Author: Momo Chan

The moment I learned my childhood sweetheart, Nolan, was breaking up with me because my family was too poor, a wave of relief washed over me. Thank god I was only pretending to be poor. He had no idea. My mom, worried that our wealth would crush his self-esteem, had made me keep up the charade for years. It was exhausting. And now, finally, it was over. 1 My mom practically arranged my marriage to Nolan when we were kids. She spotted him on a playground one day and decided his tragically handsome face belonged in our family album. He had to be her future son-in-law. To make sure I could win his heart from a young age, my entire family packed up our sprawling penthouse in the city center and moved into a cramped, rundown house in his neighborhood. Just like that, Nolan and I became the quintessential childhood sweethearts. After befriending Nolan’s family, my mom gave up her spa days, her country club lunches, her charity galas. Her new hobby became elbowing her way through crowds with Nolan’s mom at the supermarket to snag discounted eggs and day-old produce. She threw away her life as a socialite, all for the sake of her chosen son-in-law. I once told my dad that if people on the internet ever heard about my mom’s bizarre antics, she’d be canceled instantly. He didn’t say a word, just quietly put away the keys to his Rolls-Royce and pulled out the keys to his electric scooter to take me to school. Yeah, my dad was just like me. We had no say in this family. I’d asked my mom countless times when I could finally be myself around Nolan. Her answer was always the same. “Teenage boys have the most fragile egos, darling. What if Nolan finds out how rich we are and it shatters his confidence?” I didn’t know if Nolan’s confidence would shatter, but my sanity certainly was. One night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I marched into my parents’ bedroom and demanded an answer. “Is Nolan your secret love child from an affair?!” I yelled. “It’s fine if he is! Just let Dad and me move back to the city. We’re willing to accept him into the family!” My outburst earned me a tag-team scolding from both of them. My butt was sore for days. Fine. I’d just have to endure it a little longer. 2 Thankfully, the end was in sight. The day finally came when Nolan’s affections strayed. After school today, he refused to take the bus with me. “Stella, you know my family’s old property got bought out by developers,” he said, puffing out his chest. “Do you have any idea how much we got?” He held up five fingers. “Five million dollars.” He smirked. “So, I won’t be taking the bus anymore. You get what I’m saying, right?” Honestly, I didn’t. I just stared at him blankly. “Okay, cool. We can take a cab together from now on, then!” Nolan made a tsking sound. “It’s not about the cab, Stella.” “Then what is it about?” His tone became cold, unfamiliar. “My mom said we’re moving out of this dump in a few days. My family’s worth millions now. And you? You’re still…” “I’m still what?” He sighed, a picture of put-upon patience. “I didn’t want to have to spell it out for you. Why are you being so dense? I think everyone has the right to chase something better. You can’t stop me from moving on to someone who’s more on my level, can you?” “So, Stella,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “Do you get what I’m saying now?” After all that, I finally understood. His family had struck it rich, and suddenly, I wasn’t good enough for him anymore. He was dumping me. “Fine,” I said. He looked surprised. He’d clearly expected a fight, not instant agreement. I decided to press for gossip. “So who’s this ‘better’ person?” “Jane,” he said, the name rolling off his tongue with reverence. “At this stage in my life, she’s the one who’s a perfect match for me. Socially, financially… everything.” Ah, Jane. The beautiful, wealthy queen bee of our school. “Okay,” I said, pulling out my phone. “I agree to the breakup, but you have to be the one to tell my mom. In person.” Nolan’s brow furrowed. “Stella, we’re not kids anymore. Do we really have to do that?” My resolve was firm. “If you don’t tell her, she’ll never believe it.” He let out another impatient sigh. “Fine. Breaking up with poor people is always so much drama.” Excuse me? Poor people? Was he talking about me? I dialed my mom’s number. The moment she heard Nolan’s voice, she lit up. “Nolan, sweetie! Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? Your mom’s been so busy lately, she hasn’t been answering my calls or texts.” Nolan was silent for a beat, as if wrestling with a sliver of guilt. “Mrs. Evans,” he began, “I’m calling to tell you that I think it’s time for me to focus on my studies. We can’t let ourselves get distracted by romance.” “So, Stella and I have decided to peacefully go our separate ways.” “Peaceful?!” I shrieked into the phone. “Nolan, why don’t you tell her the truth! Mom! His family got a huge payout and now he thinks I’m not good enough for him! He’s dumping me to go after the school queen bee!” Nolan snatched the phone and ended the call. “Stella!” He was genuinely angry with me for the first time I could remember. “Couldn’t you just be classy about this? Did you have to make me look bad in front of your mom?” I just stared at him. What is wrong with you? “Whatever,” he huffed, regaining his composure. “It’s done. I’m officially going to start pursuing Jane tomorrow. Do me a favor and make sure everyone in our class knows that we’re broken up.” Watching his retreating back, I suddenly felt a surge of gratitude for my mom’s insane scheme. How else would I have ever seen his true colors? But an even happier thought bubbled up inside me. I was finally free. No more pretending. And no more damn bus rides. 3 I splurged on an Uber to get home. The second I walked in the door, my mom was on me. “What happened with you and Nolan? Did you two have a fight?” I threw my hands up in exasperation. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? His family hit the jackpot, and now he thinks we’re beneath him.” My mom refused to believe it. “Impossible. Nolan isn’t that kind of boy. Maybe… maybe he has a terminal illness! And he’s just making up an excuse to break up with you so he won’t be a burden!” I rolled my eyes. “You need to read fewer romance novels. They’re rotting your brain.” She was undeterred. “We’ll sell everything we have! We have to save him!” she declared, grabbing my arm and dragging me out the door. Nolan’s house was right across from ours, but it took an eternity of knocking before the door finally opened. When Nolan’s mom saw us, a strange expression crossed her face. “Oh, you’re home,” my mom said, completely oblivious. She had a superpower for missing social cues. “We were supposed to go get those discount eggs this afternoon. Why didn’t you text me back?” She pressed on. “Nolan called earlier and said he wants to break up with Stella. I just wanted to ask if something’s wrong.” For some reason, Nolan’s mom’s voice turned sharp and cruel. “What could be wrong? Are you wishing ill on my son? They broke up because he doesn’t like her anymore. It’s that simple.” She started to close the door, then paused. “Oh, and by the way,” she said, a smug little smile playing on her lips. “I forgot to tell you. We got five million from the developers for our old property. We just bought a new Porsche, and next week we’re moving into that new luxury condo complex down the road—the one where units start at two million.” “So,” she finished, her eyes glinting, “let’s just leave the past in the past. There’s no need for us to stay in touch.” The moment the door clicked shut, I could almost hear my mom’s heart breaking. She couldn’t believe she’d been so wrong about them. The final nail in the coffin was when she opened her phone and saw the little red notification telling her she’d been blocked. That night, she shook me awake. “Stella,” she whispered, her voice filled with a newfound determination, “let’s move back to the city. To the penthouse. The private concierge, the high-end spa days… I miss them.” I shot up in bed, a wide grin spreading across my face. My dad and I had been waiting for this day for so long. We packed that night and drove the Rolls-Royce back to our real home. No more pretending. My haute couture dresses, my designer bags, my limited-edition collectibles… I’m back, babies! And I bet you missed me. 4 The next day, I walked into class wearing a pair of limited-edition sneakers. Jane, the school queen bee, let out a derisive snort. Every head in the room turned. “Whoa, Stella and Jane are wearing the same shoes.” “Took me a whole second to figure out which pair is fake.” “Stella’s wearing knockoffs? No wonder Nolan broke up with her. So tacky.” “I heard she was begging him not to leave after she found out about his family’s money.” “She was wearing eighty-dollar sneakers yesterday, and today she’s in two-thousand-dollar ones? Yeah, right.” Jane then held up a hand, putting on a show of magnanimity. “It’s okay, guys. Maybe Stella just doesn’t know any better.” I brushed her hand away. “Who the hell doesn’t know any better?” Her face fell, humiliated, but she quickly masked it with a wounded expression. “Why are you being so mean? If you’re mad because Nolan is pursuing me, I can just tell him no.” What? Who’s mad about that? As if on cue, Nolan descended like a knight in shining armor, ready to protect his damsel. “Stella, we’ve known each other our whole lives. You think I don’t know what you’re like? The only thing you’re an expert on is the two-dollar donuts from the cart outside and the seven-dollar bowl of noodles from that cheap place down the street. What would you know about high-end sneakers?” The classroom erupted in laughter. “I saw her arguing with an old lady over fifty cents once! She’s pathetic!” “Does she think wearing the same shoes as Jane makes her the queen bee? Or is this some desperate ploy to win her man back?” “You can copy the outfit, but you’ll always be the budget version.” The five million dollars had clearly gone to his head. “Since you’re such an expert,” he sneered, “let’s test you. What’s the name of this brand’s founder? What’s his birthday?” The brand name and model were on the tip of my tongue, but he wasn’t asking that. He was asking for the founder’s birthday? My face flushed with anger. Before I could formulate a comeback, he took my silence as an admission of guilt. “Enough,” he said with a dramatic sigh. “I know this breakup has been hard on you.” He pulled a lunch card from his pocket. “There’s five hundred dollars on here. That should last you the rest of the semester.” When I didn’t take it, he shoved it into my hand. “Don’t pretend. I know you need this. Consider it… a severance package.” I rolled my eyes and flicked the card back at him. When I got to my desk, I saw that Nolan had already moved his seat next to Jane, under the guise of “tutoring” her. Yeah, right. We all knew what he was really after. With Nolan gone, no one wanted to sit next to me. But then, a quiet girl from the back of the class, Maya, who was on a scholarship, picked up her things and silently moved to the desk beside mine. As she passed Jane’s desk, Jane leaned back with a smirk. “Just so you know, the whole class hates her now. Sitting next to her is social suicide.” But Maya sat down next to me anyway. When I asked her why, she just shrugged. “I can’t stand watching people like Nolan and Jane use money to bully others.” I felt a little awkward, because in this situation, I wasn’t entirely sure who was bullying who.

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My boyfriend and I both thought the other was a secret trust fund kid playing poor. On the surface, we were the hardworking couple, juggling part-time jobs and classes. Secretly, we were both eyeing the other’s imagined family fortune. It wasn’t until a real heir and heiress from our university made their relationship official that the truth came crashing down. We were both just… actually poor. So, we decided to break up on the spot and divide our business ventures. He took the delivery and personal shopping gigs. I got the class-sitting and homework-writing clients. As for the eight condoms left in the box? We’d use them all in one go. From then on, we would hustle on our own. No more strings attached. 1 The day the heirs to the Kane and Jiang family fortunes announced they were dating, they sent out cash gifts in every group chat at school. Thanks to the lightning-fast fingers I’d developed from buying concert tickets for people, I managed to snag a hundred bucks. “Wow, lucky day,” I boasted to my boyfriend, Fred. “That’s a whole week’s worth of groceries.” Then, something clicked. “Fred… wait. You’re not from that Kane family, are you?” The hand bringing a piece of meat to my plate faltered. His expression shifted. “And you, Melinda… you’re not a Jiang heiress?” I shook my head. His chopsticks retreated. “So… that electric scooter you call a ‘Maserati’… it’s actually just a scooter?” I nodded. “Yeah, but don’t you think it’s cute and classy? It has a certain Maserati vibe, you know?” Then a thought hit me. “And that Porsche key of yours… it’s not really a key, is it?” He hesitated. “It’s a lighter.” Wrong. We were both so, so wrong. We stared at each other, the horrifying realization dawning. We’d both mistaken the other for a secret millionaire playing at being a normie. All those quirky, eccentric moments weren’t clever attempts to hide their wealth—they were just genuinely weird. To break the awkward silence, I shoveled a huge mouthful of noodles into my mouth, only to get a chili flake lodged in my throat. “Cough… cough…” My eyes watered as I choked. A well-meaning waitress rushed over with a soda. “The special combo doesn’t include drinks. That’ll be two dollars.” I waved her away frantically. “No, thanks.” Fred frowned. “Just drink it. It’s on me.” “No, your money is still money.” I ended up chugging an entire pitcher of free tap water to dislodge the errant spice. The waitress watched the whole ordeal, her face a mask of pity. Suddenly, I felt a wave of indignation wash over me. 2 “Fred, it’s my birthday today,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “And you brought me to a restaurant where we have to share a discount combo meal with another couple.” Not only did it not include the cheese-baked ribs featured on their poster, but we had to split every dish that came to the table. The plate of lychee shrimp balls had four pieces; we only got two. We had to share one bowl of noodles, which meant I was stuck using one of those tiny, pathetic “tasting bowls” that everyone hates. Fred reached out, his long fingers dabbing at my chin with a handkerchief he always carried. “Melinda, for my birthday, you bought me a ‘buy one, get one free’ bubble tea.” His usual compliant demeanor was gone. He was starting to keep score. Of course. He wasn’t in love with me; he was in love with the idea of the Jiang family fortune. Fine. Two could play at that game. I held up both hands, all ten fingers spread. “You have so many ‘babes’ in your contact list, I can’t even count them on two hands.” Fred’s jaw dropped. “You know perfectly well those are the actual babies I look after at my daycare job.” I covered my ears. La la la, I can’t hear you. He was getting flustered, and started listing my own transgressions. “Melinda, you made me eat cilantro-flavored ramen for ten straight days just so you could get a free ramen bowl.” “I hate cilantro.” I felt a twinge of guilt, but only a tiny one. “So? You could have just not used the seasoning packet!” The tips of his eyes were red. “Last year, you bought me a down jacket. As soon as it got cold, you’d make me wear it, and then when you got cold, you’d make me take it off and give it to you. The problem is, you’d go out in the middle of winter in just a sweater, and the second we left a building, you’d start shivering! So I was the one left freezing my ass off!” It was because I could only afford one jacket, and I’d bought it for him without a second thought. That reminded me of something. “Every time we got lemonade, you’d take these huge gulps and swallow all the seeds so I wouldn’t have to,” I shot back. “You always let me lick the yogurt lids. You’d even use the empty chip bags to scoop up your rice!” After airing all our grievances, a single, stark realization hit me. This was all poverty’s fault. When we thought the other was faking it, these were cute quirks. Endearing eccentricities. But if we were both genuinely broke? It was just sad. His unconditional devotion was predicated on the condition that it cost him nothing. He could promise me the world, but after graduation, we wouldn’t even have a place to live. “Let’s break up,” I blurted out. Fred froze. “You’re breaking up with me because I don’t have money?” No, it’s because neither of us has money. But I didn’t explain. I just repeated, “Let’s break up.” Right then and there, we divided up our side hustles. He took the delivery and personal shopping gigs. I took the class-sitting and homework-writing jobs. The campus market was huge, so we even drew up a “Post-Breakup Amicable Cooperation Agreement,” promising not to sabotage each other’s businesses and to share any new money-making opportunities. As for our shared streaming subscriptions, we’d alternate days until the end of the month. Same with the meal card we’d loaded together. 3 The result was that for two weeks after we broke up, we were still eating together in the cafeteria. My roommate was baffled. “You guys are having the most peaceful breakup I’ve ever seen.” “You just don’t understand the struggles of the truly broke,” I told her. On the last day of the month, we finally emptied the meal card. Then I remembered something. We hadn’t used up that box of condoms I’d bought. Fred’s nose and the tips of his ears turned bright red. “Well,” he stammered, “we should probably… use them all.” I glanced at the box. There were eight left. My face flushed. “We can’t…” For the first time since the breakup, Fred took charge. He grabbed my hand. “I can.” He was so young and naive. The three-hour motel room rental was nowhere near enough time. We ended up having to book it for the whole night, costing us an extra thirty bucks. The more I thought about it, the more I fumed. It was such a waste. I refused to let him sleep, determined to get our money’s worth. It wasn’t until I nearly collapsed from leg cramps during gym class that I regretted my frugality. I shouldn’t have been so stubborn about using all eight at once. My back and legs ached for three days, and I could barely run. Across the field, I met Fred’s dark, intense gaze. An image from that night flashed in my mind: him leaning over me, his hand gripping my ankle, his eyes filled with a raw, possessive hunger. His chiseled abs, his sharp collarbones, his searing breath… It was just too hot out. I shook my head, trying to banish the thought. There was no time to reminisce about my ex. It was time to make some money. With a dad who couldn’t work, a frail mother, and a grandmother with osteoporosis, I was their only hope. I couldn’t afford any more distractions. The weight of it all would crush me. 4 After the breakup, I poured all my non-academic energy into making money. Sitting in on classes and writing papers was just the beginning. I started organizing group buys for fruit, offering my services as a gaming companion, even doing laundry for other students… College kids were so lazy. The opportunities were endless. There was so much money to be made, but not enough hours in the day. A senior in my club saw how hard I was hustling and took pity on me. “You’re just making pocket change, you know.” She looked me up and down, then nodded. “You’ve got the look. Let me help you land something big.” I clutched my chest. “I’m not selling my body.” She laughed. “You wish! Your club application said you have ‘no special talents’.” Ouch. That’s how I found out she was a semi-famous cosplayer. She booked me for a commercial event, taught me how to do the makeup, and helped me with the costume. Luckily, I was familiar with the character, a support hero named Seraphina, so I didn’t have to do much research. At the event, I was stiffly holding poses for photos when I turned and saw him. Fred. He was wearing the matching male version of my costume, cosplaying my character’s in-game partner. The fans went wild. They kept pushing us together for couple photos. Fred and I could only grit our teeth and pose, our eyes filled not with love, but with a fierce determination to outshine the other. A fan held up a sign: “SERAPHINA & ORION FOREVER.” It was my first time cosplaying, and I wasn’t prepared for this level of intensity. Fred blushed and leaned in closer. I shoved him away. “Nice try, but you’re not stealing my spotlight.” The senior had told me the event organizers gave out extra cash prizes for the best solo shots. Posing for couple photos would just hurt my chances. Looking at the die-hard fans, I decided to go for the jugular. I touched the glowing halo above my head. “You know why this halo is held up with wire?” I asked them sweetly. “Because he’s dead. This one’s a fake.” The fans gasped. “No, don’t say that!” I twisted the knife. “And you know why this character is always young in every game? Because he died young.” “Please, stop!” one of them wailed. “How can such a beautiful mouth say such cruel things?” Their ship shattered, the fans dispersed. Fred whispered in my ear, “Weren’t you the one who always loved taking selfies in my arms? Now you can’t even stand to take a picture with me.” Great. He didn’t know about the prize money. I stayed silent and focused on my posing. In the end, my hard work paid off. I won a two-hundred-dollar bonus. Fred, on the other hand, had left early. I found out later that a talent scout had spotted him and offered him a contract. “Why him and not me?” I grumbled to my senior. “I’m good-looking too!” She rolled her eyes. “Hollywood has plenty of beautiful women. What it needs is more handsome men.” 5 I didn’t see Fred for a long time after that. He seemed to be busy and was rarely on campus. Under my senior’s guidance, I started making some decent money. It was hard work, but not as exhausting as before. As finals approached, I needed more time to study, so I dropped all my off-campus jobs and picked up a shift serving food in the cafeteria. When I saw my roommate, I’d heap two huge spoonfuls of food onto her plate. When Fred showed up, my hand would suddenly develop a tremor. A scoop of braised pork would shrink to two tiny, thumbnail-sized pieces by the time it landed on his tray. I swear, it had nothing to do with the beautiful girl standing next to him. It was just that when he was dating me, all we ever ate was the cheapest mapo tofu. Now that he was with someone else, he was eating braised pork. The injustice of it all! Fred frowned at the meager portion but didn’t say anything. The girl beside him, however, did. “Excuse me, I don’t think that’s a full serving. I’m going to have to report you to the manager.” Up close, her features were as delicate as a doll’s. Amelia. I knew who she was. The daughter of a movie mogul. For the past month, rumors had been flying around campus that Fred was dating her. I gritted my teeth. How could he be so lucky? We started out cosplaying together, and he gets discovered by a talent scout. We both wanted to marry into wealth, and he actually finds a real heiress. Ugh, where was my prince? I’d looked up this apparently blind heiress online multiple times. Okay, she was even prettier in person. A sour feeling churned in my stomach. I wasn’t jealous. I just felt sorry for her. She was wasted on Fred. Seeing my silence, Amelia opened her mouth to speak again. Before she could, I snatched her tray and piled on two massive scoops of braised pork. “This stuff is delicious. This is all that’s left, so you should have it.” She blinked, a look of dismay on her perfect face. “Oh, god, I’m such an idiot,” she muttered. “I won’t report you. Please, just… slap me or something.” 6 Right there, in front of Fred, Amelia added me on social media. Fred said nothing. I, on the other hand, had a devious thought: I’m going to steal his sugar mama. So what if Fred was handsome, athletic, smart, and good in bed? I, Melinda Jiang, was no slouch either. If I couldn’t find a prince of my own, I’d just have to steal his princess. I began a relentless campaign of flattery. I liked every single one of her posts. She posted a picture of her morning coffee? I was right there, commenting, “Even your fingertips are a beautiful color.” She posted a selfie? I was the first to comment: “It’s enough to be just a little pretty. You don’t have to be a perfect ten.” She posted a picture of the moon late at night? I was on it in seconds: “Even if I turned off the moon, you would shine brighter.” After a while, Fred couldn’t take it anymore. Fred: Melinda, I never knew you were such a suck-up. Me: That’s because you always licked all the yogurt lids, so I never got the chance. Fred was silent. Half an hour later, a delivery of fifty containers of yogurt arrived at my dorm. Fred: Is that enough for you? Now stick to licking your yogurt lids and leave her alone. Such a classic “overbearing CEO” move. I was green with envy. That kid didn’t even have an official title, and he was already throwing money around like that. This was the same guy who used to agonize for days over buying a single yogurt. Now he was sending his ex-girlfriend fifty at a time without a second thought. It was true what they said: latch on to the right rich family, and you’re set for life. My determination to steal his patron only grew stronger.

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Benjamin loves snakes. As his fiancée, I’m constantly terrified into tears by them. His response is always a sneer. “Putting on a show again.” I’ve tried so hard to conquer my fear. But then, a girl appeared who wasn’t afraid of them at all. She would come and go from his room as she pleased, playing with his little serpent. That was the last straw. I packed my things, ready to call off the engagement, when a line of text flickered into existence before my eyes: [That’s right, our girl needs to run! Don’t let this wicked serpent coil around you.] [LMAO, the male lead is going to lose his mind. After more than a decade, our girl is still terrified of snakes, let alone the idea of him shedding.] [Wait, am I the only one who wants to see our sweet girl get so overwhelmed by him when he loses control that her vision blurs?] A shiver ran down my spine. When I turned back, Benjamin was closing the door behind him, his voice a low chill. “Packing your bags. Planning on running away?” 1 I don’t get it. I woke up at the crack of dawn, packed with the stealth of a cat, and even kept the door shut. So why did Benjamin’s snake still manage to get in? “You… you… stay away from me!” I scrambled back into a corner of the room. The snake, inky black and slender, paused at the doorway, its tongue flicking the air with a soft hiss. For some reason, I felt like it was staring at my suitcase on the floor. And it did not look happy. I made a shooing gesture. “You just stay right there. Don’t move. Okay?” The little snake froze, its grape-dark eyes fixed on me. I let out a breath and quietly continued packing. “So early. Where are you going?” The door creaked open. Benjamin leaned against the frame, his eyes sweeping over me before he enunciated each word with cold precision. “My dearest fiancée.” I jumped like a startled rabbit. “I… I-I’m going on a trip. A vacation.” “With whom?” “A friend. You don’t know her.” He narrowed his eyes and slowly started walking toward me. I instinctively backed away. A flash of annoyance crossed his face. “Afraid of the snake, I get. But you’re afraid of me, too?” Honestly, I wasn’t. But the girl who had been frequenting his serpentarium recently… she made me feel like an absolute joke. I turned my head away, biting my lip to keep from speaking. “Fine.” Benjamin suddenly crouched down and picked up the little black serpent. It coiled obediently around his wrist, its head raised, tongue flickering. His gaze locked onto mine. “Touch it.” Fear flooded my face. The pressure in the room seemed to drop, and Benjamin’s voice was low and insistent. “Touch it. Keep it with you for one night. Do that, and I’ll let you go.” He had a terrible temper, but Benjamin Thorne was a man of his word. Steeling myself, I reached out a trembling hand. The snake darted its head forward, and before I could flinch away, it was slithering onto my skin. “Ah—!” I let out a small cry. The serpent had already wrapped itself greedily around my wrist, its tail brushing back and forth against my pulse point. “Ngh.” At the same time, Benjamin let out a muffled grunt. His expression was dark, but a strange flush was creeping up his cheeks. I stared at him, confused. He scowled, a mix of anger and embarrassment. “Just go. And give it back to me tomorrow.” 2 After Benjamin left, it was just me and the little snake. Aside from the constant, insistent rubbing of its tail against my skin, it was surprisingly well-behaved. “Why do you keep doing that…?” I murmured to myself. The snake just stared. But then, a sentence materialized out of thin air: [Because he’s trying to train you.] ??? Train me for what? Then, another comment appeared: [Sweetie, I dare you to touch the spot where it’s rubbing you. You might get a little surprise.] What was that supposed to mean? My curiosity won out. I gently brushed the pad of my finger against the serpent’s tail. At that exact moment— In Benjamin’s room. “Ngh…” The curtains were drawn tight. He was on the floor, leaning back against his bed, his shirt hanging wide open, the clothes on his lower half in a state of disarray. “Fuck.” The blush on his face was deep, his breathing growing heavier. “Aren’t you supposed to be afraid of snakes?” he growled to the empty room. “What the hell are you touching…?” Touching it, sure. But not even doing it right. 3 The little snake’s tail began to move faster, its tongue flicking in and out in a rapid rhythm. I was getting a little freaked out. With a flick of my wrist, I accidentally sent it flying to the floor. [LMAO HAHAHAHAHAHA—] [I can’t. This guy is so tragic. He’s going to short-circuit from frustration.] [Our girl is so cute. This is his reward, obviously.] A flood of comments scrolled past my eyes, all saying pretty much the same thing. Who was “he”? The snake? The little serpent picked itself up from the floor, its black eyes glaring at me for a few seconds as if it wanted to eat me alive. Then, with a flick of its tail, it slithered to the far side of the room, keeping its distance. It seemed angry. Worried I might have hurt it, I decided to go find Benjamin and ask for a glass tank or something to keep it in. Knock, knock, knock— I rapped on his door. It was shut tight, and no one answered. That was strange. Benjamin never closed his door. He always left it open just a crack, so that every time I walked by, I would just “happen” to catch him changing. Then he’d snort and call me a pervert with no shame. [What a sly bastard, trying to peacock for our girl every day.] [Don’t fall for it, sweetie! I’m telling you, he’s in a dangerous state right now. You should push the door open and go in immediately.] [Yeah, yeah! He’s really suffering in there. You need to go in and help him.] Dangerous? Suffering? And he needed my help? I hesitated, my hand hovering over the doorknob. 4 “What?” The door flew open, revealing a very irritated Benjamin. “Do you have a death wish, knocking like that?” I instantly regretted listening to the comments. So much for checking on him out of the goodness of my heart. But he did look a little off. His clothes were a mess, and his face was still flushed. To put it bluntly, he had the look of someone who had just been thoroughly… satisfied. “What were you doing in there?” I asked, craning my neck to see inside his room. Benjamin blocked my way, his voice sharp. “None of your business.” “And there’s a weird smell,” I said, sniffing the air. “Did your snakes mate in your room?” “Elara!” See? Defensive again. I frowned. “Did you do something bad? Why are you so flustered?” [Oh, girl, stop asking questions. He’s about to explode.] [Let’s get out of here. I’m afraid he’s going to snap and devour our girl whole.] [I’m dying. Every single thing she says is a direct hit. The sly bastard can’t hide his secret much longer.] Hide his secret? Suddenly, it clicked. My face fell. “Luna’s in there, isn’t she?” He froze. I turned away. “You were with her. You didn’t even try to hide it. What do you take me for?” Benjamin was still stunned. When he finally found his voice, he tried to pull the door shut. “No, that’s not…” “Cheater!” I slammed the door in his face for him, spat the word, and stormed off. Back in my room, I slid down against the door, hugged my knees, and buried my face. I couldn’t see the comments anymore. [Oh no, oh no, our girl misunderstood!] [Good! This way she can finally leave him for good.] [Yeah, let her think that. He’s a jerk who can’t talk anyway. Why should our girl put up with him?] […Am I the only one who wants to see him get possessive? If she tries to leave, he should just… force her… hehe.] [Seconded.] I sniffled. When I looked up, only the last comment remained: [So what? As long as that side-piece Luna is around, our girl is going to get hurt. If that scheming bastard can’t fix his mess, he should just get lost.] It was true. Benjamin and I had been engaged since we were children. He’d always loved snakes, and I’d always been terrified of them. Every time he brought one near me, I would run away crying, and he would mock me for it. I tried my best to get over it, but I just couldn’t. Then, I saw Luna for the first time. She was in his serpentarium, wearing a white dress, a snake coiled gently around her. She was smiling. And Benjamin was watching her with a look of pure tenderness. That’s when I finally understood. I was afraid of snakes. But there were plenty of girls in the world who weren’t. 5 Hiss— The little black serpent slowly slithered over to me. It propped up the top half of its body, tongue flickering, its round eyes watching me. I had to admit, it was almost cute. It drew closer. The cool scales brushed against my calf, and I flinched. It paused, waiting until I was still again before continuing its approach. Finally, it coiled around my hand and gently nudged its head against my palm. It was actually quite sweet. I stood up, carefully holding my hand up to support it, and sat back down on the bed. “Okay, time for sleep. Don’t let me roll over on you.” I placed the little serpent on the pillow beside me. It curled into a ball and lowered its head. I turned off the light, leaving a safe distance between us. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought to myself, Maybe snakes aren’t so bad after all. I was completely oblivious to the frantic storm of comments filling the space above my head: [WHOA, what is he doing?! Don’t you dare touch our precious, soft girl!] [Elara, wake up! The snake next to you just turned into a man!] [I heard serpent-people have hypnotic powers… Am I the only one excited to see what happens tonight?] In my dream, an icy touch slithered up from the tip of my toes, along my calf, my thigh, to the very top of my leg. The cold made me twitch, but the sensation changed, becoming less like a touch and more like a cool rope… no, like a snake’s tail, wrapping around my leg, holding me fast. “Mmm.” A frightened sound escaped my lips, and the pressure immediately lessened. A gentle caress, like a reassurance, brushed across my cheek. I opened my eyes. I was in a room of absolute blackness. I sat up, looking around, and called out instinctively. “Benjamin?” “Benjamin, where are you?” The strangest thing happened. The moment I said his name, the darkness vanished. “I’m here.” A familiar voice from behind me. I turned, overjoyed, but the first thing I saw was the little black serpent. I froze. “It’s you…” But it was different. It was enormous. It lowered its head, nuzzling against me like a docile pet. “Benjamin?” No answer. Only the giant snake, tentatively brushing its tail against my calf, like a puppy afraid of being rejected by its owner. “Onyx, how did you get so big?” I reached out to stroke its head. But in the next second, the serpent’s silhouette blurred, morphing into a tall, naked, beautiful man. He covered my eyes with his hand, but through the gaps between his fingers, I could still see his face. It was Benjamin. My eyes went wide. “You… you’re…” “Shh.” I had never seen this side of him. His eyes were soft, but beneath that tenderness was a deep, simmering desire. He took my hand and guided it to his neck. “Are you still afraid?” In a daze, I felt as if my hand wasn’t wrapped around his throat, but around a serpent’s most vulnerable point. “If a snake is going to bite, you choke it. Don’t be afraid of it,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. I tried to pull my hand back, but he held it fast. All I could do was whimper. “Don’t…” Benjamin’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He leaned closer. “Don’t what?” A heat that started at my ears spread through my entire body. I felt like I was on fire. “You don’t like it?” he pressed, relentless, guiding my hand lower and lower. “When I called you a pervert… you’re telling me you never took a good look? Every time you walked past my room, you didn’t glance through the crack in the door? Are you trying to leave me because you hate me… or because you like me?” I couldn’t think anymore. I could only cry. “Stop, please don’t do this, Benjamin…” “Stop being afraid of me,” his voice grew rougher, almost a plea, as he held my hand against him. “Touch me. Please. Don’t be afraid of me.” 6 I woke with a start, my mind still reeling from the dream. I stared blankly at the ceiling. “Benjamin…” I instinctively checked my clothes. My pajamas were soaked with sweat, my hair stuck to my forehead. I looked like I’d just woken up from a very vivid, very unsatisfying dream. Hiss— On the pillow next to me, the little black serpent uncoiled its body, stretching like a sleepy kitten. It looked like it had just woken up too, its dark eyes blinking at me. For some reason, my face burned. I felt a wave of shame, like a child caught doing something illicit. I scrambled out of bed, pretending to be busy as I gathered fresh clothes for a shower. My bathroom was being renovated, so I had to use the main one down the hall. As I headed out, Benjamin was just coming out of that very bathroom. “You…” He had nothing on but a towel wrapped around his waist. His gorgeous, naked torso was identical to the one in my dream. My brain shut down. “Put… put… put some clothes on!” Benjamin just clicked his tongue. But an unnatural flush crept up his neck. “You sneak peeks at me every day, and now you’re playing coy? A little late for that, isn’t it?” It was only then that the comments reappeared. [Guys, what happened? I couldn’t post anything all night!] [Yeah, it’s like we were blocked out when the snake was doing his hypnosis thing.] [Seriously, author, what could possibly be off-limits to us VIP readers? One star!!!] I clutched my clothes to my chest, fidgeting. “I need to take a shower. Could you please leave?” Benjamin glanced at me. “You’re all sweaty. Dreaming of me last night?” “Get out!” I snapped, mortified, and dashed into the bathroom. He didn’t tease me further. As I was closing the door, he asked, his voice casual, “Still afraid of snakes?” I paused, the dream flashing through my mind. “Yes,” I mumbled awkwardly. “Terrified.” As the door clicked shut, I thought I heard him let out a soft, helpless laugh.

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The year I turned eight, my brother Leo fell from the scaffolding of an abandoned construction site. I’d sprinted over and become his human cushion. He walked away without a scratch. I ended up with a brain injury, a vegetable. The year I turned eighteen, I finally woke up. But for the inheritance of a girl who wasn’t even family, my brother pushed me from that same rooftop, leaving me to splatter on the concrete below. But I was reborn. And this time, I could see the live comments floating in mid-air: [THE MALE LEAD IS REBORN AT AGE EIGHT! LAST TIME, HE FELL FROM THE FIFTH FLOOR AND PUT THE SIDE CHARACTER IN A COMA. THIS TIME, HE’S TRYING THE SIXTH. LET’S SEE IF HE CAN KILL HER OUTRIGHT!] [ONCE THE SIDE CHARACTER IS DEAD, THE MALE LEAD CAN BRING THE HEROINE HOME FROM THE ORPHANAGE TO TAKE HER PLACE! THIS TIME, NO ONE CAN STOP THEIR TWISTED STEP-SIBLING ROMANCE AS THEY INHERIT THE BILLIONAIRE’S FORTUNE AND LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER!] Is that so? I tilted my head, a slow smile spreading across my face as I mouthed a silent message to my brother, who was now plummeting through the air. “Brother, if you die, I’ll find someone to replace you, too.” 1 I had just rounded the street corner when a frantic scream ripped through the quiet air, slamming into my eardrums. “Faye! Help me!” I looked up. There, on the skeletal frame of the derelict building, was Leo, teetering on the edge of the sixth-floor scaffolding with half his body hanging over the abyss. His face was ghostly pale. One hand gripped a rusted steel pipe behind him, his knuckles white and twisted from the strain. With his other hand, he waved at me, a desperate, flailing gesture. If I hadn’t been reborn… If I hadn’t seen the comments flickering beside him… I would have stupidly run to save him all over again. In my last life, I took the full impact of his fall. A spike of searing pain, followed by a decade of limitless, suffocating darkness. When I finally woke up at eighteen, I wasn’t greeted by a new beginning, but by Leo’s monstrous grin and the sweetly poisonous whispers of Mia, the girl he’d brought home. “Push her, Leo,” she’d urged. “Then the family fortune is all yours!” And now, here he was. Leo seemed a little too confident in his “protagonist plot armor.” But hey, the stage was set. Who was I, the lowly side character, to refuse my part? I cleared my throat and pitched my voice high with panic. “Leo! Don’t move!” I threw myself forward, deliberately stumbling toward the patch of ground directly beneath him. As my foot caught on uneven ground, I sent a loose rock skittering right into the center of his landing zone. I scrambled back up, my movements clumsy and frantic, every step feeling like I was wading through cotton, as if my legs could give out at any moment. A babble of panicked cries spilled from my lips. “Leo… just hold on… I’m coming… don’t be scared…” As I lurched forward, another comment scrolled across my vision: [THE MALE LEAD’S ACTING IS TOP-TIER! THE SIDE CHARACTER TOTALLY FELL FOR IT!] [LMAO, JUMP ALREADY! KILL HER SO WE CAN BRING OUR HEROINE HOME! MIA IS WAY MORE LIKEABLE. SHE’LL REPLACE FAYE IN HER PARENTS’ HEARTS IN NO TIME!] [PLUS, THEY’LL SAVE A DECADE OF MEDICAL BILLS. THEY CAN BUY OUR HEROINE A NEW PURSE WITH THAT CASH!] A smirk played on my lips. My eyes locked onto a spot about two feet away from Leo’s direct fall line—an old, open drainage ditch. It was filled with construction debris, but it would make a perfect cushion. It was also the stage for the most important performance of my new life. I’m not heading to the afterlife today. Let’s give that ticket to their precious male lead. I just hope they don’t cry too hard when it happens. Leo, however, clearly hadn’t expected me to be so slow; I still hadn’t reached the spot directly beneath him. His composure was cracking, the carefully crafted terror on his face melting into raw impatience. He even had the energy to scream at me. “Faye, what the hell are you doing? Hurry up!” And in the next instant… CRACK. The rotted plank beneath his feet gave way without warning. “AHHH!” This time, his scream was gut-wrenchingly real. As he plunged downward, his hands scrabbled instinctively, catching hold of another rusty pipe. The sharp, flaking metal tore a long gash in his sleeve, and blood began to well up immediately. Pure panic finally took him. His eyes, sharp and venomous, shot toward me. “Hurry! One more step! Right there! Don’t move! I’m jumping now!” I instantly obeyed, planting my feet on the ground and nodding frantically, tears streaming down my face. “I’m here, Leo! I’m ready!” He let go. The moment he leaped, I threw myself sideways, rolling hard. My back slammed into the pile of broken concrete and rubble in the ditch. A split second after the resounding THUD of his body hitting the ground, I heard the distinct, sickening snap of bone. Ignoring the shooting pains across my own body, I pushed myself up and looked at Leo. He’d gotten lucky. His head had met a small, sharp stone on the concrete, and a dark stain of blood was already blooming around him. He stared at me, his eyes wide with horror and utter disbelief. The live comments had gone silent, then erupted in confusion: [WHAT HAPPENED? HOW DID SHE DODGE?!] [WHAT ABOUT THE MALE LEAD?? HE CAN’T DIE!] I stared into Leo’s unfocused eyes until his eyelids fluttered and closed, then slowly uncurled my fists. I let out a long breath. As the sound of distant shouts reached my ears, I closed my eyes. Oh, brother. Even if you die. I’ll find someone to replace you. 2 Once again, I found myself in a hospital bed. This time, however, I wouldn’t be slipping into a ten-year coma. When my mother saw my eyes flutter open, she jolted upright, her voice thick with unshed tears. “Faye, your brother… he hasn’t woken up… The doctor said the pressure in his skull keeps rising. He might… he might never wake up.” My father was crouched by the doorway, crushing a pack of cigarettes in his hand, his knuckles white. When he looked at me, his gaze was a complex storm of fear and exhaustion, but mostly, it was the familiar sting of blame. “If you hadn’t insisted on going to that abandoned building with him…” Of course. Just like last time. No matter the outcome, I would always be the one at fault. In my past life, when I woke up, all I heard were my parents’ complaints about the sky-high medical bills from the past decade, followed by their relieved thanks that their precious son was unharmed. If it weren’t for keeping up appearances, they probably would have pulled the plug on me years ago. But having died once already, I could finally accept the cold truth: they just didn’t love me. Still, Leo was tougher than I thought. A fall from the sixth floor, and he wasn’t even dead. A new game, a new life, I guess. I clutched the corner of my blanket and shrank back, letting tears well up in my eyes. My voice trembled. “I’m sorry, Mom, Dad… When Leo started climbing the scaffolding, I told him not to. I said the wood was rotten and he would fall. But he yelled at me… told me a stupid little girl doesn’t know anything… He just pushed me away…” I lifted my tear-filled eyes to my father. “Daddy… you called me a pest last time for always following Leo around… If I hadn’t been there… would he still have fallen?” My father’s Adam’s apple bobbed violently. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. I turned to my mother. “And Mommy, just yesterday you said that Leo would be the man of the house one day, and I needed to be more sensible…” My voice cracked. “Does that mean… that whatever I do is wrong if it makes him unhappy?” The only sound in the quiet room was my own choked sobbing. “I wanted to save him, I really did, but then I fell and everything went black… Mom, Dad, are you blaming me, too…?” A nurse walked past the open door, and her conversation drifted in. “Yeah, that’s the room. Can you believe that kid? The planks on the third level were practically dust, and he still kept climbing!” “Well, at least they still have the…” My mother pulled me into a tight, trembling hug, her body shaking. Her voice was a broken, choked whisper, heavy with a long-overdue remorse. “I’m so sorry, Faye… Mom and Dad… we didn’t raise your brother right…” My father remained frozen in the doorway, but his fingers were digging into the cool metal of the frame, the knuckles turning a stark, bloodless white. The comments were still railing against me. It was giving me a headache, so I buried my face in my mother’s neck and shut my eyes. Let them scream. It wouldn’t change the fact that my parents’ favoritism was about to shift. For an eight-year-old, there is no weapon more powerful than an innocent question and a flood of tears. And the crushing weight of medical bills doesn’t change just because the person lying in the bed is now Leo. 3 I was discharged on a gray, overcast day. It was the same day Leo was officially diagnosed as being in a persistent vegetative state. The doctors said there was still a chance he could wake up. For the first two weeks, Mom and Dad were diligent. They brought his favorite strawberry shortcake to the hospital every day and took turns reading stories by his bedside. By the third week, the atmosphere began to shift. The puffiness around my mother’s eyes faded, replaced by a deep, weary exhaustion and a silent, creeping despair. My father, using his busy schedule at the company as an excuse, didn’t set foot in the hospital for a solid month. One evening at dinner, my mother finally broke her silence. “He wet the bed again today,” she said in a low, muffled voice. “I was lucky to be there to clean it up.” She sighed. “I’ve had to cancel so many lunches with my friends, running back and forth to that hospital.” My father’s chopsticks paused mid-air. He was quiet for a long moment. “Let’s hire a 24-hour nurse,” he said finally. “You can’t keep this up, you’ll wear yourself out.” I kept my head down, gnawing on a pork rib, saying nothing. Another two weeks passed. Leo’s name was rarely mentioned in the house anymore. The nurse would call once a week with a robotic update, always the same: “No change.” They would just nod numbly, not even bothering to sigh. My father even took down the only award certificate Leo had ever won and stuffed it in a storage closet. Naturally, this behavior infuriated the commenters. [WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE PARENTS? LEO IS THEIR SON! HE HAS PLOT ARMOR, HE’S GOING TO WAKE UP!] [THIS IS ALL FAYE’S FAULT! IF IT WASN’T FOR HER, HE WOULDN’T BE LYING IN THAT BED, HELPLESS! AT THIS RATE, WHEN WILL OUR HEROINE EVER GET ADOPTED?!] They had a point. Leo couldn’t do anything lying in that bed. But I could. A few days ago, to protect their own reputation and avoid a flood of pitying inquiries from their social circle, my parents had transferred me to a public elementary school. Now, it was time for the next step. I took the long way home from school, first tossing my backpack into a bush to cover it with dirt and leaves. Then, I found a rough patch of concrete and took a deliberate dive, scraping my knee just enough to draw a few beads of blood. I quickly smeared the blood across my cheek. Once my masterpiece was complete, I ran the rest of the way home. I burst through the door with a wail and threw myself into my mother’s arms. “Mommy! They were picking on me!” She gasped, her hands fluttering nervously as she tried to wipe the “blood” from my face. “What is it, Faye? Who hurt you?” “The boys at school!” I sobbed, my words coming out in hiccupping gasps. “They… they said Leo’s a vegetable… and that I’m just a burden nobody wants… They threw… threw all my books in the mud…” My father, seeing my disheveled state, turned livid. “Which class? What are their names? I’m going to the school tomorrow and talking to your principal! This is outrageous!” I grabbed onto his pant leg, my wails growing louder. “But… but it’s true, isn’t it?” “Daddy, I’m so scared. Why… why can’t my brother be like Amelia’s brother from the other class? He protects her… he chases away all the mean kids…” My mother’s eyes instantly reddened again. She hugged me tight, her voice full of pain. “Oh, Faye, I’m so sorry. We’ve been so focused on… we’ve neglected you. You must have been terrified.” “Mom, Dad, can you… can you adopt a brother for me? One who can protect me?”

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My brother Alex hit a girl with a basketball and made me deliver his apology note. Curiosity got me—I tore it open, and glowing comments flashed before my eyes: 【LMAO, he hit his crush out of everyone? So obvious.】 【These siblings are a mess. One’s assaulting people, the other’s chasing the main guy. Villains much?】 【So annoying. Can’t they just disappear?】 【It’s fine. They’re both pathetic simps. The brother’s a coward with a secret crush. Free entertainment lol.】 Excuse me? I could handle being called a simp. But Alex? Six-two, abs, killer jump shot, warm voice, sunny personality—a simp? A secret admirer? I burst out laughing. That night, I rewrote his note into a full love letter and delivered it myself. 1 I’d been waiting in the hallway for nearly ten minutes when Lena finally came back from the guidance counselor’s office. The hot summer sun caught the ends of her hair. Her school uniform, faded from countless washes, was buttoned neatly to the very top. Her skin was pale, her eyes were rimmed with red, and she had the unmistakable air of an easy target. Which, to be fair, she was. She was clutching an exam paper from the Math Olympiad qualifiers. Every question was covered in perfect checkmarks, yet next to each one, she’d meticulously written out a more elegant solution in red ink. It wasn’t hard to guess what had happened. Someone’s cold words had clearly gotten to her. I narrowed my eyes and pushed myself off the wall. My friends fell in line behind me, completely blocking her path. “You’re Lena, right?” I asked, crossing my arms and fixing my gaze on her. Heads turned in the hallway. Whispers erupted around us. “What’s going on? How did Lena get on Scarlett’s bad side?” Someone else yawned. “Who knows? She’s been spending all her time with Julian for the math competition. Guess the princess isn’t happy about it.” “Makes sense. Looks like she’s about to get a warning.” The gossip was a low buzz in the air. Lena’s hand tightened on the corner of her uniform. When she looked up, her wide, doe-like eyes were trembling. She was terrified, but she forced her voice to remain steady. “Can I help you?” Just then, the comment feed exploded. 【After chasing the main guy, now she’s bullying the main girl? I’m so mad! Does she really think this will make him like her?】 【Is she starting trouble again? I’m scared. I hope our girl doesn’t get bullied!】 【It’s okay. If she touches a single hair on her head, Julian will be here in a second to put her in her place!】 【But I don’t think the main characters have even fallen for each other yet.】 【It’ll be instinct. They’re soulmates, after all.】 Out of all those comments, one word jumped out at me. Bullying? Did I really look like I was here to bully her? Lena kept her expression neutral, her eyes cautiously fixed on us. Her fingers tightened, feeling every crease in the exam paper in her hand, as if to remind herself—reaching for things that don’t belong to you will only lead to trouble. Just as she was bracing herself for whatever cruel words I was about to say, the sweet scent of flowers filled the air. A love letter appeared right in front of her face. “So, here’s the thing,” I said, my voice breezy. “My brother has a massive crush on you.” “But he’s a coward, so he asked me to give you this.” The pink envelope was perfectly square, stamped with a wax seal and adorned with delicate dried flowers. Lena stared at it, completely stunned. A letter this exquisite seemed to belong to another world, one that had nothing to do with her own simple, threadbare existence. But there, written in elegant script, was her name. She poured every ounce of her energy into winning scholarships just to claw her way out of poverty. A moment like this had never even crossed her mind. She had no idea how to react. A beat later, her heart started hammering against her ribs like a drum, a frantic rhythm that matched the excited murmurs of the students around us. Her eyes were red, the tips of her ears were red, and her cheeks were a deep, burning crimson. She was adorable. The perfect match for a guy as handsome as my brother. I grinned and pressed the envelope into her palm. The letter, warm from the sun, was so hot it made her fingers curl. The chatter around us grew louder. Her blush deepened, spreading all the way to her ears. “Is this… is this from the guy at the basketball court the other day?” she stammered, barely daring to believe it. “Yep. The one who accidentally hit you with the ball.” Suddenly, a vivid slash of red broke through the gray monotony of her memories. The boy in the red jersey. His features were sharp, almost fierce, but the moment he knelt beside her, his apology was shy, his voice gentle as he asked if she was okay. He was nothing like Julian, with his cold, detached aura. This boy smelled of the hot afternoon sun. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on the lean muscles of his arms. He radiated a vibrant, youthful energy that was almost overwhelming. But in that moment, all she could focus on were his shoes. Expensive, limited-edition sneakers that silently screamed of the class divide between them. He was from Julian’s world, and yet… he was different. Even with the game on the line, he’d had a friend take her to the nurse’s office and pressed his own card into her hand to cover any costs. As he turned to run back to the court, she saw the name printed on the back of his jersey. Alex Vance. A name that sounded as bright and full of life as he was. “Remember now? My brother, Alex. He’s a senior in class 3-8,” I said, giving her a little wink. She clutched the letter, her voice barely a whisper, trembling with nerves. “Yes.” “He really, really likes you,” I added. “But he’s a total coward.” The morning sun was bright and warm. Her eyelashes fluttered. She couldn’t help but wonder. A boy so dazzling you could barely look at him directly. Could he really be a coward? 2 The comment feed cursed me out for days after that. 【She just HAS to mess with the main couple’s storyline, doesn’t she? So disgusting!】 【Does she honestly think the main girl would fall for her brother? A little overconfident, much?】 【LMAO, her brother is the definition of a second male lead. Sure, the main guy is cold, but that’s exactly what the main girl is into. She loves the ‘cold on the outside, warm on the inside’ type.】 【Totally. A girl as insecure and sensitive as her needs quiet companionship. Someone with a personality that different would just make her uncomfortable. She only accepted the letter to avoid an awkward scene. There’s no way she actually likes him.】 Was that really true? I walked into the exam hall, supplies in hand, and saw Lena right away. Her face was flushed, and she seemed completely distracted. Her gaze kept drifting to the boy sitting in the row ahead of her and to the left. That was my brother, Alex. My eyes followed hers, and then I froze. My gaze locked onto the chocolate bar sitting, untouched, in Alex’s hand. Wait. He hadn’t given it to her? …Or had she rejected him? 3 I had checked the seating chart for the monthly exams beforehand. As soon as I found out Lena was in our testing room, I told Alex. He just gave a casual “Mm,” but the tips of his ears turned pink. I saw right through him. “You already knew, didn’t you?” “A friend told me.” “They know you have a crush on Lena, too?! No way, since when are you so obvious about it?” Alex shot me a dark look. Right. It was probably because I’d been so loud about delivering the letter. He’d found out that same day from his friends that I’d swapped his apology for a confession. But he hadn’t denied it, saying it would have embarrassed her. I knew the real reason: he was secretly thrilled. So, I’d given him a fancy chocolate bar a friend brought me from Europe and told him to give it to her the next day. For the first time, the usually composed and confident Alex showed a rare flash of boyish uncertainty. “Isn’t it a bit… sudden?” he’d hesitated. “You don’t give a girl gifts when you’re trying to win her over?” I’d asked, baffled. “Flowers, presents, chocolate—that’s how it works. If you’re all talk and no action, that’s not called courting, it’s called harassment.” I was dead serious. And Alex had agreed. I just never thought his very first attempt at giving a girl a gift would end in such a brutal rejection. I couldn’t help but stare at him now. He was resting his head on his hand, his eyes half-closed. His fair skin was tinged with a faint blush. He looked lost in thought, or maybe just zoned out. And the chocolate bar in his hand was mangled beyond recognition. The comment feed was having a field day. 【LOL, I told you she wouldn’t fall for a side character. Look at him, rejected hard!】 【The clown is him! Hahahahaha.】 【They’re just simps for the main characters. Might as well be watching a circus.】 Simps. Hah. I almost felt sorry for us. 4 My face was a mask of stone. As I walked past Julian, I didn’t even slow down. I kept going, right past his desk. The boy, whose expression was usually a mask of cool indifference, actually flinched. That’s right. It wasn’t just Lena and Alex in this exam hall. Julian was here, too. Of course he was. The side characters only exist to decorate the main couple’s love story. My brother had already been humiliated. I couldn’t afford to lose face, too. The seating for the monthly exams wasn’t strictly enforced. I easily convinced the guy in front of me to switch seats, and sat down right next to Lena. She snapped back to reality, a stray strand of hair falling to hide the panic in her eyes. Her elbow knocked the fountain pen on her desk, and it rolled to a stop by my foot. The logo on the cap was faded, but I could make out a single letter: L. The pen itself was so worn that the metal plating had rubbed off in places. I bent down to pick it up for her, but she was faster. She shot out of her seat, snatched the pen, and clutched it tightly in her hand. “Thank you,” she whispered quickly, noticing my intention. For once, I dropped my usual princessy demeanor and gave her a friendly smile. “No problem.” Could a pen like that even write properly? I glanced at it again. When the exam papers were handed out, she took a normal ballpoint from her pencil case and neatly wrote her name. The battered old fountain pen sat quietly on the corner of her desk. It seemed more like a companion than a tool. My mind started wandering. Maybe she just didn’t like chocolate. That’s why she’d turned Alex down. Next time, I’d have him give her school supplies. She couldn’t reject that, right?

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1 Everyone knew I was Damien Vargo’s weakness. His one sacred, untouchable thing. Years ago, when I was kidnapped, Damien walked into the lion’s den and laid down his arms, risking a bullet to the head. He liquidated his entire fortune, a king’s ransom, just to get me back. To shield me from the brutality of his world, he danced on a razor’s edge between the law and the underworld. And when I became pregnant, he treated me like fragile glass, a queen confined to her throne. He waited on me hand and foot, barely letting my feet touch the floor. Whispers of a pampered little canary he kept on the side swirled through the city, but I never believed them. I couldn’t. But his canary wouldn’t stay in her cage. She brought the scandal to my doorstep, and to beg for my forgiveness, Damien took a cleaver to his own hand and chopped off his little finger. The very next day, the canary was back, shoving a new piece of paper in my face. Her pregnancy test, with Damien’s name on it. “Damien is just desperate for a child with me,” she cooed. “He simply can’t get enough.” My body, already frail, couldn’t take the shock. The words, the proof, the betrayal—it all hit me with the force of a physical blow, and I miscarried. … “Damien is just so desperate to have my baby,” Crystal purred, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness. The fresh love bites on her neck were a violent purple against her skin, a stark contrast to the clinical black and white of the ultrasound photo in her hand. “We went at it all night. The results just came in. Guess what they say?” Seeing her, seeing the marks of my husband’s passion on her throat, felt like Damien himself had driven a knife clean through my back. This was her second visit. The first was yesterday. She’d sauntered in, all swagger and cheap perfume, and tossed a video of her and Damien, tangled in silk sheets, onto my coffee table. It was followed by a black Centurion card. She sank into my favorite chaise lounge, adjusting her oversized sunglasses just enough to peer at me through the gap, her gaze sweeping over me with undisguised contempt. “No wonder Damien’s tired of you. God, you’re so washed-up. There’s ten million dollars on this card. Take it and disappear.” She paused, letting the insult hang in the air before delivering the final blow. “Normally, I wouldn’t bother. He’s clearly over you. But Damien wants to give me a wedding, a real one. And for that to happen, you two have to get divorced.” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. A wedding? We have to get divorced? “Does Damien know you’re here?” I asked, my voice deceptively calm. She tossed her bleached-blonde hair, her confidence absolute. She pulled out her phone and dialed. “Damien, baby,” she chirped. “Could you come over? There’s a woman here who needs… dealing with.” And just like an obedient dog, he came. A few minutes later, Damien strode in. The moment he saw me, his face went rigid, the color draining from it. Crystal, oblivious, preened like a peacock, high on the power of summoning the most feared man in Port Sterling. She snatched a cup of hot tea from the table and, with a triumphant smirk, flung its contents at me, soaking me from head to toe. I just smiled, a cold, dangerous smile. “Who gave you the courage to provoke me?” In the next second, Damien was a blur of motion. Crystal turned to him, her face lit with expectation, thinking he was coming to her defense. Instead, his hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of her hair. He slammed her to the floor, his boot connecting with her ribs in a series of sickening thuds. Crystal crumpled, gasping, her face a mask of shocked disbelief. One of Damien’s men dragged her away, whimpering. Before yesterday, I’d heard the rumors. The whole city was whispering that Damien Vargo had a gorgeous new canary, one he took everywhere. A girl so delicate she fainted at the sight of blood, so he kept her shielded from the ugliness of his work. They said he spoiled her rotten, let her get away with murder. I never believed it. I remembered the kidnapping, the terror, and Damien throwing down his guns for me. I remembered the time I went missing on the outskirts of the city, and he’d torn through the wilderness for seven days and seven nights, returning with his leg mangled by some wild animal, just to hold me and whisper, “Lena, don’t be scared. I’m here.” All those years of dancing on the knife’s edge, all the pain and scars he endured—he did it all so I would never have to be afraid. Those memories were etched into my soul. So when Crystal showed up that first time, I showed him the video. My voice was a choked whisper. “Are the rumors true?” He looked utterly lost, scrambling for words. “I’m sorry. I’ll get rid of her. I’ll have her taken care of right now, I swear. Just forgive me… Lena… please…” The world spun. The shock and grief sent me straight to the hospital. My health was already precarious, and the pregnancy made it worse. The doctor had warned me that any severe emotional distress could lead to a miscarriage. Damien’s iron grip on the city meant no one dared to breathe a word that might upset me. And now, he himself had put me here. Lying in that hospital bed, waiting for the doctors, I thought one thing over and over: This Damien is filthy. I don’t want him anymore. But when I was wheeled out of the treatment room, he was there. Kneeling on the cold linoleum floor. In one swift, brutal motion, he raised a butcher’s knife. Right there, in front of me, he brought it down, severing the little finger from his right hand. A blood offering. A penance. “Lena, it was my fault,” he choked out, his face pale with pain and regret. “I betrayed you. Forgive me, please? Just this once. I’m begging you, Lena.” Ten years. We had loved each other for ten years. How could my heart not ache for him? I gave him another chance. And now, today, I stared at the fresh bruises on Crystal’s neck and the pregnancy report she’d slapped across my face. When Damien left yesterday, he’d said he was going to “deal with” Crystal. Apparently, “dealing with her” meant falling right back into her bed. Reality was a slap in the face, shattering every last ounce of my compassion, every shred of my love. The heartbreak was a physical agony, a shard of glass twisting in my gut. The pain in my heart mirrored a sharp, cramping pain in my belly. I was going to die from this, I was sure of it. Then, a sudden, horrifying warmth spread between my legs, a torrent of crimson. I knew. I’d lost the baby. I had my doctor, Leah, cover it up. I’d found her on the streets years ago; her loyalty was to me, and me alone. Then, I booked a one-way ticket for a cruise liner heading to the southern isles. I pressed a hand to my empty womb, a hollow ache echoing through me. Ten years, Damien and I had waited ten years for this child. I had pictured our life together, the three of us, a thousand times. I had swallowed my pride and forgiven you. All I asked was that you didn’t do it again. Was that too much? On the drive back from the clinic, I got a text from Damien. : Threw a party for you tonight. To celebrate. I’ll come pick you up soon. The route took me past the main hall of our estate. The windows blazed with light, and as I drew closer, I could hear a familiar, sickly-sweet voice drifting out. “I’m so jealous of Lena,” Crystal was saying. “Damien throws her a party just for being pregnant. When will it be my turn for a party like this?” I peered through a crack in the door. I saw Damien’s expression darken. He grabbed Crystal’s chin, his voice a low growl. “As long as you never, ever let Lena find out about us, I’ll give you anything you want. Anything but my name.” Crystal pouted. “I want that pigeon’s blood ruby necklace Lena wears. Can I have it? Please?” “As long as you’re not stupid enough to show your face to her again,” Damien replied without hesitation, “anything she has, you’ll have too.” So, the fury he’d shown me was just an act. A performance for my benefit. I thought he would have learned his lesson. I thought he would cherish the chance I gave him. But he never thought he was wrong. He only thought he hadn’t been careful enough to hide it. My phone buzzed. A call from an unknown number. It was Crystal. She wanted to make sure I had a front-row seat to their little play. “Alright, I have to go get Lena now,” Damien’s voice said through the phone. I heard a rustle, then Crystal’s voice, husky and close. She had clearly pulled him into an anteroom. “Stay with me a little longer. Please? Once Lena gets here, you’ll have to be with her all night.” “No. I have to go. She just got pregnant, and she’s fragile. It’s too easy for her to miscarry.” “You only care about her baby,” Crystal whined. “Did you forget? I’m carrying your child, too. Don’t I deserve some of your affection?” “Of course I care about you,” Damien soothed. “You’re my little treasure, aren’t you?” I stepped into the doorway of the main hall, making my presence known. “What are we celebrating?” “The boss was worried you might be feeling down during the pregnancy,” one of the men said. “So he prepared a celebration for you.” How laughable. They were all in on it, all helping him lie to my face. My eyes drifted to the partition separating the main hall from the anteroom. I couldn’t see them, but their shadows danced on the polished floor, intertwined in a way that left nothing to the imagination. Damien must have heard my voice. His shadow pulled back. “That’s enough,” he hissed. “If Lena finds out, it’s over. I can’t afford that.” “I know, I know,” Crystal murmured. “But it’s been so long… If Lena knew we’ve been together for three years, she’d be furious, wouldn’t she?” “If you keep being a bad girl, I’ll have to punish you.” Then, through the phone, Damien’s voice dissolved into muffled sounds. My nails dug into my palms, the pain a dull echo of the agony in my chest. This, Damien, is how you trample on me. Again and again. A full thirty minutes passed before he emerged, pretending he’d been caught up with business. His face was still flushed with the afterglow of his tryst with Crystal. The gentle smile he offered me was so vile it made me want to retch. He placed a hand on my stomach, his touch a brand of fire. His palm, still warm from another woman’s body, moved in a gentle caress. “Is our little one behaving? Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted this baby, Lena?” He had wept with joy when I first told him I was pregnant. But it never stopped him from touching me with filthy hands, from playing the part of the devoted husband. The love and happiness I thought were my life were nothing but a web of secrets and lies. Once you peeled back the glittering surface, the truth was just despair. After the “celebration,” Damien made an excuse about urgent business and left early. I knew where he was going. Back to the anteroom, back to the woman he had hidden there. Bang! Bang! Two gunshots echoed from the hillside. I looked up, my senses numb, and saw them—men from a rival territory, walking straight towards me. I watched, frozen, as one of them raised a pistol, the barrel aimed squarely at my face. Just as I braced for the end, a familiar shape slammed into me, shielding me. It was Damien. More shots rang out, several bullets tearing into his back as he tackled me. He wrapped his arms around me and threw us down a steep embankment, his body a shield over mine the entire way down. He’d taken a bullet to the left side of his chest, and his body was a mess of bloody scrapes from the rocks and gravel. But all he did was hold me tight and whisper, “Don’t be scared.” The intruders were quickly subdued. They were just scouts who had stumbled upon me by chance. Years ago, Damien had killed the wife of a rival boss—she’d been pregnant. Ever since, the man had been hunting for revenge. In the hospital, I stared at Damien’s unconscious form, my mind a blank. You would literally die for me. So why? Why would you do this to me? His injuries were severe, but on the third day, he insisted on getting out of bed. He said he had a business negotiation with a rival crew leader. Hearing those words, the flicker of pity I’d felt turned to ash in my mouth. He saw me staring and a flicker of guilt crossed his face. “It’s… it’s really important. I have to go.” “Fine,” I said, my voice flat. For days, I’d been seeing wedding decorations being smuggled into the compound. Last night, Crystal had sent me a digital wedding invitation. I knew exactly where Damien was going. Maybe Crystal was right. Maybe he just didn’t love me anymore. And when I looked at his face now, all I could see was him tangled up with her, and a wave of nausea washed over me. Soon after, I was on the deck of the cruise ship, pulling away from the shores of Port Sterling. Ping. A text from Damien. At the meeting now, Lena. Attached was a picture of him sitting at a table in a warehouse, looking serious. A pathetic attempt to prove his lie. I knew it was fake because I was watching the real event. Live. On a video call from Crystal. The wedding was being held in a secret, underground chamber, hidden away from my eyes. Damien was in a black tuxedo, the groom. The blood from the bullet wound in his chest had already soaked through the pristine white shirt and was staining the dark fabric of his jacket. But even that couldn’t stop him from marrying her. On the screen, Damien stood at the altar. After the officiant spoke, Damien took Crystal’s hand, kissed it, and looked into her eyes with a tenderness that used to be reserved for me. “I do,” he said. And in that moment, I laughed at my own pathetic foolishness. This morning, when he’d told me about his “negotiation,” a tiny, stupid part of me had held onto a sliver of hope. Maybe it’s real. Maybe it’s something life-or-death. But with Damien, the more you trust him, the bigger the fool he makes you. He sent another text after stepping down from the altar: Deal went smoothly. What do you want for dinner tonight? I replied: Are you really in a negotiation? On the live feed, I saw his face drain of all color. My phone immediately began to ring, over and over. He didn’t wait for an answer. A new text came in, frantic: Yes. I am. I’ll explain when I get back. I promise. I ended the video call with Crystal. I was already on a ship, sailing toward the open sea, leaving the shores of our country, and him, far behind.

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When the landslide hit, my twin sister and I were trapped together under the same concrete slab. The rescue workers told my mother she had to choose. They could only save one of us. In my first life, my mother chose me. And she resented me for it every day that followed. I was never allowed to eat the best food or wear nice clothes. I had to be first in my class, always. I wasn’t allowed to cry, or laugh, or speak too loudly. I was forbidden from playing with other children. Whenever I faltered, my mother would point to my sister’s portrait on the wall and say, “Your sister died for you. What more could you possibly want?” I understood her pain, so I bore it in silence. Until, at thirty years old, I was diagnosed with stomach cancer. My mother’s grief turned to a desperate, twisted rage. “If I had known you were going to die young anyway,” she screamed, “I would have let you die back then!” She never knew that her younger daughter hadn’t died at all. When I found myself back under that slab of concrete, I heard my mother’s voice again. This time, she said, “I choose my younger daughter.” In that moment, I closed my eyes, and all I felt was release. 1 After I died, my soul didn’t leave. It followed my mother and my sister to the hospital. Inside the ambulance, my mother’s face, still young, was etched with a tenderness I had never seen. She gently combed through my sister’s mud-caked bangs with her fingertips. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed onto my sister’s face, her eyes filled with the raw, astonished joy of having gotten something back from the dead. The wail of sirens screamed outside, but inside the rattling metal box, there was only the sound of my mother’s soft, urgent whispers, a world unto themselves. “Maya. Maya, wake up. Look at Mom. Open your eyes and look at Mom.” Her voice was laced with a gentleness I couldn’t recall ever being directed at me. Not even in my first life, when I was the one lying in this ambulance. 2 In my first life, when the landslide trapped us, the concrete slab was balanced like a seesaw. To save the one on this side, they would have to crush the one on the other. One life for another. Only one of us could survive. My mother couldn’t choose. Not until a rescuer suggested they save whichever one of us responded first. She threw herself against the rubble, screaming our names with a desperation that clawed at the edges of life and death. “Lily!” “Maya!” “Lily!” “Maya!” Over and over… I remember hearing her voice cut through the darkness. It sounded just like it did every morning when she came to wake us up. So, just as I always did from the warmth of my bed, I mumbled, “I’m here, Mom.” A wave of joyful shouts erupted from the world outside. Then came the roar of machinery, the grating sound of shifting rock, and woven through it all, a woman’s desperate sobbing. A blinding light broke through. I was lifted by a dozen hands. Through the dizzying motion, I heard their voices. “This one’s tough.” “She’s got a guardian angel watching over her.” “A shame about the other one.” “Nothing to be done. If they’d waited any longer, they would have lost them both.” I was only five years old. I was too small to understand what they meant. All I wanted was my mom. Where was my mom? I cried out for her, and the voices around me rushed to soothe me. “Your mom’s right here. She’s right beside you. It’s okay, kiddo.” “Sixteen hours under there. She’s in good shape, all things considered. A real fighter.” Through the noise, I searched for my mother’s voice. And then I saw her face—a mask of grief and confusion. Later, I would wonder why I had to be the tough one. 3 My sister and I were twins. Our father was a city bus driver. He died in an accident on the job when we were three, leaving us with a small compensation payout and a cramped apartment in an old, state-owned building. With the pillar of our family gone, my mother clutched his funeral portrait and dragged my sister and me to his boss’s office. Maya and I just stood there, stunned and silent. When we saw our mother crying, we started crying too, howling with a sorrow we didn’t understand. So, during the big layoffs of the 90s, my mother was given a job as a ticket agent. After that, my dad’s portrait was hung on the wall, watching over us, a family of three who had found a way to survive. I used to sneak glances at it, and I always thought he was smiling. Until my sister’s picture was hung up next to his. Then I didn’t dare to look anymore. Because the picture on that wall was supposed to have been me. 4 A family of four became a family of three, and then a family of two. The apartment was always quiet with just the two of us. The front door was always shut, as if to keep the wind out, and with it, the neighbors’ whispers about my mother’s tragic life. But the door to my room was always left open, a permanent invitation for my mother’s gaze to fall upon me. “What are you daydreaming for? Is your homework done?” “Even if it’s done, review it again. You’re not just studying for yourself; you’re studying for your sister, too.” “Tired already? You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? You want to drive me to an early grave so you can be free.” “Crying? I’m the one who should be crying. What right do you have to cry?” …I started to dread coming home. But I had nowhere else to go. Everyone knew my dad was dead. Everyone knew my sister had died for me. “Lily, your mom has it hard. You need to be a good girl.” “Lily, what are you doing still out? Your mother is worried sick looking for you.” “Lily, you can’t be selfish.” The neighbors would lecture me whenever they saw me. Without realizing it, I started to walk with my head down, hugging the walls. When I looked up, I would see my mother’s face, a thundercloud of a scowl, the corners of her mouth pulled permanently downward. I hated home, and I hated being around people. But I couldn’t escape either of them. I was only eight years old. 5 I soon discovered that being eight wasn’t so bad. It was the year I started first grade. On the first day of school, our neighbor, Mrs. Gable, popped a piece of candy into my mouth. “First day of school, Lily,” she said, her voice kind. “You study hard now, you hear? Make something of yourself. Your mother is counting on you. As long as you do well in school, she’ll be happy.” I carved those words into my heart. I wanted my mother to be happy, the way she used to be. And it worked. The first time I brought home a report card with all A’s, the corners of my mother’s mouth turned up. So it was true. If I studied hard, my mother would be happy. I threw myself into my studies, always finishing at the top of my class. My mother’s smiles became more frequent. The day I got my acceptance letter to the best magnet middle school in the city, she took me to offer incense to my father and sister, a brilliant, proud smile on her face. I looked at their portraits on the wall, and for a moment, I thought they were smiling, too. So I smiled with them. But the happiness didn’t last. My mother held up my class ranking, her face hard. “You only beat the second-place student by ten points. You used to be twenty points ahead. Are you getting distracted? Are you doing this to spite me? You just want me to die so you can have a better life, don’t you? If it weren’t for you, I would have joined your father and sister long ago. I’m only staying alive for you!” I shook my head frantically. No, that’s not it. I tried to explain. “I don’t know what it is. I’m just hungry all the time. I wake up in the middle of the night so hungry I can’t sleep, and then I’m tired all day.” “Hungry?” she shrieked. “I work myself to the bone to provide for you, and you have the audacity to say you’re hungry? Did I not feed you? Look at your sister! Did she ever get to eat a single meal I cooked? You ungrateful child!” She broke down into racking sobs. I never dared to say I was hungry again. But hunger is a primal thing. One day in class, when my stomach rumbled for the third time, the boy sitting next to me slipped me a palm-sized cereal bar. My face burned with shame, but I ate half of it and carefully tucked the other half away in my backpack. That night, my mother beat me. “Tell me the truth! Did you steal it? You’re already a little thief. You’ll end up in jail, just you wait!” “Don’t you dare call me ‘Mom.’ I don’t have a convict for a daughter.” “Someone gave it to you? Why would they give it to you? What did you do to deserve it?” “And you ate it all yourself? You didn’t save any for your sister? You have no heart!” “Why is my life so miserable? I should have just died! I should have died!” I explained over and over, begged and pleaded. But the belt still fell, again and again. On that cold winter night, I was forced to kneel in my thin pajamas before the portraits of my father and sister until morning came. My forehead was burning as I curled up on the cold floor. Just before I lost consciousness, I saw my mother rush over and pull me into her arms, crying, “Mom was wrong, Mom was wrong.” I looked up, my gaze drifting past her to the portraits on the wall. For the first time, I wondered: why wasn’t my picture on the right? I was thirteen years old, and my body was changing. 6 Old folks say that every time a child gets a fever, they get a little wiser. I think they’re right. The next time my stomach growled, I wisely refused my classmate’s offer of a snack. When I passed a neighbor’s open door and smelled dinner cooking, I wisely refused their kindness. “I’m not hungry.” “I’ll eat at home.” “My mom is already cooking.” My schoolbag was heavy, not just with books, but with a large water bottle. Whenever I felt hungry, I would take a sip of water. The neighbors all praised me for being so sensible. But the boy who sat next to me stopped talking to me altogether. “Whatever. She’s too good for me now,” he muttered to his friends, shooting me a glare. “She eats my cereal bar, and the next day she’s out with a fever. Her mom even came to the school to talk to the teacher. Can you believe that? My mom told me to stay away from her, said she’s her mother’s whole world. If anything happened, we couldn’t afford the trouble.” The other kids snickered. I apologized, embarrassed, explaining that I’d just caught a cold. But more and more of my classmates started to avoid me. One day, the boy leaned over and whispered, “You just dress so weird.” That afternoon, in front of the bathroom mirror at school, I truly saw myself for the first time. I was wearing a shiny, deep purple winter coat. I remembered where it came from—a neighbor had been about to throw it out, and my mother had taken it. I looked at the other kids passing by in the mirror. Most of the girls wore black, but there were other colors too: white, pink, sky blue. Only I wore a shimmering, out-of-place purple. I looked down at my feet, at the clunky, old-fashioned cotton shoes. I was a snail in a purple shell, with thin legs weighed down by heavy shoes. A deep, burning shame washed over me. When I got home, I mustered all my courage and asked for a new black winter coat. Black, I thought, should be fine. But my mother’s face turned just as black. And so came the second beating. “Are you seeing a boy? Is that it? You want new clothes to show off for some boy? Tell me who he is! I’m going to his school tomorrow to set things straight!” “Are you cold? Do you not have clothes to wear? Did I send you out naked? Am I some wicked stepmother abusing you?” Finally, she pointed a trembling finger at the portraits on the wall. “You ask your sister. Ask her if she’s cold down there in the ground. Ask her if she wants a new coat.” I looked up at my sister’s face in the photograph, and tears streamed down my cheeks. Why wasn’t it me who died? I was fourteen, and puberty had hit. From that day on, I gave up on myself. I still studied like my life depended on it. In the magnet high school, the work became harder. I was no longer at the very top of my class; sometimes I even fell out of the top thirty. Each time, my mother would beat me with a hateful fury, not stopping until she was exhausted. I just endured it silently. A single thought became a prayer in my heart. Yes, that’s it. Harder. Just kill me. Kill me. Please, just kill me. 7 After my final exams, my mother filled out my college applications for me. She chose the local state college. “There’s no need to go far away,” she said with a smile. “The education program here is excellent. People fight to get into it.” I just nodded. When my acceptance letter arrived, the neighbors all congratulated her, praising me for being so filial and staying close to home. Only my high school guidance counselor sighed. “With your scores, this is a real waste.” But then, thinking of my family situation, he just shook his head. “It must be hard on you. Your mother hasn’t had it easy either.” I knew it would be this way. When the ending is already written, why struggle against the plot? It only brings more pain. After college, I got a teaching job in the local school district. Mrs. Gable, now with a full head of white hair, told my mother, “Elaine, you’ve finally made it. You can finally rest easy.” My mother cried and laughed at the same time. I looked at her through the crowd of well-wishers, just as I had looked at her on the day I was pulled from the rubble. Mom, back then, were you happy that one daughter lived, or sad that one daughter died? Mom, are you happy now? Mom, am I a good daughter now? 8 Everyone said my mother’s life was tragic. She lost her husband, then a daughter, and raised one all by herself. And just when she had finally made it, I got sick. Stomach cancer. Stage two. When I saw the diagnosis, I was surprisingly calm. Hunger had been the constant companion of my youth, and the stomach is an emotional organ. I’d felt the discomfort for a long time, but I was so used to it, I couldn’t tell the difference between pain and hunger anymore. I was used to enduring. I had no intention of getting treatment. I decided to leave all my savings to my mother for her retirement. I tried to hide it from her, but she found the doctor’s report under my mattress. She read it over and over, then let out a desperate scream, tearing at her own hair. I tried to stop her, but she shoved me away with violent force. She pointed at me, then at the portraits on the wall, her eyes wide and bulging, her face twisted into a grotesque mask. “If I had known you were going to die young anyway, I should have let you die back then!” “You debt collector! You should be the one to die!” My hands fell limply to my sides. After a long moment, I whispered, “I know.” That night, I left home. I walked to the river and let the cold wind carry me into the water. No last words. No regrets. I was an obedient daughter. Wasn’t I?

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My mother was once a celebrated actress, bathed in the glow of the spotlight. But when my father’s first love returned from overseas, that glow soured, and the world branded my mother a homewrecker who had schemed her way to the top. She divorced my father and abandoned the career she cherished. Everyone said it was karma, that she was finally getting what she deserved. But it wasn’t until after she died, when five videos she recorded before her death dominated the trending topics, that the truth finally began to claw its way into the light. 1 “Julie Whitlock is dead!” The exclamation ripped through the classroom chatter. The guy in front of me was staring at his phone, his face a mask of shock. I had been dozing, my head pillowed on my arms, but the sudden crescendo of noise jolted me awake. I lifted my head, blinking, and saw my classmates clustered together, their faces lit by the blue light of their screens, buzzing with excitement. Class wouldn’t start for another few minutes. I glanced at my watch, stretched languidly, and, mimicking the others, pulled out my own phone. The words blazing across the top of the screen froze the air in my lungs. “Whoa, even the class hermit is rocked by this news,” the guy in front of me said, turning around. “I guess it makes sense. Julie Whitlock was famously shameless. A homewrecker who bullied her way through every set. Who’d have thought someone like her would kill herself?” “Guilt, probably,” someone else chimed in. “Everyone knows she stole Director Marsh’s first love and basically forced her out of the country for years.” “But she retired, right? Why commit suicide now?” “I don’t know. Karma’s a bitch, I guess.” The discussion spiraled, their voices a chaotic symphony of speculation. The chirping gossip inside and the deafening drone of cicadas outside scorched my sanity. The sweltering summer air seemed to warp the world around me, bending it into a grotesque funhouse mirror. I sat frozen, silent. Beneath the desk, my hands clenched into fists so tight my nails bit deep into my palms, drawing blood. The shameless woman they were dissecting, Julie Whitlock… She was my mother. 2 My mother was the youngest actress to ever win the prestigious Golden Iris Award. She was also, by all accounts, the bravest. She was twenty-eight when she accepted the award, and on that very same night, during her acceptance speech, she announced her marriage to my father. The move was polarizing. Her fanbase hemorrhaged overnight. But it also earned her a wave of admiration. People called her genuine, spirited, a woman who lived by her own rules. As a celebrated screenwriter and an award-winning actress, their love story became the stuff of Hollywood legend. After I was born, my mother didn’t slow down. She dove back into her work with a ferocious passion, and with my father’s unwavering support, she collected awards like they were sea shells on a beach. Directors lined up, desperate to catch a ride on her rising star. Among them was the woman who would ultimately be the architect of my mother’s downfall. Lydia Marsh. Like my mother, she was a titan in her field. After studying film abroad, she made a name for herself with a unique and powerful visual language, racking up international awards while still in her youth. At the time, everyone believed a collaboration between Lydia and my mother would be a historic event, a bridge between domestic and international cinema. But then, a single piece of gossip shattered the calm. 3 Fame, reputation, the court of public opinion—they are all a double-edged sword. When you’re on top, everyone is your friend. But when you fall, they’re the ones pushing you down. During the theatrical run of their film, First Love, a rumor about my father, Graham Thorne, and the director, Lydia Marsh, began to spread like wildfire. The story was that the film’s protagonists, tragically separated by a cruel twist of fate, were based on them. And the villain of the piece, the malicious rival who spread lies, bullied the heroine, and drove her from her home? That was my mother, Julie Whitlock. The rumor was a cancer, a creeping rot that ate away at the public’s reason. Soon, the admiration for a young, brilliant actress curdled into a morbid curiosity, a collective hunger to see someone who had soared so high be torn from the sky, broken and bleeding. A flawless saint is admirable, but a twisted, fallen angel is far more entertaining. I was only five at the time, but I could feel the atmosphere in our home shift, growing heavy and cold. There was nothing I could do. I could only watch as my mother’s spirit frayed, as she wasted away, becoming a ghost of her former self. I thought, with the naivete of a child, that the storm would pass, that time would wash the scandal from public memory. But a few months later, the news of my parents’ divorce pierced my world. 4 Due to her “deteriorating mental state,” the court deemed my mother unfit to raise me. My father took me to his new home. And just like that, Lydia Marsh became my stepmother. She was much as I’d imagined. She wore rimless glasses and favored loose, bohemian-style linen shirts. At first glance, she projected an aura of gentle, intellectual warmth. But when I looked at her, all I could see was the hidden mass of an iceberg, the vast, deadly bulk of it concealed beneath a placid surface. The scandal had an unintended side effect: First Love shattered box-office records. Lydia Marsh became a household name. Meanwhile, the negative press about my mother became a relentless deluge. Bullying actors, sordid affairs, trading favors for roles, diva-like behavior on set—a torrent of accusations, some true, some fabricated, all stuck to her name like tar. In those days, you could say anything you wanted about Julie Whitlock, and the world would nod in agreement, adding their own poison to the pot. I never felt comfortable in my new home. I would wake from nightmares, crying out for my real mother. Whenever this happened, my father’s face would harden. He would grip my shoulders, forcing me to meet his cold, unwavering gaze. “Cassia,” he would say, his voice low and final. “Listen to me. From now on, Lydia is your mother.” “But she’s not—” “Quiet!” My father wasn’t a man given to smiles, but he wasn’t prone to anger either. In my memory, he was always calm, unflappable, a man of few emotional waves. The sudden, sharp command startled the protest from my lips. I never dared to speak of it again. My intuition, a child’s unerring compass, screamed at me. None of this was normal. And there was a secret buried at the heart of it all, a secret I knew I must never, ever touch. 5 After the divorce, I hardly ever saw my mother. The only glimpses I got of her were through the cruel filter of the internet. She held a press conference. She admitted to everything. On camera, her hair was neatly combed, her clothes impeccable, but the raw, bloodshot state of her eyes betrayed the hell she’d been living through. Assailed by a barrage of questions from reporters, she announced her retirement from acting. The announcement was like throwing meat to sharks. The public, seizing the opportunity, launched into one final, brutal character assassination. And then, buried under an avalanche of condemnation, the name Julie Whitlock vanished from the world. Until fifteen years later, when the news of her death dragged her back into the spotlight. “Cassia? You’re not even listening. This is huge… Hey, class is about to start. Where are you going?” Ignoring the voice calling after me, I grabbed my backpack and walked out of the classroom. On the way home, I called my father again and again, but every call went straight to voicemail. I tried Lydia, but her phone was switched off. A strange tide of unease washed over me. I tried to steady my hammering heart as I pushed open the front door to my house. “Cassia, shouldn’t you be at school—” I didn’t let Lydia finish. I brushed past her, my eyes scanning the house for my father. I pushed open the door to the conservatory, and the cloying scent of flowers hit me like a physical blow. I wrinkled my nose and stepped inside, searching. Finally, I saw him. He was resting in a wicker rocking chair, bathed in a sliver of sunlight pouring through the glass panes. “My mother is dead,” I said, my voice flat. “Your mother is outside, preparing lunch.” “You know that’s not who I mean.” I was ready to argue, but he opened his eyes. He looked me up and down, a slow, deliberate appraisal. Then he stood, and his hand shot out, clamping down on my shoulder like a vice. “Cassia Thorne,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “Your mother is standing right behind you.” My body went rigid. I turned my head, a slow, mechanical movement. Lydia was there, a smile plastered on her face. The dappled shadows of leaves danced across her features, twisting her expression into something grotesque and alien. The sunlight sliced the conservatory into geometric shapes of light and dark. He stood in the light, she stood in the shadow, and I was trapped on the line between them. 6 In the age of information, waves of public interest crest and crash with bewildering speed. A week later, my mother’s death was old news, forgotten by the masses. Just as before, no matter what I tried, I couldn’t pry a single piece of information about her from my father or Lydia. Our house was an island, completely cut off from anything related to Julie Whitlock. My questions and frustrations festered with no outlet. On the night that marked a week since her death, I snuck out into the backyard. I was going to light a candle for her, a small, secret vigil. Suddenly, the silence was shattered by the chime of my phone. A flood of notifications poured in, and my mother’s name once again commanded my attention. The trending topics were dominated by hashtags: #JulieWhitlockVideo, #JulieWhitlockResurrected, #JulieWhitlock, #SchoolBullying. My fingers shaking, I tapped on the first one. My mother’s official social media account, dormant for over a decade, had just posted a video. The footage was grainy, clearly old. In the video, a girl with a high ponytail was on the ground, her clothes disheveled. Two pairs of feet were visible, relentlessly kicking and stomping on her body. After a moment of brutal violence and muffled sobs, a figure in the same school uniform emerged from behind the camera. She stepped forward, gently caressed the crying girl’s cheek, and then, in a swift, vicious motion, grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head against the floor. The sound was a sickening crack. The screen went black just before the blood could stain the lens. The mysterious video sparked a firestorm online. The shocking content, the timing of the post, the fact that it came from a dead woman’s account—any one of these elements would have been enough to fuel days of frantic speculation. But as I watched it, a chill that had nothing to do with the night air crept down my spine. Others might be confused by the blurry footage. But I wasn’t. I would know that silhouette anywhere. The figure who emerged at the end, the one who delivered that final, brutal blow… that was my mother. 7 A dead woman posting videos from beyond the grave became the internet’s new obsession. Phone in hand, I found my father and shoved the screen in his face. “Don’t tell me you don’t know who this is.” He was sitting under the small locust tree in the conservatory. He gave the screen a dismissive glance. The harsh sunlight glinted off his glasses, obscuring his eyes, but I could see his hands, tending to the plant, never once faltering. “Cassia, you should be in school.” “Then you need to tell me what’s going on. Why would Mom’s account suddenly post a video like this with no context? People aren’t stupid. It won’t take them long to figure out—” “Do you think,” he interrupted, his voice calm, “that what the person in that video did was right?” The unexpected question stopped me cold. My father stood up, his body blocking the sun. He reached past me and picked up a Blu-ray case from the table. It was Lydia’s masterpiece, First Love. The cover art was famous: it didn’t show the faces of the stars, only their backs as they stood in a swirling snowstorm, facing a warmly lit phone booth. Critics had called it a symbol of missed connections and eventual reunion. I didn’t understand why he was showing it to me now. “Of course it wasn’t right. But at a time like this, a video like this—” “Then should they have repented?” His voice was hoarse, his brow deeply furrowed. “Dad, what are you hiding from me?” My question seemed to pull him back to reality. He picked up the Blu-ray case, polished it absently with his thumb, and then pressed it into my hand. “That’s enough. Don’t overthink it. Go get some rest.” 8 I was certain my father was hiding something. But getting the truth from him right now was clearly impossible. I spent hours online, digging through archives, searching for anything related to my mother’s high school years. She was always a perfectionist. Even after deciding to pursue acting, she never let her grades slip. Her name and photo were regulars on the school’s honor roll. In the photos, she wore a crisp white shirt, her shoulder-length hair neatly styled. She looked every bit the model student. Beneath one picture was a quote she had chosen as her personal motto at seventeen. “Despair is not an option. And so, farewell.” It was a line from a Sylvia Plath poem. It felt jarringly out of place. As I scrolled through the school’s archived website, a familiar name in a small information box caught my eye. Lydia Marsh. She had founded a photography club with a few other students. One of their projects had even won a local award. And my mother… had joined the club in the second semester of her junior year. I’d already suspected that Lydia and my mother knew each other from way back, given the whole “first love” scandal, but I never imagined they were in the same club in high school. If that bullying video was real, could Lydia have been involved? Could one of the two pairs of kicking feet at the beginning have belonged to her? And did their secret have something to do with my father? Who was the girl being beaten? And did any of this have to do with my mother’s death? Staring at the list of photography club members, I was lost in a labyrinth of questions. 9 “Cassia? Were you looking for me?” Lydia stopped adjusting the lens on her camera and turned to me, a warm smile on her face. “Yeah.” I pulled up a chair and sat down opposite her. She seemed completely at ease, nodding as if she were ready to give me her full attention. My fingers tightened around the recording pen in my pocket. I took a deep breath and showed her the video on my phone. She took the phone, her expression unchanging as she watched. When it finished, her gaze shifted back to me. “That was just something I shot for fun in high school,” she said lightly. “You could say it was my first real foray into filmmaking.” “The girl in it… the main one… that was my mother, wasn’t it?” “Yes.” She admitted it so readily that it threw me off balance. Perhaps a flicker of my confusion showed on my face, because a small, knowing smile touched her lips. “Cassia, are you curious about Julie? About your mother?” The tables had turned. She was now the one in control, and I didn’t know how to respond. She stood up, walked behind me, and placed a glass of lemonade on the table before resting her hands gently on my shoulders. “We were the best of friends in high school. Inseparable. We even made a pact: I would become the world’s greatest director, and she would be the world’s greatest actress.” She let out a soft sigh. “Unfortunately, Julie… she always had a terrible temper. You saw the video. She couldn’t handle it when another girl was cast as the lead in the school play instead of her. So she took it out on her.” “The girl in the video?” Lydia’s hands squeezed my shoulders gently. “Yes. The incident got pretty big, and our little club was quietly disbanded. After that, our ideals no longer aligned. We drifted apart.” Her answers were so direct, her story so logical. I replayed it in my mind, searching for a crack, a flaw in the narrative, but found none. I must have been silent for too long, because Lydia circled around and knelt in front of me, taking my hands in hers. “I know this is hard to accept, Cassia. Your father didn’t tell you any of this for all these years because he didn’t want to hurt you.” “What happened to the girl who was bullied?” I asked, my voice flat. Lydia’s grip on my hands tightened for a fraction of a second. She lowered her head, her expression unreadable, and sighed again. “She died.”

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Anna, our housekeeper’s daughter, had a gift for taking what was mine. Anything I loved, she’d snatch away. Now she wanted my custom-designed wedding. At dinner, she put on a wounded look. “A wedding is once-in-a-lifetime,” she sniffled. “I’m not creative like Sera… I couldn’t book a ballroom…” My father turned to me: “Give Anna your designs. You can make another.” My mother added: “Your reception’s in the evening. We’ll put Anna’s in the afternoon. Your décor will be used twice.” Anna smirked. “And Sera—remove your names from everything. I’d be embarrassed if my friends saw them.” They wanted to hijack my venue and leave me with scraps. I looked at them and laughed coldly. “You’re sure?” I asked, voice calm. “Absolutely sure you want my venue?” After their smug confirmation, I dialed a number: “Deliver fifty funeral wreaths to The Grand Astoria. And two crates of votive candles and ceremonial money.” If they wanted to ruin my wedding, they could have a funeral instead. 1 “Sera, is this it? The wedding design that cost a fortune?” Anna leaned in close, her eyes fixed on the blueprints in my hands, a flicker of raw envy in their depths. I nodded curtly, moving to close the portfolio. But Anna’s hand shot out, clamping down on mine. “Can I just see them? Please?” she begged. “I’m getting married soon, too. I just want some inspiration.” I refused without a second thought. Every single detail in that design was a piece of me, meticulously planned. I wasn’t sharing it with anyone. “There are plenty of designs online. Go look for yourself.” I pulled my hand away, ignoring the pathetic, pleading look she gave me as I walked away. Anna had been stealing from me her whole life. She was just the housekeeper’s daughter, but she was a master at playing the victim in front of my parents, twisting every situation until I was the villain. They’d fall for it every time, taking pity on her and handing over whatever gift was meant for me. When I was six, she scraped her knee and cried until they gave her my favorite porcelain doll. At my debutante ball, she showed up drenched from a supposed fall into the fountain and walked away with my custom-made gown. Just last week, she claimed to be having nightmares and my parents made me swap rooms, giving her the bedroom I’d lived in for twenty years. Only one thing was truly mine: Reid, my fiancé. He was the one prize she’d spent years scheming for but could never, ever steal. Now, all my hopes were pinned on this wedding. Once I was married, I would finally be free of this suffocating house. Later, at the dinner table, the drama started right on cue. Anna sat with her head down, her eyes red-rimmed, the very picture of misery. My mother couldn’t stand it. Her anger immediately flared, aimed squarely at me. “Did you bully Anna again?” “You have everything, Seraphina! Why can’t you be a little more generous and just let her have this one thing?” My father glared at me, his disappointment a palpable force. “The older you get, the more selfish you become.” With her audience secured, Anna began to sob theatrically. “Miss Seraphina has never liked me, I know that,” she whispered. “If you’re still angry about the room, I’ll get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness, I will!” She turned her tear-streaked face to my parents. “I just wanted to look at her wedding designs. A wedding is a once-in-a-lifetime moment, and I don’t want any regrets… but I’m not clever like she is. I can’t design something beautiful myself…” Her voice trailed off into a pathetic whimper, and my parents looked like their hearts were breaking. I, however, remained unmoved, calmly picking at my food. The entire table was laden with sweet dishes Anna adored; not a single spicy entree that I loved. “Seraphina, are you deaf?” my mother snapped, pulling Anna into a protective hug. “Did you not hear what she said? Do you really need her to kneel before you’re satisfied?” My father issued his decree. “Go get your designs and give them to Anna. You’re a designer. It won’t take you any time to whip up something new.” Anna’s tears vanished instantly, replaced by a radiant smile. “Oh, thank you, Papa Sterling! I knew you and Mama Sterling were the kindest people in the world.” Listening to the three of them decide the fate of my work, I had to laugh. I set down my fork and looked directly at the two people flanking Anna like royal guards. “Tell me,” I asked, my voice eerily calm. “Am I actually your daughter?” “Why is it you always believe her, but never me? Does the one who cries the loudest always get to be right?” It was the question that had haunted me for years, a puzzle I could never solve. I remembered a time, before Anna and her mother arrived, when they had loved me. A child who has known love can never truly accept its absence. My question seemed to stun them into silence for a moment. Anna’s expression tightened with anxiety. The next second, she threw herself to the floor in front of me, grabbing my hand and slapping it against her own cheek. “I’m so sorry, Miss Seraphina! I shouldn’t have coveted your things! Please don’t be angry with your parents!” My mother was the first to react, surging forward and striking me hard across the face. “If it weren’t for your constant bullying, Anna wouldn’t be having nightmares every night! Of course you should have given her your room! What right do you have to be so angry?” My father pulled Anna to her feet, his gaze cold as ice. “You don’t get to speak that way in this house.” “You ungrateful child,” he seethed. “We’ve given you everything, and this is the thanks we get? You begrudge us one little blueprint?” I cradled my stinging cheek, a bitter, self-mocking nod my only answer. If they wouldn’t believe me no matter what I said… then I would stop talking. I swallowed down the lifetime of injustice and looked up, my expression placid. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have made a fuss. It’s just a room I didn’t want anymore anyway.” “But,” I added, my voice hardening, “she is absolutely not getting my design.” Ignoring the renewed storm of curses behind me, I walked away, retreating to the small guest room and collapsing against the wall, my body finally giving out. The next morning, Reid arrived to take me for my wedding dress fitting. As I reached for the passenger door, Anna darted past me and slid into the seat. “Reid,” she cooed, “I want to look at wedding dresses too. Can I come along?” I yanked the door open and pulled her out by the arm. “Who told you to sit here? Did I say you were invited?” As expected, Anna’s eyes immediately filled with tears. She was wearing a pale, strappy sundress and a touch of innocent-looking makeup. When she cried, she looked like a fragile flower, designed to evoke pity. My mother’s voice was sharp with fury. “It’s just a seat, Seraphina! Have we ever denied you anything? Get in the back and let Anna have the front. Stop embarrassing us!” Anna seized her moment. “I’m sorry, Miss Seraphina, I didn’t mean to take your seat. It’s just… I get carsick in the back…” She shot a helpless, pleading look past me, at Reid. I stepped aside, revealing him completely. “You tell me, Reid,” I said, my voice level. “Who sits here?” 2 Reid smoothed a stray strand of hair from my face. “You do, of course,” he said, his voice a warm caress. “My future wife.” His gaze then flicked to the red-eyed Anna. “And for the record,” he added coolly, “I have no taste for crocodile tears.” Color flooded Anna’s face. “Reid, I… I wasn’t…” she stammered, utterly humiliated. In the end, Anna still came with us. At the bridal boutique, I lounged on a plush velvet sofa, scrolling through designer gowns on a tablet. “Pick the most expensive one, darling,” Reid said, kissing my temple. “We can afford it.” I blew him a kiss back and selected the boutique’s signature couture gown. While I waited for the seamstress, Anna emerged holding the cheapest dress in the store, a pained look on her face. “You’re so lucky, Sera,” she sighed. “Having a fiancé like Reid who’s willing to spend so much.” She turned to him, her expression a mask of wide-eyed innocence. “But a wedding dress is only for one day. Do you really need to spend a fortune on it? Reid, aren’t you worried she’ll spend all your money?” The implication was clear, a venomous whisper beneath her sweet tone: A frugal, sensible woman like me would be a much better choice. I wasn’t about to let her play that game. I set the tablet aside and gave her a lazy, knowing smile. “You said it yourself, Anna. You only wear it once. Why wouldn’t you wear the absolute best?” I leaned forward, my voice dropping. “Or is it that you don’t think you’re worthy of the best?” Her face fell. Her eyes welled up again as she looked desperately at Reid, clearly expecting him to rush to her defense. But Reid didn’t even glance her way. He simply seconded my point. “My fiancée is right. And if she manages to spend all my money, it just means I’m not earning enough.” Just then, the boutique owner herself arrived, carrying the shop’s masterpiece. It was a magnificent creation of heavy silk and intricate embroidery, shimmering under the lights. It instantly made the cheap, polyester dress in Anna’s hands look like a dull, lifeless rag. “You should work on your self-worth, Anna dear,” I purred, giving her a saccharine smile before sweeping into the fitting room. When I emerged in the gown, I found Anna with her back to Reid, contorting herself awkwardly. “Oh, Reid,” she simpered, “the zipper is stuck. My arms can’t reach. Could you possibly help me?” I swept forward, the long train of my gown whispering across the floor. I grabbed her zipper and yanked it up so hard she gasped. “Put your cheap tricks away,” I said, my voice low and dangerous. “If you can’t dress yourself properly, then don’t wear it at all. And stop throwing yourself at my fiancé.” The other brides in the shop heard me. Their eyes, filled with contempt, turned on Anna. “Shameless. Trying to seduce another woman’s husband.” “Seriously, what is she thinking? Look at the real couple, they’re perfect together. He’d have to be blind to even look at her.” The whispers were like daggers. Anna looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole. But without my parents to defend her, she could only let out a choked sob and flee the boutique. With the pest gone, Reid and I selected three more outfits and finalized everything for the reception. On the way home, my phone rang. It was the hotel manager. “Miss Sterling, just calling to inform you that another party has booked the ballroom for a luncheon on your wedding day.” “But don’t worry,” he continued, his tone breezy. “They’re in the afternoon, you’re in the evening. The other couple doesn’t plan to decorate, so your setup can proceed as scheduled. It won’t affect you at all.” Won’t affect me? If they had a luncheon, my decorations would already have to be fully installed. I fought to keep my voice even. “If the luncheon was already booked, why wasn’t I notified sooner? And if they don’t plan to decorate, does that mean they plan to use my décor for free?” I could feel my temper rising. “Are you telling me that my unique, custom-designed wedding is going to be a backdrop for someone else first? That I’m spending all this money just to have a secondhand reception?” 3 The more I spoke, the angrier I became. The thought of all my hard work, my personal vision, being used by strangers for free made me tremble with rage. But the manager’s attitude was infuriatingly dismissive, almost condescending. “Now, Miss Sterling, that’s not the right way to look at it. Technically, they are using the venue first. You should be thanking them for allowing you to set up early.” Thanking them? I almost choked on a laugh. I was paying a premium for an exclusive venue, for a specific time and service. And now my unique creation was being turned into a freebie for someone else, and I was expected to be grateful? “I don’t think so,” I said, my voice like ice. “If they’re not decorating, they’re not using mine either. I’ll have everything covered up until my event begins.” The manager actually chuckled, a smug sound. “Of course, you’re welcome to do that. There will be an additional fee for the drapes and labor, of course.” I was stunned into silence. “Your hotel created this problem, and you expect me to pay to fix it?” I may have money, but I’m not an idiot. As I started to protest further, he cut me off impatiently and hung up. When I stormed into the hotel, the first thing I saw was my parents, laughing and chatting with the manager. For a split second, I thought they had heard about the scheduling conflict and had come to fight for me. I should have known better. The moment they saw me, the cheerful conversation died. My mother cleared her throat. “Your father and I booked the luncheon for Anna,” she announced, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. “That way, your décor gets used twice, and you don’t have to go to the trouble of designing something for her.” My father nodded in agreement. “You should be thanking Anna for coming up with such a clever, efficient solution. It saves you so much work.” At that moment, Anna stepped out from behind them, a victorious smirk playing on her lips. “Oh, and Sera, it’s probably best if you don’t put your names on any of the decorations. It would be so awkward if my guests saw them.” “Yes, exactly!” my mother chimed in. “Anna is so thoughtful.” Something inside me snapped. I stared at my parents, incredulous. “You know how much this wedding means to me, how much of myself I’ve poured into it, and you’re telling me I can’t even put my own name on it? Is that fair?” “I am your daughter! Why do I have to give up everything for her? Why does my once-in-a-lifetime wedding have to be trampled on like this?!” My voice rose to a raw, ragged scream, filled with the agony of a lifetime of confusion and hurt. The wedding was only a week away. Every other decent venue was booked solid. I was trapped. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, my eyes burning. For the first time, I wondered why it was so damn hard for me to just have one beautiful day that was all my own. “Is letting Anna use it for a few hours ‘trampling’ on it?” my mother shot back, her voice dripping with scorn. “You’re being selfish! Have you ever stopped to think about all the pain you’ve caused her?” She threw Anna’s fabricated grievances in my face like daggers. “Her invitations have already gone out,” my father declared, his tone final. “You’ll do it, whether you like it or not.” He thrust a gold-embossed invitation into my hand. I looked down at it. And then, I started to laugh. Because I finally understood. I finally saw the real reason for my parents’ unwavering devotion to Anna. I looked up, my eyes sweeping over all of them, a slow, mocking smile on my face. “You’re absolutely sure you want to use my venue and my decorations? Fine. I agree.”

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For eight years, Bryan despised my best friend. “What right does she have to comment on our lives? Stay away from her.” But then, he was the one who started getting close to her. The engagement ring I’d waited eight years for became his Children’s Day gift to her. When I confronted him through my tears, he just sneered. “Isn’t she your best friend? Why are you being so hypocritical?” 1 Leaving the lab, I scrolled through my social media feed and saw that a senior from my program had gotten engaged. My thumb hovered over the screen for a moment. Finally, I liked the post and sent a screenshot to Bryan. It took him a long time to reply. When he did, it was just two words: “That’s nice.” I stopped walking. “Are you busy right now?” Another long pause. Then, another message: “Yeah.” The carelessness, the indifference—it bled through the screen, even in a single word. “Okay, I won’t bother you then.” I had been about to ask him, half-jokingly, “So, when are we getting engaged?” But staring at those two cold messages, the courage I had mustered evaporated. I couldn’t bring myself to type a single letter. This was the eighth year of our relationship. I was in my first year of a PhD program. Bryan’s company had just secured over a hundred million in funding. “When do you think he’s going to propose?” I had asked my best friend, “Is he just too buried in work to even think about it? Should I drop a hint?” “Absolutely not!” she had insisted, shaking her head. “No girl should ever have to bring that up. It’s so desperate.” “Just be patient,” she’d said, her tone sincere. “You’re still in school. Maybe he wants his career to be even more stable before he asks you.” 2 On the way home, a sudden downpour started. I didn’t have an umbrella, so I used my textbook as a flimsy shield, dashing for cover. I missed a step, my foot slipped, and I went down hard into a deep puddle. Soaked and limping, I dragged myself under an awning and tried to call Bryan. No answer. I typed out a message: I fell and hurt myself. Can you come get me? Just as I was about to hit send, my eyes drifted to the restaurant across the street. And through the large plate-glass window, I saw him. Bryan. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He was looking at the person across from him with an expression of relaxed, genuine pleasure. Sitting opposite him was my best friend, Stella Lin. She was holding a small, red velvet box. Inside, a pink diamond ring glittered under the restaurant’s soft lighting. The rain was a deafening roar, and the glass muffled all sound, but I could read her lips. “Thank you, Bryan. I love it.” I stood frozen outside the window, the cold from my soaked dress seeping into my bones. My textbook and all the papers inside were ruined. I started to shiver uncontrollably. Just as a tear was about to fall, Bryan seemed to sense something. He turned his head, and his eyes met mine through the rain-streaked glass. He shot to his feet. “…Jenna.” 3 A hostess led me inside. A cello played a mournful, elegant melody. I was a complete mess, and nearly everyone in the restaurant turned to stare. “Jenna, what are you doing here?” Stella asked, her expression perfectly normal. She linked her arm through mine as if nothing was wrong. “I was just telling Bryan that it’s Children’s Day. I told him he should wrap up this celebration dinner early so he could go home and spend it with you.” I stared at her. “Celebration dinner?” “Yes! The company landed a huge contract today, so we were supposed to have a big party. But everyone else had plans, so it was just us two, left all alone.” “What’s there to celebrate about Children’s Day?” Bryan scoffed, a slight frown on his face. “Don’t assume Jenna is as childish as you are.” Even though she was just an intern at his company, Stella wasn’t intimidated by him at all. She just rolled her eyes. “Right, right. I’m the childish one. You’re the mature, all-powerful CEO.” Their banter was so familiar, so practiced. It wasn’t hostile; it was flirtatious. I blinked away the raindrops clinging to my eyelashes, my gaze locked on Bryan’s face. “The ring.” “Why did you give her a ring?” He was silent for a moment. “It’s Children’s Day. It’s just a toy for a little girl.” I turned to look at Stella. Just for a second, I saw a flicker of a smile in her eyes. It was cold, mocking, and laced with malice. But when I looked again, it was gone, replaced by her usual innocent warmth. “Oh, this?” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “It’s not a real diamond. It’s just a toy.” “I confessed to a guy I have a crush on the other day, and he rejected me. I was heartbroken, so Bryan bought this to cheer me up. Right, Bryan?” Something flickered in Bryan’s normally cool, unreadable eyes. But in the end, he just nodded. “Right.” There was an undercurrent between them, a shared secret I wasn’t privy to. I stood there, my lips pale, my hands twisting the hem of my ruined dress. I couldn’t stop the burning sting in my eyes. “…Is that really it?” “Of course it is. I should get going.” Stella dropped the ring into her purse. She took a few steps, then turned back, a bright smile on her face. “Happy Children’s Day, Jenna.” 4 The cello music continued to play. “Who’s the guy Stella has a crush on?” I asked. “I don’t know.” “…I want a ring like that, too.” “It’s a toy for a little girl. Are you going to whine about that, too? Can’t you be a little more mature?” Bryan sat across from me, his eyes glancing at my injured leg. “Have you eaten? Do you want me to take a look at your knee?” I took a deep breath, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “Bryan, do you remember?” “In high school, I fell during a relay race. You didn’t even ask what happened. You just ran straight to the nurse’s office and came back with disinfectant and bandages.” His expression turned cold. “Jenna, what are you trying to say?” What was I trying to say? At sixteen, Bryan had been cool and aloof, but he had been so worried when I got hurt that his face had turned pale. At twenty-six, Bryan was successful and powerful, but sitting in front of me now, he felt like a stranger, an adversary. I dug my nails into my palm, forcing myself to speak calmly. “It’s a holiday. You’re having dinner alone with another woman, and you gave her a diamond ring. Am I not allowed to ask about it?” “Another woman?” Bryan let out a short, mocking laugh. “When I rejected her resume, who was it that begged me, going on and on about ‘my dearest Stella,’ insisting that I give her an internship?” “Today, she closed a deal, so we had a celebratory dinner. And now you’re starting a fight.” “Jenna, when did you become so hypocritical?” My eyes widened in disbelief. Tears instantly blurred my vision. We had been together for eight years, childhood friends for twenty-two. We had been through everything together. At his parents’ funeral, he had clung to me, his eyes red, unable to even cry. I had stroked his hair, crying with him, trying to find the words to comfort him. “You still have me,” I had whispered. “You still have me.” Later, when my own parents divorced and my father took all the money, leaving me with nothing for tuition, he had been the one to step up. “Jenna, you just focus on your studies. I’ll take care of the tuition,” he had said, his eyes serious. “I’m going to give you a good life.” We had navigated so many hardships together, and we had finally made it. I never thought he would ever speak to me like this. “We’ve been together for eight years, and you’ve never given me a ring. But you gave one to her.” “Am I not allowed to ask?” “Bryan, am I not allowed to ask?!” I was sobbing now, my questions raw with pain. He just looked at me, his expression flat. In the dim corner of the restaurant, under the warm yellow light, I covered my face, my breath catching in my throat. I looked up and saw him glance down at his phone. A dark emotion flickered in his eyes. He quickly turned the screen off when he saw me looking. His Adam’s apple bobbed. He suddenly stood up, towering over me. “Something came up at the office. I have to go.” “Since you’re not hungry, you can get a cab home.” 5 I limped home, the wound on my knee a sticky mess of dirt and blood. As I cleaned it, wincing in pain, tears streamed down my face. It wasn’t always like this between us. When we were kids, I was small and scrawny, an easy target for bullies. He would fight them for me, even when he was outnumbered, swinging his fists even with blood streaming down his face. They were so scared of him that they never bothered me again. In his junior year of college, he started his own company. I was right there with him, running around, meeting with clients. One night, after drinking too much at a business dinner, I ended up in the hospital with acute gastritis. That’s where I met Stella. She was an undergraduate in my department, and we bonded instantly. We became inseparable. At first, she couldn’t stand Bryan. “Jenna, you give so much to him. Does he even deserve it?” she would say. “He’s out there building his company, and his girlfriend ends up in the hospital from drinking for him. He’s useless.” Bryan hated her right back. When I was discharged from the hospital, he went straight to a lawyer and had half the company shares transferred to my name. “What right does she have to judge us?” he had said. “Stay away from her.” I was never one for confrontation, so I tried to play peacemaker, but it was no use. I remember one time, I was at a nail salon with Stella and missed a call from him. He drove all the way there in a rainstorm and stood outside the door, his voice like ice. “Jenna. Come here.” Stella, admiring her freshly painted nails, had just smirked. “What, does he need you to go get drunk for his pathetic little company again?” Back then, they were mortal enemies. Then, in Stella’s senior year, she needed an internship. By then, I was in my second year of my master’s program, and Bryan’s company was doing very well. She wanted to work for him. She clung to my arm, whining and pleading. “Bryan’s company is in an emerging industry. It’s a perfect match for my major.” “And, Jenna,” she’d added with a wink, “I can keep an eye on him for you. Make sure he’s not getting too friendly with any of his female employees.” I had just laughed and patted her hand. “That’s not going to happen. We’ve been together for five years. We’re solid.” That night, I brought it up with Bryan. He was reading a contract under the lamplight. He just chuckled mockingly. “Stella Lin?” “Tell her to send her resume to HR.” But Stella had failed a class, and her resume was immediately screened out. She sat across from me, chewing on her bubble tea straw, her eyes red. “I was going through a rough time then. Bryan knows that. Why is he being so strict?” “I’m his girlfriend’s best friend!” That night, I went home and pleaded with him. “Stella really wants to work for you, Bryan. Please? It’s just a three-month internship. Her family is well-off, she probably has other plans. She might not even stay after graduation.” He had looked at me then, a strange, dark emotion swirling in his eyes. “Are you sure?” I nodded and threw my arms around him. “Bryan, you’re the best.” But I was wrong. Stella’s performance during her internship was outstanding. After graduation, she was offered a full-time position. And she had been there ever since. 6 After cleaning my knee, I threw away the pile of bloody, dirty tissues. I hesitated, then called Bryan. He didn’t answer. An hour later, he called back. When I answered, there was only silence on the other end, punctuated by the sound of his slightly ragged breathing. “So,” I asked softly, “are we breaking up?” “Jenna, are you crazy?” His reaction was immediate, his voice sharp with accusation. “We have one little fight, and you threaten to break up with me? When did you become so unreasonable?” Tears instantly welled in my eyes. I remembered a time, a year into our relationship, when we’d had another fight. I had glared at him, my eyes red, and said, “If you’re not happy with me, we can just break up.” He had pulled me into a tight hug, his voice filled with panic. “I’m never unhappy with you.” “Jenna, we’re just fighting. You can’t say that to me.” And now… this. A wave of exhaustion washed over me. I said nothing, just quietly ended the call. When I woke up, the rain had stopped. The apartment was empty. Bryan hadn’t come home. Probably from being out in the rain last night, my throat felt like it had been seared with a hot poker. My stomach was cramping violently. I forced down a couple of pills and headed to the university. We didn’t speak for three days. Then, one afternoon in the cafeteria, I got a text from Stella. “Jenna, where are you? I’ll come have lunch with you.” 7 “Did you and Bryan have a fight? Jenna, don’t be mad. He didn’t mean it.” Stella sat across from me in the crowded cafeteria. “The company lost a big contract a while back because of a leak,” she explained. “He’s been really stressed, that’s why he snapped at you.” My eyes fell to her hand, to the delicate, pale fingers adorned with the pink diamond ring. My throat felt tight. I swallowed hard and said, my voice low, “…He never told me.” Stella’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “You’re so busy with your studies. He probably didn’t want to bother you.” But why did you know? As if she could read my mind, Stella just smiled. “Jenna, did you forget? I work at his company. Of course I know what’s going on.” She laughed, then glanced down at her phone as it lit up. “Looks like you’re done eating. Let’s go.” Just outside the cafeteria, a familiar black Porsche was parked. I froze. I watched as Bryan got out of the car, his expression neutral as he looked in our direction. His gaze flickered past Stella’s beaming face and landed on me. “Bryan, I brought Jenna out,” Stella said cheerfully. “I’ve got to run.” Bryan frowned. “Where are you going?” Stella stopped and turned back to him, her eyes crinkling into a smile. “The guy who rejected me the other day suddenly wants to talk. I’m on my way to meet him now.” With that, she walked away without a backward glance. Bryan’s jaw tightened, his expression unreadable but dark. When I got into the car, I could still feel the waves of his displeasure radiating through the small space. 8 “Are you still angry?” After I asked, Bryan turned to look at me, as if snapping out of a trance. “No.” He said it flatly, then started the car. The silence in the car was heavy, strange. My eyes darted around, then stopped on something glittering in the corner of the passenger seat. It was a small, crystal-encrusted hair clip, catching the sunlight from the window. A Miu Miu hair clip. The one Stella always wore. A wave of something dark and formless surged through me, a thick, viscous liquid that seemed to suffocate my heart. I clenched my fist, the sharp edges of the clip digging into my palm. I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to keep my voice steady. “Has… has Stella been in your car?” “She said she was coming to see you,” he said, his voice clipped. “I gave her a ride.” Then why was she in the passenger seat? And under what circumstances would her hair clip fall off, and she wouldn’t even notice it was gone? My voice trembled. “Bryan.” “What now?” He glanced at me, his impatience obvious. “Do you know the guy Stella likes? Does he… does he really exist?” The light turned red. Bryan slammed on the brakes. He turned to face me. “Jenna, are you starting with the paranoia again?” he said, his voice cold. “Isn’t she your best friend? If you’re so suspicious, why don’t you just ask her?” “Can’t I ask you?” My eyes were red. “Bryan, you’re the one who gave her a ring, using her supposed rejection as an excuse. Is it wrong for me to ask you about it?” “So that’s what this is about. You just want jewelry, don’t you?” The light turned green. Bryan stepped on the gas, changing lanes and heading for the nearest shopping mall. He strode ahead, pulling me by the wrist into a high-end jewelry store. “Since you’re so jealous, why don’t you just pick one for yourself?” The bright lights of the store glinted off the gems in the display cases. The sales associates, sensing the icy tension between us, hesitated to approach. A wave of exhaustion and despair washed over me. I had dreamed of this moment, of coming to a place like this with Bryan to choose our wedding rings, countless times. I remembered when we were in college, working part-time jobs, we had walked past this very store. We had pressed our faces against the glass, staring at the price tags. In the end, we had only been able to afford a simple pair of silver rings. Bryan had squeezed my hand, his voice thick with emotion. “Jenna, when we make it, I’m going to buy you the most expensive ring in this store.” I had just smiled and squeezed his hand back. “But I don’t even like the expensive ones.” “As long as it’s from you, it’s perfect.”

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