. Tessa just stood there, mortified. I frowned. Greg was being an asshole, but Tessa jumping in to defend someone who clearly didn’t deserve it was just as stupid. Still, it had gone on long enough. “Greg,” I called out, my voice sharp. “Are you leaving or not? If you’re late for next period, I’m putting your name down for a week of cafeteria duty.” He threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, Madam President. I’m going.” He squeezed past Tessa and her deskmate without another word. Tessa looked over at me. We were too far apart for me to read her expression, but I could feel her eyes on me as she stood there, frozen. I just shrugged and turned away. Behind me, I heard Rhys let out a quiet, dismissive sound. “Idiot.” After that day, Tessa seemed to shrink even further into herself. Every time I look back on this, I want to go back in time and slap some sense into my sixteen-year-old self. Maybe it was pity, or maybe I was just having a moment of profound stupidity. I’m not one to get involved, but I’ve always had what Audrey once called a “misguided sense of heroic compassion.” That year, for our school’s Founders’ Day celebration, every student had to participate in a performance. My grades were average, but I excelled in these kinds of “extracurriculars.” I wrote and directed a one-act play, which conveniently took care of the performance requirement for a dozen of my more introverted classmates. As class president, I was in charge of collecting everyone’s sign-ups. The deadline was approaching, and the only person who hadn’t signed up was Tessa. When I went to her desk, she looked deeply uncomfortable, refusing to meet my eyes as if she were ashamed. I got it immediately. Trying to sound casual, to spare her dignity, I said, “Hey, you know, my play is missing a piece of scenery. A rock. All you have to do is sit on stage. You in?” She gave a small, grateful nod. I never could have imagined that this stupid play, this throwaway role, would be the beginning of everything between her and Rhys. The part of the rock was literally created so she wouldn’t be embarrassed, but she took it so seriously. She’d put on the lumpy, grey costume and lie on the stage, perfectly still for the entire rehearsal. It was, in its own way, very dedicated. Once, after we finished a run-through, she must have gotten a cramp in her leg. She staggered when she tried to stand up. Rhys, without a word, tossed her a bottle of water. “You’re a rock,” he said, his voice flat. “It’s just a rehearsal, you know you can sit down, right? You’re an idiot.” I glanced over at Tessa, surprised. It was an insult, but for Rhys—a guy who wouldn’t waste a single glance on someone he truly thought was stupid—to even speak to her, let alone give her water, was something else. It was almost… concerned. I’d already told her twice that she didn’t need to be so method about it, that she just needed to be still on the actual performance night. But she insisted on being the most professional rock she could be. She reacted to Rhys’s comment the same way. She picked up the water bottle he’d thrown, her face flushing as she mumbled, “I… I didn’t want to mess up the rehearsal for everyone. It’s better to be… professional.” Rhys didn’t say anything else. On the night of the performance, during a scene between me and Rhys, he missed his mark and accidentally stepped on her hand. I heard her let out a tiny, sharp hiss of pain, but she didn’t move a muscle. For the rest of the play, Rhys was off. Distracted. His mind was somewhere else entirely. After the show, I had to stay for the closing ceremonies. By the time I made it backstage, the area was mostly empty. And in a deserted corner, I saw them. The tall, handsome boy standing over the small, timid girl. He was frowning, his voice impatient but somehow soft. “Let me see your hand.” Tessa shyly held it out. Rhys gently, carefully, placed a bandage over her knuckles. He smoothed it down, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Idiot,” he muttered again, so quietly it was almost a whisper. And Tessa, sitting before him, looked up at him through her lashes and gave him a small, adoring, grateful smile. I stood there, hidden by the shadows in the wings, and just stared.

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For six years, I was the best-kept secret of Admiral Grant Dempsey. To everyone else at Naval Base Coronado, I was just the lovesick surgeon, the woman who couldn’t take a hint, pathetically clinging to a man who would never have her. He allowed them to believe it. He never once said a word. It all came to a head at the gala celebrating the successful conclusion of a joint naval exercise. One of the officers’ wives, emboldened by champagne, cornered me by the bar. “Dr. Ross,” she said, her voice dripping with condescending pity, “everyone knows the Admiral’s fiancée is Victoria Price, the diplomat’s daughter. You should really stop embarrassing yourself.” I looked over at Grant. He was holding his glass, his gaze as distant and cold as the deep ocean. “Audrey,” he said, his voice carrying just far enough to cut. “Stop wasting your time on me.” In my last life, I screamed. I pulled our marriage certificate from my purse, my hands shaking, and waved it in their faces. All it earned me was a single word from him: “Preposterous.” To protect Victoria Price’s delicate sensibilities, he had me thrown in the brig for seven days. Later, I was deployed on a medical ship. We were attacked by pirates in the Gulf of Aden. As I bled out on the deck, I managed to send a distress signal. But Grant was busy attending the opera with his fiancée. He missed the window to save us. Only then, in my final moments, did I understand. I wasn’t his secret love. I was a tool, to be discarded when no longer useful. Now, reborn into this same moment, I looked at his familiar, indifferent face and I smiled. A real smile. “Of course, Admiral,” I said, my voice clear and steady. “My sincerest wishes to you and Miss Price for a long and happy life together.” I paused, letting the silence hang for a beat. “On that note, my transfer request was just approved. It’s been a pleasure.” 1 For the first time, a crack appeared in Grant Dempsey’s icy facade. Beside him, Victoria Price’s triumphant smirk froze on her lips. She shot a panicked look at Grant. “Grant, darling, what is she…” I didn’t give her the satisfaction of a response. I simply turned and walked away. Last time, I had a hysterical meltdown at this gala, waving our marriage certificate like a lunatic. They all just stared. Then Grant took the red-bordered document and ripped it to shreds in front of everyone, claiming it was a forgery. I was confined to the brig for seven days and came out a ghost of myself. This time, I didn’t even bother with the proof. There’s no point trying to win an argument with someone who has already sentenced you. “Audrey!” Grant’s voice echoed behind me. I didn’t slow down. The sound of his dress shoes grew closer, and a second later, his fingers clamped around my wrist. I stopped, but I didn’t struggle. I just turned my head to look at him, my expression placid. His face was a mask of thunder. “What is this? Another one of your games? This transfer… who approved it?” He’d said something so similar in my last life, when I’d grabbed his lapels and screamed, demanding to know why he’d left me to die. Audrey, what are you making a scene about now? I pulled my thoughts back to the present and used my free hand to retrieve a folded document from my clutch. “Admiral Dempsey,” I said, my voice clinical. “Read it carefully. It’s a direct order from Walter Reed. Your authority doesn’t extend that far.” His pupils constricted. I’d earned this transfer. A year ago, I’d performed a life-saving field surgery on the grandson of a very powerful man at the Pentagon. Last time, I asked for nothing in return, but the man insisted he owed me a debt he could never repay. This time, I called in the favor. Grant snatched the paper from my hand, his eyes scanning the text. His expression shifted from shock to disbelief, and finally settled into a dark, brooding anger. “Rescind it,” he commanded, his eyes locked on mine. “I won’t allow it.” I laughed. A short, bitter sound. I pulled my wrist, now red and throbbing, from his grasp and took a step closer. “On what grounds, Grant?” I tilted my head up to meet his gaze. “On the basis of our marriage certificate that you keep locked in a safe? Or the six years you let the entire base humiliate me while you stood by and said nothing?” His jaw worked, but no words came out. I took another step, closing the space between us. “You mean nothing to me anymore.” From the end of the hall, the click-clack of heels announced Victoria’s arrival. She positioned herself between us, her face a perfect mask of feigned concern. “Dr. Ross, how can you speak to Grant like that? After everything he’s done for you… the tolerance he’s shown… you should be grateful…” “Move,” I said, cutting her off. “Excuse me?” “I said, move.” My voice was quiet, but something in it made her take an involuntary step back. She bit her lip, her eyes welling up with practiced tears. “Dr. Ross, I never wanted to be your enemy. I just love Grant. Is that so wrong?” “No,” I conceded. “But standing in my way is.” With that, I brushed past her. “Audrey!” she called after me. “Without Grant’s protection, you’re just a common surgeon! You’re nothing!” I stopped and looked back at her over my shoulder. “Is that so? Well, then I guess I’m just making room for you.” Victoria’s face contorted with rage. She lunged, her hand raised to strike me, but an arm shot out and caught her wrist. Grant had moved silently behind her, his expression grim. “Victoria, that’s enough,” he said. Her tears spilled over instantly. “Grant, did you see that? Did you see how she spoke to me? She has no respect for you at all.” Grant didn’t answer her. His gaze was fixed on me. “Admiral,” I said with a small, final nod. “I wish you and Miss Price all the happiness you deserve.” And then I walked away without looking back. 2 My transfer was blocked. The official reason was beautifully crafted. The base was launching a new, top-secret medical research initiative, and as a core member of the team, I was restricted from leaving my post. I stared at the notice and almost laughed out loud. I was a surgeon. I hadn’t touched a research protocol since my residency. I wasn’t a core member of anything except the local gossip circuit. I knew it was Grant’s doing. He was a man accustomed to control, to a world that bent to his will. The phone rang while I was organizing patient files. It was his mother, her voice carrying its usual tone of aristocratic condescension. “Audrey, I hear you’ve been… restless lately.” I said nothing. “I understand that young people can be temperamental,” she continued, “but you need to be sensible. The Dempsey family is not a ladder for a girl of your background to climb. And it’s certainly not something you can just walk away from. Come back, apologize to Grant, and we can all pretend this never happened.” My fingers tightened on the receiver, then relaxed. “Ma’am, I think I’ll leave that particular blessing for you to enjoy.” I hung up. The retaliation was swift. The next day, the rumors started. They said I was corrupt, that I used my position to harass a superior officer, that I was a shameless gold-digger trying to claw my way into a powerful family. The stories were viciously detailed, woven with just enough truth to be believable. In the mess hall, I heard the whispers behind me as I got my food. “They say she’s been some admiral’s secret mistress for six years. Now she’s trying to force his hand.” “So pathetic. The man’s engaged and she still won’t give up.” I carried my tray over to their table and sat down. They immediately fell silent. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the Dempseys were behind this campaign. They wanted to ruin my reputation, to make my life in the Navy so unbearable that I would come crawling back to them, begging for mercy. Too bad for them. A person who’s already died once doesn’t scare so easily. Three days later, the base hosted a delegation of foreign military attachés. As a diplomat’s daughter, Victoria was there, of course, playing the charming hostess. As the on-duty physician, my job was to remain in the clinic, on standby. In the afternoon, chaos erupted. One of the attachés collapsed, gasping for air, his face turning a terrifying shade of blue. Anaphylactic shock. Someone burst into the clinic, screaming for a doctor. I sprinted to the scene, took one look, and yelled, “Get me a crash cart! I need epinephrine, now!” A corpsman ripped open the emergency kit, then froze. “Doctor… there’s no epi in the kit.” My blood ran cold. How was that possible? I had personally inspected that kit yesterday. Every single medication was accounted for. The attaché’s breathing grew fainter. The people around me started to panic, their fear turning to accusation. “What do you mean there’s no epinephrine? What kind of clinic are you running?” “If he dies, it’s on you!” “Get a chopper ready for emergency evac to the nearest hospital, now!” I commanded, trying to keep my voice steady. “Get him on oxygen, keep his airway clear.” I knelt on the floor and began chest compressions. The meds arrived just in the nick of time. The attaché was stabilized and airlifted out. He would live. The investigation report placed the blame squarely on me. The logbook clearly showed my signature from the day before, confirming the kit was fully stocked. But now, that page was missing. In its place was a forged entry, dated three days prior, suggesting the kit hadn’t been inspected at all. I looked up and saw Victoria standing in the doorway of my office. She was holding a cup of coffee, a gentle smile playing on her lips. “Dr. Ross, I hope you’re not thinking of doing anything rash,” she said sweetly. “After such a monumental failure, I can’t imagine how you must be feeling.” I got to my feet and walked toward her. “You think this is going to destroy me?” “Destroy you?” She laughed, a sound like ice cubes clinking in a glass. “Oh, Audrey, you give yourself far too much credit. You’re just a mistake Grant made, a stain he needs to erase. I’m just helping him clean up the mess a little sooner.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Have you considered what would have happened if that attaché had died? Malpractice? Manslaughter? An international incident? You would have been court-martialed before the sun went down.” I stared at her. This woman, in her obsession to marry Grant, had gone completely insane. That evening, I received my official orders. Suspended from duty, pending further investigation. 3 The heavy steel door of the brig slammed shut behind me. Grant came on the third day. “Admit it was negligence,” he said from the other side of the bars. “If you do, I’ll step in. I’ll make sure you’re protected.” He paused, letting the offer sink in. “You’ll get a formal reprimand, a demotion, but you’ll get to stay in the Navy. It’s the best you can hope for.” I didn’t move. “Audrey, don’t be stubborn,” he pressed on. “You can’t win against my family, and you certainly can’t win against the Prices.” “Just admit you made a mistake, and this will all be over.” He was offering me a lifeline, on the condition that I get on my knees and confess to a crime I didn’t commit. Confess that I was a bad doctor, that I was incompetent, that I was unworthy of the uniform I wore. A strange laugh escaped my lips. I couldn’t believe I had ever loved this man. I was fresh out of med school, an intern at the naval hospital, when I first met him. He was a SEAL commander back then. A training exercise went wrong—an IED explosion—and he was brought in with shrapnel in his chest, bleeding out and unconscious. On a makeshift operating table, I was the one who pulled three pieces of metal from his thoracic cavity. When he woke up, the first thing he asked was my name. After that, he pursued me with a clumsy, almost boyish intensity. I thought his cold exterior was just a shield. I was wrong. The coldness wasn’t a shield; it was who he was. “What if I told you it was Victoria?” I asked, my voice calm as I met his eyes. His brow furrowed instantly, a flash of irritation crossing his face. “Audrey, don’t be ridiculous. Don’t drag innocent people into this.” “I know Victoria,” he continued, his tone final. “She would never do something like that.” In his world, Victoria was forever the innocent princess, and I was forever the one making scenes, telling lies, making excuses. “You know her?” I stood up and walked to the bars separating us. “Grant, what do you really know about her?” I stared into his eyes. “You know that I would never shirk my duty. You know that in six years as a naval surgeon, I have a flawless record. You know how much my honor as an officer means to me. And yet, you choose to believe her, not me.” “The evidence is against you,” he said, his voice turning colder still. “You were responsible for the emergency kit. You managed the inventory. How am I supposed to believe you?” I laughed until my eyes burned. “What if I told you the kit was tampered with the night before the delegation arrived? What if I told you Victoria knew about the attaché’s severe peanut allergy? What if I told you she specifically requested the catering include snacks made with peanut flour?” His expression didn’t flicker. “Do you have proof?” My heart stopped for a beat. He didn’t care about the truth. All he wanted was my submission. “No,” I said, letting all emotion drain from my voice. “But I will find it.” “Audrey,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “Stop fighting this. It’s pointless. Admit your mistake, accept the punishment. It’s better for both of us.” I took a step back from the bars. “Grant, when have you ever once considered what was better for me?” He fell silent. I looked at the man who had once made my heart race, and all I felt was a profound sense of pity. “Mark my words, Grant,” I said softly. “The day will come when you will beg me for help. Remember that. You will come begging to me.” He stared at me for a second, then a look of pure contempt crossed his face. “It seems seven days in the brig isn’t enough for you,” he sneered, turning to leave. “Keep dreaming, Audrey.”

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I was sixteen when the neurotoxin leaked. I saved Liam Blackwood that day, but I inhaled too much of the gas in the process. When I woke up, my memory was gone. In its place was a strange affliction: a peculiar scent that clings to my skin, my hair, everything. A scent that makes Liam retch. He refused to accept it, to believe in a fate so cruel. He’d force himself to hold me, his body rigid, jaw clenched, until one sweltering afternoon, I reached out to wipe a bead of sweat from his temple. He recoiled, shoving me back, and collapsed, vomiting until there was nothing left. He knelt there, fists clenched, his eyes bloodshot. “Thea,” he gasped, his voice raw. “Don’t be scared. I’ll get used to it. I promise.” For me, he gave up a scholarship to his dream school, clawing his way up in the business world until he became a self-made titan. He built a beautiful glass conservatory for me, a sun-drenched cage where his fragile, broken burden could be kept safe. He gave me everything he had. Everything, except a genuine touch. I thought this was our tragic, noble battle against destiny. Until the night I heard him in his study, holding his assistant, Serena. His voice was laced with a dependence and relief I had never, ever heard directed at me. “Serena, thank God I have you… After I hold her, smelling your perfume is the only thing that brings me back.” “She saved my life. I owe her that. I have to take care of her forever, I know that, but…” He paused, a long, ragged breath filling the silence. His voice dropped to a choked whisper. “But some days, I really wish I had died in that accident. Anything would be better than living like this, day after day, in this hell.” 1 The diffuser I was carrying slipped from my numb fingers, shattering on the hardwood floor. The scent of lavender and my own unshakeable odor bloomed in the air. Liam burst out of the study, Serena right behind him. He saw me and froze. In one swift, practiced motion, he pulled Serena behind him, shielding her. The movement was so fast, so instinctual. A needle of ice plunged straight into my heart. “Thea…” He took a hesitant step toward me, his face a mask of panic, ready to explain. But the scent hit him. The color drained from his face, and a choked, gagging sound escaped his throat as he stumbled backward. Serena was at his side in an instant. She pulled a small, personal respirator from her pocket and expertly fitted it over his mouth and nose. Her voice was calm, her hand steady on his arm. “Breathe slowly, Liam. It’s okay.” He leaned against the doorframe, his eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving. I just stood there, paralyzed, feeling like a child who had broken something priceless. “I…” I didn’t mean to listen. The single word was all I managed before his brow furrowed, his face contorting with the effort of holding back another wave of nausea. I clamped my mouth shut, the rest of the sentence dying in my throat. A chill spread through my limbs. Serena knelt, gracefully gathering the largest shards of glass. She moved with an easy confidence, as if she were the lady of this house. “I’ll take care of this,” she said without looking up. I stared at Liam. He was still gasping for air against the doorframe, his eyes shut, refusing to look at me. He was in pain. Because of me. That realization finally broke my paralysis. I turned and fled. Not to the glass conservatory, but straight out the front door of the villa. It was raining, a cold, biting downpour that plastered my hair to my face. His voice, laced with panic, chased after me. “Thea! Where are you going? Come back!” I reached the street, desperately flagging for a car, the rain soaking through my thin dress. A taxi pulled over. I threw the door open and scrambled inside. “The old lab facility, west of the city,” I managed, my voice trembling. In the rearview mirror, I saw Liam run out into the rain. He didn’t have an umbrella; his expensive suit was instantly darkened by the downpour. He slammed his hand on the window. “Thea, get out of the car! We can talk about this!” The driver looked at us, confused. “Please, just drive,” I whispered, lowering my head, unable to watch. The car pulled away. Through the rear window, I saw him chase us for a few steps before stopping, a helpless figure shrinking in the rain-swept darkness. I leaned back against the seat, my entire body shaking with a cold that had nothing to do with the weather. The taxi dropped me outside the abandoned laboratory. It was a derelict skeleton of a building, fenced off and forgotten. I pushed open the creaking gate and stood in the rain, staring at the place that had shattered my life. I couldn’t remember any of it. He had told me the story, but it felt like someone else’s life. The only piece of my past I had was a name: Liam Blackwood. It should have been me, I thought. If I had died, he wouldn’t be in so much pain now. I don’t know how long I stood there before a black sedan screeched to a halt beside me, sending a plume of water into the air. Liam stormed out of the driver’s side, his face pale and furious. He grabbed my arm, his grip so tight it hurt. “What are you doing here?” he roared, his eyes shot through with red veins of anger and fear. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been looking for you?” He practically threw me into the passenger seat and slammed the door. Back in the driver’s seat, he slammed his fist against the steering wheel. “Thea Reed!” he seethed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Do you have to put me through this? Do you enjoy watching me lose my mind over you?” His voice was a raw thunder in the enclosed space of the car, making my ears ring. I looked at his enraged face, at his rain-soaked, disheveled state, and I could smell it. That scent. My scent. I had made him sick again. I had been thoughtless again. “I’m sorry… I’m causing trouble for you again,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. It was as if all the anger drained out of him at once. He slumped back against his seat and closed his eyes. The only sounds were his harsh breathing and the inescapable scent of me. The rain had softened to a drizzle by the time we got back to the villa. Serena was waiting by the gate, holding an umbrella. She hurried over as our car approached. Liam got out first. She immediately tilted the umbrella to cover him, leaving her own shoulder exposed to the rain. “Liam,” she said, her voice a mixture of chiding and concern as she handed him a glass of water and a few pills. “You know you can’t get chilled. You forgot your medication.” Then, as if just noticing me, she gave me a brief, dismissive glance. I slid out of the car, drenched and shivering, and watched them. Liam took the pills and water without a word, a gesture so practiced it was clear this was their routine. He looked at me then, his mouth opening as if to say something. But I didn’t want to hear it. I walked past them, into the house, up the stairs to my bedroom, and locked the door behind me. Seconds later, his footsteps pounded down the hall. He tried the knob. “Open the door, Thea! We need to talk.” His voice was a low growl, tight with repressed anger and exhaustion. Talk? About what? I walked to the window and pushed it open. A cold, damp wind gusted in, making me shudder. The garden below was a blur in the misty rain. I stared down at the manicured lawn. “If you push me any further,” I said, my voice quiet but clear enough to carry through the door, “I’ll jump.” The rattling of the doorknob stopped. The world went silent, save for the gentle patter of the rain. I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor, hugging my knees to my chest and burying my face. The tears finally came, hot and silent, mingling with the cold rainwater in my hair. I had made him angry again. I was his problem again. What do I have to do, I sobbed into my knees, to stop being his pain? The footsteps outside the door retreated. I stayed there all night, leaning against the cold wood, and drifted into a fitful sleep just as the sun came up. 2 The next morning, a knock came again. It was the maid. “Miss Reed, Mr. Blackwood would like you to come downstairs.” I opened the door. Liam was standing at the top of the stairs, dressed immaculately in a dark suit. His face was drawn and tired, but his expression was calm, resolute. “Get dressed. I’m taking you somewhere.” “Where?” “A clinic. You need to see a doctor.” I looked at him, at the dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t slept either. Was it from worry, or from anger at me? “I’m not sick,” I said softly. “You threatened to kill yourself yesterday,” he stated, his gaze unblinking, complicated. “What would you call that?” I lowered my head, unable to argue. The car pulled up to a high-end private clinic downtown. The interior was sleek and sterile. Liam spoke with the doctor in an inner office, leaving the door slightly ajar. I sat on a plush sofa outside, catching fragments of their conversation. “She’s become more and more erratic lately,” Liam’s voice was strained, laced with a weary frustration. “Her moods are unstable. Yesterday, she ran off…” Erratic. Unstable. The words were like thorns pressing into my heart. So that’s what I was to him now. Not just a burden, but an unstable one. The clinic’s front door opened and Serena walked in, carrying a file folder. “Liam,” she said, pushing the office door open without knocking. “These need your urgent signature.” Through the gap in the door, I saw Liam rubbing his temples, the picture of exhaustion. Serena moved behind him, her movements fluid and natural, and began to gently massage his temples. He didn’t pull away. He leaned back into her touch. The sight was so sharp it made my eyes burn. I shot up from the sofa and walked toward the exit. Liam saw me. He rushed out and grabbed my wrist. “The session isn’t over. Where are you going?” His touch was a shock. And at that exact moment, a wave of nausea roiled in my stomach. Maybe it was the empty stomach, or maybe it was the tidal wave of emotion. I doubled over, a violent gag reflex taking over. I threw up right there on the polished floor. Some of it splattered onto his expensive trousers and handcrafted leather shoes. The foul smell filled the air. He recoiled as if he’d been burned, flinging my hand away and stumbling back, his face a mask of undisguised disgust. “Thea, why are you always like this?” he yelled, his voice cracking with a decade of frustration and fury. Always like this. Always making a mess. Always causing him pain. Serena was there instantly, stepping between us with a handful of tissues, carefully dabbing at his trousers. “It’s okay, Liam, don’t be angry. I’ll clean it up.” She knelt at his feet, tending to the mess with meticulous care, as if his suit were a holy relic. And I stood there, covered in my own filth, a repulsive, superfluous piece of trash. I looked at them, a sharp, twisting pain in my chest. I turned and ran from the clinic. The sunlight was blinding. I walked aimlessly, with no destination in mind. I stopped in front of a bridal shop. In the window, a mannequin wore a stunning satin gown, its design simple and impossibly elegant. It looked so familiar. I stared, my mind a blank. Then, a flicker. A hazy, broken memory… A younger me, years ago, standing on this very spot, pointing at this very dress, smiling at the boy beside me. “Liam, that’s the one. That’s the dress I’m going to wear.” Back then, there was no neurotoxin. No scent. No Serena. Back then, when he looked at me, he was smiling. “Thea.” Liam’s voice, coming from behind me. He had followed me. I didn’t turn around, my eyes still fixed on the wedding dress. He came to stand beside me, his gaze following mine to the window. He saw the dress. The anger on his face slowly dissolved, replaced by a complex, unreadable expression. He just stood there, looking from the dress to me and back again. His mouth opened, then closed. He said nothing. The two of us, disheveled and miserable, standing like fools before the brightly lit window of a bridal boutique. The space between us was so much more than a few feet of pavement. 3 In the end, Liam said nothing. He just led me back to the car and drove me to the villa. We didn’t speak for days. The silence was broken on the morning of his mother’s birthday. He knocked on my door early. “Get ready. We’re going to the family estate tonight. Mom wants to see you.” I knew it wasn’t a request. That evening, I wore the new dress he’d had sent over. I sat in the back of the car. He drove, with Serena in the passenger seat. They talked about work the entire way. I didn’t understand any of it, so I just watched the city lights blur past my window. The estate was buzzing with people. As we entered, all eyes turned to me. I caught a faint whiff of my own scent and instinctively tried to shrink away from the crowd. Mrs. Blackwood sat at the head of the dining table, her face a neutral mask. “You’re here. Sit,” she commanded. Serena walked right up to her, presenting a gift. “Happy birthday, Eleanor.” “Serena, dear. Always so thoughtful,” Mrs. Blackwood said, taking her hand. “So much more capable than some people.” A dull ache spread through my chest. In her eyes, I would always be the thoughtless, useless burden. For ten years, I had tried so desperately to earn her approval, and I still couldn’t get a single crumb of it. During dinner, Mrs. Blackwood suddenly set down her fork. “Liam, it’s time to settle things.” The table fell silent. “Serena is the only one fit to be a Blackwood,” she announced, her voice low but carrying to every corner of the room. “She’s capable, she’s from a good family, and most importantly, you can have a normal life with her.” The words struck me like a physical blow. I dug my nails into my palms, the fabric of my dress bunching in my fists. A chorus of relatives chimed in. “She’s right, Liam. It’s time to make a decision.” “You can’t just drag this on forever… What about the family line? An heir?” I kept my head down, tears stinging my eyes. I fought them back. I would not cry here. I would not give them the satisfaction. Liam said nothing. He just took a sip of his wine. I stood, needing to escape. “Excuse me, I need the restroom.” As I passed Serena, she “accidentally” knocked over her wine glass. Red wine splashed all over my dress. “Oh, I am so sorry,” she said, her face devoid of any actual apology. The dress was soaked, clinging unpleasantly to my skin. “Go change in the guest room,” Mrs. Blackwood said dismissively. I nodded, fleeing the dining room. But when I opened the closet in the guest room, it was filled with Serena’s clothes. Business suits, casual wear, even pajamas. It was as if something seized my heart and squeezed, hard. There was no place for me here anymore. Even a closet was a reminder that I was an intruder. So, she stayed here often? “What’s taking so long?” Liam pushed the door open. He saw me staring at the closet and his brow furrowed. “What is it now, Thea?” His voice was heavy with exhaustion. I pointed a trembling finger at the rows of clothes. “There’s no room for me here anymore.” He glanced at the closet and was silent for a moment. “It’s temporary. Serena’s been staying over to keep Mom company.” A burning sensation rose in my throat, but I swallowed it down. In his mind, had I already been cleared out, too? It was late when the party finally wound down. Liam turned to me. “I’m giving Serena a ride home. It’s on the way.” Serena stood beside him, a faint, triumphant smile on her lips. I watched their backs as they walked away together. I didn’t move. The staff began to clear the tables, no one paying me any mind. I walked out the front door and sat on the cold stone steps. The night was deep, the wind cold. I just sat there. And waited. I waited as the lights in the great house went out one by one. I waited as the moon climbed high overhead. He never came back. It must have been very on the way. So on the way that he forgot someone was waiting for him. 4 I sat on the steps of the estate until dawn, my body stiff with cold. When Liam’s car finally pulled into the driveway, he saw me, and his brow immediately creased into a frown. “You sat here all night?” he asked, his tone laced with accusation. “Are you trying to make yourself sick? To make me feel even more guilty?” A sharp pain lanced through me. I lowered my head. The next day, he took us to a beach resort. Serena, of course, came along. I was given a detached cabin, the furthest one from the main lodge. “It’s quieter here. You can rest,” he’d said. I knew the truth. He was afraid my scent would disturb the other guests. Especially Serena. That night, the sea wind howled. A familiar tightness seized my throat. My asthma was flaring up. My hands trembled as I fumbled for my emergency inhaler. I pressed it to my lips and sprayed, but nothing happened. It was just a weak puff of air. I held the canister up to the faint light. It had been replaced with a saline solution. Gasping, I stumbled out of the cabin and ran toward the main lodge. On the terrace, Liam’s deep voice drifted on the wind. “Mom, I know Serena is the better choice.” He paused, his voice thick with a conflict that tore me apart. “But Thea… she ended up this way because of me. I can’t just throw her away…” His words were icicles, piercing the last fragile flicker of hope in my heart. So that’s all it was. Responsibility. Just then, Serena stepped out from the shadows, a cold smile on her face. “Did you hear that?” she hissed, backing me toward the top of the stairs. “To him, you are nothing but guilt and obligation. Your life is a stain he can never wash away!” I tried to speak, to fight back, but my throat was closing, no air could get through. She suddenly lunged, shoving me hard. “Why won’t you just disappear?” I cried out as I tumbled backward down the stone staircase. My head struck the sharp edge of a step, and a warm rush of blood instantly blurred my vision. I heard frantic footsteps. Liam. Serena’s expression changed in a flash. She threw herself into his arms, her voice a tragic sob. “Liam! She just attacked me… she tried to push me!” Liam saw the blood streaming down my face. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes before it was consumed by a towering inferno of rage. “Thea Reed! Look at what you’ve become!” he roared. “What are you capable of besides causing endless, endless trouble? What do you want from me? Do you want me to pay for it with my life, right here, right now? Would that finally make you happy?” I looked at him, and the last bit of light inside me went out. My very existence was the crime. I struggled to my feet, blood dripping from my forehead onto my chest. I dragged my injured leg, which felt like it belonged to a stranger, and staggered step by agonizing step toward the dark, churning ocean. The water surged around my ankles, cold as death. My body sank, the icy sea pressing in from all sides, stealing the last of my breath, the last of my warmth. In the final second before consciousness dissolved into an endless dark, I thought I heard a soul-tearing scream from the shore.

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I died on the eve of the Fourth of July, my neck sliced open by the furious father of a victim. It happened because my husband, a Deputy Chief of Detectives, decided it would be a brilliant PR move for his career to have our five-year-old daughter present a bouquet of flowers to the city’s most notorious serial killer. I fought it with every fiber of my being, and in doing so, became public enemy number one. My husband stared at me, his face a mask of disappointment. “How can you be so selfish?” My daughter screamed through her tears, “Mommy’s bad! I don’t want this mommy! I want a new mommy!” The entire internet branded me a heartless monster. Even the killer, from behind the bars of his cell, claimed that my interference was the only thing stopping him from confessing his crimes. Now, I’ve been reborn. I’m standing here again, surrounded by the blinding flash of media cameras, watching my daughter clutch a bouquet of flowers as she takes timid steps toward that blood-soaked demon. This time, I’ve melted into the crowd. This time, I’m just going to watch. 1 The first thing I did after being reborn was take a pair of nail clippers and a brush to David and Zoe. Then I went straight to a DNA lab. “I want a new mommy! I don’t want this mommy! I hate her!” My daughter’s shrieks from my past life were still ringing in my ears, but it was the two different uses of the word “mommy” that now haunted me. My husband David’s department had already formed a special task force for this case. The lead suspect would be caught soon, which meant I didn’t have much time. I paid extra for a rush job at the lab, and just before they announced the killer’s capture, I got the results. When I opened the envelope and saw the words printed on the page, my legs gave out. The strength drained from my body, and I nearly collapsed right there on the pavement. RESULTS: David Reed is confirmed as the biological father of the subject, Zoe Reed. RESULTS: Claire Sterling is conclusively excluded as the biological mother of the subject, Zoe Reed. The world tilted on its axis. David was Zoe’s father, but I… I had no biological connection to the child I had raised. No wonder Zoe’s attitude toward me had soured over the years, escalating into open defiance. They say children can’t hide their true feelings. Even if she didn’t know the words, her actions had screamed the truth all along. I stumbled out of the clinic and started to laugh, a raw, broken sound. I was such a fool. An absolute idiot. My own husband had cheated on me, swapped our child, and I never suspected a thing. During the storm of public hatred in my past life, it was Zoe’s childish voice that had delivered the final, killing blow. Her televised interview had sent my reputation spiraling into an abyss from which it never recovered. I’d questioned everything—my sanity, my judgment, my very worth as a human being—but I never once questioned my own womb. Thinking back, that sudden blackout I experienced during labor… it had to be his doing. A setup. He had swapped our real baby for this one. For years, he’d used my father’s political influence to claw his way up from a beat cop to Deputy Chief. Now that my father’s power was waning, he wanted me gone. He wanted to bring Zoe’s real mother into our home. He knew I adored Zoe, that I would die for her. So he used that love as a weapon. He orchestrated the whole flower ceremony knowing I would object. It was a win-win for him. If it worked, he’d be hailed as a compassionate genius, paving the way for his next promotion. When I inevitably intervened, he could paint me as an unhinged, hysterical woman, giving him the perfect public excuse to divorce me and play the victim. My fingers crumpled the DNA report into a tight ball. If I was a fool for meddling last time, then this time, I would respect the natural order of things. This time, I’d let fate run its course. The next morning, after an all-night manhunt, one of the lead suspects in the serial robbery-homicides, Carl Russo, was finally in custody. Just like last time, he was a brick wall. No matter how they interrogated him, no matter what evidence they presented, he just stared blankly and repeated the same line. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything.” The case had the city in a panic, and the pressure from above was immense. They had three days to crack it, or the entire task force would be demoted to street patrol. Russo’s known family were all dead. So, with time running out, Deputy Chief David Reed proposed a radical idea. The same idea as last time. They would appeal to the killer’s humanity. They would use the innocence of a child to awaken his conscience. His own daughter, Zoe, would present the killer with flowers. It would be a powerful, emotional spectacle, designed to break down the suspect’s psychological defenses. The proposal was risky, but his superiors, desperate for a breakthrough, approved it. To ensure that I, the mother, would show up at the perfect moment to create a scene, David had a “sympathetic” subordinate place an anonymous tip. In my last life, I took that call and charged onto the scene like a raging bull, screaming and shouting, destroying the ceremony in front of the entire world’s media. This time, when the same number flashed on my screen, I silenced it. I watched the screen light up and go dark, again and again. Thirty minutes before the ceremony was scheduled to begin, I “noticed” the missed calls and raced to the scene. I didn’t ram my car through the police barricades like before. I parked blocks away, slipped into the back of the crowd, and waited. In the center of the cordoned-off area, Zoe stood in a pristine white princess dress, clutching a bouquet. Her eyes darted nervously at the cameras and the murmuring crowd. Carl Russo, shackled at the hands and feet, was led out. I heard the raw cries of anguish and rage from the victims’ families in the crowd. My husband, in his immaculate uniform, knelt beside Zoe. He patted her head, whispering words of encouragement, but his eyes were frantically scanning the crowd. I knew who he was looking for. I ducked lower. The show had to go on. With me still a no-show, David had no choice but to give Zoe a gentle push forward. Just as Zoe stood on her tiptoes, holding the flowers up to the killer, all hell broke loose. With a sudden, violent twist, Russo threw the guards off him. In one fluid motion, he lunged forward, his shackled hands snatching Zoe and pulling her against his body like a shield. “What kind of moronic idea was this?” Russo spat, his voice a low growl. “You people really are idiots.” He tightened his arm around Zoe’s neck, his eyes burning with feral intensity. “I’ve killed enough people to know the more I talk, the faster I die.” “Get me five hundred thousand in cash and a car. Now. Or I’ll snap this little brat’s neck!” The next second, before anyone could react, Russo jammed his thumb into Zoe’s eye socket. With a sickening pop, he ripped the eyeball out. Zoe’s scream was inhuman. Russo threw the severed eye to the ground and crushed it under his heel. By the time I burst screaming from the crowd, Carl Russo was twisting Zoe’s arm, a look of manic glee on his face. The sharp crack of bone breaking, mingled with Zoe’s piercing shriek, sent a wave of nausea through me. Several officers intercepted me, holding me back. I dropped to my knees on the pavement, my voice cracking. “Please! Please, don’t hurt my daughter anymore!” I begged Russo. “She’s only five years old! Let her go, I’m begging you! I’ll do anything, whatever you want, just let her go!” Russo’s eyes glinted as he looked from me to David. “Well, Chief Reed, is this your wife? Not bad looking at all!” He tightened his grip on Zoe, his gaze mocking. “You were so eager to slap the cuffs on me, weren’t you, Chief? What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” “I don’t know how a moron like you made it to Deputy Chief, honestly. You personally delivered a hostage right into my hands. If you weren’t the one who arrested me, I’d think you were my partner.” His expression turned vicious. He leaned down and bit into Zoe’s ear. I screamed as he tore it clean off with his teeth. Zoe went limp in his arms, mercifully unconscious. David’s face was a mask of pure fury, but he was frozen, helpless. “I told you!” Russo roared. “Half a million and a car! You have twenty minutes. If I don’t see it…” CRACK! A single gunshot shattered the air. A blossom of red exploded on Russo’s shoulder, a gaping wound. Instantly, officers swarmed him, wrestling the now-unconscious Zoe from his grasp and slamming him to the ground. A frantic scramble, and Zoe’s limp, bloody body was rushed into an ambulance. In the sterile corridor outside the hospital operating room, I had my hands buried in the collar of David’s uniform, my palms connecting with his face again and again, the slaps echoing in the quiet hall. “Why would you do this? Isn’t she your daughter?” I shrieked. “David, I don’t care if you want to climb the corporate ladder, but to use your own flesh and blood to do it? Are you even human?” His colleagues finally intervened, pulling me away as David’s face began to swell. “That’s enough, Claire!” he finally roared, pushing them off. “If you have a problem, take it up with me! Don’t attack my team!” He pointed a trembling finger at me. “This is all your fault! If you had just shown up on time and stopped the ceremony like you were supposed to, none of this would have happened!” “Yes, it was my idea! But it was for the good of the city! I have a duty to the victims’ families! I have a duty to this uniform!” “I’m busy, I’m at work all the time. I thought I could count on you to take care of her, but you were so careless. You let this happen.” He shook his head, his voice dripping with disappointment. “Zoe is maimed because of you, Claire. I’m so, so disappointed in you.” Seeing his feigned despair, I grabbed a nearby metal trash can and hurled it at him. “You son of a bitch!” I screamed. “You kept this whole thing a secret from me, and now that it’s blown up in your face, you dare to blame me? How dare you?” “If one of your men hadn’t called me, I’d still be in the dark! What happened to Zoe is your fault, and yours alone! If she doesn’t make it, I swear to God, I will kill you!” “Get out!” I shrieked, my voice raw. “All of you, just get the hell out of my sight!” Just then, the light above the operating room door went out. The surgeon emerged, his face grim. I pushed past the officers and rushed to him. “Doctor, my daughter… is she going to be okay?” “The broken bones will heal,” he said, his voice heavy with pity. “But her eye, and her ear… there was nothing we could do.” He sighed. “She’s only five. Such a tragedy.” In the private room, Zoe lay still, her head wrapped in so many bandages she looked like a tiny mummy. Looking at the ruin of her face, the empty socket where an eye used to be, and remembering the words on that DNA report, I felt nothing. Not a single shred of pity. “Mommy is always so strict with me. She makes me do homework all the time. If I don’t listen, she hits me. Sometimes I think she’s going to kill me.” “Daddy is the best. He takes me to the park and buys me ice cream. Mommy just tells me to behave. She never lets me have any fun.” “My daddy is the greatest man in the world. I want to help him. If Mommy didn’t hold him back all the time, he would probably be the police commissioner by now.” “I hate my mommy. Daddy says she’s just dragging him down. I wish I didn’t have a mommy.” I sat by the bed, her words from my past life echoing in my mind. Even if she knew about her birth mother, those weren’t the words of a normal five-year-old. Someone had coached her. Someone had fed her those lines. As I was lost in thought, a soft groan came from the bed. She was awake. The moment her one good eye focused on me, a tear trickled down her cheek. But the words that came out of her mouth were laced with an icy resentment that chilled me to the bone. “It’s all your fault! Daddy said he called you! Why were you so late?” “If you had come sooner, it wouldn’t hurt so much! I hate you!” “I want my mommy! Not you! I want my other mommy!” David had been called back to the station for an emergency meeting about the catastrophic failure of his plan. We were alone. Seeing her writhing and screaming in the bed, I dropped the loving mother act. “You got what you deserved,” I said, my voice flat. “What happened to you today is your father’s fault. It has nothing to do with me.” “You’re lying!” she shrieked. “Daddy told me you never liked me! He wouldn’t lie to me!” “Oh, really? Then why am I the only one here with you right now? Why isn’t your precious daddy here? And this ‘other mommy’… if she loves you so much, where is she?” “Because you’re a bad person!” Zoe sobbed, her remaining eye glaring at me with pure hatred. “Daddy said you’re a bad person, and if my other mommy saw you, you would hurt her! That’s why she has to hide!” I let out a cold laugh. “He’s quite the storyteller, isn’t he? He’s also a liar. The truth is, he and your mother don’t really care about you. They care more about having a little baby boy.” “Why else would your father send you to give flowers to a monster? He never wanted you to survive. If he really cared, why didn’t he stop you himself? Why did he have to call me? It’s not like he’s paralyzed.” A five-year-old’s logic is a fragile thing. My words hit their mark. Her face crumpled, and fresh tears began to fall. “You’re lying,” she whimpered. “Daddy and Mommy love me the most.” I patted her bandaged head. “Keep dreaming, you poor thing.” “Your IV is almost empty. I’m going to get the nurse. You stay here and don’t move.” I walked out of the room and ran right into David, who was just returning from his meeting. “How’s Zoe?” he asked, his tone clipped. “She’s awake. I was just getting the nurse to change her drip.” He crooked a finger at me. “Come with me. I need to talk to you about something.” I followed him to the stairwell. The moment we were inside, the heavy fire door slammed shut behind me. Before I could turn, two of David’s colleagues grabbed me, pinning me against the cold concrete wall. “David, what are you doing?” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and an ink pad. He grabbed my hand and forced my index finger onto the ink. “Zoe’s injuries… there’s going to be an internal investigation,” he said, his voice low. “I can’t take the fall for this, Claire. The whole department would be disciplined. So I need a scapegoat. And that’s you.” “All you have to do is put your fingerprint on this Guardianship Consent Form. It says you voluntarily allowed Zoe to approach the suspect. That way, I keep my job.” “For my career,” he whispered, his face inches from mine, “I’m afraid I have to ask you for this little favor… honey.”

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In my sixth year with Liam Goodwin, he got engaged to someone else. Behind my back. I moved out of his apartment that same night, tossing the matching ring we wore into the trash on my way out. After putting in for a transfer, I left the sprawling metropolis of Southport and returned to my seaside hometown, Seabrook. Slowly, I began to piece together a life that didn’t revolve around him. And then, on Christmas Eve, I saw him on a snowy street in Seabrook. Liam, who was supposed to be a thousand miles away. The wind whipped around him, but he still stood tall and impossibly handsome. The only difference was the unfamiliar flush of red rimming his eyes. “Willow,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “What do I have to do to make you come back to me?” 1 Liam had just returned from a month-long business trip to North Island, so when he got back, neither of us could keep our hands to ourselves. He was holding me, kissing me until the world melted away, when the phone on the nightstand started to ring. I glanced over casually. The world didn’t just melt—it froze. I was plunged into an abyss of ice, a chill seeping deep into my bones. The name flashing on the screen was “Fiancée.” With one hand, he picked up the phone, his voice a gentle murmur as he discussed wedding venues and floral arrangements with another woman. His other hand was still tangled in the fabric of my shirt. I shoved him away, my body trembling as I stumbled out of bed, fumbling for the dress and stockings he’d peeled off me and left on the floor. Liam ended the call, his eyes narrowing slightly. “What’s with the attitude?” My back was to him, my shaking hands struggling to pull up the zipper on my dress. “Aren’t you going to explain? About your fiancée?” He let out a lazy, dismissive laugh. “What’s there to explain?” I spun around to face him. “Who is she?” “…Sophia Yates.” I froze. I’d heard that name before, years ago. We had only just gotten together when his father had found him, demanding he break things off with me and agree to a strategic marriage with the sole heiress of the Yates family. He had refused, flat out. He even bought this very apartment and asked me to move in with him. Back then, I thought his love for me was real. All his friends knew about us; they called me by his last name, jokingly referring to me as the “Mrs.” I had keys to his home, his office. Before he left for North Island, he’d even set a date to come home with me for Christmas to finally meet my parents. Every single thing he did felt like what a real partner would do. I never, not for a second, imagined he would get engaged to someone else. Meeting my look of utter disbelief, Liam just shrugged with a casual smile. “Why so shocked? I’m twenty-eight. It’s perfectly normal to have a fiancée.” The words hit me like a club to the head. Blood rushed to my ears, a dull roar drowning out everything else. “Then what about us? What did the last ten years mean to you?” His patience wore thin. He swung his legs out of bed and started pulling on his clothes. “Honestly, this whole interrogation is getting old. We’re adults, Willow. Sleeping together, living together… what does any of it really prove? I never once said anything about marrying you.” 2 He lit a cigarette, and the ring on his finger caught the light—a perfect match to the one on mine. He’d slept with me, given me a ring, but he never planned to marry me. What was I to him, then? A tool for his pleasure? A warm body on call? A bedmate he could kick to the curb whenever he pleased? A shiver traced its way down my spine, and I clutched the fabric of my dress over my chest. It did nothing to stop the trembling. I couldn’t forget our first time. He’d half-coaxed, half-pleaded with me until I gave in. It hurt, a sharp, tearing pain. But it was him—the boy I’d had a crush on for what felt like a lifetime. And because it was him, even the pain became something tender, something that etched itself into my very bones. We made it official the next day. Was that it? Was I too easy to win, and therefore not worth holding onto? “Are you… serious? About the engagement?” “Of course. Who jokes about their own marriage?” I closed my eyes, swallowing the bitter wave of grief and humiliation that rose in my throat. In front of the wrong person, every vulnerability, every tear, is just a punchline for their amusement. “Okay,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady. “I get it.” I finished dressing and started to pack. I’d lived here for six years. Every pillow, every picture frame, every goddamn plant had been chosen by me. I’d watched this place transform from a cold, empty shell into a warm, lived-in home. I had built a life here. But now that it was time to leave, I realized how little of it was actually mine. One suitcase was all it took. Liam sat on the couch, watching me, a storm brewing in his eyes. He chain-smoked, his jaw tight with irritation. “Willow, what the hell are you doing? Did I say you had to leave? Even when I get married, you can still be with me…” “So I’m supposed to be grateful? Thank you for offering me the position of your mistress? Liam, you really think that little of me!” My voice rose to a shout, sharp and raw. His face turned to ice. “Fine. You’re so pure, so noble. I’m not good enough for you! But I’m telling you right now, Willow Evans, if you walk out that door tonight, don’t you ever think about coming back!” I wiped the tears from my face, pulled the ring from my finger, and hurled it at him. It clattered on the floor between us. “Goodbye, Liam. For good.” 3 Christmas was just around the corner, and a damp, bone-aching cold had settled over Southport. The forecast had called for snow that night. As I stepped out of the building, I saw a pristine blanket of white covering everything. I managed a weak, ironic smile. For once, the weatherman got it right. I dragged my suitcase through the fresh snow, the wheels struggling against the powder. Luckily, the cab I’d called arrived quickly. The driver helped me lift my suitcase into the trunk. “Whoa, that’s a heavy one, miss!” he said with a friendly grunt. “Movin’ out in the middle of the night? Not coming back, huh?” As the taxi pulled away from the curb, I took one last look at the familiar window, now just a distant, glowing square in the swirling snow. “No,” I whispered. “Never again.” I found a cheap hotel near my office and spent the rest of the night scrolling through apartment listings on my phone. Rent in Southport was steep; a decent one-bedroom in a safe neighborhood would run me a few thousand a month. I was trying to calculate my savings when I drifted off, my phone still clutched in my hand. In my dreams, I saw our past unfold, but this time, I was watching from above. I saw myself at the freshman orientation welcome event, standing on stage singing. And I saw Liam in the audience, his gaze fixed on me, his eyes filled with a captivating mix of admiration and awe. When the song ended, he came on stage with a bouquet of flowers. “That was incredible,” he’d said, his voice confident, with a slight, charming edge of arrogance. “I’m Liam Goodwin, from the finance department. We should get to know each other.” He said it like a statement, not a question, as if he was certain I’d be as captivated as he was. I looked at the eighteen-year-old me in my dream, her cheeks flushed, and whispered through my own tears, “Willow, don’t tell him your name.” But a man with a face that perfect and a spirit that untamed is a lethal combination for an eighteen-year-old girl. Of course I took the flowers. And of course I told him my name. After that, he was everywhere. He chased away every other guy who showed even a flicker of interest in me. When I complained, he’d cup the back of my neck, his voice a low growl. “You looking for trouble, Evans? You think you can date someone without my permission?” My heart would flutter. I thought he was jealous. Looking back, I see it for what it was: the simple, brutish possessiveness of a man laying claim to a prize. For four years of college, he was the only man I was close to. He took me everywhere, introduced me to his oldest friends, and beamed with pride when they called me the “Mrs.” I would blush and say nothing. This ambiguous dance continued until the year we graduated. Liam’s mother, who had been sick for years, finally lost her battle. On the night of the funeral, he showed up at my tiny apartment, reeking of whiskey. His tears were cold against my neck as he held me, his trembling lips finding mine. It was our first real kiss. My mind went blank. When I finally came to my senses, I tried to push him away, but he murmured against my ear, his voice thick with grief, “Willow, please… don’t say no. You’re all I have left.” And just like that, I lost the will to fight. It was a night of tangled limbs and whispered grief. When I woke up the next morning, he was gone. I swallowed my disappointment and got ready for work, just like any other day. But then he came back, bursting through the door, out of breath from running up the stairs. In his hand, he held a small box. His eyes, when he looked at me, seemed to hold all the stars in the universe. He smiled, a real, brilliant smile, and held out his hand. “Willow Evans,” he said. “Be with me.” 4 I woke to the cold, damp feeling of a tear-soaked pillow. A message from Liam, sent in the dead of night, was waiting on my phone. [I’m selling the apartment. I won’t be living there after the wedding anyway. You should come get the rest of your things. Clear it all out.] A bitter laugh escaped my lips. There was nothing left in that apartment that belonged to me. Nothing but the humiliating, laughable memories of the last few years. I typed back: [No thanks. Just throw it all away.] It took a long time for him to reply. [Suit yourself.] Two words. That’s all it took to erase our entire history. I looked at my reflection in the dark screen of my phone. Puffy eyes, red nose—a complete and utter wreck. Get it together, Willow, I told myself. It’s just a breakup. You’re fine. You’re okay. My lip trembled, and a fresh wave of tears streamed down my face. Just then, my mom called. “Willow, honey, are you busy? You know how you were craving that clam chowder from home? Well, the snow finally stopped, so I went out and shipped a care package to you. The whole town is already decorated for Christmas! It made me miss you. When you were home, we’d have started baking the Christmas cookies by now. With you gone, your dad and I just don’t have the heart for it.” Hearing her voice, a painful lump formed in my throat. After college, I rarely went home. Between work and Liam, there was never enough time. And after his mother passed, his relationship with his father soured, so he stopped going to his family’s estate for the holidays. To keep him company, I stayed with him, every single Christmas. My parents never said a word, but I could hear the loneliness in their voices over the phone. When I thought about it, I’d been a terrible daughter. I’d hurt the people who loved me most for a man who wasn’t worth it. I had planned on taking extra time off this year, to finally bring Liam home to meet them. Now, there was no point. The thought of him sent a sharp, stabbing pain through my chest, and the tears started flowing again. I pressed my hand over my mouth, trying to stifle my sobs. My mom, oblivious, chattered on. “I was going to send you some lamb shanks too! But your dad reminded me that Liam can’t stand the smell of lamb, so I just packed some of my special chili oil instead. A little spoonful of that in the chowder is amazing! Oh, and is Liam still having trouble sleeping? I got him some herbal remedies from a well-known local herbalist. Your cousin’s wife swears by him—cured her insomnia right up. I sent those along too…” I bit down hard on my lip, the ache in my heart growing with every word she spoke. From the day they learned about Liam, my parents had treated him like a son-in-law. They knew his mother had passed away young and worried he had no one to look after him. The last time I’d visited, I’d mentioned his insomnia offhandedly, and my mom had scoured half of Seabrook to find a remedy. All they wanted was for us to be happy. And I was about to break their hearts. 5 After a long monologue, my mom finally noticed my silence. “Willow? Honey, you there?” I cleared my throat. “Yeah, Mom. I’m here.” They say a mother always knows. The moment I spoke, she caught it. “What’s wrong, sweetie? Your voice… Are you sick? Or… have you been crying?” For years, I’d lived by a simple rule: only share the good news. They were too far away to help with the bad, and it would only cause them to worry. But in that moment, all I wanted was to crawl into my mother’s arms. I wiped my face with a tissue. “Mom,” I choked out. “Liam and I… we broke up.” There was a long pause on the other end. Then, a sigh of relief. “Oh, is that all? I thought something terrible had happened. A breakup? Well, thank goodness.” I was so stunned I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Mom, I’m heartbroken!” “In today’s world, with all the stress everyone’s under, a broken heart is the least of your worries! Let me ask you something. Losing your job or losing a boyfriend, pick one.” I was silent. “Okay, how about this? Me and your dad getting sick, or losing a boyfriend, pick one.” “…Mom, why would you even say that?” “Last one. The world ending, or losing a boyfriend, pick one.” And just like that, a strange sense of perspective washed over me. I still had my job. My parents were safe and sound. The world was, in fact, not ending. Things were pretty great, actually. “I feel better, Mom. Thank you.” “That’s my girl. Hey, Willow… you only stayed in Southport for Liam, right? Now that you two are over, have you thought about coming back home? To Seabrook?” I froze. “Back to Seabrook?” “Yes! The town’s really been booming these last few years! It’s not so different from Southport anymore! And didn’t your company just open a new branch here this year? Your dad and I wanted you to transfer then, but because of Liam… well, never mind him. The point is, housing is so much cheaper here. We could help you get a small condo. You could live on your own, or stay with us and rent it out for extra income…” The more she talked, the more excited she became. She hung up abruptly, saying she needed to go discuss the plan with my dad. I looked out the window at Southport’s dreary, gray sky and thought about the pure, unadulterated joy in my mother’s voice. Ever since I met Liam, my world had orbited around him. He’d said he wanted me to build a life in Southport, so I never even considered going home. I never saw how much my parents missed me, how much they longed to have me close. In that moment, the decision was made. From now on, the only people my world would revolve around were the ones who truly loved me back. … After pulling myself together, I went to the office and spoke with the HR director about transferring to the Seabrook branch. I didn’t mention the breakup, just that I wanted to be closer to my aging parents. As it turned out, the Seabrook office was expanding and needed experienced people to lead the new teams. After a moment’s consideration, the director approved it on the spot. All I had to do was submit the formal request online and finish handing off my current projects. It was all so… easy. Maybe, I thought, even the universe wanted Liam and me to be apart.

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The day after I married Mark Torrence, I took a briefcase full of his money to the hospital to see my brother. Leo, his leg still mangled from the “accident,” slammed the cash against my chest, his face a mask of bitter disappointment. “Jenny, you actually did it. You married Mark Torrence. He’s the man who destroyed us.” “Is this what it’s all about?” he snarled, his voice cracking. “Do you think money can fix Dad’s death? Mom’s coma? My leg?” For years, whenever he begged me to leave Mark, I had only one answer for him: “Leo, I really love him.” But this time, I said nothing. I just knelt, gathered the scattered bills, and walked away without a word. That night, Mark was in high spirits. He pulled me close, his hand tracing my spine as he whispered, “What do you want, little bird? Name your reward.” I turned in his arms and said softly, “Freedom.” My brother’s freedom. 01. Mark’s large hand was still wandering over my skin. He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. “I don’t recall putting you in a cage. You’ve gone wherever you pleased for years, haven’t you?” I snuggled deeper into his embrace, my voice a carefully crafted purr. “I was talking about Leo. Call off your men at the hospital. Please?” “I’m your wife now. My brother hasn’t caused any trouble for years. What are you still worried about?” In the darkness of the bedroom, his features were a blur, but I could picture the faint, self-satisfied smile playing on his lips. The look of a man who owned the world and everyone in it. His voice was a slow, deliberate drawl. “Freeing your brother isn’t so difficult, you know. If your mother were to pass away, he wouldn’t have a reason to stay at the hospital, would he?” My heart stopped. The blood drained from my face, a mercy that the darkness hid my terror. I forced another playful note into my voice. “Mark, you wouldn’t want to see me sad, would you?” He pulled me tighter against him, but his voice was laced with a cool warning. “No, I wouldn’t. Which is why we’re never speaking of this again.” I closed my eyes, the scent of him filling my lungs, a wave of nausea churning in my stomach. It took every ounce of my willpower not to be sick all over him. My brother hated me for marrying our family’s destroyer. But did he really think I had a choice? Mark Torrence’s influence was a cancer that had metastasized throughout Sterling City. Years ago, my parents were top researchers in a lab owned by one of his subsidiary companies. He treated them like lab rats, exposing them to a lethal experimental gas. My father died on the spot. My mother slipped into a coma, a shell of a person kept alive by machines. Faced with the wreckage of our family, Mark had simply stood there, one hand in his pocket, looking down on me and my brother as if we were insects. “Bury the dead one,” he’d ordered his men. “And get the other one to a hospital. I want to know when she wakes up. That data is crucial to my research. There can be no mistakes.” Leo, his fists clenched, had lunged at him, screaming, “You monster! I’m calling the police!” Mark’s bodyguards swarmed him. Mark didn’t even flinch, just gave my brother a look of utter disdain. “The police? You won’t even be leaving the hospital.” At his signal, they snapped my brother’s legs. From that day on, Leo was under constant surveillance. I was only thirteen at the time. Too young, Mark thought, to be a threat. His watch over me was lax. That changed when I was fifteen. I jumped from a third-story window and ran, delirious with pain and purpose, straight for the nearest police station. I didn’t even make it two blocks before I ran straight into him. His hand closed around my throat. With my free arm, I plunged the fruit knife I’d hidden in my sleeve into his wrist. Blood bloomed, dark and sudden. His men descended on me. I was ready to die. They twisted my arm until the bone snapped, but I held onto the knife, driving it deep into one of the bodyguard’s ribs. As the man screamed, Mark finally gave me his full attention. Our eyes met. My own were bloodshot, a trickle of blood leaking from the corner of my mouth. Pinned to the ground, I glared at him with every ounce of hate I possessed. Just as the world began to fade to black, he raised a hand. His men backed off. He walked toward me, his steps measured and deliberate. With a flick of his expensive shoe, he kicked the knife from my grasp. His eyes held a flicker of something new—a dark, analytical amusement. “Vicious little thing,” he murmured. 02. After that, he took me to his estate. He had my broken arm set and healed, and he made me a promise: as long as I behaved, he would provide for me. In the three years that followed, I learned the true chasm between us. Defy him, betray him, challenge him—it always ended the same way: a beating and the cold, damp dark of the basement. I was only let out when I had learned my lesson. So I spent the next two years earning his trust. The price of that trust was my brother. When Leo found out Mark had taken me, he stormed the estate, a wild, desperate animal. He was beaten until he was spitting blood, but he still crawled toward me, grabbing my hand, begging me to leave with him. My face was a mask of indifference. I pulled my hand from his grasp. “I’m in love with Mark,” I said, the words like acid on my tongue. The shock in my brother’s eyes was a knife in my own heart. But I got better at it. The more I broke his heart, the more convincing I became. Eventually, I could look down on him with the same condescending air as Mark himself. “Just go, Leo,” I sneered one day. “I’m going to marry him. Mom’s been in that bed for ten years. Who knows when she’ll finally die? I have to look out for myself.” CRACK. The force of his slap sent a ringing through my ears. “Have you lost your mind? Have you no shame?” he roared, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with tears. “Tell me the truth, Jenny! Is that monster forcing you to do this?” And Mark was standing right behind me, watching it all. I calmly tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and ordered the guards to throw my brother out. It was that very day that Mark told me he was going to marry me. There was no engagement. No ceremony. He tossed a diamond ring at me that probably cost less than his watch. That was it. We were married. Because that was all I deserved. I often prayed to the heavens, to my dead father. What am I supposed to do? What other way is there to save us, to save my brother? But the answer was always the same. This body was my only weapon. And it would only work as long as Mark Torrence was still interested in it. Ring— The sudden shrill of Mark’s phone cut through my thoughts. He answered it, and a sweet, feminine voice cooed from the other end. A few minutes later, he was dressed and heading for the door. The moment the front door clicked shut, a text message lit up my phone. It was from my brother. Just one line. [Jenny Asher. As of today, we are no longer brother and sister.] 03. My brother could curse me, hate me, call me anything he wanted. But for him to disown me… that was the one thing I couldn’t bear. I knew then that I had to accelerate my plan. When Mark left, he was usually gone until at least noon. I waited until the house staff were taking their mid-morning break, then slipped into his study. All the data from his illegal labs was on his computer. Even after all these years, there had to be a digital trail. I’d tried before, but the computer was protected by a three-tiered security system that would stump professionals. So, for the past few months, I had been secretly teaching myself to code. I bypassed the first two layers of security with relative ease. The third was just a matter of time. My hands trembled with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. As I typed the final character of the bypass code, I had to clamp a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming in triumph. The desktop flared to life. And from behind me, I heard a soft, derisive chuckle. I spun around, my heart seizing in my chest, and looked straight into Mark Torrence’s ice-cold eyes. He was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed. His words were a death sentence. “I trust you remember the basement, Jenny.” 04. I hadn’t been in the basement for five years. Thrown back into the damp darkness, my arm broken again, I felt like I was suffocating. My face and body were slick with blood. This time, Mark had done the honors himself. He stood over me, a baseball bat resting on his shoulder, his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “I thought you were the smart one. It seems ten years wasn’t enough to teach you your place.” “Jenny, I was actually going to let it all go. Why couldn’t you just behave?” My mouth was full of blood. I spat a pink-tinged gob onto the concrete floor, sticking to my one and only story. “I was bored. I just wanted to play a game.” Mark sneered. “That’s a pathetic excuse. Do you really expect me to believe that?” I cradled my shattered arm, my voice flat. “You walk out on your new wife to see another woman. Can’t I have a little fun of my own? Or is there something on that computer you don’t want people to see?” He ran his tongue over the inside of his cheek, a predatory gleam in his eyes. To my shock, he admitted it. “Of course there is. It contains a complete record of your mother’s biometric data for the past decade.” He crouched down, his voice a low, mocking whisper. “I know what you want, Jenny. But you’re being naive. Even if you got that evidence, it would be useless in this city.” He was right. He had his hands in everything, legal and illegal. His public image as a philanthropist was impeccable. Without concrete, irrefutable proof, I could never touch him. I gritted my teeth. “I want your love, Mark.” His eyes widened almost imperceptibly, the same flash of surprise he’d shown the day I stabbed his wrist. “I want your absolute, undivided love,” I pressed on, my voice gaining strength. “I don’t care if my mother lives or dies. But you… you have to love me.” He moved closer. “So that’s what this is about. That phone call.” He tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Don’t worry. You’ll never see that woman in Sterling City again.” His voice was a soft, dangerous caress. “This is the Jenny I know. Vicious. I like it. But you still tried to hack my computer, and I can’t just let that go.” “So here’s what we’ll do. I’ll give you one more chance. Go to your brother. Make things right.” … At the hospital, I found Leo slumped on a bench in the hallway, his head leaned back against the wall, eyes closed. He was only three years older than me, but he looked like a man in his late thirties. Ten years of this hell had eroded the strong, vibrant young man he’d been, leaving this exhausted, broken shell. My fingers curled into a fist. I walked over and sat down beside him. He opened his eyes at the sound, and when he saw it was me, he recoiled as if he’d been burned. He scrambled to his feet, limping a few steps away, putting distance between us. “What are you doing here? I thought we were done.” The hospital was crawling with Mark’s men. I looked at him, my gaze deep and unwavering, but my voice was cold enough to freeze water. “Leo Asher, a text message has no legal standing.” “I have the papers here. A declaration of severance. Once you sign it, you and your mother will be nothing to me.” His mouth fell open, his eyes filled with a fresh wave of shock and despair. He knew a text wasn’t legally binding. He’d sent it as a last-ditch effort, a final plea for me to come to my senses. He never thought I would take it this far. I fought back the lump in my throat and pulled the documents and a pen from my bag. “Sign it. After this, we’re strangers. What I do will no longer be your concern.” He clenched his jaw, his eyes boring into me. “Jenny, I’m asking you one last time. Are you really in love with him? Have you forgotten what he did to our parents? Have you forgotten my leg?” The words wouldn’t come. I had spoken so many cruel, decisive words to him over the years. But this time, my throat was closed. He stepped forward and grabbed my hand, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Jenny, this is your last chance. Leave him. Come back to me. We’ll find a way to get justice. As long as we’re together, we can survive this! Do you want Dad to be unable to rest in peace?” A sharp pain shot through my nose, and I almost broke down. A last chance. Everyone was giving me a last chance. But what was I supposed to do? If I went back to Leo, everything I had worked for, everything I had endured, would be for nothing. All my pain, all my humiliation, would be meaningless. If I stayed with Mark, it was just more of the same, a slow, agonizing death of the soul. After all these years, I was still no closer to getting the evidence I needed. What if I never got it? What if one day, my mother and brother couldn’t hold on any longer? What was I supposed to do? As I stood there, paralyzed by indecision, Leo’s grip on my hand tightened, his eyes pleading. And from behind me came the slow, mocking sound of applause. “What a touching scene. A pair of suffering siblings. How pathetic.” Leo’s expression turned murderous. He let go of me and limped toward Mark. Just as he was about to swing, I grabbed his arm. “Leo, sign the papers!” “You!” he choked, enraged. The punch that was meant for Mark swung wide and connected with my face. The world spun. I collapsed to the floor, the impact jarring my broken arm. He stood over me, his entire body shaking with fury. “How could I have a sister like you? Have you no shame? Why wasn’t it you who died? Why aren’t you the one lying in that bed?” “Do you think Mom and Dad would be proud of you? Am I?” Pain, sharp and white-hot, shot up my arm. I couldn’t meet his eyes. My voice was a trembling whisper, but I repeated the words. “Sign it!” He looked at me, his face a mask of utter defeat. He nodded, a single, jerky motion. He snatched the pen and scribbled his name on the line. I let out a silent breath of relief. I struggled to my feet, snatched the contract from his hand, and looped my arm through Mark’s, turning my back on my brother. I could feel his gaze burning into my back all the way down the hall. Back in the car, Mark traced the swelling bruise on my cheek. His voice was laced with a triumphant smile. “Now, Jenny,” he said. “You have no one left but me.” 05. I was sick. First, the beating from Mark, then the violent confrontation with my brother. My body finally gave out. A raging fever took hold. I was freezing, no matter how many blankets were piled on top of me. A deep, bone-chilling tremor wracked my body, a physical manifestation of the terror that had become my constant companion. Just as I felt myself slipping away, a man entered my bedroom. He gently wiped the sweat from my brow and carefully tucked the blankets around me. The gesture was so tender, it reminded me of Leo. My eyes flew open. But the face looking down at me wasn’t my brother’s. It was Mark’s. My heart plummeted into an abyss. He stroked my hair, his voice as soft as a demon’s whisper. “Jenny, you’re pregnant.” “I was wrong the other day. I’m sorry. From now on, as long as you love me with all your heart, I’ll love you back. I promise.” My pupils constricted. Under the blankets, my hand clenched into a fist. First shock, then a wild, triumphant joy. I knew Mark had always wanted a child. And this child might just be the key to his downfall. A smile spread across my face. To him, it must have looked like a smile of pure happiness. He leaned down and kissed my forehead, his eyes dark and intense. “Jenny, you’ve cut ties with your brother. If you carry this child to term, safely, I’ll consider pulling my men from the hospital.” I met his gaze, my voice weak. “Leo has already given up trying to find evidence. Mom’s… his mother’s illness is more than enough to keep him occupied. After the baby is born, let’s go abroad. It’s been years. Any evidence you had is long gone anyway.” He squeezed my hand, his face radiating contentment. “Okay. Whatever you want. As long as Leo Asher behaves himself, I’ll call off the surveillance. For you, I’ll set him free.” His hand slipped under the covers, coming to rest on my flat stomach. “And when we’re abroad, I’ll give you a real wedding. Jenny, it took having a child to make me realize how much I… care for you. Now, we’re a real family.” I forced my lips into a gentle smile. Inside, I was screaming. My family is my brother and my mother. Not you, Mark Torrence. Just you wait. One day, I will be the one to send you to hell. … After the fever broke, Mark took me to the hospital for a check-up. The baby was healthy, a tiny, flickering heartbeat on the ultrasound screen. The smile never left Mark’s face. As we were leaving, I “accidentally” left the diagnostic report behind. Then I feigned a wave of morning sickness and asked him to go back and get it for me. He told me to wait for him and not to wander off. The moment he was out of sight, I hailed a cab and raced back to the estate. The password to his study computer had been changed back to something simple. Perhaps he was finally letting his guard down. I didn’t overthink it. I tried his birthday, his mother’s birthday, even the birthday of the woman who had called him that night. All of them failed. I frowned, preparing to hack my way in again. But as my fingers touched the mouse, an idea struck me. A cold, chilling premonition. I typed in the date. The date Mark Torrence first brought me to his home. The computer unlocked. The desktop wallpaper was a photo of the two of us. I let out a cold, humorless laugh. You said it yourself, Mark. A man with a weakness is a man who can be broken. My fingers flew across the keyboard. Finally, in a hidden directory, I found a folder labeled “LAB.” My heart hammered in my chest, my palms sweating with excitement. I clicked it open. The smile on my face froze. On the screen was a live feed. It was my brother, struggling against several of Mark’s men. They had him pinned to the floor. His eyes, wild and red-rimmed, stared through the camera, directly at me. “Jenny! What the hell are you and Torrence doing? I disowned you, wasn’t that enough? Are you trying to get me and Mom killed?” My pupils shrank to pinpricks. I slapped a hand over my mouth, my entire body shaking uncontrollably. “Heh…” Mark’s figure suddenly entered the frame. He looked at the camera, his expression one of profound disappointment. His voice was a cold sneer. “Do you see, Jenny? This is your precious brother. You fight so hard to protect him, and this is the thanks you get.” “Don’t think I don’t know what was really in that severance agreement you had him sign.” “It was a liability waiver, wasn’t it? Stating that no matter what actions you took, he would not be held responsible.” “You wanted to kill me, Jenny.” BZZZZT— My mind went blank, as if my very soul had been ripped from my body.

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1 A wedding in the snow-capped mountains—it was a dream I’d planned for years. For me and Simmon, it held a special, sacred meaning. But I never imagined that with a single word from Clara, he would change everything. I stood frozen in the doorway, my hands trembling, afraid to make a sound. Simmon’s friend, Mark, frowned in confusion. “A wedding is about two people, man. You should at least tell Amelia. How is she supposed to prepare?” Simmon waved a dismissive hand, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. “What’s there to prepare? The mountains are freezing. The beach is so much nicer.” “But this is your wedding. To just change the venue without even telling her… isn’t that a little disrespectful?” Simmon’s patience was clearly wearing thin. “If she knew, she’d just ask a million questions, probably throw a fit, and then I’d have to waste my time calming her down. It’s a hassle.” “Besides,” he added with a smug confidence, “she loves me. She’ll agree. I mean, she went blind for me. What’s changing a wedding venue compared to that?” A chorus of snickers erupted from the guys around them. “We all know what this is about,” one of them said with a sly grin. “It’s all for Clara. Who could say no to a woman like that?” “Haha, yeah, we always thought you’d end up with Clara. She’s gorgeous, and her family’s loaded.” At that, Simmon’s face darkened. “Shut up. Don’t let me hear you say that again. If Amelia finds out and makes a scene, I’ll have your heads.” The laughter continued. “Alright, alright, we get it. You’ve got it made. Amelia’s completely devoted to you.” Just then, Simmon’s phone rang. The name “Clara” flashed across the screen. The men exchanged knowing, wicked smiles. “Speak of the devil. The real Mrs. Thorne is calling.” Simmon didn’t bother to correct them. His voice softened as he answered the call. Clara’s playful laughter tinkled through the phone. “Simmon, did you really get that dress for me? I heard there’s a six-month waiting list!” “I pulled some strings. Had it flown in from Milan. It’ll be here next week.” “But… wasn’t it terribly expensive?” “Only fifty grand. If you like it, it’s worth it.” Her voice was thick with emotion. “You’re too good to me. I’ll be sure to wear it for you on your wedding day!” Simmon’s smile was audible in his voice. “I’ll be waiting.” When he hung up, his friends erupted in hoots and hollers. “Damn, she’s going to upstage the bride! Simmon, who are you actually marrying, Amelia or Clara?” Simmon just laughed it off. “Amelia and I are practically an old married couple already. It doesn’t matter what she wears. Clara’s different. She needs this more.” I stood in the doorway, a bitter smile twisting my lips. My wedding dress was from a local boutique. I was still recovering my sight the day we went to pick it out, so I’d asked Simmon to be my eyes. After I’d tried on the third dress, he’d waved a hand dismissively. “They all look fine. Just pick this one. It’s not like you can see the details anyway.” He was in a hurry to pay. The receipt, I later saw, was for two hundred dollars. So, he was capable of thoughtful, extravagant gestures. Just not for me. On the way home, I bit my lip so hard I could taste blood, but the tears came anyway. Five years. For five whole years, I had naively believed that he understood me. When I first told him I wanted to get married in the mountains, he had smiled and ruffled my hair. “Of course,” he’d said. I was so touched in that moment. He remembered, I thought. He had to remember. He had to remember that it was where we first met, where I’d fallen and bled for him, where I’d held his hand in a blizzard and told him not to be afraid. But he didn’t remember. Or maybe, he had never cared enough to. The doctor’s words echoed in my mind: Emotional distress can affect the recovery of your optic nerve. I tilted my head back, trying to force the tears back, but a raw, choked sob escaped my throat. My phone rang. It was Simmon. The background was a cacophony of loud, thumping music. “Amelia, the guys are throwing me a bachelor party tonight. I won’t be home.” I paused for two seconds. “Okay.” This “bachelor party” had been going on for three days. At 1 a.m., unable to sleep, I scrolled through social media. Mark had posted a nine-photo collage with the caption: A brother’s last night of freedom. In the center photo, Clara, her cheeks flushed with alcohol, was leaning against Simmon’s chest. His hand was hovering protectively over her waist. The comments were a flood of innuendo and pity. “Such a perfect couple. What a shame.” “They were childhood friends, you guys. Don’t start rumors.” “@SimmonThorne Careful, man. Don’t want to make Amelia mad!” Simmon had replied. “Amelia won’t mind. If she makes a big deal out of something like this, then maybe we shouldn’t be getting married at all.” I silently liked the comment, turned off my phone, and went to sleep. He was so certain I would tolerate it. Just like I tolerated the change of venue, the fifty-thousand-dollar dress for another woman, and every single time he’d said, “We’re just friends.” But this time, I was done tolerating. I went to my follow-up appointment at the eye clinic alone. “I told you last time, your vision is still fluctuating. You need to have someone accompany you,” the doctor chided gently. I just smiled. “I can manage.” As I left the clinic, the sky opened up. A torrential downpour. Through the rain-streaked window of a coffee shop, I saw them. Simmon was holding up his phone, and Clara was leaning against his shoulder, her face pressed against his, making a peace sign for a selfie. The purse on the table next to her was the brand-new designer bag Simmon had claimed he was buying for a “client” last week. I let out a dry, humorless laugh and walked home in the storm. When Simmon got home, I was peeling off my soaked clothes. He looked up, startled. “What happened to you? You’re drenched.” “My appointment.” His expression froze. “That was today?” I laughed, a sound devoid of any warmth. “Yes. The third time I reminded you.” He ran a hand through his hair, agitated. “I’ve been so busy lately, I forgot. Anyway, your vision is getting better. Missing one appointment won’t kill you.” I just stared at him. “The doctor said my optic nerve is still atrophying.” He was silent for a moment. When he looked up, his eyes were hard. “Are you trying to remind me again? That you went blind for me?” So that’s what it had become. Not a sacrifice, but a tool for me to guilt him with. When I didn’t answer, his frustration boiled over into anger. “What’s with that look? I forgot one time! Why do you always have to make such a big deal out of every little thing?” I looked at the collar of his shirt. “You’ve got a little blueberry jam there.” He instinctively reached up to wipe it, then froze. “You…” “Clara’s new purse is very nice,” I added calmly. His face flushed a deep, angry red. He pointed a trembling finger at me. “Were you following me? Seriously? She was just having a bad day and needed someone to talk to!” “You know what her family situation is like! I’m all she has!” “Amelia, can’t you be a little more understanding? This is getting ridiculous!” I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “Funny. When I was at my appointment today, I was also ‘all I had’.” He flinched, as if I’d struck him. “That’s different… you have people who care about you…” Suddenly, his phone rang. Clara again. He answered it immediately. Her choked sobs were audible even from where I stood. “Simmon, I fell… it hurts so much…” “Don’t worry, I’m on my way.” He hung up and pulled open the door, then paused and looked back at me. “You need to do some serious thinking. I’ll take you to the gift shop tomorrow to pick out the wedding favors.” “And stop following me,” he added, his voice laced with contempt. “It makes you look pathetic.” He left. His words hung in the air. Pathetic. He was right. The only question was, why had it taken me so long to see it? It seemed I had been blind for a very long time. The car ride to the gift shop was suffocatingly awkward. I put in my earbuds and closed my eyes. Simmon drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, a nervous energy radiating from him. “This weather is just perfect for the beach, isn’t it?” He glanced over at me. When I didn’t respond, he cleared his throat and spoke louder. “I hear the Golden Shore Resort is really popular right now. A lot of celebrities have their weddings there.” I still didn’t open my eyes. I just made a noncommittal sound. He frowned, his voice tinged with impatience. “Amelia, are you even listening to me?” I opened my eyes a fraction. “I’m listening. So?” He was momentarily speechless. “…Nothing. Just making conversation.” A cool breeze drifted through the open window, clearing my head a little. “Simmon,” I said, turning to look at him. “About the wedding… is there anything you need to tell me?” It was the first and last time I would ever ask. He avoided my gaze, forcing a laugh. “It’s all up to you. I trust you.” I looked down, my heart sinking. He was still lying. Even now, if he would just be honest, maybe I could… No. It was too late. I clenched my fists. So this is what trust was for. To be trampled on. Simmon laughed again, a nervous, hollow sound. His eyes darted around, unable to meet mine. I could practically hear his thoughts. She definitely knows. She’s just sulking. I’ll just have to charm her a bit later. At the gift shop, I saw the mock-up of the custom pastries I’d ordered. Tiny, intricate cakes in the shape of a snow-capped mountain. I was about to taste one when a familiar voice chirped from behind me. “Simmon? Are you here buying me my favorite almond crisps?” I frowned. Her again? Clara spotted me and covered her mouth in feigned surprise. “Oh, Amelia! I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you.” “Oh, are you guys picking out wedding favors? This place has the best almond crisps. Simmon brings me here all the time!” My fingers tightened. He brought her here all the time. I had only found out about this place from a friend. Clara picked up a new pastry. “Amelia, you should try this one. It would be perfect for a beach wedding. It pairs wonderfully with champagne!” I took a step back. “No, thank you. I’ve already made my choice. You two enjoy yourselves.” Clara looked momentarily taken aback, then her face crumpled into a mask of wounded innocence. “Are you… upset because I’m here? I-I can leave.” Simmon immediately grabbed her wrist. “Amelia didn’t mean that. You don’t have to go.” He turned to me, his eyes hard. “Amelia, Clara is going to be your maid of honor. Don’t be so rude to her. You’re scaring her.” I stared at him, stunned. When was that decided? Wasn’t the maid of honor my choice to make? But then again, if he could change the entire wedding venue without consulting me, what else did he think he had the right to decide? My face was a blank mask. “This is who I am. Take it or leave it.” They both stared at me, clearly shocked by my bluntness. Clara’s eyes welled up with tears. “It’s fine, I’ll just go. I don’t want to be in the way.” But Simmon held onto her hand, his fingers now intertwined with hers. “Amelia, you’re about to be a married woman. Can you stop being so childish? Ever since we set the date, you’ve been nothing but moody. What’s the point?” Clara murmured something, pressing closer to him. “Simmon, don’t…” But he was on a roll. “Don’t try to stop me. I’m sick of it! Go ahead, Amelia, keep throwing your tantrums. But don’t come crying to me when you’ve cried yourself blind again!” The shop fell silent. The employees stared at the floor, mortified. My heart felt like it had been plunged into a vat of ice. So that’s what he thought. My blindness wasn’t a sacrifice. It was just me being dramatic, crying myself blind over some petty jealousy. And I had actually hoped he would remember the significance of a mountain wedding. How many times had this happened? Clara would call with a headache or a dizzy spell, and Simmon would drop everything to be by her side. I had a 102-degree fever once, and he was too busy shopping with Clara to do more than text, “Drink lots of water. I’ll check on you later.” He never did. Whenever I complained, he would turn it back on me. “Why are you so needy? Clara actually needs me!” For our anniversary, he had promised to take me to see the sunrise over the mountains. I spent weeks planning the perfect gift. He forgot the date entirely. “It’s just a day. Why are you so obsessed with it?” But for Clara’s birthday, he had booked a restaurant a month in advance, bought her extravagant gifts, and posted a gushing tribute on social media. “Happy birthday to the most important person in my life.” Thinking back on all of it, seeing them standing there together, I was just… tired. I should have walked away a long time ago. As I turned to leave, Simmon’s voice followed me, though he was still looking at Clara. “She’s probably just got pre-wedding jitters. Don’t mind her.” How considerate of him, to make excuses for me. Through the shop window, I saw him take her hand and feed her an almond crisp. They looked, for all the world, like the happy couple. That night, I received a voice message from Simmon. “Amelia, stop being angry. I’m so busy with work, and I have to take care of both of you. Can’t you be a little more understanding? We’re about to be husband and wife. I need you to be more mature.” He was slightly drunk, and he rambled on for a while. I didn’t listen to the rest. He had it so hard. So I decided to make things easier for him. I would relieve him of his burden, once and for all. The day before the wedding, Simmon finally cracked. He called me. “Amelia, the wedding schedule… you’ve confirmed everything, right?” I was packing my suitcase for the mountains. “Mmmhmm. All confirmed.” He let out a sigh of relief. “Good… that’s good. I’ll pick you up tomorrow.” The next day, I put on my wedding dress. Not the one he had picked out. I heard a car pull up outside, and then my phone rang. It was Simmon, his voice rushed. “Amelia, Clara twisted her ankle. I’m taking her to the hospital, I won’t have time to pick you up. Can you just get yourself to the venue? It’s just a formality, I’ll meet you there.” My voice was calm. “Okay.” He paused, seeming to notice the lack of emotion in my tone. “You’re… not mad, are you?” “No. You do what you have to do.” He hung up, relieved. He turned to Clara, who was sitting in the passenger seat. “Does it hurt? We’re almost at the hospital.” Her eyes were filled with tears. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I’ve ruined your wedding day…” He squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Don’t say that. You’re hurt. Of course I’m going to take care of you.” But a small, uneasy feeling was starting to prick at him. My reaction had been too calm. Maybe she’s finally realized that I do care about her, he thought. I’ll make it up to her on the honeymoon. At the Golden Shore Resort, the guests from Simmon’s side of the family had all arrived. But the bride’s family and friends were nowhere to be seen. Simmon arrived with Clara on his arm. The sight of the half-empty venue sent a jolt of panic through him. “No way… she didn’t see the email about the venue change, did she?” He couldn’t bear to imagine the consequences. He tried calling my phone. No answer. He checked his watch, his face growing paler by the second. Finally, I picked up. “Amelia, where are you?” he yelled, his voice tight with anxiety. “The guests are all waiting!” I looked out the window at the gently falling snow. “I’ve been here for a while.”

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