Author: Momo Chan

I was scooping the cat’s litter, just like any other day, when I suddenly heard his voice in my head. This clumsy woman is so slow. I miss my real Mommy. Too bad she and Daddy went to Vegas. Where is Vegas, anyway? And why couldn’t they take their baby with them? My husband, Ethan, told me he was on a business trip with a colleague. Who the hell was “Mommy”? My hand froze mid-scoop. The cat, Snowball, raked his claws across the back of my hand, then narrowed his eyes, looking impossibly smug. Mommy said when the delivery guy comes, I just have to let him in. He’ll kill this stupid woman. And then the three of us can finally be a family again! Just then, a heavy knock echoed through the apartment. “Hello? Food delivery!” 1 I grabbed a tissue and pressed it against the bloody scratches on my hand, my eyes locked on the cat in disbelief. Ethan and I had been married for five years. I’d had this cat for five years. I fed him, I cleaned his filth, but he’d never once warmed up to me. He was always scratching me, or worse, perching on my bedside table in the dead of night, his green eyes glowing as he stared down at me with pure malice. One time, he’d swatted my face to wake me up, and I’d screamed, my heart hammering against my ribs. Ethan had just called me dramatic. “He just wants to play, Claire. Why are you screaming like that?” he’d sighed, scooping Snowball into his arms and stroking his fur. His gaze, when it met mine, was sharp with irritation. “You scared him. Apologize.” “I’m sorry,” I’d whispered, my hand over my chest, my nerves still shot. I’d tried to reason with him. “Can we please keep the bedroom door closed at night? He keeps coming in, I really can’t sleep.” Ethan’s brow furrowed. “No way. Snowball would miss me.” His voice turned cold. “Claire, what did you promise me before we got married? Didn’t we agree that Snowball is family, and that you would treat him like one?” “I do treat him well! I just baked him some fish crisps today—” “Enough!” Ethan cut me off. “Cats are smart. They know who really cares about them. If you were actually good to him, why would he always be scratching you? If you have nothing to hide, why are you so afraid of him?” He clutched Snowball tighter. “If you can’t accept him, then I’ll just take him and move out!” With his free hand, he snatched a pillow from our bed and threw it on the floor. “You can sleep in the guest room.” Kicked out of my own bedroom, I’d stood on the balcony, staring blankly at the glittering city lights, feeling utterly defeated. For five years, I had poured more effort into caring for Snowball than most people put into raising a child. I made all his food from scratch: salmon jerky, chicken and prawn pâté, beef and cod fillets. He was a picky eater, turning his nose up at anything that wasn’t gourmet. Twice-a-week trips to the groomer, vet check-ups every three months… I had managed every single detail of his life, and still, he hated me. I used to blame myself, thinking I wasn’t doing enough. But I never imagined it was because he already had another “Mommy.” Who was she? I stared at Snowball, my mind racing. The knocking at the door continued, more insistent now. “Hello? Delivery!” Snowball hissed at me, baring his teeth. Stupid woman, go open the door! Open the door, and that man will kill you! Then all your money, this whole apartment, it’ll all belong to my Mommy. Mommy said she’s going to tear down your stupid office and turn it into my room. A whole wall of climbing trees, just for me! Mommy is the best! A chill shot up my spine, raising goosebumps on my arms. It was real. This woman had hired a killer. It was eleven at night. I never ate this late. I hadn’t ordered any food. Outside, the man was banging now. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. Each blow was louder than the last, his voice laced with impatience. “Anybody home? C’mon, open up! I’ve got other deliveries to make!” I glanced at the front door. The standard one that came with the apartment was flimsy, so I’d spent over five thousand dollars upgrading it to a high-security model. The installer had sworn you’d need a full toolkit and at least four hours to pry it open. That brought me a sliver of comfort. “You have the wrong address,” I called out. “I didn’t order anything.” The knocking stopped. A moment of silence, then the man’s confused voice. “No, this is it. Apartment 901, for a Ms. Summers.” “Maybe a family member ordered it for you?” “No,” I said firmly. “You’re mistaken.” He knocked a few more times, then his voice dropped to an angry mutter. “The note says I have to deliver it directly into your hands. What is this, some kind of prank?” “I didn’t order any food. Neither did my family. If you don’t leave now, I’m calling building security!” The man paused, then I heard him cursing under his breath as he started making a phone call. Inside, Snowball was frantic. Why won’t she open the door? You stupid, stupid woman! He lunged, sinking his teeth into my pant leg, trying to drag me toward the door. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I kicked him, sending him flying across the polished floor. “Get off me!” “Meeeooww!” Snowball landed in a heap, his eyes wide with utter shock. It was as if he couldn’t comprehend that I would ever dare to fight back. Just then, my phone rang. I looked down. My heart seized. It was Ethan. My hand trembling, I answered the call. “Hello?” “What the hell is wrong with you? Why aren’t you opening the door for the delivery guy?” Ethan’s voice was sharp, accusatory. “Snowball’s hungry. I ordered him some cat treats. Open the door right now.” My mind went blank. Hearing Snowball’s thoughts, I had already guessed that Ethan was cheating, that his mistress wanted me gone. But I never, ever imagined Ethan would be a part of it. He wanted me dead. I couldn’t breathe. We were college sweethearts. From campus crushes to wedding vows, everyone had said we were the perfect couple. After we married, we both worked hard. The tech company I worked for went public, hitting the jackpot, and as an early employee, I received a substantial amount of stock. I used that money to buy this spacious apartment, and I put both our names on the deed. My success made Ethan insecure. He became touchy and suspicious, always accusing me of looking down on him. So I tried even harder to please him. He doted on Snowball, so I did too, spending almost all my free time catering to that cat’s every whim. I never tamed the cat. And as it turned out, I never tamed the man either. An icy coldness spread through my chest. My hand was shaking so badly I could barely hold the phone. Ethan was still pushing. “Claire, open the door!” I bit my lip, forcing my voice to sound steady. “No. Why would you order delivery? You always say pet store treats are full of additives. You make me cook everything for him from scratch.” Ethan was a fanatic about Snowball’s diet. One meal of wet food, one of dry, and a late-night snack, all of which had to be handmade by me. He claimed it was the “best way to build a bond” and that I should never get lazy. There were nights I was up late, buried in work, and if I was slow to make Snowball’s snack, he’d leap onto my laptop and mash the keyboard, deleting hours of my work. Ethan would just laugh. “The king is hungry! Better go serve His Majesty. See? He’s throwing a tantrum at you. That means he’s starting to like you, Claire. Don’t waste this opportunity to get closer to him.” So I would have to stop what I was doing, exhausted, and go make the damn cat a snack. He was so ridiculously picky every other day, but suddenly tonight, he wasn’t? My question made Ethan pause. “Well—this place is different,” he stammered after a moment. “It’s a high-end, custom pet bakery. They use all-imported ingredients. Snowball loves their hand-baked cod crisps. Just stop making a fuss and open the door.” Hearing Ethan’s voice through the phone, Snowball shot up and lunged at me again. “Meeoww! Meeeowww!” he shrieked, clawing at my leg. The bitch hit me, Daddy! Avenge me! Kill her! Kill her now! “You hear that? He’s starving,” Ethan said, his voice rising. “Claire, what the hell are you doing? Just open the door!” “No,” I said, my voice firm. “There’s fresh salmon in the fridge I made yesterday—” “You can’t give him refrigerated food! I’ve told you, everything has to be fresh, every day!” Ethan’s tone grew heavy with impatience. “God, Claire, are you that lazy? You won’t even cook for yourself, and now you can’t even be bothered to get a delivery?” His voice dropped into a low, menacing tone. “I’m out here working my ass off on this trip, and you want to start a fight with me?” For Ethan, “fighting” just meant the silent treatment. For years, anytime I did something that displeased him, he would treat me like I was invisible. He wouldn’t speak to me, wouldn’t look at me. It was like I ceased to exist. As someone who was naturally open and direct, that kind of psychological warfare drove me insane. In the end, I was always the one to break first. He was counting on me to break this time, too. “Open the door!” he commanded coldly. The only response he got was the dial tone. I hung up. Furious, Ethan called back again and again. I ignored it, letting the phone vibrate violently in my pocket, a frantic echo of the storm raging inside me. I spun around and ran into the bedroom, tearing through drawers and closets, searching for Ethan’s old laptop. I had to know who this “Mommy” was. But the room was clean. His iPad, his old phone, his laptop—he’d taken every electronic device with him. There was nothing. Then, my frantic search sent a book tumbling from the nightstand. It fell to the floor, and a faded photograph fluttered out from between its pages. It was a book Ethan read every single night. I picked up the photo. It was of a young woman’s back. She was wearing a tight, green tank top, revealing a sliver of a pale, slender waist. Her hand was raised, and a tiny white kitten—a baby Snowball—was lying on its back in her lap, looking up at her adoringly. The woman’s back… why did it look so familiar? My mind flashed back to the day I first met Snowball. It was the night before our engagement party. Ethan had been out celebrating with his friends, drinking and staying out until the early hours of the morning. When he came home, he had a tiny kitten with him. He told me he’d found it on the street, a stray that had followed him for three blocks and refused to be shooed away. “It must be fate,” he’d said, his eyes shining. “Tomorrow is our engagement. It’s a new beginning for him, too.” He was determined to keep him, but something felt off. The kitten’s fur was soft and glossy, perfectly clean. He didn’t look like a stray at all. I’d joked with him about it. “What a coincidence. I heard your cousin lost her white cat. You didn’t happen to find the exact same one, did you?” Tina was Ethan’s cousin, and also my subordinate at work. Ethan had told me countless times how he and Tina grew up together, that they were more like brother and sister than cousins. When Tina graduated and couldn’t find a job, Ethan was more anxious than anyone. For days, he was uncharacteristically sweet to me, begging me to help her out. Tina ended up staying with us for a month. I rewrote her resume, coached her through interviews, and when nothing panned out, I pulled strings, using my position to get her an entry-level job at my company. Tina had thrown her arms around me, overcome with gratitude. “Claire, from now on, you’re my real sister!” After that, she always called me “sis” and Ethan “bro-in-law.” Ethan had even joked, “Look at this little traitor. I’m her actual cousin, but now that she has you, I’m just the brother-in-law.” Right. You two are the real family. The memory of their casual interactions played in my head, and a hot rush of blood flooded my cheeks. No. It couldn’t be. They were cousins—family! I had to be wrong. There’s no way… I clutched the photograph tighter, and with a piercing shriek, Snowball launched himself at me.

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It was the fifth year of our relationship when Seraphina finally said yes. But on the day of our engagement party, she vanished. No calls, no texts. I waited all night, only to be greeted the next morning by a trending photo on social media: Seraphina at a gala, arm-in-arm with her childhood friend, Marcus Thorne. In the high-resolution image, I could see them pressed close together. I could also see the distinct, angry purple of a hickey on her neck. I laughed. I laughed at how blind she was. To have a king by her side for five years and mistake him for a pawn. 1 “Explain this,” I said, sliding my phone across the table. The headline glowed in stark red letters. I was hoping for some kind of explanation, any kind. She barely glanced at it, a frown creasing her perfect brow. “What’s there to explain, Jason? It was a work event.” Her casual dismissal was a shard of glass in my heart. “A work event? So, working with Marcus Thorne is more important than our own engagement party?” Seraphina rubbed her temples, the picture of annoyance. “Jason, I don’t have time for this drama. We can always have another party. This career opportunity won’t come again.” She stood to leave for the bedroom. I let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “And the hickey on your neck? Was that a ‘career opportunity’ too?” Her steps faltered. She turned, her voice sharp with anger. “What are you even talking about? Are you jealous of Marcus again? God, can’t you stop being so insecure? We’re just friends. Don’t project your own dirty mind onto everyone else!” “If there was really something between us, do you think you would have ever had a chance to be my boyfriend?” she scoffed. “You’re just too sensitive.” A leaden weight settled in my chest, making it hard to breathe. I pressed a hand to my heart and sneered, “Oh, you’d love for there to be something, wouldn’t you? But can that frail body of his even handle it?” CRACK. The sound of her palm connecting with my cheek echoed in the silent apartment. She was trembling, her eyes blazing like a cornered leopard. The movement was so violent that an invitation slipped from her coat pocket and fluttered to the floor. It read: We cordially invite Mr. Jason Vance and Ms. Seraphina Dubois to the Starfall Art Gala. It was always like this. Every invitation that came for the two of us, she went to alone. “You’re the artist, Jason,” she’d always say. “You belong in the studio, behind the scenes. Let me handle the schmoozing.” So, we never appeared at a public event together. Just as she’d never publicly acknowledged me as her boyfriend. Just as she’d never once said she loved me. “Jason, you’ve disappointed me so much,” she seethed, her voice dripping with contempt. “If you have a problem, go see a therapist. Stop inventing things about me and Marcus. You know he’s not well. How could you say something so vile?” “Take a good look at yourself. Who are you to judge him? I get it—a washed-up painter being jealous of a true genius. But don’t you dare cross the line!” Every word was a dagger, twisting in the fresh wound. Her look of disgust was the salt, searing and agonizing. Seraphina grabbed her purse and walked toward the door without a second’s hesitation. “I’m not coming home tonight. I have to be with Marcus for the gala tomorrow.” The words to ask her to stay died on my lips. Normally, this is when I’d swallow my pride, chase after her, and beg for her forgiveness. This is when I’d apologize for her mistakes. When she needed a painting for a show, I’d work day and night, ignoring the searing pain of the arthritis that was already setting into my hands—a gift from the countless sleepless nights spent creating masterpieces for her exhibitions. On rainy days, I could barely hold a brush. But today, I was just… tired. Too tired to even form a single word of protest. My cheek throbbed, a bright red handprint blooming on my skin. I managed a weak, broken smile. “Seraphina… we’re done.” “Don’t be so dramatic,” she called back, her voice cold and distant as she opened the door. “We’re not children anymore. You’re making a scene over nothing. You’ve changed, Jason. You never used to be like this.” 2 Watching her figure recede down the hallway until it was just a blur, I remembered the first time we met. It was love at first sight—for me, at least. She had burst into my world holding a canvas, a whirlwind of energy and charm. She was like a little sun, orbiting me, begging me to help her with her art. She would grab my arm, swaying it back and forth as she cooed, “Jason Vance, you’re going to be the greatest painter in the world.” “And I’ll be the greatest curator,” she’d promise. “I’ll give you the grandest exhibitions. The whole world will know your name!” But she never did. She never gave me a single exhibition. She never let anyone know my name. My phone buzzed, shaking me from my thoughts. It was a notification. An invitation from Marcus Thorne. Marcus Thorne—An Exclusive Exhibition by the Maestro “V.” You are cordially invited. My eyes locked onto the bottom of the invitation, on the name of the organizer: Seraphina Dubois. A text message from him followed: [Sera just insisted on throwing me a welcome-home exhibition. You know how she is, I could never say no to her. It’s in three days. Hope you can make it. You should get out of the house more.] Every word dripped with condescending triumph. He was flaunting their connection, painting a picture where they were the destined couple, and I was just the third wheel, the placeholder who had slipped in while he was abroad for his “treatments.” A temporary amusement for a bored Seraphina. Five years we were together, and she never once offered to host an exhibition for me. But for him, it was her idea. The one thing I had yearned for was something he was handed on a silver platter. It was pathetic. Utterly pathetic. A slow smile spread across my face. My fingers danced over the screen as I typed a reply. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He wanted to call himself the Maestro “V”? Fine. I was dying to see how he planned to produce my life’s work. I scrolled down. A message from my online friend, Lex. [Painted anything new lately? Eager to see the master’s latest!] During my years with Seraphina, my own work had taken a backseat. I was too busy running her studio, managing her business. I only picked up a brush a few times a year, producing a pitiful two or three paintings annually. Lex was a fellow artist I’d met online three years ago. We’d bonded over sketches and techniques. He was the only person I ever shared my real work with, the only one I could talk to when the frustration became too much. His message was a small comfort. Just then, the studio’s number flashed on my screen. I answered. “Jason? It’s the office. Seraphina asked me to tell you to come by tomorrow and clear out your things.” A knot of confusion and anger tightened in my stomach. “Why?” There was a pause on the other end. “…She said she’s turning your office into a new studio. For Mr. Thorne.” 3 When I arrived at the studio, Seraphina’s assistant was already hauling my belongings out into the hallway in cardboard boxes. The atmosphere was thick with tension. The other staff members whispered amongst themselves, shooting me looks of disdain. “Ugh, he actually showed up. I can’t stand seeing that freeloader here.” “Right? We’re swamped as it is, and now we have to deal with him.” “Mr. Thorne is so much better. His art is incredible, and he’s so kind. He and Sera are the perfect match.” I listened, my face a mask of indifference, but inside, a bitter acid churned. All those late nights I’d worked alongside them, all the deadlines we’d met together… and this is what they thought of me? A demanding mooch. The assistant shot them a look, and they fell silent. I strode towards Seraphina’s office, determined to get an answer from her. The assistant stepped in my way, her expression pained. “Jason, please. Mr. Thorne is creating in there with Sera. You can’t disturb them.” I pushed past her and reached for the doorknob. Just as my fingers closed around the cold metal, I heard their voices from within. “Sera, my inspiration has run dry. You have to be my muse.” Through the crack in the door, I saw Seraphina hesitate, chewing on her lower lip. Marcus pressed on, his voice like honeyed poison. “You’ve always been my muse. If you model for me, I know I can create another masterpiece that will stun the world.” Her hesitation vanished. Before my widening eyes, in the sliver of space I could see, Seraphina began to slowly undress. Until she was completely naked, sitting on the velvet chaise lounge opposite him. She was posing nude for him. My hand trembled on the doorknob, shaking so violently I couldn’t even find the strength to turn it. “It’s been so long, Sera,” Marcus murmured. “You feel so distant. Did getting a boyfriend make you forget all about me?” Panic flashed across her face. “Of course not!” she said quickly, her voice a little too loud. “I’ve never forgotten you, Marcus. I… I was only with Jason because he looked a bit like you. And he was a painter.” My body reacted before my mind could process it. A wave of nausea rose from the pit of my stomach. I swallowed, the taste of bile burning my throat. I stood frozen, a statue of stone, and slowly, deliberately, let my hand fall from the door. I thought, even if we didn’t last, that what we had was real. That we had, at some point, loved each other. Reality was a cruel joke, and I was the punchline. Seraphina… she had been using me as a stand-in for Marcus all along. The truth was so sudden, so brutal, it almost knocked the wind out of me. I stood there for a long time before the cold tide of reason washed back in. The moment I let go of that door, Seraphina, was the moment I let go of you. In the taxi on the way back, I made a call. It was to a rival curatorial firm that had been trying to sign me for years. I gave them the exclusive rights to every painting I had ever created under my pseudonym. When they asked what my conditions were, I took a deep breath. “I want the exhibition to open in two days,” I said, my voice like ice. “And I want it billed as the one and only exclusive exhibition of the artist ‘V.’ And make it clear: V will be there in person.” Two days. The same day as Marcus Thorne’s exhibition. He wanted to be the master? Fine. Let’s hold two shows, side-by-side, and let the world decide who the real artist was. That evening, I met with the curator, and we planned late into the night. When I finally got home, I was surprised to see Seraphina sitting on the sofa, waiting for me. The moment I walked in, she was on her feet. “Where have you been? You didn’t even make dinner!” When I didn’t answer, her voice grew sharp with impatience. “What’s wrong with you? Are you mute?” She stormed over to me, then stopped short. Her nose twitched, and her eyes narrowed. “Why do you smell like another woman’s perfume?” I must have brushed against the curator during our meeting. The hypocrisy was breathtaking. She could get naked for another man, but a hint of perfume on my jacket sent her into a rage. “What’s the matter?” I said, my voice devoid of all emotion. “You’re allowed to be a naked muse, but I’m not allowed to stand near another woman? Don’t be such a hypocrite, Seraphina.” Her face paled, a flicker of panic in her eyes. “That’s different! That was for work! For art! Stop being so disgusting!” “Don’t you trust me?” she demanded, her voice wavering. I looked into her eyes, saw the guilt she was trying so hard to hide, and nodded. “No, Seraphina. I don’t.” “And when I said we were done,” I added, my voice as final as a death sentence, “I wasn’t joking.”

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When our love was pure, Sloane crippled the man hurting me. Though not jailed, she was disowned. We lived in a grimy basement. At our lowest, I asked if she regretted it. She smiled. “Your safety means more than my life. I’m your shield. I’d endure anything for you.” She lifted me up, clawing to the top. Everyone knew not to touch me—the one person she protected. But on our anniversary, I found hidden documents: pregnancy reports, a kindergarten letter. Years ago, after I was ambushed, she claimed to hunt those responsible—but secretly had another man’s child. Without explanation, she cut off a bodyguard’s hand. It dropped at my feet. “What use is a hand that can’t keep watch?” I threw the divorce papers. “Just sign.” She smiled coldly. “We don’t divorce till one of us is dead. Want to leave? Kill me first.” 1 Together in life, together in the grave. That was the oath we swore to each other when we were eighteen. Only today did I learn that even the purest love can turn toxic, that even the most sacred vows have an expiration date. And expired things deserve to be destroyed. I pulled the knife hidden under the sofa cushions and lunged, aiming for her throat. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even move. Instead, she leaned into the blade. At the very last second, I twisted my wrist. The knife sank deep into her shoulder. She smiled, but the hand clutching the embedded blade trembled slightly. “What’s wrong? Can’t bring yourself to do it?” she taunted. “Flynn, we’ve fought our way through hell to get here. Don’t let a little thing like this tear us apart.” “The child was an accident,” she continued, her voice softening. “If you don’t like him, I’ll have him sent abroad in a few days. He’ll disappear.” A little thing? An accident? Five years ago, her enemies came for her. I was the one who took three knife wounds meant for her. One to the chest, one in my thigh. And the third… it struck lower. I was bleeding out. To give me a transfusion, she aborted the three-month-old fetus in her womb without a second thought. When I woke up, the doctor told me I could never be a father. I didn’t cry, but Sloane’s eyes were bloodshot and raw. She fell to her knees at my bedside, sobbing, slamming her head against the cold tile floor until her face was swollen and bruised. “Flynn, I’m so useless,” she wept, her voice cracking. “I let this happen to you!” She clung to me, her forehead bleeding, the drops of her blood mingling with my tears on my face. Even as her body shook with pain, her grip on my hand never loosened. “Flynn, I don’t need children. I don’t need anything but you!” she vowed, her voice raw with desperation. “We will never be separated. I, Sloane Jiang, would rather die than ever betray you!” Every word was a solemn promise. But now, her casual tone shredded the last scrap of my dignity. I let out another cold laugh and pulled a photograph from my pocket, flinging it at her. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ve already taken care of your ‘accident’.” “I paid a visit to his kindergarten. Nice place. A shame the security was so sloppy.” The photo showed her son, his face streaked with tears, a gun pressed to his temple as he knelt on the floor. I watched, stone-faced, as the veins in her forehead bulged, one by one. In ten years together, she had never, not for any reason, turned her anger on me. But today, for another man’s child, her eyes were filled with pure, unadulterated murder. She slammed me against the wall, reached up, and ripped the knife from her own shoulder. She reversed the blade, pressing the cold tip against my neck. “How dare you touch a child!” she seethed, her voice a low growl. “Flynn, have I been too good to you? Have you forgotten who you are?” “Without me, you’d be long dead! Now your wings have grown? You can’t have children of your own, so you go after someone else’s? You make me sick.” Every word was a fresh wound, a new humiliation. But my smile was unnervingly calm. “You always said the only way we’d separate is if one of us was dead, right?” “No one else has the guts to do it. So it looks like it’s up to you, Sloane.” “Go on. Kill me. Because if I walk out of here alive, I promise you, their lives are over.” The blood-slicked blade didn’t pierce my skin. She stared into my defiant eyes, and her expression softened into a chillingly gentle smile. “Flynn, I told you, it doesn’t have to end with one of us dead.” “The child… you can do whatever you want with him. I won’t ask if he’s alive or dead.” “But this ends now. We never speak of it again. Do you understand?” As cold-blooded as ever. Just like me. Sloane didn’t spare me another glance. She didn’t sign the papers. She just turned and stormed out the door. For ten years, I had never seen her back. In my memories, she was always charging toward me through a storm of blood and violence, shielding me with her own body. Her back was just as resolute as I’d imagined. But I could see something else, something subtle. A flicker of panic. A mocking smile touched my lips. I turned and dialed my man. “Let the kid go. I’m not a monster who hurts children.” “But I want everything you can find on his father. On my desk in ten minutes.” 2 My team found nothing. With Sloane’s resources, making someone disappear was child’s play. Even for me, all I could uncover was a single, threadbare clue. But that one thread was enough to unravel the last of my composure. Five years ago, on the night I almost died, Sloane wasn’t there. I thought she was out there with our men, hunting down my attackers. She wasn’t. She was just a few steps away, tangled in the sheets with another man. So the betrayal had started that long ago. Even as she was swearing she would never be untrue to me, her body and her heart had already strayed. I fought back the sudden, sharp agony that seized my chest, tightened my grip on the bloody knife, and plunged it through the screen of the tablet displaying the report. If our love was dead, then all that was left between us was hate. The child hadn’t even made it home before his father, losing his nerve, showed up at my door. The second I opened it, he lunged, a dagger aimed straight for my heart. “You bastard! You touched my son, I’ll kill you!” I twisted away on instinct, avoiding a fatal blow. But the blade sliced clean across my arm, opening a long, deep gash. Flesh parted, blood welled. I felt nothing. I grabbed his head and slammed it into the doorframe. Again and again. My men dragged him inside, forcing him to his knees before me. He didn’t cry. He just glared at me, his eyes burning with a fierce hatred. He was handsome, I’ll give him that, with an innocence in his eyes that reminded me of myself, long ago. Even the ferocity in his gaze mirrored my own now. But he didn’t understand. A little bit of grit wasn’t going to get him out of this alive. I picked up the baseball bat leaning against the wall and brought it down hard on his leg. The sickening crack of bone echoed through the room, followed by his agonized scream. It stirred nothing in me. No pity, no remorse. I savored his pain, a perverse tribute to my murdered love. Just as I raised the bat for a second swing, the door was kicked open. A gust of cold wind swept in, carrying with it a wave of pure fury. The dark, round mouth of a gun was aimed squarely at my head. Sloane’s voice was as cold as ice. “Flynn, let him go. Don’t make this ugly.” She held the gun with one hand, while the other wrapped around the man, pulling him into a protective embrace. Her eyes softened, her voice a gentle murmur only he could hear. “Don’t be scared. I’m here.” The same words. Ten years ago, she had stepped over a floor slick with blood, walked toward me as I stood there, clothes torn, and said those exact same words. Tears of laughter spilled from my eyes. “And what if I say no?” She laughed too, a hollow sound. “You took his son. That’s enough. Let him go, and we can pretend this never happened. It’s the best ending for both of us.” I knew her too well. I could see the killing intent hidden behind that smile. She was actually thinking of killing me. After all these years, after we had pulled each other through hell, she had given me all her tenderness. And it had made me forget. It had made me forget how many bodies she’d stepped over to get to where she was today. I wasn’t angry anymore. I was just… humiliated. I reached out, took her hand, and pressed the muzzle of her gun against my own forehead. “Go on. Do it.” “Sloane, you know me. If I walk out of this room alive today, you’d better be ready to bury this pretty boy of yours.” The click of the safety being released was deafening. Sloane’s eyes turned crimson as she grabbed my throat. “You think I won’t?” “I can forgive what you did to the child. But him… you don’t touch him.” “Don’t push me, Flynn.” I stared back at her, my face a mask of indifference. The stalemate was broken by the sharp ring of a phone. Sloane released her grip and answered. 3 After she hung up, Sloane’s smile was gentle again. She ruffled the other man’s hair, her eyes full of affection. “The boy’s fine. You’ve made your point. Go now. Don’t come back here again.” His name was Brown. He stared at me, his eyes red-rimmed, and limped toward the door. To end this whole farce with a few soft words? It wasn’t going to be that easy. I tilted my chin, and my bodyguard immediately blocked Brown’s path. Sloane shot me a cold look. We had been together so long, we could read each other’s minds with a single glance. A faint smile played on her lips. She beckoned to Brown. “Come here. Apologize to Flynn before you leave.” He froze, his face a mixture of disbelief and wounded pride. But he obeyed. He shuffled back in front of me and bowed stiffly. “Mr. Hayes. I was reckless. I came here without knowing the full story.” “It was my fault for hurting you. But… you’ve lost a child, too. Surely you can understand how I feel?” “A father who can’t even protect his own son… what is he but a waste of space?” He called it an apology, but every word was a needle. I raised my hand and slapped him hard across the face. “The last person who spoke to me like that,” I said, my voice dangerously low, “is probably nothing but dust by now.” “How many lives do you have to spare, that you feel brave enough to provoke me?” Brown clutched his cheek, his eyes welling up with tears like a cornered animal. I sneered and swung my hand back for another blow. The sharp crack of a slap echoed in the room. But it wasn’t Brown who felt it. I was the one who went down, sprawling on the floor. Sloane stood over me, her heel pressing down on my hand, her expression so cold it made her a stranger. “I told you,” she said, her voice like chips of ice. “Don’t touch him.” “Flynn, why do you have to keep dragging innocent people into this?” My face throbbed, my mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood. My smile was stained red. Over the years, dozens, maybe hundreds, had died by my hand. She knew I wasn’t the type to let things go. But she also knew I would never harm a truly innocent person. Sloane didn’t give me a chance to speak. She kicked me aside and scooped Brown into her arms, carrying him out. When my bodyguard rushed over to help me up, my entire body was shaking with pain. He looked at me, confused. I just gave him a weary smile. It was only when I turned that he saw the handle of the dagger protruding from my back. A single slap wouldn’t have felled me. Of course not. But when I fell, I had landed right on the dagger that had been knocked to the floor. The doctor said the wound was inches from my heart. A little closer, and I would have died right there, in front of her. After they stitched me up, I refused their recommendation to stay in the hospital. I’d survived three stabbings before; living on the edge of a blade was second nature to me. When I returned to the villa, Sloane was waiting for me on the living room sofa. She lit a cigarette and motioned for me to sit opposite her. After a long drag, she looked at me with a humorless smile. “My son came home with three broken fingers.” I glanced at my bodyguard. He lowered his head, unable to meet my eyes. I laughed, a sound devoid of any emotion. “My men can be careless. What, does the great Sloane Jiang want me to pay him back with three of my own fingers?” Sloane smiled back, but her eyes were sharp as daggers. “Brown was so distraught he tried to jump off a building. While I was stopping him, I fell down the stairs. The baby’s gone.” “Flynn, that was my second child. You killed him. Don’t you think you owe Brown an apology?” I snatched the cigarette from her fingers and lit one for myself. Through the swirling smoke, my smile held no trace of remorse. “You should know that the fact I didn’t do it myself was me showing mercy.” “It was just a bastard child. It’s gone. So what? Don’t tell me you want my life in return?” I had my man bring the divorce papers again and placed them in front of her. “Either you sign these.” “Or one of you dies. You or him. Your choice, Sloane. I don’t think I need to tell you what to do.” Sloane laughed as she ripped the papers to shreds. She then took out her phone and tossed it onto the table in front of me. “I knew you wouldn’t apologize.” “It’s fine. I’ve prepared a gift for you, too.” “Flynn… I had someone pull the plug on your brother.”

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The word on the street was that the playboy CEO, Matthew Cooper, had a new taste in women. He’d apparently fallen for a little drama queen. I was dispatched to his mountaintop villa to manage her daily life. The moment Vivian Shaw saw me, her face soured with displeasure. “In the novels, a pretty housekeeper like this is always the boss’s canary—managing his affairs by day and warming his bed by night. Is that what she is?” The professionally trained smile on my lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. Fantastic. My reputation as a top-tier private butler with a seven-figure salary was, for the first time, being maliciously questioned based on the plot of a trashy romance novel. 1 Matthew was clearly caught off guard by her opening gambit. He shot me a quick glance. Then, he wrapped an arm around Vivian’s shoulder, his voice laced with its usual languid drawl and a hint of playful amusement. “Darling, what goes on in that head of yours? Miss Quinn earned her position through top-tier professional skill. With her here, my life is a world of a lot simpler.” He paused, adding with a meaningful look, “My ‘canaries’ are never tasked with such troublesome work. Besides, I wouldn’t dare keep Miss Quinn as one.” Vivian let out a vague “Oh,” though her gaze on me grew even stranger, filled with a certainty that screamed, I see, you’re the deep-cover, scheming female rival. She pouted, a mix of petulance and challenge in her tone. “But that’s how it’s always written in the novels! The beautiful, capable housekeeper is never just a simple housekeeper…” As she spoke, she sized me up with an expression that said, You can’t fool me. My seven-figure salary afforded me a high degree of professionalism and tolerance for this famously fickle CEO. After all, the women on his arm rotated faster than my phone’s operating system updates, with an average shelf life of three months. My professional code was simple: serve the boss, ignore the companion, and prioritize the boss’s actual needs above all else. I resumed my standard smile and gave a slight bow. “Indeed, Miss Shaw. I am simply Mr. Cooper’s household manager. Please do not question my professionalism.” My polite but firm response seemed to irk her, and a flicker of annoyance crossed her face. She lifted her chin and huffed. “Who knows what your ‘professionalism’ is used for. Matthew, look at her! Her attitude is so cold. Doesn’t she welcome me here?” Catching my eye, Matthew discreetly made a ‘one’ sign with his finger behind Vivian’s back. I understood instantly. A hundred-thousand-dollar bonus this month. The flat line of my mouth curved back into a serene, accommodating smile. Matthew playfully tapped her nose and guided her toward the bedroom. “Alright, stop overthinking. Let me show you your room. If there’s anything you don’t like, just let Miss Quinn know.” Vivian opened her mouth, but ultimately decided against continuing her performance. Once they disappeared from view, I turned away silently. The things you do for money. I had hoped this was just a minor hiccup, but Vivian’s “Billionaire Romance Novel Syndrome” went into full effect the very next day. At breakfast, I was placing Matthew’s customary Blue Mountain coffee and the financial paper at his preferred spot. Vivian, draped in a silk robe, glided over and frowned at the glass of perfectly warmed milk set out for her. “Miss Quinn,” she began, drawing out my name in a tone that brooked no argument. “This milk is wrong. I want milk from a cow in Australia, milked at dawn this very morning, bathed in the first rays of the southern hemisphere’s sun. And it must be warmed to precisely 37.5 degrees by the hands of an 82-year-old virgin. Not a degree more, not a degree less.” I was speechless. Matthew, who was reading a report, didn’t even look up. “The cows in Australia are currently asleep, and I highly doubt an 82-year-old virgin has precise temperature control.” “Vivian, this milk is air-freighted from Hokkaido, Japan. It’s excellent quality. Drink it while it’s warm.” Thwarted, Vivian shot me a resentful glare, as if it were my personal failing that I couldn’t procure such a fantastical beverage. Later that afternoon, while I was instructing the gardener on pruning the roses, she insisted on trying it herself. The moment she reached out, a thorn lightly pricked her index finger, drawing a bead of blood smaller than a pinhead. She held up the finger as if she’d been poisoned, and, with tears streaming down her face, burst into the study where Matthew was reviewing his schedule with his assistant. “Matthew! It hurts so much! I feel so dizzy!” 2 She held the finger, the wound now invisible, practically under Matthew’s nose. Matthew put down his documents, examined her finger for a long moment, and then sighed in relief. “It’s fine, the cut is tiny. Have Miss Quinn get you a bandage.” “A bandage?” Vivian’s voice shot up an octave, dripping with disbelief. “Matthew! Don’t you love me anymore?” As Matthew and I exchanged bewildered looks, she pointed a finger at me. “How could you just dismiss me with a bandage? Your woman has been injured, and the culprit is this butler!” “As a domineering CEO, aren’t you supposed to make her immediately draw 800cc of her blood as an apology to prove her loyalty and my importance?!” I took a deep breath, keeping my expression placid while my mind reeled. Eight hundred cubic centimeters? For a paper cut? Do you want me to check into the ICU to entertain you? And I’m the culprit? You’re the one who insisted on touching the roses! Matthew’s brow finally furrowed. He let go of Vivian’s hand, his tone laced with clear disapproval. “Vivian, first, Charlotte is a butler, not a mobile blood bank. Second, your blood types don’t even match.” He pointed at the nearly invisible mark. “And third, if you’d waited any longer, it would have healed on its own. What would you do with her blood? Water the flowers with it?” Vivian’s face flushed red and white in turns. She stomped her foot. “You! You’re not following the script! You’re not acting like a domineering CEO at all!” She then shot me a venomous look. Matthew rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m just a normal businessman. Quinn, get the first-aid kit. And while you’re at it, please brief Miss Shaw on basic medical facts and the Blood Donation Act.” “Yes, Mr. Cooper.” I fought to keep the corners of my mouth from turning up as I gracefully excused myself. After that, similar dramas played out almost daily. Vivian would throw a tantrum because the slippers I prepared for her weren’t made of crystal. Rational Matthew would say: “Crystal slippers are uncomfortable. These are silk-embroidered. They’re much better.” She would demand that Matthew order a city-wide blackout just to create a romantic atmosphere for stargazing. Rational Matthew would say: “The municipal power grid doesn’t belong to me. That would cause mass panic, economic loss, and is highly illegal.” Naturally, I wasn’t spared either. When I handed her a towel, she would intentionally let it drop to the floor, expecting me to kneel and pick it up. I would simply ignore it and signal to Mrs. Davis, our head maid, who would expressionlessly pick it up and toss it in the laundry hamper. Her most frequent question to me was: “Miss Quinn, why don’t you tell me, ‘Miss Shaw, you’re the first woman Mr. Cooper has ever brought home’?” “Are you jealous of me? Jealous that I have Matthew’s affection while you’re just a pathetic servant who has to work all day and then ‘service’ him at night?” Every time I heard this, I had to resist the urge to retort. Miss, do you have some kind of misunderstanding about Mr. Cooper? This year alone, including you, I’ve already welcomed four ‘first women’ he’s ever brought home. The guest room on the left housed a Miss Lee, the one on the right a Miss Wang, and the master bedroom… well, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve changed the sheets. Mr. Cooper’s reputation as a playboy was well-earned. His interest rarely lasted longer than three months. The value of being his “first” was, frankly, not very high. As for “servicing him at night”? Please. My overtime rates are exorbitant, and strictly for professional matters. On the surface, however, I maintained my standard butler’s smile. “Miss Shaw, Mr. Cooper’s private affairs are not my concern. My duty is to ensure your comfort during your stay.” She was never satisfied with my answers, convinced I was harboring ill intentions, ready to enact the role of the “vicious, scheming rival who torments the innocent heroine.” Initially, Matthew found her antics novel and amusing, even playing along with her “domineering CEO falls for me” fantasy for a couple of days. But his patience quickly wore thin. He was a successful businessman; time was money. He had little tolerance for trouble and baseless tantrums. Many of Vivian’s actions were beginning to cross his “trouble” threshold. He started spending more time in his study or using business dinners as an excuse to come home late. Vivian seemed to sense his growing distance, but she predictably blamed it all on me. 3 She ramped up her efforts to make trouble for me, trying to undermine me in front of Matthew and cement her status as the female lead. “Miss Quinn, the vase in my room is angled incorrectly. It’s affecting my fortune. Reposition it a hundred times until I’m satisfied.” “Miss Quinn, for dinner, I want white truffles from Alba, France. I want them now. If you can’t have them flown in, it just proves your incompetence.” “Miss Quinn, I don’t like the scent of your perfume. You are forbidden from wearing it from now on.” The only thing I ever wore was unscented, sanitizing hand soap. I dodged these absurd demands whenever possible. If a request was too outrageous, I used Matthew as a shield. “Mr. Cooper has stipulated that all such procurements require his personal signed approval.” “Mr. Cooper is in a meeting and cannot be disturbed to confirm this matter.” Her glares grew more venomous, as if I were truly the greatest obstacle on her path to love. I knew the peace wouldn’t last. This drama queen was gearing up for a grand finale. One day, during a torrential downpour, Matthew had a crucial overseas video conference and had given strict orders not to be disturbed. Vivian, inspired by some novel, appeared at his study door dressed in a soaking-wet white dress, shivering dramatically, insisting she had to go in to “bring him warmth.” Naturally, I blocked her way. “Miss Shaw, Mr. Cooper is in an important meeting. His orders were that no one is to disturb him.” “Not even me?” she asked, her eyes welling with tears. “I’m the woman he loves most! Look at me, I’m soaked! He’ll be worried sick! Or are you just stopping me so you can sneak in and ‘perform’ for him yourself?” “Mr. Cooper will certainly check on you the moment his meeting is over. Please return to your room and change into dry clothes to avoid catching a cold.” My voice was calm and unyielding, filtering out her slander. Suddenly, she lunged, trying to force her way past me. I sidestepped, subtly positioning myself in front of the door. She stumbled into empty space and, with theatrical grace, collapsed to the floor. She covered her face and began to sob. “Oh… Miss Quinn, why did you push me? I know you’re jealous, but I was just worried about Matthew…” I was at a complete loss for words. Just then, the study door opened. Matthew, on a short break, had clearly heard the commotion. He looked from the sobbing Vivian on the floor to me, standing impassively beside her, and his brow furrowed. “What’s going on?” Vivian immediately launched into her act, tears flowing on command. “Matthew, it’s not Miss Quinn’s fault! I just lost my balance. She only wanted to stop me from bothering you, so she gave me a little push. It was really gentle, I’m just too fragile. She probably didn’t mean it, she’s just so… ‘concerned’ about you…” Her manipulative performance was truly masterful. Matthew looked at me, his eyes questioning. I bowed slightly. “Mr. Cooper, I only blocked Miss Shaw’s path. There was no physical contact.” “Miss Shaw may have slipped and fallen on her own.” I gestured to the ceiling. “There is a security camera in the hallway. You can review the footage.” At the mention of a camera, Vivian’s face went white. Matthew’s gaze flickered between us. Finally, it settled on Vivian, his tone unreadable. “Vivian, I told you the meeting was important. Go back to your room. Stop making a scene.” He hadn’t immediately believed her, but he hadn’t reprimanded her either. This neutral stance seemed to fuel Vivian’s insecurity and resentment. As she was helped to her feet, she shot me a venomous look that promised this was far from over. Sure enough, a few days later, Matthew left for an overseas business trip to negotiate a major project. Before he left, he gave me a rare, specific instruction. “Keep an eye on her. Don’t let her cause any trouble.” I nodded. “Understood, Mr. Cooper.” However, the day after he left, trouble arrived.

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Our breakup was a train wreck. The year he loved me most, I took half a million dollars from his mother, ended our pregnancy, and betrayed him. He knelt outside the clinic door, crying, begging me not to be so cruel. He said he would hate me for the rest of his life. Six years later, we met again. He had a beautiful, high-society girlfriend, and they were about to get married. And I, at the lowest point in my life, had to find him and ask for money. He forced me to come to his wedding, to watch with my own eyes as he took another woman home. He asked me, Do you regret it? He still doesn’t know that I raised our child alone. And that child is sick. So sick, he’s dying. 1. Six years after we broke up, I ran into Zane Wheaton when my life was in absolute shambles. It was a college reunion. No one expected Zane to show up. Someone joked, “Mr. Wheaton never keeps in touch with us common folk. What brings you out of the woodwork this year?” “Did you hear Christine was coming? Still carrying a torch for her, are you?” I was tucked away in a corner, but my back went rigid. I looked up and saw Zane, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyes fixed on me with cold indifference. Everyone knew how much he used to love me. He was the heir to a fortune, the golden boy of a powerful family, but he’d fallen for me at first sight. That year, for me, he cut ties with his family. He gave up the power, the money, everything, just to be with me. We lived in a cramped little apartment, sharing a single bowl of ramen, a single bowl of soup. Life was hard, but we were deliriously happy. Every night, our fingers laced together, we’d swear we would be together forever. Until I got pregnant. His mother offered me half a million dollars to get rid of our baby and disappear from his life. That day, Zane knelt outside the clinic, pounding his fists against the door. Over and over, his voice cracked as he begged me, “My sweet Christine, please! I’ll work harder, I’ll make so much money, I’ll earn millions, and it’ll all be yours, okay?” “I’m begging you, don’t leave me. Don’t leave our baby…” I lay on the surgical table, biting my lip so hard I tasted blood, willing myself not to cry out. Through that thin door, I heard Zane say he would hate me for the rest of his life. 2. No one knew just how ugly our breakup had been. Someone nudged me towards Zane, laughing. “You used to be so crazy about Christine you would’ve died for her, Zane. How could you ever let her go?” The whole room started buzzing, egging us on, telling us to get back together. One of Zane’s buddies shot me a contemptuous look and sneered, “Zane can have any woman he wants. Who the hell is Christine to think he’d still be hung up on her?” He went on to say that another woman had been with Zane for three years. A woman who was gentler, prettier, and a much better fit for him than I ever was. They’d been together for three years. All his friends already called her “the missus.” And word was, they were about to get married. The laughter died down. Only Zane’s friend was still smiling as he invited everyone to the wedding. He tossed an invitation in my direction. It slapped against my cheek before falling into my lap. I looked down. Zane’s name was embossed in elegant script. Next to it, another woman’s. Victoria. It was a name that sounded as graceful as she probably was. I imagined she was more sensible than me, kinder, better at taking care of him. She wouldn’t make him miserable like I did. Six years. It was good to know he was doing well. That was enough. I blinked back the tears stinging my eyes, looked up at Zane, and managed a single word: “Congratulations.” He stared at me, his gaze drilling into mine. At my congratulations, a slow, cruel smile spread across his face. He crushed his cigarette into an ashtray and said coolly, “Christine, don’t come to the wedding.” “It would upset my fiancée. And when she’s upset, I get upset.” My fingers tightened around the thin, crimson invitation. I froze for a second. Then I forced a smile and nodded. “Okay,” I whispered. 3. That night, everyone concluded that Zane was truly, finally over me. No one could have guessed that a love as deep as ours could end like this. He was getting married, and the bride wasn’t me. Everyone had assumed he would wait for me forever. Now, they were all buzzing with curiosity about this Victoria, this woman who had so completely captivated him. I knew Zane didn’t want to see me, so I slipped out of the reunion early. On the way home, a friend texted me a photo of Victoria. She was beautiful, with an innocent-looking face. My friend said she was known for her sweet smile and playful nature—exactly Zane’s type. My friend typed: Christine, don’t you think she kind of looks like you when she smiles? Do you think maybe he still loves you? Is it really over between you two? I let out a slow breath, staring at the screen for a long time before typing back with a forced smile in my words: It doesn’t matter. I don’t care anymore. I didn’t want any more drama with Zane. And I knew he would never find out my secret. That I had lied to everyone and secretly given birth to our son. A son who was sick. So sick, he was dying. 4. This was the hardest year of my life, the year I had nothing left. I worked myself to the bone, desperate to earn enough money for the best medicine, to ease my son’s pain even a little. For money, I would swallow my pride and go to a college reunion to hit up old classmates. For money, I would work at an exclusive lounge, drinking with clients until my stomach bled. I thought that night at the reunion would be the last time I’d ever see Zane. But a few days later, Victoria found me. She must have heard the rumors—that she looked like me—and wanted to see for herself. She came to the lounge with a few friends and specifically requested me. One of them looked me up and down. “So, you’re Christine? Zane’s famous first love?” Her eyes were filled with disdain as she scanned my heavy makeup and tight dress, her expression screaming one word: Trashy. I clenched my fists, forcing my temper down. I just wanted to do my job. “Are you ordering drinks?” I asked. “If not, please don’t waste my time. I need to make money.” The girl seemed offended. “What kind of attitude is that? Are you deaf? Don’t get cocky.” She pointed to a bottle of hard liquor on the table. “You like money so much, right, Christine? Fine. Drink this entire bottle, right now, and I’ll give you twenty thousand dollars.” A whole bottle like that would land me in the hospital. Victoria feigned concern, gently chiding her friend. “We agreed we were just coming to say hello, not to make things difficult for her.” She turned to me, her voice soft and laced with pity. “Everyone warned me about you, you know. They said you’re good at wrapping men around your finger. Even Zane said I’m too naive and that you might try to hurt me.” “But I’m not worried.” I listened quietly, understanding her game. She was here to rub it in my face how much Zane adored her, and how much he despised me. I offered a small, humorless smile and looked at her friend. “We have a deal? I drink the bottle, you give me twenty thousand dollars. Right?” Without waiting for an answer, I grabbed the bottle and started chugging. Everyone stared, stunned. They hadn’t expected me to be so desperate, to trade my health for cash. Victoria grabbed my arm. “Christine, please,” she pleaded softly. “How can you degrade yourself like this for money? We women have to have some self-respect. I didn’t want to say this, but… Zane hates it when women act like this.” I finished the bottle, slammed it down on the table, and ignored the fire tearing through my stomach. “The money?” I cut her off. “What Zane Wheaton likes or hates has nothing to do with me. I just want the twenty grand you promised.” Victoria’s brow furrowed in disappointment. “Honestly, Christine,” she said, her voice dripping with faux sincerity, “twenty thousand dollars is nothing to me. I could give it to anyone. But I can’t give it to you. You can hate me for it, but I’m doing this for your own good. I can’t stand by and watch you fall any deeper…” Her friend shoved me lightly. “I was just messing with you,” she smirked. “I’m not giving you a dime. What are you gonna do about it?” A cold smile spread across my face. Then, in one swift motion, I shattered the bottle against the edge of the table. Shards flew. A piece sliced across Victoria’s leg, drawing a line of red. Another dug deep into my own palm. Tears instantly welled in Victoria’s eyes. The loud, boisterous group fell silent. The next second, the door to the private room swung open. Zane stood there, his face a mask of cold fury. I froze, unable to meet his gaze. He saw me. In my cheap dress and smeared makeup, looking like the kind of woman who drinks and flirts with men for money. I wasn’t ashamed of what others thought of me, but I had never, ever wanted him to see me like this. I wanted him to think I was doing just fine. But even that small wish was denied. I summoned every ounce of strength I had, tilted my chin up, and pretended it didn’t hurt. I watched as Zane rushed to Victoria’s side, gathering her into his arms and gently wiping away her tears. Then he turned his icy gaze on me. “Christine,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “Who exactly do you think you’re bullying in front of me?” “You want money? Fine. Apologize first.” I watched him shield Victoria, just like he used to shield me. I knew what he wanted. He wanted me to grovel. Fine. For the money, I’d do anything. Victoria, nestled in his arms, shot me a triumphant little smirk. I looked at the cut on her leg, then at the bleeding gash in my own hand. I held it up, blood dripping onto the carpet. “Here,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Give me the twenty thousand.” Zane’s eyes locked onto my bleeding hand, and for a split second, they flashed with a raw, familiar pain. Victoria saw his expression, and her smile faltered. She pulled a credit card from her purse and pressed it into my hand. “I’m giving you this, Christine,” she said sweetly, “not because I owe you anything, but because I don’t want to make a scene over a little money. Unlike some people.” I was done with her righteous act. I snatched the card and turned to leave, but Zane’s hand shot out and clamped around my wrist. He growled my name, his voice tight with a rage that felt like something else entirely. “Christine, doesn’t that fucking hurt? Are you going to die without money?” His brow was furrowed, his jaw clenched. He almost looked… worried. I ripped my arm from his grasp and turned back, a cold sneer on my face. “I’ve always been a woman who loves money, Zane. Did you forget?” “Manage your own life, and manage your woman. Stay the hell away from me.” 5. Zane stared at me, his eyes so cold they could burn. My words must have dredged up the past—how he’d given up everything for me, only for me to throw him away for money. The pain in my stomach was becoming unbearable. I didn’t want to argue anymore. I turned to leave, but suddenly the world tilted. Before I knew it, he’d thrown me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He was like some kind of brute, a cigarette clenched between his teeth as he carried me out of the lounge. Heads turned, people stared. I struggled, kicking and screaming for him to put me down. He slapped my ass, hard. “Christine,” he snarled, “I must’ve owed you my life in a past life for you to put me through this shit in this one!” He threw me into his car, leaning over me to pin my legs down. He grabbed my face, his voice a low, vicious growl. “Sometimes, I just want to kill you.” He looked like he hated me with every fiber of his being, but his eyes… his eyes still held a flicker of the man who once loved me. The pain in my stomach was so intense I couldn’t speak. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead as I glared at him. He scowled, reached into the glove compartment, and pulled out a pill for my stomach, forcing it into my mouth. As he did, I saw it. Tucked away in the corner of the compartment was a worn-out tube of my favorite lipstick, a broken hair tie, and the cheap pink barrette he’d once bought me at a street fair. All my things. All these years I’d been gone, they had stayed here, keeping him company in my place. A tear escaped and slid down my cheek. I turned my head away, wiping it quickly before he could see. After all this time, he still remembered I had a sensitive stomach. Even without me, he’d kept the medicine for me. And what did I do? I gathered my strength and shoved him away with all my might. I forced a smile. “Zane, can you just stop? Stop chasing me. It’s pathetic.” “You probably don’t know this, but… I’ve been married. I have a kid.” “Are you still hoping we’ll get back together? Don’t be a fucking idiot, Zane.” He stumbled back, his body going rigid. As I moved to get out of the car, his hand shot out, slamming me back against the seat. His fingers closed around my throat, not tight enough to choke, but enough to hold me there. His voice trembled with fury. “I don’t believe you, Christine.” “You better tell me you’re fucking joking. Or I swear to God, I will kill you.” I met his blazing eyes without flinching. “Fine,” I said calmly. “I’ll prove it to you.” I took him to the Children’s Hospital. It was nine at night, but the lights in the inpatient ward were still on. I stood outside a room, looking through the glass window. I pointed to a small boy sitting up in bed, quietly reading a book. “That’s my son,” I told him. His name is Leo. He is the most precious thing in my world. He looks so much like me, but his personality is all Zane—thoughtful, gentle, with a stubborn streak. He has the same determined set to his eyes. He inherited all of Zane’s best qualities. He’s such a good kid. But he’s sick. Almost six years old, but so small and frail it breaks your heart. Zane stared at the boy for a long, long time. Then he balled his hand into a fist and slammed it against the wall. He bowed his head, and I think I saw a tear fall. I had never seen him look so broken. The last thing he said to me that night was, “You’ve got guts, Christine.” He didn’t ask who the father was. He didn’t recognize him. He didn’t know he was looking at his own son.

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I crashed my ex-boyfriend’s wedding. As the crowd gathered around the couple to cut the cake, I drifted closer, leaning in to whisper a single sentence in his ear. His head snapped around. In the next instant, he plunged the cake knife into his new bride. Once, twice, three times… He stabbed her eighteen times, a savage frenzy, like an exorcism of demons. Guests scattered, their screams tearing through the festive air. A wedding painted in blood. The media descended like vultures, each reporter desperate to know what had happened. But both Kevin and I remained silent, bound by a secret understanding. After a long investigation, the police found no motive, no evidence of incitement. They could only label it a psychotic break. He was sent to a psychiatric hospital for five years. The day Kevin was released was his parents’ 70th birthday. And once again, I appeared, an unwelcome ghost, ready to whisper the same sentence into the ear of a man they called cured. 1 “You and Kevin haven’t spoken in three years,” a voice hissed beside me. “Have you no shame, showing up here to steal the groom?” Dressed in a severe black gown, I was a specter at my ex-boyfriend Kevin’s celebration of new life. His gaze, when it found me, was cold, as if I were a stranger he’d passed on the street. It lingered for a heartbeat before he turned back to his fiancée, murmuring something sweet that made her laugh. Whispers rippled through the guests, their eyes darting between me and the happy couple. Kevin’s parents, their faces hardening into masks of fury, marched over. “I don’t recall sending you an invitation,” his father growled. “If you have any decency, you’ll leave now. Don’t make a scene.” But the bride-to-be, Lily, stepped forward, a picture of grace. “It’s okay,” she said, her voice surprisingly warm. “We all go way back. I’m sure Ava is just here to wish us well.” Seeing their future daughter-in-law so composed, Kevin’s parents could say no more. They grudgingly had me seated at a table in the farthest, darkest corner of the room. The incident was quickly forgotten. Laughter and the clinking of glasses filled the air once more. Then came the cake-cutting. The crowd surged forward, a wave of bodies pressing in around the towering confection. In the shuffle, I found myself pushed right up against Kevin. He had his arm wrapped around Lily’s waist, his face alight with an adoring smile. This was my chance. I leaned in, my lips brushing his ear, and spoke. His smile froze. His eyes, once so full of warmth, became terrifyingly feral, as if his very soul had been struck by lightning. He snatched the ceremonial knife and plunged it deep into Lily’s heart. Her scream was strangled by a gush of blood that blossomed across her white dress like a grotesque rose. Panic erupted. Guests shrieked and scrambled for the exits. Flowers, tablecloths, even the sky itself seemed stained crimson. And through it all, I stood perfectly still, watching him kill. I didn’t try to stop him. I didn’t run. I just watched, until the wail of sirens sliced through the chaos. 2 They put us in separate interrogation rooms. “What the hell did you say to him?” Detective Miller’s voice was a low growl, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the table. “Why did he snap and murder his fiancée?” I slowly lifted my gaze to meet his, my expression placid. There was no trace of the horror a witness to such brutality should feel. “I don’t know.” His fist slammed down on the metal table, the sound echoing in the sterile room. “How can you not know? A young woman is dead because of something you said!” He leaned closer, his voice raw with anger. “We’ve checked. Kevin and Lily were happy. They never fought. Nothing was wrong until you showed up.” A cold smile touched my lips. “Are my words magic, Detective? Do you really believe a single sentence from me could make a man murder the woman he loves?” He was silenced by that, his jaw tight. He knew how absurd it sounded. The investigation would have already shown him that Kevin and I hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in three years. Not a single text, not a single call. Kevin was the golden boy—brilliant, kind, compassionate. He was the kid who spent his allowance on food for stray cats, the man who had never shown a single violent impulse in his life. The police were grasping at straws, and the only straw they had was the sentence I’d whispered in his ear. “Then just tell us what you said to him. That, at least, you can do.” I met his intense gaze. “If you can prove my words are legally relevant to the crime, I’ll tell you,” I said, my voice even. “Otherwise, I can only report what I witnessed. But you don’t need me for that. You have the security footage.” “You…” Detective Miller’s face flushed with impotent rage. He glared at me, a storm brewing in his eyes, but he eventually spun on his heel and stormed out. Meanwhile, in the room next door, Kevin was faring much worse. He sat slumped in his chair, his eyes vacant, an empty shell where a person used to be. No matter how much they questioned him, he said nothing. It was as if the ability to speak had been carved out of him. 3 The moment I stepped out of the police station, I was swarmed. Kevin’s and Lily’s parents descended on me like a flock of enraged vultures. “Ava! What did you say to our son?” Kevin’s mother shrieked, her hand flying up to strike me across the face. The slap echoed in the tense silence. “I always knew you were poison! I knew you weren’t good enough for him! Why couldn’t you just let him go? Why did you have to ruin his life?” Even though her son was the killer, all her venom was directed at me. Lily’s mother, her face pale and streaked with tears, grabbed the front of my dress. “My Lily was the kindest soul,” she sobbed, her voice breaking. “She never did anything to you. Why did you tell Kevin to kill her?” Her husband stood beside her, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. “He broke up with you on his own. It had nothing to do with my daughter. Why did you take it out on her?” They screamed, they cried, they cursed me with the most vile words imaginable. I just stood there, impassive, a statue carved from ice. In the weeks that followed, reporters camped outside my door, hungry for a statement. A bizarre rumor even started that my words held some kind of dark power, and an eccentric billionaire offered a fortune just to know what I’d said. But whether they threatened or bribed, I remained silent. Six months passed. The police still had no motive for Kevin’s actions and no concrete evidence that I had incited him. In the end, they had no choice but to accept the insanity defense. The Collins family saw their opening. They poured every penny they had into Kevin’s case, hiring the best lawyers and pulling every string they could. After a protracted legal battle, they managed to get him committed to a private psychiatric facility instead of prison. To oversee his treatment, Mr. and Mrs. Collins gave up their careers. They sold their home and rented a cramped one-bedroom apartment near the hospital, dedicating their lives to his recovery. For five years, they refused my every attempt to visit. My only communication with Kevin remained that single, devastating sentence at his wedding. And then, after five years of their tireless effort, Kevin was deemed cured and released. It just so happened that the day of his release was his parents’ 70th birthday. A dual celebration. Though their fortune was gone, the Collins family decided to throw a grand party, a gala to announce their son’s return to the world. 4 I arrived at the banquet hall wearing the same black dress. An unwelcome ghost from a past they had tried so desperately to bury. The lively chatter in the hall died instantly. A strange, suffocating silence fell over the room. The smile on Mrs. Collins’s face froze, then crumbled. She rushed toward me, grabbing my arm in a surprisingly strong grip, trying to physically drag me out. “You cursed thing!” she spat, her voice a venomous whisper. “Why do you keep haunting us? Get out! Get out before I have you thrown out!” The Collins family may have lost their wealth, but they were desperate to rebuild their social standing and prove that Kevin was no longer a threat. They had gone into debt to host this party, inviting influential people from every corner of the city. It was supposed to be a declaration of his recovery, a fresh start. My appearance shattered that illusion in an instant. “Mrs. Collins, please,” I said, my voice calm, a slight smile playing on my lips as I held out a gift-wrapped box. “I’m just here to celebrate with you and Kevin.” She flinched as if the box were venomous, slapping it out of my hands. It hit the polished floor with a dull thud. “We don’t want your charity! Who knows what kind of twisted games you’re playing now!” she shrieked. “Take your things and get out of here!” The reporters in the room, smelling blood, began to circle. One of them, a man with a smirk, called out, “You seem awfully scared of her, Mrs. Collins. Are you sure Kevin is really cured? Or are you afraid he’ll start stabbing people again if she so much as looks at him?” Mrs. Collins’s face paled, but she forced a tight smile. “Of course he’s cured. The doctors have assured us he’s perfectly stable, not a threat to anyone.” She shot me a hateful glare. “But this woman… she’s a manipulator. Who knows what she might say to provoke him!” The reporter laughed coldly. “If a few ‘provoking’ words can make him kill, he belongs in a prison or an asylum, not at a party.” His words struck her like a physical blow, and she couldn’t find a response. I bent down, picked up the gift, and dusted it off, offering it to her again. This time, her hand trembling, she took it. Her thank you was a low, menacing growl. 5 Just like before, Mrs. Collins seated me at the back of the room. She and her husband hovered around Kevin like guard dogs, their eyes constantly flicking toward me, ensuring I couldn’t get close. But as the toasts began, a river of well-wishers flowed toward the head table. Caught up in the congratulations and laughter, Mr. and Mrs. Collins started to relax. A few glasses of champagne loosened their vigilance. They didn’t even notice as I picked up my own glass and slowly, deliberately, made my way toward Kevin. When it was my turn to offer a toast, I leaned in close, just as I had five years ago. And I whispered the exact same words. The change was instantaneous. The color drained from his face. His eyes widened in horror. He snatched a large carving knife from a nearby serving trolley. Before anyone could react, he lunged and plunged it deep into his mother’s stomach. Blood sprayed across the white tablecloth. Mrs. Collins stared at her son, her eyes wide with disbelief, before her body crumpled to the floor. “He’s killing again!” someone screamed. The banquet hall exploded into chaos. Chairs toppled, glasses shattered. No one dared to intervene. Mr. Collins, finally snapping out of his shock, rushed forward. “Kevin, no! Son, stop!” But Kevin was a machine of pure violence. He swung the knife wildly, slashing his father across the arms and legs. Mr. Collins collapsed, bleeding and pleading. “Son… it’s me… it’s your father…” Hearing his voice, Kevin paused, then brought the knife down in one clean, final stroke across his father’s throat. With his father dead, Kevin calmly walked back to his mother’s body. Just as he had with Lily, he began to stab her methodically, over and over, until he reached the eighteenth strike. By then, the police had arrived, sirens screaming. The scene was quickly secured. Kevin offered no resistance. He dropped the bloody knife and allowed the officers to cuff him. But this time, the family and guests didn’t just stand by. They turned on me, a furious mob. “Why aren’t you arresting her?” a cousin screamed, pointing a trembling finger at me. “She’s the one who did this! We all saw it! She whispered something to him, and he went insane!” “Yes!” others chimed in. “It was the same five years ago! She made him kill his wife!” “She’s the real murderer!” Detective Miller, who had responded to the call, recognized me instantly. He stormed over, his face a mask of cold fury. “What did you say to him?” he demanded, his voice shaking with rage. Just like five years ago, I said nothing about the words. “That’s three people dead!” he roared. “Are you still not going to talk?” Just then, a small boy pushed through the crowd, holding up a small digital camera with a proud, innocent smile. “I recorded what the lady said!” he announced. “I got it all on video!” 6 “You recorded it, buddy? Are you sure?” Detective Miller’s voice was laced with urgency as he crouched down to the boy’s level. The child, maybe five or six, blinked, clutching the camera to his chest. He seemed oblivious to the carnage around him, focused only on his achievement. “My camera was pointed right at the lady’s face,” he said, puffing out his chest. “You can see for yourself.” The crowd surged toward the boy, a wave of morbid curiosity. Miller, frowning, quickly took the camera from the child’s hands. He stared at the small screen, his eyes widening. He played the short clip back. Once. Twice. A third time. He looked up at me, his face a mixture of shock and utter disbelief. His voice trembled slightly. “You… you just said that?” he stammered. “And he killed for it?” I held his gaze, the faint, infuriating smile still on my lips. “You saw the video.” Miller’s face turned ashen. He lunged forward, grabbing the collar of my dress. “No,” he hissed, his voice dangerously low. “That can’t be it. It’s a code. There’s a hidden meaning. Tell me what you really meant!” His knuckles were white, his grip like iron. I tried to push him away but couldn’t break his hold. Finally, I sighed and let my hands fall to my sides, meeting his furious eyes without flinching. “There’s no hidden meaning. It means exactly what it sounds like. The rest is up to you to figure out.” Kevin’s remaining relatives were utterly bewildered. “What did she say?” one of them pleaded. “What were the words?” Detective Miller slowly released me, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He turned to the stunned crowd. “She only said four words,” he announced, his voice heavy with disbelief. “‘Just be yourself.’”

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The siblings who took me in were the doomed side characters in a novel. The brother, Joey, was brooding and detached, destined to be captivated by the sunny, warm-hearted female lead. The sister, Jasmine, was sensitive and starved for affection, willing to sacrifice everything for the male lead. They believed they had found their saviors. They had no idea the main characters were just using them as stepping stones. To protect my new, cushy life, I decided to steal the main characters’ roles. When my brother was lost in one of his dark moods, I planted a kiss on his cheek. “Ooh, you’re soft and sweet! You’re like a little cream puff, Joey!” Even the coldest man in the world would crack a smile at that. When my sister cried herself to sleep at night, I cried right along with her. “My beautiful stars are drowning in tears! What are we going to do?” She burst into a tearful giggle and pulled me into a hug. Later, the main characters, frustrated that they couldn’t get ahold of the siblings, showed up at our door unannounced. They were greeted by the sight of the two of them working through the night to help me finish my kindergarten craft project. 1 The moment I lost consciousness while saving a drowning child, I made a wish. I wished my next life would begin with the scent of my mother’s expensive skincare, the sound of my old-money father’s hearty laugh, and the feel of my chairman-of-the-board grandfather’s warm hand. Instead, I woke up peacefully nestled in a garbage can. Seriously? I thought good deeds were supposed to be rewarded. Why was I starting on impossible mode? The lid was closed. The acrid stench of mixed garbage was suffocating. I stared at my own chubby, dimpled hands and remained silent for a long time. This was not going to work. To survive, I had only one option: cry. I have no idea how long I wailed, but eventually, someone seemed to notice the strange sound coming from the dilapidated alley. The scuff of expensive leather shoes on pavement grew closer. You have no idea the feeling of salvation that comes with seeing the light of day again. My eyes met those of a middle-aged man in a pristine suit and white gloves. My butler! My dear butler has come for me! I knew it! I was the long-lost heiress, switched at birth by a wicked nanny! I eagerly reached my little hands out to him. Hurry, take me back to my ten-thousand-square-foot mansion with the swimming pool! Mommy and Daddy must be worried sick! A few minutes later, I was in the back of a black luxury car, still having a staring contest, this time with two high schoolers in expensive-looking prep school uniforms. The butler spoke hesitantly. “Young Master, Young Miss, the slums are just over there, and there are a few vocational schools nearby. I suspect she’s an abandoned infant. Perhaps we should take her to the police station?” I felt my heart sink. This was bad. The two teenagers, whose faces were so exquisitely sculpted they hardly seemed real, gave a cool nod. A relieved smile spread across the butler’s face. “Then I’ll leave her in your care for a moment, if you don’t mind.” I was unceremoniously passed to the boy. He held me stiffly, his whole body rigid with uncertainty. But I’ve always been a sucker for a pretty face. Seeing a face more stunning than any celebrity up close, I couldn’t stop myself from reaching out to touch his cheek. He caught the smirk on his sister’s face and his expression immediately darkened. He thrust me into her arms. “You take her. She’s a pain.” His sister instantly went just as stiff. Seeing their similar, god-tier looks, I couldn’t help but let out a happy gurgle of laughter. A smile touched her lips before she noticed her brother’s smug gaze. She immediately scowled. “Ugh, she smells like garbage. Gross.” With that, she plopped me down on the seat between them. The car was spacious, more than enough room for the three of us. But the thought of a miserable life in an orphanage was enough to make me start crying for real. I wailed. The boy, unable to stand the noise, sighed and picked me up. The moment I saw his face again, I was happy. A tearful giggle broke through. He put me down. I started crying again. The girl picked me up. I started laughing again. She put me down. I started crying again. A spark of interest lit up in their eyes. They started a game of pass-the-baby. “Hahaha—” “Waaaah—” “Hahaha—” “Waaaah—” After a few dozen rounds of this, the butler’s gentle voice floated from the front. “We’ve arrived at the police station.” I immediately let out a shriek so loud it felt like it could shatter the windows. The brother and sister exchanged a look. After a few seconds, they spoke in unison. “We’ll keep her.” 2 Mr. Davison, the butler, was incredibly efficient. The adoption papers were processed in no time. I also learned the identities of my new siblings: Joey and Jasmine Cheng, the fraternal twins of the city’s wealthiest and most powerful family. And I was now their little sister, Chloe Cheng. Don’t be jealous just yet. Because these two were the biggest, most tragic minor characters in a power fantasy novel about a pair of childhood sweethearts. The Cheng twins had the family name and the looks, but they couldn’t piece together a functioning family. Their parents had divorced shortly after they were born and had quickly run back to their old flames. In their eyes, the twins were merely a product of a business arrangement, a link they had long since disregarded. For years, they had shown them no affection whatsoever. You can’t expect children who have never been loved to grow up into paragons of virtue. To put it mildly, Joey and Jasmine were both deeply troubled, each in their own twisted way. Despite being blood-related, they couldn’t stand each other. To make matters worse, they were about to meet the novel’s protagonists, a ruthless pair of childhood sweethearts who had fought their way out of poverty. These two would deliberately orchestrate ways to get close to the twins, working together to drive a permanent wedge between them. The brother, brooding and detached, would be drawn to the female lead’s sunny warmth. The sister, sensitive and starved for affection, would become willing to sacrifice everything for the male lead. They would think they’d found salvation. In reality, they were just stepping stones on the protagonists’ path to success. In the end, after they had been squeezed dry of all their value, they would be cast aside. Readers loved the morally grey protagonists and the complex, self-serving-yet-genuine relationship between them, calling it a masterpiece of satisfying revenge fiction. Satisfying? I wasn’t feeling very satisfied right now. Even the expensive, imported formula the nanny had meticulously prepared for me had lost its appeal. That’s the thing about babies. The slightest unhappiness, and the waterworks turn on. My cries quickly brought Joey and Jasmine running. The nanny, holding me, was at her wit’s end. “I don’t know what’s wrong with Little Miss. Nothing seems to calm her down.” The moment Joey took me, I stopped crying. Everyone stared. The nanny let out a laugh. “Young Master, it seems Little Miss is very attached to you.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips before he quickly suppressed it. “You’re such a handful. One more peep and you’re going back in the trash.” Excuse me? That was just cruel. I immediately reached my arms out to Jasmine. She looked pleasantly surprised and cautiously reached for me. But Joey turned and walked away, still holding me. “She’s tired. You can hold her next time.” Jasmine gritted her teeth. “She clearly wants me to hold her! Give her to me!” “You’re clumsy. What if you drop her?” “Joey!” Listening to them bicker, I grew sleepy and closed my eyes, my little fists clenched. My brother and sister are good, kind kids. I will not let those two main characters get anywhere near them. 3 The only perk of being a baby is that you can be as demanding as you want. If I didn’t see Joey and Jasmine for more than a few hours, I’d cry. The nanny would glance at the clock, see that school was out, and expertly place the call. The line connected instantly. “How’s Chloe today?” Hearing Jasmine’s voice, I’d gurgle and reach for the phone. “Ahh! Ahh!” “Say ‘Jasmine.’” “Goo goo!” A light laugh came from the other end, and then Joey took the phone. He gave the nanny detailed instructions about my vaccination schedule, asked about my formula intake and bowel movements, and reminded her to give me regular baby massages. In a short time, he had become a total pro. The moment he got home, he’d be the one feeding me and changing my diapers. Jasmine would play with my rattle, cooing at me to help develop my language skills. They had a clear division of labor. And though they still fought over whose turn it was to hold me, the vast, empty mansion was slowly starting to feel like a home. Today, they didn’t come home on time. Mr. Davison cooed at me gently. “Your brother and sister went to the old family estate for their birthday today. They’ll be back a little later!” In the original story, their parents had, for the first time in years, promised to come home to celebrate their birthday with them. The twins pretended to be annoyed, but deep down, they were secretly looking forward to it. They waited for hours. When they finally called, they discovered their parents had completely forgotten. There was no apology, no guilt, just a dismissive wire transfer. Did they need money? No. What they needed was the love and care they had been denied their whole lives. And that’s why they were willing to throw themselves into the fire for the scraps of warmth the protagonists offered them. Sure enough, when they returned, Joey was cloaked in gloom, and Jasmine looked utterly desolate. They went straight to their rooms without even stopping by the nursery to see me. I sighed. Time to bring out the big guns. “Waaaaah—” A door slammed open, and a foul-tempered Joey appeared by my crib to check my diaper. “You’re dry. What are you crying about now?” I just kept crying. Even when he picked me up, I wouldn’t be soothed. Defeated, he went to get Jasmine. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Already in a terrible mood, she became even more irritated seeing me like this. She roughly placed me back in the bassinet. “Go to sleep!” I started batting at the mobile hanging over my head, making a concerted effort to form words. “Ha-ppy… ha-ppy… ha-ppy…” The sound of a baby’s babbling mixed with the gentle chime of the mobile. It almost sounded like a birthday song. They both froze. After a long moment, Joey covered his face with his hand and let out a choked laugh. Jasmine was infected by his mood. She turned away with a huff, but the corners of her mouth curved upward. I finally relaxed. Just as I was about to drift off, I saw Joey take out his phone and open the camera. “Do it again,” he said. “I don’t want you complaining on social media when you’re older that we never documented your childhood.” Oh, please. You just want to brag on Instagram, just say it. 4 Soon, Joey and Jasmine started their sophomore year. We had successfully avoided the plot point where they were supposed to meet the main characters. Just as I was letting my guard down, Joey disappeared. Mr. Davison sent people out to search for him all night. The next day, he finally returned, covered in bruises and scrapes. Trailing behind him was a girl in a white dress, looking equally disheveled. She had an innocent face, but as she took in the understated luxury of our home, her eyes held a flicker of shrewd calculation. Oh no. My inheritance. It’s in danger! After the family doctor had tended to their injuries, Joey explained. He’d gone hiking on a whim and had run into the female lead, Amelia. They had both accidentally slipped down a steep embankment, breaking their phones in the process. Luckily, neither was seriously injured. Right. I totally believed this had nothing to do with Amelia. When Amelia came out of the guest room, she saw Joey playing with me. She feigned surprise. “Is this your sister? She’s so adorable!” Joey was always in a good mood when people praised me. He smiled at her. “Do you want to hold her?” “I’d love to!” Get away from me, you witch! As she reached for me, I let out a wail, louder and more heartbroken than ever before. Joey froze, glancing at Amelia’s embarrassed face. “Sorry,” he said. “She can be a little shy with strangers.” Amelia quickly composed herself, being incredibly understanding. She even praised my wariness, saying it was a good way to protect myself. Her words clearly pleased Joey. His gaze softened, and he instructed Mr. Davison to personally drive her home. She really was the female lead. She had my brother wrapped around her little finger with just a few simple tricks. I closed my eyes, exhausted. Jasmine didn’t get home until evening. She kept glancing at her phone, an expectant look on her face, unable to hide the giddy smile on her lips. This look of a girl in the first throes of love set off alarm bells in my head. Joey noticed it too. He frowned. “Where were you today?” Jasmine shot him a glare. “None of your business!” “Are you seeing someone?” “You have the nerve to question me? What were you doing out in the middle of nowhere, spending the night alone with a girl and then bringing her home? You’re the one who’s seeing someone!” “We were worried sick all night, and you were out having fun.” Joey was speechless. Jasmine gave him a scornful look and went to her room. I waved my little hands in the air. It was happening. The moment the main characters appeared, the bond between the siblings began to fracture.

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I went to my ex-boyfriend’s apartment, ready to beg him to take me back. It had only been a week since we’d broken up. I pushed the door open and found him leaning down, kissing someone else. The girl was wearing my silk nightgown. And she wasn’t just anyone. It was Iris. My roommate for all four years of college. Just last night, back in our dorm room, Iris mentioned she might be moving out. She said the guy she’d been crushing on for ages had finally asked her out and wanted her to move in with him. I was such an idiot. I’d actually congratulated her, happy that her dream was coming true. I never imagined that her new boyfriend was Joss, the man who had just broken my heart. He certainly didn’t waste any time moving on. A seamless transition. I stood frozen in the doorway, the world tilting on its axis. Iris saw me first. “Ava?!” she gasped, her eyes wide. Joss looked up. The moment our gazes locked, a flicker of surprise crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced by a cold, unnerving calm. He straightened his shirt and walked toward me, his shadow falling over me as he looked down. “What do you want, Ava?” My eyes were glued to the raw, red mark on his collarbone. A knot formed in my chest, tight and suffocating, stealing the air from my lungs. The words I’d practiced, the pleas for a second chance, died on my lips. Iris came over, offering a small, apologetic smile. “I didn’t have a nightgown, so I borrowed yours. Hope you don’t mind.” My head buzzed, a low hum of white noise. She saw my silence and rushed to explain, her voice a little too bright. “Ava, don’t get the wrong idea. Joss and I only got together after you two broke up.” Watching her scramble to prove her innocence, I felt like a fool. A clown in a tragedy of my own making. It took me a moment to find my voice, to cobble together a brittle excuse for being there. “I still have some things here,” I said, my voice flat. “I came to pack.” Joss was silent for a beat, his expression unreadable. “Fine. Come in.” It was only when I stepped inside that I understood his silence. The succulent I’d potted with my own hands was gone from the windowsill. In the bathroom, our matching toothbrush holder had been replaced. The curtains, the bedsheets, the duvet cover—all of it had been swapped out for the muted grays and blues that Iris loved. Even the framed photo on the nightstand, a picture of Joss and me as kids, had been replaced with one of Iris. There was nothing for me to pack. This little apartment, the home we had built together, was no longer mine. It had been scrubbed clean of me. All in one week. One single week. Everything I owned had been crammed into a single suitcase and shoved in a corner of the balcony, gathering dust. My dog was out there, too. The hot, sticky air of the summer night wrapped around me, making it hard to breathe. I squatted on the cluttered balcony, staring at Ricky, who was slumped listlessly in his cage. We found Ricky, a stray, on the day of our first date. Joss had named him, wrapping his arms around me from behind and whispering with a wicked grin that every time I called the dog’s name, I’d remember the thrill of our first kiss. But that was all gone now. “Ricky,” I whispered. His floppy ears twitched and then shot up. When he saw it was me, he let out an excited little whine, his whole body wiggling as if he wanted to leap into my arms like he always did. Realizing he was trapped, he sat back down, his tail thumping against the cage in a frantic rhythm. A sharp sting hit the back of my nose, and the dam of emotions I’d been holding back finally broke. I stormed back into the living room. “I don’t care about the other stuff, but you know Ricky was abused! He’s terrified of being locked in a—” “I know,” Joss cut me off, his voice dangerously quiet. He glanced at Iris. “She’s scared of dogs.” The rest of my words caught in my throat. She’s scared of dogs. So that was it. A dull, heavy ache spread through my chest. The first time I sensed something was wrong between Joss and Iris was two months ago. With graduation looming, he was drowning in job offers and interviews, constantly busy. I’d send him a text at night and wouldn’t get a reply until the next morning. Our phone calls became brutally short. “He’s just stressed with graduation, Ava. Don’t overthink it,” Iris would say, trying to comfort me as I moped around the dorm. On Valentine’s Day, Iris gave me two movie tickets. Hoping to repair the growing rift between us, I asked Joss to go with me. Halfway through the film, he was clearly distracted, his eyes darting to his phone every few minutes. “Ava, I have to take a call. I’ll be right back.” He was gone before I could reply, grabbing his jacket and hurrying out of the theater. He never came back. After the movie ended, I saw him waiting for me in the crowded lobby, leaning against a wall with his head down, lost in thought. I noticed something odd—the top two buttons of his shirt, which were usually open, were fastened tightly to his throat. When he saw me, he offered a simple explanation. “Project call. Lost track of time.” “What kind of project call lasts for an entire movie?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. How did he reply? He didn’t even bother to lie convincingly. “If you’re going to be suspicious, there’s nothing I can do.” Back in our dorm, I was scrolling aimlessly through my phone, my mind a turbulent mess, when I saw Iris’s latest post. It was a picture of two half-finished coffees and a pair of ticket stubs. The caption was just a single heart emoji. The room was silent except for the soft sound of our breathing. But I felt like I was suffocating. “Was your movie in the theater next to mine?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m not really into rom-coms.” “Did you go with that guy you like?” Iris was quiet for a long time. Then, a small, knowing smile touched her lips. “I did.” Later that night, we were walking across the campus green. I walked ahead, wrapped in a cold silence. Joss sensed my mood and reached for my hand. “What’s wrong?” I said only one thing. “Iris was at the same movie theater tonight.” The air between us went still. But only for a second. He tightened his grip on my hand. “Ava, it was just a coincidence.” I looked into his eyes, saw the sincerity and apology swimming there, and I couldn’t bring myself to pull away. We had been together for so long; we were supposed to be each other’s future. I couldn’t let a few suspicions poison everything we had. Besides, I’d seen a picture of the guy Iris was supposedly obsessed with. She’d spent four years of college single for him. There was no way she’d go after Joss. Right? Maybe it was my imagination, but after that night, Joss grew even colder. With his final thesis defense approaching, he became a ghost. We hadn’t seen each other in almost a week. On his birthday, I baked his favorite cake, bought him a gift, and went to his apartment to surprise him. When I opened the door, the apartment was filled with people. And Joss was cutting a cake. With Iris. She was practically enveloped in his arms, her hand placed over his as they held the knife together. The cheerful chatter in the room died instantly. Joss’s face was a blank mask when he saw me. He didn’t move his hand. “Keep going,” he said to the group. It was Iris who pulled her hand away, her eyes darting toward me with a complicated expression. Someone quickly jumped in to explain. “It’s Iris’s birthday today too! We just thought it’d be fun for them to cut the cake together. Don’t get the wrong idea!” His clumsy lie did nothing to soothe the icy dread creeping into my heart. How could I not get the wrong idea? All the hurt, the anxiety, the suspicion from the past few weeks solidified into a painful certainty the moment I saw them together. After the party, I confronted him. Or rather, I had a complete meltdown while he stood there, watching. “I’m your girlfriend! Why didn’t you even tell me you were having a party?” “Are you that busy? You have time to cut a cake with her, but you can’t find two seconds to reply to my texts?” My voice cracked, turning into a choked sob. “Joss… do you even want to be with me anymore?” He met my desperation with that same, familiar silence. I gripped the back of a chair to steady myself, then slowly sank to the floor, burying my face in my knees as silent tears streamed down my cheeks. The Joss who told me everything, who promised to marry me right after graduation, who never let me doubt him—he was gone. There was nothing left to say. In a haze of pain and anger, I told him it was over. His only reply was a cold, flat, “Whatever you want.” Five days after we broke up, one of Joss’s friends called me, trying to play peacemaker. “We just showed up to surprise him for his birthday, Ava. He didn’t plan it. Look, he was wrong, but don’t you think you’ve been a little clingy while he’s been trying to finish his thesis? Everyone needs some space.” Even Iris sounded exasperated with me. “Ava, I have a guy I like, you’ve seen his picture! Joss is your boyfriend. Why would I ever try to steal him from you?” Their words echoed in my head. I started to wonder if I had overreacted, if I was being selfish and impulsive. I decided to talk to Joss, to try and fix things. And that’s when I walked in on them. We had been broken up for one week, and he’d already moved on with my roommate. A seamless transition, indeed. That night, I took Ricky with me. Since my dorm didn’t allow pets, I had to leave him at my parents’ house for the time being. I curled up in bed, my mind replaying the image of their kiss over and over, my imagination torturing me with scenes of what might have come next. A cold dread prickled at my scalp, and the knot in my chest tightened until I could barely breathe. Desperate for an outlet, I went online and found a public forum. I poured out all my pain and betrayal into a long, anonymous post answering a question about “seamless rebounds.” I woke up the next morning to a firestorm. My phone had exploded. 99+ notifications. “Why do you think he agreed to the breakup so fast? It’s obvious he already had someone lined up.” “I agree with the comment above. It’s not a ‘seamless rebound’ if the cheating was happening all along. He just needed an excuse to make the side piece official.” Somehow, through my descriptions of the campus and the city, users had figured out which university I attended. They put the pieces together and identified me and Iris by name. The post went viral on campus forums, with hundreds of students weighing in. “Iris always seemed so sweet and innocent. Guess she’s just another backstabbing snake.” “I know the boyfriend, he’s in the math department. Super smart, really handsome. No wonder she sank her claws into him…” “Is no one else going to talk about the part where the cheater came back from his ‘phone call’ with his shirt buttoned all the way up? He was definitely hiding something…” I stared at the flood of comments, a numb, hollow feeling spreading through me. My call log was full of missed calls, my messages overflowing. They were all from Joss. I turned off my phone and went downstairs to grab some food. He was waiting for me. As soon as I stepped outside, he strode toward me, his face a thunderous mask. “Take the post down,” he commanded, his voice cold as ice. The rage I felt, fueled by the validation from strangers online, boiled over. “When did it start between you two?” I demanded. “Was it that night at the movies? Or was it even earlier?” Joss’s face was impassive. “Ava, is there any point in discussing this now?” He didn’t answer. But he didn’t deny it, either. And in that silence, I had my answer. A bitter laugh escaped my lips, a sound of pure self-mockery. “If you didn’t love me anymore, you could have just told me. I wouldn’t have clung to you. Why did you have to—” “I’m not going to say it again,” he cut me off, a warning edge to his voice, his patience clearly gone. “Letting this blow up won’t do you any good, either. Take. The post. Down.” His words hung in the air, cold and menacing. I stared at him, a wave of dizzying disorientation washing over me. Was this really the same Joss I had known my whole life? When we were kids, my family didn’t have much money. A girl in our class, who had always disliked me, accused me of stealing her hair clip. She grabbed a handful of my hair and viciously shoved the butterfly clip she’d “found” in my backpack onto my head. “You’ve never worn anything this nice in your life, have you?” she sneered. “Stealing a ten-dollar hair clip. Just how poor are you?” Everyone called me a thief. Everyone except Joss. He stood up, his voice calm and clear, and told the teacher that he had seen the girl plant the clip in my bag herself. We became friends after that. He was the quiet, serious boy who protected me. Now, that boy was gone. In his place was a man who wouldn’t even let me finish a sentence. He was protecting someone else now. A wave of grief and bitterness so strong it almost buckled my knees washed over me. “I’m not deleting it,” I whispered, then turned and fled. That evening, when I went to pick up a food delivery, I felt eyes on me. I heard whispers, saw the strange, pitying glances. “They’re both as bad as each other, if you ask me.” “Desperate for attention, I guess.” A cold sense of dread crept up my spine. I rushed back to my room and turned on my phone. There it was: an anonymous reply to my original post, and it had already gone viral. The title read: The plot twist you didn’t see coming: She was cheating on her boyfriend with another man six months ago! (With photographic evidence!) The post was a long, scathing takedown, painting me as a master manipulator who had been cheating for months and was now playing the victim to ruin her ex-boyfriend and roommate’s reputations. And unlike my post, this one had a picture. In the photo, I was standing outside a hotel with a tall, well-built guy. My arm was linked through his, and his hand was resting possessively on my waist. The lighting was dim, but you could see him looking down at me, our bodies close. And the man was definitely not Joss. My post had generated so much traffic that this counter-post instantly blew up. The tide of public opinion turned in a flash. The same people who had been defending me were now tearing me apart, their comments even more vicious than the ones aimed at Iris. Suddenly, one comment shot to the top. “Wait, isn’t that Johnny Croft from Northwood University? The campus ice prince?” The replies came fast and furious: “No way! Why would Johnny be with her?” “I heard Johnny has a girlfriend, the prettiest girl in the literature department…” “Wow. So Ava was the other woman all along. The cheater got cheated on. Karma’s a bitch!” My hands shook with rage as I dialed Iris’s number. “Was that you?” I demanded. I could hear the smile in her voice. “What if it was?” she purred. “You started this, Ava. I’m just finishing it.” Before I could say another word, she let out a sharp gasp. “On the phone,” Iris said, her voice breathy and uneven. Then I heard Joss’s voice, lazy and indifferent. “What’s there to talk about with her?” The line went quiet, but it wasn’t dead. I could hear their breathing, heavy and close, then the distinct, faint sound of a zipper being pulled down. I slammed the phone down, ending the call. My whole body was trembling. After a moment, my fingers, clumsy and numb, typed out a message to someone in my contacts list. I’m so sorry you got dragged into this. I’ll handle it. I’m really, truly sorry. A few minutes later, a reply came back. It’s fine. Two simple words. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. The truth was, I barely knew Johnny Croft. This was a complete nightmare for him. He was a friend of my cousin’s, and six months ago, my cousin brought him to visit. I was the one who helped them book a hotel room. As we were leaving, I was looking down at my phone and almost walked into traffic. Johnny grabbed me, pulling me back onto the curb just in time. Iris was there that day. She must have been the one who took the picture. The world felt insane. Even after my cousin, Johnny, and I all posted explanations, providing the hotel booking confirmation with our names on it, the internet didn’t seem to care. Maybe they didn’t want the truth. They wanted drama. They wanted a winner and a loser. My life became a public spectacle. People would point and whisper when I walked across campus. It was then that Iris messaged me, saying we needed to talk. In person. My cousin, knowing how I tend to avoid confrontation, offered to come with me, but I told him I had to do this alone. She chose a coffee shop. When I arrived, she and Joss were already there, waiting. “There you are, Ava,” Iris said with a saccharine smile. I ignored her, walking to the table and sitting down without a word. I could feel Joss’s cold gaze on me, but I kept my eyes fixed on Iris. “What do you want to talk about?” “Talk?” Iris let out a theatrical laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. “Oh, sweetie. You’re in no position to be making demands.” A humorless laugh escaped my own lips. “So that mystery guy you were supposedly in love with all these years… it was always Joss, wasn’t it? You were lying to me the entire time.” “Yes,” she admitted, without a shred of shame. “It was love at first sight.” My hand tightened into a fist under the table. “That night at the movies… did he come to your theater?” “Nope.” I stared at her, confused. “We went to the…” she said, drawing out each word with malicious glee, “…rest-room… together.” “Enough,” I snapped, unable to bear hearing another disgusting detail. Even though I had suspected it, hearing the confirmation felt like a physical blow. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened,” Iris said, though her tone held no remorse. “I can take down the post about you and Johnny.” “But,” she continued, her smile turning sharp, “you have to delete your original post. And you have to issue a public apology to me.” “Never!” I shot back, my body trembling with rage. Iris’s smile widened. She reached into her bag and slid a stack of photographs across the table. “Deleting your post is not an option. And a public apology is even more—” My words choked in my throat as my eyes fell on the photos. They were blurry, dark, and utterly vile. My blood ran cold. “How… how did you get these?” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “How do you even know about…” My mind fractured. The images on the table triggered a cascade of memories I had locked away in the darkest corner of my mind. After Joss had stood up for me and exposed the girl who framed me for stealing the butterfly clip, she had targeted him for revenge. Her older brother was a local thug, the kind of person everyone was afraid of. For weeks, Joss wore long sleeves and masks, even in the heat. I found bruises on his arms and back, but he would just stand there silently while I put ointment on them, his jaw tight with pain. I would cry, my tears falling onto his bruised skin, and he would be the one to comfort me, his voice rough with pain. “I’m fine, Ava, really. Don’t cry. It doesn’t even hurt.” Then one day, I was cutting through an alley and saw them. Her brother had Joss pinned to the ground, his boot grinding Joss’s fingers into the filthy pavement. That’s when I understood the real price he had paid for defending me. I didn’t think. I just ran, shoving the guy off him, screaming at them to leave Joss alone, lying that the campus security was on their way. The brother grabbed me, his fingers digging into my jaw. He laughed, a cruel, mocking sound. “Security? I don’t think so. But you know what? You do something for me, and I’ll let your little boyfriend go.” I fought, I screamed, I cried, but I was powerless. Through my tears, I could see Joss, unconscious on the ground. Later, somehow, Joss got the photos back. He held me so tight, his eyes red-rimmed, and his voice broke as he promised me, “I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.” “If you don’t delete that post and apologize to me,” Iris’s voice sliced through my memories, “I can’t guarantee where these little pictures might end up. What will your parents think? What will the entire internet think?” How could Iris have these? How could she possibly know? “How do I know?” Iris’s voice was a low, cruel murmur, each word a needle piercing my heart. “You’ve already guessed, haven’t you?” A roar filled my ears. I slowly, mechanically, turned my head to look at Joss. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. His gaze was fixed on the table, anywhere but at me. I felt my body turn to ice. A single word escaped my lips, a ghost of a sound. “Why…?” You promised. You promised you would never let anyone hurt me again.

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In the quiet of the ultrasound room, I heard my two babies arguing. A soft, sweet voice whimpered, [Sister, you’re squishing me.] A fierce one shot back, [Back off, this is my space!] My heart leaped. “Is it twins?” I asked the doctor, my voice trembling with excitement. But the doctor only glanced at my husband standing behind me before shaking his head. “Mrs. Sterling, you’re mistaken. There’s only one gestational sac.” My husband, Ethan, wrapped an arm around my shoulders, his voice a warm smile. “See? You’re so excited you’re seeing things.” Was I? But I had clearly heard that fierce little voice sneer, [He knows what’s good for him. If he’d spilled the beans, Dad wouldn’t have let him get away with it.] 1 Back home, I sat on the sofa, the words he knows what’s good for him echoing in my mind. Dad? Which dad? I rested a hand on my stomach, my palm cold as ice. A terrible thought began to take root in the pit of my stomach. Ethan walked over with a glass of warm milk, placing it gently beside my hand. “What’s wrong? Still thinking about twins?” he murmured. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you. The doctor said there’s just one. Let’s focus on keeping this one healthy and safe.” His smile was so tender, his eyes filled with the same adoration I’d fallen in love with. I lowered my gaze to hide the chill in my own eyes and obediently picked up the glass. [Hypocrite.] Lifting the milk, I asked with feigned casualness, “Ethan, a friend of mine is pregnant too, and she’s having twins. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we had two babies?” I watched his face, refusing to miss a single flicker of emotion. For a fraction of a second, the hand holding his own glass tightened. It was almost imperceptible. “Twins are too high-risk,” he said, his voice still gentle but strained around the edges. “All I want is for you and our baby to be safe.” I looked down, a cold, invisible smile touching my lips. I see. That night, I lay in bed, pretending to be asleep. Ethan tiptoed into the room, assuming I was lost to the world. He stood by the bed for a long time, so long that my facade almost cracked. Then, I felt his cool fingers rest on my belly. It wasn’t the loving touch of a father-to-be. His fingers moved with the cold precision of an assessment, tracing my skin inch by inch, as if he were measuring, calculating. I went rigid, not daring to breathe. The soft, sweet voice whimpered again, full of tears. [Sister, I’m scared…] The fierce, masculine voice was instantly reassuring. [Don’t be. I’m here.] Then, he spoke to the other baby in my womb. [You’d better lie low, too. Don’t let him find you.] My heart plummeted. Him? Who was him? Ethan? What could he find? Just then, I heard Ethan let out the softest sigh, a sound thick with regret, before he turned and left the room. My eyes flew open. I touched the spot where his hand had been. It was cold as stone. Two days later, Ethan presented me with a new phone. “Less radiation. It’s better for the baby,” he said with a smile. I stared at the basic feature phone, capable of nothing more than calls and texts, and laughed inwardly. Less radiation, or easier to monitor? He took my old smartphone and, with practiced ease, wiped it clean. “Out with the old, in with the new.” He said it so casually, as if he were just throwing out trash. My heart sank a little deeper. A few days after that, my mother-in-law—the matriarch of the Sterling family—moved into our villa. She didn’t come alone. She brought an entire entourage: a nutritionist, a nanny, and two stone-faced bodyguards. The official reason was to take better care of me. “Ava, from this day forward, your meals will be prepared by Mrs. Davis. She is the best prenatal nutritionist in the field,” my mother-in-law announced from the sofa, her tone leaving no room for argument. I looked at the woman, Mrs. Davis, who pushed her glasses up her nose, her eyes sharp and clinical. My life was no longer my own. I couldn’t go out. I couldn’t see my friends. My world had shrunk to the walls of this house. Ethan came home every evening, showering me with affection and concern. But to my ears, his sweet words were coated in poison. 2 The fierce baby seemed to sense the escalating danger. [That old witch is up to no good.] [She’s putting something in your soup. Small doses, but she never stops.] My hand, holding the soup bowl, was steady as a rock. I even managed a placating smile for my mother-in-law. “Thank you, Mother. The soup is delicious.” As I drank, I watched her from the corner of my eye. A satisfied smile spread across her lips. I tilted my head back and finished every last drop. Then, excusing myself to the bathroom, I ran inside, jammed my fingers down my throat, and forced myself to throw it all up. I didn’t stop until my stomach was empty, heaving with nothing but bitter acid. I collapsed onto the cold tile floor. I couldn’t just wait for them to act. I had to contact the outside world. I remembered a spare phone I’d hidden in an old suitcase, tucked away in the back of my walk-in closet. During a shift change for the bodyguards, I slipped into the closet and locked the door. I found the phone. Thank God, it still had a charge. My hands trembled as I dialed my best friend, Zoe. She picked up on the first ring. “Hello? Ava?” The moment I heard her voice, tears welled in my eyes. “Zoe, I…” I only managed to get two words out before the closet door was kicked open. My mother-in-law stood in the doorway, flanked by her two bodyguards, a glacial smile on her face. “Ava. Who are you calling?” She advanced on me, the sharp click-clack of her heels on the hardwood floor echoing the frantic hammering of my heart. I instinctively tried to hide the phone behind my back. She gave me no time to react. With a single glance, a bodyguard lunged forward and brutally snatched the phone from my hand. My mother-in-law took it, her eyes falling on the name on the screen. “Zoe?” She let out a soft, contemptuous laugh. “It seems I’ve been too soft on you. You’ve forgotten your place.” Then, right in front of me, she threw the phone to the floor. The screen shattered into a spiderweb of cracks. Still not satisfied, she lifted her foot and ground it under the heel of her expensive, custom-made shoe. “I will eliminate anyone, and anything, that might distract you from a healthy pregnancy.” With that, she turned and walked away, as if the vicious woman from a moment ago had never existed. I stared at the mangled remains of the phone, the blood in my veins turning to ice. I was well and truly a prisoner. That evening, when Ethan came home, his mother told him everything. I thought he might say something, anything, in my defense. But he just listened in silence before walking over and crouching in front of me. “Ava, Mom just has your best interests at heart. The most important thing for you right now is to rest and focus on the baby. Don’t overthink things.” His voice was as gentle as water, but it sent a chill straight to my bones. I looked at him, my own voice low and deliberate. “Ethan, I am your wife. Not a broodmare for your family.” A crack appeared in his gentle facade. “How can you think that? I love you, Ava.” [Love? His love is locking you up and plotting to kill one of your children,] the fierce baby sneered in my mind. I closed my eyes, unable to look at his deceitful face any longer. From that day on, the surveillance tightened. The two bodyguards were stationed outside my bedroom door, day and night. I couldn’t even close the bathroom door. So I started a hunger strike. It was the only form of protest I had left. On the first day, my mother-in-law watched with cold indifference. On the second, she resorted to threats. “Ava, don’t push your luck. If you harm my grandchild, I will make your entire family pay the price.” My parents were my only weakness. My eyes turned red. “You wouldn’t dare!” “Try me.” 3 She threw a file onto the table. “That little diner your parents own… it seems they’ve had some trouble passing recent health inspections.” I trembled with rage. I had to give in. I started eating again, but every bite felt like swallowing shards of glass. I had to find a way out. I couldn’t let them win. A plan slowly began to form in my mind. That afternoon, when the nanny wasn’t looking, I quietly poured some shower gel on the bathroom floor. Then, with a carefully timed “accident,” I slipped and fell, hard. “Ah!” I let out a piercing scream, clutching my stomach. The nanny’s face went white with terror. She shrieked and ran for help. In moments, Ethan and his mother burst in. Seeing me on the floor, a faint stain of blood spreading beneath me, Ethan’s face turned ashen. “Quick! Call the family doctor!” his mother yelled. My heart sank. The family doctor. Again. I had been betting on their panic, hoping they would rush me to the nearest public hospital. I lost the bet. But my mind was already racing, trying to figure out how to use this “injury” to create my next opportunity. Dr. Evans, the family doctor, arrived quickly. He ran a series of checks, then turned to Ethan and his mother with a grave expression. “Madam, Sir, the fall was quite serious. It has stressed the pregnancy. She needs immediate bed rest. I recommend we start an IV drip with nutrients to stabilize the fetus.” I lay on the bed, my body cold with dread. I heard the fierce voice in my womb curse furiously. [You idiot! Did you really think they were fools? A stunt like this will only make them tighten their grip!] I closed my eyes in despair. The cold liquid snaked its way down the tube and into my veins. A powerful wave of drowsiness washed over me. My eyelids grew heavy. Just before I lost consciousness, I heard the soft, sweet voice cry out, [Sister, I don’t feel good… My body is so hot…] It was followed by a furious, masculine roar. [Damn it! They’re drugging us! This medicine… it’s meant for me! They’re trying to kill me!] My consciousness drifted in a black void, but my body felt like it was on fire. No, I can’t sleep. With every ounce of strength I had, I bit down hard on my tongue. The sharp pain shocked me back to a sliver of clarity. I forced my eyes open. The room was empty. On the back of my hand, the cool liquid was still flowing into my bloodstream. This was it. The thing that was trying to kill my child. With my free hand, I trembled, then ripped the needle from my skin. The pain was blinding, and a searing heat shot through my veins. I ignored it, scrambling off the bed and stumbling into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on my face again and again, fighting to stay awake. The drug was potent. My body grew hotter, but my limbs were turning to lead. Inside me, the fierce voice was growing weaker. [Hang on… you stupid woman… don’t fall asleep…] I slid down the cold wall to the floor, gasping for air. It wasn’t long before I heard hurried footsteps outside. “Ava! Open the door! Ava!” It was Ethan, his voice laced with panic. I didn’t make a sound. “Break it down!” his mother shrieked. With a deafening crash, the bathroom door splintered open. 4 Ethan rushed in. When he saw me slumped on the floor, the pool of blood at his feet, and the discarded IV needle on the bed, his face twisted into an ugly mask. He strode forward and grabbed my arm. “Ava! Are you insane? Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” His grip was crushing. I looked up at his face, a canvas of feigned “concern” and “rage,” and I started to laugh. “What am I doing? Ethan, why don’t you ask yourself what you’re doing?” I pointed to the IV bag still hanging by the bed. “What’s in there? Nutrients? Do you take me for a fool?” “What is it?! Why are you trying to kill our child?!” I screamed the words. Ethan’s expression froze, the panic in his eyes swiftly replaced by a look of profound hurt. “Ava, calm down. It’s not what you think.” He tried to pull me into an embrace, but I shoved him away. “Not what I think? Then what is it? Tell me!” His mother stood in the doorway, watching our performance with cold detachment. “Ethan, why are you wasting your breath on her? If she wants to die, then let her—” “Mom!” Ethan cut her off sharply, shooting her a warning glance. Her face tightened, but she fell silent, though the venom in her eyes remained. Ethan turned back to me, his features contorting into a mask of anguish. He knelt, taking my hands in his, his voice hoarse. “Ava, I’m sorry. I’ve been hiding something from you.” “We are having twins.” My heart skipped a beat. “But…” He took a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes turning red. “We ran the most advanced genetic screening… and we discovered that… the boy… he has a severe congenital heart defect.” “The doctors said he wouldn’t live past his first birthday. And his presence in the womb is putting the other, healthy baby at risk. It’s even putting you at risk.” “So… we made the decision… to only keep the healthy one.” He delivered the lines with tears in his eyes, but I could feel the smug triumph hidden deep beneath the surface.

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My girlfriend, Judy, and I had a deal: if she went from 175 pounds down to 99, we’d get married. Today was the day she made good on her promise. At the gym, the numbers on the digital scale finally ticked over from 99.1 to 99.0. Her personal trainer, Barry, was even more ecstatic than she was. He let out a whoop and swept her up into his arms. “Judy! You did it! You’re amazing!” The way they looked at each other, the air between them thick with a syrupy sweetness, it was as if the rest of the world had melted away, leaving only the two of them. Our friends were cheering, whooping, and hollering. I was the only one who felt like a ghost at the party. Calmly, I unlocked my phone. With the image of them celebrating, his lips pressing against her forehead, as my backdrop, I deleted the wedding planning checklist. Then, I raised my phone and announced, my voice cutting through the noise like ice, “Judy, the wedding is off.” 1 The cheering died instantly. The air went still. The ecstatic joy on Judy’s face froze. She signaled for Barry to put her down, her eyes wide with disbelief as she stared at me. “Bob? What did you just say?” Beside her, a flicker of triumph crossed Barry’s handsome, chiseled face. He took Judy’s arm, his tone a perfect blend of innocence and concern. “Bob, man, don’t be mad. Judy… she’s just really, really happy.” He said her name, Judy, with an easy, practiced intimacy that made my stomach turn. I let out a short, bitter laugh, my gaze fixed on her. “Me, mad?” “Should I be happy? Should I be thrilled that my fiancée lost all this weight for another man?” The color drained from Judy’s face, as if I’d struck a nerve. She lunged at me. “Bob! What the hell is wrong with you?!” she shrieked, grabbing my arm. “Do you have any idea what I’ve been through for you these last three years? I went from one hundred and seventy-five pounds to ninety-nine! I lost seventy-six pounds! And now that I’ve done it, you’re calling it off? How dare you back out now!” “For me?” I didn’t resist, letting her grip dig into my skin. I raised my other hand and pointed to her phone. “Why don’t you show everyone your lock screen?” She froze. Her grip on my wrist loosened just a fraction. Our friends exchanged confused glances. Barry’s smile was gone, replaced by a tense line. Judy’s eyes darted away, unable to meet mine, before a fresh wave of fury washed over her face. “You went through my phone? Bob, have you no shame? You’re disgusting!” She spat the word disgusting like it was poison. Her best friend, Jessica—our maid of honor—immediately jumped to her defense. “Bob, that’s completely out of line! How can you even suspect Judy?” “Yeah, seriously, snooping through her phone is so low.” “Dude, have some confidence. Don’t be so insecure.” A wall of people formed around Judy, shielding her as if I were some kind of monster. They barraged me with accusations, condemning my mistrust, my jealousy. Not a single one of them asked me why. I watched the absurd scene unfold, watching them protect Judy like she was a precious queen. And suddenly, I just felt tired. So incredibly tired. I shook her hand off and turned to leave. Jessica’s voice, laced with a strange, triumphant tone, followed me. “Bob, if you walk out that door today, you’ll never get to see the ‘surprise’ Judy had waiting for you.” 2 I went back to the apartment Judy and I had shared for three years. I couldn’t care less about her so-called “surprise.” All I wanted was to pack my things and get out of this suffocating place. I pulled out my largest suitcase and began to pack with a numb efficiency. I opened my desk drawer to get my diploma and other important documents. Lying right on top was a large manila envelope. The words stamped on the front in gold foil made my blood run cold. “The Veridian Condominiums – Purchase Agreement” My heart plummeted. We had been planning to buy a place after the wedding, and The Veridian was our top choice. Could this be the “surprise” Jessica was talking about? Had she actually bought the condo behind my back? A complicated sliver of hope rose in my chest. With trembling hands, I opened the envelope. I flipped through the contract to the buyer information page. My eyes locked on the space next to “Buyer.” It wasn’t my name. It wasn’t Judy’s name, either. It was Barry’s. My mind went blank, a roar filling my ears. I forced my eyes to keep reading. Payment Method: Paid in full. Total Price: $283,000. Tucked into the last page of the contract was a bank receipt. The funds had been transferred from a joint account. Account Holders: Bob Sterling, Judy Hayes. The account balance, which had been over $285,000, was now just over two thousand. That money… that was every penny I had saved over seven years of working, of pinching pennies, of skipping lunches. It was the money for our wedding, for our home, for our future. And now, it was a condo in Barry’s name. The papers trembled in my hand. So, she hadn’t just cheated on me. She had stolen every last cent I had to buy a home for her lover. Click. The front door opened. Judy walked in. She saw the contract in my hand and didn’t even flinch. “You saw it.” My voice was a dry rasp. Every word was an effort. “Where is our wedding money?” Judy scoffed. “Your money? Bob, can you stop being so petty?” She crossed her arms, looking down at me. “It was our joint property. I used it for an investment. What’s the problem?” “An investment?” I repeated the word. “Buying a condo for your trainer is an ‘investment’?” “What else would it be?” she shot back. “Barry helped me lose the weight. I was grateful. I bought him a condo as a thank you. Is that so wrong? Besides, the location is great; it’s bound to go up in value. We can sell it later and the money will be ours. Can you stop being so small-minded for once?” I was too furious to speak. I just stared at her, my gaze burning. She grew impatient under my scrutiny and pulled another document from her purse, tossing it in my face. “Oh, right. You can sign this while you’re at it.” The paper fluttered to the floor. I looked down. A prenuptial agreement. 3 The next day, I dragged myself to work, exhausted. I hadn’t slept, my mind replaying the humiliating terms of the prenup. It stated, in no uncertain terms, that all of the groom’s pre-marital assets would become joint property upon marriage. However, all of the bride’s assets, including the “invested” condo in Barry’s name, would remain her sole property. If we divorced, I would walk away with nothing. Just then, the receptionist called my office. “Mr. Sterling, there’s a woman at the front desk claiming to be your mother-in-law. She says it’s urgent.” A vein throbbed in my temple. “Tell her to wait. I’ll be down in a bit,” I said. I hung up and sent Judy a text. Get your mom out of my office building. Now. Crickets. Half an hour later, my office door flew open. My assistant rushed in, frantic. “Mr. Sterling, you need to come downstairs! Your mother-in-law… she’s making a huge scene in the lobby!” My stomach dropped. I bolted out of my office. The ground floor lobby was already a circus. Judy’s mother, Brenda, was sitting on the floor, slapping her thighs and wailing at the top of her lungs. She was flanked by a group of relatives I’d never seen before. They were holding a white banner with huge, dripping red letters. “BOB STERLING, THE HEARTLESS CHEAT! USED MY DAUGHTER AND THREW HER AWAY!” Every eye in the lobby was on me. Pity, contempt, morbid curiosity. I could feel the blood rushing to my head. “Brenda! What are you doing here?!” I moved to pull her up. She slapped my hand away and cried even louder. “Don’t you call me that! I don’t have a snake like you for a son-in-law!” She pointed a finger at my nose and sobbed to the crowd of my colleagues. “Everyone, come and judge for yourselves! This man… he shamed my daughter for being overweight, forced her to go on a diet!” “For him, my baby girl starved herself for three years! She lost over seventy pounds, she nearly wasted away to nothing!” “And now that she’s beautiful and skinny, he wants to kick her to the curb and find some younger girl! He used her and threw her away! He’s a monster!” She twisted the truth, fabricating a narrative that painted me as the ultimate villain. Whispers rippled through the crowd. “Wow, I never would have guessed he was that kind of person.” “I know, right? I saw his girlfriend once. She was bigger, but she looks amazing now.” “Ugh, men. What do you expect?” My face was pale with fury, but I was speechless. Two security guards tried to intervene, but the relatives swarmed them. “They’re hitting us! The company is assaulting us!” “Big corporation bullying ordinary people!” The scene devolved into chaos. It ended, predictably, with me being summoned to the CEO’s office. “Bob,” the CEO said, his face grim. “This company has an image to maintain. I don’t care what you do in your private life, but this has become a serious problem for our reputation.” “I’m placing you on temporary leave. Don’t come back until you’ve cleaned up this mess.” I walked out of his office feeling like my world had collapsed. I returned home in a daze. The moment I opened the door, I froze. The apartment was destroyed. My collection of rare, first-edition books was torn to shreds, pages scattered like confetti. My prized collectible models were smashed to pieces. My favorite guitar, the one I’d had since college, had its strings snapped, a gaping hole punched through its body. And sitting on the sofa, with his feet kicked up on the coffee table, was Barry. He was casually toying with a shard of one of my broken models. Judy stood beside him, a golf club resting in her hand. 4 “Just cleaning out some trash,” Judy said when she saw me, not a hint of remorse on her face. Her chin was tilted in defiance, her tone dripping with contempt. “This junk should have been thrown out years ago.” Barry stood up and walked over to me. “Mr. Sterling, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Judy did this for your own good. This stuff is beneath the man you’re going to be.” I looked at him, then at Judy standing behind him. “Get. Out.” I squeezed the words through my teeth. “What did you say?” Barry’s smile vanished, his eyes turning cold. “I said, both of you, get out of my apartment.” “Your apartment?” Judy laughed, a loud, theatrical sound. “Bob, are you still dreaming? I rent this place. It has nothing to do with you.” She pulled out her phone and showed me a digital rental agreement. “Look closely. The lessee is Judy Hayes. You’re just a guest who’s overstayed his welcome. Now, I’m telling you to get out. Understand?” I stared at the contract. I remembered now. Three years ago, we’d rented this place because it was closer to her job. I thought it didn’t matter who signed the lease. I never imagined she would use it as a weapon against me. “Fine,” I nodded. “I’ll leave.” “Wait,” Barry called out. He pulled a small black object from his pocket and dangled it in front of me. It was a pinhole camera. “Mr. Sterling, you’re a smart man,” he said slowly. “Judy has a soft heart; she doesn’t want to make things ugly. Just give us the copy of that purchase agreement, post a statement online saying you two broke up amicably for personal reasons, and we can all move on.” I said nothing. I just looked at him. Judy stepped forward, her voice impatient. “Bob, don’t make this harder than it has to be. I’m holding all the cards here.” She opened her phone. On the screen was a live feed of my parents’ living room. My mother was busy in the kitchen; my father was on the sofa, watching TV. “You…” Judy’s smile was triumphant. “Your parents are getting older. Their memories aren’t what they used to be. What if they forgot to turn off the gas one day? Or what if one of them slipped in the shower…” She let the threat hang in the air. I stared at her, my body trembling with a rage so profound it felt like it would tear me apart. Just then, my phone rang. My mother’s name flashed on the screen. I answered, my hand shaking so badly I could barely hold the phone. “Mom…” Her voice on the other end was panicked, choked with tears. “Bob! Come home! Quick!” “It’s your father… he… he fell down the stairs!”

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