Author: Momo Chan

I ate a single cookie because I was starving while working late. For that, my manager docked my commission by one hundred thousand dollars. She jabbed a finger in my face, her own turning purple with rage. “Don’t get cocky just because you landed that big account, Leo!” “This is a place of business! If you want to eat, go home and do it!” she shrieked. “The company has a clear policy against snacking at your desk! You broke the rule, and you knew exactly what you were doing. That makes it worse!” “So, that hundred-thousand-dollar commission from the Pais contract? It’s gone.” I just looked at her and said, flatly, “Fine.” Then I leaned back in my chair and started doing absolutely nothing. That’s when she really lost it. 1 Miranda Thorne was livid at my nonchalant attitude. “Leo, you will write a formal apology, and you will read it aloud at the all-hands meeting!” I watched her face flush a dangerous shade of red, my own fists clenching under the desk. Then, just as calmly, I said, “Okay.” My colleagues stared at me, their faces a mixture of shock and disbelief. Miranda spun on her heel and stomped off toward the executive offices on the 23rd floor. I stayed at my desk. A few minutes later, a notification popped up in the company-wide chat. “To All Staff: Leo Vance of the Sales Department has repeatedly violated company policy. Following a review, management has decided to revoke his commission for the current month, totaling $100,000. He will also issue a public apology at the 2 p.m. all-hands meeting today as a warning to others.” My coworkers shot me looks of stunned pity. Alex, from the desk across from me, sent a private message: “Dude, Miranda’s just on a power trip. Don’t fight her on this. Just play along. It’s a hundred grand!” I smiled to myself. Playing along wouldn’t work. This wasn’t about a cookie. She wanted me out. She’d been coveting my position for a long time. When the old Chairman first recruited me, he’d made it clear: no clocking in or out, complete freedom to come and go, eat and drink whatever I wanted. The only thing that mattered was my performance. And in the sales department, I was a one-man army, pulling in half the company’s revenue. The latest deal, a renewal of our ten-billion-dollar contract with Pais Corp, took me only a week to lock down. Miranda probably thought my job was too easy. The jealousy was eating her alive. I replied to Alex: “Just wait. This afternoon isn’t just about my public shaming. They’re bringing in my replacement.” Alex’s icon showed a shocked emoji. I ignored it and calmly began organizing all my client files, printing out hard copies of everything. Then, I factory reset my company phone. Once that was done, I started writing my “apology.” Miranda came down once during that time, a smug, triumphant smirk on her face when she saw me typing away. At two o’clock, she personally escorted me to the 23rd-floor conference room. Over a hundred employees were seated, waiting. Miranda’s voice boomed through the microphone. “Let me reiterate! A company is a place of work, not your living room! We have repeatedly asked you to maintain a professional environment, but some people just don’t listen!” “And don’t think you’re special just because the Chairman himself hired you! Anyone can make a few phone calls, have a nice dinner, and sign a contract!” “Leo, get up here and deliver your apology! Let everyone see what happens when you disrespect the rules!” I stood up and walked to the front, feeling the mix of pity and morbid curiosity from the crowd. “Ms. Thorne is right. I shouldn’t have eaten a cookie at my desk. From this day forward, I will strictly adhere to all company policies and never cross the line again.” “Ms. Thorne, I’m not a man of many words. You told me not to eat, so I won’t. My job as a salesperson isn’t that important, anyway.” “It’s good that you finally understand! And given your repeated infractions, the executive team has decided to remove you from your position as Sales Director. You are now a junior sales associate.” “And this,” she announced, gesturing to a greasy-looking man beside her, “is your new Director, Felix Thorne. Felix has an MBA from a top overseas university and will lead our team to new heights!” A scattered, unenthusiastic applause trickled through the room. Miranda proudly presented Felix. I caught Alex’s eye across the room; his face said it all. As a final blow, Miranda added, “Leo, I want you to compile all of your client files and submit them for redistribution.” I agreed without hesitation, handing over the stack I’d already printed. Go ahead, I thought. See if any of you can handle them. My cooperation seemed to make Miranda suspicious. She meticulously checked the files before finally letting it go. Felix was even more arrogant. The moment we were back on our floor, he tapped his finger on my desk. “Leo, hurry up and pack your things. Move it. If you leave anything behind, you’ll be held responsible.” 2 I knew what he was doing. As Sales Director, my desk was in the open-plan office, but I had a whole row to myself—a prime spot with a clear view of the entire floor. Now, he couldn’t wait to shove me into the corner. My new assigned spot was a tiny cubicle right against the window, a space no one wanted. Even with the AC, company policy forbade closing the blinds. The afternoon sun would bake me alive, the glare making my monitor unreadable. A perfect little corporate penalty box. But I didn’t care. I silently packed my personal items and picked up my laptop to move. He stopped me, his hand on my machine. “Hold on. I need to check the contents of your computer. Can’t have you walking away with client data, can we?” “Be my guest.” I powered it on and let him search through everything. The old Chairman had recruited me himself. His words still echoed in my mind: “Leo, within this company, your word is law.” But the Chairman’s health had been failing, and he was recovering at a clinic overseas. This whole charade was laughable. I knew exactly what Miranda was thinking: get rid of the expensive top performer to cut costs. A classic, foolish move. Felix found nothing suspicious and waved me away with a dismissive flick of his wrist. A message from Alex popped up: “Don’t worry, Leo. We’re all on your side.” I sent back a smiling emoji. Their support was nice, but it didn’t matter. The fact that the 23rd floor had let Miranda do this meant they’d approved it. And if they knew, the Chairman, even oceans away, knew too. If that’s how they wanted to play it, I wasn’t going to fight them. That evening, for the first time, I clocked out. I didn’t know how things used to be, but from now on, I was following every rule to the letter. No problem there, right? Usually, my evenings were spent taking clients out for drinks or dinner, networking, and building relationships. Not anymore. I drove straight home, collapsed onto my bed, and watched the sunset paint the sky. I felt incredible. Free from the endless cycle of schmoozing, I finally had time for myself. I pulled out my phone and booked a ticket to a play I’d been wanting to see for years. The lead actor was my favorite, but I’d never had a free evening to go. Until now. Later, I was added to a new sales team group chat. The admin was Felix. “@everyone: Effective immediately, all sales staff will submit a daily work log. I want to know who you met, what you discussed, and their level of interest. Furthermore, each of you is expected to secure 5 qualified leads per month. Failure to meet this quota will result in a 20% reduction in your monthly performance review.” Alex messaged me privately again. “Can you believe this guy? He comes back from some fancy school overseas and starts pulling this old-school factory-floor crap on us?” “Has he ever even worked in sales? Qualified leads don’t just grow on trees! Five a month? The whole damn company is lucky to close one new major deal a month, and that’s usually with existing clients!” “The economy is crap, big clients are impossible to get, and there are only so many small clients in this city. He’s trying to kill us.” I read Alex’s rant and just offered some simple advice. “Take it easy. Just do what the boss says.” “How can you be so calm, man? If it were me, I’d have quit already! I can’t take this BS!” I just smiled and didn’t reply. I wasn’t in a hurry. They’d figure it out soon enough. 3 The next morning, I walked into the office and submitted a request for my annual leave. I’d worked at this company for eight years and had never taken a single vacation day. When I handed the form to Felix, he glared at me. “What is this? I just started, and you’re already taking a vacation? Are you trying to undermine me?” “Not at all, Director Thorne,” I said smoothly. “I have full confidence that you’ll lead us to great success. It’s just… I haven’t had a break in years. My body can’t take it anymore. I need to recharge.” He looked me up and down, his eyes dripping with disdain. “I guess so. Juggling all those big clients… a man over thirty can’t really keep up the pace.” The implication was clear: he thought I’d used shady methods to win my contracts. Prejudice is a hard thing to change. I didn’t bother arguing. He signed the form. “Just remember your monthly quota! If you don’t meet it, it’s coming out of your base salary!” he called after me. “And if you fail for three consecutive months, you’re out!” “Understood,” I said without looking back. “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.” Because the ones leaving would be them. Once the paperwork was approved, I packed a bag and left. First stop: a trip out of town. The play was tonight, and I wasn’t going to miss it. Two hours later, I stepped off the high-speed train, and my phone buzzed. It was Alex. “Leo, the Pais Corp contract was officially signed. Miranda announced the commission is being credited to Felix.” “She’s going to use it to nominate him for Salesperson of the Year. It’s a political move to get herself another promotion!” “It’s shameless! Are you just going to let them do this?” “Don’t worry,” I texted back. “They can’t handle it. Just wait.” I smiled as I sent the message. Renewing the Pais contract wasn’t something you could do over a fancy dinner. I silenced my phone and took my seat in the theater. The stage was just a few feet away. I was buzzing with excitement. For two glorious hours, my world was the story unfolding on stage. I laughed, I cried, I was completely lost in it. When I walked out, I checked my phone. Over a hundred missed calls and countless messages. The most recent one was from Miranda. “Leo, Mr. Pais from Pais Corp just called. He says there’s a problem with the contract and he’s pulling out. This is a five-hundred-million-dollar loss. You can consider yourself fired!” I scoffed and typed a quick reply. “The contract was transferred to Felix. Is it my fault he couldn’t handle it?” “And Ms. Thorne, if you’re going to fire me, don’t forget my severance package.” I put my phone back in my pocket. The constant stream of messages from Alex painted a clear picture. After I left, Felix, wanting to “build relationships,” had gone to visit Pais Corp, bringing a lavish gift. Mr. Pais himself ran into him in the lobby. Upon learning Felix was the new Director, he asked a few technical questions about their operations. Felix couldn’t answer a single one. Alarmed by this lack of professionalism, Mr. Pais demanded an immediate on-site inspection of our manufacturing facility. I had walked him through that facility a dozen times. Felix had never even set foot in it. When they arrived, one of the main production machines was down. Felix called in an engineer. But it was a new, highly specialized machine. No one on-site knew how to repair it. In the past, whenever there was an issue, I was the one who made the call to get it fixed. Felix used this as an excuse, claiming I must have sabotaged the machine before I left. That was the last straw for Mr. Pais. He declared our company a fraud and voided the contract on the spot. Not only was the half-billion-dollar deal dead, but Mr. Pais had personally chewed Felix out so badly that the old Chairman had been notified overseas. Just then, Alex called me, his voice frantic. “Leo, you need to get back here, now! They’re threatening to call the cops, saying you committed corporate sabotage!”

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My abusive husband jumped off the balcony. Just thirty minutes ago, he was standing over me with a hammer, ready to smash my skull in. Now, he was lying in a broken heap three stories below. My mother-in-law shrieked that I was a curse, a plague on their family. If only her son had divorced me and married some rich heiress. But only I knew the truth. After my rebirth, I was bound to a system called “Empty Promises Come True.” It punishes anyone who makes a promise they don’t intend to keep. 1 My mother-in-law, clutching a bundle of green onions, walked in just in time to see her son plummet from the balcony. “Oh, dear God, my son!” THUD. A sickening crack, followed by a spray of crimson. She collapsed to the floor, shaking like a leaf. Meanwhile, I was leaning against the balcony railing, sipping a cup of Earl Grey. It tasted a bit stale. An hour and a half ago, my short-tempered, abusive husband, Damian, had been threatening to cave my head in with a hammer. Now, he was a broken doll splayed on the concrete below. I owed it all to the “Empty Promises Come True” system I’d acquired upon my rebirth. Anyone who made me a false promise would be forced to live out its consequences. When my mother-in-law finally managed to lift her head, she saw me smiling and waving. She pointed a trembling, accusatory finger at me and started screaming to the gathering crowd. “It was her! She pushed my son!” A moment later, the apartment door was kicked open. My mother-in-law, gasping for breath, her beady eyes burning with hatred, lunged for my throat. I sidestepped, and she stumbled, falling in a comical heap on the floor. “Are you alright, Mom?” I asked sweetly. “I know we haven’t had steak in a while, but you don’t have to be so dramatic.” Clutching her back, she practically spat her words at me. “You vicious, evil woman! You pushed my son off the balcony! I’m calling the police!” I crouched down and showed her the photos on my phone—a gallery of my injuries, evidence from the county medical examiner. In the pictures, my eye was swollen shut, a grotesque shade of purple. One side of my face was a bloated, discolored mess from subcutaneous bleeding. “God is my witness, Damian jumped of his own accord,” I said, my voice calm. “Besides, if the police see these photos, your son is the one who will be going to prison, don’t you think?” I pointed to the security camera on the corner of the building. “It’s all on tape.” I remembered the last time Damian had beaten me. He’d knelt before me, begging for forgiveness, his voice thick with fake remorse. He’d sworn on his life it would never happen again. If he ever laid a hand on me again, he’d said, he would jump off the balcony. Well, he said it, not me. 2 My mother-in-law’s eyes were practically shooting sparks, but she was powerless. In the end, she scurried off to the hospital, defeated. Damian had landed a big contract today and had been celebrating. He was in a good mood when he got home. The trouble started when I discovered the private online group he’d created: “300 Ways to Tame Your Wife.” In my past life, when he’d come home that day, I’d seen the exhaustion on his face and handed him a warm cup of herbal tea. “You must be exhausted, honey. Here, drink this.” He’d snatched it, downed it in one gulp, and then looked me up and down with disdain. “My boss’s secretary is a hell of a lot prettier than you. Look at you, all washed up.” He took a shower, leaving his phone on the table. As I was setting dinner on the table, the screen lit up. A message from the group popped up, addressing him by name: Hey Damian, you gotta tell us more about how you beat your wife into submission. Share the wisdom, bro. The hand I was using to wipe sweat from my brow froze. I had a sick feeling I knew who they were talking about. I glanced toward the bedroom. Damian was fast asleep, snoring loudly. Quietly, I picked up his phone. What I saw made the blood drain from my face. In this group of over 500 men, there were dozens of pictures of me sleeping. Most of them had been taken right after he’d beaten me, while I was unconscious. There were even a few where my nightgown was hiked up to my thighs, my body exposed. 3 He was a mentor in this disgusting group, a guru of domestic abuse, sharing his “wisdom” with pride. Damian: Dudes, when you’re picking a wife, find one with no family, who’s ugly and weak-willed. Otherwise, it’s nothing but trouble. SunnyBoy: I feel you, man. I slapped my old lady once, and her parents came and raised hell at my office for a month. Damian: Also, you gotta soothe them right after. Make a lot of empty promises. You don’t want to scare them off, then you’ve got no one to play with. 😉 Big_Z: Bro, I gotta thank you. Your method works like a charm. For the first time yesterday, I felt like a real man. Hahahaha. Damian: Don’t worry, more tips to come. A well-trained wife makes for a happy life. (smirk/smirk) SunnyBoy: <3 <3 whistles The further I scrolled, the sicker I felt. The chat logs were filled with vile, degrading comments. I was being paraded like an object, judged and scrutinized by a pack of wolves. My legs gave out, and I collapsed onto a chair, staring into space. I didn't even hear Damian come out of the bedroom. When he saw me with his phone, his face contorted with rage. He slapped me so hard my head snapped back. "Who the hell said you could look at my phone?!" It started with fists and feet. I was powerless, curled into a ball on the floor, begging him to stop. After ten minutes, he spat on me, loosened his tie, and walked to the utility closet. He came back with a rusty hammer. Tears of blood streamed down my face as I scrambled backward, pleading. "No more, please, no more…" He held up his phone, turned on the camera, and gave me a sinister smile. "You asked for this." CRACK. CRACK. I heard the sound of my own skull fracturing. Chunks of my scalp, matted with blood and hair, were flung against the wall with the swing of the hammer. 4 After that day, I was diagnosed with a grade-three disability. The blunt force trauma had caused irreversible intestinal damage. I had to wear a colostomy bag for the rest of my life. I also developed a severe, treatment-resistant psychological disorder. After the incident, not a single one of Damian’s family members came to visit me in the hospital. The only time I saw them was on the day of my discharge, when his sister and mother came to handle the paperwork, their faces etched with impatience. They walked in just as the nurse was changing my colostomy bag and immediately covered their noses. His sister, Wendy, gagged dramatically. "Mom, I'm not going in there. It's disgusting." My mother-in-law dragged her in anyway. Wendy kept her nose covered, her face a mask of disgust. "Honestly, what were you thinking, starting a fight with my son?" my mother-in-law snapped, dropping her purse heavily on the nightstand. "Now the whole neighborhood is gossiping. Have you no consideration for your husband's reputation?" The nurse couldn't hold back. "Ma'am, your daughter-in-law was nearly beaten to death. How can you say that?" Her face soured. "I'm the one who should be angry. I just asked the doctor. She can't even have children anymore." The nurse, intimidated, quickly left. The venom in her words was a physical pain in my chest. "Mom, don't be so harsh. She might sue us," Wendy whispered, tugging at her mother's sleeve. Her eyes darted around, and her tone softened. "I'm just trying to think of what's best for everyone. Can't we all just get along?" Under the covers, my hands clenched into fists. I had tried to call the police, but because we were married, they just told us to handle it internally. When Damian found out I’d dared to call them, the beatings only got worse. After I was discharged, she never let me forget that I couldn't have children. She placated me to keep me from making a scene, all while secretly looking for a new wife for her son. One day, my colostomy bag leaked in public. The stench was overwhelming. Passersby stared, their faces a mixture of pity and disgust, and hurried away. That night, I went home and killed myself. A month after my suicide, Damian married a woman he'd been having an affair with at his company. Six months after the wedding, she gave birth to a son. 5 After my rebirth, I returned to the day Damian beat me into a permanent disability. But this time, he was the one who was severely injured. The ambulance took my husband away. I sat at my vanity, meticulously applied my makeup, slipped on a pair of four-inch stilettos, and sashayed to the hospital. Our apartment was only on the third floor. He wouldn't die. A small crowd had gathered outside the operating room. When they saw me, their eyes followed me, each with their own thoughts. "Don't worry, everyone," I announced cheerfully. "He just broke his legs and has some internal damage. It's not a big deal." My sister-in-law, Wendy, screeched, "Not a big deal? How can you be so nonchalant?" I pointed to her brand-new, limited-edition Chanel bag. "If your brother and I hadn't given you the money for that bag, you probably wouldn't have even remembered we exist." "Whatever. Your money is my brother's money," she huffed, plopping down in a chair and burying her face in her phone. Wendy was the type to be all over you when she needed something and disappear when she didn't. In my past life, her sob stories had tricked me out of thousands for her luxury shopping sprees. When her brother was beating me, she would just hide in her room, ignoring my pleas for help, and then emerge later as if nothing had happened. My mother-in-law, her face a mask of anxiety, glared at my glamorous attire. "Your husband is in surgery, and you're dressed like you're going to a club? Go home and change!" I just smiled, touching up my bright red lipstick. "Relax, Mom. Even if he's crippled, at least he's alive. Even animals know it's better to be alive than dead." I pulled out my phone and put on some upbeat music. My mother-in-law’s face turned an even darker shade of purple. 6 The operating room doors opened. My mother-in-law rushed to the surgeon. "Doctor, how's my son? Is it serious?" "Please calm down, ma'am. A three-story fall is significant. It will take time for him to recover fully." "But nothing is certain. Try not to worry too much." She collapsed to the floor, wailing. "My beautiful boy, now he's half-dead! This is killing me!" I pulled her aside, reminding her not to cause a scene in the hospital. She shoved me away, tears streaming down her face. "I don't need your fake sympathy." Damian was moved to a regular room. It was two days before he fully regained consciousness. When he saw me by his bedside, he let out a terrified scream. "Mom!" My mother-in-law rushed to his side, shooting me a sideways glance. "I'm here, sweetie. Tell me, did Sarah push you?" "I don't know what happened… I just suddenly had the urge to jump." He conveniently left out the part where he was about to smash my head in with a hammer. I rolled my eyes and pried his hand off mine. The mere touch of him made my skin crawl. It was no wonder my mother-in-law suspected me. He was a successful manager at his company, well-respected, with a decent salary. A man like that wouldn't just jump off a balcony for no reason. As they were having their tearful reunion, a woman in sunglasses walked into the room. My intuition told me she was connected to Damian. 7 Sure enough, when she saw me and my mother-in-law, she pretended she'd walked into the wrong room. "Amber, over here!" Damian called out. My mother-in-law sized up the woman, with her designer clothes and expensive jewelry, a calculating glint in her eye. Amber, however, maintained a cool, polite distance, as if she were just a colleague paying a visit. I played along, greeting her warmly. Halfway through the conversation, when Damian's guard was down, I snatched his phone. His carefully constructed facade of a charming, witty boss crumbled. "Honey, what are you doing?" he hissed, his face contorting with rage. "Darling, this is a serious matter. I think your colleagues should know." He forced a smile, his jaw clenched. "Know what? I didn't want to worry them." He was terrified of his subordinates finding out about his humiliating suicide attempt. He'd been telling everyone he'd just had an accidental fall. I summoned my best acting skills, my eyes welling with unshed tears. "Honey, I know how loyal your team is to you. I'm sure they'd want to visit." With that, I opened his camera and took a picture of his bruised, broken body. As he stared at me, dumbfounded, I hit send. The veins in his arms bulged, but with Amber there, he didn't dare touch me. Not that a cripple could do much damage anyway. Amber looked at her phone. "Damian, there's nothing in the group chat." He visibly relaxed, sinking back into his pillows with a sigh of relief. He didn't know that I hadn't sent the picture to his work chat. I’d sent it to the "300 Ways to Tame Your Wife" group. The group immediately exploded.

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Sprawled on the carpet, trying to catch my breath, a voice, high and childish like spilled milk, suddenly echoed in my mind. 【I’ve sacrificed way too much for Mommy to look pretty. Does anyone ever consider my feelings, being held by such a slob every day?】 I shot up, my eyes darting to my son, who was lying beside me, happily sucking on his fist. Just as I was about to dismiss it as a hallucination brought on by sheer exhaustion, the voice came again. 【What are you looking at? So annoying! If you weren’t halfway decent at taking care of me, I would’ve had Daddy kick you out ages ago!】 1. I pinched my arm, hard. The sharp sting of pain was proof: that voice was real. As I was trying to process what those words meant, the doorbell rang. A second later, my best friend, Serena, let herself in. Seeing her loaded down with shopping bags filled with baby supplies, I couldn’t help but sigh. “I told you we have everything, Serena. Stop wasting your money!” Serena dropped the bags and, with the ease of a frequent visitor, headed for the bathroom. “What’s wrong with spoiling my godson a little? Don’t get jealous, I got you some dessert, too!” The distraction was enough to temporarily push the strange incident to the back of my mind. I fished a slice of Black Forest cake from one of the bags. But as I settled onto the sofa, the voice returned. 【Mommy, come hold me! I miss your sweet smell!】 My hands froze over the dessert packaging. I watched as Serena emerged from the bathroom and walked briskly over to my son, scooping him into her arms. “Well, hello! Is my little Leo being a good boy today? Let your godmother get some cuddles!” After Serena nuzzled his little cheek, Leo giggled uncontrollably. And at the same time, I heard a contented sigh in my head. 【Mommy’s skin is so smooth! Ugh, if it wasn’t so much work for her, I’d want to be with her all day long!】 I didn’t understand why I was suddenly hearing these things. But the repeated cries of “Mommy,” clearly not directed at me, sparked a storm of questions. With this new context, I watched Serena and Leo together, and suddenly, things started to click into place in a way that made me feel sick. It seemed that every time Serena was here, Leo, who was usually a nightmare to soothe, would become an angel, all smiles and gurgles. Was it a coincidence? Or was my son, who couldn’t even control his own bladder yet, doing it on purpose? “You know, Serena,” I said, forcing a light, joking tone, “anyone who didn’t know better would think Leo was your son. He’s an absolute angel whenever you visit. If he were always this easy, I wouldn’t be such a wreck.” My eyes were locked on her, and I didn’t miss the flicker of pride that flashed in her eyes before she masked it. “Mia, don’t say that! I know raising a baby is hard, but think of all the joy and fulfillment Leo brings you, right?” The childish voice immediately chimed in with its own commentary. 【You’re the nanny my real mommy and daddy picked out! Know your place. It’s an honor for you to take care of me!】 Serena was too busy cooing at Leo to notice my face darken as I sank into a vortex of thought. I’d worked relentlessly through my pregnancy, and it had taken a toll. Leo was born premature and was a high-needs baby in every sense of the word. When he was uncomfortable, he had to be held constantly. The second you put him down, he’d start whimpering. A wet diaper had to be changed instantly; a moment’s delay and he’d launch into a full-blown meltdown, sometimes screaming himself into breath-holding fits that terrified me. Leo’s condition was so demanding that in my first three months postpartum, I’d bled through three different maternity nurses. Everyone told me it was my fault, that I hadn’t been careful enough during my pregnancy, causing him to suffer so much. I was drowning in guilt, and after his three-month milestone, I made a life-altering decision. I threw my career plans out the window, resigned from my job, and became a full-time mom. Leo was eight months old now. Even with a nanny to help, I was physically and mentally drained. In less than half a year of motherhood, I felt like I’d aged a decade. I had no energy to lose the baby weight, no motivation to put on makeup or fix my hair. Philip, my husband, saw it too. Other than perfunctory questions about Leo, he barely spoke to me anymore. I was resentful and hurt, but I was too exhausted to even start a fight. Five months of all-consuming childcare had pushed my marriage to the brink and my body to its breaking point. And now, I was hearing that Leo might not even be my son? If he wasn’t… then where was my baby? What was all this suffering, all this sacrifice, for? 2. My fingers traced the crinkly plastic of the cake box, a storm of emotions churning inside me. Twenty minutes ago, Serena was the person I was most grateful for in my lonely postpartum world. If it weren’t for her visits every few days, helping with the baby and listening to my endless complaints, I probably would have shattered long ago. But the child I was pouring my life into was calling her Mommy? It was too absurd. I let out a brittle laugh. “What’s so funny? Share the joke!” Serena looked up, her eyes sparkling with amusement. Our gazes met. This time, armed with suspicion, I really looked at her, and I froze. I’d always known Serena was attractive, but now… now she had a certain glow. A ripeness. I remembered her telling me she was away at a training seminar for most of my pregnancy. I remembered that when she finally reappeared after Leo was three months old, she was fuller, softer than I’d ever seen her. As much as I didn’t want to believe it, the answer was screaming at me. For a moment, the world tilted, and I felt like I couldn’t stay upright. “Hey, you okay? Spacing out again? Don’t tell me the baby brain is permanent.” Serena casually placed Leo on the playmat on the floor. My eyes followed him, and I held my breath, waiting for the inevitable screaming to start. Instead, Leo started playing by himself, content. It was a universe away from his usual behavior, where being put down meant at least ten minutes of solid wailing. A wave of helplessness washed over me. The difference in his treatment of us was so blatant. How had I never seen it before? “Mia? What’s wrong? I’ve been talking to you for ages.” I couldn’t let her know I was onto her. Not yet. I had too many questions. I mumbled an excuse about being sleep-deprived and changed the subject, asking Serena if she was free tomorrow. “Anything you need help with, you know you can just ask!” she said, feigning a pout. I forced a grateful, apologetic smile. “It’s just… my heart’s been feeling a little weird lately. I want to get it checked out. If you have time, could you watch Leo for me? I don’t feel comfortable leaving him alone with the nanny.” I was eighty percent sure, but I needed absolute proof before I decided what to do next. Until then, I couldn’t completely let go of Leo. So if I was going out, I needed a babysitter. My parents were out of town on vacation. My in-laws, who subtly blamed me for Leo’s health issues, were a source of constant friction. We avoided each other unless Philip was around. If Serena really was Leo’s mother, then she was, ironically, the best person for the job. Thankfully, she agreed without a second thought. I’d read online about what was needed for a DNA test. As we chatted, my mind raced, trying to figure out how to get a sample from her. Suddenly, I remembered a pair of diamond hair clips she’d admired several times. Serena watched, confused, as I got up and went to my closet. When I returned with a small hand mirror, she raised an eyebrow. “What are you up to?” Without a word, I clipped one of the sparkling pins into her hair. Then I held up the mirror. “You always said you loved these. My hair’s falling out so much, I doubt I’ll ever get to wear them again. It’d be a waste for them to just sit in a box.” In the mirror, Serena’s face lit up. She touched the clip, a wide smile spreading across her face, though her words were modest. “Your hair will grow back! These are so expensive, Mia, I can’t take them.” “Oh, let me fix it, it’s not sitting right,” I said, and with a calculated tug, I pulled the clip out. “Ouch!” Serena yelped. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” I said, feigning horror. “Look at me, I’ve developed super-strength from carrying the baby all day! I think I pulled out a few strands. Don’t be mad!” I quickly plucked the hairs tangled in the clip’s teeth and tossed them into the nearby wastebasket. Serena just laughed, rubbing the sore spot on her head. “Why would I be mad? It’s just the price of beauty!” 3. Not long after Serena left, giddy with her five-figure hair clip, an exhausted Leo finally fell asleep. While the nanny was busy in the other room, I retrieved the hairs from the trash can. My tug must have been forceful enough; nearly every strand had a follicle attached. I sealed them in a small labeled bag. I then pulled out a few of my own hairs and put them in a separate bag. Leo’s hair was too fine to see the follicles clearly, so I decided to wait until he woke up. I’d clip his nails and put them in a bag along with a few strands of his hair. When Philip got home from work, I told him I needed to go to the hospital for a check-up. For the first time in months, he showed a sliver of concern. “If you’re really that tired, we can hire another nanny, or have our moms take turns helping. You can’t keep pushing yourself like this.” I took a sip of water to hide the bitter taste that rose in my chest. If I hadn’t spent my pre-motherhood years forging a will of iron at my old job, the last few months would have completely broken me. If it weren’t for the bizarre events of today, his sudden kindness might have moved me to tears. But now, all I could think about was Leo calling him “Daddy” and Serena “Mommy.” My heart felt like a block of ice. We’d been sleeping in separate rooms ever since Leo was born, so my sleepless nights wouldn’t disturb Philip’s rest and affect his work the next day. But because I’d mentioned my heart, he volunteered, for the first time ever, to have Leo sleep with him for the night. The next morning, a refreshed-looking Philip placed Leo in my arms. “This kid really knows how to behave. I told him he couldn’t be fussy last night, otherwise Daddy would be too tired for work, and he actually slept through the whole night!” I managed a weak smile and looked down at Leo, whose big eyes stared back at me. And then, the voice. 【Of course I’m gonna be good for my real dad. But you? The nanny? I’m going to make your life hell! It’s all your fault Mommy can’t live with us!】 Before the nanny could clean the guest room, I searched every inch of the bed Philip had slept in, finding what I needed. Serena arrived early. After giving her a few instructions, I walked out of the apartment alone. Breathing in the fresh air, I felt a wave of dizziness. I was almost in a trance. How long had it been since I’d really looked at the sky? How long since I’d felt the sun on my skin? All I did was have a baby. How did I lose control of my entire life? I had a friend who worked at a DNA testing lab. I paid extra for a rush job. He’d probably seen situations like mine a thousand times, because he didn’t ask a single question, just took the samples and personally oversaw the process. He told me the earliest I could get the results was tomorrow. With that, I went to the hospital. My heart really was giving me trouble. For months, the longest stretch of sleep I’d gotten was less than three hours. I was a wreck of anxiety and exhaustion, my hair falling out in clumps. My days started with a baby’s cry, and my dreams were filled with his incessant wails. I couldn’t even imagine what state I’d be in if I didn’t have a nanny to handle the housework and lend a hand when I was overwhelmed. “Your cardiac ischemia is quite severe,” the doctor said, his expression grave. “You need to fix your sleep schedule immediately. If you let this continue, you’re at high risk for sudden cardiac arrest.” When I got home, Serena was on the couch, holding Leo as they watched TV. When I repeated the doctor’s warning, she fell silent for a long time. “Mia, you have to hire more help. I’ll come over more often, too. You can’t keep going on like this.” 4. When Philip came home, he stared at my diagnosis report for a long time. Before bed, I overheard him making a call to his mother. The next morning, my in-laws were at the door with suitcases. Philip, who hadn’t left for work yet, spent a while explaining things to them. After he left, my mother-in-law, for once, didn’t give me the cold shoulder. “Mia, why don’t you go get some more sleep? Your father and I have it handled for the month. If you think we’re doing okay, we can keep helping. If not, we can trade off with your parents. We’ll all learn together. We won’t let you carry this all by yourself again.” That morning, just as he did with Serena, Leo put on his best behavior for his grandparents. While I caught up on sleep, he only cried once. A world of difference from when I was alone with him. On my way to the bathroom, I overheard my in-laws talking in the study. “Our grandson isn’t nearly as difficult as Mia makes him out to be,” my mother-in-law whispered. “Do you think maybe she’s just not good at this? That she’s run herself ragged for no reason?” My father-in-law shushed her, telling her to just focus on helping. But she wasn’t done. “And that doctor’s report… is it even real? You don’t think she’s fooling our son, do you? It’s one thing for Mia to be ambitious, but if she’s pulling a stunt like this just to get back to work, I won’t let her get away with it!” I slipped back into my room and picked up my phone, my fingers hovering over the screen, about to ask my friend for an update. Just then, a message from him popped up with a link. 【Mia, the baby isn’t yours. But he is biologically related to the other two samples.】 The phone felt like a block of ice in my hand. The heart that had been suspended in anxiety for the past twenty-four hours plummeted into a black abyss. My hands trembled as I clicked the link. I read the conclusions of the three reports over and over and over again. The names on the sample bags were in my own handwriting. And my friend was meticulous; with him watching over the process, there was zero chance of a mix-up. So it was true. The man I had loved for years and the woman I had grown up with, my best friend, had betrayed me in the most intimate way possible. And I, like an idiot, had given up my promising career, sacrificed my health, and poured every ounce of my being into raising their child. Then where was my baby? During the months I spent in a sleep-deprived haze caring for Leo, was my child warm? Was my child fed? My child. Was she even alive? When you’re hit with the purest form of sorrow, you can’t even make a sound. I pounded on my chest, trying to force air into my lungs, as tears fell, hot and silent, onto my shirt. After nearly half an hour of suffocating grief, I started making calls. First to a few of my most trusted friends. Then, I called the police. When I finally emerged from my room, my eyes were swollen and red. My mother-in-law started to say something but stopped when she saw my face. She shot a look at my father-in-law, then sat next to me, bouncing Leo on her knee. “Mia, look how good Leo’s been all morning. Here, you hold him.” The moment my eyes met Leo’s, his smug little voice filled my head. 【You hold me, I dare you. I’ll scream my head off. I love watching you panic!】 I ignored him, staring blankly into the middle distance as if I hadn’t heard a thing. My friends arrived quickly. My in-laws, though confused by the sudden crowd, bustled around, offering everyone water. But their hospitality vanished when the next person to walk through the door was Philip, who should have been at the office. My mother-in-law’s face soured. “Mia, what is so important that you had to drag Philip out of work?” As she was complaining, the doorbell rang again. This time, it was the police. My friends remained calm, but my in-laws and Philip all wore varying expressions of shock and alarm. “First you call all your friends, and now the police? What the hell are you doing, Mia?” Philip’s voice was low and furious. I finally looked at him, and my own voice came out, each word a shard of ice. “Where is my child? The baby I gave birth to. What did you do with her?”

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I got together with Adrian when I was eighteen. At twenty-two, I moved to the bustling city for him. But all I got in return was him saying, “I never planned on marrying her, you guys are just messing around.” After eight years with no commitment, I gave up. I was gone for three years. The day I returned, a friend asked me, “It’s been three years. You two must have made up by now, right?” They all thought I was back to beg for him back. But what they didn’t know was, I was back to get married. 1 “You’re getting married?” I was sorting through the guest list. “Yeah,” I replied. “The wedding is next week.” My friend was silent on the other end of the line for a moment, then asked, “What about Adrian?” Hearing his name after three years felt strange, like a ghost from a past life. But he and I had ended things three years ago. I was the one who broke up with him. It was his birthday. I had come back early from a business trip to surprise him, but instead, I overheard him talking to his friends. One of them asked, “You’re twenty-six, man. When are you gonna pop the question to Clara?” Adrian leaned back, a lazy, half-mocking smile on his face. “I never planned on marrying her. Don’t start that.” His friend was stunned. “You’ve been together for years. If you’re not marrying her, who are you gonna marry?” “Like you said,” Adrian replied, “we’ve been together for years. Where’s the excitement in that?” Honestly, in that moment, I couldn’t believe my ears. We had just been on the phone half an hour earlier. He had been so sweet, whispering and coaxing me to come back and celebrate a belated birthday with him. But now, I couldn’t even picture that tenderness. The thought of breaking up hit me right then. That night, I didn’t push open the door to confront him. I turned around, went home, and calmly packed my bags. Adrian came home at two in the morning. He walked in and stopped short, seeing me with my suitcase. He was only stunned for a second before he rushed forward, pulling me into his arms and nuzzling my neck affectionately. “Surprise? I love it.” I pushed him away. “Adrian.” “Hmm?” “Let’s break up.” We had threatened to break up before, but it was always me who caved first. Our mutual friends used to say, “Adrian is an insecure guy. He needs a partner who will never leave him. If you really want to be with him long-term, you have to be more patient with him.” Back then, I really did love him. So I was willing to soothe him, to put his feelings first. From eighteen to twenty-six, I loved him fiercely and without reservation. And all I got in return was, “I’m not going to marry her.” 2 “What are you talking about? You’re breaking up with me just because I didn’t spend my birthday with you?” Adrian’s voice pulled me back to the present. He wrapped his arms around me again. “Come on, I’m not mad. We’re not breaking up.” My friends were wrong. Adrian wasn’t a difficult partner. On the contrary, when he wanted to, he could be incredibly charming. On the surface, our breakups were always his doing, and our reconciliations were always mine. But no one knew that in the dead of night, he would use a mix of tenderness and pressure to win me back. He knew exactly how to find my softest spots, making me forgive him willingly. And now, he was trying the same trick again. As he leaned in to kiss me, I shoved him away with all my strength. Caught off guard, he stumbled back a few steps. Before he could regain his balance, I said, “I’m serious. I’m not joking.” In an instant, his expression turned icy, his eyes dark and menacing. “Say that again.” I couldn’t blame him for being angry. In eight years, this was the first time I had initiated a breakup. Everyone, including Adrian himself, thought I would never leave him. But this time, I was truly tired. My gaze lingered on his handsome profile for a few seconds, then I looked away without hesitation and started to wheel my suitcase towards the door. I had only taken a few steps when the suitcase stopped moving. Adrian was holding onto it, his eyes locked on me. “Why?” He had beautiful eyes. Deep and intense, they had a way of making you feel like you were the only person in the world. I avoided his gaze. “If we don’t break up, will you marry me?” In eight years, he had been rational, ambitious, and had meticulously planned his future. But I was never a part of that plan. The silence in the room was deafening. After what felt like an eternity, he finally asked, “Do we have to get married? Can’t we just keep dating?” I met his gaze. His eyes were like black holes, pulling you in. Even though I was reluctant to let go of our eight years together, a relationship with no future felt pointless. Looking into those bottomless eyes, I managed a small smile. “It gets a little old after a while.” The veins on his hand, gripping the suitcase handle, bulged. He practically spat the words out. “You’re tired of it?” “Yes.” He said “Fine” three times, his eyes turning red by the end. I didn’t dare look at him anymore, afraid I would break down first. I turned and continued to walk away. The only sound in the quiet night was the dull rumble of the suitcase wheels on the floor. As I reached the entryway, his cold voice came from behind me. “If you walk out that door today, don’t ever come back!” I paused, my throat dry. After a moment, I said, “Fine,” and left without a backward glance. 3 We saw each other one more time after that. It was the night before I left the city. I had realized I’d left an important document in his study. I called him before I went over. The living room was empty, so I headed straight for the study. As I passed the master bedroom, I heard voices. I glanced inside and saw Adrian lying on the bed, a woman gently wiping his face. I recognized her. Sophia. The daughter of his father’s close friend. The woman his family had arranged for him to marry. When she saw me, Sophia blushed and explained, “Clara, don’t get the wrong idea. Adrian drank too much, we… nothing happened.” I nodded, not wanting to chat, and went to the study. When I came back, the bedroom door was closed. But even so, I could clearly hear Adrian’s voice, soft and intimate, cooing, “Babe~” Even though we were broken up, a wave of bitterness washed over me. I couldn’t bear to listen, so I quickened my pace. As I reached the door, Adrian called out to me. “Don’t come over anymore. Sophia will mind.” He was leaning against the bedroom door, looking lazy. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a lipstick mark on his collarbone. My eyes lingered there for a few seconds before I nodded. “Okay.” The moment I stepped outside, I heard the sound of a vase shattering, followed by Sophia’s alarmed cry, “You’re bleeding!” I didn’t turn back. I walked away as fast as I could. That was the last time we saw each other. For three years, we had no contact. So, he had no idea I was getting married. 4 When the news of my wedding got out, the first person to call me was Liam. A mutual friend of Adrian and me. “Clara, I heard you’re getting married?” “The wedding is next week,” I told him honestly. “I won’t be sending you guys invitations.” My fiancé had already sent them invitations; it would be inappropriate for me to send another set. As soon as I said that, I heard laughter and jeers from the other end of the line. “See? I told you. If she was really getting married, she’d invite you. It’s obviously just an excuse to come back to the city.” “What else can she do? Adrian’s engagement is at the end of the month. She has to make a last-ditch effort, right?” “Exactly! They were together for eight years. How could she just watch him marry someone else?” I was taken aback for a moment, then I realized all of Adrian’s friends were there. They were waiting to see how I would try to win him back. It was their usual game. Every time Adrian and I fought, they would place bets on how long it would take for me to come crawling back. They were certain I couldn’t let him go. Not just because of his family’s wealth, but because of our eight-year history. No one could just walk away from that. This time was probably no different. Just as I had that thought, someone shouted, “Adrian, if she begs you to take her back, are you gonna do it?” After a long pause, Adrian’s voice, cool and unconcerned, came through. “I’m getting engaged. Why are we even talking about this?” Someone laughed. “You think Adrian is stupid? He’s not gonna pass up the daughter of the Song family for some girl with no background. Would you?” Amid the laughter, I remembered something. When I first moved to the city, Adrian’s friends were all very polite to me. I thought they had accepted me. Then, at Liam’s birthday party, Sophia lost a priceless necklace. Her friends surrounded me, demanding I give it back. By the time Adrian arrived, I was a disheveled mess. Sophia said to him, “Adrian, don’t be mad. They were just trying to help me find my necklace, that’s why they were a little rough…” “Once we find it, I’ll apologize to Clara, okay?” Adrian smiled, walked over to me, and patted my head affectionately. “It’s not a big deal.” I clutched his shirt, all the hurt and humiliation bubbling up inside me. I was about to tell him what had happened when he said, “If you wanted it, you could have just asked me. Why did you have to do this?” My mind went blank. I looked at him in disbelief. “You don’t believe me?” He didn’t say a word, but the mockery in his eyes said it all. I started to tremble, my hands and feet turning to ice. We had been together for so long; I thought he knew me. But he hadn’t even asked a single question before taking their side. Everyone was looking at me. With contempt, with ridicule, with indifference. No one believed me. For some reason, I thought of what my grandfather had said to me before I left: “My dear, I won’t stop you from pursuing your dreams. But remember, social classes are not so easily crossed. Even if he loves you, will his family and friends truly accept you?” I had confidently promised him, “Don’t worry, Grandpa. Adrian won’t disappoint you or me.” I was young and naive then, I didn’t understand the invisible chasm that lay between us. It was only when I was cornered and alone that I truly understood. 5 The laughter on the other end of the line continued for a long time. Someone shouted, “Liam, ask her where the wedding is. We’re friends, after all. We should at least send a gift.” After a moment, Liam’s voice came through. “Clara, which church are you getting married in?” “The one on the island.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, someone else piped up. “See? I told you she was delusional. The Rogen family’s wedding is next week, also on the island. Is she going to claim she’s marrying Caleb Rogen next?” The group erupted in laughter. Even Liam couldn’t help but whisper a warning, “Clara, you remember Caleb, right? His wedding is also next week…” “Liam,” I interrupted. “It’s my wedding to Caleb.” The line went dead silent. Then, an explosion of laughter. “Has she lost her mind? Now she’s dragging Caleb Rogen into it.” “She’s really desperate to make Adrian jealous.” “Adrian, just take pity on her and meet with her. She’s clearly not well after the breakup…” I didn’t listen to the rest. I hung up the phone. A text from an unknown number immediately followed. 【Add me back.】 The familiar tone, the familiar attitude. I knew instantly it was Adrian. I deleted the message without a change in expression, turned off my phone, and went to sleep. The next morning, I had a video from Liam. It was from after I’d hung up. Adrian was sitting on a sofa, a cigarette glowing in the dark, illuminating his cold, handsome features. He let out a low chuckle. “Plenty of people have broken up with me. Am I supposed to meet with every single one of them?” “That’s our Adrian! But if you don’t meet with Clara, are you just going to let her leave empty-handed?” Someone else retorted, “She’s the one who broke up with him! Now she regrets it and wants him back after three years? She’s got some nerve!” “Exactly. Look at her, making up stories about marrying Caleb Rogen. Adrian was too good to her.” Adrian didn’t speak, just played with his phone, lost in thought. Then, Liam spoke up. “Clara’s not a liar. Maybe she’s telling the truth.” “What’s with you, Liam? Are you getting paid to defend her? Or do you have a thing for her?” Liam gave the speaker a long, hard look. “Have you all forgotten about the necklace incident? She suffered so much because of your prejudice.” The room was silent for a moment. Then someone said, “It’s easy to find out if she’s lying. You all got invitations to the Rogen wedding, right? I’ll call home and have someone send me a picture of the invitation.” After about a minute, the person laughed. “See? I told you. There’s no way Caleb Rogen is marrying Clara. The bride’s last name is also Kane, but her first name is Claire.” “Don’t worry, Adrian. She’s definitely back to get you back.” … The video ended there. They were right. Caleb’s bride’s name was Claire Kane. What they didn’t know was that Claire was me. Three years ago, my grandfather had a fortune teller read my chart. He said I was in for a bout of bad luck, and changing my name could ward off evil spirits. So, he gave me a new name: Claire. 6 I knew I would run into Adrian eventually. I just didn’t expect it to be so soon. The day of my wedding dress fitting, Caleb had a last-minute emergency and said he’d be late. When I arrived at the bridal shop, Adrian was sitting in the VIP area. Our eyes met. I gave a polite nod and followed the consultant to the dressing room. While I was waiting for the stylist, Adrian walked in and locked the door behind him. Before I could react, he was standing behind me. The dressing table mirror reflected his handsome face. “Why did you block me?” he asked, his tone as familiar as if we had never been apart. He was actually the one who had blocked and deleted me first. The day I left the city three years ago. How did I know? I didn’t, not at first. Liam let it slip. He had called me to ask for a photo of Adrian. I told him I would send it to Adrian directly. “You can’t,” Liam had said. “He blocked you. Just send it to me.” I was stunned. Adrian and I had an unspoken rule: no matter how bad the fight, we would never block or delete each other. That was the first time the rule had been broken. And he was the one who broke it. After I sent the photo to Liam, I opened my own phone, deleted every picture, every memory of Adrian, and blocked all of his contact information. And now, the one who started it all was questioning me. I warily put some distance between us. “Adrian, we’ve broken up. And we’re both about to get married. There’s no need for us to be in contact.” A slow, meaningful smile spread across his face. “There’s no one else here. You can drop the act.” I frowned. “What act?” “You’re only saying you’re getting married to get my attention, to make me come back to you.” Honestly, I was shocked that even after three years, he was still so certain I would come back. And I finally understood that my endless patience and tolerance over the past eight years had given him this unwavering confidence. “Adrian,” I said, “no matter what you think, I’m back to get married. As soon as the wedding is over, I’m leaving. If I’ve done anything to give you the impression that I want to get back together, I apologize.” He was silent, studying me. After a long moment, he asked, “Is it because of my arranged marriage?” “It has nothing to do with that, Adrian. I’m getting married…” He cut me off. “Okay, okay, I get it. You’re still mad.” He ignored the last part of my sentence and softened his tone. “It’s been three years. Are you still not over it?” He raised his hand, as if to pat my head like he used to. I moved away, avoiding his touch. “Can’t you understand English? I’m here to marry Caleb. It has nothing to do with you.” His hand froze in mid-air. His eyes grew cold, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. “Clara, if you wanted to find someone to make me jealous, why did you have to pick Caleb? The Rogens are out of your league.” Just like before, he didn’t believe me. The prejudice was ingrained in him. He was convinced I could never reach someone like Caleb, could never marry into a family like the Rogens. For some reason, I started to laugh. “In your eyes, am I really that worthless?” His brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?” He sighed. “Fine. If you want to come back, then come back.” “Come back to where? Your new home? And what role am I supposed to play?” His expression darkened. “Clara, I’m already backing down. What more do you want?” “I don’t need anything from you.” I didn’t want to get into another pointless argument with him. I tried to walk past him. As I turned, he grabbed my wrist. His voice was low. “If you really want to get married that badly, I can marry you.” I turned back, a sarcastic smile on my face. “Marry me? I thought you never planned on marrying me.” His face went pale. “Who… who told you that?” “You did,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “That day. I was right outside the door.” His expression shifted from confusion to shock, then to understanding. “So you broke up with me because you heard that?” “Yes!” If I hadn’t decided on a whim to go back and surprise him for his birthday, I would still be in the dark, desperately holding onto a relationship that was never going to go anywhere. The atmosphere in the small room became tense. His lips were pressed into a thin, cold line. “Why didn’t you ask me?” he asked, his voice strained. “Would it have made a difference?” He was about to say something else when a knock on the door interrupted him. It was the consultant. “Miss Kane, do you need any help?” “No, I’m coming out now.” I took advantage of his distraction, pulled my hand free, and walked out. But I stopped short when I saw who was standing outside the door. 7 Sophia was standing outside the dressing room in a wedding dress. I didn’t know how long she had been there, or how much she had heard. “Clara,” she said. “Long time no see.” I gave a slight nod in acknowledgement. “Can I talk to you alone for a minute?” “No, I’m busy.” I turned to the consultant. “Could you please find me another dressing room?” “Of course. This way, please.” “Wait.” Sophia walked over, holding up her dress. “I heard you’re getting married. Congratulations.” “Thank you.” “Adrian and I are having our engagement party at the end of the month. Can you come? I think Adrian would be very happy to have your blessing.” Sophia was pretty in a delicate, quiet way. Anyone would think she was a sweet, innocent girl. But I just found her annoying. After the necklace incident, she never apologized to me. Instead, she said to Adrian, “It’s all my fault. I should have checked my bag more carefully, then things wouldn’t have gotten so out of hand.” Adrian had laughed. “Everyone knows you’re a little scatterbrained. We’re used to it.” Then she had turned to Liam. “I’m so sorry. I almost ruined your birthday party.” They were all laughing and talking, but no one thought to apologize to me. I was the victim, but they were all comforting the perpetrator. “Don’t come to our engagement party.” Adrian’s voice pulled me back to the present. He had walked out of the dressing room as if he owned the place. The moment he appeared, Sophia’s face went pale. But she quickly forced a smile and said sweetly, “Adrian, I was just looking for you. I didn’t realize you were catching up with Clara.” She walked over and linked her arm through his. “I wasn’t thinking. I forgot Clara has her own wedding to prepare for. Do you have time tomorrow? I’m planning a birthday celebration for Adrian. You haven’t been back in a while, it would be a good chance to catch up with old friends.” I shook my head. “I have plans tomorrow night.” Caleb was taking me to meet his friends. And even if I were free, I wouldn’t go to their party. But I never expected that we would run into each other anyway. 8 During a break at the dinner party, I went to the restroom. On my way back, I ran into Adrian coming out of the private room next to ours. The moment our eyes met, I saw a flicker of mockery in his. “I thought you said you were busy.”

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My husband suddenly announced, “From now on, we’re splitting everything, 50/50. I’m only responsible for myself.” I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just looked at him calmly and said, “Okay.” The next morning, he got dressed in his tailored suit and frowned. “Where’s breakfast?” A cold smile touched my lips. “We’re 50/50, remember? You’re on your own.” He froze. I smiled. This was just the beginning… 01 The candlelight from our third-anniversary dinner cast a glacial glow on the laptop screen Matt had pushed in front of me. He had meticulously crafted an Excel spreadsheet. The title, in a cold, sans-serif font, read: Proposal for the Optimization of Marital Finances. Optimization. What an insult. “Sophie, we need to talk.” His voice was devoid of warmth, as if he were leading a trivial weekly meeting with his department. He explained that with his seven-figure salary and my status as a full-time homemaker, our financial model was “unhealthy.” For the long-term health of our home, he proposed that starting tomorrow, all living expenses would be split, 50/50. He never once mentioned our seven years together, the three years we’d been married. He didn’t mention how I’d abandoned a promising career as a CPA to become the “unhealthy” stay-at-home wife he now looked down upon. The entire conversation was about money, efficiency, return on investment. Disdain. It pricked my skin like a thousand invisible needles. I looked at him—the man I had loved for seven years, the man I had married—and saw a stranger. A fist clenched around my heart, so tight I could barely breathe. But I didn’t weep or question him. I just gave a slight nod. “Okay.” Just like that, he had quantified our marriage into a cold, sterile financial report. Fine. He shouldn’t be surprised when I decide to settle the accounts using the very methods he so admired. He seemed taken aback by my calm acceptance, but his surprise was quickly overshadowed by a wave of palpable relief. He closed the laptop. “Get some rest,” he said, the words as robotic as a pre-programmed response. We lay in bed with our backs to each other, a chasm wider than the Grand Canyon separating us. The next morning, my internal clock woke me at the usual time. But instead of heading to the kitchen to prepare his three-minute soft-boiled eggs and pour-over coffee, I sat at my vanity, methodically applying my skincare and makeup. Matt emerged from the walk-in closet, wrestling with his tie, his brow furrowed in annoyance. “Where’s my blue striped shirt? Why wasn’t it ironed?” I met his gaze in the mirror. “It’s in the closet. You can find it yourself,” I said, my voice light. “The iron is in the storage room. You can get that yourself, too.” He froze, his hands hovering over his tie. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I swiveled on my stool to face him, a faint smile playing on my lips as I met his questioning stare. “It means exactly what you think it means. 50/50.” He still didn’t seem to grasp it. He strode into the dining room, his irritation boiling over as he stared at the empty table. “Breakfast?” “50/50, remember, Mr. Director?” I stood up and walked toward him, enunciating each word with chilling clarity. “From the moment you made your little announcement last night, I became responsible for my own breakfast. As for yours… you’re on your own.” He stood there, completely rigid, his face a mask of disbelief. “Sophie, are you serious? You’re going to act like this over a little thing?” “This isn’t a little thing, Matt. These are the new rules of our marriage. You made them.” I grabbed my purse, my heels clicking decisively on the hardwood floor as I walked past him. The front door slammed shut behind him with a resounding bang—the sound of his wounded pride. Standing alone in the cavernous living room, I listened to the echo, the smile on my face growing colder. I went into the study and opened the laptop I hadn’t touched in three years. The familiar operating system flickered to life. My fingers flew across the keyboard as I created a new Excel spreadsheet. I named it: Marriage Liquidation. I listed our condo, purchased after we were married, and calculated its current market rental value: $6,000 a month. I owed my half, $3,000. Utilities, gas, internet, HOA fees—all split down the middle. That evening, Matt came home reeking of whiskey. He instinctively reached for the light switch in the study, flicking it several times, but the room remained shrouded in darkness. “What the hell is wrong with the study light?” he grumbled, stumbling back into the living room. I was sitting on the sofa, bathed in the soft glow of a single floor lamp on my side. The light and shadow drew a stark line between us. “Nothing’s wrong with it,” I said, looking up. “I just unscrewed the bulb.” “Are you insane, Sophie?” “Not at all. According to our call log, you called me twice today for a total of one minute and thirty seconds. You never expressed a shared need for the study’s electrical circuit. Therefore, I assumed you had relinquished your right to use it.” He stormed across the room and tried the main switch for the living room chandelier. Nothing. “What the hell are you trying to do?” he roared, pointing an accusatory finger at me. I picked up a freshly printed sheet of A4 paper from the coffee table and slapped it down in front of him. Bold, black letters spelled out the title: Household Resource Usage Agreement. “This is an execution framework based on the 50/50 principle you proposed. It clearly delineates the shared and private zones of our home. The sofa is half yours, half mine. However, the electricity account for the main lights is under my name. So is the internet for the study. For your designated areas and associated utilities, please open your own accounts.” He snatched the agreement, his hands trembling with rage. For the first time, he saw the unfamiliar coldness, the sharp edge of steel, in his once-docile wife’s eyes. Just as he was about to rip the paper to shreds, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the caller ID, and the fury on his face instantly melted into a tenderness I had never seen before. He walked out to the balcony, deliberately lowering his voice, but fragments of his conversation drifted back to me. “Erin… don’t cry… of course I believe you… It’s my fault…” Erin. His college sweetheart. The one that got away. The name was a poisoned blade, plunging straight into the barely scabbed-over wound in my heart. So, this whole “financial optimization” was just a smokescreen. A prelude to clearing the stage for another woman. I watched his silhouette on the balcony, his voice a low, patient murmur as he soothed her. Then I looked back at the cold, sterile agreement he’d tossed on the sofa. I laughed. Excellent, Matt. The liquidation has now officially begun. 02 Saturday morning, I was jolted awake by the deafening roar of the vacuum cleaner. Matt, his face a thundercloud, was cleaning only his half of the living room. Our 1,500-square-foot condo now had a bizarre “demilitarized zone” of filth running down the middle—my side was spotless, his was a landscape of dust bunnies. He stared at the half-clean, half-dirty room, a vein throbbing in his temple, but he couldn’t say a word. The agreement was clear: Household sanitation is the responsibility of the individual. His dirty laundry piled up in the guest room, forming a small mountain. I walked past it every day without a second glance. Finally, unable to stand it anymore, he shoved the entire load into the washing machine. Half an hour later, a strangled cry echoed from the laundry room. I found him holding my cream-colored silk blouse, now grotesquely tie-dyed with splotches of blue from his jeans, shrunken into a wrinkled mess. “Sophie! Why didn’t you take your clothes out?” he bellowed, brandishing the ruined shirt. I leaned against the doorframe, my expression impassive. “Mr. Director, the washing machine is a shared appliance. According to the agreement, the user must ensure it is empty prior to operation. You failed to perform your due diligence, resulting in damage to my personal property.” I returned to my room, pulled up my tablet, and displayed the digital receipt for the blouse. “Here it is. I bought it last month. Three hundred and fifty dollars. Per Article 3 of the Household Property Damage Compensation Clause, the party at fault is responsible for full reimbursement.” I sent him a payment request via text. He stared at his phone, trembling with rage, and spat out a single word: “Schemer.” “Exactly,” I admitted calmly. “The 50/50 rule taught me well. It’s best to keep a clear ledger, lest I take advantage of you.” He didn’t transfer the money immediately, just glared at me as if I were his mortal enemy. That night, he had an important industry gala to attend. He was tearing through the closet, growing more and more agitated. “Where’s my tie? The Hermès one, the midnight blue with the star pattern, where is it?” I was on the sofa, reading a book, and didn’t bother to look up. “I put it away.” “Where did you put it? Get it for me now!” he yelled, storming out of the bedroom. I slowly turned a page. “Matt, according to our prenuptial agreement, all my jewelry, clothing, and accessories are my personal property. I bought that tie. Therefore, it’s mine.” I finally looked up at him. “If you wish to use it, you can ‘rent’ it. Based on current market rates, that will be thirty dollars for the evening, with a five-hundred-dollar security deposit.” “Are you out of your mind, Sophie?” He had completely lost it. “You’re going to charge me for a tie?” “You were the one who charged me for a piece of toast,” I said, closing my book and meeting his furious gaze. “You made the rules, Matt. I’m just enforcing them.” He slammed the door on his way out, speeding off to the mall to buy a new one. Two hours later, he returned in a sharp suit, but the new tie he’d bought was a disastrous mismatch, making him look like a clown who’d just won the lottery. I later heard from a friend’s wife that he’d been subtly mocked all evening for his sudden and catastrophic decline in taste. His phone buzzed. I caught a glimpse of a message from Erin on the screen: “Matt, don’t be mad. Sophie probably just doesn’t get these things. I mean, she’s been at home for so long, it’s normal her sense of style hasn’t kept up with yours. Don’t blame her. In my eyes, you’ll always be the most stylish man in the world.” What a “thoughtful” message. Put me down while lifting him up, reinforcing his belief that I was a petty, unsophisticated woman. Matt’s mood visibly improved, a smug little smile even gracing his lips. At 11 p.m., I emailed him a complete Invoice for Last Week’s Domestic Services, CC’ing his personal phone. The items were as follows: [Culinary Services (Kitchen Coordination & Occupancy Fee during preparation of Sophie’s meals only): Market rate $25/hr x 3 hours = $75.00] [Common Area Janitorial Services (Proxy-cleaning fee for Matt’s neglected areas – living room corridor): Market rate $40/hr x 2 hours = $80.00] [Silk Garment Restoration Service (Emergency treatment and repair attempt for contaminated blouse): Professional rate = $50.00] [Fashion & Luxury Goods Consultation (Verbal consulting regarding ‘midnight blue tie’): Senior Stylist rate $250/hr, billed per incident = $80.00] [Household Financial Modeling & Legal Agreement Drafting (Pro-bono rate for drafting Household Resource Usage Agreement): Paralegal rate $150/hr, discounted rate = $120.00] Subtotal: $405.00 Below, I attached the reimbursement request for the ruined blouse: $350.00. Total Due: $755.00 A minute later, a notification popped up on my phone. He had sent a transfer. Not for $755, but for a round $800. The attached message read: You make me sick. Staring at the venomous words, my heart no longer felt pain. It was just a numb, barren wasteland. I calmly accepted the transfer and typed four words in reply. Thank you for your business. Then, I opened another browser tab. Using the exact sum he had sent me, I renewed my long-neglected online courses for my CPA certification. The words “Payment Successful” flashed on the screen. I stared at them and felt a forgotten sensation surge through me: the thrill of being in control of my own life. What you intended as a humiliation, Matt, has just become the first brick in the foundation of my new self. 03 Tuesday afternoon, the doorbell rang insistently. I peered through the peephole and saw Matt’s mother, my mother-in-law. She never called ahead, preferring surprise attacks she charmingly referred to as “checking in on you kids.” I opened the door. The moment she saw the “demilitarized zone” of our living room, her face soured. She pointed a manicured finger at a smudge on the floor. “Sophie! What kind of wife are you? This place is a pigsty! My Matt works himself to the bone to provide for this family, and he can’t even come home to a clean house? How dare you?” Matt trailed in behind her, silent, projecting an air of innocent detachment. It was his classic move: play the good guy and let someone else be the executioner. For three years, I had swallowed my anger and endured it. But not today. Instead of bowing my head in apology, I retrieved a copy of the Household Resource Usage Agreement from the media console and handed it to her. “Mom, please have a look at this.” She took it, her expression puzzled. “What’s this?” “This is Matt’s new, ‘progressive lifestyle choice.’ It’s called 50/50. This house, one half his, one half mine. All chores, split the same way.” I pointed to the filthy area on the floor, my voice steady but sharp. “The zone you are currently observing falls under Mr. Matt’s purview. According to our agreement, I have no jurisdiction there.” My mother-in-law was speechless. She looked from the paper to her son and back again. “Matt, is this true?” Matt’s face flushed, a mottled patchwork of red and white. He stammered, unable to form a coherent sentence. I didn’t give him the chance. “Mom, you see a dirty floor. What you don’t see is that last week, Matt did his own laundry and threw my silk blouse in with his jeans, ruining a three-hundred-dollar garment. You don’t see that he nearly set the kitchen on fire trying to cook, and ended up ordering takeout. The containers are still festering in the trash can he’s responsible for, and it’s been three days.” “It’s not that I’m not a good wife,” I concluded, my voice ringing with false sincerity. “I’m simply respecting your son’s decision. He is the head of this household, after all. I have to listen to him.” Every word was a slap across Matt’s face. My mother-in-law’s expression shifted from confusion to embarrassment, and finally, to a steely fury directed entirely at her son. Feeling utterly humiliated in front of his mother, Matt grabbed my arm, dragged me into the bedroom, and slammed the door. “Sophie! Did you have to make a scene? Did you have to humiliate me in front of my own mother?” he hissed, his voice low and menacing. I wrenched my arm free. “It wasn’t your mother who humiliated me, Matt. It was you. You’re the one who turned our marriage into a joke, and now you’re angry that I told someone the punchline?” “You’re impossible!” He paced the room like a caged animal, running his hands through his hair in frustration. In his agitation, his phone, which he’d tossed on the bed, lit up with a new message notification. The screen wasn’t locked. The sender was “Erin.” The message read: “Matt, have you gotten the funds for that overseas green energy project? Next month is the final deadline. Once we get that money, we’ll be free.” We’ll be free. Free. The word was a sledgehammer, crashing down and obliterating the last, fragile sliver of hope I had been clinging to. This 50/50 scheme wasn’t just about pushing me out. It was a calculated strategy to legally divert our marital assets before the divorce. He wasn’t optimizing our finances; he was gutting our home to bankroll another woman’s venture, to buy his “freedom” with her. I stood there, feeling the blood freeze in my veins. A chilling cold seeped up from the floor, consuming me. I saw it. I saw everything. But I simply lowered my gaze and said nothing. Matt, still fuming from our argument, was oblivious to my sudden stillness, oblivious to the damning message on his phone. He had no idea that in that single, silent moment, his wife had become a predator. And he had just become the prey.

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My roommate, Megan, was the star of the campus gossip page, wearing my dress. It was the dress I’d bought specifically for next week’s Hosting Competition. The tags were still on. I screenshotted the photo and sent it to her with a simple question: “Where is my dress?” She replied instantly with a voice note, her tone light and teasing. “Omg, Celia, you saw! Don’t I look amazing in it? I just had to borrow it. We’re roommates, what’s mine is yours, right?” A moment later, another picture came through. A huge splash of red wine stained the front of my brand-new white dress. The caption read: “Oops, I spilled something on it. You’re rich, just buy another one?” 1 Staring at the garish red stain on my phone screen, my fingers went cold, but my heart was strangely calm. I didn’t feel the white-hot rage of betrayal that had consumed me in my past life. Having been reborn, all I felt was a grim sense of amusement. In my last life, her casual entitlement had driven me insane. I’d screamed at her over the phone, but she played the victim, running back to the dorm in tears. She told our roommates I was overreacting, that I was a snob who looked down on her just because my family had money. Our other two roommates, Leah and Chloe, sided with her. One tried to play peacemaker, the other thought I was being petty. In the end, I was the one who was ostracized. Without a suitable dress and my confidence shattered, I bombed the Hosting Competition. Megan, meanwhile, sat in the audience wearing another beautiful dress she had “borrowed” from someone else, laughing with the guy she was trying to impress. After that, I was completely isolated in the dorm. Megan’s attacks escalated. She spread rumors that I cheated to get my scholarships, that I was sleeping with professors to get into exclusive programs. Eventually, the gossip broke me. I was diagnosed with severe depression and had to take a leave of absence, my college career in ruins. And Megan? She thrived. Under the guise of a “hardworking student from a poor background,” she won the national scholarship that should have been mine, secured a spot in a top graduate program, and lived a life of celebrated success. It wasn’t until after I jumped from the roof of a high-rise that I overheard people talking. From the moment I’d arrived at university, she had been consumed by jealousy, meticulously planning my destruction. Living a second time, I wouldn’t make the same mistakes. With people like Megan, arguing is useless. I didn’t reply to her text. Instead, I got up and headed back to the dorm. When I pushed open the door, Megan was lying on her bed with a face mask on, casually scrolling through her phone as if she hadn’t just destroyed something precious to someone else. Our other two roommates, Leah and Chloe, were there as well. Seeing me, Megan lazily took off her headphones, a fake smile plastered on her face. “Celia, you’re back! Don’t be mad about the dress, okay? I’ll wash it for you tomorrow.” I walked to my closet and opened it. It was empty. She hadn’t even bothered to bring the dress back. I turned, my gaze calm and steady. “Where is it?” My stare made her uncomfortable. She sat up. “Oh, it’s hanging up to dry outside. You have to treat a wine stain right away, you know. Don’t worry, I used the most expensive stain remover. It’ll be good as new.” She was deflecting, completely avoiding the topic of compensation. “Megan,” I said, my voice even and cold. “I bought that dress for the Hosting Competition. I need it next week. Tell me, right now, how you plan to fix this.” The atmosphere in the room froze. Leah and Chloe stopped what they were doing, looking at me with surprise. In their eyes, I had always been the quiet, gentle, even weak one. Megan’s smile faltered. “Celia, what’s your problem? It’s just a dress. I already said I’d wash it for you. What more do you want? Do you have to be so aggressive?” “Yes,” I said, the single word hanging in the air like ice. “First, you took my new dress without my permission. That’s called stealing.” “Second, you ruined my property and show no remorse, even suggesting I should be the one to replace it. That’s called being shameless.” “And third,” I said, looking her straight in the eye, “my things, even if I were to throw them in the trash, are too good for someone like you to touch.” My words struck her like a slap. Her face mask nearly slid off as she shot up from her bed, pointing a trembling finger at me. “Celia! What did you just say? Who’s a thief? We’re roommates! What’s the big deal if I wear your clothes? You have no right to talk to me like that!” “Roommates?” I let out a cold laugh. “Does being roommates mean you can take whatever you want without asking? If I recall, Megan, this isn’t the first time. My face wash, my masks, my snacks… what haven’t you ‘borrowed’?” “I let it slide before because I couldn’t be bothered to argue. That doesn’t mean I’m a doormat. Today, you will answer for this dress.” Megan was shaking with fury. She never expected me, the easy-going one, to be so confrontational. Her eyes reddened, and her voice immediately took on a tearful quaver as she turned to our roommates. “Leah, Chloe, do you hear her? I just thought the dress was pretty and wanted to take a picture in it. I never meant to stain it… It was an accident. How can she say such horrible things to me?” It was a well-rehearsed performance. In my last life, everyone fell for her damsel-in-distress act. Even I had questioned if I was being a bully and backed down. Predictably, Leah wavered. She stood up to mediate. “Come on, Celia. Megan didn’t do it on purpose. Don’t be so angry. We all have to live together, let’s not ruin the friendship over a dress.” Megan quickly chimed in, “Yeah, Celia, I know I was wrong. I’m sorry, okay? Please don’t be like this…” “If ‘sorry’ was enough, we wouldn’t need police,” I cut her off flatly. “I don’t want your apology. I want compensation.” I took out my phone, pulled up my order history, and turned the screen toward them. “French puff-sleeve dress, white, size medium. Price: $200. Megan, you can either transfer me the money, or you can buy me an identical one. You have twenty-four hours to decide.” “$200?!” Megan’s crying stopped abruptly, her eyes wide with shock. “Are you crazy? A stupid dress costs that much? Celia, you’re trying to extort me!” “Didn’t you see the price tag when you stole it?” I shot back. Of course she had. In my past life, after ruining the dress, she’d specifically cut the tag off to feign ignorance about its value. “I—I wasn’t paying attention!” she stammered, her neck stiff with defiance. “How was I supposed to know you’d buy such an expensive dress? You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” “You know perfectly well whether it was on purpose or not,” I said, putting my phone away. My tone left no room for argument. “If I don’t see the money or a new dress by the end of the day, we’ll take this to the student advisor.” With that, I pulled out a chair, sat down at my desk, put on my headphones, and opened my laptop, making it clear that the matter was not closed. I knew that with someone like Megan, backing down was the worst possible move. The more you retreat, the more she advances. The only way to deal with her was to escalate, to make her understand that I was serious. Only then would she feel fear. 2 Seeing that her usual tactics weren’t working, Megan dropped the act entirely. She started throwing a full-blown tantrum, screaming and crying, her words turning vile. “You bitch, Celia! Who do you think you are, pretending to be so high and mighty? You’re only acting this way because your family has a little money! Don’t you dare play the princess with me!” “It’s just a dress! Do you have to be like this? Are you just waiting to see me humiliated? To see me unable to pay so you can run to the advisor and get me in trouble?” “Well, I’m telling you, I don’t have any money! Not a single cent! Go on, report me! Let’s see who the advisor believes—a spoiled rich girl like you, or a hardworking scholarship student like me!” Her insults grew uglier. Even Chloe, standing to the side, couldn’t take it anymore. “Megan, that’s enough,” she said with a frown. “You were the one in the wrong here.” “How was I wrong?” Megan immediately turned on her. “You think she’s right just because she has money? Is that it? Do you all look down on me?” The dorm descended into chaos. Through it all, I sat there quietly, my fingers tapping away on my keyboard. There was no music playing in my headphones. My phone was on my desk, the recording app open. Every single word she said was being captured. This was a gift, Megan. Evidence you delivered yourself. 3 After ranting for half an hour and getting no reaction from me, Megan seemed to lose steam. She stormed out, slamming the door behind her. Silence finally returned to the room. Leah gave me an awkward glance, wanting to say something but holding back. Chloe shot me an apologetic look; Megan had screamed at her too for trying to defend me. I shook my head slightly to let her know it was fine. I knew this war was just beginning. Sure enough, that night, a new post blew up on the university’s anonymous forum. The title was: Exposing my ‘Rich Bitch’ Roommate Who Gets a $2k Allowance but is Driving Her Poor Roommate to Suicide Over a Dress. In the post, the author wrote in a deeply wounded, pitiful tone about how she had “accidentally” stained her roommate’s “expensive” dress. She described how she had humbly apologized, only to be brutally humiliated and forced to pay a sum she could never afford. The poster claimed, through what felt like digital tears, that this “rich bitch” roommate constantly flaunted her luxury goods and looked down on students from normal families. This time, she was just using the dress as an excuse to push her over the edge. No names were mentioned, but every detail pointed directly at me: the Hosting Competition, the white dress, the wealthy background. The comment section exploded. “Wtf, people like this actually exist at our university? Unbelievable.” “What’s wrong with being poor? Does that mean you deserve to be bullied? I can’t stand rich people who think they’re better than everyone!” “To the OP, don’t cry, we support you! Drop the rich bitch’s name and major, let’s make her famous!” “A $2k monthly allowance and she’s still living in a dorm? Is this some kind of poverty tourism? Disgusting.” The comments were a cesspool of vitriol and speculation, painting me as a cruel, abusive monster. Megan’s methods were identical to my last life. But this time, I wasn’t going to be the flustered girl trying to post feeble explanations, only to be torn apart by the mob. I read through the lies, saved the audio file from the afternoon, and then calmly composed an email to my student advisor, Mr. Wallace. Dear Mr. Wallace, My name is Celia Stone, from the School of Journalism and Communication, class of ’25. I apologize for bothering you this late. I would like to clarify the situation regarding a conflict between myself and my roommate, Megan, as well as a recent post on the university forum. Attached is an audio recording of the events, along with the proof of purchase for the item in question. I am available to discuss this in person at your office tomorrow morning. After sending the email, I silenced my phone, climbed into bed, and went to sleep. Let the storm rage outside. This time, I was the eye of it. The next morning, the atmosphere in the dorm was strange. Megan, who usually slept in, was already awake and putting on makeup, her eyes red and puffy as if she’d been crying all night. Leah was sitting on her bed, comforting her in a low voice, occasionally shooting me a disapproving glare. Chloe looked conflicted. They had all seen the post. When Megan saw I was awake, she looked at me with a timid, yet hateful, expression, as if I were the villain in this story. I ignored her, went about my morning routine, and got dressed. Just as I was about to leave, Mr. Wallace called. “Celia, can you come to my office now? I’ve already notified Megan to come as well,” he said, his voice stern. “Of course, Mr. Wallace. I’m on my way.” After hanging up, I looked at Megan, who was still perfecting her fragile act. “The advisor wants to see you in his office.” Megan flinched, but then a flicker of triumph crossed her face. She clearly thought the advisor had seen the post and was about to deliver justice for the “victim.” She followed me out of the dorm. On the way, I could feel the stares and hear the whispers. “Look, that’s her. The rich girl who’s bullying her poor roommate.” “She looks so put-together, how can she be so cruel?” “I heard her roommate is on the verge of a breakdown because of her…” I kept my head held high and walked straight to the administration building. Megan deliberately lagged a few steps behind, her head bowed, occasionally dabbing at the corner of her eye, milking her victim persona for all it was worth. She thought public opinion was her ultimate weapon. She had no idea that in the face of hard evidence, her performance was nothing more than a pathetic joke. The mood in Mr. Wallace’s office was tense. He was a man in his thirties with a scholarly air, but his brow was deeply furrowed. Megan and I walked in. The moment she saw him, tears started streaming down her face like a broken faucet. “Mr. Wallace…” she choked out, unable to say more, as if she were the most wronged person in the world. Mr. Wallace gestured for us to sit. He glanced at me, then turned his full attention to Megan. “Megan, please, try to calm down. Tell me what happened, from the beginning.” Megan began her story, a tearful retelling of the forum post. She painted herself as an innocent girl who had made a simple mistake and was now being relentlessly persecuted by her cruel roommate. “I really didn’t mean to, Mr. Wallace. I felt so bad about the dress, I wanted to wash it for her. But Celia… she demanded I pay her $200. I’m a scholarship student. I live on a tiny budget. Where am I supposed to get that kind of money?” “She insulted me, she called me a thief, she said I was shameless, that I was too dirty to even touch her things…” She grew more agitated, the tears flowing faster. “Last night, she threatened me. She said if I didn’t give her the money today, she’d report me to you and have you discipline me… Mr. Wallace, she’s driving me crazy…” Her performance was flawless, complete with terrified glances in my direction, as if I were a monster poised to devour her. If I hadn’t been there myself, I might have believed her. Mr. Wallace listened patiently. When she was finished, he turned to me. “Celia, do you have anything to say in response to Megan’s claims?” I had been silent the entire time. Now, I spoke, my voice calm and clear. “Mr. Wallace, I have two questions for Megan.”

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I majored in pig farming in college. Somehow, I got hired by a top fashion magazine. The live comments on my life’s story went wild: [Did the male lead really hire a pig farmer just to spite the female lead?] [This girl is so lucky! People would kill for a job at this magazine. The salary is insane, the benefits package is stacked, you get a month of paid vacation every year, they give you the latest Apple tech when you start, and company retreats are in places like Bali! Plus, you get to meet tons of gorgeous celebrities! AHHH!] [Damn, what I wouldn’t give to be her. If she’s thinking of turning down that offer because she’s scared she can’t do the job, can I please take her place?!] Holy cow. I had to go. Only an idiot would turn this down. 1 My resume being chosen was a complete fluke. According to the live comments, the male lead—the CEO—was arguing with the female lead—the Editor-in-Chief—about the theme for the next issue. In the heat of the moment, he blurted out: “I could hire a pig farmer off the street, and they’d come up with a better concept than you!” Naturally, the female lead was furious. “Fine! Go hire a pig farmer, then! I’d love to see it.” At that exact moment, I was on the verge of a complete breakdown from post-graduation unemployment anxiety. I was spamming my resume to every job posting I could find, and I hadn’t even noticed one of them was a high-fashion company. And so, my resume, with “Animal Science” listed as my major, was plucked from the pile by the CEO. The comments said he was impulsive, that he acted on whims. But if his whims created jobs and saved a recent grad from drowning in unemployment, then he wasn’t just a CEO. He was a hero of the people! Who cares if he’s impulsive? He’s a great boss! I was so excited I barely slept. The next morning, I arrived at the office, buzzing with energy. As soon as I found my desk, someone sidled up, their curiosity palpable. “You’re the new intern?” she asked. “What school did you go to?” I answered with complete honesty. “Hi, I’m Holly. I graduated from the State Agricultural University. My major was Animal Science.” The woman froze. “I’ve never heard of that major. What exactly do you do?” My face lit up with pride. “Oh, it covers so much! We learn how to breed livestock like chickens, ducks, pigs, and cows, how to create the most scientific feed ratios, what to do when an animal gets sick, where the best place to build a farm is… it’s all very complex. With our degree, you can raise the healthiest animals imaginable!” 2 Her lips twitched. “Ah. So… pig farming?” I beamed and nodded. “Yep! Pig farming is a major focus in our program.” She forced a laugh and slowly backed away. I was confused, but then I noticed she was covering her nose with her hand, giving me a strange look. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Is your nose bothering you? Why are you covering it?” She blinked, startled, then dropped her hand with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “No, I was just going to tell you… tucking your shirt all the way into your pants like that is a little… dated.” She added with a smirk, “But I guess it’s a very ‘farm girl’ look.” I looked down at my simple white shirt and black pants. “A farm girl look? Oh, I love that!” I then looked at her outfit. “Wow, what style is that? My grandma has a jacket just like that! It makes me feel right at home.” Her face turned beet red. “What did you just say?” she snapped. “You clueless hick, this is vintage! You wouldn’t understand.” She stammered, trying to think of a comeback, but nothing came out. “Ugh, what’s the point of talking to you? You wouldn’t get it anyway.” She shot me a glare and stormed off. I was genuinely confused. I’d said something similar to what she said to me. Why did she get so angry? New colleagues are weird. 3 There were two group chats for the interns: one with the managers, and one without. After being added to both, I realized the girl I’d just met, Lana, was also an intern. She was very active in the no-managers chat. Lana: [Everyone, a new princess has arrived in the magazine department. Let’s give her a warm welcome.] Chad: [? Another one? Isn’t having a rich kid like Karl around enough trouble for one intern class?] Karl: [Shut up.] Lana: [Oh, this one is even more special than Karl. Her clothes aren’t Miu Miu, they’re MinMin. Her shoes aren’t Gucci, they’re Guchi. Impressive, right?] Karl: [Lana, do you have anything better to do than obsess over what other people are wearing and then gossip about it?] Lana: [What, am I wrong? Working at a fashion magazine and wearing obvious knockoffs? People will think we’re all a bunch of pig farmers.] Lana: [@New Intern, where do you get your fakes? Share the link!] I saw the message and immediately sent a link from a cheap wholesale site. Me: [Here you go.] Me: [If you do a group buy with someone else, you can get an even better price.] Lana went silent. Karl: [Hahahaha, Lana, go on, place an order. I’ll lose all respect for you if you don’t.] Lana ignored him and turned her fire back on me. Lana: [Do you really think you’re some kind of princess? Parading around in knockoffs and acting so proud?] Me: [I’m not a princess. I’m a pig farmer.] The chat went dead silent. The live comments, however, were hysterical. [LMAO, the mean girl just met her match: weaponized cluelessness.] [Turns out the best defense against passive-aggression is being aggressively literal.] [This girl’s mentality is amazing. She can even joke about it. If that were me, I would have imploded from anxiety the second Lana covered her nose.] 4 I scratched my head, reading the comments. I wasn’t joking. My family really used to own a pig farm. That’s why I majored in Animal Science. But during my freshman year, our farm went bankrupt. We were saddled with a mountain of debt. My greatest wish now is to earn a ton of money here, save up a huge sum, and go back home to reopen the farm. I want to be a pig farmer again! I was lost in a happy daydream about raising pigs when my phone buzzed. A friend request. It was from the guy in the chat, Karl. He added me, and without even a “hello,” he transferred me $1,000. My phone nearly slipped out of my hands. He really was a rich kid. His message was short and to the point. Karl: [Satisfying.] My fingers trembled as I typed back. Me: [You send people money when you’re satisfied?] Karl: [I’m paying for the emotional value. The look on Lana’s face? Priceless. I can’t stand people who try so hard to act superior.] I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow. Me: [Wow, thank you. But isn’t this a little too much?] He didn’t reply. Instead, he silently appeared at my desk, plucked the phone from my hands, and hit “Accept.” “Don’t make a big deal out of it,” he said, handing it back. “If you really feel bad, just consider it my treat for bubble tea.” He winked. “Keep it up, newbie. Piss Lana off again, and there’s a bigger bonus where that came from.” He tossed my phone back and sauntered off. I just sat there, stunned. So… this is what they mean when they say the streets of the big city are paved with gold. 5 During my lunch break, I used Karl’s “bubble tea money” to order afternoon tea for everyone in our department. If he said it was for tea, then everyone should get a share. Share the good fortune, and more good fortune will come your way. I transferred the rest of the money to my mom. Seeing the odd, specific amount, she immediately video-called me in a panic. “Honey, don’t do anything reckless!” she said, her face etched with worry. In the video, she was wearing a hard hat, her face smudged with dust. “I’ve saved up a couple thousand. I’ll send it to you. Why don’t you take a trip, clear your head?” Ever since a disease wiped out our farm, my dad’s health had failed, and he passed away not long after. My mom had to move away to find work, turning herself into a superhero in a world I couldn’t see. She was paying off debts, covering her own living expenses, and paying for my tuition, all on one salary. I still don’t know how she did it. But I didn’t want her to have to be a superhero anymore. I sniffled, forcing a smile. “Mom, I’m not doing anything crazy. This is from my new job.” I paused. “Though I’m not entirely sure how I earned it. But my colleagues are really generous and friendly! I can make a lot of money here.” “So don’t worry,” I said. “Keep the money and buy yourself something nice to eat. I can take care of you now!” It took a lot of convincing, but she finally believed me. “Working at a fashion company… do people look down on you if you’re not dressed well?” Lana’s words from this morning flashed through my mind, but I shook my head firmly. “No, they love my clothes. They even asked me for the link to buy them.” Well… that was technically true. It wasn’t a lie, right? 6 After I hung up, the live comments erupted. [AHHH, there she is! Our queen!] [It’s been one chapter, but I’ve missed her so much.] Confused, I looked up and saw someone walking through the main entrance. I’m not exaggerating when I say she was so beautiful it took my breath away. Once my eyes locked on her, I couldn’t look away. I watched her walk step by step toward me, stopping right in front of my desk. “You’re the new intern who started today?” My mind went completely blank. I shook her outstretched hand purely on instinct. “H-hi, yes, I’m Holly.” Her smile was like a warm spring breeze. “Welcome. I’m the Editor-in-Chief, Serena.” Oh. My. God. No wonder she was the female lead. She was on a completely different level from the rest of us. My soul left my body for a few seconds. Serena waved a hand in front of my face. “Holly? Are you alright? There’s something I need to discuss with you.” I snapped back to reality. Oh no. This is it. She’s going to tell me my hiring was a joke and that I can leave now. I was mentally preparing to sob and cling to her leg when she handed me a thick, heavy notebook. “I know your major isn’t in this field,” she said softly, “but as long as you’re willing to learn, you can do anything. When I first started, I was completely clueless. I filled up this entire notebook. Take it, have a look. It should help you get your bearings.” As she spoke, my mind could only form one thought. This wasn’t the female lead. This was an angel. “Ma’am… I don’t know anything. Why are you being so nice to me?” She paused, then smiled. “I’m primarily responsible for you being hired. It’s quite rude to pull someone into a completely unfamiliar field so suddenly, so I want to help you as much as I can, as a way of making it up to you.” “And besides,” she added, “it’s not true that you don’t know anything. If you hadn’t graduated from a top-tier university, your resume would never have been in our system to begin with. And most importantly,” she leaned in slightly, “sometimes, luck is a superpower, too.” I looked down at the notebook in my hands. Is this the power of the female lead? Because I think I’m in love with her. 7 My new goddess told me there was a monthly meeting at the end of the month to discuss column pitches. The magazine reserved a small section for interns. Whoever had the best pitch would get to lead the section, which would heavily influence who got hired full-time. I started devouring the notebook, coming in the earliest and leaving the latest every day. But I just couldn’t wrap my head around a column concept. One morning, I was the first one in again. I flipped on the lights and nearly jumped out of my skin. “What the hell is that?” There was a person lying ramrod straight on the floor, like a soldier at attention, but horizontal. I cautiously crept over and poked him. “Hello? Are you alive?” He made an annoyed sound and shifted into a more relaxed pose. When he turned his head, I saw it was Karl. Okay. Good. He’s alive. I walked around him, sat at my desk, and got ready to take the first, glorious bite of my egg pancake wrap stuffed with crispy fried pork. Just as I opened my mouth, Karl launched himself off the floor. His eyes were still closed, but he followed his nose directly to my desk, opened his eyes, and asked, “What is that?” “A plastic bag I found in the trash,” I deadpanned. He gave me a withering look, clearly intending to make a cool exit, but his stomach betrayed him with a loud growl. Defeated by the pancake wrap, he grumbled, “Give me half.” I shook my head. “Some things in life cannot be shared. For example, this egg pancake wrap with crispy pork, scallions, cilantro, pickled radish, and a layer of spicy shredded potatoes at the bottom.” As I listed the ingredients, his Adam’s apple bobbed. He held up one finger. “A thousand dollars.” I immediately pulled a plate out of my desk drawer, placed the pancake wrap on it, and presented it with both hands. “Your breakfast is served, my lord.” 8 The moment Karl took a bite, his eyes widened with delight. I swallowed my own saliva, watching my warm breakfast transform into cold, hard numbers in my bank account. To distract myself from my hunger, I asked him, “Why were you sleeping here?” “I was drinking nearby last night,” he mumbled through a mouthful of food. “Don’t really know how I ended up here. You’re here early. The cleaning crew hasn’t even come in yet.” I sighed and pulled out Serena’s notebook. “The early bird gets the worm. I don’t know anything, so I have to work harder.” Karl devoured the wrap in seconds and, to my surprise, sat down next to me. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. How did an Animal Science major get hired here?” I was hungry and tired, and the truth slipped out. “Because Mr. Grant said he could hire a pig farmer and they’d do a better job.” The words were out before I could stop them. But Karl didn’t look surprised at all. He just nodded. “Julian? Yeah, he’s a little crazy. That sounds exactly like something he’d say.” He yawned, stood up, and headed back to his own desk to catch up on sleep. Just as he slumped over, my phone buzzed twice. The first was a notification for a $10,000 transfer. The second was a message from Karl. [Bring me breakfast every morning from now on. No cilantro. It’s disgusting.] 9 Karl and I became breakfast buddies. I brought him everything from my neighborhood: egg pancake wraps, soup dumplings, beef noodle soup… I started paying the vendors extra each time, telling them it was from my generous colleague. Karl had never set foot in my neighborhood, but he was already a local legend: the rich guy with more money than sense. As the end of the month approached, I’d scrapped every one of my pitch ideas. I was so anxious I felt like I was losing my hair. Karl, on the other hand, was the picture of relaxation. He’d stroll in late and leave early. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Have you finished your pitch?” I asked. He lazily opened his eyes. “Nope.” I let out a huge sigh of relief. “Oh, thank god. I thought I was the only one who wasn’t done.” He grinned. “That’s because I have no intention of staying here.” My smile vanished. “If you don’t want to stay, then why are you even working here?” “For your breakfast, of course,” he said, completely serious. We stared at each other, the atmosphere suddenly awkward. He let out a dry laugh. “Just kidding. Okay, fine. The truth is, my brother is Julian Grant. He’s forcing me to work here.” He held up a hand. “And before you ask, one of us took Mom’s last name, the other took Dad’s. Yes, we’re full brothers.” I said nothing. I just silently wheeled my chair back to my desk. In this world, being last in the class isn’t the scariest thing. Not finishing your homework isn’t the scariest thing. The scariest thing is when the person you thought was failing with you turns out to be guaranteed an A because his dad is the teacher. Jerk. 10 I was at my desk, practically tearing my hair out, when a package arrived for me. It was from my mom. Inside were several new fall jackets. On top was a handwritten note. Heard from a friend at work that these are big brands. You’ve got this, sweetheart. Don’t be afraid of anyone looking down on you. You’ll always have me in your corner. Fall and winter clothes are always so much more expensive. A whole box of them… I couldn’t imagine how long it took my mom to save up for this. It turns out, you can’t lie to your mother. I was staring at the note when Lana appeared at my side. She peered into the box, and when she saw the logos on the clothes, she burst out laughing. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Holly. Did you just buy another box of fakes?” She grabbed a jacket and tore open the plastic. “Hahahaha! This is supposed to be a Ralph Lauren knockoff, right? Except the real one has a man on a horse. This one… is a man on a cow.” She dumped the entire contents of the box onto my desk, judging each piece. They were all, without exception, cheap imitations of famous designs. “Holly, if you’re going to be a poser, at least learn something about fashion,” she sneered, her voice growing shrill with excitement as she attracted the attention of our coworkers. “How have you been at a magazine this long and still reek of the pigpen?” Finally, she spotted the note in my hand. My mom’s handwriting was large and easy to read. Lana snatched it and read it aloud in a mocking, singsong voice. “You’ll always have me in your corner! Awww,” she cooed. “Hahahaha, Holly, your ‘corner’ doesn’t seem very strong. I was wondering how a pig farmer managed to get a job here. I thought you must have some powerful background. But now I see…” She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a malicious whisper. “You’re a pig farmer… so your mom must be one too, right?”

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The campus bad boy posted on the Wall, asking who stole his boxers. The comments section exploded with laughter, but I just stared at the fabric in my hand, my mind blank. Lace trim. Pure black. Embroidered with his initials. Every single detail matched. My first instinct was to pretend nothing happened. But as more and more of his underwear inexplicably appeared in my possession, a cold knot of panic began to form in my stomach. Then he lost his temper for real, ranting online about having nothing left to wear. The panic turned into pure terror. This was the campus bad boy we were talking about. 1 You’re probably not going to believe this. Within a fifteen-foot radius, I can control things with my mind. That includes, but is not limited to, unlocking deadbolted doors, levitating heavy objects, and summoning things from across a room. But I have a really, really bad habit: I sleepwalk. I never thought it was a big deal. Not until last Sunday, when I woke up clutching a stranger’s thermos. That’s when I knew something was wrong. Ever since that day, I’ve woken up every single morning with something that doesn’t belong to me in my hand. A pen. A tie. A men’s hoodie. A notebook filled with lecture notes… To be more precise, things belonging to a strange guy. And today? Today, I woke up holding a pair of black, lace-trimmed boxer briefs. Damn. A little… extra, aren’t they? By now, I was used to it. I shoved them into the bottom of my junk box, burying them under a stack of folders that had also mysteriously appeared on a previous nocturnal adventure. No 8 AM class today. After washing up, I flopped onto my bed, propped my legs up, and started scrolling through my phone. That’s when I saw the lost-and-found post on the Campus Wall. My blood ran cold. JASON CARTER: Okay, which one of you sickos stole my boxers?! This has happened WAY too many times! The thermos, the pens, I let that slide. But my underwear? What kind of creep are you?! I thought maybe the wind blew them off the line, but I checked everywhere. If you find a pair of black, lace-trimmed boxers with the initials J.C. embroidered on them, please return them to Dorm 6, Room 416. Generous reward offered. And if some freak is doing this on purpose… I’m warning you. Get your ass to Room 416, kneel at my feet, and beg for forgiveness before you return my shit. Otherwise, you’re gonna find out what happens next. FFS, the more I think about it, the angrier I get. You absolute weirdo! P.S. Not anonymous. Thanks, Wall. My pupils dilated. The profile picture, the initials… it wasn’t hard to figure out that J.C. was the infamous campus bad boy, Jason Carter. With trembling hands, I dug out the boxers I had literally buried at the bottom of the box. I checked again. Black. Lace trim. Embroidered with the letters J.C. Yep. He was talking about me. Me, the adorable little pervert. Shaking, I clicked into the comments on his post, my heart hammering against my ribs. “LMAOOOO is this for real?!” “New copypasta just dropped. Sending this to my friends tomorrow.” “What the hell, who steals that?” “The world is now made of three types of people: the sad man who lost his boxers, the pervert who’s about to get their ass kicked, and me, happily eating popcorn and watching the drama unfold.” “All talk and no action, Jason? Just find the guy and beat him up already.” “Black lace? I don’t believe you. Send a pic or it didn’t happen ;)” “Seriously though, that’s disgusting. If it were me, I’d slap that creep silly.” “So gross. Please kick the perv’s ass for us.” “And he’s a repeat offender too. Wow, all those years of education really produced a class act.” “Thanks for taking out the trash, Jason! Leave him half-dead!” I was scared. Genuinely, truly scared. I racked my brain, trying to figure out how to avoid a one-sided beatdown. I couldn’t just walk into the men’s dorm, and going straight to Jason felt like volunteering for a concussion. Then, a brilliant idea struck me. All I had to do was hold onto the boxers before I went to sleep tonight, and my sleepwalking self could just put them back! If I could take his things while sleepwalking, surely I could return them, right? I decided to do it. To make sure I didn’t forget, I even put a reminder in my phone. 2 The next morning, I stared in silence at the two pairs of boxers in my hand. …So, I can’t put them back, but I can take more? Is that how this works? Clearly, that plan was a bust. The third day, I woke up with another pair. Oh, for God’s sake. Do they multiply if you put them together? Is that what was happening? On the fourth day, another pair. This one was different, though. It was crisp, barely creased, like it had just been bought. The fifth morning, clutching the brand-new pair, I stared at Jason’s latest post on the Wall and started seriously planning where I could hide for the rest of the semester. This time, he just posted a screenshot of a group chat. He’d clearly reached his breaking point. He was threatening to gouge out my eyes, kick me where it counts, and rip out my guts. He also said that if the thief was any kind of man, they’d meet him in front of the gym tonight at eight. I’ve spent nineteen years carefully cultivating my continued existence. This kind of talk was way above my pay grade. Besides… I’m not a man! 3 Crushed by guilt and a profound sense of self-preservation, I packed up the junk box, arranging all his belongings neatly inside. I was hoping for some brownie points, maybe he wouldn’t hit me quite so hard. My roommate, Chloe, watched my shady preparations with a raised eyebrow. “Dressed in all black at night? Are you trying to get hit by a car?” “Don’t say that! Can’t you be more positive?” “And what’s with the box? Going on a treasure hunt?” “You wouldn’t understand.” You wouldn’t understand that I’m going to atone for my sins. I even tucked a hundred-dollar bill in the box as a peace offering. The area outside the gym was packed. A sea of people swirled around the entrance. I glanced at my watch—7:50 PM. I squeezed my way through a few rows of people but couldn’t get any further. I tapped the guy in front of me on the shoulder. “Hey, what’s going on? Why is everyone here?” “You didn’t see the Campus Wall? They’re catching the perv! I got here at six and this was the best spot I could get!” he said, his eyes glued to the gym doors. “There were guys scalping front-row spots earlier. Fifty bucks. I tried to haggle, and now they’re a hundred and fifty! Should’ve just paid the fifty.” “…Thanks,” I mumbled. I took one look at the massive, expectant crowd and my courage evaporated. I turned around and sprinted back to my dorm. I just couldn’t do it. The humiliation would kill me. I’d have to try my sleepwalking-return plan one more time. Since I was a no-show, Jason completely lost it on the Wall again. It was just a barrage of angry, censored chat logs, probably full of every curse word imaginable. The post made me so anxious I couldn’t fall asleep until two in the morning. When I woke up, I wasn’t in my own dorm. I was in a strange bed. I lifted a hand. Another new pair of boxers. But there was good news: my other hand was clutching the older pairs! Hahahaha! Finally! It worked! My plan finally worked! Wait a minute. If my plan worked, why was I in a strange bed? Logically, I should have woken up back in my own room, right? The sound of male voices came from outside the door. “Jason, I don’t think the thief is gonna show. We’ve been watching the door all night. Not a single peep.” “Yeah, man, my eyelids are starting to fight each other. I’m dead tired.” A familiar voice, rough with exhaustion, replied. “Thanks for staying up, guys. I know you’ve got that 8 AM.” “No sweat. We just wanted to see the show.” “Seriously, it wasn’t just us. Did you see the guys from the next dorm over? They dragged their desk chairs into the hallway to wait for the perv.” “…” The footsteps grew closer. Without thinking, I dove under the covers, pulling them over my head. Oh holy mother of God, please don’t let them find me here… My silent prayer was cut short as the blanket was ripped away. Before he could scream, I slapped a hand over his mouth. With a flick of my wrist, my power slammed the bed curtain shut, cocooning us in darkness. I brought my other finger to my lips. “Please,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Don’t tell anyone I’m here.” Getting caught in the men’s dorm was a one-way ticket to academic probation. I could see the pure shock in his eyes. I pulled out the two handfuls of boxers and thrust them at him. “…These are yours. I’m giving them back.” “And this one, too. The one with your name on it.” His shocked expression deepened into utter bewilderment. I tried to sound reasonable. “Jason… look, I can explain all of this.” A voice called from the other side of the curtain. “Yo, Jason, what are you doing up on your bunk?” “Hurry up and get dressed, man. We’re gonna be late for class, and you know how fast the good seats go.” I flinched, slowly removing my hand from his mouth. I gave him a pleading look. “Don’t say anything. Please…” 4 He stared at me, his eyes filled with suspicion. I quickly pressed my hands together in a prayer-like gesture. Please, I just want to graduate in one piece. After a few tense seconds, he turned and climbed down the ladder. “You guys go on ahead and save me a seat. I’ll be right there.” Phew… thank God. “Dude, are you serious? Professor Miller is super strict about attendance.” He tapped his phone. “Already paid a guy to sit in for me. Just to save the spot.” “Alright. Well, hurry up.” “Yeah.” The moment I heard the dorm room door click shut, I dared to peek through the curtain. Our eyes met. I awkwardly pulled the collar of my pajamas higher and offered him a weak smile. “So… all that other stuff, the notebook, the thermos… was that all yours, too?” I’d sleep-stolen so much stuff, I wasn’t even sure if it all belonged to one person. “You stole it, and you don’t even know what you took?” he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. “Well, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure about everything,” I admitted. Then a thought occurred to me. “But the boxers, I’m pretty sure those were all yours. The timeline of your posts on the Wall matched up perfectly with when I… acquired them.” He muttered a curse under his breath. “Get down.” I froze. “But you have to believe me! I really didn’t do it on purpose!” He ran a hand through his messy hair in frustration. “Just get the hell down here, now.” “And stop sleeping in my bed.” My heart was doing a drum solo against my ribs. He was terrifying. “Now. Do you not understand English?” God, he’s so intimidating. “Coming! I’m coming down!” I scrambled down the ladder and stood before him, fidgeting with my fingers and occasionally darting a glance up at his face. Having this effortlessly cool, handsome guy standing right in front of me was nerve-wracking enough on its own. I usually gave guys like him a wide berth. But this one? I’d stolen a mountain of his personal belongings. I was so, so guilty. He crossed his arms, looking down at me with an expression of pure disbelief. “You know,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “you didn’t leave me a single pair.” “I’d get a new pack from Amazon, and they’d be gone the next day. Your speed is impressive. You’d give Usain Bolt a run for his money.” “I get it when girls collect dolls or mugs or whatever.” I looked up and saw the utter bewilderment on his face. “But isn’t your collecting habit a little… twisted?” “And you specifically target other people’s stuff.” “Are you broke, or do you just think my used boxers smell better?” My face flushed crimson. “No! It’s really not like that!” He kicked a chair out, hooking it with his foot, and sat down in front of me. “Fine. Explain. I’m listening.” The whole superpower thing was even more unbelievable than the sleepwalking, but I figured a demonstration was my best bet. “Okay… watch closely.” “And whatever you do… don’t blink.” I held out my hand, and with a surge of focus, the boxers on his bed zipped through the air and landed squarely in my palm. He shot to his feet, snatching them back. “Jesus Christ! You don’t have to rub it in my face by stealing them right in front of me!” “What? No!” Now I was getting flustered. “Didn’t you see that? I just held out my hand and—whoosh—your stuff flew right into it!” I leaned in closer. After a quick scan of the empty room, I stood on my toes and whispered in his ear. “I have… special abilities. You know, like superpowers.” “To put it simply, I can control things with my mind.” He was silent for a moment. Then he reached out and pressed a single finger against my forehead, pushing me away. “You’re a real piece of work.” “No, seriously!” I pleaded, terrified he wouldn’t believe me. “You get used to it.” “I found out when I was in third grade. The very first day, I secretly swiped a dollar from my mom’s purse and bought two bags of hot chips.” The second the words left my mouth, I regretted them. That was probably not the best example. “Got it,” he said. Wow! He believes me! “See? It’s easy to understand!” “So now you’re using your superpowers specifically to steal guys’ boxers?” 5 “…” You got it, alright. You got it completely wrong! I took a deep, calming breath. “And on top of that… I also sleepwalk.” “So I have no idea why I only take your things when I’m asleep!” He nodded slowly. “Right. So you’ve got the whole combo package.” “Jason, I’m being serious!” I said, frustrated by his nonchalant attitude. It felt like nothing I said was getting through to him. Fine. Whatever. I was the one at fault here. “If you still don’t believe me, just wait for me tonight!” “What do you think I was doing all last night? Herding sheep in the hallway? Having a picnic?” I fell silent. “I know you guys were trying to catch me,” I said, “but do you really think someone with my abilities would just walk in through the front door?” “You had a whole audience sitting out there. Even a real pervert would have taken one look and run away. What were you guys even thinking…?” A slow, mocking grin spread across his face. “Oh, you’re right. How could I ever be as clever as you?” “It’s true, I never would have guessed a girl could sleepwalk, have superpowers, and combine the two just to steal underwear.” “It wasn’t on purpose! And I didn’t throw your things away! They’re all safe in a box!” “You know, a while back, I thought about buying one of those sports cameras, the kind you strap to your chest, to record my nightly wanderings.” “But they were too expensive, so I gave up on the idea.” I patted his shoulder. “But now that I have you, I don’t think I’ll need it.” He fell silent for a beat. “You want to… strap me to your chest?” His reading comprehension was really something else. “No! I mean… you could just stay up and watch where I come from!” “Why didn’t I just wake you up when I saw you?” I threw my hands up in exasperation. “You people!” “Haven’t you ever heard that you’re not supposed to wake a sleepwalker?” “Why not?” “Oh. Uh… I don’t actually know.”

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The year Nathan loved me most, he cut ties with his family and eloped with me, moving abroad to start a new life. But on the day he washed his thousandth dish, the day he coughed up blood from sheer exhaustion, I took three million dollars from his parents. Then I stood and watched as he was forced onto a helicopter bound for home. He clung to the helicopter door, begging me not to leave him, even as his fingers broke and bled. And I? I threw the money he’d earned into the sink and told him it wasn’t even enough to buy me a single tube of paint. I told him a pauper like him had no right to talk to me about a future. Seven years later, at a lavish charity gala, we met again. I begged him for money. He agreed, on one condition: that I be the artist for his wedding, that I witness his happiness with my own eyes. I nodded without hesitation. He didn’t know that the money I needed was to save a little girl. A little girl who shared his blood, a daughter he never knew existed. 1 “I will.” “As long as you keep your word, Mr. Vance.” In a dimly lit corner of the grand ballroom, I stood beside Nathan, my back bowed in deference. A long, slow breath of relief escaped me. The condition was so simple. If I just agreed, I could save my Madelyn. Thank God. But Nathan didn’t move. He stared down at the top of my head for a long moment before a cold sneer twisted his lips. “Only seven years, and you’ve already blown through all three million?” “Was it all on paint?” My breath caught. I dug my nails into my palm, then forced myself to look up, plastering a sycophantic, pleasing smile on my face. “Yes, the money ran out a long time ago.” “That’s why I need a man of your stature to help me out.” After seven years, he was a powerful CEO, a man whose world I could no longer hope to touch. He abruptly let go of my arm as if he’d touched something filthy. “Nathan, what are you doing back here? Found an old flame?” “Hey, man, you’re getting married. Don’t let Susan…” The voice died in the man’s throat. “Jess Kang? What are you doing here?” Nathan’s friends stared at me, their faces instantly hardening. “Nathan, don’t be a fool!” one of them said, anxiously studying his expression. “Have you forgotten how she lied to you, how she ruined you? You can’t trust her again!” I lowered my head again, saying nothing. Everyone knew how insane Nathan had been for me back then. To elope with me, he’d jumped from a third-story window of his family’s mansion, shattering his ankle. He hadn’t even had it set until after our plane landed. To afford the finest art supplies for me, he’d worked six jobs a day, working himself to the point of coughing up blood, yet he wouldn’t even buy himself a full course of medicine. And I had abandoned him in the span of a single second. So I couldn’t blame his friends for looking at me like they wanted to kill me. “You’re overthinking it,” Nathan said, his voice flat. “I’ve just invited her to be the artist for my wedding. To paint Susan and me.” Susan. His fiancée. I repeated the beautiful name to myself, then looked up at them with a brazen, carefree smile. “That’s right. As long as the price is right.” “What can I get you all to drink? I’ll go get it.” No one offered me so much as a kind glance. They formed a tight circle around Nathan and me, their voices a rising chorus of accusations, calling me heartless, warning Nathan not to fall for my tricks again. I just bowed and scraped, playing along with their insults. I saw my manager across the room, waving impatiently at me, and a knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach. Nathan followed my gaze. His face was a mask, devoid of emotion. He simply signed a check and tossed it at my feet. “You start tomorrow. This is the down payment.” He waved a dismissive hand at me, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of my face for another second. I snatched the check from the floor, my fingers closing around it tightly, and backed out of the circle. Madelyn’s hospital bills. I could pay them. I was so happy I could have cried. Even when my manager made me wash dishes for an extra two hours, I didn’t feel the least bit resentful. The thin rubber gloves tore quickly, and the skin on my fingers peeled away, leaving them looking like waterlogged, rotting wood. But I felt no pain. Instead, my mind drifted back to the past, to the nights when Nathan would come home from his own dishwashing job, and I would gently apply ointment to his chapped, raw hands. It was cheap stuff, barely effective, but he was so stubborn, he’d never let me use more than a tiny amount. “I’m a grown man. What do I need this for?” he’d say, hiding his chilblained hands and taking mine instead. “A painter’s hands… those are the ones that are precious.” Lost in the memory, my hand slipped. A plate shattered at my feet. A pang of dread shot through me as I calculated how much would be docked from this month’s pay. But before I could even bend down to pick up the pieces, a figure appeared beside me, yanking me to my feet. “Jess, what are you doing to your hands?!” 2 I looked up and met Nathan’s furious gaze. But the moment the words left his mouth, he froze. It was the same thing he used to shout at me whenever he got angry, back before we broke up. When I’d cut my finger trying to slice fruit for him. When I’d worked at a fast-food joint and hot oil had spattered the back of my hand. He would always say, in that harsh, worried tone, Jess, what are you doing to your hands? He said my hands were for painting, not for menial tasks. He treasured my hands, my art, as much as he treasured me. We had met at an art exhibition, after all. We were in different departments at the same university, a year apart. Our paths had never crossed. But that day, amidst the bustling crowd of the gallery, he was the only one who stood in the corner, in front of my painting, and studied it for a full hour. I was ecstatic. I chattered at him for ages, telling him about my work, asking for his thoughts and advice. But he was a man of few words and offered little in return. I found out later that he was a severe depressive. That day had been the first day he was out after recovering from his last suicide attempt. None of that mattered to me. We quickly became friends. And then, lovers. He came to my studio every day to watch me paint. He listened intently to every word I said, no matter how much I rambled. And those eyes, usually so clouded with a deep-seated gloom, slowly began to find a glimmer of a smile in my endless chatter. I was with him as he slowly, painstakingly, returned to a normal life. Then came graduation, and his family demanded we break up, citing our difference in status. He didn’t hesitate. He took me and we eloped, leaving the country behind. He told me that no matter how hard it got, he would make me the most famous painter in the world. He said my art had saved him, so I should never feel guilty for anything he did for me. He saw me as the sun that had pulled him from the abyss. And I betrayed him without a second thought. Because it was all taking too long. I couldn’t wait for a future built on the coins he earned washing one dish at a time. “Why are you doing this?” The memory faded. I saw Nathan pull himself back from the brink of his outburst, releasing my arm. “Waitstaff have to wash dishes in addition to serving?” His voice was flat, emotionless, just like when we first met. He was a puppet again, all strings and no feeling. “Just trying to earn a little extra, you know?” I awkwardly hid my hands behind my back, glancing around. A wave of relief washed over me. My coworkers were all gone. No one had seen us. “I was a bit reckless these past few years, made some bad investments. Now I’m working odd jobs to pay off my debts.” I crouched down to pick up the shards, not daring to meet his eyes. “It’s a good thing I ran into you today. You were so generous…” His hand gently brushed mine away. In silence, he picked up the sharp fragments and threw them in a nearby trash can. Then he stood up, looming over me. “Are you still painting?” I remained crouched on the floor, my hands empty. For a split second, my mind went blank. Then I composed myself and looked up at him. “Of course. That’s my main profession.” He just looked at me, saying nothing. My heart hammered against my ribs. I was terrified he would see through my lie and take back his offer to be his wedding artist. Thankfully, the tense silence was broken by a phone call. “Nathan, are you almost home? I made you some soup to help with the hangover.” The woman’s voice on the other end was melodious and gentle. I took a step back, the name echoing in my mind. Susan. The fiancée his friends had mentioned, the one who was his perfect match. “Almost there,” Nathan said, then paused. “You have a cold. You should be resting. Don’t wait up for me, get some sleep.” I didn’t look up, but I could feel his eyes on me as he spoke. I suppressed the bitter sting in my throat and tried to slip away while he was still on the phone. “Jess.” The moment I turned, he ended the call. “You’ve been hiding for seven years. Is there any point in running now?” “See you tomorrow.” 3 I pretended not to understand the sarcasm laced in his words, simply nodding before hurrying away. The next day, as promised, I arrived at his villa. Susan greeted me at the door and even poured me a cup of tea. “Ms. Kang. It’s been a long time,” she said, a faint, knowing smile on her face as she took in my confused expression. “You probably don’t remember me. Nathan and I were in the same department. I used to see him going to find you all the time.” Now I knew why the name had felt familiar. Susan had known him for just as long as I had. “I used to be so envious of you,” she continued. “A man like him, born to such privilege, so cold to everyone else, yet he only had eyes for you.” “I never imagined you two would break up so… decisively.” I managed a tight, awkward smile and retreated to a corner to set up my easel, not daring to say another word. He was cold because of his illness. And he only had eyes for me probably because… I was relentless. But all of that was in the past. Now, my subjects were Nathan and Susan, a perfect, storybook couple. I spent the morning at their home, painting a scene of them watering flowers in the garden, Nathan’s hand resting on her waist. “It’s beautiful. No wonder Nathan insisted on hiring you,” Susan said with a satisfied nod, handing me a glass of water. “You’ve been painting all morning. You must be tired. Take a break.” I accepted it without a second thought and took a large gulp. Scalding hot water seared its way down my throat. I clutched my neck, coughing violently. “Oh, dear! I forgot this was freshly boiled water!” Susan exclaimed, standing up with a look of apology. In her haste, she knocked over the glass. My morning’s work was instantly ruined, a wash of bleeding colors. But I barely registered it. The pain in my throat led to an endless fit of coughing. Soon, I couldn’t breathe. It was Nathan who came rushing in. He carried me to a room and forced an asthma inhaler into my mouth. The black fog clouding my vision slowly receded. As my breathing evened out, I saw Nathan’s red-rimmed eyes. And behind him, on the nightstand, was a row of unopened asthma medication. The same brand I used to use. “Jess,” Nathan’s voice trembled. “Wasn’t three million dollars enough for you to buy yourself the best medicine?” I slowly sat up, waving a dismissive hand. “Of course I did. It was three million dollars. You don’t have to worry about me not taking care of myself.” I gave him a weak smile. “I haven’t had an attack in ages. What just happened was an accident. I know Ms. Lin didn’t mean to…” “Shut up.” I stared at him, stunned by his sudden interruption. “I looked into it. Painting hasn’t been your main profession for years.” Nathan’s voice was numb, as if he were reading my death sentence. “You haven’t sold a single painting. Your name disappeared from the art world seven years ago.” “The reason you gave for leaving me was your art.” “But now, even the asthma inhaler you carry is the cheapest kind you can buy.” As if by magic, he produced the small plastic inhaler from my bag. He took a step forward, trapping me against the headboard. “So you tell me,” he hissed, his face inches from mine. “What did you really do with that three million dollars?” 4 My body began to tremble. But I couldn’t let him know. I hid my hands behind my back and dug my nails into my own flesh. The pain in my scarred, calloused hands was sharp, excruciating. But it was nothing compared to the pain in my heart. The three million dollars was long gone. It was all for Madelyn. Our daughter, the one I had given birth to in secret, the one born with a congenital heart defect. I had spent every penny in hospitals, from the day she was born until now, her seventh year. A month ago, she had finally undergone a successful heart transplant, only to suffer a severe rejection. The staggering cost of her ongoing treatment was a mountain crushing the very breath from my lungs. And then, just as I was about to break, Nathan had reappeared. So I had no choice but to seek him out, to tear my own dignity to shreds, to shamelessly exploit our shared past and beg him for help. As for painting… I thought back to that morning, sitting before the easel, the feel of the brush in my hand. A small, sad smile touched my lips. It felt like a lifetime ago. But I couldn’t tell him a single word of it. “I’m not some famous artist. My sales are all private deals. It’s normal that no one’s heard of me.” I slipped out from under his arm and gave him a nonchalant shrug. “I told you, I squandered the three million. That’s why I have to work odd jobs to pay off my debts while I paint.” “And as for my asthma… it’s incurable, so it doesn’t matter what kind of medicine I use.” A terrible silence descended between us again, a chasm I couldn’t cross. And in the doorway stood Susan, the jealousy and resentment in her eyes undisguised, marring her otherwise gentle, beautiful face. I fled. You don’t deserve him, Jess, I told myself, over and over again. A week later, I finished my work at Nathan’s villa and went to the hospital to see my precious girl. Madelyn said my voice still sounded like Donald Duck. I just smiled and gently pinched her pale little cheek. My throat was healing slowly from the burn. But at least Nathan had barely spoken to me since the incident. He had probably given up on me, again. And that was for the best. I didn’t regret my choice. I couldn’t be a burden to him seven years ago, and I couldn’t be one now. Once the wedding was over and I had the money, I would disappear. I just had to get through tomorrow. “If Mommy’s Donald Duck, then you’re my little Goof—” “Madelyn! Sweetheart! Doctor!” Without any warning, my daughter, who had been laughing with me just a second ago, suddenly closed her eyes, her breathing becoming heavy and labored. The heart rate monitor beside her bed shrieked. I watched, helpless, as she was wheeled back into the operating room, just two hours after her last procedure. I collapsed onto a bench outside, a hollow shell. The world swam before my eyes. The doctor’s words echoed in my ears. He said the rejection was getting worse, that if she couldn’t get through this critical period, she might never… I couldn’t bear to hear the rest. I felt my own breathing quicken, the familiar sense of suffocation closing in. “Jess, breathe! Breathe!” In the last second before my consciousness faded, Nathan appeared before me like a dream, holding me, forcing the inhaler to my lips. I pushed his hand away and fell to my knees before him, sobbing. “The rest of the money… the four hundred thousand… can you give it to me now? I can’t wait until tomorrow. I need to transfer Madelyn to a better hospital today…” “She’s my daughter, she’s six years old… I had her with someone else after you left… but she’s so good, so sweet, please, I’m begging you…” I was babbling, incoherent with grief, just begging him, over and over. He held me tight, repeating that it was going to be okay, telling me to calm down. “I have a friend who’s a specialist in this field. I’m messaging him right now. He’ll arrange the transfer.” “The wedding is canceled tomorrow. I’ll go with you. Your daughter will be fine.” “Don’t cry.” Something warm and wet fell onto my neck. It couldn’t be Nathan’s tears, could it? The thought floated through my dazed mind. Then a phone rang. Nathan quickly answered it, putting it on speaker and holding it up to my ear, desperate for me to hear the news that might save me. “It’s all arranged. You can bring the little one over tomorrow,” a strange man’s voice said from the other end. “But there’s one thing you might have wrong. The child isn’t six, like you said.” “The medical records from the hospital say she’s seven years old.”

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The girl I grew up with was in love with the campus king. The king, however, was obsessed with her arch-nemesis. So, Donna lost her mind. She turned to me, her loyal lapdog. “Kian, I want you to seduce Lydia Moriarty. Knock her off her pedestal.” My first instinct was to say no. Lydia Moriarty was notoriously difficult. But then, a string of comments materialized before my eyes: [This idiot… who cares who he chases? Lydia’s family is way richer than Donna’s!] [He doesn’t know it yet, but if he refuses Donna today, he’ll be kicked out of the Xavier mansion tomorrow.] [And the worst part? Because Donna’s upset, Mr. Xavier won’t give him a dime.] [That’s a seven-figure payout down the drain!] Come again? A seven-figure fortune, just… gone? The “no” on the tip of my tongue did a sharp U-turn. I looked at Donna, my face a mask of heartbreak. “Lydia Moriarty? Alright… I’ll try.” 1 I’m an adopted son of the Xavier family. And, unofficially, Donna Xavier’s personal lapdog. Donna always looked at me with that familiar, cutting disdain. “Kian, I’ve never met anyone as pathetic as you.” Night after night, the only warmth I felt came from the balance in my bank account. I was just doing a job for Mr. Xavier, a job that came with a hefty paycheck. So I let her insults and psychological jabs roll right off me. Her friends once gave her a brilliant idea. For a guy on the make like me, the best way to put him in his place was to trample his dignity with cash. God save us from the sudden bright ideas of the terminally stupid. Donna casually tossed a stack of bills at my face. “Get lost. The sight of you makes me sick.” It was pouring rain outside that day. On the outside, I looked like I was about to shatter. On the inside, I was discreetly stuffing the cash into my bag. As I turned to leave, I made sure to clutch my chest dramatically, a single, perfectly timed tear rolling down my cheek just before her expression could sour. That performance bought me a night off from waiting on her. After that, Donna figured she’d found the perfect way to handle me. Whenever she didn’t want to see me, she’d just throw money at me to make me disappear. The fool. She had no idea how thrilled I was. This time, she tossed a card at me. Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “I want you to seduce Lydia Moriarty. Knock her off her pedestal.” “What?” I seriously wondered if she’d lost her mind. Donna’s brow furrowed. “You’re the best at sucking up to people, aren’t you? Use all those pathetic tricks you pull on me, but on her.” Her voice hardened. “Make Ethan give up on her for good.” Ethan Ford. Heir to the Ford fortune. Arrogant, domineering, and utterly self-absorbed. And hopelessly devoted to Lydia Moriarty. People are twisted. The more he couldn’t stand Donna, the more desperate she was to have him. Desperate enough to throw me to the wolves. I may be a professional sycophant, but I have my principles. One client at a time. Besides, Mr. Xavier was already paying me a six-figure monthly salary. Going after Lydia Moriarty was a high-risk gamble. My first instinct was to refuse. I’d already plastered the perfect look of wounded vulnerability onto my face when those comments flickered into existence again: [This idiot… who cares who he chases? Lydia’s family is way richer than Donna’s!] [He doesn’t know it yet, but if he refuses Donna today, he’ll be kicked out of the Xavier mansion tomorrow.] [And the worst part? Because Donna’s upset, Mr. Xavier won’t give him a dime.] [That’s a seven-figure payout down the drain!] Come again? A seven-figure fortune, just… gone? 2 Seeing me frozen in place, Donna’s patience wore thin. “Kian, stop it. You could strip naked in front of me and I still wouldn’t feel a thing.” Mr. Xavier had plucked me from an orphanage when I was ten, a companion for a young Donna who had a slight speech impediment. My sunny, easy-going nature was supposed to help. Faced with a sudden life of luxury, I was a whirlwind of excitement, chattering away to her constantly. Within a few years, her impediment was gone. But Mr. Xavier, ever cautious, kept me on as her companion, paying me a monthly salary. Donna had a terrible temper. She and her clique of mean girls made my life a living hell. But I’d known real poverty, the kind that gnaws at your bones. I couldn’t walk away from the money. The comments kept scrolling. [Damn, that mouth on her. Kissing her would be like drinking poison.] [Poor Kian. Mr. Xavier’s just going to use him and toss him aside.] [He’s terrified Donna might actually fall for Kian and ruin the arranged marriage with the Fords.] [Take the card, you fool! Agree to go after Lydia! You’ll be getting paid by both sides. It’s the dream!] So, saying no would cost me a fortune. Good thing my face was already set in an expression of pure, practiced misery. Before the word “no” could escape my lips, I blinked, letting my eyes well up. Slowly, with a kind of deadened resignation, I reached for the card. Seeing the tears in my eyes, Donna’s expression shifted. She seemed desperate to get rid of me, like I was a hot potato. She snatched her hand back. “The PIN is your birthday.” “Does it really have to come to this?” I whispered, my brow furrowed in pain. She stuffed her hands in her pockets, nonchalant. “What else?” “Fine. I’ll do it.” “You…” I spun around and ran, not waiting to hear the rest. No way was I sticking around. If I waited a second longer, she might change her mind, and I’d be out a whole lot of cash. 3 The next morning, I packed my bags and moved out of the Xavier mansion. The comments had been right. Last night, Mr. Xavier had called me into his study. He said that I was an adult now, that he had fulfilled his duty as my guardian. To avoid any “gossip,” he offered me five million dollars to leave the Xavier household for good. Staring at the long string of zeros on the bank transfer, I almost burst out laughing. That night, tucked in bed, I was grinning like an idiot as I called a real estate agent. He was efficient, finding me a new place in no time. I was so ecstatic, I didn’t even bother saying goodbye to Donna. I just left. The comments were still buzzing: [Wait, Kian is obsessed with money, but he agreed to stop chasing Donna? Something’s not right.] [I’m not saying I’m jealous, but who makes millions overnight? Damn, kid, you’ve got it made!] [Isn’t the plot supposed to be: Kian refuses, gets kicked out, shamelessly clings to Donna, and then gets put in his place by the male lead?] [Is he actually going to go after Lydia Moriarty?] 4 Lydia Moriarty was a fortress. A goddess born into privilege, with a face that could launch a thousand ships. Her name was a permanent fixture on the campus confessions page. Someone even started a group chat just to sell her photos. I joined the group and bought out the entire collection. Then I dropped a bombshell: “I’m going to win her over.” No one thought I was delusional. Instead, they offered advice. “Pro-tip: Don’t try the ‘clumsy fall’ trick. I pretended to be some cute, innocent guy and tripped in front of her. She walked right past me without a second glance. Do you know how hot 45-degree pavement is? My kneecaps nearly melted!” “Giving her water is even worse! I almost got crushed into a human pancake by the crowd!” “Move it, people! I snuck into her lecture, and the professor called me out on the spot. ‘The student in the back wearing dinosaur pajamas, please come solve this partial differential equation.’ I couldn’t even read the question! Now the whole business school thinks we have a moron T-Rex in our midst!” … I took mental notes. And then I staked out the locker room. Lydia, fresh off the badminton court, walked in. The breeze lifted the hem of her shirt, revealing a glimpse of sleek, defined abs. Beneath her grey athletic skirt, her legs were long and toned. My heart hammered against my ribs. “Seen enough?” A cool voice sliced through the air. I looked up, straight into a pair of classic, almond-shaped eyes. I had to admit, Lydia Moriarty had a face that could stop your heart. Her eyes tilted up slightly at the corners, and a tiny mole dotted the left side of her perfect nose. She radiated an aura of cool, aristocratic distance. Her brow furrowed with annoyance. “You have a crush on me?” “Huh?” Her lips were thin, her voice chilling. “Don’t play these games. You’re not my type.” “Oh.” Lydia’s expression flickered. As she brushed past me, she paused. “Kian.” “Yeah?” A few beads of sweat trickled from her hairline down to the delicate hollow of her collarbone. She looked down. “Go back and tell Donna Xavier to stay away from me.” Damn, she was smart. Suddenly, I was intrigued. “Want to bet I’ll be your boyfriend one day?” “No.” 5 Whatever. I posted one of the candid shots I’d just taken to the group chat as a teaser. Five dollars for a set of twenty. My DMs exploded instantly. If you can’t beat them, join them. And every penny counts. A high-volume, low-margin business model would at least earn back the money I’d spent buying the photos in the first place. When Lydia came out of the shower, looking fresh and clean, she saw me squatting by the trash can. She frowned. “Waiting for me?” I was busy replying to messages. People were calling me a pro, saying my shots were amazing. That 25 cents a picture was basically charity. I glanced up, answering automatically. “Yeah.” Lydia pursed her lips. She pulled a broken bracelet from her bag, about to toss it. I lunged forward. “Can I have that?” She froze. “You want my trash?” “Yep.” She looked genuinely startled, then opened her hand. “You like me that much?” The bracelet landed softly in my palm. I gave her a warm, gentle smile. “Just being near you is enough to make me happy.” Lydia’s brow furrowed. She turned and strode away, as if fleeing a persistent pest, but the tips of her ears were flushed a faint pink. Probably just the heat. I snapped back to reality and sent a picture of the bracelet to the group. “Fresh off the press! Lydia Moriarty’s exclusive bracelet! It broke during her match, but I can fix it. This is a personal item, people. DM me with your best offers!” [Mouth_of_a_Sailor]: “Is that really hers?” [Midnight_Sad_Boi]: “I saw her playing badminton with it on! It’s hers!” The group admin even chimed in, tagging me: “Dude, you’re a legend. How’d you get your hands on a personal item so fast?” You know it. All for the money, honey. That’s my motto. 6 The next day was the Go club’s welcome meeting. I ran into Lydia at the entrance. She frowned and took a half-step back. “You again?” Like a magician, I produced a bottle of water from my bag. “If I want to win you over, I have to be seen, right?” She stared at the bottle I held out. Her fingers twitched. It was the brand she always drank. Before she could refuse, the club president called my name from across the room. While she was distracted, I shoved the water into her arms and scurried away. After the introductions, the president announced we were pairing up for practice games. A classmate, Sophie, immediately slid up to me. “Kian, want to be partners?” Before I could answer, a familiar water bottle was thrust between us. Lydia had materialized behind me. Her face was a cold mask as she pushed the water back into my hands and turned to leave. I had to apologize to Sophie. I hurried after Lydia. “Hey, Lydia, want to be partners?” “Didn’t you already find someone?” she clipped out. I circled around to face her, my eyes curving into a smile. “But I came here for you.” I gently pulled her to a nearby table. “Everyone’s already paired up. It’s just us left.” As we played, our fingers brushed. She snatched her hand back, the tips of her ears turning red again. “Do you even know how to play?” I watched her, smiling. “The president told me you’re a 5-dan professional. If I beat you, can I claim a prize?” “What kind of prize?” The hand holding the black stone paused. She seemed to realize she was playing into my hands and hesitated. But I sealed the deal before she could object. “Something you can definitely do.” Just then, my phone buzzed with a group chat notification. Lydia’s gaze fell to my screen, and her eyes widened in shock. I had set one of the pictures I took of her as my lock screen. Remembering the whole photo-selling business, I quickly turned the screen off and met her gaze. “It’s not illegal to have a picture of the person you like as your wallpaper, is it?” “…” When she didn’t say anything, I pressed my advantage. “I took a really nice photo of you the other day. My friends want to see it too. Is it okay if I show them?” “Your face is a work of art. Men see it and fall in love, women see it and go crazy, old people…” “Stop!” She turned away, the blush on her ears spreading down her neck. “Whatever.” “Great.” “By the way,” she added, her voice smug. “You lost.” I pointed at the board. Comprehension dawned on her face. Her eyebrows shot up. “You were distracting me on purpose?” Her competitive spirit ignited. “That doesn’t count. Let’s go again.” Fifteen minutes later. I smiled. “You let me win.” “And about that prize… you can’t go back on your word.” Not giving her a chance to refuse, I held up my phone. “I recorded you. A deal’s a deal.” Lydia had clearly never encountered anyone as shameless as me. She finally gritted her teeth. “You’ve certainly got some moves.” You bet I do. Thanks to Donna, I was forced to learn a whole host of skills she couldn’t be bothered with as a child, just so I could cover for her. Chess, horseback riding, violin… you name it, I had at least a working knowledge of it. 7 After that, Lydia stopped being surprised whenever she saw me around campus. The consensus in the group chat was that out of all her pursuers, I had the best shot. The guys who used to sell her photos took mediocre pictures from bad angles. I, on the other hand, always found her good side. A few of my shots were so close you could see the fine, downy hair on her cheeks. They figured she must have been letting me get that close. One afternoon in the library, I spotted her immediately, head bent over a textbook. Beauty, I realized, was an aura. Especially when it came to a focused woman. She stood out from the crowd like a crane among chickens. I was about to head over when a hand clamped onto my arm and yanked me into the hallway. It was Donna, who I hadn’t seen in ages. She wore the same condescending expression. “There’s a volunteer event in front of the library tomorrow at noon. You’re going for me. Oh, and you’ll be wearing a mascot costume.” It had been so long, I’d almost forgotten about this nuisance. I’d already moved out of her house. I had no obligation to be nice to her anymore. “I’m busy,” I said, my voice cold. “What could possibly be more important than what I need?” Had her brain completely checked out? I let out a humorless laugh and spelled it out for her. “Winning over Lydia Moriarty.” Donna’s expression froze, her face darkening like a storm cloud. “Oh, really?” “Yeah, really. What, you regret it now? Because I’m not giving the money back,” I said, done with pretending. I started to walk away. She grabbed my arm, her jaw tight. “Twenty thousand. To fill in for me tomorrow.” “Not interested. It’s too hot for that.” “Fifty thousand.” “No. I’ll get heatstroke in that costume.” “Two hundred thousand.” “Deal.” “…” I pulled my arm free. “Anything else?” As I reached the door, I heard her mutter, “Kian, you really are a disloyal dog.” I paused and looked back. “Thanks for the compliment. Don’t forget to wire the money.” As I grabbed the doorknob, I heard the thud of a foot kicking the wall behind me. I couldn’t be bothered. I went to find Lydia. 8 But something was off with Lydia. While she studied, she didn’t meet my eyes once. A chill emanated from her that was cold enough to give me frostbite. When it was time to leave, she packed her bag and walked out without a word. I scrambled to catch up. Just outside the library, Ethan Ford intercepted her, holding a milk tea and a small cake. He shouldered me aside, beaming at her. “Lydia, you must be exhausted from studying. I had someone wait in line forever to get these for you. Have a taste?” He thrust the items toward her. Lydia looked thoroughly annoyed. She didn’t reach for them. But as her gaze shifted, she froze. I followed her line of sight. Damn it. How did the bracelet I’d gotten from her end up on Ethan’s wrist? I thought I sold it to some other guy in the group. Noticing her stare, Ethan proudly held up his wrist, giving it a little twirl. “No doubt about it, this is yours! I bought it off some guy.” “Cost me a pretty penny, too,” he added smugly. Damn it all to hell. The guy who bought it said he was short on cash, so I took pity on him and sold it for a measly $520. Lydia’s eyes were fixed on me, her voice practically a growl. “How much did you pay for it?” Ethan grinned. “Ten thousand. The second I heard it was yours, I didn’t even blink. The seller was a real pro about it, too. The money hit his account, and he handed it over without a second thought. See? All those other guys are faking it. I’m the only one who really likes you.” Meanwhile, I was dying a slow, painful death. Damn the middleman! In that moment, I still hadn’t grasped the full extent of the disaster unfolding. Not until Lydia pushed Ethan aside and stalked toward me. Her eyes bored into me, and she forced out a single, chilling question: “Kian, care to explain?”

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