Author: Momo Chan

I was a professional stay-at-home daughter, a champion of doing absolutely nothing, when a horror game snatched me up and made me a player. I never expected the first level to be my own neighborhood. For me, this wasn’t a death trap. It was a homecoming. 【Welcome to the S-Rank level: Harmony Creek.】 The moment the game started, the audience in the livestream chat was already writing my obituary. An S-Rank level, with a 0.01% survival rate? A rookie like me was dead on arrival. But then I saw a familiar figure with a grocery basket and waved enthusiastically. “Hey, Mrs. Gable! Just back from the market?” I skipped over to play with a little girl who was using a string of bloody intestines as a jump rope. 【LOL, I’ve never seen a newbie this bold. She’s making friends with the monsters.】 【Wait, is she eating a human hand?】 【Hold on… who did she just call ‘Mom’!? That’s the final boss!】 I was leaning against my mom’s arm, gnawing on a spicy pickled chicken foot Mrs. Gable had given me. Huh? Boss? Human hand? Where? 1 【Welcome to the S-Rank level: Harmony Creek.】 【Survive for three days to clear this level.】 【For the next three days, you must embody your assigned role. Be good sons and daughters to your parents.】 【Initial Players: 10. Current Players: 10.】 【We wish you a pleasant game.~】 The system’s voice echoed in my ears, and my mind was a total blank. One second, I was at home playing cards with my grandparents, and the next, I’m a contestant in a real-life horror game? As a professional daughter, my income consisted of strategic allowances from my grandparents’ retirement funds and my parents’ generosity. My primary job was just to be there, providing emotional support and company. It’s not that I never tried to be ambitious. I took the ten thousand dollars my parents gave me as seed money for a startup and came back six months later with twenty thousand dollars in debt. My mom had just sighed, patted my head, and said, “Grace, honey, you staying home is the biggest contribution you can make right now.” And now I’d been drafted into a horror game. My soft, cushy life was over. I was toast. I lay down on the pavement, curled into a ball, and started sobbing. “Mom, Dad, Grandpa, Grandma… I’m a goner. Please remember to water my succulents.” A guy with full sleeve tattoos spat on the ground and grabbed the old security guard by the collar. “What the hell is this? You think some stupid broadcast about a horror game is gonna scare me?” he snarled. “I run with the Breakers. Give me a couple hundred grand for the trouble and I’ll forget this ever happened.” A man in a sharp suit tried to intervene, but he was too late. The security guard, Mr. Henderson, opened his mouth—wider, and wider, and impossibly wider—and bit the tattooed man clean in half. There wasn’t even time for a scream before both halves were swallowed whole. Several people collapsed to the ground in terror. The broadcast was real. The man in the suit, the one who’d tried to stop it, introduced himself as a veteran player. He’d cleared five levels already, he said. You have to clear ten to get back to the real world. Apparently, half of us were rookies. With the tattoo guy gone, that left nine of us. We all had an identity card. The suit’s face was grim. Let’s call him Mark. “Our mission is to play the part we’ve been assigned,” he said, his voice tight. “And survive for three days.” 【Damn, so many newbies on an S-Rank level. The survival rate on this one is only 0.01%.】 【I’ve never seen such a pathetic rookie. She’s literally just rolling around on the ground crying.】 【Hey, didn’t you piss your pants your first time? Wait… what is she doing now?】 I had cried myself out and was slowly getting up, ready to accept my fate, when I finally took a good look around. This eerily familiar neighborhood… wasn’t this my home? Mr. Henderson, the security guard, was already back in his booth, waving cheerfully at me. “Gracie! What are you doing out here? Thought you’d be inside with your grandma.” Stunned, I pulled out my identity card. The role I was supposed to play? It was me. 2 Mark, the self-appointed leader, gathered the rest of us and led us toward the main gate. Mr. Henderson stepped out to check everyone’s identity. “You kids,” he said, his voice raspy as he let us through one by one. “Work is important, but you can’t forget your families. Look at you all… besides little Gracie here, I don’t recognize a single one of your faces.” He beamed at me. “Not like Grace. Always at home with her folks. Such a good girl.” I offered a weak, guilty smile. My status as the neighborhood’s resident homebody was well-known. No one thought it was weird; in fact, most people were a little envious of my parents for having their daughter around all the time. Mr. Henderson slowly flipped through a worn notebook, his gaze landing on a terrified kid with bleached-blond hair. “Name? Parents’ names?” The kid blurted out his real name, then realized his mistake and tried to correct himself, but it was too late. In an instant, Mr. Henderson’s body swelled, stretching and distorting until he was a two-story tall monstrosity. A massive claw shot out and snatched the kid. He was crushed into a pulp before he could even beg for his life. “He’s a liar,” the monster rumbled, the voice echoing through the street. “He doesn’t belong here. He can’t come in.” Blood and viscera rained down on the pavement. A few of the more timid players were already soaked in urine. The remaining players frantically double-checked their identity cards, terrified of suffering the same fate. Strangely, the gruesome scene didn’t frighten me. Instead, a wave of sadness washed over me. Mr. Henderson shrank back to his normal form, acting as if nothing had happened, and continued his check-in. When he got to me, he just waved me through. “Gracie, don’t cause a fuss. Everyone in Harmony Creek knows you.” Once we were all safely inside, a collective sigh of relief went through the group. We followed Mark, running until we were well out of Mr. Henderson’s sight, stopping in a small park. “Okay, it’s clear we can’t make a single mistake,” Mark said, catching his breath. “From now on, we are the people on these cards. You all saw what happens if we slip up.” He paused, then looked at me with suspicion. “Why was he different with you? Why did he praise you?” I held up my identity card innocently. “Maybe because my assigned role is ‘professional daughter’?” He seemed to buy it, nodding slowly. “Alright. I assume no one here has more experience than me, so I’ll take the lead. Call me Mark. You listen to me, and I’ll get you through this.” I was already tuning him out. My stomach was growling. I just wanted to go home and see my mom. Before I could sneak away, a familiar voice called out to me. “Grace, honey! Perfect timing.” It was my neighbor, Mrs. Gable, carrying several grocery bags. Trailing behind her was her little girl, Penny, who was cheerfully using a string of bloody intestines as a jump rope. Mrs. Gable was thrilled to see me. She held out one of her hands. “Here, sweetie, take this basket for me, will you? Saves me a trip to your house.” Our families were close. She was always dropping off extra vegetables or leftovers. “Sure thing!” I chirped, happily taking the basket. It was the perfect excuse to finally go home. The other players, however, didn’t look so happy. A pale, delicate-looking girl, who looked like a strong gust of wind could knock her over, covered her mouth and started to gag. The livestream chat was flying. 【The basket is full of a severed head and a dismembered arm. Is cannibalism part of this level?】 【That player’s got nerves of steel. She just ran right over and took it.】 【Could she be a master player in disguise? A wolf in sheep’s clothing?】 3 From the other players’ perspective, I knew the scene was horrific. Mrs. Gable had only half a head, the missing part swarming with maggots. Her daughter, Penny, had skin covered in angry, scorched patches, and one side of her cherubic face was just bare, grinning bone. Penny ran over, grabbed my hand, and pulled my head down to give me a loud, wet kiss on the cheek. “Gracie! It’s been so long! Come play with us!” The system’s cold, mechanical voice suddenly cut in, making everyone jump. 【New Mission: Play a game with Penny.】 Penny looked up at the other players, her one good eye twinkling innocently. “You guys have to play too.” Mark forced a smile, crouching down to her level. “Sure, kiddo. What game should we play?” Penny clung to my arm, giggling. “I wanna play soccer! Mister, can I borrow your head?” Cold sweat beaded on Mark’s forehead. I gently poked her cheek. She just giggled and snuggled closer. “Just kidding! You’re no fun, mister,” she pouted. “Let’s play Hawk Catches the Chicks! I’ll be the hawk!” The players instantly understood the subtext. A frantic scramble began as everyone tried to be the “mother hen,” the safest position in the game. No one wanted to be the last little chick. Penny stomped her foot, annoyed. “Stop fighting! You,” she said, pointing at the tallest guy in the group. “You’re the mother hen. Everyone else line up behind him, tallest to shortest.” The tall guy looked relieved, having snagged the safest spot without even trying. I ended up at the very back of the line, indignantly clutching the shirt of the person in front of me. This was height discrimination. I still had time for a growth spurt. The game began. Thanks to my fancy footwork and Penny clearly going easy on me, she never even came close to catching me. The other players started to relax. Then, with a fake roar of frustration, Penny lunged forward. But instead of going for the chicks, she grabbed the “mother hen” and tore his arm clean off. She chewed on the bloody limb, nodding thoughtfully. “This hen is too tough. Chewy,” she mumbled. “I’m full now. I don’t want to play anymore.” The tall guy’s eyes were bloodshot with pain and rage. He started screaming, all caution thrown to the wind. “You little bitch! You were supposed to catch the chicks, not me!” My expression went cold. I quickly covered Penny’s ears. So what if they were monsters? I’d known them my whole life. They were more family to me than these strangers I’d just met. I’d choose their side any day. Mrs. Gable appeared in a flash in front of the screaming man. With one swift motion, she reached into his mouth and ripped out his entire tongue. “If you can’t speak nicely,” she hissed, “then you shouldn’t speak at all.” She turned back to the rest of us, her form shifting back to that of a kindly neighbor. “Alright, it’s getting late. Your parents will be looking for you.” As if on cue, a group of adults appeared in the distance, heading our way. The woman leading the charge, walking with fierce determination, was unmistakably my mom. My eyes lit up. I broke from the group and ran towards her like a happy puppy. “Mom! My dearest, most wonderful Mom! I missed you so much!”

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Katherine was drunk when she got home, pushing me down on the bed and kissing me with an urgency I hadn’t felt from her in years. Anything resembling a sex life between us had died a long time ago. Ever since the company went public, she was barely ever home. So this sudden heat caught me off guard, and I let myself get lost in it. But just as I was about to lose control, she pulled me in tight, her voice a desperate whisper against my ear, “Oh, Caleb…” A bomb went off in my head. For her, the fire was instantly out. She rolled off me, her back to me as she sat on the edge of the bed. The bedroom was dark, the only light a pale wash from the streetlamp outside. Katherine smoked a whole cigarette in silence. When she finally stubbed it out, her voice was flat and hollow in the dark. “Leo, let’s get a divorce.” “Caleb doesn’t care about my money,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. “He just wants to make it official. I owe him that.” 1 We had been together for eleven years, from college to this cold, dark bedroom. To the outside world, Katherine was the perfect wife: a brilliant CEO, a loving partner, a dedicated mother. Before tonight, the thought of her cheating had never even crossed my mind. A heavy stone settled in my chest, making it hard to breathe. “When was the first time?” I asked, my voice a dry rasp. Moonlight, as cold as frost, sliced through the blinds and fell across her bare shoulders. She flinched, almost imperceptibly. “Two years ago. That business trip to Chicago.” I remembered that trip. She was there to save a massive contract, the one that would make or break the company. The pressure on her had been immense. “I was at my lowest point,” she continued, her voice still a monotone. “And Caleb just… showed up at my hotel room door. He was soaked from the rain, like this lost, pathetic puppy. He just collapsed into my arms.” I stared at the black ceiling, silent tears tracing paths down my temples and into my hair. What was I doing that night? Her mother had slipped in the shower and broken her leg. I’d gotten the call from the ER, dropped our daughter Lily at my dad’s place, and rushed to the hospital to be with her. I didn’t tell Katherine. I didn’t want to add to her stress. I even found a moment between talking to doctors to send her a text. Don’t lose hope, babe. You’ve got this. I believe in you. No matter what happens, Lily and I are always here for you. We can sell the house and use the money for the company if we have to. As long as the three of us are together, that’s all that matters. It was the first time she never replied. I was naive. I told myself she was exhausted, that she’d fallen asleep. But she was in another man’s bed. Tangled in his sheets. That was two years ago. Two years. Katherine had hidden it so well. Just last month, we celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary. In front of our entire family, she handed me a bouquet of roses and a gold watch. “Honey, thank you for taking care of everything at home all these years,” she’d said, her voice warm. “Happy anniversary.” She had pulled Lily and me into a hug. My dad insisted on taking a picture of the three of us. That photo is still pinned to the top of my social media profile. The silence in the room was crushing, a tide of pressure building around me. “Katherine,” I said, the words tasting like ash. “If you weren’t a CEO with a nine-figure net worth, would that boy still be with you?” She didn’t answer right away. Outside, the wind picked up, and a flash of lightning briefly illuminated the room. In that stark, momentary light, her face was a mask. “Leo, I know you love me,” she finally said, her tone unnervingly calm. “But Caleb isn’t like that. He’s not after money. He’s been with me for two years with no titles, no promises. He’s been through so much shame for me. I can’t betray his trust.” So you’ll betray mine instead? Back when we started in San Francisco, we were so broke we crammed ourselves into a basement studio apartment, less than two hundred square feet. We lived there for three years. No heat in the winter, no AC in the suffocating summer. I’d wake up some nights with cockroaches crawling on my arm. I thought our love could conquer anything. Turns out, it just fizzles out. “Did you forget, Katherine?” My voice cracked. “When we got married, you cried and swore you’d love me for the rest of your life.” She paused, considering my words as if they were a line item in a budget. “We were young, Leo,” she said, a weary sigh in her voice. “We mistook the thrill of being young and struggling together for love.” “We’re thirty now.” “And after meeting Caleb, I finally understand what real love feels like.” I thought I would scream. I thought I would lunge across the bed, grab her by the collar, and shake the lies out of her. Instead, a strange, horrifying calm washed over me. Tears burned in my eyes, but I let out a choked, bitter laugh. On the nightstand, Katherine’s phone lit up, the screen a harsh glare in the darkness. The silence was so absolute that I could hear the tinny, cloying voice from the speaker. “I know I’m not supposed to call when you’re home, Kat… but there’s a thunderstorm, and I’m really, really scared…” The pressure in my chest was suffocating me. Katherine’s voice, however, softened into a gentle coo. “It’s okay, baby. I just told him.” “You just pull the covers up tight and wait for me. I’m on my way.” 2 It was two in the morning. I was sitting in Katherine’s home office. She always backed up her chat histories, terrified of losing a single message from an important client. Luckily, her laptop password hadn’t changed. It was still Lily’s birthday. I scrolled through her messages with Caleb. 26,893 of them. Last week: Caleb: Babe, I made dinner tonight! It’s my first time ever cooking, I learned just for you. You have to tell me I’m a good boy. Katherine: You don’t have to do things like that to please me, Caleb. You’re perfect just the way you are. Katherine: I love you for your innocence, for that beautiful soul. Caleb sent a string of crying emojis. Caleb: omg Kat you’re going to spoil me. Katherine: My man, my rules. I’ll spoil you all I want. My hand trembled as I scrolled further back. Last month. The day of our seventh wedding anniversary. She had slept with him that afternoon. She was texting him on the drive home to our family dinner. Katherine: It still looks a little red. Make sure you put some more cream on it tonight, okay? Be good. Caleb sent the blushing emoji. Caleb: I know, you worry too much. Caleb: It’s your fault anyway. I’m never letting you do that again. Caleb: But Kat… can you promise me you won’t let him touch you? The thought of you kissing him… it literally feels like my heart is breaking. Katherine: Little fool. After eight rounds with you this afternoon? I’m not made of steel. I kept scrolling, my stomach churning. Finally, I found it. The first messages after they slept together, two years ago. He wasn’t calling her Kat back then. Caleb: Ms. Reyes, you don’t have to feel responsible for last night. I wanted it to happen. Caleb: I know you were just drunk and upset. I get it. Just having that one night with you was more than enough for me. Caleb: But I wanted you to know. You were my first. I could see Katherine’s conflict in the timestamps. She didn’t reply until the dead of night. Katherine: The wine had nothing to do with it. Katherine: I kissed you because I couldn’t stop myself. I felt sick. I couldn’t read anymore. I backed up their entire chat history to a thumb drive. Then I hugged myself, curling into a ball in her expensive leather office chair, a strangled sob caught in my throat. I wanted to howl, but I forced it down, terrified of waking Lily in the next room. My heart felt like it was being shredded by a million tiny blades. For so many years, Katherine had been the center of my universe. The thought of cutting her out, just like that… it was an agony I couldn’t have imagined. Once the initial wave of grief passed, a cold calm took its place. I called my mother in London. It was evening there, eight hours behind us. “Mom,” I said, my voice steady. “Katherine is cheating on me. We’re getting a divorce.” “I need you to pull your investment from her company.”

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When my rival sneered that I was probably a thirty-year-old virgin, I dug my nails into my own neck until four red crescents bloomed on my skin. “See this?” I purred, tilting my head. “My boyfriend has a thing for biting.” He let out a short, derisive laugh. “Please, Sloane. What man would ever want you?” Later, when I was sobbing outside an OB/GYN clinic, that same rival appeared, his face a thundercloud. “Who’s the bastard? I’ll kill him.” He clenched his fists. “Stop crying. You and the baby… I’ll take you both.” 1 I woke up tangled in silk sheets with a man. A very naked man. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that the man wasn’t just anyone. It was Carter Hayes, my sworn enemy. In the elite circles of New York’s Upper East Side, it was common knowledge that the bad blood between the Astor and Hayes heirs could fill the Hudson River. Last night, at a penthouse party, we’d lost a round of stupid drinking games and the forfeit was a kiss. After it was over, Carter had leaned back into the velvet couch, a lazy, arrogant smirk playing on his lips. “A little clumsy for a pro, Sloane. First time?” Fueled by rage and three too many martinis, I’d slipped into the bathroom and pinched my own neck, hard, creating a makeshift hickey. I made sure he saw it when I came back out. “See this? My boyfriend’s handiwork,” I’d lied through my teeth. “He’s… incredible. A million times better than you.” For a fleeting moment, Carter’s easy confidence had faltered. His eyes, dark and unreadable, had locked onto the mark on my skin. Then he’d scoffed. “Please, Sloane. What man would ever want you?” Maybe losing to me stung his pride, because for the first time in his life, Carter Hayes—a man who prided himself on control—drank himself into oblivion. I’d volunteered to get him home, planning to snap a few humiliating photos for future blackmail. Except the tables turned. The predator became the prey. I was the one who got devoured all night long. Dammit. I bit my lip, trying to inch away from the arm slung possessively around my waist. The moment I moved, he pulled me tighter, his handsome face nuzzling into the curve of my neck. His voice was a low, sleepy rumble. “Mila, baby, be good… just a little longer…” Mila? Oh, that is just perfect. He’s still half-asleep from our marathon of sin, and he’s whispering another woman’s name. Asshole. It took every ounce of strength I had to slip out of his grasp and off the bed. The moment my feet hit the floor, my legs buckled, a dull ache spreading through me. I nearly collapsed right there. The room was a disaster zone. A testament to a wild night. There was the ghost of a champagne spill on the balcony railing, a silk stocking caught on a chair leg… my silk stocking. Flashes of the night replayed in my mind—hot, fragmented, and dizzying. Carter’s hands on my ankles, his grip on my waist, the way he’d lifted me… I was about to slap myself, to ask myself why the hell I hadn’t fought back, when my gaze fell back on the bed. On him. My hand froze mid-air. That body, those muscles, that… size. Honestly, who could resist? I’d just pretend I’d hired a ridiculously expensive, top-shelf escort for the night. And I hadn’t even had to pay. 2 There’s an unwritten rule among the women in my circle: when you pay for it, you keep it quiet. You can show the abs, never the face. If word got out that I’d slept with Carter Hayes, I wouldn’t be able to show my face in Manhattan again. Ignoring the soreness in my body, I moved with methodical precision, erasing every trace of my presence. I wiped down surfaces, collected my scattered clothes, and plumped the pillows. Carter started to stir once, and I panicked, leaning over to kiss him, murmuring soothing nonsense until he fell back asleep. It was a purely strategic move. Mostly. I slipped out of his penthouse and found refuge in a 24-hour deli, a wave of relief washing over me as I sank onto a stool. Then, my phone buzzed. It was him. His voice, raspy with sleep, was a magnetic hum. “Sloane, where are you?” The sound of it sent an involuntary shiver down my spine, my mind immediately flashing to him whispering in my ear last night, telling me to relax. My face grew hot. “What… what do you want?” I stammered. “Did you bring me home last night?” “Yeah, well, I was on my way home anyway. I just wanted to see what a mess you were drunk.” He didn’t trade barbs with me like he usually would. His voice was low, serious. “Did you sleep here?” I steeled myself. “…Yeah. I was dizzy, so I crashed in your guest room. I left this morning.” “You weren’t in my bed?” “…No,” I said, my grip tightening on my phone. “In your dreams, Hayes! Why would I ever want to sleep in your bed?” “…” Silence. Just then, a couple of NYU students jostled past me, bumping my shoulder and making me yelp. Carter’s voice cut through the line, sharp and sudden. “Are you with a guy?” I seized the opportunity. “Oh, yeah, my boyfriend. We’re about to have a very romantic breakfast. What did you want?” His tone was flat, devoid of emotion. “Nothing. Must have been a dream. Forget it.” A dream? A wet dream, more like. Good. It was better this way. There was no way he’d figure it out. After all, I had a decade of experience cleaning up the evidence of my father’s affairs for my mother. I was a pro. Still, just to be safe, after I hung up, I opened Instagram. I found a stock photo of a generically handsome, muscular guy, photoshopped a picture of my own face next to his, and posted it with a caption of three lipstick-kiss emojis. My little performance worked perfectly. The next month was blissfully quiet. Carter didn’t suspect a thing. He didn’t even call or text. I finally let my guard down, throwing a party to celebrate my freedom. But as I raised a glass of champagne to my lips, a wave of nausea hit me, and I barely made it to the bathroom before I threw up. 3 The paper in my hand felt flimsy, unreal. But the words were stark and undeniable. Pregnant. Was Carter Hayes some kind of fertility god? One shot, one goal? The doctor’s question echoed in my head: “Have you thought about whether you want to keep it?” My head throbbed. All I wanted was to crawl into bed and pretend this wasn’t happening. But life had other plans. As I sat on a bench outside the clinic, my phone rang. My mother. “Sloane! I just got a call from Katherine. She said she saw you at an OB/GYN. Are you pregnant?” A strange mix of shame and a desperate need to confide washed over me. My voice cracked. “Mom, listen, I think… I think I want to keep…” She cut me off, her voice like ice. “Get rid of it. Immediately.” “I’ve already found the perfect match for you. You’ll come home, you’ll get married, and we will secure that East Side property deal. We need to stabilize your father’s position before…” I flinched, as if she’d slapped me. It was like a bucket of ice water over my head, a cold that seeped past my skin and into my bones. “Mom… you didn’t even ask how I am? Or who the father is? You just want me to get rid of it?” “Who the father is doesn’t matter. Your half-brother is climbing the ranks at the company. I will not let that woman’s son steal what is rightfully ours.” “Is that all I am to you? A pawn in your war with Dad’s mistress for his affection?” “Don’t be dramatic. If you had been a boy, do you think I would have had to fight so hard? It’s not my fault I had a daughter. But I’ve never let you want for anything, have I? All I’m asking is for you to marry someone. How can you say such a thing to your own mother?!” “‘Just marry someone’? Mom, do you have any idea how I feel?” My hand holding the phone was trembling with rage. “Just like every time you needed money, you’d stage a scene, catching Dad with one of his women. You’d pretend to let me comfort him, to help him clean up his mess, and he’d pay me a fortune in hush money that always ended up in your account!” “Mom, I’m done. I don’t want this sick, transactional life you’ve chosen for yourself.” There was a beat of cold silence on the other end. “I don’t care what you think you want. You have one week to terminate this pregnancy and come home to sign the marriage license. If you don’t, you can consider yourself disowned. You won’t see another dollar from this family.” The line went dead. A sob tore from my throat. I crumpled over, burying my face in my hands, not caring who saw me. My phone slipped from my grasp and clattered onto the pavement. Through the blur of my tears, a pair of gleaming leather dress shoes entered my vision. “Well, well. The great Sloane Astor. I never knew you could look this pathetic.” A familiar, taunting voice, laced with something that sounded almost like amusement, drifted down from above. I looked up, my vision swimming, and met the intense gaze of Carter Hayes. Why was he here? Mortified, I scrubbed at my tear-streaked face and turned away. “Leave me alone.” He didn’t move. He stood there, one hand casually tucked in his pocket, a smirk playing on his lips. “Where’s that muscle-bound boyfriend you’re always posting about? Didn’t he want to come with you? Or did he finally dump you?” He gestured vaguely at the clinic door. “Crying alone outside an OB/GYN… it gives people the wrong idea.” “I’m not pregnant!” I shot up from the bench, my voice raw. “You have no idea what you’re talking about!” At that exact moment, a nurse stepped out. “Ms. Astor? Are you still wanting to schedule that termination procedure? We have an opening this afternoon, but you need to decide now.” The world stopped. Carter’s smirk vanished. His eyes snapped to mine, suddenly sharp and piercing. “Sloane. How far along are you?” Before I could answer, his gaze dropped to the crumpled lab report on the bench beside me. He bent down to grab it. 4 My heart hammered against my ribs. I lunged, snatching the paper just before his fingers could close around it, and hid it behind my back. Close call. If he saw that report, saw the date of conception, he’d know. And he would absolutely force me to get rid of it. “What the hell, Carter! A woman’s uterus is… private! You can’t just look at that!” I puffed out my chest, staring him down. “You want to know? Fine. I’m pregnant. Nine weeks. Are you happy now? You came here to laugh at the unwed mother, right?” My voice was shaking, but my gaze was defiant. Years of performing for my father had honed my acting skills to a razor’s edge. He stared at me for a long, silent moment, his eyes searching my face for a crack in the facade. The words “nine weeks” seemed to land like stones, and his expression grew colder, harder. The timeline didn’t add up to our night together. He knew that. “It’s your gym rat boyfriend’s?” he asked, his voice low. “…Yeah,” I mumbled, my heart pounding. “And he doesn’t know?” “Why… why should he?” I forced a casual shrug. “Call him,” Carter said, his face a mask of cold fury. “Call him right now. Tell him to get his ass down here.” “…” How was I supposed to call a man who didn’t exist? “He… he blocked me,” I lied. “Blocked you?” Carter repeated the words, his voice dangerously quiet, like the air before a storm. “Sloane, you’re usually so loud, so arrogant. A man walks all over you, and this is how you react? This pathetic, whimpering mess?” His words were laced with a讥讽 and a strange, simmering anger. Wait, why was he so angry? Even for a lifelong rival, this felt personal. It was just plain cruel to mock me like this. I bit my lip, anger surging past my fear. “He didn’t dump me, I dumped him!” Carter’s laugh was cold. “Oh yeah? Then why are you crying?” “They’re… they’re tears of joy! Obviously!” He fell silent. I thought he’d finally had his fun and would leave me alone. But after a moment, he spoke again, his tone unreadable. “What are you going to do about the baby?” The words came out before I could even think. “I’m keeping it.” In that moment, I knew it was true. My mother’s phone call hadn’t just broken my heart; it had clarified everything. If I didn’t go back and play by her rules, she was done with me. For her, I was a tool, and a broken tool gets thrown away. When you’ve never truly been loved, you develop a terrifying kind of clarity. This baby… this baby might be the only family I ever really have. “Keeping it?” Carter scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. “Sloane, are you that obsessed with that piece of trash? You’d ruin your life to have his kid? I never took you for the type to lose your mind over a man.” See? He was just here to gloat. The bastard. I couldn’t let him see me like this, so vulnerable and broken. I turned my back on him and walked away. 5 It turned out I had overestimated even the conditional love my mother had for me. I went home to pack a bag, to grab my things. I wasn’t even allowed through the front door. The butler brought my suitcase out and left it on the curb. I stared at it, numb, before kneeling to stuff the clothes that had spilled out back into the case. As I zipped it shut, the sky opened up. A cold, miserable rain began to fall. I didn’t get far before the rain turned into a torrential downpour, the sky growing dark and menacing. I was soaked to the bone, shivering, desperately looking for some kind of shelter when a pair of blinding headlights cut through the gloom. A black sedan screeched to a halt in front of me. The window rolled down, revealing Carter Hayes’s impossibly handsome face. He had one hand on the steering wheel, his gaze flicking from my drenched form to my suitcase. I instinctively tried to hide it behind me. “…Fancy meeting you here,” I managed, my teeth chattering. “I’m just, uh, heading on a little trip.” He didn’t say a word. He just pushed his door open and got out of the car. As he walked toward me, a wave of humiliation washed over me. I stumbled backward. “Carter, don’t. Don’t come over here to mock me. I don’t have the energy to fight with you today… just leave me alone, please…” My plea was cut short as the ground disappeared from beneath my feet. He’d scooped me up into his arms as if I weighed nothing, hooking my suitcase with his other hand. “You’re keeping the baby, and this is how you take care of yourself? By standing in a freezing rainstorm?” His voice was a low growl. “Are you an idiot, Sloane?” There he goes again… He deposited me in the backseat of his car, grabbing a towel from somewhere to roughly dry my hair and face before cranking the heat to full blast. I felt dizzy and exhausted. I wanted to say something, to argue, but my body gave out. I leaned my head against the leather seat and fell asleep. When I woke up, I was in Carter’s bed. I was tucked under two heavy comforters, and my feet were wrapped in a separate blanket. No wonder I was sweating. I could hear sounds coming from the kitchen. It was Carter, cooking. When he saw me emerge, he strode over, his long legs covering the distance in seconds. He pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. “No fever. Do you feel sick?” I shook my head. He led me to the small dining table. “Eat this first. Then go take a hot shower.” “…Okay.” I was starving. I didn’t have the energy to question his sudden kindness. I just picked up the bowl of porridge and started eating. “Slow down. No one’s going to steal it from you. You look pathetic.” He reached out and wiped a grain of rice from the corner of my mouth. I slapped his hand away, glaring at him. “Stop calling me pathetic!” “Alright, alright. You’ve got some food in you, you’ve got your energy back. You know how to glare again.” He smirked, that familiar, infuriating smirk. He pulled out a cigarette, but just as he was about to light it, he paused. He looked at me, then at the cigarette, and then he tossed the entire pack into the trash. I blinked, a flicker of warmth spreading through my chest. “You don’t have to do that. I can leave…” He ignored me, sliding my phone across the table. “I silenced it while you were sleeping. It’s been blowing up. Your mother.” He had seen the texts. The vile, manipulative messages about the forced marriage. Humiliation washed over me. I snatched the phone and shoved it under my thigh, pretending it didn’t exist. But karma, as they say, is a bitch. A few moments later, his phone rang. “You little bastard, you finally answer! Where is my granddaughter-in-law? If you don’t bring her to me this instant, what good are you…” Carter held the phone away from his ear, a roguish grin on his face. “Grandpa, I’m a little busy making a new grandchild with her right now. Gotta go.” He hung up. The air felt thick with awkwardness. I finished my porridge in record time and stood up. “Thanks for the food. I should get going…” “Sloane.” He stopped me. His voice, usually dripping with sarcasm, was suddenly serious. I turned back. “What?” “Marry me.” “Okay… wait, what?!” 6 I was still in a daze when we walked out of the City Clerk’s office, marriage certificate in hand. I, Sloane Astor, had married Carter Hayes. If this news got out, half of Manhattan’s elite would drop dead from shock. Oh, and I was pregnant with another man’s baby. That would probably take care of the other half. Carter finished a video call with his grandfather and walked back over to me. Seeing me standing precariously at the top of the steps, he wrapped an arm around my waist, his touch surprisingly natural. “Pregnant women shouldn’t stand so close to the edge. Don’t you know that’s dangerous?” The casual intimacy felt foreign. I stiffened, trying to pull away. “Don’t… don’t touch me.” “Mrs. Hayes,” he murmured, leaning in so close his lips brushed against my nose. “It’s legal now. This is called ‘cherishing my wife.’ It’s commendable behavior.” His voice was a low, warm rumble, and the way he said “wife” sent a strange heat spreading through my cheeks. My mind flashed back to that night, to the things he’d whispered, the way his body had trembled against mine… “What are you daydreaming about? Who are you thinking about?” His fingers squeezed my waist, a playful punishment. The word “who” sent a jolt of panic through me. “The baby isn’t yours!” I blurted out. The words hung in the air. I looked up and met his gaze. His eyes had gone dark, his expression thunderous. He looked like he wanted to eat me alive. “Sloane, we just got married, and you’re still thinking about that muscle-bound deadbeat?” “Well… just a little. Casually,” I mumbled. His eyes got even colder. Did I say something wrong? Ugh, my life was a mess. My mortal enemy was now my benefactor. We had signed a contract: a one-year marriage in exchange for fifty million dollars. He got his family off his back, and I got… well, I got fifty million dollars. For the money, I could endure. I puffed out my chest. “This is just a contract marriage. It’ll be over in a year. I’ll take my baby and go. I promise I won’t cause you any trouble.” I added, for good measure, “And you know I could never, ever fall for you.” His expression, which had been cold, now looked like it was carved from ice. God, this man was impossible to please. He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You seem to have it all figured out, don’t you?” “Of course! I’m a professional! I’ll fulfill all my duties to the letter!” I chirped, trying to sound enthusiastic. “All your duties? Including the basic ones?” “Which are?” “Sleeping with me.” My eyes went wide. “I’m pregnant! How am I supposed to—!” He smirked. “Does being pregnant affect your mouth?” It took me a second to understand. When I did, my face burned. “Carter Hayes, you are a shameless pig—” My words were cut off as his mouth crashed down on mine. It was a fierce, punishing kiss, fueled by a strange anger that made my lips ache. I whimpered in protest, but he held the back of my head, deepening the kiss until I was breathless. I finally managed to bite his lip and push him away, gasping for air. “Carter! Your kissing is still as terrible as it was that night—” Shit. Freudian slip. His eyes narrowed. I quickly backpedaled. “—as terrible as it was compared to my ex-boyfriend! He was a much better kisser!” Between confessing and digging a deeper hole, I chose the hole. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. “An ex-boyfriend this, an ex-boyfriend that… right in front of your new husband. You’ve got guts, Sloane. You really think I can’t find him?” Of course you can’t, I thought. How do you find someone who doesn’t exist? I couldn’t imagine he had that kind of power. 7 I was wrong. He had exactly that kind of power. Three days later, when Carter dragged a man into our living room, my jaw hit the floor. “Him… he’s…” “Hudson Pierce,” Carter said, his voice flat. “Third son of the Pierce family. A spoiled, useless trust-fund kid. A regular at every nightclub south of 14th street. Has a list of conquests long enough to circle Central Park. At least thirty women have claimed to have attempted suicide over him.” An assistant placed a photo on the coffee table in front of me. It was the full, uncropped version of the picture I’d posted. “This is the photo you posted on your Instagram, isn’t it? The one with the face conveniently cropped out.” “….” Shit. I’d just grabbed a random photo off some obscure blog. How did I manage to pick an actual person from our social circle? Carter’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong? Don’t recognize your old flame?” The evidence was irrefutable. I had no way out, unless I told him the truth. And to protect my baby, I couldn’t do that. So I gritted my teeth and nodded. The moment I did, Carter’s demeanor shifted. He kicked a chair out of his way and stood up, a dark, violent energy radiating off him. He slowly unwound his tie, wrapping it around his fist, knuckle by knuckle. The movement was elegant, but the intent was brutal. “Man, I’m sorry, I don’t know who this chick is!” Hudson Pierce yelped. It was the last thing he said before Carter grabbed him by the collar and slammed a fist into his jaw. “‘Chick’? Who gave you permission to call her that?” Carter’s voice was a low growl. “Who gave you permission to even look at her?” Punch after punch landed with a sickening thud. I could hear the impacts from across the room. It was terrifying. He’s going to kill him. “Carter, wait—” He froze, turning to look at me, his eyes dark and wild. “Feeling sorry for him?” His voice was a dangerous whisper. “Sloane, you are now Mrs. Carter Hayes. You say one more word in his defense, and I swear to God…” “…” Fine. The guy was a known womanizer. This was probably just karma. When it was over, Hudson Pierce was a blubbering, bruised mess on the floor. “Mr. Hayes, please! I swear I never slept with her! I don’t remember her!” Carter crouched down in front of him, patting his swollen cheek. “You think she’s just some girl you can sleep with and forget? You think you’re worthy of her?” He leaned in closer. “She is my wife now. And she will be my wife for the rest of her life. If you ever so much as breathe in her direction again, if a single hair from your head comes anywhere near her… I will chop you into pieces and feed you to the dogs.” … When Carter came out, there were specks of blood on his shirt. I was waiting by the door, an umbrella held over me by a bodyguard. “Are you… okay?” I asked tentatively. Did you actually kill him? “What, you want to ask about him?” “No, no! I’m worried about you! I don’t care about him at all!” I said, my eyes nervously darting past him, trying to see into the room. In the next second, I was airborne. He swept me into his arms and deposited me in the back of the car. “Still say you’re not worried about him? I saw you peeking.” He pinned me against the seat, his eyes blazing with a fierce, possessive light that made my heart race. “I… I wasn’t looking…” “Still lying. Sloane, what do you see in a piece of garbage like that?” “You’re… you’re too close…” I tried to push him away, but he caught my wrists, pinning them above my head. His hot breath washed over my face. “Once the baby is born, it will have my last name. Hopefully, my genes can counteract some of the damage from yours or his. Either way… a total loss.” “But we’re getting a divorce, remember?” The hand on my waist tightened. “A divorce? Don’t tell me you’re still planning on marrying that asshole.” “I…” “Sloane, you’re hesitating?” He let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, and then his mouth was on mine, biting and kissing. “Right. You give me the cold shoulder, but you let him sleep with you. I’m better looking than him, I’m stronger than him, am I not? Sloane, are you blind? What kind of screwed-up taste do you have?” He sounded so… angry. My nose started to tingle. A sudden, overwhelming wave of self-pity washed over me. “Carter, you’re being mean to me again!” He froze, looking genuinely taken aback. “You’re crying now?” But his surprise only made the tears fall faster, streaming down my cheeks. He completely panicked. “Okay, I’ll stop. I’ll stop, okay?” “Waaaaah, you’re just making fun of me! I’m pregnant and you’re still so mean to me…” “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I was wrong. Your husband was wrong. I’m an asshole. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry, okay?” He leaned in, gently kissing the tears from my cheeks, his voice dropping to a soft, coaxing murmur. “You and the baby, I want you. I’ll take care of you both forever.” He said it while his hand slid up my thigh, his long fingers finding the hem of my dress. “Be good, Sloane, be good… let me take care of you, make you feel good, hmm?” My vision was still blurry with tears. By the time I realized what was happening, my dress was already on the floor. “Carter, what are you doing—ah…” 8 Never trust a man. One minute they’re comforting you, the next they’re… doing that. When I woke up, I was back in the bedroom of our apartment. My fingers were so sore I could barely make a fist. My collarbones and shoulders were covered in embarrassing marks. After cursing Carter’s name for a solid five minutes, I dragged myself out of bed. In the kitchen, a thermal container held a nutritious, freshly cooked breakfast. Tucked under it was a note in his distinctive, elegant handwriting. Eat this before 10, or I’ll have a fresh meal sent over. Don’t forget your prenatal vitamins. No ice water. For such an asshole, he was surprisingly thoughtful. I went into the bathroom and found that he’d lined the entire floor with non-slip mats. Even the toilet seat had been replaced with one in my favorite shade of pastel blue. I couldn’t help but smile as I stomped on the mat a little. Maybe the asshole wasn’t so bad after all. Perhaps because of his meticulous care, the first trimester of my pregnancy was a breeze. I had no morning sickness at all. Though we kept our marriage a secret, my family inevitably found out. My mother started calling three times a day. Even my arrogant half-brother, who had always looked down on me, came to me, practically begging for an audience. I knew why. Carter Hayes was the heir to two of the most powerful families in the country, one with old money in New York, the other with a global empire based in London. His influence was unparalleled. I wasn’t about to let that advantage go to waste. I went straight to my father and negotiated. Believing our marriage was real, and desperate to curry favor with the Hayes family, he signed over a significant portion of his company stock to me. I took it without a moment’s hesitation, along with several properties and a few pieces from his art collection. For “good faith,” I told him. To show the Hayes family our sincerity. I felt a tiny twinge of guilt for using Carter like that. But only a tiny one. Considering my hands and mouth were sore every single day from “fulfilling my marital duties,” I figured he was getting his money’s worth. I was beginning to suspect he only married me for my looks, or maybe he had some weird pregnancy fetish. I rubbed my belly. “Baby,” I murmured, “your biological father may be an ass, but he’s taking pretty good care of you. Maybe Mommy should reward him.” I sent Carter a text. [Hey Dog-face, I want to design a custom shirt for you. Send me your measurements.] He replied instantly: [10.15 inches.] I stared at the screen. [?] [Are you a pervert? Not THAT measurement!] Carter: [3.15 inches wide. Can send a pic of current status if needed. Reply 1 for yes.] I typed back, furious: [In your dreams! It’s probably one millimeter!] 9 I paid dearly for that one-millimeter comment over the next month. But I finished the shirt. I designed it, drafted the pattern, cut the fabric, and stitched it myself. I planned to give it to him tonight, at his birthday party. But when I walked into the private room at the club, gift bag in hand, the atmosphere was all wrong. Carter was sitting on a couch, swirling a glass of whiskey, his face dark. “What’s wrong with…” I started to ask, then I saw her. The beautiful woman sitting near him. Mila. My high school classmate. And, according to rumor, the only girl Carter Hayes had ever written a love letter to. His “one that got away.” The “Mila” he’d whispered in his sleep that first morning. So that’s why he was in a mood. Love trouble. Serves the bastard right. I should have felt triumphant. But for some reason, my appetite vanished. I found an empty seat in a far corner, tucking the gift bag behind me. I shouldn’t have made him the shirt. I shouldn’t have stayed up all night embroidering his initials on the cuff. What an idiot. Sloane, get a grip. As I’d expected, Carter didn’t treat me with his usual possessive affection. He didn’t even look at me. Instead, I got a text. [Something’s come up. Stay where you are for now. I’ll have the driver take you home early.] Fine. I didn’t want to sit next to him anyway. I was planning on making a quiet exit, but things got complicated. One of the guys at the party had brought a date who’d had a little too much to drink. “…and that guy, Hudson Pierce?” she slurred, laughing. “He offered to pay me to be a surrogate for him! Can you believe it? So I took his sample to the clinic, and you’ll never guess what they told me!” She paused for dramatic effect. “The doctor said he has a genetic condition. His sperm is non-viable. He literally can’t get a woman pregnant… ever!” The table erupted in laughter. But across the room, Carter’s head snapped up. His eyes, sharp and intense, found me in my corner. I kept my head down, pretending I hadn’t heard. Two words echoed in my mind. I’m screwed.

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Hayden Shaw came to St. Jude’s Home for Children to choose a sister. Every other girl scrambled to be seen, praying they’d be the one. I was the only one hidden away, fast asleep in a wardrobe. I thought I could escape it this time. Escape the fate of becoming a Shaw, and eventually, becoming Hayden Shaw’s wife. I thought I could finally live a life that was my own, free and happy. But when I woke up, the first thing I saw was Hayden, standing before the open wardrobe door. He smiled and asked me, “Cora, how would you like to come home with me?” 1 When Hayden Shaw’s face swam into view, my first thought was that I was still trapped in the nightmare. It wasn’t until the director’s sharp voice cut through the haze that I knew it was real. “Cora, what are you doing sleeping in there?” The fog in my head cleared. This was happening. Seeing me frozen, the director, Mrs. Davison, reached in and pulled me out of the wardrobe. The smell of mothballs and old wool clung to me. She straightened my collar, her fingers rough, and then nudged me forward, towards the Shaws. “You were asleep. Mr. Shaw was kind enough to ask us not to wake you.” Her voice was tight with an unspoken reprimand. “We’ve all been waiting for you.” Hayden stood just in front of his parents, a faint, unreadable smile on his face as he looked at me. He was different from the cold, distant Hayden I remembered. Softer. Younger. He spoke first. “Hi, Cora.” For some reason, hearing my name from his lips felt deeply, unnervingly strange. I frowned, my gaze dropping to the floor to avoid his. A question burned in my mind: they could have picked anyone else. Why wait for me? “Waiting for me? For what?” Mrs. Davison crouched down, her usual stern expression replaced by a rare, strained smile. “They want to adopt you, Cora. You’re going to have a family. A mother, a father… and a brother.” I think she was trying to be happy for me. For any child at St. Jude’s, being chosen was like winning the lottery. But Mrs. Davison didn’t know my secret. I’d lived this life before. I knew Hayden Shaw was coming today. That’s precisely why I’d hidden in the wardrobe. “Cora, sweetheart, won’t you come home with us?” Mrs. Shaw took my hand. Her touch was soft, her voice gentle. “Hayden has always wanted a little sister. You could be his sister.” The scene was a perfect, horrifying replica of the last time. The past flickered through my mind like a broken film projector. I snatched my hand back. I looked up, not at them, but at the director. “Mrs. Davison, I don’t want to be adopted by them.” A collective, sharp intake of breath filled the room. Everyone was stunned. Hayden’s reaction was the strongest. His smile vanished, his brow furrowing. “Why?” “Because I don’t want to be your sister.” Despite my rejection, no anger appeared on his face. Instead, his voice became even gentler, laced with an unnerving thread of indulgence. “Then don’t be my sister. Just come home with the Shaws. Live with us. Is that okay?” Mrs. Davison gave my sleeve a sharp tug, a silent, desperate plea. It didn’t stop me from refusing him again. “No.” I thought that would be the end of it. But when the director, flustered, asked the Shaws if they’d like to see the other girls, Hayden’s voice rang out, loud and clear. “Mom. I want her.” He looked straight at me. “Only her. She’s the one who looks the most like my sister.” 2 Last time, that was the reason he’d given, too. I looked like his dead sister. Back then, when I learned I was chosen, I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. I was taken to the Shaw’s sprawling estate, given a new name—Cora Shaw—and my very own room in their enormous house. I didn’t care that the room wasn’t truly mine. I was just grateful to have it. “Girls from the system can be… unpolished,” Mrs. Shaw had said. “Their manners aren’t fit for our world.” So, I shed my old self like a snake sheds its skin, molding myself into someone I no longer recognized. Mrs. Shaw was exacting. I was forced to practice the piano for hours upon hours every day. Even when my teacher insisted I had no natural talent, Mrs. Shaw would sit with me, a constant, smiling presence. But you can’t force a flower to bloom in barren soil. “I’m sorry, Mom. I still can’t get it right,” I’d apologize, my fingers aching. And every time, she would look at me with that same indulgent expression and soothe me. “It’s alright, darling. As long as you keep trying, you’ll be wonderful one day.” It was much later that I learned her deceased daughter had loved the piano. All of Mrs. Shaw’s affection was just her projecting a ghost onto me. I was a stand-in. I didn’t care. A drowning fish doesn’t question the purity of the water; it only gasps for a breath. Her love was my water. I would take it, clean or not. I tried harder at the piano, harder at pleasing her. We grew closer, our relationship blurring into something that felt real. Until Hayden’s engagement party. He was drugged. I was the one who stumbled into his room. When Mr. Shaw found us, the shock sent him into a fatal collapse. Mrs. Shaw slapped me across the face, her eyes blazing with a hatred I’d never seen. “I should never have brought you into this house.” Hayden just watched me, his expression unreadable. But I knew. I knew he was regretting it, too. Regretting the day he chose me to be his sister. “I don’t know what happened,” I pleaded, my voice raw. “I didn’t drug him. I swear.” No one believed me. Later, for years, during every betrayal, every public humiliation in our forced marriage, he would sneer, “You drugged your own brother to marry him. Don’t you dare play the victim now. This is your karma.” Hayden hated me. He took pleasure in shaming me, in making sure everyone in our circle knew I was beneath him. They all placed bets on how long our marriage would last. “A year, tops,” they’d whisper. “The second that baby is born, he’ll kick her to the curb.” They were all wrong. Hayden and I were tangled together for nineteen years. Even after I died, the words carved on my tombstone were: Beloved Wife of Hayden Shaw. … “Cora, tell me. Why don’t you want to be adopted by the Shaws?” After his parents left, Mrs. Davison called me into her office. I was silent for a long time before offering a weak lie. “I don’t want to leave you and everyone here.” She sighed, a heavy, tired sound, and urged me to reconsider. I knew she meant well. She wanted a better life for me. But I refused to walk that path again. I would not have anything to do with Hayden Shaw. That night, a fire broke out, and all my plans went up in smoke. 3 “Did you set the fire?” I stared at him from my hospital cot, my voice cold and flat. “No,” Hayden said, his denial swift and earnest. “The fire department investigated. It was old wiring.” He let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. “Cora, you think I’m a monster.” In this life, we’d only met a handful of times, yet he spoke to me with a disturbing familiarity. “I just want to help you,” he said, his voice low. “If you agree to come home with me, I’ll cover all of Mrs. Davison’s medical bills.” She had been badly burned trying to get us all out. I let out a cold laugh. “Taking advantage of a tragedy. Does that make you a good person?” He didn’t try to defend himself. He just said, “Cora, you don’t have to be my sister. You can just be a foster child. Living with us.” He was persuasive, relentless in his compromise. But it only made me more suspicious. “Why are you so desperate to have me at your house?” “My mother… she’s been missing my sister a lot lately. And you look so much like her,” Hayden said. “I thought bringing you home might comfort her.” I was only half-convinced. His behavior was too strange, too intense. I pressed him. “Is that all?” He hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “That’s all.” I didn’t want anything to do with him, but Mrs. Davison was lying in a hospital bed, her life hanging in the balance. I had no choice. On the drive to the Shaw estate, Hayden kept trying to talk to me, but I remained silent, staring out the window. He must have sensed my hostility, because his tone softened, became almost pleading. “The Shaws can give you a better life. It’s better than the group home, no matter how you look at it,” he said. “Cora, don’t be angry with me. I’m doing this for your own good.” I’m doing this for your own good… He’d said that in our last life, too. After hating me for more than a decade, his attitude had softened in my final days. But by then, the cancer was untreatable. My only companion was a small stray cat I’d taken in. One day, on a whim, Hayden came to visit me at the villa. The first thing he did was have someone throw the cat out. I’d asked him, my voice weak, “Why?” He’d looked down at me, his expression cool. “I’m doing this for your own good.” I knew then what it meant. It was never about my well-being. It was an excuse he used to satisfy his own selfish desires, his need for control. Or maybe it was just another way to torture me. He’d always been like that. Whatever I cherished, he destroyed. … As the car pulled up to the house, I saw Mrs. Shaw waiting at the front door. Hayden had called ahead. A room on the second floor had already been prepared. “Cora, this will be your room,” she said, taking my hand with a cloying familiarity. “Do you like it?” I looked down at our joined hands for a moment before pulling mine away. I was no longer the desperate, love-starved girl from my past life. “Mrs. Shaw,” I said, my voice even. “This was your daughter’s room, wasn’t it?” I gestured to the perfectly preserved space. “You’ve kept all her things. You clearly treasure them.” I met her eyes. “If I stayed in here, I might accidentally break something. I wouldn’t want to cause you any pain.” I finished, “I saw there’s a guest room downstairs. I’ll stay there.” Mrs. Shaw looked at me, about to argue. “But…” “Mom,” Hayden cut in. “If Cora wants to stay downstairs, just have the housekeeper prepare it.” I glanced at him, the one who was supposedly speaking up for me. He had no idea. The real reason I refused to stay on the second floor was because his bedroom was right next door. In our past life, before the engagement party, we’d had a harmonious relationship, or so I thought. I was a teenager with a crush. I remember Mrs. Shaw asking me, “Cora, what kind of boys do you like?” I’d looked over at Hayden, flushed and sweaty from his morning run, and smiled. “Someone like my brother.” That innocent, offhand remark later became evidence in the trial of my character. Proof that I had plotted to drug my own brother. Every time I tried to defend myself—“I didn’t drug you”—Hayden would grab me, his fingers digging into my neck. “You told my mother you liked me when you were sixteen,” he’d hiss. “You were obsessed. You drugged me to force my hand, and now you don’t have the guts to admit it?” 4 Perhaps it was being back in this house, but that night, my dreams were filled with memories of the life before. In my final days, my oncologist had suggested, “You shouldn’t be alone all the time. Call your family, your friends. Have them visit.” “I don’t have any family,” I had told her. As for friends… my best friend used to be Hayden’s fiancée, Scarlett Jensen. She returned to the country five years into my marriage with Hayden. He picked her up from the airport himself and threw a lavish ‘welcome home’ party for her. Someone deliberately recorded a video at that party and sent it to me. It showed the two of them in a dark corner, locked in a passionate kiss. It was only a few seconds long, but I watched it on a loop all night. That was the night I made a choice. I gave up on our second child, and I asked Hayden for a divorce. He asked me, “On what grounds?” I showed him the video. “Hayden, I know you were forced to marry me. But Scarlett is back now, and it looks like she’s forgiven you. Let’s divorce. We can go our separate ways.” I had asked for a divorce many times before, and he had always refused. I thought, with Scarlett’s return, he would finally agree. But Hayden just tore up the papers I’d prepared and deleted the video from my phone. … “Cora? Cora?” I woke with a gasp, my hand lashing out, connecting with a sharp crack against Hayden’s cheek. He looked at me, a boy’s face, his eyes wide with something that looked like hurt. “I heard you crying from the hall,” he said softly. “I just came in to check on you.” He turned to leave, then paused at the door. “You should get up. We’re going to be late for school.” Just like last time, the Shaws had enrolled me in Hayden’s high school. As I followed him into the classroom, someone called out, “Hey, Hayden, who’s that?” He introduced me. “This is Cora. She’s staying with my family for now.” A flicker of memory. In our past life, before everything went wrong, he always introduced me with pride. “This is my sister, Cora Shaw.” I looked at Hayden, standing just a foot away from me, and a strange realization dawned. He wasn’t the same as the boy I remembered from my first life. But he wasn’t the cruel, vengeful man he became, either. He was… something else. My heart hammered against my ribs. A terrifying thought began to form. “Hayden.” “Hayden.” Another voice called his name at the exact same moment as mine. He glanced at me, then looked past me, towards the classroom door. I turned to follow his gaze. It was Scarlett Jensen. “Hayden, wait for me after school. I need to talk to you,” she said, her eyes fixed on him. Only then did she seem to notice me standing beside him. Her expression soured instantly. She sized me up, a quick, dismissive scan from head to toe. “So you’re the girl staying at the Shaws’?” She was my best friend in my past life. I knew her tells. And right now, the hostility rolling off her was unmistakable. This was completely different. Back then, when Scarlett learned I was Hayden’s sister, she had looped her arm through mine, called me Cora, and welcomed me into her inner circle. Now, she looked at me the way she did the very last time I saw her. It had been an ugly confrontation. I had asked her, “The security footage shows only you and I went into Hayden’s room that night. I didn’t drug him. So it was you, wasn’t it?” I couldn’t understand it. She loved him so much. Why would she ruin their own engagement party? “Her name is Cora,” Hayden answered for me. Scarlett forced a tight smile, then said nothing more. Throughout the morning classes, I could feel her eyes on my back. As much as it unsettled me, I forced myself to ignore her, to focus on the words in the textbook in front of me. 5 In my past life, I was a terrible student. Mrs. Shaw never cared. In fact, the worse my grades were, the happier she seemed. “Cora is becoming more and more like my little girl,” she would say. “She never cared for books either.” A parent who truly loves their child plans for their future. What mother wishes for her daughter to be nothing more than a beautiful, empty shell? In the end, she never saw me as her daughter. I was just a toy, a comfort object to ease her grief. This time, I refused to live that way again. I wouldn’t spend the first half of my life as a substitute for a dead girl, and the second half as a useless, gilded canary, wasting away in a cage. Education was my only way out. But it wasn’t easy. Frustrated by my inability to understand the material, I pushed my chair back and stood up. Hayden, who had been talking with some friends, noticed the movement immediately. He turned to me. “Where are you going?” “The restroom,” I snapped, my patience worn thin. I remembered the girls’ restroom being perpetually crowded during breaks, but today, it was eerily empty. The moment I pushed the door open, I knew something was wrong. A group of girls inside all turned to look at me in unison. The one closest to me was Scarlett. She dropped a cigarette butt to the floor, grinding it out with her shoe. She glanced at another girl, crumpled on the wet floor and soaked with grimy water, before turning her attention to me. “Just messing around,” Scarlett said with a lazy smile. “You’re not going to tell Hayden, are you?” I looked from the cigarette to the girl on the floor. I realized then that I had never known Scarlett at all. I never knew she smoked, or that she was a bully. After a moment, I said, “Hayden and I aren’t that close.” “Really?” she asked, though her expression had already relaxed. “I thought you were living with him.” I met her gaze directly. “Living in the same house doesn’t mean we’re close.” Scarlett nodded. “Good.” With that, she and her friends filed out. Once they were gone, I looked at the girl on the floor. After a moment, I walked past her into a stall. When I came out, she was standing at the utility sink, her back to me. She was only in a thin camisole, washing her school-issued button-down shirt under the faucet. Hearing the door, she quickly wrung out the shirt and slipped the damp fabric back on. Head down, she made a dash for the exit. As she passed me, I reached out and grabbed her arm. The girl looked up at me, her eyes wide with confusion. We stared at each other for a long moment before I remembered her name. Leah. I took off my own cardigan and pushed it into her hands. “Your shirt is wet. Wear this.” Leah ducked her head, mumbling, “No, it’s okay.” “It’s see-through,” I said bluntly. “You can see your camisole right through it.” Her ears turned a deep shade of red. She clutched her arms across her chest, hesitating for a long moment before finally taking my cardigan. As Leah went into a stall to change, I let out a quiet breath of relief. I wasn’t the type to get involved. But I remembered her. In my last life, not long after I transferred here, Leah had jumped from the roof of the school. The official explanation was family problems and academic pressure. But seeing this now, I suspected there was more to her story. It was a life… a young life. “Thank you.” Leah’s voice was soft when she came out, now wearing my sweater. The words “you’re welcome” were on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed them. An idea was forming. “You get good grades, right?” I asked her. I remembered that before she died, she had been first in our year. She looked surprised, then nodded. “They’re okay.” “Leah,” I said, glancing at the cardigan she was wearing. “I’ll lend you my sweater. In return, you can tutor me.” I didn’t give her a chance to refuse. “After the next pop quiz, they’re rearranging the seating chart. We’ll be desk mates. It’ll be easier for you to help me.” Leah hesitated for a long time before finally agreeing. After school, Hayden insisted I ride home with him. The moment I got in the car, Scarlett ran up to the window. “Hayden, can we talk?” I had no interest in their drama and tried to tune them out. But the parking lot was quiet, and Scarlett’s voice was high and emotional, carrying on the wind. It drifted right into the car. “Is it because of her? Is Cora why you’re breaking up with me?” she demanded. “Hayden, we’ve been together for so long. The minute she shows up, you end things. What other reason could there be?” Hayden’s voice was weary. “It’s not about anyone else, Scarlett. I just… I suddenly realized that what I feel for you isn’t romantic. I’ve always seen you as a sister.” In that instant, everything clicked into place. I finally understood why Scarlett had been watching me all day, why she saw me as a threat.

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Hurricane Isabel, the strongest storm in a century, was tearing our city apart. I was a week from my due date, and a contraction seized me so violently I nearly dropped the phone. I was about to call my husband, Ethan, the head of OB/GYN at St. Jude’s University Hospital, when a voice echoed in my head. A voice that was not my own. [Mommy, don’t call him.] I flinched, thinking the pain was making me hallucinate. But the thought was too clear, too specific. And it had a reason. [Daddy’s with her. The girl he never got over. If he comes to you now, she’ll die in the storm.] My blood ran cold. On the other end of the line, my husband’s voice, smooth and professional, finally came through. “Is this an emergency, Claire? I’m a little busy.” [He’ll kill us, Mommy. He’ll let us die to make it up to her.] The tiny, frantic voice in my skull sent a tremor of pure animal fear through me. I found my own voice, making it flat, unemotional. “No. It’s nothing. I can handle it myself.” Let him stay with his ghost. I was choosing to trust my child. 1 After I hung up, the shriek of the wind outside intensified, the sound of a beast trying to claw its way in. The floor-to-ceiling windows in our penthouse living room, a feature Ethan had been so proud of, were bowing inward, the glass warping like a sheet of plastic wrap under the assault of the Category 5 winds. I stared at them, a primal dread coiling in my gut. Another contraction, this one a low, grinding pressure, pulled my focus downward. I clutched my belly, trying to heave myself off the couch to get the hospital bag I should have packed weeks ago. The small, urgent voice returned, clearer this time. [Mommy, get out of the living room! Now! Daddy let Ava talk him into this apartment, but he cheaped out on the glass. It’s not rated for a storm like this. It’s going to break!] A jolt of adrenaline shot through me. There was no time to question it. Driven by pure instinct, I half-crawled, half-dragged my heavy body toward the small, windowless guest bathroom behind the building’s main support wall. I had just managed to pull my weight inside, my breath coming in ragged gasps, when the world behind me exploded. BOOM! I whipped my head around to see the entire wall of windows disintegrate, sucked out into the storm as if by a giant’s hand. A tidal wave of glass shards and torrential rain blasted into our home, instantly shredding furniture, art, our entire life together, into a maelstrom of debris. My strength gave out. I collapsed onto the cold tile, the phone slipping from my sweaty palm. A sharp, tearing pain ripped through my abdomen. A moment later, a warm gush of fluid soaked through my leggings. My water had broken. [I’m sorry, Mommy… I think… I think I’m coming out.] The baby’s voice was thin with fear, laced with a sob. I remembered a video from a birthing class—once your water breaks, you don’t move. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, fumbling for the phone, my fingers slick with amniotic fluid. I managed to dial 911. “911, what is your emergency?” a calm dispatcher’s voice said over the chaos. I steadied my breath and gave her the address. There was a pause. Her tone shifted. “Ma’am, are you Dr. Ethan Cole’s wife? I’m transferring you to Dr. Evans in the ER. He’s coordinating our storm response and knows your area best.” Mark Evans. Ethan’s best friend, the hospital’s head of emergency medicine. A wave of relief washed over me. I was saved. The call connected instantly. “Claire, what the hell?” Mark’s voice was sharp, impatient. “Ethan already gave me a heads-up. Stop messing around. You need to cut it out.” My heart stopped. It wasn’t a misunderstanding. It wasn’t a hallucination. Ethan truly believed my call for help was just a petty, jealous game. Remembering my baby’s warning, a new wave of fear, colder and sharper than any contraction, washed over me. “I’m not,” I begged, my voice cracking. “My water broke, Mark. Please, you have to send someone.” He scoffed. “In this weather? Are you serious? Besides, every ambulance in the city is on standby for critical emergencies. Ethan told me you were fine, just looking for attention.” His voice dripped with condescension. “We’re in the middle of a natural disaster, Claire. Medical resources are stretched to the limit. Don’t waste them because you’re feeling jealous.” Click. He hung up without a second thought. I stared at the dark screen, the last flicker of hope extinguished. The hurricane slammed against the flimsy bathroom door, again and again. With every gush of fluid, I could feel my body’s warmth seeping away, taking my baby’s with it. I placed a hand on my belly, no longer feeling the familiar, reassuring kicks. I had to get up. I had to crawl out of this death trap if I had to. But as I tried to move, a contraction of unimaginable force seized me. The world went black, and I fell hard against the wet tile, the impact jarring every bone in my body. I was lying in a spreading pool of my own fluids and blood. I didn’t have the strength to get up again. 2 [Mommy, don’t give up. Post in the residents’ group chat. Ask for help!] On the edge of consciousness, the tiny voice sparked back to life. It was the last thread I had to hold onto. With trembling fingers, I found my phone, my vision blurring the blood smeared across the screen. I opened the building’s Facebook group. “This is Claire Cole in Penthouse 1901 in Tower 12. I’m pregnant and my water just broke. Is there a doctor in the building? Please, help me and my baby.” I added, “The living room windows are gone. I’m trapped in the guest bathroom.” The response was immediate. “Oh my God! In this storm!” “I can’t help, but I’ve already called 911 and the fire department rescue squad for you. Sister, you have to hang on!” “Don’t be scared, honey! We’re your neighbors, we’ll figure something out!” A flood of messages poured in. Then a voice message from a man whose profile picture was of him in military fatigues. His voice was calm and steady. “This is Dave from Tower 11. I’m a combat vet. When the eye of the storm passes over, I’m going over. Any other able-bodied men want to come with me?” The group went silent for a second, then erupted. “I’m in.” “Count me in.” “My husband will go!” Tears I didn’t know I had left streamed down my face. In my darkest moment, strangers were offering me the hope my own husband had denied. I don’t know how long I lay there, but eventually, the apocalyptic roar outside ceased, replaced by an eerie, deafening silence. The eye of the storm. At that exact moment, I heard the frantic pounding of footsteps outside my apartment door. “Claire? Are you okay? We’re here to get you out!” I choked back a sob. “I’m okay!” I yelled, my voice hoarse. “Roger that! We’re breaking down the door!” the man shouted back. CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! With a final, deafening boom, the reinforced steel door was smashed open. Several figures rushed in, led by Dave, the retired Marine. His face was grim, but when his eyes fell on the pool of blood beneath me, his expression turned to one of alarm. “Shit. Okay, find a plank, something sturdy! We need to carry her down!” Hands were all over me, carefully lifting me onto what looked like a splintered piece of a door. As they carried me through the wreckage of my home, my gaze fell on the entryway. On the console table, the glass on our wedding photo was shattered. But the picture itself was untouched. Ethan had his arm around me, his smile so full of warmth and adoration it looked like he was holding the most precious thing in the universe. What a fucking joke. I stared at his lying, hypocritical smile, and a pain sharper than any contraction squeezed my heart. [Don’t look at him, Mommy. He thinks you’re messy.] The baby’s tearful voice cut through my haze, severing the last thread of affection I had for that man. I closed my eyes, the heartbreak absolute. Down in the relative safety of the underground parking garage, the neighbors tried 911 again. This time, Mark Evans answered the speakerphone. “This is St. Jude’s ER, Dr. Evans speaking.” “Doctor, we’re in the Azure Tower garage. We have a pregnant woman whose water has broken! Where the hell is your ambulance?” Dave roared. “The eye of the storm is going to pass any minute!” On the other end, I could practically hear Mark roll his eyes. He said my name with weary disdain. “Is this about Claire Cole again? How many people did you get to play along with this little drama of yours?” Dave exploded. “Are you fucking kidding me? We’re talking about two human lives here! What kind of doctor are you? I swear to God, I’ll have your license for this!” Mark seemed taken aback by the fury. He paused, then sneered. “You want to threaten me? Fine. Prove it. Put her on video and show me she’s really in labor.” The phone’s camera was immediately pointed at me. A face, pale as death. Clothes soaked through with blood. The undeniable, steady trickle of fluid from between my legs. Mark went silent. The neighbors, thinking they’d finally gotten through, pressed him. “So? Can you send a car now?” “…It’s already on its way,” he said, his voice strained. But I heard a different voice, my baby’s, frantic and fading fast. [He’s lying! He didn’t send anyone!] [Mommy, the access road at the front of the complex… it’s going to collapse in five minutes! If we don’t leave now, we’ll be trapped!] 3 My baby’s voice was terrifyingly weak. My heart seized. I grabbed Dave’s arm, my grip surprisingly strong. “He’s lying,” I rasped. “We have to use your car. We have to go now!” My voice rose to a desperate cry. “The main road… it’s about to collapse!” The neighbors stared at me, confused. Through the phone, Mark laughed, a sound full of derision. “Wow, Claire. You’re really committing to the bit, huh? You came up with a whole collapsing road subplot just to get Ethan’s attention?” I didn’t have the energy to argue with him. I locked my eyes, raw and bloodshot, onto Dave’s. “Please,” I begged. “Please, trust me. We have to drive. Now!” Dave looked at my terrified face, then made a split-second decision. “You heard her! Get her in my truck! Let’s go!” He scooped me up as others opened the door to his lifted Ford F-150. They maneuvered me into the back seat just as he gunned the engine. The truck shot forward out of the garage. The phone line was still open. Mark was still talking. “I really have to see how this little play of yours ends…” He never finished the sentence. Just as our tires hit the public street, a deafening groan echoed from behind us. CRUUUUNCH! The entire stretch of road we had just driven over buckled and then collapsed into a newly formed sinkhole, swallowed by the earth. Everyone in the truck gasped. On the phone, Mark’s voice was choked with horror and disbelief. “You… How did you know that?” Before I could answer, a pain unlike anything I had ever felt tore through me. My whole body arched, and a hot, primal torrent erupted from between my legs. On the screen, Mark could see my belly contracting into a rigid peak. He finally understood. This was real. A doctor’s duty, long overdue, finally kicked in. He began directing Dave to pull over to a sheltered spot, his voice a remote guide as he started talking me through the birth. The waves of pain were endless, drowning my senses, pulling me under. My world narrowed to the shaking roof of the truck and the bloody haze in front of my eyes. I was losing consciousness, ready to give up. [Push, Mommy… I want to live… I want to see you…] The baby’s voice, a faint, desperate whisper. I want to see you. The words were a lightning bolt, shattering the fog in my mind. My baby. He had never seen the world. He had never seen me. He had fought so hard, warned me, stayed with me, all because he wanted to live long enough to see his mother’s face. I gripped the leather seat beneath me, summoned every last ounce of strength in my body, and screamed a raw, guttural cry that ripped from my soul. And then, through the sound of the wind and rain finally starting to die down, another cry answered mine. “Waaaaah!” A clear, strong, beautiful cry. My son was born. A woman in the car, another neighbor, deftly wrapped him in a clean blanket from her own go-bag. Dave handed her a bottle of water. As the first light of dawn broke through the clouds, the hurricane passed. In the distance, the wail of a siren grew closer. The ambulance had finally arrived. Mark was with them. “Claire, I am so sorry,” he said, his face pale with guilt. “If Ethan hadn’t told me you were faking, I never would have let it go this long.” I couldn’t speak. I was freezing, shaking uncontrollably. I just blinked. Before Mark could say more, the heart monitor they’d hooked me up to began to scream. Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeep—! The paramedic’s head snapped up. “She’s hemorrhaging! BP is dropping fast! Get her family on the phone, now!” Mark’s face went white. He fumbled for his phone and dialed Ethan, his voice shaking. “Ethan! It’s Claire, she’s bleeding out! You have to get over here! We need you to sign for emergency surgery!” The line was silent for a few seconds. Then came Ethan’s voice, laced with an impatient, amused cruelty. “Mark, you fell for that? She got to you, too?” “It’s real, you asshole! Her blood pressure is 60 over 40! She’s going to die if we don’t get her into an OR right now!” Mark screamed, veins bulging in his forehead. Ethan’s reply was as cold as the grave. “So what?” “Claire needs to be taught a lesson.” “Let her lie there for a while. Once she’s had a good scare, maybe she’ll learn not to bother me with this kind of drama.” Mark was shaking with rage. “Ethan, what the fuck is wrong with you? That’s your wife! That’s your son’s mother!” “My son?” Ethan laughed, a short, ugly sound. “Who gives a damn about the son she had?” The line went dead. I lay on the cold stretcher, feeling the life draining out of me, my warmth and my blood becoming one and the same. As my vision tunneled, I saw them wheeling me through the hospital doors, toward the operating room. Doctors and nurses were scrubbed, ready. Everything was prepared. A nurse rushed out. “Where’s the family? I have the consent for surgery and the notice of critical condition! We can’t proceed without a signature!” Mark stood frozen, his phone clutched in a white-knuckled fist. His face was ashen. “The family… he refuses to sign.”

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In my third year of being dead, I came to Cole in a dream. “Honey,” I said, “could you burn one of those little paper-craft cats for me? It gets lonely down here.” Cole just smiled. “How about a hot ghost with a six-pack instead?” “Yes! Oh my god, yes! Abs are a must.” Then he pulled out a rope. “Okay, hang on,” he said, his smile turning wicked. “Let me just go die real quick.” 1 It was the third year of my death. As he did every year on this day, Cole came to visit my grave. He used the flame from the burning offerings to light a cigarette, the smoke curling into the cold air. “Fuck, you died young,” he muttered. Tsk. Such a charming man. He kept rambling, a one-sided conversation with a block of granite. “It’s Valentine’s Day, you know. Of all the days to pick for a death anniversary. A real power move, Ava. What am I supposed to do when I start dating again? Bring my new girlfriend here to meet the old one? Talk about a mood killer.” The word “girlfriend” echoed in the space where my heart used to be. A jealous fury, cold and sharp, whipped through me. I gathered a gust of wind, sending a spiral of ash from the offering bowl straight into his perfectly styled hair. Cole froze, watching the miniature cyclone. He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not actually here, are you?” Yeah, I am. Happy now? You’ve pissed me off so much you almost brought me back to life. Of course, he couldn’t hear me. So he just clasped his hands together in a mock prayer, raised his eyes to the sky, and yelled, “Ava Ross, if you’re listening, help me make a billion dollars this year!” I touched his hair, and the man asks for a billion dollars. Unbelievable. In your dreams, asshole. I went silent. The fun was over. Cole seemed to sense it, the energy shift leaving him bored. He took one last drag from his cigarette and stubbed it out on the corner of my headstone, the cherry glowing red against the gray stone before dying. His long, elegant fingers traced the outline of my photo etched into the marble. He stood there for a long time. “Ava,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “I don’t think I’m going to come back after this.” A tremor went through me. Cole and I… we were a tempest. Most of our time together was spent at war, but in the lulls, there were moments of impossible tenderness. I remember the year I was at my most reckless, biting his lower lip until he winced. “Cole,” I’d whispered against his mouth, “if one of us dies, how long does the other one have to wait before they can move on?” He’d started tickling me then, deflecting. “You’re already planning on replacing me?” “With a handsome older man. Silver fox. Eight-pack abs are non-negotiable.” He had sighed, pulling me closer. “Three years, I guess. That’s the traditional mourning period, right? Three years.” And now, here we were. The three years were up. I guess I couldn’t blame him. 2 Cole sank to one knee, his gaze fixed on my photograph. “You look so young, Ava,” he murmured. “But I’m getting old. I’ve already got gray hairs.” He was still painfully handsome. But the last three years had been a relentless grind of building his empire, fueled by sleepless nights and too much whiskey. At least the eight-pack was still there. I’d checked. “We really don’t match anymore, do we?” he said to the picture. As he started to get up, a single white chrysanthemum flew through the air and smacked him squarely in the face. Cole frowned, plucking the flower from his cheek and turning to find the culprit. It was a little girl, no older than seven or eight. Her hands were clenched into tiny fists, her face flushed with righteous anger. This was new. Cole looked intrigued. “Hey, kid. Didn’t your mom ever tell you it’s not nice to throw—” “You’re a bad man!” she squeaked. “I am? How so?” “You put your cigarette out on the lady’s gravestone!” Ah. So that was it. A slow smile spread across Cole’s face. He walked over and crouched down, bringing himself to her eye level. His voice was pure, playful mischief. “You don’t get it,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially. “That was our thing. She used to…” He paused, then covered the girl’s ears with his hands, his expression turning strangely innocent. “She used to put her cigarettes out on me all the time.” I swirled around him, a frantic, invisible storm. He’s slandering me! It was one time! The little girl wriggled free. “What are you saying? I couldn’t hear you!” Cole stood up slowly. “Nothing you need to hear, kid.” He glanced around the empty cemetery. “Where’s your mom?” The girl’s voice was small but proud. “Mommy says I’m seven now. I’m a big girl, so I should learn to come visit the lady by myself.” A bitter, humorless smile touched Cole’s lips. He started walking away, his voice so soft I almost thought I’d imagined it. “Yeah,” he whispered to the wind. “If she hadn’t saved you, she’d be twenty-five now.” 3 Back in the Administration office, I was slogging through my afterlife paperwork when my fellow spirits drifted over. “Ava, are you seriously not going to reincarnate? You’d rather take the spectral civil service exam?” I offered a faint smile. “You guys don’t get it.” With birth rates what they are, you could end up anywhere. And while my own life was cut tragically short, I at least had one major asset: a rich ex-boyfriend. In the beginning, Cole sent offerings by the truckload. Flowers, champagne, letters… he was single-handedly causing a spiritual overflow. The Warden himself had begged me to visit Cole in a dream and tell him to tone it down. That was the first and only time I’d done it, until tonight. It was about three months after I’d died. Cole was in the brutal early stages of his startup, running on fumes and sheer will. Finding a moment when he was actually asleep was a challenge. When I finally found him passed out on his office couch, I didn’t enter his dream right away. I just watched him for a while. For all his talk, Cole didn’t seem heartbroken by my death. I never saw him shed a tear. Dying in a car crash is an ugly business. My head had been… well, it was bad. The mortician had done his best, piecing me back together, applying makeup to hide the worst of it. But when it came time to dress me in the traditional, modest burial gown, Cole, who had been stone-faced through the whole process, finally spoke up. “No,” he’d said, his voice raw. “She would have hated that. Put her in something beautiful. A sundress.” I’d been there, weeping invisibly. The floral one, please. But I’m getting off track. His company was taking off, but he looked haggard. Thinner. Still ridiculously handsome. When I finally slipped into his dream, he was on that small sofa. His eyes fluttered open, and he saw me pulling the corners of my mouth into a ghoulish face. He blinked, unimpressed. “Oh. A ghost.” “Seriously?” I huffed. “Could you at least try to be scared?” A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. He threw an arm over his eyes. “Ava, you couldn’t scare a fly even when you were alive.” So I straddled him. “How about now?” I whispered, shifting my weight. Cole went still. A slow grin spread across his lips. He brought his hands to my waist. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.” I leaned down and kissed him. We spent the rest of the night like that, lost in a dream. It was only at the very end, as the sun began to rise in the living world, that I remembered my mission. “Cole, ease up on the offerings. You’re causing an inflation problem.” I vanished. A moment later, Cole woke up. He sat up, a dazed look in his eyes. Then he glanced down at his lap, a dark blush creeping up his neck. He ran a hand over his face and swore. “Fuck.” Then he stumbled toward the bathroom. After that, the sheer volume of offerings did decrease. But as his business boomed, the quality skyrocketed. He started sending the spiritual equivalent of entire seasonal collections from Chanel, Dior, Hermès. I became the best-dressed ghost in the underworld. 4 An empty, aching void opened up in my chest. A familiar sourness stung my nose. Cole wasn’t coming back. No. That wasn’t acceptable. Sure, every time he visited, I put on a brave face. Floated around him with an air of detached coolness. Still thinking about me? Can’t get over this, huh? You’re just another chapter in my book, baby. You have no idea. The line of hot ghosts wanting to date me stretches all the way to Paris. But I only had that kind of bravado because I knew he couldn’t hear me. Now that he was actually leaving for good? I was panicking. I paced back and forth, my ghostly feet wearing a groove in the ethereal floor. I scribbled down a list and, with a deep breath, dove back into his dreams. He was not happy to see me. “Well, well,” he said, his arms crossed. “If it isn’t her royal highness, Ava Ross. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Okay, so three years without a single dream visit was probably a bad move. I’d been too busy haunting the girls who bullied me in high school. Priorities. I put on my most charming smile. “Cole…” He just sneered. “Oh?” I tried a different approach. “Babe?” “Tsk.” I froze, then mumbled something under my breath. “What was that?” he mocked. “Did you leave your voice back in the land of the dead?” “Honey!” I finally blurted out. That seemed to please him. A corner of his mouth twitched. “Spit it out.” Since he was planning on finding a replacement, I figured I deserved a little something to ease my own loneliness. “Could you maybe burn a little paper-craft kitty for me? You know, for company? To ease the solitude?” “You’re lonely?” “Mhmm. And I prefer orange tabbies, just so you know.” Cole tilted his chin up, a dangerous glint in his eye. “How about a ghost boyfriend instead? The kind with a pulse?” My jaw dropped. “You’re finally getting it! I have needs, you know. I’ve been celibate for three years. I’m losing my mind.” He clapped his hands together, a look of pure delight on his face. “Great! What’s your type?” I pretended to think, tapping a finger to my lip. “Definitely needs a six-pack. And young. I don’t date anyone over twenty-five.” I was just getting started on my list of demands when the dreamscape shifted. Suddenly, Cole was holding a thick rope. A sturdy beam materialized overhead. I swallowed hard. “Honey?” He gave me a smile so bright it was blinding. “Just wait right there,” he said cheerfully. “I’m on my way.” Oh, hell no. I frantically shoved my shopping list into his hands. “I DON’T WANT A BOYFRIEND ANYMORE!” I shrieked. “JUST REMEMBER TO SEND THE BAGS!” 5 I was admiring the mountain of packages at the spectral post office. “That’s enough new clothes to last me a few decades,” I mused. “Though, the latest Birkin still hasn’t arrived.” I was happily tearing into a Chanel box when one of my ghost-friends drifted through the wall in a panic. “Ava! Your ex-boyfriend was in a car accident! He’s dying!” My what? By the time I rushed to the scene, it was bad. Cole was barely breathing, slumped over the steering wheel. And clutched in his hand was a delicate, exquisitely crafted paper cat. Beside the wreck, Cole’s spirit was already detaching from his body, his ethereal form flickering. He stared at me, his eyes wide with confusion. “Ava…?” There was no time to think. I flew at him and shoved his spirit with all my might, forcing it back into his broken body. “YOU BURN THE NEW BIRKIN BEFORE YOU DIE, YOU ASSHOLE!” Inside the mangled car, Cole’s bloody fingers twitched. 6 After a long night of surgery, Cole’s vitals stabilized. But he didn’t wake up. I stood by his hospital bed all night, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. I reached out and gently traced the line of his nose, my ghostly finger passing right through him. As expected, he didn’t stir. When I returned to the underworld, I was greeted with news: I had passed my exam. I was officially a member of the Administration. But before I could even celebrate, I was summoned by the Review Board. The Warden sat at the head of a long table, taking a slow sip of tea. “Ava Ross,” he began, his voice echoing in the vast chamber. “Due to your recent interference, your ex-boyfriend, Cole Miller, who was scheduled to die, is now alive. However, our projections show that in three months, he will become a serial killer.” I slammed my hands on the table, a thunderclap of spectral energy. “That’s impossible! Absolutely not! My Cole is a gentleman! He’s kind and gentle. He wouldn’t even kill a spider! And you’re telling me he’s going to kill people? That’s bullshit!” The Warden choked on his tea, coughing violently for a moment before composing himself. “If you’ll direct your attention to the screen.” A large monitor flickered to life, displaying a scene from three months in the future. Cole, wearing a clear rain poncho, his eyes cold and disdainful, looking down as if at a piece of trash. A spatter of blood hit his cheek, tracing a path down his neck. The camera panned to the victim. A man. His familiar gold-rimmed glasses were shattered, his nose broken, the mask of cultured civility gone. He was on the ground, weeping and begging for his life. I frowned. How dare that man’s filthy blood touch my beautiful Cole’s face? I sat back down calmly. “Okay, so maybe murder is a little extreme,” I conceded. “How about a stern warning?” “The entire purpose of this board,” the Warden said, his voice dripping with gravitas, “is to prevent this exact kind of nepotism from staff members! Any employee with a first-degree relation to a violent felon will have their credentials immediately revoked.” I shot to my feet again. “So what happens to me?” “We’re giving you a chance. Return to the mortal plane. Stop Cole from committing these crimes.” “How? He can’t see me. He can’t hear me.” “Ah,” the Warden said, a faint smile on his lips. “But thanks to you, he had a near-death experience. And now… he can.”

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Five years in the music industry and I was still a ghost. My only option was to go home and marry a man I’d never met. My fiancé, as it were, already hated me. He didn’t show up for the wedding ceremony our families had arranged, but he did call me afterward to lay down the law. His voice was a cold, distant baritone over the phone. “Let’s get a few things straight. I’m in love with someone else, so don’t waste your time on me.” A beat of silence. “You’re free to see whoever you want. I won’t interfere.” And the final blow: “This is a business arrangement. We’ll get a divorce in one year. Be prepared for that, and please don’t make a scene when it’s time to sign the papers.” He hung up without waiting for a response. I stood there, phone in hand, just outside the door to his study, lost in thought. Funny, because from where I was standing, I could see that his study was a shrine dedicated entirely to me. 1 My name is Maya, but for five years, I tried to make the world know me as Evie. I poured my soul into my music, my parents poured money into my career, but I never caught fire. My brand of indie pop was always described as “having a chilly reception.” The irony wasn’t lost on me. So, I had to swallow my pride and honor the deal I’d made with my parents: if I couldn’t make it on my own, I would come home and secure our family’s future through a strategic marriage. My designated husband was Caleb Vaughn, the eldest son of the Vaughn dynasty, known for his ruthless efficiency and ice-cold demeanor. My best friend, Chloe, had given me the rundown. “He has the kind of face that could charm a saint into sinning, Maya. Seriously, he could be the poster boy for ‘dangerously handsome.’ You look at him and think he’s this refined, gentle soul.” Her voice had dropped, laced with pity. “But it’s a mask. Underneath, he’s a shark. He only cares about the bottom line. No heart, no soul, just profit margins.” She sighed. “Everyone feels so bad for you. Being married to a man like that… it’s going to be a cold, lonely life.” I clutched my phone, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. There was nothing left to say. After hanging up, I opened my social media for the last time. I navigated to my drafts, where a farewell message had been sitting for weeks. With a deep breath, I hit ‘post.’ 2 I was never a superstar, but I had a small, fiercely loyal fanbase. The moment my retirement announcement went live, my DMs exploded. A few familiar usernames scrolled past, but one stood out, as it always did: a simple, bold ‘C’. I knew him well. For the past five years, he was the constant in my career. The first to like, the first to comment on every single post. He was my most devoted fan. His camera equipment was clearly top-of-the-line; the photos he took at my small gigs were always breathtakingly crisp and professional. He’d poured an insane amount of money into fan projects and charity drives in my name, earning the affectionate nickname “Captain C” from the other fans. His profile page was a testament to his dedication. Pinned at the top was a video montage of my performances he’d edited, followed by a clip of him—never showing his face—meticulously copying a piece of choreography from one of my music videos. You could see the intense focus in his movements, an earnestness that bordered on clumsy. But the thing I remembered most about him were his comments. He never wrote flowery compliments or over-the-top declarations of love. It was always the same simple, almost stubborn phrase: “I hope you’re happy today.” Today, however, he broke his own rule. His message was a wall of text, a torrent of words filled with typos, as if he’d typed it in a frantic rush. He wrote about stumbling upon one of my videos during the darkest period of his life. How a throwaway line in an old interview had helped him get through a sleepless night. How his fingers would tremble with excitement every time I posted something new. His final words felt like they were torn from his very soul, restrained yet profoundly sincere. “I’m sorry, I know this is forward. But I have to tell you. You were a light for me. A lifeline. You became my reason to keep going. Getting to know your music these past five years has brought me so much joy. Evie, you are more important to me than you can ever imagine. You’re like… life itself.” I stared at the screen, noticing the jumbled letters and repeated words. He must have been typing through tears, his hands shaking so badly he could barely hit the right keys. My own eyes burned as I finished reading his heartfelt essay. I took a moment to compose myself, then typed a careful, genuine reply. “Thank you for five years of incredible support and kindness. I hope you’ll be happy every day, too. Maybe we’ll cross paths again someday.” 3 After replying to every last message, I took a deep, shaky breath, steeling myself against the ache in my chest. It was time to delete the account, to close that chapter for good. But just as my finger hovered over the button, a notification banner flashed across my screen. A trending topic. And my new husband’s name was at the top of the list. #CalebVaughnCrying Curiosity got the better of me. I tapped the hashtag, and a ten-second video immediately started playing. The dim, golden light of a streetlamp illuminated Caleb Vaughn’s sharp profile as he sat in the driver’s seat of a car. His long eyelashes were cast downward, his shoulders trembling slightly. A tear track was clearly visible on his cheek. He radiated a sense of brokenness, a despair so profound it felt like it could shatter glass. The comment section was a wildfire. “Whoa, is that the Ice King himself, Caleb Vaughn, actually crying? Did hell freeze over?” “LMAO for a second I thought his car was haunted.” “Whatever cosmic entity is possessing Caleb Vaughn, please vacate the premises immediately. This is creeping me out.” “Okay, but for real… what on earth could make this man cry?” That last question sent everyone into a frenzy of speculation. Some guessed it was the stress of the forced marriage. Others thought it was a simple work-related breakdown. Whatever the reason, I found I didn’t much care. I gave the screen a cursory glance and put my phone away, turning my attention to the logistics of untangling my life from my career. 4 It was two in the morning when I finally dragged my exhausted body home. The moment I unlocked my phone, a friend request popped up. The man from the trending topic. The request was simple, no message, just a name: Caleb Vaughn. I hesitated for a second, then tapped on his profile. His avatar was a black void. His bio was blank. His username was a single letter: Z. Everything about it screamed stay away. Massaging my throbbing temples, I sighed and hit ‘accept.’ A voice message came through almost instantly. His tone was cold and detached, the kind you use for a problem you can’t get rid of but are forced to deal with politely. [Miss Miller, hello. This is Caleb Vaughn, your fiancé.] I hated voice messages, so I typed my reply: [Hello.] Caleb was clearly not in the mood for pleasantries. He got straight to the point. [I’m in love with someone else. I will only ever love her. So, after we are married, I don’t want you to waste any of your time or energy on me.] [This is a business arrangement, nothing more. I have no issue with an open marriage. You are free to pursue anyone you like, and I will not interfere. Likewise, you will not interfere in my life.] [Maya, your father mentioned you have an ex you were very much in love with, who is now living abroad. I travel internationally for work quite often. I would have no problem with you joining me on a trip to create an opportunity for you two to meet.] I froze, reading the message again. [Are you saying you’d give me cover to go see my ex?] His reply was immediate. [Yes. That is exactly what I’m saying.] [Frankly, I have no desire to be entangled with you. It would be a relief to me if you had someone else to occupy your attention.] […] I didn’t know what to say to that. [Okay. Is there anything else?] [Yes. I want you to remember that this marriage will last for one year. Exactly.] [After one year, we will file for divorce. I expect you to handle it professionally. No tears, no drama. That would be embarrassing for both of our families.] I typed back quickly: [Fine. You don’t have to worry about that.] I could almost hear the sigh of relief through the phone. [One more thing, Miss Miller.] [I see no need for a public ceremony, nor will there be any… marital obligations. We should also keep the marriage itself private. The fewer people who know, the better. It’s for the best for both of us.] I had no objections. It all sounded perfectly fine to me. He went silent for a long time after that. I imagined him running through a mental checklist, making sure he hadn’t missed anything. Fifteen full minutes passed before a final message came through. [That should cover everything for now.] [Forgive me, Miss Miller, but I am a businessman. I don’t trust verbal agreements.] [To prevent any potential change of heart on your part, I would like to draw up a contract for us to sign. Would that be acceptable?] [The contract will cover everything we’ve discussed, including asset division. One-year term, no marital obligations, my assistance in arranging a meeting with your ex, and so on.] [Is this agreeable to you?] Of course it was. [Yes, Mr. Vaughn. Draft the contract and send it over.] He seemed satisfied. [I’ll have it ready for you by morning.] I thought for a moment, then typed: [By the way, Mr. Vaughn, should we meet in person before we sign the papers?] His refusal was swift and absolute. [That’s not necessary. It would be a waste of time. There’s nothing for us to discuss. We’ll see each other at City Hall in three days.] That suited me just fine. [Perfect.] 5 Caleb was clearly terrified I would back out, because the contract arrived in my inbox with remarkable speed. By 4:00 AM, a digital copy was waiting for me. What I didn’t expect was for him to show up at my parents’ house at six o’clock that same morning with a hard copy, a thick stack of pages bound and ready. My mother yanked me out of bed and shoved me toward the bathroom while my father made polite conversation with Caleb in the living room downstairs. With a toothbrush hanging from my mouth, I crept to the landing on the second floor and peered down at him. He was just as Chloe had described. He sat on the leather sofa, one long leg crossed over the other, his impeccably tailored black suit accentuating his lean, powerful frame. It was a simple posture, but on him, with his striking features and aristocratic bone structure, it exuded a kind of forbidden, magnetic allure. I could see why my father had been so adamant that Caleb was the “perfect, top-tier match” for me. Then my eyes caught something. Peeking out from under the cuff of his expensive suit was a thin, rose gold bracelet. Rose gold was my color—the signature color my fans had adopted for me. I could spot it a mile away. Did this top-tier, alpha-male CEO have a secret penchant for delicate, pinkish accessories? How… unexpected. 6 As my dad chatted with Caleb, he kept shooting subtle glances in my direction. But Caleb was like a statue, his gaze fixed on my father, his expression unreadable. Not even an eyelash flickered. He was making it painfully, abundantly clear that he had zero interest in his unseen, unheard-of fiancée. My dad, bless his heart, finally decided to force the issue. “Caleb, why don’t you stay for breakfast? Maya’s home, it would be a good chance for you two to get acquainted.” “That won’t be necessary.” Caleb’s voice was deep and smooth, yet utterly devoid of warmth. “No need to rush it, Mr. Miller. We’ll be seeing plenty of each other soon enough. It will be difficult to avoid, won’t it?” Before my dad could argue, Caleb cut him off coolly. “I should be going, sir.” He stood and turned to leave. At that exact moment, I finished getting ready and stepped into the living room. Caleb was just stepping out, pulling the front door closed behind him. He never once looked in my direction. He might as well have had the words “NOT INTERESTED” tattooed on the back of his head. 7 The moment he was out the door, my phone buzzed with a message from him. [Miss Miller, I’ve left the sealed contract with your father. Please review and sign it. My assistant will be by to pick it up later.] I sat down and read through the entire document carefully. In addition to everything we’d discussed, the final section had a clause that made my eyes widen. All profits and assets gained as a result of our alliance would be split 60/40. Sixty percent to me, forty to him. Furthermore, upon the dissolution of our marriage, I would receive a substantial lump sum payment. The total amount was staggering. Enough to live comfortably for the rest of my life, never having to work again. I counted the zeros twice. Suddenly, my apprehension about this marriage morphed into a different kind of anxiety—the kind that comes with being handed a fortune. I typed out a message, my fingers fumbling. [Mr. Vaughn, I noticed there aren’t any clauses in the contract regarding you and the woman you’re in love with.] [Did you forget?] It was a genuine question, but his reply was sharp with suspicion and impatience. [Miss Miller, you don’t need to test me.] [I am aware that women are often at a disadvantage in marital arrangements. I have no intention of doing anything that would cause you public embarrassment during the term of our marriage.] I paused, picturing him on the other end, frowning at his phone. I could almost hear him muttering, “Damn it, why is she prying into my business?” before composing a more diplomatic response. [Furthermore, I would never ask her to be the other woman. Not even in name.] He paused, and when he continued, his tone had softened, a clear shift brought on by the thought of her. [I will wait until my marriage to you is officially and completely over. Then, and only then, will I pursue her properly. I’ll tell her how I feel, and I’ll ask her to be with me.] [Of course, that’s all contingent on her not despising me and not being in love with someone else by then.] I’ll be damned. The ruthless CEO was a hopeless romantic. After another moment, he added: [By the way, please send me your passport number.] I immediately tensed up. [What for?] [The day after we register the marriage, I have a business trip. To the same city where your ex lives. I assume you still want to see him?] [I’ll book your ticket along with mine. As per our agreement, I’ll provide you with cover. We’ll tell our families we’re on our honeymoon.] I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. He must have sensed my reluctance, because his tone became persuasive, almost coaxing. [Miss Miller, this is a golden opportunity.] [It’s unlikely our schedules will align this perfectly again. You should think carefully.] [If you miss this chance, who knows when the next one will be.] I was still wavering. After our breakup, I had blocked him on everything. [Your father mentioned the breakup was… unpleasant,] Caleb typed. [I happen to have a friend who is an expert in relationships, he specializes in helping estranged couples reconcile.] [I can bring him along. I’m certain he can help you two patch things up.] His persistence was starting to win me over. At the very least, it would be a free trip. I finally sent him my passport number. [Alright… thank you. I appreciate it.] [You’re welcome.] His mood instantly brightened. Even his texting style felt lighter. He really, really didn’t want me getting attached to him. 8 The plan was for Caleb’s assistant to pick up the signed contract, but late that evening, he sent me another message. [Miss Miller, I’ve been pulled into a last-minute meeting. My assistant is tied up. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to drop the contract off at my house.] [And I’d prefer if you brought it yourself. I don’t trust couriers. The sooner this is signed and settled, the better for both of us.] He wasn’t wrong. He was afraid I’d back out; I was afraid he’d secretly change the numbers. I glanced outside at the torrential downpour and sighed. Gritting my teeth, I dragged myself out of bed. Thankfully, he lived just a few blocks away, a short ten-minute walk. Standing outside his house, I felt a strange sense of déjà vu. The layout of the front porch, the specific type of planters… it all felt incredibly familiar. I punched in the code he’d given me and the door clicked open. The houses in this neighborhood all had similar floor plans, so I easily found what I assumed was his study. But I stopped dead in my tracks, staring at the door. It was a glaring, out-of-place bubblegum pink. The rest of his house was a symphony of cold, minimalist design—cool white walls, black furniture, even black curtains. This one door was a splash of defiant color in a monochrome world. With a furrowed brow, I pushed it open. The first thing I saw was a massive, life-sized poster. My breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The person on the poster was me. It was from a photoshoot I did in my second year as Evie. I’d completely forgotten it existed. But it wasn’t just the poster. The room was filled. Photo cards, keychains, magazine spreads, merchandise from every brand I’d ever endorsed. There was even a cup holder from a bubble tea chain I’d been the face of for a summer. Every single item was meticulously labeled with a date. There were at least a dozen boxes of this memorabilia, all arranged with the care of a museum curator. Each piece was preserved as if it were a priceless treasure. 9 I rubbed my eyes, hard, convinced I was hallucinating. I wasn’t. And the setup of his desk, the specific angle… it looked identical to the background in ‘C’s’ videos. I pulled out my phone, comparing a screenshot to the room around me. The conclusion was staggering, undeniable. Caleb Vaughn—the cold, ruthless, contract-obsessed CEO—was my hardcore, devoted, anonymous fan, ‘C.’ Before I could even process this earth-shattering revelation, my phone buzzed again. A new message from him. “Miss Miller, I forgot to specify. The study I need you to leave the contract in is on the second floor, not the first.” My face flushed. [Sorry. I already put it in the first-floor study.] His reply was instant, tinged with panic. [?] [In that case, please leave immediately after dropping it off. And do not touch anything in that room.] [Those items are extremely important to me. If anything is damaged, I will not be lenient.] [Uh, don’t worry. I just put the contract on the desk and left. Nothing is damaged.] I paused, my gaze sweeping over the collection again. Some of these items were so rare, even I didn’t have them anymore. Yet here they were, perfectly preserved by him. An audacious thought sparked in my mind. [Mr. Vaughn, that celebrity… the woman you’re in love with… is it the one whose posters are all over this room?] A long silence followed before he replied with a single, solemn word. […Yes.] Me: […] Caleb: [Why? Do you know her? Are you a fan too? …Wait, are we fans of the same person?] Me: […Ha.] Caleb: [?] I managed a weak laugh. [I don’t think I know her.] His reply was tinged with a strange sadness. [That’s not surprising.] [She never made it big. I was going to finally take over the company this year, and I had plans to secretly funnel resources to her, things a thousand times better than what she had before. But… she retired.] [What is she going to do now? Will she get married this year?] [I wonder what kind of lucky bastard gets to be with her.] [That bastard better treat her right. If he doesn’t, I’ll hunt him to the ends of the earth. I will physically castrate him, then dismember his body. I will not let him get away with it.] Me: […] 10 I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead and decided to push my luck. [By the way, Mr. Vaughn, are you absolutely sure we don’t need to meet before we go to City Hall?] Caleb: [Yes. I’ve already said so. I am absolutely certain a meeting is unnecessary.] Me: […Alright. I hope you don’t regret this.] His tone turned to ice. [What do you mean by that, Miss Miller? Are you having second thoughts? Are you planning to violate our agreement?] [Don’t forget, we have a signed contract. You can’t back out now.] Me: […] I chuckled. [Relax. I have no intention of backing out.] He still didn’t seem convinced. [Miss Miller, I recall the contract states there are penalties for breaching the terms.] I smiled. [I know. Don’t worry. Whoever backs out is a fool.] He mulled that over for a second, then replied with the conviction of a man making a solemn vow. [It’s a deal, then. Whoever backs out… is the biggest fool!] Me: [Heh. Mr. Vaughn, I bet people compliment you on your intelligence all the time, don’t they?] Caleb: [Of course. I often pride myself on my superior intellect.] Me: […] 11 Three days passed in a blur. We didn’t speak. On the day we were scheduled to go to City Hall, I arrived half an hour early. I was leaning against a wall, half-asleep, when Caleb’s Maybach finally pulled up to the curb. The moment he saw my face, his hands clenched the steering wheel. He froze, as if he’d been turned to stone. I didn’t hesitate. I pushed off the wall and started walking toward his car. At the same time, my phone began vibrating nonstop in my purse. It was Caleb, spamming me with messages. All his cold, detached arrogance from the past few days had evaporated. His texts were frantic, giddy with excitement. [Miss Miller, can we possibly postpone City Hall for a bit? I just saw her.] [She’s walking toward me right now. I just want to say one word to her. Just one. Please.] [Oh god, my heart is beating so fast. Am I having a heart attack? I think today might be the day I…] I reached his car and tapped my fingers lightly on the driver’s side window.

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The world lost my mother when I was six. Or so I was told. Before she vanished, she held my face in her hands, her eyes burning with an intensity a child couldn’t possibly understand. “Listen to me,” she’d whispered, her voice tight. “You are a Rhodes. You are the heir to everything. Don’t you ever let them see you as weak. Don’t let anyone push you around.” Her last words to me were, “I can’t take you with me. Don’t hate me for it.” I think I misunderstood. To keep from being pushed around, I started doing the pushing. Fights in the schoolyard turned into brawls in back alleys. I learned to smoke, to dye my hair shocking colors, to cultivate a reputation that made people cross the street when they saw me coming. Then, on the night of my eighteenth birthday, a ghost from my past kicked open the door to a grimy back room of a bar, and my whole world tilted on its axis. 1 When she walked in, I was grinding the cherry of my cigarette into the back of some punk’s hand. He’d called me a motherless charity case. The words had sunk into me like needles. He was bullying me, so I had no intention of letting him go. My crew had his head pinned to the sticky table. My right-hand guy, Jax, was leaning in close, his voice a low growl. “You must be new in Bayview. Nobody talks shit about Sadie. You’re lucky if she lets you walk out of here tonight.” The cigarette hissed against his skin, the smell of burnt flesh mixing with stale beer and cheap perfume. The kid’s scream was just another layer of noise in the chaotic room. I was sick of it. I tossed the butt aside, my hand closing around the neck of an empty beer bottle. I was going to bring it down on his head. But before I could, a hand snatched it from my grasp. A strong, sure hand. The rage inside me flared white-hot. I whipped my head up, ready to fight, and froze. She was dressed in a simple, elegant tracksuit, her body lean and athletic. She was beautiful, stunningly so, but it was her face that made my breath catch. She stood over me, her brow furrowed, radiating an aura of pure, undiluted authority. “Sadie Rhodes,” she said, her voice dangerously calm. “Who taught you to be like this? Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” That voice… I stared at her face, a perfect, living replica of the only photograph I had of my mother. For a second, the world spun. But I’d worn my bravado like armor for too long to take it off now. “Who the hell are you to talk to me like that?” I sneered. “You got a death wish?” Jax stepped forward, ready to roll up his sleeves. What he got for his trouble was a slap that echoed through the room. A clean, crisp sound, delivered with a surprising force that sent him stumbling back. Before I could even react, the woman said four words that shattered my universe. “I’m your mother.” I just stared. My mother had disappeared twelve years ago. Not died, not left a note. She had simply… ceased to exist. My father had searched for her for years. The police had an open case that gathered dust in a file cabinet somewhere. Not a trace. And now, after twelve years, this woman shows up claiming to be her. It was laughable. Another one of his replacements. Another wanna-be trying to use me to get to my father’s fortune. They all thought that if they looked enough like her, they could win the jackpot. I let out a cold, dismissive laugh. “My mother’s been dead for over a decade. And even if she wasn’t, she wouldn’t look like you. You want to run a con, at least make it believable.” The woman’s expression was a complicated storm of emotions I couldn’t begin to decipher. “You were so young when I left. It’s normal that you don’t remember. But you’re coming with me. Now.” She reached for my wrist. I actually smiled. This one was really committed to the part. I wondered if my father had already cleared out his collection of look-alikes for her. Too bad for her, I wasn’t interested in a stand-in for motherly love. With a flick of my wrist, I signaled my crew. They moved in. It was over in seconds. A blur of motion and a series of sharp cracks as she slapped each one of them into submission. They collapsed like dominoes. The hand I’d been reaching for another beer bottle slowly retracted. Okay. I had to admit, I respected power. And this woman could clearly handle herself. Maybe I wouldn’t pick a fight with her… just yet. In the end, she hauled me out of there like a stray cat she’d found in the rain. 2 The autumn air was sharp and cold against my skin. She dragged me all the way to the curb under the flickering streetlights. “Call your father,” she commanded. “Tell him to send a car. And tell him to be there when we arrive.” Her seriousness was so absolute, I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me. If you’re trying to get Carter Rhodes’s attention, you need to do your homework. Nobody’s coming to pick me up. And I don’t have a father.” I shifted my weight, jamming my hands in my pockets. “If you think using me is your ticket to the good life, you’re dead wrong. Save yourself the trouble and walk away now.” I pulled a key from my pocket and pressed the button. Across the street, the lights of a beat-up, second-hand scooter blinked twice with a pathetic chirp. I didn’t miss the flicker of confusion and shock in her eyes. She followed me as I crossed the street, her frown deepening. “You ride… this thing?” That little comment was the match on the gasoline of my temper. She was one of them. A materialistic leech. Her face was probably the result of a dozen plastic surgeries, all designed to mimic the woman whose memory she was desecrating. I swung my leg over the scooter’s cracked vinyl seat. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped. “You got a problem with my ride? It may be a piece of junk, but it’s mine. I bought it. You have an opinion, you can keep it to yourself. And don’t think for a second I’m scared of you.” In my world, you never showed weakness. I braced myself for another slap. But instead, she just sighed. Then, with a fluid grace that seemed utterly out of place, she sat down on the seat behind me. The poor little scooter groaned under the added weight, its frame creaking in protest. My brain stalled. “What are you doing? Get off. I’m going home. I don’t have time for your games.” She didn’t say a word. She just wrapped her arms around my waist. Her hands were soft and warm. A jolt went through me, an alien feeling of… something. I stiffened, every muscle in my body screaming in protest. Her voice, when she spoke again, was softer. “Sadie. I’m your mother. I’m not lying to you. Please, just take me home.” I had never met anyone so shamelessly persistent in my life. We were at a standoff for a long time, but she wouldn’t budge. Finally, I gave up arguing. Fine. I revved the pathetic little engine and peeled out into the empty street. Let’s see how long she’d last on this ride. It was late, the city streets deserted and quiet except for the whine of my scooter’s struggling motor. Halfway there, I stopped at a 24-hour bodega and bought a pre-made sandwich and a bottle of water. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. When I came out, the woman was standing by the scooter, her arms crossed. Her expression was grave. “This isn’t the way to the Rhodes estate,” she said. “Where are you going?” I ignored her. If she wanted to follow, fine by me. Let’s see how committed she was to this charade. I turned down a series of side streets, finally entering a narrow alley where the only light came from a single, buzzing streetlamp that threatened to give out at any moment. I could feel her tension behind me, her body held stiffly. I parked the scooter in front of a crumbling brick tenement building and slid off, grabbing my meager meal. “This is where I live,” I announced, daring her. “You brave enough to follow me in?” Her face was a mask of conflicting emotions. She hesitated for only a second, then squared her shoulders and followed me through the graffitied front door. 3 The hallway smelled of damp and decay, the light from the bare bulbs a sickly yellow. Our apartment was on the third floor, the door plastered with eviction notices and takeout menus. I popped a piece of gum in my mouth and unlocked the door. To my surprise, she brushed past me and went inside first. “Are you crazy?” I exclaimed, shutting the door behind her. “You really came in.” She ignored my outburst, her eyes scanning the tiny, cramped apartment. I didn’t care what she thought. Once she realized I had nothing of value, no leverage to use against my father, she’d be gone. The apartment was old, but I kept it clean. To the left was the one small bedroom. On the single twin bed, a woman with graying hair lay sleeping. She stirred at the sound of our entry, her eyes slowly fluttering open. I placed the sandwich on the nightstand and gently helped her sit up. “Time for a late-night snack, Maria.” Maria seemed to have more energy tonight, but that just meant more questions. “Why are you dressed like that again, Sadie? It’s your birthday. Did you go see your father…?” “No.” I cut her off, fluffing her pillow. “Now eat. And stop meddling.” The smell of the cheap deli meat made my stomach rumble. It was all this woman’s fault. My crew had scraped together enough cash for a tiny cupcake for my birthday. I never even got a bite before she dragged me away. I pulled out my phone and checked my bank balance. A pathetic two-digit number stared back at me. Whatever. Skipping a meal would be good for me. Dieting, or whatever. Maria was mid-sentence when her eyes fixed on the doorway. She froze. “Ava?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “It’s you. Mrs. Rhodes!” I turned. Of course, the woman had followed me into the bedroom. They ignored me completely. The woman—Ava, apparently—rushed to the bedside, her face a picture of shock. “Maria?” Tears streamed down Maria’s face. She dropped the sandwich and reached for Ava’s hand, her grip desperate. “Mrs. Rhodes, you’re alive! Thank God you’re back! You have to talk to Sadie. Make her go back to her father. Make her go back to school! Please, don’t let her keep fighting. She’s going to ruin her life!” “What are you talking about?” I snapped, my patience gone. “She’s not my mother! And if I don’t run my crew and collect protection money, how am I supposed to pay for your medicine?” I was furious now. I grabbed Ava’s arm, trying to pull her out of the room. Maria was clearly losing her mind, calling this imposter ‘Mrs. Rhodes.’ But in a flash, Ava had pushed me out of the bedroom and slammed the door in my face. I heard the lock click. Damn it. This was a rental. I didn’t have a key for the bedroom door. I pressed my ear against the cheap wood, yelling at her not to lie to Maria. But the door was thin, and I could hear every word they said. “Mrs. Rhodes, the year after you left, that bitch dropped her act. She couldn’t stand Sadie. She framed her, set her up… then she had Carter legally sign Sadie over to my care…” The words hit me like a physical blow, and the memories came flooding back. 4 I was six. My father, Carter Rhodes, brought his high school sweetheart home. With her was a little boy. That night, I hid behind a door, listening to them argue. “Ava, Penelope just got back to the country. Her son needs a father. I can’t have people gossiping. He’s not mine, I know, but I’m going to adopt him. Mason.” “Don’t worry,” he’d pleaded. “Mason is a good kid. Just think of it as gaining a sister, and a son. You know you’ll always be the one I love.” My mother didn’t accept it. Her voice rose with each question, each accusation. Penelope, in contrast, just stood there silently, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Her vulnerability was her greatest weapon. In the end, she got what she wanted. My father insisted they stay. And that was the beginning of the end for our family. At first, he tried to be considerate of my mother’s feelings. But soon, he bought a house for Penelope and her son. He had a second family. On my mother’s birthday, Penelope slit her wrists. My father dropped everything and rushed to the hospital. That night, my mother was like a hollowed-out shell. She held me all night, her tears falling one by one onto my hand. “Sadie,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Mommy can’t be with you anymore. My mission failed. I can’t stay.” “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. I’m not strong enough to take you with me.” “But you have to remember, you are a Rhodes. You’re the rightful heir. Don’t be weak. Don’t let anyone bully you. The Rhodes fortune… it’s yours.” “Sadie, I’m so sorry…” I was too young to understand what she meant by a “mission.” All I knew was that she was leaving. I cried and begged her not to go, but the next morning, she was gone. Just like that, I was the girl without a mother. My father called her cruel. He dared her to never come back. And then he moved Penelope and Mason into our home. Secretly, though, he started hiring women who looked like her, an endless parade of failed replacements. Penelope’s schemes were endless. She would arrange for my father to see me pushing Mason down the stairs. She would trick me into putting strawberries in her milk, knowing she was allergic. At six years old, I was no match for her. My father’s disappointment in me grew with each passing day. The breaking point came when Penelope and I argued on a street corner. She shoved me into traffic. Maria, our nanny, threw herself in front of me, taking the full impact of the car. Afterward, Penelope twisted the story, claiming I had pushed her. My father didn’t even bother to ask for my side. He believed her instantly. He said that since Maria loved protecting me so much, I could just be her daughter. And so, I was. Maria, the woman who had saved my life, was now paralyzed from the waist down. Her family was destroyed for my sake, and I had a debt to repay. At seven years old, I left the Rhodes estate with Maria. My so-called father never once came to see me. The memory was a sledgehammer to the chest. I thought I had buried it, thought I didn’t care anymore. But hearing Maria retell the story ripped the wound wide open. The bedroom door swung open. I looked up and met the woman’s red-rimmed eyes. She pulled me into a fierce hug, her body trembling like a leaf. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Mommy’s so sorry she’s late.” For a split second, I caught her scent—a faint, familiar fragrance that unlocked a door deep in my memory. “Tomorrow,” she said, her voice hardening. “Tomorrow, I’m taking you to see Carter Rhodes. We’re going to get you justice.” My throat felt tight, like I’d swallowed a fishbone. I turned my face away, forcing a tough-guy swagger into my voice. “Who needs you to get justice for them? I’m just going for the show. It’ll be fun to watch you try.” 5 The car pulled up in front of the gleaming glass-and-steel skyscraper of Rhodes Industries. The gold letters of the company name glinted in the sun, blinding me for a moment. I’d only ever seen this place in business magazines, usually with a picture of Penelope and Mason at some company gala, their smiles brighter and more obnoxious than any cover model’s. Ava grabbed my wrist and pulled me through the revolving doors. Her heels clicked sharply on the marble floor, each sound a hammer blow against my heart. The employees in the vast lobby stared. “Who is that woman? She looks like she owns the place.” “And the girl with the dyed hair… looks like trouble. Are they here to protest something?” The whispers followed us. I popped a fresh piece of gum into my mouth and stared straight ahead, letting them look. “What floor is Carter Rhodes on?” Ava’s voice was ice. The receptionist clutched her tablet. “Do you have an appointment? Mr. Rhodes is in a board meeting…” “Get him down here.” Ava pushed me forward slightly, a silent presentation. “Tell him his daughter, Sadie Rhodes, and his wife, Ava Rhodes, are here to settle a score.” The words dropped like a bomb in the quiet lobby. The sounds of typing and printers suddenly ceased. Dozens of pairs of eyes locked onto us. I saw people discreetly pulling out their phones. Before the receptionist could make the call, the elevator doors slid open with a soft ding. Carter Rhodes emerged, his arm around Penelope’s waist. His tailored suit made him look every bit the powerful CEO, and Penelope’s designer dress and handbag screamed money. They were laughing together, looking like a perfect, happy couple from a magazine ad. The moment he saw us, his smile froze. The portfolio in his hand slipped from his grasp and hit the floor with a loud slap. Penelope shrieked and scrambled behind him, pointing a manicured finger at me. “Sadie! You little delinquent, what are you doing here? Security! Get her out of here!” A knot of pure hatred tightened in my chest. I opened my mouth to fire back, but Ava was already moving. She closed the distance in three long strides, grabbed a handful of Penelope’s perfectly coiffed hair, and slapped her across the face. The sound was shockingly loud in the cavernous lobby. A collective gasp went through the crowd of employees. Someone actually let out a little “whoa” before clapping a hand over their mouth. “Get who out?” Ava snarled, slamming Penelope’s head back against the wall. “You’re the parasite who took over my home. You don’t get to give orders here.” Carter finally snapped out of his shock, his eyes locked on Ava. His lips trembled. “Ava,” he breathed. “You’re… you’re back. I’ve been looking for you for twelve years…” He reached for her, but she shoved him away. He staggered backward, crashing into a glass display case. Trophies and awards shattered on the floor. Penelope’s face was blotchy with rage, her elegant updo completely undone. She looked like a madwoman. “You’re acting like a savage! You can’t just come in here and assault people! This is a place of business! Do you want to humiliate Carter in front of his entire company?” “That’s the whole point,” Ava said, dragging Penelope by the hair into the center of the lobby. “I want everyone to see. I want everyone to see how Carter Rhodes abandoned his own daughter to raise another woman’s bastard.” The lobby exploded with murmurs and the flash of phone cameras. “I heard a rumor his first wife died,” someone whispered. “That’s what they had to say to make room for the mistress, right?” “Is that really his daughter? A Rhodes heiress, dressed like that?” “What an embarrassment to the family.” Their words were like tiny daggers. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. Just as I was about to scream at them, Ava spoke, her voice ringing with clarity and fury. “What’s wrong with how she’s dressed? Carter Rhodes threw his own flesh and blood out of his house, left her in the care of a paralyzed housekeeper, and never looked back. Tell me, how is a seven-year-old child supposed to support herself and a disabled woman? Sadie just turned eighteen yesterday. If she hadn’t learned to be tough, to survive on the streets, she would have starved to death! She took the only path you left open for her!” She turned to me, her voice softening for just a moment. “My Sadie is a rose that grew through concrete. There is no shame in her.” Her words hit me, and suddenly, my throat was tight. The years of resentment and pain I had buried so deep began to surface. Ever since I’d started down this path, everyone had looked down on me. They sneered, they judged, they called me trash, a blight on society. No one ever asked why. And now, she had said it for me. My eyes burned. I tilted my head back, refusing to let the tears fall. The crowd went silent, all eyes turning to Carter. Ava’s words had stripped him bare in front of his entire company. His face went from white to red and back again. He had no defense. No one here could have imagined that the great Carter Rhodes would let his own daughter fend for herself in the gutter. The whispers died. The only sound was Penelope’s hysterical sobbing. “Carter! Are you just going to stand there and let her do this to me?” Carter finally moved, his expression a storm of confusion and pain. But he didn’t go to Penelope. He went to my mother. “Ava, let’s go home. We have so much to talk about…” My mother’s response was another slap, this one for him. It landed with a sickening crack. More gasps rippled through the lobby. No one had ever dared to lay a hand on Carter Rhodes. Just when everyone expected him to explode in fury, Ava spoke again, her voice dripping with contempt. “Carter Rhodes. Does it give you a sense of accomplishment, raising another man’s son?” “You must be the world’s greatest father. You absolute fool.” My father’s head was turned to the side from the force of the blow, a bright red handprint already forming on his cheek. Ava looked at him, and the hatred in her eyes was so pure, so cold, it could have frozen fire. “Carter Rhodes, I want you to look at your daughter and tell me,” she said, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Do you deserve to be a father? You don’t even deserve to be called a man.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “384821”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The week before my thirtieth birthday, my fiancée, Chloe, transferred five million dollars from my primary investment account. I told myself she was planning some kind of extravagant surprise. For a full day, I let myself live in that warm, hopeful delusion. Then, on the morning of my actual birthday, she sent me a text. A measly happy birthday GIF and a $5.20 Venmo payment with the note: “Love you 5ever! <3” I stared at the notification, a cold knot forming in my gut. I didn't say a word. I just declined the payment. That evening, I was on the guest list for a major networking gala hosted at a private estate in the Hamptons. When the Uber pulled up to the address, my blood ran cold. It was my own estate, Hawthorne Manor. My late mother’s house. But it was wrong. Horribly wrong. The elegant, understated entrance was now a gaudy monstrosity of gold-leaf and spotlights, an ostentatious display that had the other guests murmuring in envious whispers. This kind of spectacle must have cost a fortune. I assumed, foolishly, that this was Chloe’s grand gesture, the reason for the five million dollars. Swallowing my unease, I pushed through the gilded doors. The first thing I saw was Carter Shaw, Chloe’s childhood friend, holding court in the center of the grand hall. He was wearing what looked suspiciously like my custom Tom Ford tuxedo, the one that cost fifty grand. 1 “An estate like this has to be worth north of twenty million,” a guest near me gushed. “The owner must be some kind of royalty. The extravagance is unreal!” “Isn’t that Carter Shaw?” another replied. “His family’s in finance, but I didn’t know they had this kind of money. No wonder he’s always saying cash is no object.” I stood frozen at the entrance, a bitter taste in my mouth. I looked at Carter, preening on the makeshift stage, and then at the unrecognizable rooms around me. This place was my inheritance, a sanctuary my mother had designed herself with a quiet, coastal elegance. Now, it was a grotesque caricature of new money. So this was it. This was the five-million-dollar surprise. She hadn’t just spent my money; she had desecrated my home. The hand-carved Hawthorne sign my mother had commissioned for the front gate was gone. The ancient maples she’d planted were uprooted, replaced by garish, imported palm trees. Carter spotted me. A smirk played on his lips as he sauntered over, champagne flute in hand. “Ethan,” he said, his tone dripping with condescension. “What are you doing here? I don’t remember putting you on the list.” He gestured vaguely around the room. “Chloe and I are hosting a rather exclusive event tonight. You wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself by overstaying your welcome.” The casual way he said ‘Chloe and I’ sent a spike of ice through my veins. “My house,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “You don’t get to make the guest list.” Carter blinked, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. “What are you talking about? This estate was a gift. From Chloe. What right do you have to call it yours?” I was fighting a war on two fronts: one against the roaring inferno in my chest, the other to keep my voice steady. “This house is mine. Are you having trouble understanding English? You and Chloe vandalized my property, and I will see you both in prison for it.” He threw his head back and laughed, a loud, obnoxious sound. He looked me up and down with pure disdain. “Ethan, are you still dreaming? What a big shot. You really think you’re something, don’t you?” he sneered. “Chloe Lane is the heiress to Lane Industries. She’s out of your league. If you had any real power, you wouldn’t still be some glorified office drone, grinding away for a paycheck.” He gave a subtle nod, and two hulking security guards materialized at his side, boxing me in. Before I could react, they slammed me to the marble floor. A knee pressed into my back, pinning me. Carter’s polished Italian loafer came down on my cheek, grinding my face into the cold stone. “Since you’re still so sleepy, allow me to wake you up,” he hissed, his face a mask of triumphant rage. “This house is mine. Something a broke loser like you could never afford in a million lifetimes.” A sharp, burning pain flared across my face. “It’s my house!” I yelled, my voice muffled against the floor. “The sign at the gate… my mother had it carved… It said ‘Hawthorne’!” Carter chuckled. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and dragged me back towards the entrance, forcing my head up. He pointed at the new, hideous plaque bolted over the gate. “Open your damn eyes,” he spat. “It says ‘Shaw Manor.’” The beautiful, hand-carved letters my mother had so loved were gone. I trembled with a rage so profound it left me breathless. I pulled out my phone, my hands shaking, and called Chloe. 2 It rang. And rang. Finally, she picked up. “Ethan, I’m in the middle of something important,” Chloe’s voice was sharp, impatient. “Unless you’re dying, don’t call me.” She hung up. The dial tone blared in my ear. I could feel the blood drain from my face, then rush back in a hot, shameful tide. Carter heard the click. He burst into another round of laughter. “Go on! Call again! Oh, that’s right, she doesn’t want to hear from you unless you’re dead. Tough break.” He leaned in closer, his breath smelling of expensive champagne. “She’s out getting me a birthday present. You should just give up.” I stared at him, the pieces clicking together with sickening clarity. “Your birthday? You’re celebrating your birthday in my house?” I struggled against the guard’s grip. “I can prove it. The deed to this house is in my name.” Carter’s response was a sharp slap across my face. The sound echoed in the foyer. “Don’t you dare try to pull that crap with me,” he hissed, his eyes glinting. “Chloe is a Lane. She wouldn’t give me someone else’s property, especially not some pathetic loser’s. Now take a good look in the mirror and realize what a charity case you are.” Just as I was about to retort, the roar of a sports car engine cut through the night. A moment later, Chloe swept in, poured into a tight red dress that clung to every curve. She moved with a practiced sway, walking straight past me and into Carter’s arms. “Happy birthday, Carter,” she cooed, her voice honey-sweet. “I poured my heart and soul into this place for you. Do you like your gift?” I watched, paralyzed, as the woman I was supposed to marry, the woman I had loved for years, wrapped her arms around another man. It felt like watching a movie of someone else’s life. This was the same woman who had gently massaged my stomach when my stress-induced ulcers flared up, the one who insisted on brewing bitter herbal remedies because she said they were good for me. This was my Chloe. But the woman here tonight wouldn’t even grant me a single glance. Carter saw me staring. He shot me a triumphant, cruel smirk before turning back to Chloe, his expression melting into one of a pouting child. “Chloe, darling,” he whined, pointing a finger at me. “This lunatic showed up out of nowhere. He keeps saying this house is his. I’m scared.” He clutched her arm theatrically. “Is he going to try and take my birthday present away? I don’t want that. I love the house you gave me.” Finally, Chloe’s gaze fell on me. It was flat, cold, and utterly devoid of recognition. “Let’s see who would dare try to take something from you,” she said, her voice like ice. She crouched down, her expensive perfume filling the air around me. She looked at my face, bloody and pressed to the floor, as if I were a piece of trash someone had tracked in. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice laced with disgust. “This estate is mine. It was a gift for Carter. Now get the hell out of here before I have you thrown out.” The sheer audacity of her lie stole my breath. “You’re lying,” I choked out, gesturing wildly toward the entrance. “This is Hawthorne Manor!” My words seemed to jog a memory in one of the nearby guests. “You know, I think he might be right,” the man murmured to his wife. “I remember this place being the old Hayes estate. What’s going on here?” Carter heard him. “Don’t listen to him!” he shouted, his voice ringing with panic. “Chloe doesn’t know him! He’s just some grifter trying to crash a high-society party for contacts and free champagne!” 3 A few of Carter’s friends quickly chimed in. “Exactly! Look at him. Does he look like he owns a place like this? He’s dressed like he sleeps on the street.” “Get out of here, you bum!” another one yelled. “Don’t dirty up Mr. Shaw’s beautiful home. We could sell you for parts and you still wouldn’t cover the cost of one of these rugs.” That was it. I would get the deed. I would shove the proof of ownership in their smug, ignorant faces. I struggled to my feet and made a break for the study. I didn’t make it two steps. Carter lunged, grabbing me by the hair and slamming my head against the heavy oak door. A starburst of pain exploded behind my eyes. “You piece of trash,” he snarled, his face inches from mine. “Did I say you could enter my house? Are you deaf? I told you to get out!” I felt something warm and wet trickle down my temple. My vision swam. Through the haze, I could see Carter’s triumphant sneer. “Carter,” I ground out between clenched teeth. “You’re going to regret this.” My defiance only seemed to fuel his rage. He kicked my legs out from under me and I crumpled to the floor. Then the fists started flying, hammering into my ribs, my stomach, my face. “Regret this? You think you’re in a position to threaten me?” he grunted with each blow. “Let me teach you the rules. When you’re on my property, you’re nothing but a dog. It’s time you learned how to crawl.” An excruciating pain radiated through my limbs until I didn't have the strength to even lift an arm to defend myself. I was a puppet, and he was pulling the strings. When he finally ran out of steam, he stood over me, breathing heavily. A cold smile spread across his face. “You know, Ethan, my new estate could use a guard dog. I’m feeling generous. I’ll let you have the job.” He snapped his fingers. One of the security guards produced a thick leather dog collar and fastened it around my neck. The metal buckle was cold against my skin. Carter circled me, a thoughtful frown on his face. “Wait,” he said, his eyes lighting up with a fresh wave of cruelty. “Dogs don’t wear clothes. Get them off him.” “You’re a monster, Carter!” I screamed, a raw, desperate sound. A moment later, I felt cold air on my skin as my clothes were torn away. The crowd that had gathered was watching me like a sideshow attraction. Phones were out, cameras flashing. Humiliation washed over me, a chilling tide. I was forced onto all fours like an animal, the shame a physical weight. I stared at Carter, my hatred a burning coal in my chest. I wanted to tear him apart. “Carter Shaw,” I rasped, my voice thick with blood and fury. “I will burn you to ashes for this.” He just laughed. He placed a foot on my back, pressing me down. “A dog’s bark is worse than its bite,” he announced to the crowd. “I want everyone to see what happens when a stray wanders onto my property. I want you all to see him beg.” The sound of our confrontation drew more people out from the main party. They saw me, bloody and bruised, a collar around my neck, and some of them had the decency to look shocked. “What’s happening here?” a woman whispered. “That’s a person. How can they treat him like that?” “You don’t get it,” someone next to her replied smugly. “He brought it on himself. Trying to claim a house that isn’t his. He’s getting what he deserves.” Carter, soaking in the attention, puffed out his chest. I saw my chance. With every last ounce of strength I had, I launched myself up and sank my teeth into his hand. I bit down with the force of years of suppressed frustration and a moment of pure, primal rage. I felt a sickening crunch of bone and cartilage. I tore away, spitting his severed pinky finger into the dirt of a nearby potted plant. The color drained from Carter's face. He clutched his maimed hand, a strangled scream escaping his lips as he stared at me with eyes full of murder. Just then, Chloe returned, her face a mask of concern. The sight of Carter’s mangled hand made her gasp. She looked around frantically. “Someone call an ambulance! Now!” 4 Carter, cradling his bleeding hand, pointed a trembling finger at me. “Chloe… it was him! I was just talking to him, and he… he attacked me! He just jumped up and bit me!” Chloe’s gaze snapped to me, her eyes filled with a loathing so intense it felt like a physical blow. “You bastard,” she spat. “You’re even more vicious than I thought. I underestimated you.” Her voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “If they can’t reattach Carter’s finger, I will have you chopped into pieces and fed to the dogs.” I looked up at the woman I was supposed to marry, this beautiful stranger who was defending another man while condemning me. The pain in my heart was a physical agony, a deep, shuddering tremor that threatened to stop my breathing altogether. Tears blurred my vision. “Chloe,” I choked out, the words tearing at my raw throat. “I’m your fiancé.” This was the girl who had held my hand and promised me forever. But somewhere along the way, the promise had been corrupted by money and power, turning us into strangers. I struggled to my feet, my body screaming in protest. “This estate is mine,” I said, my voice shaking. “A week ago, you transferred five million dollars from my account.” For the first time, a flicker of something—fear? guilt?—crossed her face. She looked away. “What are you talking about? This is my estate. I gave it to Carter. I never took your money.” Her denial was a fresh stab in the wound. I forced myself to speak, dredging up the past she was so desperate to bury. “Have you forgotten, Chloe? Have you forgotten that it was my money that saved your family’s company from bankruptcy? It was my investment that made you CEO of Lane Industries.” “Oh, shut up!” she snapped, cutting me off. “Are you ever going to let that go? It was a business deal, Ethan. A small one. I’d forgotten all about it.” I fell silent. She was right. The sweet, ambitious girl who had wanted to build a life with me was gone. In her place stood this cold, ruthless creature. I took a deep breath, steadied myself, and walked past her, into the study. I went directly to the antique safe hidden behind a bookshelf and pulled out the file containing the property deed. I walked back out and held it up. “Then why don’t you take a look at this,” I said, my voice flat. “See who the real owner of this estate is.” Chloe let out a short, mocking laugh. She snatched the folder from my hand and opened it, a triumphant smirk on her face. “Ethan, you really are pathetic. You just don’t know when to quit.” She turned the document around for me to see. “Why don’t you take a look and see who the owner is.” I looked. And my world tilted on its axis. There, on the line marked ‘Owner,’ was her name: Chloe Lane. How? When did she do this? When did she forge the documents and steal my mother’s house from me? The people around us craned their necks to see. A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd, their expressions shifting from morbid curiosity to outright contempt for me. “Well, that settles it,” one man said, shaking his head. “I almost felt sorry for him, but it turns out he’s just crazy. Does he just go around picking out nice houses and claiming they belong to him?” “No!” I yelled, my voice cracking. “That’s not true! This is my house!” Chloe and Carter exchanged a look of pure, malicious glee. “You’re delusional, Ethan,” Chloe said sweetly. “You claim this house is yours. Do you have any proof?” “If you can’t prove it,” Carter added, his voice a low growl, “the only way you’re leaving this house tonight is in a body bag.” The circle of guards tightened around me, their knuckles cracking in the tense silence. They were ready. I closed my eyes, a wave of despair washing over me. This was it. I was trapped. Just as their hands were about to fall on me, a deep, authoritative voice boomed from the doorway. “Stand down! Since when did Ethan’s property become yours to claim?”

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On our third anniversary, I put on a wedding dress and asked Liam to marry me. His face went cold. He told me to stop screwing around. I wiped away a tear and managed a smile. “It’s okay if you don’t want to, Liam.” “But… I’m dying. You might want to start looking for my replacement.” He told me I was sick in the head, then slammed the door on his way out. But I wasn’t kidding. I really am dying. 1 I’d been with Liam Carter for three years, and for three years, he spoiled me rotten. If it weren’t for the bubble of his affection, I don’t think I could have lasted this long. I remember the first time he took me to a party with his friends. He’d only been gone, off to the restroom, for a few minutes before the whispers started. They said Liam moved on too fast. That his wife, Annabelle, had barely been gone before he found a new plaything. They said I was from the wrong side of the tracks, that I couldn’t hold a candle to the woman he’d lost. Everyone in that room was dripping with old money and Ivy League degrees. I didn’t want to make trouble for Liam. So I just stared at my lap and said nothing. I let them talk. When Liam came back, he knew instantly that something was wrong. He found my hand under the table and gave it a tight squeeze. “What is it? Who upset you?” The wall I’d built around my feelings, the one I thought was so strong, crumbled at the gentle timber of his voice. I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I snatched my hand away, fighting to keep the tears from spilling over. “It’s nothing. The AC is just blasting in here. I’m freezing.” He watched me for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. Then he stood, took his jacket from the back of his chair, and draped it over my shoulders. He took my hand again, this time lacing his fingers through mine, a silent declaration on top of the polished mahogany table. Across from us, a younger guy with a smirk couldn’t help himself. He lifted his bourbon, swirled it, and took a theatrical sniff. “Wow,” he said loudly. “Smells like some serious drama in here.” A few others snickered. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, the shame so hot I just wanted to disappear. “Liam, I think I need to use the restroom…” But he held my hand tighter, refusing to let go. His eyes swept across the table, finally landing on the self-appointed comedian. “Caleb,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “Apologize to Stella.” 2 The mood in the room curdled. Caleb and Liam went way back. No one could believe he’d call out one of his oldest friends for a girl he’d just started seeing. After a stunned silence, Caleb scoffed. “You want me to apologize to her? Liam, what the hell is she?” Liam’s gaze never left Caleb, but his thumb began to gently stroke the back of my hand. “Stella is my girlfriend. If you still want to call me a friend, you’ll apologize.” I tugged on his arm, whispering, “It’s okay, really.” The last thing I wanted was for him to blow up a friendship over me. It would only make things worse. But Liam just patted my hand, a silent command to stay quiet. Caleb’s face flushed with anger. He shot to his feet, pointing a finger at Liam. “Then what about Annabelle? What was she? She’s been gone six months, and you’re already showing off some cheap replacement!” he spat. “Have you forgotten how she died?” Liam’s grip on my hand became a vise. The pressure was so intense I thought my bones would snap. I winced but didn’t dare make a sound. His face, however, remained a mask of calm. “Stella is Stella. Annabelle is Annabelle. Don’t compare them,” he said, his voice flat. “She’s gone. I have to move on.” His bluntness silenced the entire room. My own heart felt like it had been squeezed in a fist. Tears pricked my eyes again. Liam, however, simply wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me to my feet. “Don’t invite me to things like this anymore,” he said to the silent table. “It upsets Stella.” From that day on, I had a reputation in his circle. They all said Liam Carter had found a girl who was a dead ringer for Annabelle. And that he was spoiling her beyond all reason. 3 I knew Liam had been married. I knew a car accident had cut it short. He’d told me all of it himself the night he asked me to be his girlfriend. He was single, and I was single. I hadn’t broken anything up. So I refused to be branded a homewrecker. After we left the party that night, I quietly tried to end things. “Liam, maybe we should just forget it. I don’t want people looking at me like that.” He stopped walking and turned to face me, tipping my chin up so he could look into my eyes. The streetlight cast long shadows across his face. “Are you angry?” It wasn’t anger, not really. But being called a replacement felt like a splinter under my skin. Every time I thought about it, the pain was sharp and fresh. Since we’d been together, I’d never once brought up his late wife. I figured some chapters were best left closed. But tonight, the way he’d crushed my hand under the table… it planted a seed of doubt. I had never seen a photo of Annabelle. There were no pictures of her in his apartment, not even on his phone. It was a complete blank slate. If Caleb hadn’t said anything, I never would have known. That I looked just like her. “You and Annabelle—” He cut me off, his tone suddenly sharp. “You are you. She is she.” The sudden chill in his voice startled me. I just stared at him, speechless. A moment later, the ice in his eyes thawed, and he let out a soft sigh. “Are you saying you’re breaking up with me? Found someone without a limp?” 4 The accident had left Liam with a permanent injury in his left leg. If you watched closely when he walked, you could see a slight, almost imperceptible limp. But he had been completely transparent about it from the beginning. How could I possibly hold it against him? He was twisting my words, and I fell right into his trap. “What are you talking about? I would never think that!” I said, rushing to defend myself. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. He pulled me into his arms, his mouth finding mine in the cool night air. “Good girl,” he murmured against my lips. “Don’t overthink things.” … Later, in the bedroom, he pinned me to the sheets, overwhelming my senses. When we made love, he had this habit of staring deep into my eyes, as if he were falling into them. It was unnerving, heartbreakingly intense. I couldn’t handle his heated gaze. I’d hide my face in the crook of his arm and gently bite his tense bicep. He would just laugh and ask me why I was so shy. In those moments, the sweetness was enough to wash away all the bitterness, all the doubt. Liam’s fierce, protective love became my armor. The next time someone said something, I echoed his words back at them: “You have to move on. You can’t expect him to be alone forever, can you?” The response was always laced with scorn. “Oh, that’s rich! You really think you’re something special, don’t you? You think Liam Carter is going to marry you? Keep dreaming,” one of them sneered. It was Brooke, Caleb’s girlfriend. “Everyone knows what Annabelle meant to him. She was with him through everything, from nothing to the top. And that car accident? If she hadn’t shielded him, Liam would be the one who’s dead!” “Exactly,” another girl chimed in. “She was the one that got away. And you can’t replace a ghost. The only reason he even looks at you is because you have her face.” It was Brooke who led the charge, cornering me with her little posse. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. As they left, she deliberately stepped on my foot. “You can put a designer dress on a piece of trash,” she said, looking me up and down. “But it’s still trash.” 5 I crouched down, frantically trying to wipe the smudge from my shoe. As I scrubbed, tears started to fall. Liam had picked these shoes for me. They were covered in tiny, glittering crystals, like something out of a fairytale. Before we left the apartment, he had knelt down and put them on my feet himself. He said they were beautiful. Liam never lied to me. The way he cared for me was something I’d never experienced before. But… every time they compared me to Annabelle, I was defenseless. She was gone. Anything I said would be seen as disrespecting the dead. I wiped my tears and hid in a quiet corner to make a call. They had their friends, but so did I. After thirty minutes on the phone with Maya, I felt a little better. I looked up and saw Liam across the room, effortlessly charming, laughing with a group of men in suits. The glittering lights of the chandelier separated us, casting us in two different worlds. As if he could feel my gaze, he turned his head and shot me a smile. It was warm and intimate, a secret just for me. I knew I would never truly fit into his world. But I also knew I couldn’t bear to be anyone’s ghost. … On the anniversary of Annabelle’s death, Liam prepared to visit her grave. I asked if I could go with him. He refused without a second thought. “This has nothing to do with you,” he said. “Just stay home and wait for me. Or go shopping, whatever you want.” I held onto his hand, trying to be playful. “I just want to see her, you know? Bring her some flowers—” Liam pulled his hand away, his tone hardening. “Stella, I know what you’re doing. Do you really care that much about what other people say? Can’t you just let it go with a dead woman?” Tears welled in my eyes and fell before I could stop them. Yes, I cared. I cared if he would ever marry me. I cared if he was only with me because I was a stand-in. I looked him in the eye, my voice trembling but stubborn. “Will you marry me then?” Liam went silent. As he turned to leave, he threw the words over his shoulder. “Stella, I don’t want to get married. If you can’t accept that, you can leave.” 6 It was the first real fight we ever had. I sat alone in our sprawling living room and listened to the rain fall all night long. He came back the next morning. The walk from the front door to the living room was only a dozen steps, but he took them with agonizing slowness. His limp was more pronounced than I had ever seen it. “Stella,” he said, his voice strained. “My leg is killing me. Can you… can you come hold me?” It was the old injury from the crash. A deep, chronic pain that never truly healed. It flared up on damp, rainy days like this, torturing him, keeping him awake all night. Sometimes it was so bad he had to rely on painkillers just to get through it. I couldn’t stand to see him suffer. I had even taken a course in therapeutic massage just for him. Whenever the weather turned, I would spend hours rubbing his leg, trying to ease the ache. He sank onto the sofa beside me. He took my hand, his own feeling cold and tired. “Stella, please don’t be angry anymore,” he sighed. “Can we just… not fight again? Ever?” He was surrendering. He knew I would soften, that I would forgive him. He knew I was powerless against his pain. You can’t win a fight against a ghost. And we had a lifetime ahead of us. What was the rush? After that day, I never said the name “Annabelle” again. And we never fought again. For three years, he gave me everything I could ever want. Our relationship felt unshakable. Today was our third anniversary. I put on a wedding dress, held a bouquet of white roses, and waited for him to come home. I’d been planning this surprise for a month. I couldn’t wait to see the look on his face. The door opened. Liam’s voice, laced with a bit of weariness from a long day, drifted in from the foyer. “Stella, guess what I got for you—” His words died in his throat the moment he saw me. I opened my arms wide, a brilliant smile on my face. “Liam! Surprise!” But I watched the light in his eyes extinguish, ember by ember, until only cold ash remained. “Stella, don’t do this. Take it off.” “I told you,” he said, his voice flat. “I don’t want to get married.” 7 We stood on opposite ends of the living room, staring at each other like strangers. The air was thick, heavy, almost impossible to breathe. Finally, he loosened his tie and tossed the bouquet and gift box he was holding onto the coffee table. He lit a cigarette, the flare of the lighter sharp in the dimming light. I was frozen in place, forcing my lips into a smile, desperate to salvage the evening. “Liam, this dress… I went to every bridal shop in the city to find it. Isn’t it beautiful?” His cheek hollowed as he took a long drag from the cigarette. He exhaled slowly, the smoke billowing out and obscuring his face. The fragile hope I’d been clinging to dissolved with the smoke. All he said was, “Change.” In that instant, the light, airy tulle of the dress felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, pulling me down, making it hard to stand. “Liam, we’ve been together for three years… Don’t you like the surprise?” He leaned back against the sofa, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Stella, the plan was a quiet dinner, maybe some candles. Tomorrow, we were supposed to be on a plane to Bali. Everything was perfect. Why… why did you have to do this?” He was right. A three-year anniversary trip to Bali. That was the plan. But plans change. I gathered the skirt in my hands and walked toward him. It was a form of self-torture, but I couldn’t stop myself. I smiled. “Liam, the reason you won’t marry me… it’s because of her, isn’t it? You can’t let her go. You’re still living in the past with Annabelle—” His head snapped up. “Stella,” he said, his voice a low warning. “I told you not to talk about her.” 8 Don’t talk about her. As if that would make him stop thinking about her. Then why did you make me grow my hair out? Why are the shoes you buy for me always a size too big? Why do you go to the house you shared with her on her birthday and on the anniversary of her death, and stay there all night, alone? Liam. Who are you trying to fool? Me, or yourself? My eyes burned, and his face blurred through a film of tears. I wiped them away furiously, pulling my lips into a tight, humorless smile. “You know, Liam, if you’re honest with yourself, you didn’t even love her that much.” “If you truly loved someone,” I said, my voice shaking, “you wouldn’t tolerate a replacement.” That hit a nerve. He shot up from the sofa and his hands were around my neck before I could even register he had moved. “You’ve crossed a line, Stella,” he hissed, his face inches from mine. “Your job is to stay by my side, to look like her, to make me happy. It’s so simple. Why can’t you do that? Why do you have to be so greedy and ask for marriage?” “I told you! You are you, and she is she! You can’t compare yourselves! Why can’t you get that through your head?” He was losing control, his eyes bloodshot, his grip tightening. For a terrifying second, I thought he was actually going to kill me. But then his eyes met mine—the eyes that looked so much like Annabelle’s—and his resolve faltered. He let go. I stumbled backward, collapsing onto the floor in a heap of white tulle. I looked up at him and laughed, a ragged, broken sound. “Does it hurt? Having your little fantasy exposed after all this time? Tell me,” I gasped, “if I died, could you find another girl who looks this much like her?” “Enough,” he growled. “Stop this nonsense. Stay here and think about what you’ve done. This will not happen again.” He stormed out, slamming the door behind him. He even forgot to take his anniversary gift with him. I destroyed everything in the living room. Then I sank to the floor amidst the wreckage, laughing and crying until I had nothing left. He said I was being dramatic.

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