Author: Momo Chan

Ethan has never been a morning person. So, for this business trip, when he booked a six a.m. flight, it was more than just unusual. It was a red flag. I couldn’t help but ask him why he’d bought a ticket for such an ungodly hour. A rare, helpless smile touched the lips of a man who was usually so cool and composed. “The new assistant isn’t very experienced,” he said. “She told me the earliest flight was the cheapest.” I took a slow, deep breath, a sudden, chilling clarity washing over me. This marriage was finally on its last legs. 1 Ethan was never the kind of boss who went easy on people. On the contrary, he was a notorious perfectionist, with zero tolerance for rookie mistakes. His last assistant, who had been with him for three years, was exiled to a branch office in Chicago simply for mixing up his coffee order. But this time, a new assistant’s blunder had him waking up at four a.m. for a flight, and all he did was laugh it off. A delicate string inside me suddenly vibrated with unease. Then I told myself I was overthinking it. I knew Ethan. I trusted our eight years together. Besides, he had always despised incompetence. I figured he’d fire the new girl the second he got back from this trip. The last day of his trip happened to be our third wedding anniversary. I’d booked a table at our favorite restaurant a month in advance to celebrate. But Ethan, whose meetings ended that morning, dragged his return out until he landed just after midnight. I was dozing off in the driver’s seat of our car at the arrivals curb. The moment he pulled open the passenger door, a wave of disappointment washed over me. “The restaurant is closed,” I grumbled. “What took you so long? Was the flight delayed for hours?” Just as the words left my mouth, the back door opened. I turned my head. A young, beautiful girl slid into the back seat as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She looked up at me and smiled sweetly. “Hi, you must be Claire. I’m Sienna, Mr. Hayes’s new assistant.” She beamed. “I hope you don’t mind me catching a ride. Thanks so much for dropping me home!” Ethan, now buckling his seatbelt, had an amused smirk on his face. “Ask her,” he said, nodding toward the back. He was answering my complaint. “Ethan!” the girl whined, drawing out his name and pouting. “Don’t tease me! I only booked the red-eye to save the company money!” I didn’t start the car. I narrowed my eyes, my gaze shifting to my husband. He was looking down at his phone, showing no signs of the fatigue or irritation that usually came with a late-night flight. My heart sank. These all seemed like trivial little things. But after eight years together, I knew Ethan better than anyone. He was a man who lived by firm boundaries. He hated mixing his professional and personal lives. The company had a generous car service policy, yet even in a downpour, he’d never let an employee hitch a ride. What’s more, Sienna had just committed two major professional sins in the span of a few minutes. My hands tightened on the steering wheel. My intuition screamed that there was something unspoken between them, a current of ambiguity that I couldn’t ignore. It felt like a tiny needle pricking my heart, releasing a slow, spreading poison of anxiety. I lifted my eyes, meeting Sienna’s gaze in the rearview mirror. The smile was still on her face, but beneath the bright surface, there was a flicker of something else—a challenge that only another woman would recognize. But I wasn’t the type to swallow my feelings and play nice. “Sorry, Sienna. That’s not going to work for me,” I said, my voice cold as I unlocked the doors. The smile on her face froze. She clearly hadn’t expected the CEO’s wife to be so blunt. But she recovered quickly, pressing her palms together in a playful, pleading gesture. “Oh, please, Claire? It’s impossible to get a cab at this hour. I had to beg Ethan to give me a lift. I promise I won’t get in the way of your date night.” Ethan, who had been absorbed in his messages, finally seemed to notice the storm brewing in the car. He turned his head to look at me. His expression held a hint of disapproval. But he didn’t say anything. I raised an eyebrow, my gaze unwavering. “I saw a whole line of taxis at the arrivals terminal when I pulled up,” I said evenly. “Remember to get a receipt for reimbursement.” “Claire… I…” The girl bit her lip, her eyes welling up with tears as she darted helpless glances at Ethan. My patience was gone. “Get out of the car,” I said, my voice sharp. Sienna flinched, and tears began to stream down her cheeks. Ethan cleared his throat. In the end, he wasn’t going to piss me off for the sake of a new assistant. “Just call an Uber,” he said to her, his tone gentle but firm. “Be safe. And text me the license plate number when you get in.” 2 Just like he’d always promised, Ethan had my back. Whenever it mattered, he stood firmly behind me, no questions asked, ready to protect me. But this time, I felt no joy. The concern and softness Ethan showed for another woman was like a thorn in my side. Finally, we were alone in the car. But the silence was a living thing, a vine that crept and coiled between us. Ethan was the first to break. He sighed, a sound of resigned indulgence, and took my hand, lifting it to his lips for a soft kiss. “She’s just a young girl, Claire. I was worried about her going home alone this late.” I stared directly into his eyes. “Weren’t your other assistants young? Weren’t they girls? I don’t remember you ever showing this much compassion before.” Ethan blinked, then a small laugh escaped him. “Is it that time of the month? Why are you letting your imagination run wild?” “She’s just my assistant. That’s all.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a necklace, and leaned over to fasten it around my neck. “Alright, baby,” he murmured, his voice softening. “Today is our anniversary. Let’s not let someone irrelevant ruin the mood.” “Let’s go home. I’ll grill you a steak myself, how about that?” He looked at me with that familiar gaze, warm and deep, the kind of look you could drown in. The moisture in my eyes hadn’t dried, but the corners of my mouth had already begun to curve into a smile. Absence does make the heart grow fonder. Ethan’s spirits were high, and we spent most of the night tangled up in each other. The next day was a workday, but we slept in until the sun was high in the sky. I decided to take the day off, but Ethan had to go into the office to deal with work. He’d never had a sweet tooth, but as he was leaving, he asked our housekeeper to pack up some of the dessert she’d just made. My intuition told me his unusual behavior had something to do with that new assistant. Since I had the afternoon free, I drove to his office. He was in a meeting. Through the crack of the conference room door, I saw his brow furrowed as he scanned a report. He tapped his knuckles on the table. “This data has a 0.1% margin of error. Redo it.” A subordinate started to explain, but Ethan tossed the file back at him. “I want a revised version on my desk by the end of the day.” An entire room of top-tier graduates fell silent, no one daring to breathe too loudly. Finally, Ethan announced the end of the meeting in a glacial tone. “Efficiency is the bare minimum. Don’t make me repeat myself.” A collective sigh of relief filled the room as they filed out. They saw me and were about to greet me, but I put a finger to my lips to silence them. Soon, only Ethan and Sienna were left in the room. Alone together. Ethan leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose wearily. When he opened his eyes and saw she was still there, he asked, “You’re still here? Is there something else?” Sienna clutched a proposal to her chest and moved closer to him, her eyes shining with a perfectly measured dose of adoration. “Ethan, those points you highlighted for me… after I revised them, I realized it was like you turned lead into gold!” “I could meditate for a billion years and all my brain cells combined wouldn’t come close to understanding how you create such a perfect strategy!” “You’re honestly the most brilliant, most perfect man I’ve ever met! You’re like a beacon in the darkness, guiding me forward…” Ethan had always hated corporate flattery, especially the empty, over-the-top kind. And I knew he wasn’t deaf to the syrupy sweetness she’d intentionally injected into her voice. He should have shut her down, told her to get out without a second thought. But instead, I heard the distinct sound of amusement in his voice. “Is this what they call ‘gassing someone up’?” As if she’d been given a green light, Sienna practically glowed with pride. “And that’s not all!” “The little cake you brought for me was even better than the ones I buy myself!” “It was so silky, not too sweet… it just completely lifted my mood. I was so energized for the rest of the afternoon!” The girl was bold and effusive, and Ethan, seeming to be caught off guard, let out a low laugh. Standing outside the door, listening to my normally stern, demanding husband banter with this young woman, I started to tremble uncontrollably. I bit my lower lip so hard I could taste blood, clenching my fists to choke back the wave of emotion rising in my throat. I raised my hand and pushed open the conference room door. 3 When I walked in, Sienna’s fingertips were less than an inch from the lapel of Ethan’s suit. She froze, as if petrified. Her hand hovered in mid-air, the flirtatious smile on her face stiffening into an unnatural mask. A flash of shock crossed Ethan’s face, but he quickly composed himself, stood up, and strode over to wrap an arm around me. “What are you doing here? I thought I told you to rest at home.” I gave a humorless smile, my eyes fixed on Sienna. “Just thought I’d check up on you.” At my words, her pupils contracted, and a visible blush crept up to the tips of her ears. After a few seconds of dead silence, she jerked her hand back and took an instinctive step away. For a young woman, caught red-handed, the panic in her eyes was impossible to hide. Ethan chuckled, the curve of his lips so gentle it could make you melt. He raised a hand and gently ruffled my hair. “You’re welcome anytime.” Sienna had regained her composure by then. She quickly masked the bitterness in her eyes. When she looked up again, a perfectly calibrated smile was back on her lips. “That necklace really suits you, Claire.” Sienna walked over, her gaze landing on my anniversary gift from Ethan. “Last week, when Ethan was trying to pick out a gift for you, he was flipping through all these magazines and couldn’t decide on anything. Then I remembered seeing this necklace when I was out shopping—it was so sparkly and beautiful. So I recommended it to him.” She spoke as she swept her hair aside to show me the same brand, the same collection, around her own neck. “Of course, I could only afford the basic version. It’s not as dazzling as your all-diamond one.” Her long lashes cast soft shadows on her cheeks. Her tone was a careful mix of youthful excitement and a cautious fear of overstepping. “I’m just so glad you like it, Claire. Otherwise, I’d have been worried my taste was terrible and I’d let Ethan down.” My eyes scanned Sienna’s face for a long moment, the smile on my own fading completely. I reached up, unclasped the necklace, and in one swift motion, tossed it at her. It landed against her chest with a soft thud. “Since you like it so much, you can have it.” I pulled my lips into a smirk, my voice ice-cold. “I have plenty of things like this.” The necklace slid to the floor. Sienna didn’t dare pick it up. Her eyes were already red. She looked as though she’d suffered a great injustice, her voice choked with tears as she turned to Ethan for help. “Ethan… did I say something wrong…?” “That’s not what I meant.” “Claire, I’m so sorry.” Without even glancing at Ethan, I turned, slammed the conference room door behind me, and walked away without looking back.

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Caleb Reed has a tongue like a scalpel. I’ve always been on the curvier side, and when the sample for a photoshoot—a delicate white lace dress—arrived from the online boutique, he’d smirked. “Are you seriously going to humiliate yourself in that? Anyone who sees you will think a sausage is trying to play dress-up.” I’ve lost count of the number of times Caleb’s words have broken me, but I always convinced myself to let it go. He was devastatingly handsome and outrageously generous, and I forced myself to believe that was enough. Until the incident with the freshman from the debate society, Chloe. The night before the finals, she leaked our entire case file to the opposing team. Normally, this is the kind of catastrophic incompetence that would have had Caleb sneering, asking if her brain was just for decoration. But this time, all he did was toss her a pack of tissues and turn his face away. “What are you crying for? It’s ugly.” 1 Chloe’s sobs were a theatrical performance. “I’m so sorry,” she wailed. “It’s all my fault. Because of my mistake, everyone’s disqualified!” Five minutes earlier, the tournament organizers had officially booted us from the competition. Months of grueling preparation, all of it gone before we even had a chance to step on stage. The air in the hotel hallway was thick with fury. “A mistake?” one of our teammates shot back. “You call that a mistake? Who ‘accidentally’ prints out a dozen copies of our entire strategy and leaves it neatly stacked in front of our opponent’s hotel room?” Chloe’s voice hitched. “I’m sorry… I must have mixed up the room numbers…” That just fanned the flames. “Our rooms are all next to each other! You’re telling me you don’t remember where we are, or even where you are staying?” Another teammate piled on. “Just stop. You could cry a river and it wouldn’t be enough to fill that empty head of yours.” Caleb, who had been leaning against the wall in silence, finally pushed himself off with a sharp sigh. “Dude, your breath stinks,” he said to the guy. “Seriously? You think ganging up on a freshman makes you look tough?” A stunned silence fell over the group. Caleb wasn’t just our star first-chair debater; he was the undisputed king of verbal evisceration. Under any other circumstance, a screw-up this colossal, this blatantly intentional, would have had Caleb coldly dissecting the person’s entire genetic lineage. He would’ve asked, with genuine curiosity, if their parents were siblings. But this time, he just fished a pack of tissues from his pocket, tossed it at Chloe’s feet, and averted his gaze. “It’s done. Crying isn’t going to change anything.” Watching him, my heart pricked, a sharp, thin sting. It felt deeply, uncomfortably wrong. Caleb was sharp-tongued and allergic to comfort. I thought back to the countless times he’d made me cry. He’d stand there, hands shoved in his pockets, impatiently tapping his foot on the ground. “Are you done yet? It was a minor thing. How long are you going to drag this out?” Everyone was now looking at me, the team president, waiting for a verdict. I pushed down the strange, sour feeling in my gut and focused on Chloe. “Whether it was intentional or not, your actions have consequences for the entire team. You’re no longer a member of the debate society. Don’t come to any future meetings or events.” Her eyes widened, fresh tears spilling over. “Claire, I know you’ve never liked me, but everyone makes mistakes! Are you really going to take away my chance to pursue my passion over one little slip-up?” A teammate scoffed. “What passion? You can barely string a sentence together! The only reason you ever got to speak was because Claire gave you her own talking points, and even then you stammered through them and dragged the whole team down!” “And this wasn’t a ‘little slip-up’!” another added. “This was the championship tournament! This was everything! How can you call that a small thing?” Before Chloe could answer, Caleb’s voice cut through the air, low and dangerous. “Enough.” He turned his gaze on me. “Claire, you’re the president, for Christ’s sake. Are you just going to stand there and watch your team bully a freshman?” He raked his eyes over me, a dismissive, head-to-toe scan. Then, he let the final words drop, soft and lethal. “Oh, right. I forgot. You’re leading the charge.” My throat felt like it was stuffed with wet cotton. The sudden, suffocating pressure stole my voice. Thankfully, someone else spoke up for me. “What are you talking about, man? How are we bullying her?” “Claire just kicked her off the team. She’s not pressing charges or getting her expelled. How does that make her the ringleader?” Chloe sniffled, grabbing the sleeve of Caleb’s jacket. “Caleb, it’s okay. I know you’re just trying to stand up for me, but…” She shot a look at me, as if I were some kind of monster, and lowered her head. Her voice was laced with a tragic whisper. “Maybe it’s just because Claire really doesn’t like me.” 2 The night ended with everyone scattering in anger and disgust. Before leaving, Caleb took Chloe’s hand. He glanced back at me, his expression cold as ice. “You’re being petty, Claire. I hope you take a good, long look at yourself.” I watched their retreating figures, a profound sense of confusion washing over me. What did I do wrong? The question echoed in my mind as I walked, zombie-like, back to the apartment Caleb and I shared. Staring at the flawlessly polished floors, a bitter thought surfaced. Caleb was a notorious neat freak, a germaphobe who practically had a “Do Not Touch” sign tattooed on his forehead. He didn’t just keep strangers at a distance; sometimes, even I, his girlfriend, was treated like a contaminant. Unless he initiated it, any attempt I made to touch him was met with a cold recoil. If I tried to hold his hand, he’d pull away. If I did what Chloe just did—tug on his sleeve—he would, without fail, take off the shirt right in front of me and toss it into the trash like it was radioactive waste. I remember once, I was working a late shift at a greasy spoon diner to make extra cash. A couple of drunk guys started harassing me. I called Caleb from the police station, crying, begging him to come get me. When he finally walked in, his face a mask of annoyed indifference, the dam of my composure broke. I threw myself into his arms, sobbing into his chest. “You… you came,” I wept. “Caleb, I was so scared.” He let me hold him for a long moment, waiting until my sobs subsided. When I finally pulled back, he looked down at my swollen, tear-streaked face. I thought, just for a second, that even he would offer a word of comfort in a situation like this. But all he said, his lips barely moving, was, “Claire. Do you have any idea how disgusting you are right now, clinging to me like this?” The memory made fresh tears trace paths down my cheeks. Just then, the front door opened. It was Caleb. Our eyes met before I had a chance to wipe my face. He kicked off his shoes with an irritated flick of his foot and looked away with a sneer. “Unbelievable. Chloe gets torn apart by your whole team and she barely sheds a tear, but you, the instigator, are here crying your eyes out. That’s rich.” My voice was thick with emotion. “She sabotaged months of work for every single one of us. All I did was remove her from the team. Was that really so cruel?” I paused, the frustration that had been simmering all afternoon finally boiling over. “And you… you’re the guy who practically has ‘I can’t stand idiots’ tattooed on your forehead. Why were you so quick to jump to her defense today?” Caleb flinched, then his annoyance flared. “‘Can’t stand idiots’? Can you ever say anything without being dramatic, Claire? What’s wrong with me not wanting to see a group of people tear a girl apart for making one mistake?” I raised a hand to wipe my eyes, but the tears just came faster. “Chloe is a stranger. You can’t bear to see her cry.” My voice cracked. “But what about me? I’m your girlfriend. Am I supposed to just stand by and watch you defend the person who screwed me over?” He let out a cold laugh. “There it is again. Honestly, Claire, I’m impressed. You always find a way to get jealous over the most ridiculous things.” Ridiculous jealousy? A laugh escaped my lips, but it was watery and broken. “You think this is just me being jealous? You think we were bullying her?” I took a shaky breath. “Did you forget that my scholarship doesn’t cover everything? I was counting on that prize money for next semester’s tuition. She didn’t just ruin a competition for us, Caleb. For me, she ruined everything. And all I did was kick her off the team. Was that really so unforgivable?” He was unmoved. “And now you’re playing the victim. How predictable.” He’d seen how broke I was. He’d seen me exhausted and humiliated at my part-time jobs. He knew I’d poured every ounce of my energy into winning that tournament to cover my expenses. And in his eyes, all of it was just an act. Me, playing the victim. All afternoon, I’d been torturing myself, wondering what I did wrong. Now I knew. My mistake was wasting three years of my life on a man like Caleb. I had cried for so long that when I pushed myself to my feet, the room spun. Caleb instinctively reached out to steady me, but then, as if remembering something, his hand froze in mid-air and he pulled it back, clenching his jaw. A desolate smile touched my lips. My voice was raw, numb from crying. “Think whatever you want.” “Caleb, we’re done. Let’s break up.” A flicker of disbelief crossed his face. “You’re breaking up with me? Over something this small?” Then he scoffed. “Fine. You’re the one who said it, Claire. Just don’t come regretting it.” “I won’t,” I said, my voice flat. I refused to waste another second of my life on a cold-hearted man who had never once seen me as an equal. “I’ll get my things and be out as soon as possible. You…” Before I could finish, his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, a cruel little smile playing on his lips, and answered, putting it on speaker. Chloe’s delicate voice filled the silence. “Caleb? I was out for a run and I think I twisted my ankle. Can… can you come see me?” Caleb’s eyes were locked on me. He smirked. “Sure. Send me your location. I’m on my way.” He hung up and looked down at me, his expression imperious. “Let me make myself clear. I don’t do second chances. If you apologize to Chloe, we can pretend tonight never happened. Otherwise…” I cut him off, meeting his gaze directly. “I did nothing wrong. Why would I apologize to her?” I held his stare. “Chloe’s waiting. You should go.” He scanned me one last time, then spat out through gritted teeth, “Fine. You’re really something else, you know that?” Then he turned and slammed the door behind him.

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When I found out Mark was cheating, he didn’t panic. He didn’t deny it. We talked. We agreed to a divorce. It was all maddeningly civil. On the way to sign the papers at City Hall, a question I’d buried finally clawed its way out. “Why… why were you so insistent on getting the house? Our first one?” “Oh, that.” Mark said it with the breezy indifference of a man ordering coffee. “Chloe gets jealous. She said the only way she’ll feel better is if she can personally destroy every trace of me having lived with another woman.” He shook his head, a small, fond smile playing on his lips. The kind of smile you give a charming, mischievous child. “She’s ridiculous.” I stared at him for a few seconds. At the profile of his face, visibly brightened by the simple fact that he was on his way to divorce me. Then I lifted my purse and smashed it into his nose. Blood went everywhere. 1 I have a knack for compartmentalizing. It’s a skill, I suppose. Some might call it emotional detachment. So when Mark asked for a divorce, I handled it with my usual rational calm. As the guilty party, he readily agreed to give me the lion’s share of our marital assets. The only thing he fought for was our first home. It was a condo we’d bought when we were twenty-four, scraping together every last cent of our savings. I can still remember getting the keys, standing in the empty shell of a room that smelled of drywall and potential, mapping out a future that felt as boundless as the sky. The pure, uncut joy of that day has never really left me. Eight years went by. Mark’s salary climbed. We bought bigger, better, more beautiful homes. By the time we filed for divorce, we had seven properties to our name. We hadn’t lived in that first condo for years. It was in a now-inconvenient neighborhood, the light was poor, and our first attempts at decorating looked painfully amateurish. Compared to the rest of our portfolio, it was barely a footnote. The only thing it held, really, was the memory of the years when Mark and I were most in love. So when he insisted on keeping it, I was naive enough to think that, despite everything, he still felt some guilt. That he wanted to hold onto a piece of our ten years together. A testament to the love we once had. But it was just a toy for his new girl to break. There was no sentiment. No guilt. He wasn’t just a cheater; he was a man who didn’t even see me as a person anymore. You don’t say things like that, so casually, to someone you respect, not even a little. I took a deep, steadying breath, studying his profile. He looked happy. Genuinely happy to be divorcing me. A few seconds passed. I checked my seatbelt. I scanned the traffic ahead. I glanced around the car’s interior, then felt the satisfying, solid weight of my clutch in my hand. “Mark.” “Yeah?” The next thing he knew, my purse was connecting with the bridge of his nose, and blood was spraying across the pristine leather dashboard. 2 “Jesus Christ, Sarah, are you insane?” The sudden, vicious attack had completely blindsided him. His carefully cultivated executive polish vanished, replaced by a raw, guttural curse. I watched his reaction, my hand ready to grab the steering wheel if needed. The man was about to start a new life; he’d be careful with this one. Ignoring the blood, he fumbled to pull the car over to the shoulder before turning to glare at me, his eyes wide with fury. He pinched a wad of tissues from the console, pressing them to his nose. His jaw was tight, his voice dripping with disappointment. “Sarah, I always thought you were smart, that you were calm. That you wouldn’t act like some screeching harpy. Can’t we do this with a little dignity?” I let out a short, sharp laugh. “Dignity?” “For you, this divorce has been planned for months. You can’t wait to run off into the sunset with your little girlfriend. You’re happy, everything is going your way. Of course you can afford to have ‘dignity.’ Your dignity is sincere.” I could finally see the lie I’d been telling myself, the hollow performance of being ‘fine.’ “But me? I’m the one who was betrayed, the one being discarded, the one forced into this scene. Why the hell should I have dignity? That’s not dignity. That’s being a doormat.” Mark looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. “What do you even want?” I want you to be miserable. I want you and that little tramp to have the life you deserve. I stared him down. “I want to let off some steam.” While he was still processing that, my hand shot out. The sharp crack of my palm against his cheek echoed in the small space, a bright red handprint blooming on his skin. Before I could land another, he caught my wrist, his fingers digging in. “Sarah, don’t push it.” “More than you cheating? More than you taking the soup I made for you and giving it to your mistress? More than your little slut sending me photos of you two together while I was in the hospital?” My face was a mask of calm. “No. I’m not signing anything until I get this out of my system.” He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time, and a strange, angry laugh escaped his lips. “Wow. Just, wow.” He shook his head. “Sarah, I always knew you were selfish and cold, that you never let anyone get one over on you. But I really underestimated you.” But he didn’t want any more delays. He couldn’t bear the thought of his precious girl having to remain a mistress a moment longer. Mark closed his eyes, taking a breath. He let the fight go. “Fine. Do what you have to do. Consider it a debt I owe you.” I twisted my wrist free, a humorless smile on my face. “Tsk. What a noble sacrifice for love.” I paused. “You make sure you show her that face when you see her. Make sure she appreciates the battle you fought for her today.” And with that, I slapped him again, hard. 3 By the time we got to City Hall, I was actually feeling better. The mood was ruined by a high-pitched shriek. Chloe, Mark’s mistress, was standing at the entrance. She had a hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes wide with theatrical horror as she stared at Mark. The girl was dressed for a victory parade. Stiletto heels, a Chanel dress, an Hermès bag slung over her arm. Her makeup was flawless, her hair perfect, her nails immaculate. She was a walking, talking, dazzling monument to youth. I didn’t know if she was here to gloat, to rub her victory in my face, or if she was just so eager to start celebrating her new life with Mark that she couldn’t wait another minute. Whatever her plan was, it was now officially ruined. She rushed into Mark’s arms, her voice trembling as she stroked his bruised face. Tears welled in her eyes. “Mark, baby, did… did that awful woman do this to you?” Her voice rose. “How could she? Why didn’t you hit her back?” Mark’s tone was a practiced blend of stern and doting. “Hey, now. Behave.” He glanced at me. “It’s a small price to pay to make sure she doesn’t take it out on you.” Chloe’s lip trembled. She buried her face in his chest, and Mark immediately melted, stroking her hair and murmuring reassurances. The two of them clung to each other, a nauseating tableau of mutual pity and staged drama. I’d had enough. “Are we doing this or not? If not, I’m leaving.” “We are.” Mark gently disentangled himself from his girlfriend. He wasn’t about to let a couple of slaps go to waste. But Chloe wasn’t done. She spread her arms, blocking my path. “No wonder Mark couldn’t stand you anymore,” she declared, her voice ringing with righteous indignation. “You… you need to apologize to him first!” She was at least half a foot shorter than me, and had to crane her neck to glare up at me, tears still clinging to her lashes. It was a look of bold, almost cute defiance. I could see the appeal. Being with a girl like that would make any middle-aged man feel like he was back in high school, both emotionally and intellectually. I tucked the unsigned divorce agreement into my bag. “Fine. You can stay the other woman. The one he has to hide for the rest of his life. And whenever I’m in a bad mood, I can make your life hell. Every single dollar Mark spent on you is marital property, and I can sue to get it all back.” I let my eyes travel down her expensive outfit. “Including everything you’re wearing right now.” The fight went out of her instantly. After a few more whispered words from Mark, she shuffled meekly to the side, watching with sullen eyes as we went inside to dissolve our marriage. 4 The paperwork was done. Mark hustled his girl into his car and sped off. I stood on the steps of City Hall and took a deep breath, the cold December air flooding my lungs. And that’s when the pain, which had been waiting patiently in the wings, finally made its entrance. I remembered what Mark had said in the car. Selfish and cold. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it. He’d pursued me relentlessly in college. After two years of getting nowhere, he’d sighed and said it then, too. “Sarah, you seem so gentle on the outside, but you’re the most selfish, cold person I know. You’re so afraid of getting hurt that you won’t let anyone in.” And yet, I, the selfish and cold one, had eventually let all my defenses down for him. After graduation, we both wanted to go to grad school, but we couldn’t afford it. When I got a great job offer, I gritted my teeth and took it. I told Mark to focus on his studies; I would work and support us both. Rent in the city was astronomical. On my single salary, all I could afford was a tiny room in a fifth-floor walk-up with a shared bathroom down the hall. We were so broke. We never ate out. I bought a small hot plate and would cook simple meals by the window. On the rare occasion I got a bonus, we’d celebrate at a dive bar at the end of our street that served the best spicy ribs in the city. On winter nights like this one, it was the best way to get warm. Mark would always give me the meatiest pieces. I remember him watching me once, seriously scouring the leftover bones for any missed bits of meat. His eyes got red. Sarah, he’d said, his voice thick. I’m sorry I’m making you live like this. You just wait, he’d said. One day, I’m going to make sure you can buy anything you want, eat anything you want, without ever looking at the price. You trust me, he’d said. I’m going to make you the most envied woman in the world. … Promises are beautiful things. Reality is a heartless bastard. Last month, I collapsed from acute appendicitis. A stranger found me and called an ambulance. From the hospital bed, I called Mark over and over. No answer. Then, a message came through from a number I didn’t recognize. It was a photo. In it, a beautiful young girl was holding Mark’s phone, playfully taking a selfie. The caption read: “Confiscating this man’s phone. No calls from other girls allowed! ;)” Behind her, my husband, Mark, was leaning against a doorframe with his arms crossed, watching her antics with a lazy, indulgent smile. The next day, he came to the hospital. He stood before my bed, meeting my calm stare with a look of pure exhaustion. “Sarah, it’s been ten years. People get tired.” His voice was flat. “Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you as compensation. Chloe is young. Don’t hold this against her.” 5 Back in my empty house, I started to regret my outburst. Violence wasn’t the answer. My life was long. I could have handled this with more grace, enacted a more clever revenge. I was in the middle of this self-righteous reflection when I saw Chloe’s new Instagram story. Mark was clearly trying to soothe her wounded pride. He’d taken her on a massive shopping spree. They were at a high-end restaurant, bags from half a dozen luxury brands piled on the chair next to them. Chloe, looking perfectly happy now, was posing in a little dress and heels, flashing a V-sign at the camera. The caption: “Some people just don’t know how to lose gracefully. ” A second slide: “What can you do? Guess we just have to be the bigger person and let the old hag have her tantrum.” Among the series of photos was one of a slender, pale ankle. Loosely wrapped around it was a delicate chain. I recognized it instantly. It was my necklace. The one I’d left behind in our first home. It was a simple silver chain Mark had given me for our first anniversary. I had cherished it for years. It was now, according to the divorce agreement, his property, along with the condo. He could give it to Chloe to wear as an anklet, or he could put it on a dog. There was nothing I could do. It was such a cheap, pathetic move. Chloe was posting it for me to see, to taunt me, to provoke me, to score a point and win back her pride. I closed the app. And I was honest with myself. Yes. I was provoked. Yes, violence wasn’t the best tool. Yes, my life was long, and I could handle this with more grace and enact a more clever revenge. But right now, in this moment, all I wanted was to wipe that smug smile off her face.

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My best friend suggested I use a burner account to test my fiancé. So I did. I created a fake profile and gave her the username, telling her it was his. The second she added it, she went to work. One minute she was trashing me, telling my “fiancé” I had a train of men behind me and was damaged goods. The next, she was spamming the account with her own pictures—low-cut tops, long legs, ass pushed out. “Hey stranger 😉 Up for something fun?” “I’m a good girl. I do what I’m told.” I typed back: “I don’t believe you. Unless…” The next day, at the company’s all-hands meeting, my best friend was hauled out on a stretcher by paramedics, convulsing from a foreign object vibrating inside her. 1 The moment Liam asked me to marry him, something shifted in my best friend, Mia. A subtle cloud passed over her face. Was she worried I was going to get hurt? It didn’t make sense. Liam was the entire package: tall, handsome, smart, from a good family. He was completely devoted to me. You couldn’t find a flaw on the man if you hired a private investigator. Maybe she was just afraid she’d see less of me after the wedding. I tried to soothe her fears. “I know Liam loves to travel, but don’t worry. I’ll bring you back a souvenir from every single place we go.” That only seemed to make it worse. No amount of cajoling worked. I was getting frustrated. “Mia, what is going on with you?” I finally asked. She’s been my best friend since elementary school. We’re practically sisters. She’s been there for every major moment of my life, and I couldn’t stand the thought of her holding some secret resentment about my marriage, about Liam. Mia picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “Chloe,” she started, her voice hesitant. “I’m just… I’m worried about Liam. Don’t you think getting engaged was a little… impulsive?” A cold knot formed in my stomach. Did she know something? Had Liam done something? Seeing the alarm on my face, she quickly backpedaled. “No, no, it’s just a healthy suspicion! Think about it. What man doesn’t have a wandering eye? Especially a guy like Liam. He’s got everything going for him, women are constantly throwing themselves at him. Why would he be so completely fixated on you? You’re great, but… you know.” I narrowed my eyes. “What does that mean? Are you saying I’m not good enough for my own fiancé?” “Of course not!” she said, a little too quickly. “I just mean that marriage is forever. You should be absolutely, one-hundred-percent sure about his character before you commit. What if he shows his true colors after you’re married? Cheating, abuse… Your whole life could be ruined.” I hesitated. “So what are you suggesting I do?” Her eyes lit up. She grabbed my hand, her grip surprisingly tight. “Give me his number. I’ll make a new account, add him, and test him. If he can resist the temptation, then we’ll know he’s a good guy. Then I’ll feel okay giving you away.” Something about it felt wrong immediately. It was a blatant show of distrust, and it just wasn’t my style. But Mia was relentless. Finally, to shut her up, I told her I’d think about it. When I got home, my mind was racing. I decided to do what I should have done from the start: tell Liam. We were supposed to be partners. Honesty was everything. Better to air this out now than to play stupid games. If there was a real problem, we’d deal with it. I explained the situation, bracing myself for his anger. Instead, he just laughed. It was a full, genuine laugh that echoed in our apartment. He pulled me into his arms, stroking my hair. “Are you sure she’s your best friend and not some enemy spy trying to sabotage us?” he chuckled. “That’s a new level of shady. The girl is practically radiating desperation.” I bristled, pushing away from him. “Don’t talk about her like that. We’ve been friends for over a decade. We’re not going to let a man come between us.” Liam’s smile faded. He looked like he wanted to say more, but he held his tongue. Instead, he offered a different solution. “Okay, how about this? You create a burner account. Give her that username and tell her it’s me. Then you can chat with her yourself.” He smirked. “Let’s see how she plans on ‘testing’ me.” Just then, my phone buzzed. A message from Mia, pestering me for his contact info. A slow grin spread across my face. Perfect. I created a new profile in seconds and sent the username to Mia. Almost instantly, a friend request popped up on the burner. The first message followed. “Hey there, handsome. ;)” I thought for a moment, trying to channel Liam’s direct, no-nonsense tone. “Who is this?” Her reply was instantaneous. “Who I am isn’t important. What’s important is that your girlfriend is playing you for a fool, sleeping around behind your back while you get ready to wife her up.” My breath caught in my throat. I stared at the screen, the words blurring. This was her test? To slander me? I took a few deep breaths, forcing my trembling hands to steady as I typed. “What are you talking about? What about my girlfriend?” A sympathetic hug emoji appeared. “You’ve been lied to. She puts on this innocent act, but in college, she was legendary. Juggled multiple guys at once. Her reputation was garbage.” “For a thrill, she used to hook up with the foreign exchange students. Tons of people saw her going back to their dorms with two or three of them at a time.” “She even had some nasty STD for a while. Had to get treated for… you know… growths down there. It was disgusting.” “I know you two are about to get married, and I just can’t stand by and watch a good, decent guy like you get conned by a woman like her.” She followed it up with a string of kissy-face emojis. This was my best friend. My sister. Smearing my name, fabricating the most vicious lies, all under the guise of helping me. White-hot rage flooded my veins. I forced myself to stay calm, to play the part. “Do you have any proof of this? Or are you just making shit up?” “I have pictures from college. And screenshots of her texts. You want to see them?” How was that possible? Before I could even ask, my phone buzzed with a flood of incoming files. I opened them, my stomach churning. And there they were. They were real. But they were twisted. Screenshots of conversations, edited and spliced together to look incriminating. Messages sent from accounts with my profile picture, saying things I would never say. The photos were from my study abroad program—group pictures with other students from around the world. But the way Mia had packaged it, combined with the specificity of her lies—the dates, the places—it was terrifyingly convincing. If she sent this to anyone else, they would believe it. The “evidence” was right there. The anger peaked and then collapsed into a profound, hollow sadness. I was the fool. I’d been so good to her. The first person I called with any good news. The person I defended unconditionally, no matter what. Why? Why would she do this to me? A second later, I had my answer. After giving “Liam” a few minutes to process the shock, she sent another message. “I know you and your girlfriend. I know all the things she tries to hide. I can only imagine how you’re feeling right now.” “A woman like that doesn’t deserve you. You give her everything, and she throws it in your face.” Then, the pivot. “You should look at me instead. I’ve been watching you for a while. I feel for you.” “If I had an amazing boyfriend like you, I would never, ever cheat. I’d cherish you.” I actually laughed out loud, a bitter, sharp sound. So that was it. Liam was right. She was trying to steal him. To seal the deal, she sent a volley of photos. No face, just body parts. A shot looking down her low-cut shirt. A picture of her legs, crossed just so. Her bending over in a pair of tiny shorts. The caption read: “I know you’re hurting. Let me help you forget about that bitch. Come out and play.” Liam saw the look on my face, the raggedness of my breathing. He gently took the phone from my hands. “Don’t let her get to you,” he said softly, then raised his hand as if taking an oath. “I swear, Chloe. I would never be interested in a two-faced snake like Mia. You’re the only one I love.” “See her for who she is, and then we cut her out of our lives. We never have to deal with her again.” A twisted smile touched my lips. I took the phone back. “Oh, no,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “I can’t let her get away with this. She took her shot. Now it’s my turn.” I typed a reply. “Who are you? Why should I believe a total stranger?” She responded instantly. “You’ll know when we meet. I promise, it’ll be a pleasant surprise.” For the next few days, I played the part of a heartbroken, confused Liam. I’d text Mia sporadically, never agreeing to break up with myself, just keeping her on the hook. She was getting impatient. Her messages grew bolder. “Hey stranger. You up for some fun?” “I’m a good girl. I do what I’m told. ;)” “Don’t worry, I can keep a secret. I’ll be your perfect little dirty secret. Your girlfriend will never have to know.” At the same time, she was probing me in person, asking how things were with Liam. I put on my best performance, letting my shoulders slump, my voice laced with sadness. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” I’d sigh. “He’s been so distant lately.” “It’s like he’s upset about something, but he won’t tell me what. He’s always hiding his phone, texting someone in secret.” Then I’d look at her, my eyes wide with fake worry. “You tested him, right? You didn’t find anything weird, did you?” I watched her face closely. A flicker of panic in her eyes, quickly masked by a triumphant smirk. She covered her mouth with her hand, feigning a giggle. “Nope, everything was totally normal! Liam was a perfect gentleman. You shouldn’t be so suspicious. Maybe he’s just stressed about work. Give him some space.” That night, Mia escalated her attack. She sent a new batch of photos, these ones practically pornographic, the text messages a desperate, vulgar plea. Fighting back a wave of nausea, I saved every screenshot. Then I replied. “We’ve been talking for a while now. I need to see some real commitment from you. How do I know I can trust you?” She saw her opening. “How can I prove it to you?” she asked eagerly. A cold, sharp smile spread across my face. I licked my lips. “Honestly? I like a girl who’s uninhibited. More fun to play with.” “My girlfriend looks innocent, but she’s secretly a freak. I’m kind of sick of it. It feels… dirty.” “You get it, right? I want a girl who’s only wild for me. A girl who’s up for anything.” She assured me she was that girl. So much more adventurous than me. And clean, of course. No messy history. So, I gave her the first task. “So you’re that desperate for a man, huh, you little slut?” “Good. Send me your address. I’m mailing you a package. Do exactly what I tell you to.” “You pull this off, and I’ll agree to meet you.”

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In my last life, my best friend Ivy and I were a team. We married into the Harrison dynasty together, and we walked away from it together. The problem was, once we walked, we were broke. Utterly, hopelessly broke. We had no money, no skills, and no idea how to survive in the real world. Our grand finale? Asphyxiation from a faulty gas stove in a slum apartment. Meanwhile, our ex-husbands thrived. One of them married his childhood sweetheart, and the other went on to win a Grand Slam. So when I woke up back here, lying on a massage table in the mansion’s private spa, I just stared at her, my heart pounding in my throat. Ivy’s eyes met mine. “I’m not doing it,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Are you?” I thought of the divorce papers I’d once been so desperate to sign, and a wave of nausea washed over me. “Divorce?” I said, the word tasting like ash. “Not a chance in hell.” You have to stare death in the face to appreciate life. You have to taste real poverty to understand: the life of a pampered trophy wife isn’t a prison. It’s a goddamn cakewalk. 1 Who can understand the whiplash? One second, you’re in a slum apartment, feeling the strength drain from your limbs as the gas leak claims you, your last conscious thought a blur of regret. The next, you’re blinking awake in an 8,000-square-foot mansion, the scent of lavender oil in the air, the bliss of a deep-tissue massage soothing muscles you’d forgotten you had. Ivy and I can. We understand it all too well. We stared at each other from our respective massage tables in the spa room, tears welling in our eyes. A soft knock echoed on the door before it opened. It was my husband, Cole. “Ryan and I are waiting in the living room,” his voice was a low rumble, devoid of warmth. “I have a meeting later, and he needs to catch a flight.” Shit. I’d almost forgotten. In the timeline we’d just escaped, today was the day. After months of demanding a divorce, of navigating schedules and stonewalling assistants, today was D-Day. Ryan was a world-class tennis player, Cole was a CEO. It had taken three months just to get them in the same room. We scrambled into our clothes, minds racing. “Okay, plan B,” Ivy whispered, her voice tight. “We apologize, we beg, we grovel. We’re not too proud to bend, right?” “Bend?” I hissed back, pulling a silk blouse over my head. “I’ll break if I have to. We are not getting divorced.” Downstairs, Ryan sat on the cream-colored sofa, flipping through a coffee table book, his silence a heavy blanket. Cole stood with his back to us, staring out the floor-to-ceiling window, his posture radiating a chilling coldness. I nudged Ivy, a desperate plea in my eyes for her to go first. “So…” she started, her voice cracking. “You’re back.” Ryan snapped the book shut with a sound like a gunshot. His gaze flicked to her, sharp and dismissive. “Memory failing you? Weren’t you the one who told my agent you hoped I’d get knocked out in the first round so you could get this over with?” Ivy’s mouth snapped shut. She shot me a helpless look. My own voice trembled as I spoke. “Cole, maybe we could… not do this? The divorce?” He let out a short, bitter laugh, the sound scraping against my raw nerves. He didn’t even turn around. “And what about the 6’2” college athlete you’ve been keeping on the side? What happens to his promotion?” Right. I shut up too. In our frantic bid for freedom, we had said the cruelest things imaginable, aiming for the softest parts of these two men, just to get them to let us go. And it had worked. We’d walked away with our pride intact, refusing a single penny of their money. We were trophy wives, insulated by their dynasty. We knew nothing of poverty, nothing of the real world. We thought we were choosing freedom. We never imagined that freedom was just another word for broke. Job rejections. A bad investment that took the last of our savings. Eating ramen until we were sick of the sight of it. The two of us, who had once debated the merits of Michelin-starred restaurants, trying to cook for ourselves in a tiny, roach-infested kitchen. And in the end, a forgotten gas knob. A final, pathetic exit. The memory sent a shiver down my spine. Ivy was the first to move. She scurried over to Ryan’s side, her smile painfully bright. “Hey, I only said that because I missed you. I wanted you to come home to me.” I took my cue, rushing to Cole’s side and wrapping my arm around his. It was like hugging a marble statue. “He was just a lie, honey. Who needs a boy with abs when I have you?” It was the truth, at least that part. Whatever else our marriage had become, the nights were still… harmonious. We fought like enemies in the light of day, but in the dark, we… Cole flinched, then glanced down at my hand on his bicep as if it were a foreign object. That’s when I saw the deep, weary lines around his eyes. He looked exhausted. He peeled my fingers off his arm. “Leah, do you want stock options or a lump sum? Just name your price. I don’t have time for these games.” 2 We’d pushed too hard. Now, our sudden reversal just looked like a pathetic, last-ditch negotiation for a bigger settlement. I froze, words failing me as I tried to form a denial. But it was too late. Cole’s phone was already pressed to his ear as he walked away. Ryan was just as skeptical. He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “My schedule is tight. Just tell my lawyer what you want. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” A black car was idling in the driveway. His tournament wasn’t even over; he’d flown halfway across the world just for this. Ivy’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “I don’t want to get divorced,” she whispered. Ryan’s lips tightened into a thin line. He looked at her for a long moment, then said, “You’d better mean that,” before turning and walking out the door. Watching them leave, a wave of relief washed over me, quickly followed by a cold tide of fear. “What are we going to do?” I murmured, my voice hollow. “We have zero credibility with them.” I’ve followed Ivy’s lead my whole life. She was always the bold one, the decision-maker, and I was her loyal shadow. In moments like this, her thoughts were my anchor. She took a deep breath, her chin lifting with a familiar resolve. “The marriages might be on life support for now,” she said, her gaze firm. “We need a backup plan. A real one.” We were never going back. Never going back to that cramped apartment, to working minimum-wage jobs, to eating expired sushi from convenience stores. We would never again trade our dignity for survival. Not when we remembered what it felt like to live like this. Ivy turned to me, her expression all business. “Your husband… what’s his name again… how much does he give you for your allowance?” “Thirty thousand? Fifty? I lose track.” “A month? Perfect! You must have a couple million saved by now, right?” I winced. “It all sort of… became shoes. And bags.” Ivy stared at me, her look a perfect blend of horror and pity. “You spendthrift! You didn’t save a single dime?” I glared back. “The couture jacket you’re wearing right now? That was five grand of that allowance money.” Cole was generous, but I had nothing but time on my hands. Shopping was my only hobby. Ivy sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Okay, well, I’m no better. Every spare cent I had went to paying off my parents’ business debts.” Ivy’s family had been well-off once, but their business had been failing for years, and she was the only thing keeping it afloat. After our divorce in the other life, they’d declared bankruptcy. We collapsed onto the sofa, a symphony of synchronized sighs. Finally, Ivy slapped her thigh. “Okay, new plan. It’s not enough to just have their money. We’d just burn through a settlement anyway. We need to learn how to make our own. We stay married, we play nice, and we use this time to build real skills. Then, when we can stand on our own two feet, we can decide if we still want to leave.” It made sense. We were both graduates of prestigious universities, but we’d married into the Harrison dynasty right after college. The sheer, blinding luxury of it all had erased any ambition we once had. We hadn’t worked a day in our lives. We were completely useless, unemployable. The decision was made. Ivy would buckle down and study for the GMATs, aiming for a top-tier MBA program. I would leverage the Harrison name—our greatest asset—to get a job and gain corporate experience. It was shamelessly easy. The moment a potential employer saw “Wife of Cole Harrison” under the ‘Family’ section of my resume, the world rolled out the red carpet. I landed an offer from a mid-sized marketing firm without a single difficult question. I showed up for my first day in a Chanel suit, basking in the glow of my new boss’s sycophantic smiles. But there was a downside. Everyone was terrified of me. No one gave me any real work. I could have sat there naked and no one would have dared to say a word, let alone ask me to file a report. I wasn’t gaining experience; I was a decorative object. Just as I was about to give up, a task finally came my way. My boss asked me to deliver a file to a meeting in the main conference room. I pushed open the heavy glass doors and my heart stopped. There, at the head of the long table, sat Cole, looking severe and immaculate in a tailored suit.

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The year I was dirt poor, I walked into the factory and let the gears mangle two of my fingers for my grandmother’s thirty-thousand-dollar surgery. The owner, his face etched with pity, offered me eighty thousand in compensation. Drowning in guilt, I only took the thirty. Years have passed. My grandmother is long gone. But then I saw the trending news. That same factory had burned to the ground. The owner was dead—a heart attack, they said. His wife was missing. Their twelve-year-old son had been sent to an orphanage. I stared at the boy’s helpless, terrified eyes on the screen, then at the pills I was about to swallow. I washed them down the drain. Alright then… time to live again. All for the sake of that thirty thousand. 1 Even after all these years, the sight of my own hand, the two missing fingers, could still summon a thick, choking wave of guilt. But if I could go back, I know I’d do it again. Because back then, I was out of options. Utterly and completely. My grandmother found me in a dumpster on a snowy night. Without her, I would have frozen to death in the biting cold before my first sunrise. Now, she had stomach cancer, and the doctor said the surgery and follow-up treatments would cost eighty thousand dollars, minimum. We sold everything. Our tiny, crumbling one-room apartment, the mismatched, worthless furniture inside—all of it. It brought in a little over fifty thousand. We were still thirty thousand short. “Let’s not do it, Tally,” she’d said, her voice thin as old paper. “I’ve lived a full life. I can’t have you sleeping on the streets because of me.” I shook my head, my throat tight. “I’d rather sleep on the street than be without you, Nana. We… we have to do this.” She pulled me into her arms, her sigh melting into a sob. We just held each other and cried, a single, desperate knot of grief in the cold, dark night. We both knew what thirty thousand dollars was to us: an impossible, astronomical sum. Where could we possibly find that kind of money? She had no other family. She only had me. And I didn’t have the thirty thousand dollars that could save her. But at nineteen, I had a boundless, reckless courage. The moment I shoved my hand into the blur of the spinning gears, the pain was so blinding I nearly passed out. But through the haze, I saw the panicked, horrified faces of my coworkers, and in their eyes, I saw a flicker of hope. Nana was going to be saved. It was the only way. The only door I could find that led to her survival. 2 Mr. Henderson, the factory owner, was a good man. By the time he rushed to the hospital, my hand was already bandaged. He knelt beside my bed, his brow furrowed with such genuine pain. He reached out, wanting to touch my mutilated hand, but hovered, helpless, not knowing where to put his own. Finally, all he could manage was a heavy, heartbroken sigh. “Kid… you’re so young. What are you going to do now?” I turned my head away, unable to meet his eyes. I wasn’t a good kid. I didn’t deserve his sincere compassion. His wife, Anna, came to take care of me personally. She missed nothing. She would gently comb the tangles from my messy hair. She’d cut fruit into small, perfect bites, warm them slightly, and feed them to me one by one. It was a mother’s tenderness, a gentleness I had never known. It was completely different from the love Nana gave me. A coworker who came to visit whispered a warning in my ear. “Be careful. This is a classic gentle trap. They’re being nice now so they can pay you less in compensation later.” A switch flipped in my head. I became guarded, suspicious. I started trying to refuse their kindness. But they kept on, ignoring my deliberate coldness, tending to my physical needs and trying to soothe my spirit. When I was discharged, Mr. Henderson and Anna drove me home themselves. Nana cradled my hand, her palm holding the two stumps where my fingers used to be, and silent tears streamed down her face. She couldn’t speak, her whole body trembling with choked-back sobs. In that moment, a sliver of regret pierced through me. Maybe this hadn’t been the right way. The Hendersons were wiping their own eyes, looking around our bare, grim apartment. Nana’s skin had a sickly, yellowish tint; it was obvious to anyone that she was very unwell. They placed eighty thousand dollars in cash on our small, wobbly table. Neat stacks of bills. Nana shot up from her chair, her hands flapping in a panic, too flustered to form words. She could only look at me, her eyes wide with a silent, anxious question. “This is the company’s compensation for Tally,” Mr. Henderson said softly. “Please, take it. We’ll also cover any future medical expenses.” Shame washed over me, hot and heavy. I stared at the floor. The amount was far more than I expected. I’d consulted a legal aid lawyer, and the figure he’d quoted was significantly lower. This was a small factory, the kind where the owner himself had to go out every day to drum up business. Every dollar was earned with sweat. I was desperate for money, but… I couldn’t be that shameless. I couldn’t take more than I was owed. Assuming I had any conscience left at all. “It’s too much,” I mumbled. “I can’t take all of it.” Anna stroked my hair. “Don’t feel bad, sweetie,” she said, her voice a balm. “You have a long road ahead. Use this money. Learn a trade, something you can do to support yourself.” I kept my head down, tears dripping from my chin no matter how fast I tried to wipe them away. I couldn’t speak, just stubbornly shook my head, my neck stiff. I took thirty thousand dollars. I pushed the rest back toward them, my refusal absolute. Nana stared at the three stacks of bills I’d left on the table. Thirty. Thirty thousand. A number that was painfully, intimately familiar to her. Her expression shifted from confusion to shock, and then… a flicker of understanding, of dawning, soul-crushing pain. No one else understood why she suddenly broke down, her wails echoing in that tiny room. Only I did. I kept my head bowed, not daring to look anyone in the eye. I was afraid to see my own reflection in their pupils—despicable, shameful, ugly. In the end, my stubbornness won. I practically shoved them out the door, my face a cold mask. I even threw the remaining fifty thousand dollars after them, the stacks hitting Mr. Henderson’s chest and falling to the floor. I knew it was rude, unforgivable. But I didn’t know how else to refuse a kindness so warm it felt like it was burning me alive. Nana cried all night. No one was more heartbroken than her. My only regret was that I hadn’t hidden my plan better, that she had figured it out so easily. The next day, we packed our few belongings, left that tiny, broken-down room, and moved into the hospital. We said goodbye to our home. The only home Nana and I had ever had. I had no home anymore. But I still had Nana. And as long as I had Nana, I had a home. 3 Nana’s surgery was a success. But when she was discharged, we had nowhere to go. We ended up in a tent pitched under a highway overpass. Renting an apartment, even a room in a cheap motel, would have eaten through our money. Every single dollar had to be stretched to its breaking point. I had no idea how much her follow-up treatments would cost. All I could do was cut our expenses down to the bone. There were moments, many of them, when I regretted not taking that other fifty thousand. But I also knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my gut, that even if I could go back in time, I still wouldn’t have taken it. If I had, the weight of it would have broken my spine for good. I’d never have been able to stand up straight again. After two rounds of chemotherapy, Nana’s body was clearly struggling. She couldn’t stay in a drafty tent any longer. We moved into a cheap rental in a cramped, narrow alleyway. Winter was coming. It was so cold. I found a job doing food delivery. I worked like a machine that never needed to rest, juggling deliveries and taking care of Nana. On the side, I’d take any gig I could find at the downtown clubs—promo girl, shot girl, anything to fill the gaps. Whatever it took to make money. That was the closest I ever came to falling into the abyss. I saw so many ways to make fast cash, easy money that preyed on the desperate. My own sanity pulled me back from the edge. If I truly fell, if Nana ever found out, she would rather die than accept another day of treatment. Mr. Henderson and Anna found us during that time. They came to visit us once. I have no idea how much effort it took them to track down our new address. “Tally,” Mr. Henderson said, his voice gentle. “You could always come back to the factory. We could find a less strenuous position for you.” My fingernails dug into my palms. “A less strenuous job would mean lower pay, wouldn’t it?” I asked, my voice hard and hostile. “Are you going to be charitable and pay me more than I’m worth?” He nodded without a second’s hesitation. I didn’t accept the kindness. “I don’t need it. Are you pitying us? I can take care of my grandmother just fine on my own.” They both opened their mouths to speak, then closed them. Their faces were etched with pain, but they didn’t say anything more. Nana seemed scared of something. She waved her hands clumsily, rejecting the offer for me. “Our Tally isn’t going back to work there. Thank you. Thank you so much.” She stroked my scarred hand, her eyes filled with a raw terror. The Hendersons finally left with a heavy sigh, looking back every few steps. I watched their backs disappear down the alley and whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Forgive my rudeness. Forgive my ugly, twisted heart. My tough act was a sham, built on a foundation of my own despicable actions. I wasn’t a good person. At least, I didn’t feel like one. Nana started crying, too. “It’s my fault, Tally. I’m a burden to you. This old woman… how could I drag down a child like this?” I spun around and hugged her tight, terrified. “Don’t you dare say that. You’re all I have, Nana. You just get better. Everything is going to be okay.” But would it? Looking at her waxy, sallow face, a seed of helpless despair took root in my heart. Nana didn’t speak, but the tears soaking into my sleeve said everything. One after another, an endless stream. She had suffered so much. How could I let her leave this world without knowing a single day of peace? I absolutely could not. That night, a plastic grocery bag appeared on our doorstep. Inside were two containers of nutritional powder for seniors. Underneath them, stacked neatly, was fifty thousand dollars in cash. Fifty. Another sensitive number. I knew immediately who it was from. I tried calling Mr. Henderson, but the phone just rang and rang, unanswered. Nana gently touched my hand, my fingers chapped and rough from the cold. “Tally, stop calling. We’ll take it. And someday… we’ll find a way to pay them back.” I looked at her, and her cloudy eyes were filled with a heartbreak that shattered me. I nodded, turning my head so my tears could fall into the shadows. It was the last stand of my youthful pride, my final, stubborn concession. 4 That winter was the most grueling and yet the most purposeful time of my life. Delivering food by day, working gigs at the clubs by night. I was so exhausted I could fall asleep sitting up anywhere. It was exhausting, yes, but the decent monthly income did little to ease the constant anxiety gnawing at me. Nana had chemotherapy every three weeks. Medical bills and nutrition were costs I couldn’t cut. The doctor said that if she ate well and kept her strength up, the side effects of the chemo would be less severe. During that time, every extra bite of rice she ate, every spoonful of soup she drank, would fill me with joy for hours. It was as if she wasn’t consuming food, but life itself. After her fourth round of chemo, it was time for a routine check-up. I was in the middle of a delivery run when my phone rang. It was her oncologist. “Your grandmother isn’t responding well to the chemotherapy,” he said, his voice flat with professionalism. “The scans show the tumors… they’ve spread to her liver and lungs.” The city flowed around me, a river of people and cars. I stumbled to the corner of the street, squatted down, and cried, my body shaking with huge, helpless sobs. Why? After everything I had done, why was this still the result? Couldn’t fate spare us just one small kindness? I clocked out early that day. I went to see the oncologist alone first. When I asked about the next steps, the treatment plan, all I got were heavy, regretful sighs. He was a young doctor, not much older than me. “Take your grandmother home, kid,” he said gently. “Don’t spend any more money at the hospital. Whatever she wants to eat, let her have it.” I knew he meant well, but I didn’t want to hear it. Every word felt like a death sentence, a final judgment from a god I had stopped believing in. It was impossible to accept for someone who had been clinging so desperately to the hope of a miracle. “If we just go home… what will happen to her?” “She’ll be in a lot of pain,” he said, his voice getting quieter. “She might run a fever, lose her appetite, not want to move. There could be fluid buildup in her abdomen.” He looked away, pretending to be busy with the screen on his desk. “What if I insist on continuing treatment?” I pressed, unwilling to give up. The doctor looked up, his eyes meeting mine. He lowered his voice. “If you insist on treatment… your grandmother will still go through all of that.” His words were the final blow. The tears I’d been holding back burst forth.

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My sister and I share a body, and we’ve been mortal enemies since birth, desperate to kill each other. She calls me the parasite, the monster who ruined her life. I always thought it was just her vicious curse—until I found the medical records our mother had hidden. It turns out, everything she said was true. 1 My sister and I were enemies from the moment we sparked into being, fighting for dominion in the dark of the womb. If she pulled on my umbilical cord, I hammered my fist against her skull. If she hogged all the nutrients, I sank my gums into her flesh. After we were born, our misshapen connection became the original sin for which we could never forgive each other. She’d deliberately knock over a kettle of boiling water, scalding the skin we shared. In return, I’d wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze until she passed out. She once used a stolen pair of scissors to try and snip through the bridge of flesh that bound us; I responded by throwing myself down a flight of stairs, landing us both in the ICU. We were like two rabid dogs chained together, desperate to tear into each other’s flesh, to drink each other’s blood. Then yesterday, I found the medical file Mom had hidden in the attic. A faded sonogram, dated three months into her pregnancy, showed a single, healthy baby girl. Olivia. I didn’t appear until the six-month scan, a distorted tumor of flesh clinging to her side. I had leeched her nutrients, forced my own developing organs to fuse with hers. The doctor’s notes read: “Rare parasitic twin, suspected genetic mutation. Termination of pregnancy is advised…” I stared down at the jagged, scarred flesh that joined us, and a sickening understanding washed over me. I wasn’t her twin. I was a mutation, a monster. I had violently torn her normal body apart, destroying the happy life she was supposed to have. I was the original sin, the mistake that should have never existed. All this time, Olivia had been right. I was the parasite. I deserved to die. … At dinner, Olivia turned her head away, a familiar act of defiance. I knew what she was doing. She was trying to starve the parasite out. We shared a stomach. If she didn’t eat, I didn’t eat. It was her favorite and most effective form of revenge. Her lips were a thin, tight line, refusing every spoonful Mom offered. Broth dribbled from the corner of her mouth, running down onto the shared expanse of our chest, a messy stain between us. Mom’s voice was frayed with exhaustion. “Olivia, honey, please. Just eat something. Do you want to end up back in the hospital? Do you want the feeding tube again?” My body tensed. The memory of that tube, thick and abrasive down my throat, was enough to make me gag. No, I didn’t want that. I was about to take the fork from Mom’s hand and eat for the both of us when Olivia’s arm shot out, knocking the utensil to the floor. She glared at me, her eyes like poison-tipped daggers, and the look carved me up inside. “I won’t let you eat,” she hissed. “Starve, you leech. Starve.” Our shared stomach cramped, a hollow, clawing ache that made my entire body feel frantic. A wave of frustration and helplessness washed over me. Why should I have to starve just because she was on a warpath? Deliberately, I grabbed the bottle of lemon juice from the table and took a long, defiant swig. Olivia’s face instantly contorted. She hated anything sour, and on an empty, acid-filled stomach, the shock of it was brutal. A violent spasm seized our midsection. The hunger intensified tenfold, and she started retching, sour saliva flooding her mouth. Her eyes shot fire at me. “You little roach! Always pulling these tricks!” I ignored her, pouring more of the acidic juice into my mouth. Her complexion grew paler, sicklier. Finally, she broke. She stared at me, her eyes red-rimmed—not with tears, but with pure, unadulterated hatred. She snatched her bowl and began shoveling food into her mouth, swallowing whole chunks without chewing, a savage motion as if she were tearing into my own flesh. “Eat yourself to death, you monster!” she choked out between mouthfuls. “I hope you burst! I hope you die, die, die!” Warm food filled our stomach. The gnawing hunger subsided, but my heart felt like a gaping wound, a cold wind howling through a space that could never be warmed. I had been planning to tell her. I was going to tell her that I would agree to the separation surgery, that I wanted her to be a whole person. But watching her force food down while cursing me, the words caught in my throat like fish bones. Forget it. If I told her now, she’d just think it was some new, twisted game. It was better this way. Let her keep hating me. 2 Because some of our shared organs were under twice the normal load, Olivia and I had a daily regimen of pills to keep our body’s systems in balance. But today, after Mom set down the pills and a glass of water, Olivia did something unusual. She insisted that Mom leave the room. The second the door clicked shut, Olivia snatched the pills. But she didn’t take them. Instead, she lunged at me, forcing them into my mouth. “Swallow them! Parasite!” Her eyes were wild, her fingers digging brutally into the soft flesh under my chin, trying to shove the pills straight down into our stomach. I gagged, the bitter coating dissolving instantly on my tongue. I twisted my head, thrashing, knocking the glass of water over. Cold water splashed across our clothes, our skin. But the pills went down. I clawed at my throat, trying to force them back up. “Are you insane?” I rasped. “That was your heart medication!” I took a ragged breath. “I just took a double dose. Don’t you get it? If you poison me, you die too!” A twisted, triumphant smile spread across her face. “Perfect, isn’t it?” she said. “If I can’t be happy, neither can you. I can’t take another day of this. So let’s just die together.” She didn’t understand. Or maybe she just didn’t care. An overdose of her heart medication was poison to my relatively healthy system. And with her refusing her dose, her own failing heart would quickly drag our shared circulatory system into collapse. It was a suicide mission where she took us both out. I couldn’t get the pills out. They slid down my esophagus, carrying all of Olivia’s hatred with them. The bitterness traveled from my throat to the pit of my stomach. She watched me swallow, panting, a victor’s smirk on her lips. She was so focused on her win that she didn’t notice the color draining from her own face, a visible, ashen gray creeping over her skin. My sister was a complete and utter idiot. She always had been. She never seemed to grasp that we were one entity. Her loss was my loss. Inflicting pain on me meant she felt it too. And yet, she had an endless supply of stupid, self-destructive ideas, all aimed at taking me down with her. The effects of my overdose and her lack of medication began to hit us, fast and hard. Olivia’s breathing became sharp and ragged, as if an invisible hand were squeezing her throat. Beneath our joined chest, I could feel her heart hammering like a trapped bird. Her face was a mask of pain, but her unfocused eyes were still smiling at me. “Feel that?” she wheezed. “I’m dying. And you, the parasite, you get to die with me. My own personal tombstone.” Tears of pure rage streamed down my face. “Shut up, you idiot!” The poison in my system and her failing heart were strangling us from two different directions. I could feel our shared life force draining away with terrifying speed. I screamed until my voice cracked. “Mom! Help us!” I shrieked. “Mom, get in here!” By the time Mom burst in, Olivia was unconscious. I held on just long enough to gasp, “She didn’t take her pills… I took a double dose…” Then my world went black. I woke to the sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic. A doctor was speaking in low, serious tones to my mother. I heard Mom’s voice, thin with a desperate hope, ask if there was any chance for a separation. The doctor’s tone was heavy. “Their case is incredibly complex. With current medical technology, even with our best efforts… we could only save one of them.”

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For five years, my genius husband saw me as an empty-headed trophy wife. He publicly humiliated me for his brilliant protégée—a woman my family’s charity put through college. But when he dragged me, nine months pregnant, up the stairs and risked our child’s life to defend her honor, he made a fatal mistake. He forgot my name is Sterling, and the Sterling empire doesn’t just get even. It gets biblical. 1 Five years of marriage, and I knew one thing for certain: my husband despised me. To him, I was nothing more than a “trophy wife,” a decorative piece from an old-money Manhattan family. He was Dr. Adam Cole, one of the country’s leading astronomers, a man who conversed with the cosmos. I was Charlotte Sterling, a woman who played Chopin and arranged peonies. He and the brilliant young student my family sponsored would lose themselves in conversations about nebulae and wormholes. I would be tracking the fall couture collections. While he stood at a podium at an international symposium with his protégée, I was making headlines for winning a bidding war at Christie’s over a diamond necklace—a bauble I needed for a single charity gala. When I once begged him to celebrate our anniversary, his voice was laced with ice. “I prefer not to engage too deeply with the world of finance and power.” “My work is sacred.” Then he turned around and spent the evening patiently teaching his student how to calibrate a new telescope. The breaking point came when he, in a fit of rage to defend that same student’s honor, dragged me—nine months pregnant—up the stairs, inducing a dangerous premature labor. That was when I finally signed the divorce papers. It was time to give us both back our freedom. Without him, I was still Charlotte Sterling, the most sought-after heiress on the Upper East Side. Without me… well, he was about to find out. … I dialed Adam’s number. “What is it?” His voice on the other end was cold, clipped, the impatience radiating through the phone. I rested a hand on my swollen belly, the skin stretched taut over the life inside. I’d called to tell him my due date was just a week away, to ask him to clear his schedule. Before I could speak, a chirpy, saccharine-sweet female voice cut through the background. “Professor, is that your wife calling to bother you at work again?” “Honestly, back where I’m from, pregnant women were still out working in the fields. She’s so delicate, acting like being pregnant gives her a right to call and pester you all day.” “She’s slowing down our research! Ugh.” It was his student, Maya Rivera. Adam’s tone softened into something warm and indulgent, a complete reversal of the frost he reserved for me. “Your ‘Mrs. Cole’ was spoiled from the day she was born, Maya. She isn’t like you—an independent, modern intellectual.” “Her days are empty. It’s just a cycle of spending money and then spending more money. How could she possibly understand the sacrifices we make for our research? She calls whenever the whim strikes her.” “Don’t worry. I’ll handle her. I won’t let her disrupt our progress.” He made no effort to lower his voice. He’d never bothered to hide his contempt for me. He conveniently forgot that his own parents had practically begged my family for this marriage, that the line of suitors for my hand had stretched from Park Avenue to Paris. I was about to fire back a retort, but he cut me off. “Charlotte, you heard that. This project is at a critical stage. I need you to stop calling me over every little thing.” “I don’t expect you to grasp the importance of this work—you’re a pampered socialite who has never worked a day in her life. But at least try not to drag me down with you.” And then, he hung up. The father of my child hadn’t asked a single question about him. I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, the silence of our cold, cavernous apartment pressing in on me. I wondered if there was anything left of this marriage to save. That evening, I waited up for him, as was my custom. It wasn’t about love anymore; it was about maintaining the facade, the basic respect a wife of my station was expected to show her husband, even if it was never returned in kind. And I needed to ask him one last time if he would be at the hospital when I gave birth. Not for me, but for my parents. I couldn’t bear for them to see the full, brutal extent of his neglect. But midnight came and went. Adam never came home. Just as I was about to turn in, a notification lit up my phone. A new post on his Instagram. The caption read: Celebrating my most brilliant student’s birthday with a view of the blood moon! The photo was a gut punch. Maya, her sun-kissed skin glowing in the moonlight, had her head resting on my husband’s shoulder. They sat close, gazing up at the crimson-stained moon like a pair of lovers. A comment from a mutual friend in our circle appeared almost instantly: Adam, Charlotte is over nine months pregnant. Don’t you think you should be home with her instead of watching the moon with your student? This doesn’t look right. Adam’s reply was as cold and arrogant as I’d come to expect: She is a perfectly adequate society wife, but she is not the wife of my heart. Our marriage was an arrangement. My parents valued the Sterling family’s influence and resources. I married her to secure an alliance, to stabilize my family’s position. It was a transaction. But Maya is the only one who speaks my language. Discussing the universe with her—that’s when I feel alive, when I know my worth. Maya is the kind of brilliant, intellectual woman I’ve always admired. My knuckles turned white as I gripped my phone. It wasn’t sadness that I felt, but the pure, unadulterated rage of public humiliation. I had tried, for the first six months, to build a real marriage with him. When I realized it was hopeless, I gave up. With a ten-billion-dollar dowry, a loveless marriage was an inconvenience, not a tragedy. But this… this public shaming was a declaration of war. As if on cue, Maya’s comment popped up right below his. Thank you for believing in me, Professor. <3 And please don’t be hard on your wife. A woman like her, who’s never known a single day of hardship, could never understand the passion that drives people like us! Heart.JPG The two of them, performing this little play for the world to see, stoked the fire in my gut. I opened my chat with Adam. The log was nearly empty. Our last exchange was six months ago. I hit the call button. He answered. “Delete the post,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “I don’t give a damn what’s going on between you and your protégée, but the Sterling family name will not be dragged through the mud. I don’t want my parents to see this and worry.” There was a pause, then a condescending laugh. “Charlotte, has playing the socialite finally rotted your brain? You spend all your time obsessing over these meaningless trifles. Your world is so pathetically small.” “I’m telling you, the post stays up. And my relationship with Maya is none of your parents’ damn business.” A sharp pain shot through my stomach. I was about to unleash a torrent of fury when Maya’s voice, dripping with false innocence, came through the line. “Mrs. Cole, the professor works so hard. You shouldn’t bother him with such trivial matters.” “Besides, he was just telling the truth. You really… you don’t understand our world. Denying it won’t change anything.” “Why don’t you just go back to being a pretty vase? The professor and I are busy observing the lunar eclipse. If you don’t understand, you shouldn't interfere.” I could hear Adam murmuring to her in the background, his voice a gentle caress. “Maya, what’s the point in talking to her? Her mind is filled with couture and galas. She can’t even begin to compare to you. Engaging with her only lowers your intellectual standards.” Every word was a carefully aimed dart. This was how he had seen me for five years. And the irony? How the Coles had courted my family, begging for this union? Dozens of families had wanted an alliance with the Sterlings. My parents, terrified I would be unhappy, chose the Coles, believing it was a safe match, that I would be marrying down and thus be cherished. What a bitter joke. I reached into my nightstand and pulled out the divorce agreement I’d had my lawyers draw up months ago. My hand went to my stomach. My resolve hardened. No amount of patience or compromise would ever change this man. There was no reason to maintain this farce any longer. He despised me but didn’t have the guts to ask for a divorce himself, wanting to have his cake and eat it too. I wondered how he would explain this to his parents. Adam’s voice snapped back onto the line, as if just remembering I was there. He spoke with that familiar, patronizing tone. “Charlotte, stop looking for trouble where there is none.” “If you’re that bored, go buy another couture gown. It’s a better use of your time than monitoring my life.” “Our marriage is what it is—a dynastic merger. Don’t ever expect love from me.” “The woman I love has a higher purpose, a brilliant mind. Not an empty-headed doll like you.” He hung up. Again. A slow, cold smile spread across my face. The anger was gone, replaced by crystalline clarity. The moment this baby was born, I was done. I would not let this self-righteous hypocrite poison another day of my life. The next morning, I walked downstairs to a shocking sight: Adam Cole in the kitchen. He was cooking breakfast. Adam, the man who claimed his hands were instruments reserved solely for scientific discovery, was standing over a stove. Before I could process it, Maya Rivera emerged from the guest bedroom, wearing one of Adam’s crisp white button-down shirts and nothing else. Her eyes met mine. On her, with her sun-kissed skin, the shirt was a statement, a flag planted on conquered territory. She scanned me from head to toe with the same arrogant, dismissive gaze as her mentor, a clear challenge in her eyes. She didn't greet me, the mistress of the house. Instead, she glided into the kitchen and wrapped her arms around Adam from behind, resting her head on his shoulder. “Thank you for making me oatmeal, Professor,” she cooed. “I feel so spoiled.” The irony was nauseating. His wife, nine months pregnant, hadn't received so much as a kind word, yet this student had him playing short-order cook. Adam chuckled, ruffling her hair. “As long as you like it. Just try to be more careful with your next data set. No more mistakes.” He glanced over at me. “You have a brilliant future, Maya. Don’t waste it and end up useless like your Mrs. Cole.” Their open flirting made my stomach turn. I started to head for the bathroom, but Adam finally noticed me standing there. The smile vanished from his face, replaced by a scowl. “Don’t just stand there blocking the way,” he snapped. “You have nothing to do all day, but Maya and I have important work. We can’t afford to be delayed by you.” I changed course. Instead of retreating, I walked directly to the dining table. This was my house. I was, for the moment, still Mrs. Adam Cole. Why the hell should I hide from this sordid little affair? “Maria,” I called to the maid, “please bring me my breakfast.” Maya’s eyes flashed with irritation. “You know,” she said, her voice dripping with faux concern, “where I come from, pregnant women are expected to help out. But you, you treat your pregnancy like a disability. You even have servants bring your food to you.” She sighed dramatically. “Mrs. Cole, the staff are people too. You should really show a little more respect for the working class.” I looked up at her, as one might observe a particularly loud insect. “My dowry was ten billion dollars. I can afford to employ ten thousand maids if I choose. Who are you—a woman my family’s charity put through college—to lecture me on morality?” The color drained from her face. Before she could form a reply, I pulled out my phone, dialed my family’s trust manager, and put the call on speaker. “Mr. Davis, good morning. Please immediately terminate all financial support for Maya Rivera.” “Furthermore, I want you to calculate the total sum the Sterling Foundation has provided for her education and living expenses over the years. Inform her she has three days to repay the full amount. If she fails to do so, you will initiate legal proceedings.” I paused, letting the words hang in the air. “The Sterling family does not sponsor traitors.” Maya’s face went chalk-white. She grabbed Adam’s arm, her voice a shrill cry. “Professor! She’s doing this to humiliate me! She looks down on me!” “This is all she knows how to do! Use her money to threaten people because she has nothing else!” Adam, ever her champion, immediately stepped in front of her. “Charlotte, that’s enough!” he roared. “Don’t you dare go too far!” “It’s a few hundred thousand dollars! I’ll pay it for her!” I laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “You’ll pay it?” “Adam, have you forgotten? When your parents were begging for this marriage, they were so eager that they didn’t bother with a prenup.” “Your money is our money. It’s community property. If you dare use our joint assets to pay her debt, I will have my lawyers sue her for misappropriation of marital funds. We’ll see how that looks on her academic record.” His face turned to stone. The trap had sprung. Just then, our maid, Maria, approached nervously with my breakfast tray. Adam’s rage found a new target. With a sudden, violent movement, he kicked the tray out of her hands. Porcelain shattered, and food splattered across the marble floor. CRASH! He whirled on the terrified staff. “Get her back to her room! Lock the door!” “She may have been a Sterling, but she lives in the Cole house now! My parents may indulge her, but I will not!” The servants stood frozen, looking from him to me. “This is my house!” he bellowed. “Who do you work for?” I shot to my feet, my voice ringing with fury as I pointed a finger at him. “Adam Cole, you dare?!” “If you lay a hand on me today, you can start preparing the eulogy for your family’s company.” But he had lost face in front of Maya, and his pride was a wounded, desperate animal. He threw all caution to the wind. “Dare?” he sneered. “Of course I dare!” “Why should a parasite who does nothing but spend money be allowed to destroy the future of a brilliant intellectual like Maya? Maybe some time alone in your room will give you time to reflect on your behavior!” Maya, seizing her moment, collapsed into his arms, sobbing. “Professor, I know I received their charity, but that doesn’t give her the right to insult me like this! I have my dignity! All my hard work, my dedication to science… she’s trying to reduce it all to a dollar amount!” Adam stroked her hair, murmuring comforting words. The staff, though employed by the Coles, knew where the real power lay. Not a single one moved toward me. Seeing their defiance, Adam’s face grew darker. “Fine! Fine! So my own staff won’t obey me anymore! You’re all fired! Every last one of you! Be out by noon!” He turned his glare back to me. “Maya and I are late for the observatory. We don’t have time to waste on your hysterics.” “If you won’t lock her up, I’ll do it myself!” He strode toward me. Before I could react, he grabbed my arm, completely ignoring my nine-month belly, and started dragging me toward the stairs. I struggled, fighting with all my strength, but he was too strong. In the scuffle, my stomach slammed hard against the corner of the wrought-iron banister. A blinding, razor-sharp pain ripped through my abdomen. I cried out, clutching my belly. “The baby…” “Adam! This is your child too! Let me go!” His eyes were bloodshot, his face contorted in a mask of madness. “A little pregnancy,” he hissed, his teeth clenched. “Women in Maya’s village are back in the fields the next day! I know you’re faking it!” “If I don’t teach you a lesson today, you’ll never stop bullying Maya!” A wave of pure despair washed over me. And then, I heard my father’s voice, a crack of thunder from the doorway. “GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY DAUGHTER!” In the next instant, Adam was kicked violently to the ground. A second later, my mother was holding me, her own tears streaming down her face. I looked down. Blood was spreading, a dark crimson stain on my dress. Adam saw it too. The color drained from his face. He stammered, his voice a ghost of its former arrogance. “How… how is that possible? Your due date is still a week away…” “I… I was just trying to teach you a small lesson…” My father ignored him, scooping me into his arms and rushing for the door. But even through the haze of pain, I grabbed his arm. “Dad…” I gasped, “the nightstand… in the bedroom… give him what’s inside…” My words hung in the air. Adam froze, then scrambled to his feet and sprinted up the stairs. We heard the drawer being wrenched open. Then, a dead silence. When we glanced back, he had collapsed to the floor, his face a portrait of utter disbelief. “No…” he whispered. “You can’t do this to me.”

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Showing up at my ex-boyfriend’s engagement party was a power move. Seeing him hustle toward me, his face pale with panic, confirmed it. “Don’t make a scene,” he hissed, grabbing my arm. I gave him a withering look and walked right past him, my heels clicking on the marble floor. I made a beeline for his uncle. “Daniel,” I said, my voice steady. “I’m pregnant. And it’s yours.” Daniel Russo’s gaze, cool and unreadable, lingered on the pregnancy test in my hand for a long moment. Then, a slow smile spread across his face. He pulled me down to sit beside him, his arm draping over my shoulder as he announced to the table, “Well, if it’s mine, then I suppose I’ll have to take responsibility.” 1 The party Leo threw for himself was exactly as ostentatious as I’d expected. I’d stood at the grand entrance for a few minutes, watching him play the gracious host, a bitter laugh bubbling in my throat. The thought of him whispering sweet nothings to me one night, only to get engaged to his family-approved, childhood sweetheart the next, was enough to make me sick. As guests ebbed and flowed through the doorway, his eyes met mine. First, there was a flicker of confusion, then raw, undisguised panic. He strode toward me, his posture stiff. “Ava, what are you doing here?” he whispered, his voice tight with anxiety. “I thought we talked about this. You can’t be here, not tonight. This is important.” He assumed I was here to pick a fight with his fiancée. A classic, pathetic catfight. But my target was so much bigger than him. I rolled my eyes. “Get out of my way, Leo,” I said, my voice dripping with ice. “You’re blocking my path to the father of my child.” “The what?” I shoved him aside. The look of utter shock on his face was almost satisfying as I walked directly toward the main table, toward the one man who outshone everyone else in the room. The moment I stopped in front of Daniel Russo, the ambient chatter of the ballroom seemed to drop by half. Every eye in the vicinity swiveled in our direction. Their focus wasn’t on me, of course. It was on him. Daniel was the kind of man who always seemed to be smiling, a polite, aristocratic curve of his lips that never quite reached his eyes. Up close, you could see the cool, calculating intelligence behind them. He looked up at me now, that same gentle smile in place, his expression one of polite inquiry. I pulled the pregnancy test from my clutch and held it out. My voice was crisp and clear. “Daniel, I’m pregnant.” His eyes held mine, then dropped to the little plastic stick. The silence stretched. Then, with a smoothness that took my breath away, he pulled me down into the chair beside him, his arm a warm, heavy weight on my shoulders. “Well, if it’s mine,” he said, his voice carrying just enough for the surrounding tables to hear, “then I suppose I’ll have to take responsibility.” 2 After a beat of stunned silence, the old man sitting next to Daniel—his father—clapped him on the shoulder and let out a booming laugh. “Well, well, Daniel! Keeping a girlfriend secret from your old man, were you? And with results like this!” The tension broke. The room erupted in a flurry of excited chatter and congratulations. “And here we were thinking no woman on earth could catch Daniel Russo’s eye,” someone chirped. “Turns out he had one hidden away all along!” “That’s Daniel for you! Quietly becoming a father while the rest of us are still playing games. The patriarch can finally rest easy!” “This certainly puts him ahead of Leo, doesn’t it? So, when can we expect a wedding invitation, Daniel?” I’ll admit, this was a calculated move. Choosing this party, in front of all these people, was designed to hit Leo where it hurt. Daniel was the man Leo both admired and feared above all others. If I suddenly became his fiancée—his future aunt—he’d have to bow his head to me for the rest of his life. I had run through a dozen scenarios in my head on the way here, but I never, not once, imagined he would just… accept it. Not only accept it, but play along, creating this instant illusion of us as a loving, committed couple. The reality was, we were practically strangers. A few brief encounters, a handful of exchanged pleasantries, and one messy, chaotic night. We’d probably spoken less than twenty sentences to each other in our entire lives. The heat from his hand seeped through my dress, and I felt a blush creep up my neck. I was starting to feel completely out of my depth. My unease was broken by Leo, who had finally stormed over to our table. “Ava, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. His anger snapped me back into character. I straightened my spine. “I told you, Leo. I’m here to see the father of my child.” His eyes, wide with disbelief, darted to his uncle. “Uncle Daniel?” Daniel’s smile tightened just a fraction. “Leo, your bride is waiting for you. Go do what you’re supposed to be doing.” The words were soft, but they carried the unmistakable weight of a command. Leo flinched as if struck. He shot me one last, conflicted look, then clenched his jaw and walked away. And just like that, I spent the rest of my ex-boyfriend’s engagement party as Daniel Russo’s baby mama. The spotlight, which should have been on Leo and his new fiancée, was now fixed squarely on us. Especially from the distinguished old man beside me—Daniel’s father, Leo’s maternal grandfather. He spent the entire evening beaming, his eyes crinkling as he peppered me with gentle questions about my life and how Daniel and I had met. Daniel handled it all with unnerving calm. I just… faked it. A wave of regret washed over me. This was a terrible idea. This was a conversation that should have happened in private. When the party finally wound down, Daniel offered to drive me home. He dismissed his driver and slid behind the wheel himself, the engine humming quietly in the cavernous underground garage. But he didn’t start the car. He pulled a dark cigar from his breast pocket, not lighting it, just rolling it between his fingers. He stared straight ahead through the windshield, lost in thought. The silence was so thick I felt like I was suffocating. I opened my mouth to break it, twice, but before I could find the words, he spoke. “Alright,” he said, his voice devoid of its earlier warmth. “Whose baby is it?” 3 I froze, turning to face him. His eyes, now stripped of all pretense, were cold, sharp, and all-knowing. For a second, I was speechless. Then, anger surged through me. “What do you mean?” I demanded. “Are you backing out now?” A humorless smile touched his lips. “You misunderstand. I don’t deny the things I’ve done. But—” He paused, the smile deepening as his eyes grew even colder. “I never touched you.” It was the second time a man had said that to me today. A hysterical laugh escaped me. They both never touched me? Was this some kind of immaculate conception? My breath came in ragged bursts. I fought to control my voice. “Daniel, if you don’t want to be responsible, just say so. I came here fully prepared for you to deny it. It was a mistake, a drunken accident.” I took a shaky breath. “And yes, I chose this party to tell you because I wanted to hurt Leo. I used you, and that was wrong. But you don’t have to humiliate me like this.” He was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. “If I wanted to humiliate you, Ava, I wouldn’t have played along back there,” he said patiently. “But I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t touch you.” He said it with such absolute certainty that, for the first time, a sliver of doubt pierced my anger. Could he be right? It had all started on his yacht, at Leo’s birthday party. I saw him—Leo—kissing his fiancée for tonight in a hallway near the restrooms. The sight shattered something inside me. I went straight to the bar and started drinking. I remembered Daniel bringing me back to a cabin. A gesture of kindness, I’d assumed, looking out for his nephew’s drunk girlfriend. But my mind was a toxic cocktail of alcohol and betrayal. All I could see was Leo’s face, his lies. I was hurt and furious, and I wanted to lash out. Back then, I didn’t know the girl was his family-ordained fiancée. I just thought I wasn’t enough, that my desire to wait, to not have sex before marriage, had pushed him into the arms of someone else. In that moment, it felt like a failing. My failing. So, in a haze of drunken bravado, I’d thrown my arms around Daniel’s neck. I remember slurring something stupid, something like, “It’s just sex, right? If he thinks it’s so casual, so meaningless, then why can’t I? I can be casual too!” So, yes. Maybe. It was probably me who initiated it. Me who practically forced him. But I know what happened to my body. I woke up alone the next morning, but my body remembered. There was a distinct, undeniable ache. Unless— A horrifying thought struck me. “Wait,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “It was you who took me to my room that night on the yacht, wasn’t it?” Daniel nodded. “It was.” “And you were the man who stayed with me all night?” He hesitated. “I was.” “Then how can you say you didn’t touch me?!”

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My wife was about to have our second baby. I went to my boss and asked for a five-hundred-dollar raise for formula money. He just sneered. “Do the job or get the hell out.” I’d given that company twenty years of my life. The other techs on my team were making nearly double my salary, while I was stuck at forty-five hundred a month. I was so pissed, I quit on the spot. A month later, he’d lost a hundred million dollars. Now he’s on his knees, begging me to come back? Too late. 1 My wife was asking for a five-hundred-dollar raise. Not for her, for me. For the baby. “The price of formula is just… it’s insane,” she’d said, her hand resting on the tight drum of her belly. Nine months. We were in the home stretch. So, the next morning, I went in early. The air in the office was stale with last night’s whiskey and this morning’s cigarette smoke. Marcus, my boss, was already there, hunched over his desk. I’d been with him since the beginning, since this whole plant was just a concrete shell and a handful of blueprints. Twenty years. “Marcus? Got a minute?” I asked from the doorway. He glanced up, his eyes bloodshot, and gave a noncommittal grunt. I took a deep breath. “My wife’s due any day now. I’ve been here twenty years, and I’m still at forty-five hundred a month. I was hoping… could we bump that up? Just five hundred. For the baby.” A dry, crackling sound that might have been a laugh escaped his lips. “If you don’t like the pay, Frank, there’s the door.” I just stood there, the words hanging in the air like smoke. I knew the other lead techs were making seventy, eighty thousand a year. I was the senior man, the one who’d built the damn place. The main control system, the schematics, the wiring for every single machine on the floor—I had laid it all out. When something went wrong, I was the one they called. Always. He stubbed out his cigarette, the cherry dying in a pile of ash. He crossed his legs. “You’re an electrician, Frank. Who do you think you are, coming in here and making demands?” My throat felt tight. “It’s not a demand. It’s just… things are tight at home. With the second kid on the way.” “Then maybe you shouldn’t have had a second kid,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips. “Everybody wants a raise. Are you in or are you out? Because I’ve got a hundred guys who’d kill for your job.” I didn’t say anything. I just looked at him, really looked at him, for a long moment. Then I turned and walked out. Five minutes later, I was back. I placed my toolbox on the polished surface of his desk. The clank of the metal was the only sound in the room. “I’m out,” I said. He froze, then shot to his feet, slamming his palm on the desk. “You’re serious? You’re really pulling this?” I just nodded. “I’m done.” I expected him to argue, to bargain, maybe even to yell some more. He did none of it. His face hardened into a mask of contempt. “Fine. Go. But don’t you dare come crawling back. Don’t even think about setting foot on this property again.” I didn’t bother replying. I went back to the locker room, rolled up the spare change of clothes I kept there, and walked. The sun hadn’t risen yet. A cold wind whipped around the corner of the building, stinging my legs through my jeans as I walked out the main gate. “Frank! You really did it?” It was Leo, one of the guys from my crew, his voice full of disbelief. “Yeah.” “Man, that’s crazy. I know Marcus is an ass and the pay sucks, but… twenty years, man. You can’t just throw that away.” I didn’t stop walking. My toolbox felt heavy in my hand, but my head was strangely empty. He was right. Twenty years. A whole career. All the overtime, the emergency calls in the middle of the night, the sweat and the scars. And in the end, it wasn’t even worth five hundred bucks a month. As I walked, my wife’s words from last night came back to me. “If he says no, it’s okay, honey. Don’t make it hard for him. We’ll figure it out.” A hot sting pricked the back of my eyes. Maybe I was just too damn quiet. Too loyal for my own good. When I got home, she was still asleep. I didn’t want to wake her, so I sat on the small balcony off our bedroom and lit a cigarette, watching the sky slowly fade from black to gray to a pale, hopeful blue. My phone buzzed. The direct deposit had hit. Paycheck: $4,500. After taxes and insurance, just over $4,100. The numbers started spinning in my head. Formula. Diapers. The mortgage. Groceries. 2 We had some savings. We could make it work for a little while if we were careful. I opened up my laptop and pulled up Indeed, the screen glowing in the half-light of dawn. The listings stared back at me: Lead Electrical Technician, starting at $60k. Control Systems Specialist, $75k. I sighed, scrolling through the possibilities. For twenty years, I’d treated that company like it was my own. And for twenty years, they’d treated me like a tool they could just leave out in the rain. I was there from day one. Back when it was just me, a young guy not afraid of a little hard work, pulling miles of wire through the skeleton of a building. I’d worked in the blistering heat of July, on black-tar roofs that felt like frying pans. I’d worked in the dead of winter, my fingers numb inside my gloves, coaxing a frozen main breaker back to life when everyone else was too scared to touch it. I never complained. Never asked for overtime pay for the 2 a.m. call-outs. I just did the work. I thought Marcus saw that. I thought it meant something. But his words kept echoing in my head: “Who do you think you are?” It finally clicked. It didn’t matter who I was. It only mattered what I was worth to him. And apparently, that wasn’t much. I handled the most dangerous jobs in the plant, the high-voltage systems that no one else would touch. The other department heads, guys who sat in air-conditioned offices staring at spreadsheets, were pulling down twice my salary. Last year, we hired this kid, Kevin. Fresh out of a technical college, couldn’t even read a basic control schematic. I spent a month showing him the ropes, walking him through every system. Six weeks later, he got a seven-thousand-dollar raise. He told me he’d gotten another offer, and Marcus matched it without blinking. I asked him what he’d put on his resume. “Everything you taught me,” he said with a shrug. “I just wrote it all down. They offered me eighty grand at another plant.” I didn’t say anything then. But now, I get it. It wasn’t Kevin’s fault. I was the fool. I was the one who believed in doing the work, in being a team player. But in a place like that, if you don’t play the game—if you don’t leverage other offers or threaten to leave—you get left behind. I remembered when my wife was pregnant with our first. I took a fall at a job site. A jolt of electricity sent me tumbling off a ladder. I ended up in the hospital for a month with a fractured ankle. The company gave me five days of sick leave. The rest, they said, was “on me.” I came back to work on crutches, and the first thing Marcus asked me was, “So, when can you climb a utility pole again?” I should have walked out right then. But I’d already put in more than a decade. I figured I’d just stick it out. And now, a decade later, here I was. I closed the laptop. I had to make a move. I didn’t have a college degree, but I had a skill. A damn good one. And in a world run by machines, people like me were always going to be necessary. I wasn’t worried about finding work. Just as I was about to head out the door, my phone rang. It was Leo. “Frank, you will not believe this. The main control panel for the whole assembly line is dead. Nothing’s turning on.” “Tell Kevin to fix it,” I said. “He won’t touch it! He’s terrified he’s going to fry the motherboard.” A cold smile touched my lips. I’d installed that motherboard. I’d written the custom code that ran it. Those college boys wouldn’t know where to begin. Leo lowered his voice. “Marcus is losing his mind. He’s screaming at everyone in the workshop. He wants someone to fix it, now.” I looked at my phone. No missed calls from Marcus. He’d said the company had plenty of people. I stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. Let him see what his “plenty of people” could do. 3 By 7:30 a.m., the plant was in chaos. The main control screen was a black void. The automated conveyor belts were frozen, and the robotic arms were stuck mid-air like metallic gargoyles. A series of shrill alarms from the hydraulic system echoed through the cavernous space. Marcus kicked open the door to the control room. “Well? What the hell are you all standing around for? Where’s the electrician?” No one dared to speak. Kevin was huddled in a corner, his face pale. “Marcus, I… I can’t touch that. It’s high-voltage.” Marcus rounded on him. “I thought you said you knew these systems!” Kevin was shaking. “Frank never taught me this specific board. I’ve never seen anything like it.” “Then what the hell good are you?” Marcus roared. He scanned the faces of the other workers. “Is there seriously no one in this entire plant who can fix this?” The shift supervisor finally spoke up, his voice barely a whisper. “Frank didn’t have time to do a handover before he left.” “He’s one electrician! How can the entire plant depend on one guy?” No one answered, but they all knew the truth. Frank wasn’t just an electrician. Five years ago, we’d upgraded the control system. The engineers the manufacturer sent couldn’t get it to sync with our older machinery. After three days of failures, I’d taken a notepad and a pen and redesigned the whole interface myself, hand-drawing the schematics and writing a new logic sequence from scratch. From that day on, it was my system. The official manual was useless; the only guide that mattered was the one in my head. Anyone else who tried to modify it would trigger an immediate shutdown. At 8:00 a.m., the clients arrived. They were there to inspect a massive order before shipment. They walked onto the production floor and stopped dead, their expressions shifting from anticipation to disbelief. “You told us the order would be ready to ship by nine,” the lead client said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Is this what you call ‘ready’?” Marcus rushed over, forcing a smile. “Just a minor technical issue. We’re on it.” “I don’t care if it’s minor or major,” the client snapped, waving a dismissive hand. “If that shipment is delayed by one day, we’re not just withholding the final payment—we’re suing you for breach of contract. You can expect a call from our lawyers.” He turned and walked out, his team trailing behind him. Marcus’s face was a mask of fury. He spun around and jabbed a finger at Kevin. “Fix it. Now.” “I… I don’t even have the programming password to access the main board,” Kevin stammered. Marcus turned to the supervisor. “Didn’t Frank leave an operator’s manual?” “He did,” the supervisor admitted, “but he said the specifics of the modifications were only in his head.” “Then why the hell didn’t you ask him to write it down?” Marcus screamed, his voice raw. By 10:00 a.m., three supply trucks were blocking the loading docks, their drivers fuming. The whole plant was grinding to a halt. “You told us you had a power surge, now you’re saying the whole system is down? Are you messing with us?” one of them yelled into his phone. Marcus slammed his office phone down so hard it cracked. “Find someone to fix this! Now!” Kevin timidly offered, “Frank’s not answering his phone.” “You’re telling me this whole company is going to fail because of Frank? Get an outside contractor! Get somebody! Why are you all just standing here?” Meanwhile, I was sitting in a diner in the old part of town, slowly sipping a cup of coffee. My wife had told me to take a week off, to decompress before the baby came. My phone had been buzzing all morning with blocked numbers. I bit into a piece of toast and switched it to airplane mode. The sun was streaming through the window, warm on my face. When the wind blew, it wasn’t cold anymore. I had only one word for it.

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