Author: Momo Chan

On Thanksgiving, my long-distance boyfriend sent me his usual check-in photo. He said he was stuck working the holiday shift, eating instant ramen in the security guard booth. I pinched my fingers on the screen, zooming in. Right at the edge of his desk, partially cut off by the frame, sat a half-eaten pork sausage roll. Virgil is a devout Muslim. We had been together for five years. He was the kind of man who would grimace if my fork so much as brushed a plate that had touched lard. There was absolutely no way he would eat pork. We were both drowning in poverty. He was supposedly working as a night watchman back home; I was grinding through five different part-time jobs just to keep my head above water. Because of that, we had a silent agreement not to mention visiting each other for the holiday. Neither of us could afford the luxury. But that night, I spent my last savings on a ticket for the overnight Greyhound bus. Eleven hours. Eleven hours of jolting in a cramped, plastic seat, just to see him. When I finally reached the high-rise office building in Boston, I pulled up his photo and showed it to the security guard at the front desk. “Does Virgil work here? As a guard?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. The older guard blinked at me, then let out a soft, amused laugh. “You mean Mr. Holloway? Our CEO? He’s in the main lobby. It’s his secretary Lydia’s birthday today. He’s cutting the cake with her right now.” I followed his gaze toward the far end of the ground floor. An entire wall of the lobby was made of seamless, floor-to-ceiling glass, brilliantly illuminated. Virgil stood there, dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit. He was leaning down to gently place a paper birthday crown on a young woman’s head, his fingers tenderly brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. He looked incredibly gentle. When the woman turned her face, my breath caught. She looked seventy percent like a younger version of me. The world tilted. Tears blurred my vision as I stepped back into the shadows and dialed my best friend. “Bella,” I sobbed, the words choking me. “He’s cheating on me.” The line went dead quiet for a few seconds. Then, Bella spoke, her voice heavy with a strange, defensive guilt. “So, you finally found out?” “…” “June, look, this is just Virgil’s loyalty test. He wanted to see if you were the kind of girl who was only after his money. You’ve endured so much already. Just put up with it a little longer, okay? It’ll all be worth it.” I didn’t answer. I hung up the phone in silence, then dialed a different number—one I had been avoiding for weeks. “Doctor,” I said, staring at my reflection in the dark glass. “If I choose not to go through with the treatment… how long do I have left?” … The oncologist was quiet for a long moment. “Based on your current blood work, June… a conservative estimate is three months.” I ended the call, and the screen went black. The security guard at the desk was still watching me. His eyes lingered on my faded, worn-out canvas sneakers, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face. “Miss? Do you know Mr. Holloway?” I forced my frozen lips into a faint, hollow stretch of a smile. I opened my mouth, but no words came. I realized, with a sickening jolt, that I didn’t know how to answer him. The Virgil I knew had bought me a nineteen-dollar sterling silver necklace when he earned his very first paycheck from a tutoring gig. He had taken a grueling six-hour train ride just to put it around my neck with clumsy, trembling hands. “June, I promise you, one day I’ll buy you the real thing.” The man standing in that glittering lobby, commanding the room in a luxury suit, was a stranger. I looked down. “We… went to college together,” I murmured. The guard didn’t press further. I walked out and stood alone by the concrete planters, the night wind whipping through my thin jacket. I opened my phone’s browser and typed his name into the search bar: Virgil Holloway. He had told me he was working as a night watchman in our hometown, making barely enough to send money back to his sick parents. I had believed him. He said he couldn’t save enough for a bus ticket to see me. I had believed that, too. I had never doubted a single word that came out of his mouth. “Holloway Enterprises’ Mid-Year Revenue Surpasses One Billion; Young Heir Steps into the Spotlight.” The accompanying photo showed him standing dead center at a press conference, wearing a perfectly tailored suit that accentuated his broad shoulders. He looked worlds apart from the boy who used to wear ten-dollar thrift-store t-shirts. I looked back through the glass wall. The birthday cake was a magnificent, five-tier creation adorned with delicate, sugar-spun roses—the kind of luxury I had only ever seen on television. Virgil stood close to his secretary, his hand lightly resting on the small of her back. Lydia turned her head to smile at him. Those two deep dimples on her cheeks… she looked exactly like me when I was nineteen. But I wasn’t nineteen anymore. Five years of shifts at a 4 AM diner, sorting packages under the scorching summer sun, and standing behind a convenience store register until dawn had long since chased the light from my eyes. But this girl… she looked like a flower that had been meticulously tended to in a greenhouse. The security guard, perhaps eager to share some office gossip, wandered near the door and chuckled. “Mr. Holloway really spoils Miss Lydia. She mentioned she missed the traditional pork sausage rolls from her favorite bakery back home for the holiday, so he literally had someone drive three counties over just to fetch them.” So, the pork sausage roll on the desk… it had been for her. I took a few steps closer, wanting to see them clearly. Virgil picked up the silver cake knife. Lydia placed her hand over his, and together, they cut the first slice. For a fleeting second, I wondered if I had ever known the real Virgil at all. The side door of the lobby pushed open, and two female employees stepped out into the cool night air to share a vape. They didn’t notice me standing behind the shadow of a maple tree. “Lydia is seriously the luckiest girl alive,” one whispered. “Right? She was just a basic receptionist at the regional branch. Mr. Holloway went down for an inspection, saw her once, and had her transferred to headquarters the next day.” “And this party is insane. Those flowers had to be flown in overnight, right?” “Obviously. Did you see the way he looked at her when they cut the cake? It was so sweet it made me want to scream.” They giggled and walked back inside. I leaned my back against the rough bark of the tree, my fingers trembling as I typed a message. “Virgil, what are you doing right now?” Through the glass, I saw him reach into his trousers and pull out his phone. He glanced at the screen. When Lydia leaned in to see, he subtly tilted the screen away from her view. A few seconds later, my phone vibrated. “Just on my shift at the gatehouse. It’s going to be a long night. Go to sleep early, honey. Don’t stay up late.” A cold wave of nausea washed over me as I thought of my mother, currently hooked up to life support in an ICU back home. If Virgil had just told me the truth, would I have had to work five jobs? Would I have taken that toxic job at the adhesive factory—the one that filled my lungs with benzene and gave me leukemia? I took a deep breath, my chest aching, and sent another text. “Virgil, let’s break up.” Inside the lobby, the easy smile on Virgil’s face vanished. “June, what’s wrong? Are you just exhausted? Hang in there. As soon as this busy stretch is over, I’ll come see you.” I let out a breathless, tragic laugh, the tears finally spilling over. I had heard that exact phrase so many times. During our senior year of college, it was “once this internship is over.” After graduation, it was “once my job stabilizes.” And lately, it was “once I save up enough.” I had waited every single time. And today, my reward was watching him throw a fairy-tale birthday party for another woman. My phone buzzed repeatedly. Virgil was calling. I stared at the cheap silver band on my finger—the one we had hammered out together—and swiped to answer. “June!” His voice was frantic, laced with a familiar panic. “Why are you saying this? What happened?” He sounded exactly the same as he did years ago. During our junior year, when I had fainted from exhaustion, he had rushed to the clinic and held my hand with that exact same desperate tone. “June, please look at me. What’s wrong?” Back then, he had pestered the school nurse until she practically threw him out, repeatedly promising him that it was just low blood sugar. He had sat by my cot for the entire afternoon, refusing to leave. But hearing that same frantic tone now only made me feel a profound, absurd sense of mockery. I laughed, but it quickly turned into a sob. The tears tasted bitter and salty as they slipped into my mouth. “Virgil, have you ever done anything to betray me?” The line went dead silent for a moment. Then, his voice came through, steady and quiet. “No.” “What are you doing right now?” I pressed. “I’m working my shift at the gatehouse.” A sudden wave of dry heaves hit me. My stomach, empty for over eleven hours, burned with acid. I hung up and turned to walk toward the lobby doors, but before I could take a step, someone grabbed my arm. It was Bella. She was my closest friend from college, the one who had witnessed every milestone of my relationship with Virgil. Now, a glossy Holloway Enterprises ID badge hung around her neck. Bella had never been an outstanding student, and her resume had been rejected by dozens of mid-level firms. Then, out of nowhere, she had joyfully announced she’d landed a high-paying corporate job at Holloway. I had been so happy for her that I’d scraped together enough money to treat her to dinner. It had all been because of Virgil. She had known about his true identity all along. She had known about his billions while watching me work myself to the bone, watching me cry over photos of his instant ramen. She had probably even helped him craft his lies. Bella held onto my arm tightly. “June, please calm down. Just let me explain, okay?” “Let go of me.” “Virgil didn’t have a choice! You don’t know the kind of vultures that circle guys in his position. He just wanted to find a girl who truly loved him for who he was, someone who wasn’t after his money. Don’t you see?” I looked at her—at this girl who used to share a tiny dorm bed with me, whispering our secrets into the night. Her face looked completely foreign. “So… this whole five-year struggle was just an obstacle course? A test?” Bella squeezed my hand. “You’re right at the finish line, June. Just hold on a little longer. Virgil has been thinking about you this whole time. You’re the one he loves. That secretary doesn’t mean anything to him.” I yanked my hand back, my voice cracking. “He loves me? By feeding me lies about instant ramen while he cuts a five-tier cake with her?” Bella opened her mouth, but no sound came out. I turned away from her and marched toward the glass doors. As I pushed them open, the warmth of the lobby and the sound of laughter crashed over me. The room was filled with people in sleek evening wear and elegant dresses. I was wearing a pair of old, faded jeans that had begun to pill at the knees. I looked like a stain on their perfect picture. Virgil was the first to see me. His hand, holding a flute of champagne, froze mid-air. Lydia followed his gaze, her smile faltering. She instinctively took a small step closer to Virgil, her shoulder brushing his. Virgil muttered something to her, set his glass down, and walked quickly toward me. He reached out and gently took my hands, his brow furrowed in that familiar, protective way. “Why are your hands so cold?” He immediately began slipping his charcoal suit jacket off his shoulders to drape it over me. He had done this a thousand times before—by the lake on campus, under the freezing draft of the library vents, on the dark walks home after a late movie. He spoke to me in that soft, soothing voice he used when I was upset. “How did you get here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” I stared into his familiar eyes, then grabbed the lapels of his jacket and threw it to the floor. “Keep your expensive clothes, Mr. Holloway. A girl like me doesn’t deserve them.” His face paled. “June, don’t talk like that. I—” “Does this make you feel good, Virgil? Are you amused?” His throat bobbed as he tried to grab my hand again. “June, you’re misunderstanding this. Lydia is just a kid fresh out of college. She… she reminded me so much of how you were when we first met. I saw her and I just wanted to help her out. That’s all.” “I can explain everything else later—” Before he could finish, the phone in my pocket began to vibrate violently. I pulled it out and answered. “Miss Song,” the doctor’s voice was urgent. “Your mother has just suffered acute multi-organ failure. Her condition is critical. We need to know if you authorize the use of the imported experimental drugs immediately.” The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto the marble floor. I knelt down to pick it up, and a shard of the shattered screen sliced deep into my thumb. I didn’t feel a thing. The experimental drugs were highly effective. But they were incredibly expensive. I stood back up, looking directly at Virgil. “Virgil, you’re a billionaire, right? Can you give me some money? Please.” His brow furrowed deeper, his tone turning cautious, almost disappointed. “June, today is the very last day of the trial. Just wait until tomorrow, and I’ll buy you whatever—” “I don’t want tomorrow!” I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat, raw and hysterical. “I need it today! Right now! Do you hear me?!” A look of deep weariness and doubt crept into his eyes. “June, please. I need this final proof to show my parents that you’re the right woman to marry me. Don’t ruin this now.” I stared at him, hot tears pouring down my face. “Virgil… if I agree to break up with you, will you give me the money?” He froze, and then, to my horror, a faint, confident smile touched his lips. “Stop talking nonsense. I know you’d never leave me.” He was always so calm. He always had his reasons, always assumed he held all the cards. Unable to contain the wild, agonizing storm inside me, I swung my hand and slapped him across the face. Then, I turned and ran. The tears blinded me, turning the corridor into a smear of bright lights. I stumbled, nearly falling over my own feet. “Hey! Stop right there!” A sharp voice called out from behind me. I stopped and looked back. Lydia was standing at the end of the hallway. A delicate gold bracelet sparkled on her wrist under the recessed lights. She walked toward me, her eyes scanning my cheap clothes with cold disdain. “You look like you’re practically begging for cash,” she said, her voice dripping with pity. “I’ve seen plenty of girls like you trying to extort Mr. Holloway.” She tilted her wrist, letting the gold catch the light. “See this? Mr. Holloway got it for me last month. It’s the newest Cartier piece. Over five thousand dollars.” She brushed her hair back, revealing a pair of lustrous pearl earrings. “And these? Fifty thousand.” Lydia’s expression softened into an insincere, mocking show of sympathy. She leaned in close to my face. “Do you want them?” she whispered. “If you do, I can give them to you. The money I spend on a single pair of shoes could fund your little life for years.” My body went rigid. In that moment, pride was a luxury I could not afford. My mother was dying. “Yes,” I choked out. Lydia smiled, tilting her chin up as she looked down at me. “Then kneel. Kneel and beg me for it.” She pointed to the polished marble floor. “Right here. Do it, and the money is yours.” My hands clenched into tight fists, my fingernails biting so deep into my palms that they drew blood. But then I saw my mother. My mother hooked to the ventilator, her fragile body pierced by a dozen tubes, her voice echoing in my mind, telling me not to work so hard. The images shattered my spine. I bent my knees. They hit the cold, hard tile with a dull thud that sent a sharp pain straight to my chest. Lydia looked down at me, letting out a delighted, soft laugh. “Good girl.” She slowly drew her phone from her designer clutch. “Hold on, let me transfer it. Don’t worry, my phone is just a little laggy today.” She swiped her screen, deliberately dragging out every second. “Oh, wait, why is my passcode failing? Ah, I put it in wrong again. Just a second, almost got it.” My knees were growing numb against the marble, but I didn’t dare move. I was terrified she would change her mind. “Okay, there. Is ten thousand enough?” She looked at me with amusement. “Oh, wait, my personal account has a daily limit. I’ll just use the shared Apple Pay. Virgil set it up for me on his black card—the limit is practically endless.” She tapped the screen a few more times, then turned the phone to show me the confirmation screen. She had used Virgil’s money to buy my dignity. I slowly stood up. Just as I did, my shattered phone buzzed in my hand. A single text message appeared on the cracked screen: “Miss Song, we regret to inform you that despite our best efforts, your mother, Ruth Song, passed away tonight at 11:24 PM.” I stared at the words until they lost all meaning. My eyes felt dry, as if the well of my tears had completely burned out. Heavy, urgent footsteps echoed from the other end of the hall. Virgil appeared, his expression dark with fury as he stopped in front of me. “June! Have you lost your mind?” he barked. “Are you really so desperate for money that you’d corner a young girl who just graduated and threaten her?” Lydia shrank back beside him, tears instantly welling in her eyes. “Mr. Holloway… she just blocked my way and demanded ten thousand dollars. She said she’d hurt me if I didn’t give it to her.” Virgil’s eyes flared with disgust. He grabbed my wrist, his grip painfully tight. “June, I can’t believe I ever loved you. You’re nothing but a superficial, greedy liar!” I slowly raised my head to look at him. My lips parted, but my throat was entirely dry. No sound came. The lights overhead began to spin, faster and faster, dissolving into streaks of white. I closed my eyes as my body went limp, falling like a leaf into the dark. The last thing I heard was Virgil’s voice, suddenly sharp with terror. “June! June, wake up!” Then, the darkness swallowed me whole. I woke up to the faint, clinical smell of antiseptic. The curtains were drawn, letting in only a sliver of pale morning light. Beside my bed was a vinyl guest chair. Over the armrest hung a gray cashmere scarf. Last winter, Virgil had sent me a selfie wearing that exact scarf. When I told him it looked incredibly soft, he had laughed and said he bought it at a street market for five dollars. I had teased him, telling him he made a five-dollar scarf look like five hundred. The door creaked open. Virgil’s best friend, Jackie, stepped into the room. “You’re finally awake,” he said, pulling the chair closer to the bed. “How are you feeling? Do you want some water?” I nodded slowly. He hurried to pour a cup and handed it to me. “Your fever was dangerously high last night. You were completely out of it,” Jackie said quietly. “Virgil stayed by your side the entire night. He only stepped out a few minutes ago after your fever finally broke.” I stared at the gray scarf on the chair, remaining silent. Thinking I didn’t believe him, Jackie added quickly, “I’m serious, June. I’ve known Virgil since college, and I’ve never seen him panic like that. When you collapsed, he carried you out of the building and ran through three red lights to get you here. He almost got into a fistfight with the ER doctor because he wanted them to treat you first.” My expression didn’t change. I listened to his words as if they were about someone else entirely. Jackie’s phone began to vibrate. He glanced at the screen, gave me an apologetic look, and stepped out into the hallway to answer it. He pulled the door shut behind him, but it didn’t click fully into place. Through the gap, his voice carried clearly into the room. “Yeah, her fever is down. She just woke up. She looks physically okay, but she isn’t talking.” There was a brief pause. Then, Jackie’s voice dropped, filled with caution. “When are you coming back? Have you… have you calmed your secretary down yet?” My fingers curled into the thin hospital blanket, gripping the fabric until my knuckles turned white. Even now, I was still secondary to his other priorities. Jackie’s voice faded as he walked further down the corridor. I threw off the blanket and pulled the IV needle from the back of my hand. A small bead of dark blood welled up, but I ignored it. My phone was gone, and I only had a few crumpled bills left in my coat pocket. But I couldn’t bear the thought of being in this room when Virgil returned. I slipped out of the side exit. I didn’t have enough money for a cab, so I began the long walk to the train station. As I passed a small florist on the corner, I stopped. Water droplets clung to the bright yellow petals of some sunflowers. It made me think of Virgil. Whenever we had a stupid argument, he would always show up at my door with a single sunflower to make peace. I wondered if he was buying flowers to apologize to Lydia right now. I shook the thought from my head and kept walking. By the time I reached the station, the sun was high overhead. My heels were rubbed raw, bleeding into my cheap sneakers. I used my remaining cash to buy a ticket, and boarded the train back to Lansing. On the other side of the city, Virgil was holding a container of warm pumpkin porridge—my favorite—as he rode the elevator up to the fifth floor of the hospital. The elevator doors slid open, and a phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, realizing it wasn’t his own. It was my cracked phone, which he had picked up from the lobby floor after I collapsed. He hesitated for a second, then answered. “Miss Song,” the oncologist’s voice came through the line. “Regarding the treatment plan we discussed last week… have you made a decision? If we don’t start chemotherapy immediately, the leukemia will—” Virgil froze in the middle of the corridor, his entire body going rigid. “What?” he breathed. “If the leukemia is left untreated, you only have three months left to live.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “526582”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Late at night, while scrolling through a relationship forum, a post caught my eye. Dating my girlfriend for five years, but she refuses to get a marriage license. Is it worth staying? The comment section was already flooded with people calling the original poster a hopeless fool. As the page kept refreshing with new replies, I decided to leave a comment of my own. “My girlfriend belongs to an off-grid, matriarchal community. We’ve lived in a ‘visitor’s union’ for eight years.” “No marriage license, no wedding. She treats our apartment like a hotel, coming and going as she pleases.” “Most months, we don’t even see each other once.” “The child stays with her. He’s seven now, and he’s never called me Dad.” “Oh, and she has a childhood sweetheart from her community. When she’s not with me, she’s with him.” Within minutes, my comment blew up. The upvotes quickly surpassed the original post. The author of the thread replied to me with genuine pity. “Man, you definitely have it worse.” I hovered my thumb over the screen just as a notification from my airline app popped up, reminding me of my upcoming flight. Yes, it was pathetic. So I gave up. Maybe this relationship was doomed from the very beginning—eight years ago, when I first climbed the ladder to her loft. … “What are you looking at?” Wren’s voice startled me from behind. I quickly locked my phone screen and glanced at the wall clock. Ten o’clock. This was the first time she had come home this month. “Nothing.” Wren didn’t pry. She opened the closet and began pulling out the last few items of her clothing, announcing her plans as casually as she always did. “The long holiday weekend is coming up. I’m taking Troy and Cody back to our community on the Lost Coast.” I froze mid-motion, slowly turning to look at her. She had promised me. She had sworn that over this long weekend, she would finally make time to go to the hospital with me to see my mother. Troy, our son, turned seven today. And yet, my mother had never even laid eyes on her own grandson. A bitter tightness seized my throat. I swallowed hard before I could speak. “You promised me, Wren. You said you’d visit my mom this weekend.” “The hospital is so close. My mom just wants to see Troy. Just once…” She cut me off before I could finish. Her voice carried that familiar, sharp edge of impatience. “What is there to see? Your mother has been in that hospital forever. The whole place smells like sickness and death.” “An oncology ward isn’t exactly a healthy environment. What if Troy catches something?” She set her clothes down and met my gaze, her shrug entirely dismissive. “It’s been years, Jesse. Another day won’t make a difference.” Always the same excuse. I had heard it a hundred times over the last eight years. I looked around the apartment. Little by little, the traces of her and our son were vanishing. I wondered what she would take next. Before I could say anything else, the front door—which hadn’t been fully latched—swung open. A small figure burst in, throwing himself into Wren’s arms. “Mommy!” Troy cried, clinging to her. Wren looked up, surprised. “It’s late. Why did you bring him here?” Cody was leaning against the doorframe, a faint, knowing smirk on his face. “Your son couldn’t stand being away from you for another second. He insisted on coming.” He looked at her open suitcase. “Packed and ready?” Troy pulled back from Wren’s embrace, his dark eyes locking onto me. I slowly knelt down, extending my arms. “Troy, come here. Let Daddy give you a hug.” It had been so long since I’d held him. He had lived with Wren’s family in their matriarchal community since birth, spending far more time with Cody than with me. Troy pouted, immediately stepping back to grab Cody’s hand. He crossed his arms and made a face at me. “You’re not my daddy!” My hands froze in mid-air. Cody’s smirk widened into a triumphant grin as he swept Troy up into his arms. “Sorry, Jesse. Looks like your kid just likes me better.” Wren, as usual, did nothing to defend me. She simply sighed. “He’s just a kid. When he’s older, he’ll understand.” She zipped her suitcase and handed it to Cody. As he reached for it, my eyes caught the object clenched in his other hand. A hand-woven, patterned wool sash. A cold, ringing static filled my ears. In Wren’s community, they exchanged handcrafted tokens of commitment. Eight years ago, when I climbed the ladder to her loft, she had given me a hand-carved silver haircomb. But this woven sash… I had seen it before. I had found it half-finished in her bag months ago and assumed she was making it for me. When I asked her about it, she had screamed at me, accusing me of invading her privacy. Now, I knew. It was for Cody. A deep, bone-chilling cold settled over me. I stood frozen, my eyes locked onto the sash. Cody noticed where I was looking. He offered a small, smug wave of his hand, not saying a word, but letting his eyes do all the talking. I clenched my fists so tightly my nails bit into my palms, the sharp pain pulling me back to reality. Just as they turned to leave, I finally spoke. “Wren. Take this with you, too.” Wren’s eyes dilated the moment she saw what was in my hand. “What is this supposed to mean?” Her face went pale. The silver comb lay flat in my palm. I held out the very token she had given me all those years ago. Even Cody’s smile vanished. In their community, returning a token of commitment was the ultimate insult—a public declaration of divorce and a deep embarrassment. Wren grit her teeth. “Are you losing your mind, Jesse? Just because I didn’t agree to visit your mother right this second?” “Is this really worth throwing a tantrum over?” My arm began to ache from holding it out. The air in the room felt thick, suffocating. Wren let out a sharp, bitter laugh. She stepped forward and snatched the silver comb from my hand. Before I could even blink, she threw it violently against the hardwood floor. Crack. The metal shattered, and a flying fragment nicked my cheek, leaving a stinging line of warmth. “Satisfied? You are completely unreasonable.” The door slammed shut, the sound echoing through the empty apartment. I stood there for a long time, staring at the broken silver pieces scattered across the floor. A deep, physical ache bloomed in my chest. Eight years ago, during our union ceremony, she had held my hand, pressed this comb into my palm, and whispered, “To the end of the road, through the highs and the lows.” Back then, her eyes had been so bright, so full of love. Now, there was nothing left. I knelt down and slowly swept the broken pieces into my hand. I had carried this comb next to my heart for eight years. In the end, its only destination was the trash can. A single tear slipped down my face, landing on the dusty floor. Suddenly, my phone vibrated violently. I wiped my eyes quickly. It was the hospital. “Mr. Campbell? Your mother’s vitals are dropping. You need to get here as soon as possible.” Without a second thought, I rushed out the door. My mother had been diagnosed with terminal cancer two years ago. There was no cure; we were just buying time. In the ICU, she was hooked up to a labyrinth of tubes, her hand resting on the edge of the mattress, thin and paper-like. I knelt by her bedside and squeezed her hand. She was conscious, her breathing shallow and labored. “Jesse… when can I see Troy? I’m afraid… I won’t make it.” Tears welled in her hollow eyes, spilling over her temple and soaking into the pillow. I squeezed her hand tighter, my voice thick. “I’ll call Wren. I’ll make sure she brings Troy right now.” I stepped out into the sterile, quiet hallway, my fingers trembling so hard I could barely unlock my screen. It rang for a long time before someone finally picked up. But it wasn’t Wren. “Uncle Jesse? Why are you calling?” Uncle. The word pierced right through me, a brutal reminder of how distant my own son was. I opened my mouth, but my throat was so dry no words came out. Only a ragged breath escaped. “Mommy, Daddy, and I are taking family photos right now. Don’t bother us.” The line went dead. I stood frozen, the dial tone buzzing in my ear. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to look composed, and walked back into the room. My mother’s eyes flared with a sudden, desperate hope. “Are they coming?” Looking at her fragile, expectant face, the truth lodged itself in my throat. I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. The silence in the room stretched. Slowly, the light in my mother’s eyes faded. Her tense shoulders relaxed, and she sank back into the pillows, letting out a soft, tired sigh. “It’s okay… at least I have you, my boy.” “I’ll never forget the day you came home eight years ago, your eyes shining, telling me you’d found the love of your life.” “As long as you’re happy, Jesse.” But was I happy? I stared at my dark phone screen, lost in a daze. I stayed by her bedside for twenty-four hours, barely moving. The next afternoon, as I was waiting in the hospital lobby to pick up her pain medication, Wren burst through the sliding doors, frantic and breathless. “I knew you’d be here.” Without giving me a chance to speak, she grabbed my arm and tried to drag me toward the emergency wing. “Troy ran into the street. Cody threw himself in front of a car to save him. He’s badly hurt.” “He’s lost too much blood, and they need a donor. Your blood types match.” She was sweating, her voice shaking. But as she pulled, my feet remained glued to the floor. She spun around, furious. “What are you doing?!” “He’s hurt and needs blood. What does that have to do with me?” Wren stared at me, her eyes wide with utter disbelief. Her lips trembled. “He saved your son!” “The boy who has never once called me Dad.” Wren shook with rage. Through the glass partition of the nearby trauma bay, I could see Cody lying on a gurney, pale and covered in blood. “Didn’t your mother want to see Troy?” Wren let go of my arm, her voice dropping to a cold, transactional whisper. “If you do this, I’ll bring Troy to see her. If you don’t, I swear to God, she will die without ever laying eyes on her grandson.” The threat struck like a physical blow. My mother’s fragile, hollow face flashed in my mind. “Fine.” I looked her dead in the eye. “Keep your word.” I sat in the blood donation chair, watching my blood drain into the plastic bag. It was only when the doctor announced that Cody was out of danger that Wren finally let out a long breath, cradling Troy in her arms. I leaned against the wall, my head spinning from the blood loss. “Can we take Troy to my mother’s room now? It’s just down the hall.” Wren rubbed her temples, her expression twisting with irritation. “Can’t this wait until Cody wakes up? If it weren’t for Cody, your mother wouldn’t even have a grandson to see. Do you have to be so relentless?” She looked up at me, but when she saw how pale and bloodless my face was, she hesitated, her voice softening slightly. “Your mom’s room is so sterile. Troy’s immune system is weak. You know how easily he gets sick.” “How about tomorrow? You bring your mom out of her room, and we’ll meet in the courtyard.” I let out a dry, bitter laugh. My mother was on life support. How was she supposed to go to a courtyard? I turned and walked back to my mother’s room. I told her about the arrangement. I wanted to tell her to forget it, that they weren’t worth it. But my mother’s eyes flared with sudden life. She nodded eagerly. “I can do that, Jesse. The doctors gave me some new meds. I have energy now. Tomorrow. Let’s do it tomorrow!” I swallowed the lump in my throat, looking at how she was willing to drag her dying body just to catch a glimpse of the child. “Okay,” I whispered. “I’ll arrange it.” That evening, I went back to the apartment to pack some things. Wren and Troy were there. Troy was asleep on the guest bed, and Wren was sitting on the sofa, waiting for me. I was too tired for another fight. I turned toward my room. “You’ve been acting strange lately,” she called out. “I’m home, and you don’t even say a word.” “What do you want me to say? Welcome back?” Wren’s face faltered. She stood up. “Jesse, if you really don’t want to live in a visitor’s union anymore… we can get married. I’ll sign the papers.” “After all, it’s been eight years…” If she had said this a year ago, I would have been too happy to sleep. But now, hearing it, I felt absolutely nothing. My life didn’t have to revolve around her anymore. Before I could answer, she added, “Next week. Next Tuesday, we’ll go to City Hall and get the marriage license.” Next Tuesday. The exact day I had arranged to transfer my mother to a hospice care facility closer to my hometown. I had kept her here in the city only because she wanted to be close to Wren and Troy. “We’ll see,” I said, and closed the bedroom door, shutting out her complicated, lingering gaze. The next morning, I dressed my mother in her favorite sweater and pushed her wheelchair to the small bistro near the hospital that Wren had booked. Maybe it was the medication, or maybe it was the sheer force of will to see her grandson, but she looked better than she had in months. She breathed through her portable oxygen tank, her eyes glued to the restaurant door. “Jesse… they’re coming, right?” I check my phone. Ten minutes ago, Wren texted saying she was on her way. Minutes tick by. The waiter came to our table three times, asking if we’re ready to order. I called Wren. No answer. I knew then. She wasn’t coming. I knelt in front of my mother’s wheelchair, taking her cold hands. “Mom, let’s go back.” She looked at the door one last time, her trembling hand adjusting the nasal cannula. “It’s okay…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I didn’t… I didn’t really need to see them anyway.” Her voice trailed off into nothing. A strange weight settled in her hands. “Mom?” No response. By the time the paramedics arrived, she was gone. She probably knew her time was up. She waited as long as she could, but in the end, she left this world with a broken promise hanging over her. I went through the motions of signing the death certificate, my mind entirely numb. That’s when Wren finally called. “I forgot to tell you, Cody got discharged today. I had to drive him home and help him settle in. We’ll have to do lunch another time.” “There won’t be another time.” The line went quiet for a second. Then, her voice sharpens with impatience. “Don’t start, Jesse. I actually had a real emergency today.” I looked down at the death certificate clutched in my fist. My voice was a raspy whisper. “We’re done, Wren.” When I returned to the apartment, Wren was already there. She looks furious. “Jesse, can you try to be understanding for once in your life?” “And your mother is ridiculous, constantly demanding to see the kid. We were only a day late. Do you really have to give me this attitude?” “If it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t even have a grandson. Is she really so close to the grave that she can’t wait twenty-four hours?” Before she could finish the sentence, my hand flew across her face. The slap echoed in the empty room. Wren staggers back, clutching her reddened cheek, her eyes wide with shock and hurt. “Fine,” she spits, tears welling up. “Hit me. You knew what this was from day one. We are in a free union. I don’t belong to you. If you want a traditional little wife so badly, go find someone else!” She slammed the door as she left. I stared at my palm. If I had known eight years ago that it would end like this, I never would have climbed that ladder. The next day was the day of my flight. I was supposed to take my mother with me to start a new life. Now, I was carrying her ashes in an urn. As I was packing the last of my things, a package arrived. No return name. I opened it. Inside were two red leather folders holding a marriage certificate. Wren Cooper and Cody Cross. My phone buzzed immediately. Cody and I signed the papers today. The wedding is next month. Looking at the texts, a strange, profound lightness washed over me. The heavy stone that had sat on my chest for eight years simply vanished. It was better this way. No more lingering threads. I pulled my suitcase out to the waiting cab. The apartment where I spent eight years waiting for her slowly disappeared in the rearview mirror.

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My adoptive sister, Ivy, was abused barely a week after her wedding. The moment I heard, I rushed over to protect her. Instead, she locked me in the house with her husband, who was in a blind, drunken rage. He stabbed me three times before the police arrived. After the emergency surgery, my recovery was a nightmare. Seeing Ivy triggered violent panic attacks, my chest seizing so hard that my half-healed stitches tore open again and again. My husband, Connor, stayed by my bedside day and night, strictly banning Ivy from my sight. But two months later, when I was finally discharged and walked through our front door, the first thing I saw was Connor holding my weeping sister in a tight embrace. Seeing me tremble, the familiar panic clawing at my throat, Connor stepped forward to block me. “Megan, Ivy is so fragile. It’s been months. You have to let it go.” I stared at her, and the terror took over. My hands shook violently, clawing blindly at the air, accidentally scratching his neck. He winced, his face hardening. “Enough! You lived in a filthy barn for fifteen years, sleeping with the livestock. You weren’t this fragile then.” He sneered. “Are you really going to use your sob story to manipulate everyone again?” I froze, staring at the man in front of me. My mouth opened, then closed. I couldn’t find the words. Maybe it was time to stop begging for scraps of love. Maybe this was the end. … Seeing me stand there in silence, a flicker of panic crossed Connor’s face. “Megan, I…” He took a step toward me. “I didn’t mean it like that.” “I just meant… Ivy’s been sheltered her whole life. She doesn’t have your resilience.” Resilience. What a polite word for survival. She was sheltered. I remember my own childhood. My foster parents treated me like a farmhand from the moment I could walk. While other kids did homework, I was mucking out stables, hauling feed, and sleeping in the drafty, ammonia-soaked barn as punishment. The dark, the smell of manure, the terrifying scuttling of rats—those nights are branded into my bones. Then the police came. A weeping couple—my biological parents—pulled me into their arms. That was the day I met Ivy. I learned the truth later: Ivy’s biological parents had switched us at birth in the hospital, driven by a sick, desperate superstition that the more I suffered, the more blessed their own daughter’s life would be. I still remember Ivy kneeling before me on our first day in that grand house, her tears dripping onto my bare feet. “Please, don’t make them send me back. I’m so scared…” My heart softened. I begged my parents to let her stay. When I met Connor in college, I didn’t know how to handle love. I told him my darkest secrets, hoping to scare him away. But he just held me, his eyes wet with tears, and whispered, “I’ll protect you, Megan.” For years, he was my anchor. He stayed awake during my worst nightmares, pulling me back to reality. But then we got married. He met Ivy. And slowly, imperceptibly, the tide began to turn. I looked up at Connor. “Ivy’s sheltered life was paid for with my blood.” The fleeting guilt on his face evaporated. “Not this again,” he sighed, sinking into the sofa. “I know you suffered. I know she got your life. But how is that Ivy’s fault? She was a victim too.” He never used to say things like that. Before he met her, he couldn’t even stand the mention of her name. “I hate anyone who stole your life,” he’d say. Now, he sat beside her, casually rewriting history. Seeing the tension rise, Ivy slid off the couch and fell to her knees. “Megan, I was so scared that night. I didn’t mean to lock the door.” Her tears fell right on cue. “If you want, take a knife and stab me ten times. Just forgive me.” I recoiled, my heart hammering. “Get up, Ivy.” Whenever she knelt, bad things happened. The last time she knelt, she was begging me to save her from Derek, her abusive husband. I had rushed over, trying to shield her, only for her to push me inside and lock the door from the outside, leaving me to face a madman with a blade. Connor immediately pulled her to her feet. “Megan, haven’t you punished her enough? She’s your sister. I’m only trying to help her so you don’t live with the guilt later. Just show some grace.” Grace. I looked at the subtle, protective way his hand rested on her shoulder. A cold laugh escaped my throat. “If you want me to be so generous, why don’t I just give you my husband, too?” They froze. Connor’s hand slipped from her arm, and he stepped closer to me. “So that’s what this is. Megan, are you seriously jealous of your own sister?” I pushed his hands away. “The moment she locked me in that room to die, she stopped being my sister.” I reached into my bag and pulled out a business card, throwing it on the coffee table. “This is Wesley’s card. He’s a top-tier divorce attorney. He’s booked out for years, but if you mention my name, he’ll take your case.” Ivy looked at Connor, biting her lip, and shook her head. Connor picked up the card. “Megan, stop pressuring her. She’s terrified of Derek.” Ivy shrank behind him, clutching his arm. “I… I can’t do it…” I sighed. “Fine. If you’re too scared, I’ll have Wesley file your divorce petition when he files my assault charges against him.” Silence fell over the room. They both avoided my gaze. “What are you hiding from me?” I asked, a chill running down my spine. Connor stammered, “Megan, he’s still her husband. If we involve the police, it’ll ruin Ivy’s reputation. So…” They hadn’t called the police. Everything Connor had told me in the hospital about Derek being in custody was a lie designed to keep me quiet. “Megan, you’re strong,” Connor said, stepping in front of Ivy, shielding her the way he used to shield me. “You’ve recovered. Let’s not be vindictive.” My chest felt like it was being hollowed out with a rusty spoon. Unable to stand another second, I turned and walked into my bedroom, locking the door behind me. At 1:00 AM, Connor slipped into the room. He knelt by my bed, taking my hand. “Megan, let the anger go. Bitterness won’t heal you.” He gently traced the scar on my arm, a tear falling onto my palm. “I wish I could have taken those blows for you.” I pulled my hand back, wiping it on the sheet. Maybe he’s just confused, a desperate, foolish voice whispered inside me. Maybe he’s just caught in the middle. But then, a soft, muffled sob drifted from the guest room. Without a moment’s hesitation, Connor stood up and rushed out. He didn’t return for the rest of the night. In that long, dark silence, everything became clear. After our parents died, they left everything to me. I had pampered Ivy, wanting to shield her from the harshness of the world, thinking we were all we had left. Instead, they had both treated me like a fool. When dawn broke, I called Wesley. “It looks like Ivy won’t be needing that divorce lawyer,” I said, my voice steady. “But I do.” Connor was a marry-in husband. When we met, he was the handsome, popular college senior. Everyone thought he came from money, but only I knew he was an orphan raised by his grandmother in a trailer park. I protected his pride, hid his past, and had my father set him up with a comfortable corporate job. When my parents passed and I took over the family firm, I promoted him to General Manager. But no matter how much I gave him, in his eyes, I was always the dirty girl from the barn who relied on his charity to survive. “Hurts to watch someone else take what’s yours, doesn’t it?” Ivy’s voice shattered my thoughts. She was leaning against the bedroom doorframe, a cruel, mocking smirk on her face. My hands started to shake. “Connor!” Ivy stepped into the room, flashing her perfect dimples. “Calling for him? Don’t worry, I’m not that stupid. I sent him out on an errand.” She placed a cold hand on my shoulder. “Remember when you came back and stole my life? My parents?” I shook her hand off. “Stole? They were my parents.” She smiled, walked over to my nightstand, and slid open the drawer, pulling out a half-empty box of Trojans. “Did you even notice these were missing? They’re actually quite nice.” My stomach lurched. “You have no idea how much he despises you,” she whispered, leaning down. “He says you’re too needy, always whining about your past. And…” She covered her nose, laughing. “He says you still smell like manure. It makes him sick to touch you.” “Why did you have to come back, Megan? If you hadn’t, Connor would be mine. This house, the company—everything would be mine.” I squeezed my hands into fists. “If you want him so badly, take him.” She lunged, her fingers clamping tightly around my neck. “Are you bragging to me?” Then she let go, laughing as her hand drifted down to her stomach. “Connor is such an idiot. He refused to divorce you. That’s why I had to marry Derek—to hide the fact that I was carrying Connor’s baby.” I stared at her, paralyzed. She reached into the closet and tossed a medical sheet onto the bed. It was a pregnancy report. Four months. Four months ago, when our company was struggling and I was drinking myself to a stomach ulcer to secure clients, Connor had missed my emergency hospitalization. “You wondered why he didn’t show up that night, didn’t you? He was in my bed.” The room spun. I leaned over and threw up. The pieces finally fell into place. Why he protected her, why he wept when she married Derek, why he asked about her safety first while I lay bleeding in the ER. A buzz from my phone broke the silence. It was a text from Wesley with a draft of the divorce agreement. Without looking at Ivy, I packed a small bag and headed to the clinic for my follow-up appointment. While walking out of the doctor’s office, Connor blocked my path. “Megan, stop this nonsense.” “Why must you always threaten me? First with your tragic past, now with divorce. Why can’t you be independent like Ivy?” I looked at him, feeling a profound emptiness. My trauma, which I thought he had helped me carry, was just leverage to him. I forwarded him the PDF. “I’m not threatening you. We’re done.” He stared at his phone, his face paling. He grabbed my wrist. “Megan, look, I know I’ve been distant lately…” His phone rang. It was Ivy. Whatever she said made his face go white. He let go of my arm and ran toward the exit without a single word of explanation. As his figure disappeared, Ivy stepped out from behind a pillar in the lobby. “See? You’re nothing to him.” “One mention of a stomachache, and he leaves you behind.” Her voice was dripping with venom. “Too bad you’re a barren hen.” She pointed a manicured finger at my stomach. “Oh, I remember. Connor told me you used to steal birth control pills when you were a kid because you were afraid of the neighbor’s son raping you. You ruined your own body.” A loud ringing filled my ears. The neighbor’s son, who used to corner me in the dark. The sheer, paralyzing terror that had made me swallow those pills in secret. I had trusted Connor with my deepest shame. And he had turned it into pillow talk. Before I could breathe, a man in a black jacket stepped out from the shadows. It was Derek. The man who had stabbed me was standing right there, free and smiling. The trauma hit me like a physical blow. I couldn’t breathe. I fell to the floor, thrashing wildly, screaming as the lobby swam around me. Bystanders gathered, pointing and whispering. Ivy stepped forward, her heel pinning my hand to the cold tile. “Don’t worry, sister. I’ll make sure you get a nice, quiet room in the asylum. And I’ll take good care of Connor and your inheritance.” My vision faded. With my last ounce of strength, I pressed the emergency bypass button on my phone. Connor rushed back in, shouting at Ivy, “Is this your ‘little lesson’? You went too far!” In those final seconds, as my vision narrowed to a tiny, dark pinprick, I saw the green “location sent” bubble on my screen. I let out a ragged breath and let the darkness take me.

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On the night of our eighth anniversary, I made a full dinner and waited. By the time Andrew finally walked through the door, the whipped cream on the cake had already collapsed into a sad, melted puddle. His first words weren’t an apology. “Flora’s voice recorder is broken. I promised I’d fix it for her tonight, so go ahead and sleep without me.” I froze. Flora was the one that got away—his college crush, the girl he’d spent years pining after before she rejected him. Last month, she was transferred back to his firm. Since then, Andrew’s world had become a series of “conveniences” for her. He’d “conveniently” drive her home, “conveniently” stay late to help her work, and “conveniently” give up our reservation at a Michelin-starred restaurant so she could have a welcome-back dinner. He had even “conveniently” taken the matching couple’s watches I had painstakingly picked out to the office, letting Flora try hers on first. When I confronted him, he shrugged. “She just casually mentioned they looked nice. Don’t be so petty, Natalie.” I looked at the table of cold food and asked softly, “Andrew, do you even know what day it is?” He frowned, his expression tightening. “Don’t start, Natalie. Flora has a big presentation tomorrow. She needs this. It’s too important to delay.” It turned out eight years of history couldn’t compete with her needing a favor. Since I was never his first choice anyway, I realized I didn’t need to waste any more time waiting for him to choose me. … Andrew walked straight past me and into the study. I stood by the dining table, watching him drape his coat over the back of a chair. In the kitchen, the slow-simmered beef stew was still keeping warm on low. During our third year together, when his sensitive stomach started acting up, I spent hours learning how to make homemade broths and stews. The first time I tried, I burned my hands so badly they blistered. Back then, Andrew had held my hands in his, looking so heartbroken he couldn’t even speak. Now, he didn’t even have the time to glance toward the kitchen. The study door wasn’t fully closed. Flora’s voice drifted out, soft and breathless over the speakerphone. “Andrew, is this too much trouble? Honestly, it’s fine if I mess up the presentation tomorrow. I don’t want to impose.” Andrew’s voice instantly softened. “Don’t talk like that. You just got back to the city. I’m not going to let you fail.” So, it wasn’t that he lacked tenderness. He had just redirected it. I looked back at the cake in the center of the table. The frosting had melted, and the chocolate plaque reading “Happy 8th Anniversary” had slid to the side, looking like a punchline to a joke I hadn’t wanted to hear. My phone buzzed. It was a notification from Instagram. Flora had just posted. The photo showed the corner of Andrew’s desk, with her broken recorder. Her caption read: “Even broken, old things can be patiently put back together if someone cares enough. So lucky.” I stared at those words for a long time. The broken, discarded thing left out in the cold wasn’t the recorder. It was me. Half an hour later, Andrew came out of the study to pour a glass of water. Seeing me still sitting at the table, he knit his brows. “Why aren’t you in bed?” “We need to talk.” “Not right now.” “Just five minutes.” He looked at me, his voice tight with suppressed irritation. “Natalie, do you really have to pick a fight tonight? Flora’s presentation tomorrow determines whether she gets her permanent transfer.” I let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “And what about today?” “What?” “Today. What does today determine? Can you really not remember?” Andrew went silent for a few seconds, as if searching through some dusty corner of his mind for the answer. When he finally found it, his expression relaxed slightly, though there wasn’t a trace of guilt on his face. “It’s just our eighth anniversary, Natalie. I’ll make it up to you another night.” “Just.” Hearing that word, the last of my energy to argue evaporated. There was a time when he would book a restaurant a month in advance, mark the date in his calendar with three separate reminders, and text me at midnight: “No matter how many years go by, I only want to spend them with you.” Now, eight years had been reduced to a “just.” His phone rang again. It was Flora. Without a moment’s hesitation, he answered it and headed back toward the study. “Yeah, I’m here. Don’t worry, take a breath.” The door clicked shut, leaving the living room completely silent. I quietly scraped the cold food and the melted cake into the trash can. Just as I let the lid drop, the study door opened again. Andrew stood in the doorway, watching me. “What are you doing?” “Throwing it out. No one’s eating it anyway.” His forehead creased deeply. “Natalie, that’s enough.” I didn’t answer. Flora’s voice drifted through his speakerphone again. “Andrew? Did you and Natalie get into an argument because of me? Maybe you should go talk to her. I’ll be fine.” Andrew kept his eyes on me, lowering his voice. “Don’t worry about it. She just needs a minute to cool off.” I stared at him. “She just needs a minute.” In his mind, even my grief had an expiration date. I turned and walked into the bedroom. Behind me, I could hear him speaking to the phone again. “Go ahead. Let’s play that audio segment back one more time.” A thin sliver of light leaked through the crack under the bedroom door, like a delayed echo. But I didn’t want to listen anymore.

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Five years of marriage, and Drew told me I needed to get a life of my own. So, I enrolled in driving school. It was my first day of closed-course maneuver practice. The instructor handed out an intake form, asking for an emergency contact. The young girl next to me finished hers first, sliding the clipboard over with a warm smile. “Here you go, hon. Your turn.” “Thanks,” I murmured, taking it. As I did, my eyes accidentally brushed over her completed form. Emergency Contact: Drew Weston. Relationship: Husband. Because the name I was about to write on my own form was exactly the same. She didn’t notice my sudden freeze. She tilted her head, looking at my phone resting on my lap. “Oh, that phone case is gorgeous! Where’d you get it?” I couldn’t find my voice. That phone case was a gift from Drew. She pulled her own phone out of her pocket. “My husband had mine custom-made. He insisted it had to be one-of-a-kind.” Engraved on the back of her leather case was the exact same phrase: “My Journey is You.” … “Hey, you okay?” Sadie nudged me gently. Her smile was bright, youthful. Her perfectly manicured finger tapped the engraved words. “I know, it’s incredibly cheesy, right? I told him it was ridiculously corny, but he insisted on having a ‘special symbol’ for us.” I stared at those four words. My Journey is You. When Drew had slid the box across the table to me, his eyes had held that same soft, intense look. “Gwen,” he’d said, “wherever my path leads, it’s always going to be with you.” I looked down at the form on my lap. The line for Emergency Contact stared back at me, blank and white. Sadie leaned in closer. “What’s your husband’s name, by the way?” I capped my pen, my voice dry and raspy. “I… haven’t decided who to put down yet.” “What do you mean? Your husband, of course!” She giggled, waving her clipboard. “My Drew always says, no matter what happens, he has to be the very first person I call.” My fingers gripped the edge of the paper so hard it creased. “He sounds like a good man.” “The absolute best,” Sadie said, unzipping her handbag. “Honestly, he worries too much. I told him I was worried about getting sunburned during lessons, so he bought me this luxury UV jacket. I complained about being tired, and he literally offered to pay someone off to just get me a license.” She pulled a set of keys from her bag. A Porsche key fob. Dangling from the ring was a small, hand-stitched red linen charm. The stitching was delicate, though one of the corners was slightly uneven where the needle had slipped. The world around me seemed to tilt. Last night at 11:30 PM, Drew had texted saying he was stuck at the office. I had sat alone at the kitchen table, pulling the final thread through that exact linen charm, filling it with lavender and a prayer for his safety. He was always such an aggressive driver, and I just wanted him to make it home to me every night. This morning, I had tucked it gently into his briefcase. He had kissed the top of my head, murmuring, “Thank you, sweetheart. You always make the sweetest things for me.” Now, it was dangling from another woman’s Porsche keys. Oblivious to the color draining from my face, Sadie stroked the fabric of the charm. “He gave me this too. Said he had it custom-commissioned by an artisan.” I heard myself ask, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else, “Did he say who made it?” “No,” Sadie said, blinking her bright eyes. “Just that he went out of his way to get it for me. For luck.” A terrible, empty laugh threatened to escape my throat. “It’s… very beautiful.” “You think so? Do you believe in stuff like that?” “I used to.” Never again. She didn’t catch the bitterness in my voice, her eyes dropping to the canvas tote bag resting against my leg. “Oh, that’s a well-loved tote. The straps are practically fraying.” I folded the clipboard against my knees. “Yeah. I’ve had it for four years.” “Why don’t you get a new one?” “It still holds my things.” Sadie wrinkled her nose, clearly unable to comprehend the logic. “My husband would lose his mind if I carried something like that. He always says a woman should never settle for less, especially when it comes to her wardrobe.” I looked at her bag. I recognized it instantly. Last month, a notification had flashed on Drew’s phone. A pending charge of $8,500. When I asked him about it, he hadn’t even looked up from his laptop. “Corporate gifting. Don’t worry about it.” At that exact moment, I had been standing in the supermarket, debating whether to buy the organic spinach or save eighty cents on the regular head. Sadie patted the leather of her Chanel bag. “I told him it was too expensive, but he said his money is only worth making if it’s spent on making his wife happy.” I slowly unfolded the paper on my lap. “Where does your husband work?” “Downtown, in the Financial District,” she answered quickly. “He owns a boutique PR firm in One Plaza.” My pen hovered over the paper. I knew that address by heart. Drew left our house every morning at 8:30 AM and returned at 10:00 PM. He told me the startup phase was brutal, that the pressure was crushing, and that he couldn’t afford to lose focus. “Gwen, be reasonable,” he’d say whenever I asked for a weekend away. “I’m doing this for our future.” Sadie peered at me, her brow furrowing. “Are you okay? You look incredibly pale. Is it the heat?” I shook my head. “No. Just a sudden chill.” “Well, you should finish filling that out. The instructor is going to call us in a minute.” She handily offered me her pen. “So, who’s the emergency contact going to be?” I took the pen. The tip hovered over the empty box for a long, agonizing moment. In the end, I didn’t write Drew’s name. I wrote my own. Sadie blinked in confusion. “Why did you put your own name down?” I slid the clipboard into the registry bin. “Because if something actually happens, I’m the only one who’s going to catch me.” Before she could parse my words, the instructor bellowed from across the parking lot. “Alright, ladies! Let’s get moving.” Sadie jumped up, offering me another dazzling smile. “Come on, let’s go. My husband told me not to worry—he said he’ll handle any messes if I scrape the curb.” I turned my phone face-down on the plastic bench, hiding the identical custom case. Just before the screen went black, a text from Drew popped up. [Don’t call me around noon. Packed with back-to-back meetings.] “Why don’t you take the back seat first? I’ll go ahead,” Sadie said, pulling open the door of the dusty sedan. “Ugh, what is that smell? It’s suffocating.” The instructor shrugged. “It’s a student car, kid. Get used to it.” “I can’t deal with this,” she groaned, sliding into the driver’s seat and immediately pulling out her phone. “I have to text my husband.” I climbed into the back. Sadie pressed the voice memo button, her tone instantly melting into a sweet, helpless pout. “Babe, the car is so stuffy and gross. I don’t think I can do this.” Within seconds, the reply came back. Drew’s voice—crisp, rich, and painfully familiar—filled the cramped sedan. “Hang in there, sweetheart. Just get through the first day. Didn’t you say you wanted to drive us down to the coast this summer? Give it thirty minutes. I’ll take you out for oysters tonight to make up for it.” Sadie whined. “But it’s boiling in here.” “Is there water in the car?” “Yeah.” “Drink some. But don’t drink it too cold. Your stomach is sensitive, remember? No ice water.” I looked down at my hands. Before leaving this morning, I had prepared a thermos of warm ginger-infused rice porridge for Drew. He had been complaining of stomach issues for weeks, and I spent hours over the stove every morning making sure he had something gentle to coat his stomach. He had barely glanced at the thermos this morning. “Too bland, Gwen. I’ll grab something at the office.” Later, as I was taking out the trash, I found the thermos sitting in the bin, still completely full. Sadie put her phone down, turning back to me with a triumphant grin. “See? He’s such a micromanager.” “It’s nice to have someone care,” I whispered. She laughed. “Doesn’t your husband micromanage you?” I thought about it. “He told me to get a life of my own.” “Well, that’s good too! At least he isn’t clingy.” The instructor tapped the window. “Adjust your seat first.” “How do I do that?” Sadie asked, flustered. “Lever on the left,” the instructor muttered. “Which left?” I leaned forward and pointed it out for her. She gave me an apologetic smile. “You’re so sweet. Thank you.” As my fingers brushed the underside of her seat to show her the lever, my fingertips came away coated in a layer of gray dust. Sadie noticed my hands, her gaze lingering on the calluses lining my palms. “Do you do a lot of housework?” she asked, her voice dropping slightly. I pulled my hand back, rubbing my fingers together. “Some.” “Drew doesn’t let me touch a thing,” she said, raising her hands to show off her pristine, freshly manicured nails. “He says a woman’s hands should never look worn down. It’s his golden rule.” The silence inside the car grew heavy, suffocating. I stared at her. “What did you just say?” “Oh, just that he doesn’t like my hands looking rough,” Sadie said with a soft giggle. “Direct quote from my husband.” I folded my hands into my lap, hiding my palms. During our second year of marriage, Drew had said those exact words to me. We were living in a drafty, old apartment. The pipes had frozen that winter, and I had to wash our clothes and dishes in ice-cold water. My knuckles had cracked and bled from the dry cold. He had taken my raw, stinging hands into his, his brow furrowed with genuine worry. “Stop doing this, Gwen. It breaks my heart to see you like this.” But then his business grew, and he got busier. The cooking, the cleaning, the laundry, the care of his aging parents—it all silently transitioned into my sole responsibility. If he ever noticed the dry cracks on my fingers after that, he would simply sigh. “Go buy some high-end hand cream, Gwen. Don’t make it look like I’m neglecting you.” Sadie finally managed to start the car. She pressed the gas too hard, and the sedan jerked forward violently. She let out a sharp shriek as the instructor slammed his passenger-side brake, bringing us to a grinding halt. “Easy on the clutch!” the instructor barked. “I’m done. I can’t do this,” Sadie cried, her eyes welling with tears as she grabbed her phone again. “I really can’t. He’s going to be so worried.” She dialed, and the call was answered on the first ring. She immediately put it on speaker. “Hey, what’s wrong?” Drew’s voice was soft, laced with an easy, reassuring warmth. “I almost crashed,” Sadie sobbed, playing up her distress. “Are you hurt?” “No…” “Then there’s nothing to worry about,” he murmured, his tone incredibly tender. “If you want to learn, I’ll find a private track and coach you myself. If you don’t, I’ll have someone park a car at the driving school tomorrow just so you can sit in it and get comfortable. Whatever you want.” Sadie sniffled. “You have to come pick me up early tonight.” “I will. I’ll bring that cheesecake you like.” “Strawberry.” “I know. No mango, right?” A sudden wave of nausea washed over me, hot and violent. Last night, my fever had spiked to 102 degrees. When I called Drew, the phone rang for a long time before he finally picked up. “Gwen, I’m with a client.” “Drew, I’m really sick,” I had whispered, shivering under the blankets. “Can you please come home and take me to the clinic?” “You’re a grown woman, Gwen. There are meds in the cabinet. Stop making a mountain out of a molehill.” I had hung up, called an Uber, and dragged myself to the urgent care clinic alone. While waiting for the IV drip, I had texted him a picture of the medical bill. His response was two words: [Submit insurance.] I pushed the car door open before the vehicle had even fully stopped. “What the hell are you doing?” the instructor yelled. I ran to the edge of the asphalt, gripping the concrete planter by the trash cans, and retched until my chest ached and my vision went black. Sadie ran over, rubbing my back with a worried expression. “Oh my god, are you okay? Is it really heatstroke?” I wiped my mouth with the back of my trembling hand. “I’m fine.” “Do you need to call your husband?” I pulled out my phone and opened my thread with Drew. His last message mocked me from the screen. [Don’t call me around noon. Packed with back-to-back meetings.] I pressed down on the message thread and hit Delete. “No,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “There’s no one to call.” … “Do you want a bite of cake?” During our break, Sadie sat next to me on the bench, holding an open clear plastic box. “My husband had a courier drop this off. He was worried my blood sugar would drop.” It was a beautiful slice of strawberry shortcake, topped with fresh glaze. I knew the bakery well. Three months ago, for our fifth wedding anniversary, I had stood in line for two hours to buy a small signature cake from that exact shop. Drew had taken one bite at the dinner table before putting his fork down. “It’s too sweet.” “But you used to love this place,” I had said. He had rubbed his temples, his voice flat. “People change, Gwen. Stop holding me hostage to who I was years ago.” The rest of that cake had ended up in the trash. I had washed the plastic box and kept it, unable to throw away the physical proof of my wasted effort. Sadie offered me a small plastic fork. “Come on, just a bite. It’s seriously not too sweet.” I shook my head. “No, thank you. You eat it.” “If you say so.” She took a large bite, hummed in delight, and began scrolling through her phone. “He wants me to meet his friends tonight. I really don’t want to go—they can get so rowdy.” “What friends?” I asked quietly. “Just his usual circle.” She turned her phone toward me. “Look, they made me drink with them last time, and they kept calling me ‘the future Mrs. Weston.’” The video on her screen was bright and loud. I recognized every single face in that frame. Luke, his college roommate. Tyler, his business partner. And Jax, his childhood best friend. They were raising their glasses, cheering at Sadie. “To the future Mrs. Weston! Looks like Drew’s finally met his match!” In the video, Sadie laughed, hiding behind Drew’s shoulder. Drew wrapped an arm around her waist, blocking the drinks with his other hand, a relaxed, easy smile on his face. “She’s not a big drinker, guys. Go easy on her.” Luke laughed boisterously. “Man, look at how protective he is! When’s the wedding, Drew?” Drew looked down at Sadie, his voice soft but clear. “Soon.” The video looped, and Sadie blushed, locking her phone. “They’re always teasing us.” I picked up my water bottle, then set it back down. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I had never met any of them. When we got married, Drew had insisted on a small, private dinner with only our parents, claiming he hated ostentatious displays. Later, whenever I asked about meeting his friends, he would dismiss it. “They’re loud, crude, and they drink too much. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around them, Gwen.” I had believed him. I had actually thought he was protecting me. Sadie looked at me curiously. “Does your husband take you out with his friends?” “Not really,” I said. “Why not?” “He said he wanted to shield me from them.” Sadie blinked, a little taken aback. “I guess… that sounds sweet, in a way.” I forced a small, empty smile. “Yes. Very sweet.” Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my hand. It was Drew. I looked at the screen, but I didn’t answer. Sadie peered over. “Your husband?” “Yes.” “Aren’t you going to pick up?” “No rush.” The ringing stopped. Then a text popped up. [Why aren’t you answering?] I stared at the words. Thirty seconds later, another message followed. [Are you still upset about last night? I really was swamped, Gwen. I’ll bring home dinner tonight, okay?] Before I could even think of a reply, Sadie’s phone rang. She picked it up immediately, her voice turning bright and airy. “Hey, babe.” Drew’s voice came through her speaker, so clear it felt like he was standing right beside me. “Did you get the cake?” “I did.” “Don’t eat too much. Save room for dinner.” “I know, I know.” “And don’t push yourself too hard this afternoon. If it gets too hot, go wait in the lounge. Your skin burns easily.” Sadie giggled. “You sound like my dad.” Drew let out a low chuckle. “If you let me, I’ll take care of you for the rest of your life.” I looked down at my bare arms. To save money, I hadn’t bought a luxury UV jacket. I had simply found an old silk scarf in my closet and tied it around my neck. The scarf had belonged to Drew’s mother. She had given it to me years ago, saying it was too old-fashioned for her taste and she had no use for it. Sadie hung up and turned to me. “Oh, look, your husband texted again.” I tapped the notification. [Actually, don’t wait up for dinner. Something came up with a client, so I’ll just grab a bite near the office.] I typed back: [A client?] He replied instantly. [Yeah.] Sadie stood up, closing her cake box. “I’m going to go wash my hands, Gwen. Be right back.” “Okay.” Once she walked away, I untied the silk scarf from my neck. There was a small, stubborn grease stain on the edge that had never come out in the wash. I stared at it for a few seconds, then dropped it into the trash can beside the bench. My phone buzzed again. [Don’t overthink it. I’ll make it up to you this weekend. I promise.] I stared at the words I promise. I didn’t reply. “Alright, class is over! Are you heading out, Gwen?” Sadie gathered her things, waving to me from the exit. “My husband is here to pick me up.” I stood near the glass doors of the registry lobby. Sadie stood on her tip-toes, searching the curb. “Oh, there he is! The black Maybach under the tree. He drove himself today.” The sleek, black luxury car sat idling in the shade of a large maple. Through the windshield, I could see Drew’s profile. He was wearing the crisp, white button-down shirt I had ironed for him this morning. The phone in my pocket buzzed again. [Stuck at the client dinner. Don’t wait up.] I looked at him in the car, and then down at the text on my screen. Sadie started jogging toward the parking lot, but then she paused and turned back to me. “Gwen! How are you getting home? Do you want a ride? My husband can drop you off.” “No, thank you,” I said. “Are you sure? He’s really nice, I promise!” she insisted with a bright smile. “He looks a bit stern, but he’s incredibly sweet once you get to know him.” My fingers brushed against a small object in my pocket. It was a hand-woven macramé key ring I had spent the last few evenings crafting. In the center of the weave, I had carefully stamped two tiny metal initials: D.W. I had planned to save it for his birthday next month. But there was no point in waiting anymore. “Sadie,” I called out. She stopped. “Yeah?” I walked over and handed it to her. “The thread on your Porsche key ring is coming loose. Take this. You can use it instead.” Her eyes lit up as she took the woven charm. “Oh, wow! Did you make this yourself?” “Just a hobby.” “Are you sure? This is so beautiful.” “Keep it,” I said, placing it firmly in her palm. “Consider it a parting gift.” Sadie squeezed my hand, her smile genuine and warm. “Thank you so much, Gwen. You are seriously the best.” I stood on the sidewalk, watching her run toward the idling Maybach. The passenger door opened, and she slid inside. Through the windshield, I saw her immediately hold up the new key ring, showing it to Drew. Even from a distance, I saw the exact moment Drew took the charm from her hands. And I watched his face completely fall.

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At my joint bachelor-bachelorette party, right when the Truth or Dare game was reaching its messy, drunken peak, the tequila bottle spun across the table and stopped, pointing directly at my fiancé’s best friend. She locked eyes with me, a slow, sharp smile spreading across her face. “I’ll confess,” she said, her voice cutting through the bass of the music. “I’m pregnant. And it’s Garrett’s.” A collective gasp sucked the air out of the room. The chatter died instantly. Only my face remained frozen. As the whispers started rising around us, Garrett reached over, casually running his fingers through my hair with a sigh. “It was just an accident, Isla. Don’t overthink it. We both got blackout drunk that night. We were trying to save some cash, so we shared a cheap motel room, and things just…” “But I promise you, you’re the one who’s going to be Mrs. Mercer. I could never actually be with a tomboy like Gigi anyway.” Gigi scoffed, playfully pinching his side and cursing him for throwing his “bro” under the bus. I sat there, watching them laugh and flirt, before I finally spoke. “It’s fine.” He let out a visible breath of relief. The bottle spun again, its green glass blurring under the neon lights. This time, it stopped, pointing its neck directly at me. The room fell quiet, waiting for my truth. I looked around, my voice flat and entirely steady. “I have a confession, too. At our wedding in three days, the groom will be Callum Peterson.” … There was a beat of absolute silence, followed by a single laugh, and then a wave of mockery crashed over me. “Isla, stop acting crazy. Everyone knows how desperately you chased Garrett.” “Seriously. You spent three years sucking up to his mother just to get her blessing. Don’t ruin your only shot at getting married over a little temper tantrum.” “And Callum Peterson? He’s the crown prince of Seattle’s tech money. Why would a billionaire want Garrett’s discarded leftovers?” Garrett squeezed my hand lightly, his tone dismissive. “Babe, don’t be ridiculous.” “You know everyone here knows you’re obsessed with me. If you call off the wedding now, no one else is going to want you.” The engagement ring on my finger suddenly felt like a brand, tightening around my skin until my throat burned. He was right. Everyone in Seattle knew I was Garrett’s devoted shadow. I had done too many humiliating things for him over the years. Like the Valentine’s Day I had nine thousand roses flown in just to confess to him. Or the month I rented a fleet of drones to spell out “ISLA LOVES GARRETT” across the downtown skyline. Even now, the digital billboards on the commercial towers downtown were looping our engagement photos. I had played the part of the desperate girl for so long that he simply assumed I was his permanent property. Tears stung my eyes, but no one in the room cared about my humiliation. The bottle spun again, and this time it landed on Garrett. The atmosphere heated up instantly, and Gigi gave him a suggestive wink. “Garrett, we’ve played Truth for too many rounds. A real man chooses Dare. Do you have the guts to do something interesting?” Garrett raised an eyebrow, asking her what she had in mind. Gigi’s eyes gleamed. “Since it’s a bachelor party, how about a French kiss with someone in the room? After all, you won’t get a chance once you’re tied down.” She caught my tight expression, quickly covering her mouth with a fake display of apology. “You don’t mind, do you, Isla? I mean, we’ve known each other since we were kids. Back when we took lifesaving classes, we did mouth-to-mouth resuscitation all the time.” The crowd cheered in agreement. Garrett laughed, swatting Gigi’s hip playfully. “Kissing my bro? You’re sick.” “But fine, I’ll play.” He grabbed Gigi by the waist, pulling her into a deep, lingering kiss. The sight of them, framed by the flashing strobes of the lounge, made my stomach turn. A sudden wave of nausea hit me. I bolted for the bathroom and dry-heaved over the sink, waiting for the sickness in my throat to pass. After the party, Garrett pulled me aside by the car, looking slightly conflicted. “Isla, Gigi has been an orphan her whole life. This baby might have been an accident, but it’s her only real family now. She wants to keep it.” I closed my eyes, exhausted. “And?” “I’m thinking we should postpone the wedding. Just until she has the baby. It’s not like we haven’t pushed the date back before. You know the drill.” A familiar ache settled deep in my chest. Ever since my mother got sick a year ago, I had begged Garrett to marry me. Her only dying wish was to see me walk down the aisle. But Garrett always had a reason to say no. Gigi’s cat was sick, so he had to stay with her. Or his family counselor said the date was a bad omen for his business. The wedding had been delayed over and over, and now, I was just tired. I looked into his eyes and said quietly, “Garrett, let’s break up.” The hand he had raised to wipe a tear from my cheek froze in midair. His face darkened. He sat down on the hood of his car, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. “Gigi was right,” he said, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke. “You women are so high-maintenance.” He looked at me with a condescending pity. “Look, if you’re going to throw a fit about the wedding, we can still do it. But Gigi is pregnant with my child, and I have a responsibility to take care of her.” “For the first year of our marriage, I’ll stay at our place on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, I’ll be with Gigi. Sundays we can split. Think of it as your way of making up for being so difficult about her situation.” I stared at him, unable to process the sheer audacity of his words. Before I could even find my voice, his phone rang. Gigi’s voice drifted through the speaker. Without another look at me, Garrett answered, turned, and walked away. Watching his retreating back, I remembered that our relationship hadn’t always been so one-sided. Back in college, when I tripped during a track meet, he had looked just as panicked as he did now. When did it change? Probably the night of Gigi’s welcome-home dinner, when I slipped and sprained my ankle. As Garrett bent down to check on me, Gigi had laughed. “Isla, do you have to do this now? I get that you want Garrett’s attention, but throwing a scene at your boyfriend’s best friend’s welcome dinner… yikes.” She had slung an arm around Garrett’s shoulder, acting magnanimous. “Go ahead and take her to the ER, Garrett. I won’t hold it against you. Some of us are tough, but your girl is fragile.” That exact dynamic repeated itself dozens of times over the next few years. Every injury, every moment of pain I experienced, was labeled by Gigi as “attention-seeking” and “manipulative.” Eventually, everyone around us accepted that narrative, using it to justify treating me like an afterthought. I squeezed the metal ring on my finger until it bent out of shape. I pulled out my phone and texted my old college friend. “Does your proposal still stand?” He replied almost instantly. “The courthouse opens at eight tomorrow morning. I’ll be waiting.” I wiped my face, typed a single word—”Yes”—and called a cab to go back to the townhouse to pack my things. But when I unlocked the front door, the first thing I heard was Gigi’s voice. “Garrett, let me borrow a shirt. I realized I forgot to pack clean clothes after my shower.” Garrett walked straight into the master bathroom with a fresh shirt. Through the cracked door, I heard their laughter. “You’re built like a boy anyway, there’s nothing to hide. You look ridiculous compared to my girl.” “Yeah, yeah! Your girl is the absolute best. I’m texting the group chat right now to tell everyone how whipped you are.” A few minutes later, Gigi stepped out of the bathroom wearing Garrett’s oversized white button-down. She paused when she saw me standing in the hallway, but her smile returned instantly. “Don’t get the wrong idea, Isla. We’ve been friends for so long that we could sleep naked in the same bed and feel absolutely nothing but brotherly love.” “Garrett only came in to help me because it’s second nature. Don’t go turning this into a whole drama, okay?” I stared at the fresh bite mark on her collarbone. I didn’t say a word. I walked past her into the bedroom to pack. As I pulled open my dresser drawer, a pair of black lace thongs fell out onto the floor. Before I could even look at them, Gigi snatched them up. “Oh, sorry! I didn’t have any clean underwear when I came over, so I just grabbed whatever Garrett had in his drawer. We don’t really care about boundaries like that. You get it, right?” She twirled the lace around her finger, looking at me with pure provocation. My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe. I took a deep breath, forcing down the sickness in my stomach, and let out a cold laugh. “I get it. After all these years, you’re still just the ‘bro.’ I admire how hard you’re working to climb into my fiancé’s bed as his mistress.” Gigi’s eyes flared with venom. She raised her hand to slap me, and I instinctively blocked her arm. But with a sharp gasp, Gigi lost her balance and tumbled backward onto the floor. At that exact moment, the front door slammed open, and Garrett rushed into the room. He lunged forward to pull Gigi up, turning to glare at me with pure fury. “Isla! What the hell are you doing?” Gigi clung to his neck, giving me a smug, victorious look before putting on a weak voice. “It’s fine, Garrett. She’s just mad at me. She barely pushed me. Don’t be so mean to her.” “Girls are just fragile and jealous. It’s normal. We shouldn’t hold it against her.” Garrett grabbed my wrist, his eyes bloodshot. “Isla, when did you become so malicious? She just wanted to be a mother, so she asked me to help her have a baby.” “She didn’t mean to come between us. Can’t you just be the bigger person?” So there was no drunken mistake. No blackout night. It was entirely intentional. The last thread of my sanity snapped. I swung my free hand and slapped him across the face. “She’s wearing your clothes in my house, pregnant with your child, and you’re asking me to be the bigger person? Are you insane?” Garrett stared at me, shocked into silence. He touched his cheek, wiping a trace of blood from his lip. Slowly, his expression turned cold, and he looked at me with a quiet, cutting cruelty. “Isla, you got pregnant and had an abortion for me when you were eighteen. You did far worse just to keep me around. You don’t have some high-and-mighty dignity left to protect.” Gigi gasped, covering her mouth. “Oh my god, Isla. I thought you were one of those quiet, sweet girls. I didn’t realize you were that wild.” My body went completely numb. I stared at the man I had loved for a decade, unable to believe those words had come out of his mouth. Garrett watched me crumble, continuing with a calm indifference. “If I remember correctly, you were terrified your parents would find out, and I didn’t want the hassle of a kid. You went to that shady clinic all by yourself, didn’t you? You weren’t so dramatic back then.” I raised a trembling hand to cover his mouth. “Please… stop.” That lost pregnancy was the deepest wound of my life. We were young, foolish, and I had taken his sweet whispers to heart. “Have my baby, Isla, and I’ll get my mom to propose to your family.” Because of that lie, I had believed him. And in the end, it was just a lonely, painful afternoon in a cold room with a doctor who didn’t care. Tears fell onto Garrett’s hand. He finally softened slightly, letting go of my wrist and pulling me close. “Just be good. Apologize to Gigi, and we can pretend none of this happened. We can still get married tomorrow.” Maybe I had been hurt so many times that the pain had finally gone numb. I didn’t argue. Gigi watched us, her eyes darting between us before she patted Garrett’s shoulder. “Garrett, if she doesn’t want to apologize, let it go. You know how stubborn girls can be.” “But take it from me—don’t spoil her too much. A little attitude is cute, but this is just exhausting.” Garrett sighed, looking at me with deep irritation. “Isla, starting tomorrow, don’t bother coming to the office anymore. Gigi is right, you’ve gotten too reckless. You need to learn some humility.” “You can stay home and help Gigi out while she recovers from the birth. It’ll do you some good. As for the wedding, we’ll push it to next month.” I looked at his face, so calm, so entitled, and I nodded. “Okay.” I didn’t tell him that by tomorrow, I would be married to someone else. The next morning, Garrett left early to take Gigi to her ultrasound. He left a note on the counter: “Gigi wants those homemade cinnamon rolls you make. She’s my best friend and she’s pregnant, so try to show some grace as her sister-in-law.” I crumpled the note, tossed it into the trash, picked up my suitcase, and walked out of the house. Callum was waiting for me outside in his car. The moment he saw me, a genuine, warm smile lit up his face. Our wedding at the courthouse was small, quiet, and beautiful. Afterward, we rode around the city, the car window rolled down. Callum wanted everyone to know. Under the quiet warmth of the afternoon light, we exchanged rings and promised ourselves to each other. By afternoon, the city’s local lifestyle outlets were already buzzing with the news of the Peterson family’s sudden, quiet marriage. At that moment, Garrett was driving Gigi back from her appointment, passing through the city center. Seeing the massive digital billboards displaying wedding announcements, Gigi laughed. “Garrett, look at that. When are you going to grow up and throw me a massive wedding like that?” Garrett looked at her, and an involuntary feeling of distaste rose in his chest. She had short, boyish hair, wore a tank top with jeans, and even with her slight baby bump, she looked entirely unrefined. A sudden thought popped into his head: “If I’m going to marry someone, it has to be Isla. She’s elegant, soft, and when she looks at me, I can’t help but soften.” “Gigi is great as a friend, but as a wife… only if the lights are off.” He shrugged, dismissive. “Forget it. If I marry anyone, it’s Isla. If you’re that interested, you can be my best man.” Gigi glared at him, turning to look out the window. Suddenly, she gasped. “Garrett… the bride on that screen. It looks exactly like Isla.” Garrett didn’t even hesitate to scoff. “Impossible. Isla told me she’d never marry anyone but me. If she stopped chasing me, the sun would rise in the west.” “It’s probably just a lookalike.” But he still leaned forward, looking up at the massive display. And there, high above the city, he watched me press my lips against Callum Peterson’s.

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Word on the street was that the boss’s pet project—his precious little mistress—was suffering from a severe case of main-character syndrome and had just been parachuted into the office as his personal assistant. I cut my vacation short immediately, booked the first flight back, and tucked myself into a corner of the office just to watch the trainwreck unfold. First, she managed to kill Charles’s five-thousand-dollar imported Japanese bonsai by watering it with boiling water. Her reasoning? She was deeply concerned that cold water would shock its root chakra. Then, at the quarterly investor summit, she actually served organic apple juice boxes and graham crackers. She claimed the corporate world was far too toxic and she wanted to help everyone heal their inner child. I was thoroughly enjoying the show until she decided to kick open my office door. She started throwing files, sweeping things off my desk in a manic frenzy. I rushed forward to stop her. “Stop it! Those are multi-million dollar active contracts! Don’t touch them!” She stopped, looking me up and down with sneering eyes. “Hmph. So you’re Charles’s wife. The one hogging the best office in the building!” I froze, completely thrown off. Before I could even correct her, she went completely off the rails. “You horrible woman! Why can’t you just let him go? Why won’t you divorce him and let us be happy?” “Don’t you know that the one who isn’t loved is the real intruder here?” My jaw hit the floor. His wife? Did she honestly think I had the corner office because of some marital claim? Was it even remotely possible for her to grasp that I had this office because I was the company’s undisputed top earner? The golden goose whose good moods literally dictated our profit margins? … My silence only fueled Misty’s confidence. She assumed she had struck a raw, unloved nerve. She put her hands on her hips, practically vibrating with triumph. “You’re so old. Why can’t you be mature like me? This is a business, and business is about efficiency. Yet you use your marriage to Charles to steal the best workspace. Aren’t you embarrassed?” A laugh bubbled up in my throat. She made it sound like I had clawed my way into this office, begging for scraps. In reality, Charles had practically begged me on his knees to move in here. He had discovered, with an almost religious superstition, that whenever I was happy, our sales numbers skyrocketed. I told him it was just a statistical anomaly, but he refused to listen. When the company grew and went public, he insisted on stacking every high-stakes contract right here in my office, hoping they’d soak up my good luck. I looked at this girl, whose brain seemed to have stopped developing somewhere in middle school, and tried to find the patience to explain. But she stepped closer, shoving a manicured finger hard against my forehead. “You don’t even have a college degree, yet you’re taking up space here! Do you have any idea how many qualified, hard-working people you’re robbing of a livelihood? You’re malicious!” She looked so deeply pained, as if she were a crusader for social justice. I stared at her, then actually let out a dry laugh. Word around the office was that Misty had dropped out of high school and bought her associate’s degree from some unaccredited online mill. “Misty, let’s talk about nepotism and taking up space. Our entry-level requirement is a Master’s degree. What exactly are your credentials?” Her face flushed a violent crimson. She pouted, her lower lip trembling. “I’m different. I’m his baby. Charles said I’m allowed to grow at my own pace.” I couldn’t help it. I snorted. But the sound triggered something in her. Her eyes welled with tears. “I have a pure heart! You horrible woman, how dare you mock me! I’m going to help Charles get rid of you!” Before the words had even fully left her mouth, she lunged at my desk, grabbing a thick stack of finalized contracts and ripping them in half. “Hey! Stop!” I scrambled to grab them. Anything kept in my office was irreplaceable. “Put those down!” I yelled, panic sharpening my voice. “Those are worth millions of dollars! You can’t afford to pay for this!” She startled, freezing at my tone. I seized the moment, pushing past her to snatch the torn pages, trying desperately to smooth out the creases. But then, a sudden, heavy force slammed into my shoulder. She had shoved me. Hard. I lost my balance, stumbling backward. My head collided violently with the sharp edge of the mahogany desk. A white-hot flash of pain shot through my skull. When I put my hand to my forehead, it came away slick with bright, hot blood. “Are you out of your mind?!” I screamed. She blinked, stunned by the blood, but then her face contorted. Her lower lip quivered, and giant tears spilled over. “You yelled at me!” She wailed, a shrill, piercing sound, as if she were the victim of a brutal assault. I sat there on the floor, holding my bleeding forehead, utterly speechless. She was the one crying? The noise quickly drew a crowd. Shadowy figures gathered at the glass doors. Then, a massive frame pushed through the onlookers. “What the hell is going on in here?” I looked up, hoping a colleague had finally come to help me. Instead, I saw a hulking, muscle-bound man whose cheap suit looked like it was begging for mercy against his bulging chest. He glared down at me with pure hostility. “Who are you?” I muttered, my head spinning. Before I could make sense of it, Misty launched herself across the room, burying her face into his chest. “Jax!” Jax? I blinked. Great. It wasn’t just one parasite; she’d brought her whole family onto the payroll. Misty sobbed hysterically into his shirt. “Jax, this awful woman hit me!” Excuse me? I stared at them, my head throbbing, blood dripping down my cheek. Who hit whom? Jax hovered over her, frantically inspecting her hands. “What did she do? Why is your hand red?” Her hand was barely pink—probably from the force of shoving me. Misty pointed a trembling finger at me. “It was her… this old hag. I just asked her to leave the office, and she attacked me! Jax, she humiliated me. I don’t want to live anymore!” Her wailing intensified. The sheer drama of it made my head hurt worse than the actual wound. Jax turned his gaze back to me, his jaw clenched. “So you’re the bitter old hag who refuses to sign the divorce papers.” I raised an eyebrow. Bitter old hag? Divorce papers? Charles certainly had a lot of skeletons in his closet. And why did everyone think I was his wife? Outside, the whispers from the hallway grew louder. “Who is that? She actually dared to cross the boss’s girl?” “I think it’s his wife. She barely ever comes to the office.” “Oh, right. I heard their marriage has been dead for years, but she refuses to sign the papers. Poor Misty has to live in the shadows. Honestly, Misty is basically the lady of the house anyway.” Even in my pain, my inner gossip-monger was fascinated. We had this much drama in the company? Why did I know none of this? And why didn’t these people recognize me? Ah. Because I hated being tied down. Charles had quickly realized that forcing me to clock in from nine-to-five destroyed my mood, which in turn tanked our quarterly earnings. So, he had arranged for me to work fully remote, traveling under the guise of “market research.” I spent my time traveling on the company dime, eating well, and coincidentally signing massive contracts along the way. Most of the newer hires had never actually seen my face. To them, I was just the mythical, stubborn wife. I took a breath, trying to clear my head. “This is a misunderstanding…” Misty wiped her eyes, her voice dripping with venom. “You’re a bad woman. You stole this office, and you stole Charles! Jax, destroy everything in here! Destroy it!” Destroy? I looked at the folders scattered across the floor. If these bid documents and contracts were destroyed, several multi-billion-dollar projects would fall through, and the company would go under. “Stop this nonsense!” I barked. Misty flinched, shrinking behind her brother. “Jax, she’s screaming at me again!” Jax stepped forward, his arm swinging in a wide, vicious arc. The slap landed across my face with a sickening crack. “You bitch! Who gave you permission to speak to my sister like that?” My vision went blurry. My cheek burned, swelling instantly. I sat there, entirely stunned. Me. Gloria. Five-time consecutive sales champion. The woman Charles treated like a fragile porcelain doll because my happiness literally funded his lifestyle. The last time I went through a breakup, a sudden storm had damaged our warehouse, and Charles had personally driven me to a lounge to buy me drinks just to cheer me up—which miraculously led to a massive public donation that rebuilt the facility. The time I got sick, our sales department lost every major lead until Charles hired a private medical team to treat me at home. Today, I was being publicly assaulted in my own office because of his mistress. Jax wasn’t done. He grabbed me by my collar, dragging me up until I was on my toes. He pointed his free hand at Misty, who was still dry-heaving with theatrical sobs on the floor. “Look at what you did to her! She’s a young girl, and you’re just a pathetic old woman. Have you no shame?” The murmurs outside grew, but nobody stepped in. Nobody wanted to cross the boss’s muscle. “If you don’t make my sister forgive you today,” Jax snarled, his hot, foul breath in my face, “I’ll make sure you don’t walk out of here.” He shoved me back. My head cracked against the bookshelf, leaving me dizzy. I stood up slowly, leaning against the wood for support, and pulled my phone from my pocket. I tapped Charles’s number. Before it could ring, a small hand snatched the phone away. “What are you doing, sweetie?” Misty held the phone, tilting her head with a look of mock innocence. “Are we trying to post a little status update? Let me help you.” “Give it back,” I said, reaching for it. She ducked away easily, and Jax grabbed my arms, pinning them behind my back. “Misty, give me the phone,” I said, trying to keep my voice level, though anger was clawing at my throat. Misty raised the camera, snapping several quick photos of my blood-streaked, swollen face. “Stop!” I turned my head, but Jax forced my face back toward the lens. I struggled against his grip, my voice shaking with rage. “You are going to regret this.” Misty giggled. “Why are you trying to scare me? I’m just trying to help you, sweetie.” She looked down at the screen, her eyes lighting up with malicious curiosity. “Ooh, who are all these contacts with the stars next to their names? Are these your little sugar daddies?” My blood ran cold. Every single contact with an asterisk was a high-profile client I had spent years cultivating. One of them was the CEO of Nova Tech, with whom we were scheduled to sign a massive, company-defining contract tomorrow morning. If anything went wrong with that deal, the company would collapse. “Those are the company’s VIP clients! Don’t touch those names!” My voice cracked, raw and desperate. “Misty, please. Do not mess with those contacts. Give me the phone.” She didn’t listen. If anything, my panic only excited her. She selected the photos of my beaten, bloody face and hit “send” to every starred contact. “Oops,” she gasped, tapping her cheek with faux innocence. “I hit send.” She smiled, bright and vacuous. “It’s okay, sweetie. Now your sugar daddies can see the real you. That way, you’ll know who really loves you! Aren’t I helpful?” The room seemed to tilt. “Recall the messages! Use the unsend button! Those are our most critical accounts!” With a sudden burst of adrenaline, I wrenched myself free from Jax’s grip and lunged toward her. But Jax was faster. He tripped me, and as I hit the floor, his heavy boot came down hard on the side of my face, pinning my head to the carpet. I ignored the pain of my skin scraping against the floor. “Unsend them! There is a billion-dollar deal on the line!” Misty just stood there, smiling down at me as the seconds ticked away, rendering the messages permanent. Rage boiled over. “Misty, you are a brainless, pathetic idiot!” I screamed, my voice muffled by the carpet. “You’ve ruined everything! Everything is gone!” Jax ground his boot harder into my temple. “Who gave you permission to talk to my sister like that?” Just as he prepared to put his full weight down, a familiar voice cut through the air. “What is all this racket? Don’t you people have work to do?” The crowd outside parted instantly. “Move, move, the boss is here!” Jax quickly lifted his boot, his face shifting from thuggish rage to a slick, sycophantic grin. I lay there like a discarded rag. Charles walked into the office, his sharp gray suit impeccable. Misty immediately threw herself into his arms. “Charles! You’re finally back!” She clung to his arm, rubbing her face against his sleeve, her voice dissolving into soft, trembling whimpers. “You have no idea what your wife did to me!” She held up her slightly pink hand. “She hit me, Charles! And she called me a brainless idiot! She refused to leave the office, and when I tried to reason with her, she just went crazy. Jax only stepped in to protect me…” She buried her face in his chest, sobbing softly. “Did I do something wrong, Charles? Why does she hate me so much? I was only trying to help…” Jax chimed in, looking suitably righteous. “Mr. Shen, she was brutalizing my sister. I couldn’t just stand by and watch.” “Enough,” Charles said, raising a hand. His gaze swept across the ruined office, past the torn papers, and finally landed on me, crumpled on the floor, my face a mess of blood and tangled hair. A flash of irritation and disgust crossed his features. “We’ve been over this,” he said coldly. “There is nothing left between us. Why do you keep dragging this out?” He tossed a set of divorce papers onto the floor in front of me. “Just sign it. This isn’t good for anyone.” Misty quickly scooped up a pen from the desk and shoved it toward my hand. “Sign it, hurry!” I didn’t have the energy to argue. Using what little strength I had left, I scribbled my signature on the line. Charles looked slightly surprised by my sudden compliance. But as he took the papers back and his eyes slid down to the signature line, he froze. He stared at the name written in my familiar, sharp handwriting: “Gloria.” His pupils dilated, and the color drained completely from his face. When he looked down at me again, his eyes were filled with pure, unadulterated terror.

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The teenager my defense attorney girlfriend had defended put thumbtacks in my running shoes. They bit deep into my skin, leaving my feet dripping with blood. And once again, she apologized on his behalf. The doctor was sterilizing the wounds and prepping the syringe. The needle was long, sinking deep into my flesh, and the sharp, hot sting made me sob out loud. “Mary, how many times is this? How many times have you said sorry to me because of Toby?” Her expression faltered. She looked at me, her eyes meeting my red, raw stare. “Fifty-one,” I told her. An average of once a week. Ever since she took Toby’s case, our eighth year together had been swallowed by her endless loop of apologies. My voice was still trembling, but I wiped my face dry. “Mary, I’m done.” “I’m exhausted. Aren’t you?” … “I’m sorry.” She stayed quiet for a long time before she finally let the words slip out. I let go of her hand. I have always been terrified of needles. For as long as we had been together, whenever I had to get a shot, she would automatically reach out and let me squeeze her hand as tight as I needed to. Not today. “Mary, if I hear you say that word again, I’m going to throw up.” She kept her eyes downcast, staring at my bandaged feet, knowing I couldn’t even walk. “I’ll make Toby come over and apologize to you properly.” “Zack, I promise. This is the absolute last time.” When Toby finally showed up, he was already sniffling, his shoulders shaking with performative tears. “I’m so sorry, Zack. It was an accident. I dropped the pack of tacks and didn’t realize one fell inside your shoe.” I didn’t even have time to react before Mary accepted his excuse. “Zack, the security footage from the hallway is too blurry to see anything. We can’t just assume he did it on purpose.” It was the exact same defense she had mounted for him a dozen times before. “Let’s just let it go.” The blood was still seeping through my bandages. “You apologize for him, Mary. You let it go for me. You really have a seamless way of handling things, don’t you?” Detecting the sharp sarcasm in my voice, Mary’s forehead creased, and her tone rose defensively. “He already said it was an accident! What else do you want from him?” “What will make you happy? Tell me what kind of apology you want, and I’ll do it myself.” She pulled at her silk scarf, loosening it as she stared at me as if I were some kind of unfeeling monster. “Toby is just a kid. He isn’t as malicious as you think.” “You’re years older than him. Why do you have to be so incredibly petty?” Her chest heaved. In the past, when we reached this point, I would back down. I was always too tired to argue, too intimidated by her sharp, trial-lawyer intensity, and so I would let it slide. But today, looking at Toby—who had somehow made it to our apartment ahead of us and was already busy in the kitchen—I couldn’t pretend anymore. Hearing the door click, Toby poked his head out. “Zack! I figured you hadn’t eaten yet, so I came over early to make dinner. Think of it as my way of saying sorry. I’m actually a pretty good cook. While you were away on your business trips, I always came over to cook for Mary.” He had his fingerprint registered on our smart lock. He was wearing slippers that matched Mary’s. He was wearing my loungewear. His hands moved with practiced ease through our cabinets, searching for ingredients, while those words—”I always came over”—hung heavily in the air. Having gone straight to the clinic the moment I got back from my trip, I was only now noticing the foreign fingerprints left all over my life. “Mary, did he come over often while I was away?” She bit her lip. “He dropped out of school, Zack. He was lonely and said he wanted to cook for me. It was just a nice gesture. It didn’t harm anyone.” My swollen eyes throbbed, sending a sharp ache through my temples. “It harmed me.” In those fifty-one apologies Mary had offered, there was the time Toby broke the watch I left in her car. The times she abandoned our plans to bail him out of trouble. The times Toby crashed our dates, forcing his way into our space. The times he “accidentally” tripped me or spilled hot soup on my skin, leaving me with minor burns. I pointed a finger at Toby, my voice cold. “Pay me back for the medical bills. Not just today’s—all of them.” I named a figure. Beside me, Mary’s jaw went rigid. I kept going. “And take off my clothes. Now.” “Enough!” The shout tore from Mary’s throat, loud and sharp. “I told him he could wear those! He stayed over last night because it got too late, so I found him something of yours to change into.” “It’s just a set of clothes, Zack.” “If you’re going to make a scene over it, I’ll buy you the exact same brand-new set tomorrow!” “That is not the point!” I screamed back, the anger finally breaking through, ugly and raw. The veins on the back of her hands bulged as she glared at me. “What is the point then? You just hate him! I’ll pay you whatever money you want. Ten times over! Is that enough?!” “Why do you have to torment a teenage boy like this?” My ears rang from the shouting, my palms growing cold and numb as I struggled to breathe. “You’ll pay for him? By what right do you represent him? He’s a convicted juvenile delinquent, Mary. Where did you get this sudden, overwhelming sense of maternal duty? He is doing this to me on purpose. Are you blind, or are you just pretending to be?” The argument degenerated into a screaming match. “You were just his public defender. His mother hired your firm, and your job ended when the verdict was delivered. There are state-appointed social workers to keep tabs on him. But he clings to you, and you let him. Can’t you see he’s obsessed with you?” “Zack, shut your mouth!” “Where is your basic empathy? How can you be so vicious? Yes, he made a mistake, but does his past have to chain him for the rest of his life? You keep throwing ‘juvenile delinquent’ in his face. What makes you think you’re so superior?” While we tore into each other, Toby looked like he couldn’t bear it anymore and bolted out the door. Mary turned to chase him, but I threw myself in front of her, tears finally spilling over my lashes. “Don’t go!” “If you walk out that door today, we are done.” Mary didn’t even look at my tears. Her face was flushed with pure fury. “Zack, I’ve told you before.” “Toby only bullied those kids because his parents neglected him. He did bad things because he grew up starved for love.” “He isn’t bad at his core.” “Even the court only ordered rehabilitation and check-ins.” “What right do you have to judge him?” “I defended him. I believed in him, so he trusts me and listens to me. He wants to change.” “Why should I abandon him?” “Should I be cold-blooded like you and just throw a kid’s future in the trash?” She delivered those last words slowly, ice-cold. “Honestly, Zack, I’m starting to wonder if you did something to provoke him first.” Her phone began to buzz. Toby’s name flashed across the cracked screen, persistent and haunting. I reached out to stop her from answering. She shoved me out of the way. The force of it sent me crashing hard against the wall. With my injured foot, I couldn’t hold my balance. I collapsed onto the floor. Her phone slipped from her fingers, hitting the hardwood with a sharp crack as a spiderweb of fractures spread across the glass. Mary’s eyes widened with anger. A dull, nauseating pain radiated from my tailbone up through my spine and down into my lower abdomen. Every breath felt like inhaling glass. “Mary… help me up…” But her eyes were fixed on the phone. Her fingers scrambled nervously, slipping three or four times before she finally managed to swipe the screen and pick up. Then she grabbed my arm, trying to haul me off the floor. “You’re coming with me.” “You’re going to apologize to Toby for what you just said!” Toby’s voice leaked through the receiver, high-pitched and hysterical. “I don’t want to see him! I don’t! Keep him away!” I struggled against her grip like a dying animal, and she let go. I fell back down, hitting the floor hard for a second time. The apartment darkened as the sun fully dipped below the horizon. Mary walked out, her face caught half in light and half in shadow from the hallway bulb. “And one more thing.” “Even if Toby does have a crush on me, so what?” “He’s a teenage boy. It’s normal to have feelings. He just needs proper guidance.” “Not whatever this is. You’re losing your mind and throwing tantrums over a child.” “This isn’t about you threatening to break up.” “It’s about whether you can take responsibility if Toby runs out of here and does something drastic to himself.” My fingers curled into tight fists against the cold floor. I lay there, drained of the strength to even whisper a response. My physical wounds slowly closed, leaving behind pale, ugly scars. But along with the healing, something else had quietly died inside me. My twenty-seventh birthday arrived. My friends blindfolded me, gently guiding me along the pavement until we reached our destination. “Happy birthday!” The blindfold was slipped off, and the sky above erupted in a brilliant sequence of fireworks. Confetti rained down as my friends cheered, their faces bright with laughter. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw Mary kneeling on one knee before me on the beautifully decorated rooftop terrace. “Zack, happy birthday.” “Will you marry me?” She looked incredibly soft, her eyes warm and clear—a stark contrast to the woman who had screamed at me in our living room. “I didn’t call you these past few weeks because I wanted to give you space. And… I was getting this ready.” This was the city’s most exclusive rooftop bar, a place with a months-long waiting list. She had arranged custom fireworks and scattered white peonies across the floor. It must have taken immense effort. “I’ve taken care of everything, Zack.” “I transferred Toby’s case to another attorney. He won’t be in our lives anymore.” “Zack, let’s get married.” The crowd erupted. “Say yes! Say yes!” “I…” Before I could form a word, Mary’s phone rang. Once. Twice. Her hand holding the ring box trembled slightly. Her jaw tightened. But she answered it. She held up a finger, gesturing for our friends to wait, and gently pushed my shaking hand down. Only a few muffled sounds came through the speaker, but I distinctly heard the words: “…waiting for you.” I knew this scene by heart. So many times, Mary had been called away just like this because Toby claimed he had messed up, because Toby was sad, because Toby needed her. A vein throbbed at Mary’s temple. She hastily pressed the ring box into my palm. “Zack.” “I’m sorry.” Fifty-second apology. On the very first day of my twenty-seventh year. “When I get back, I’ll propose to you again. Properly.” She turned and sprinted toward the exit, the wind whipping her coat around her. The awkward silence, the pitying looks, and the embarrassed whispers of my friends all crashed down on me. “Mary, where the hell do you think you’re going—” one of my friends yelled, but her voice was swallowed by the wind. Mary pushed open the heavy door to the lower observation deck. “Toby, get down from there right now!” Toby was sitting precariously on the safety railing, his body swaying over the drop, his face twisted with frantic obsession. “Today is my eighteenth birthday too, Mary. You haven’t even said happy birthday to me.” Mary rubbed her aching temples. She had been pushed past the point of anger, left completely drained. “Fine. Happy birthday.” “Just step down. If you get off that railing, I’ll celebrate with you. We can do whatever you want.” Toby’s entire face lit up. “Whatever I want?” “Then I want you to cancel your proposal. I want you to be my girlfriend!” Mary’s footsteps froze. The warmth drained from her face, leaving her eyes cold and dark. Startled by her look, Toby’s confidence crumbled, and he began to cry, leaning back slightly over the edge. “If not forever… then just for a year? Six months? A month?” “A week? Just one week!” He sobbed, shifting his weight further back. “Mary, is even a week too much? If you don’t say yes, I’m going to jump!” The moment he showed vulnerability, Mary’s expression softened. But as he leaned further, panic took over. She lunged forward, her voice cracking with terror as she screamed the agreement. “Okay! Yes! I’ll be your girlfriend! Just don’t jump!” Toby’s tears vanished, replaced by a triumphant grin. He threw himself off the railing and directly into Mary’s arms, wrapping his limbs around her in a tight grip. Mary froze for a fraction of a second, uncomfortable, before her hand slowly came up to pat his back. “Thud.” My hand went slack, and the ring box slipped through my fingers, bouncing once on the concrete. Still holding Toby, Mary spun around. I was standing in the narrow doorway of the deck. As her eyes widened in shock, a quiet smile touched my lips. “I’m leaving.” My friend hurried after me, her voice frantic. “Zack! Zack, wait, where are you going?” I reached up and gently wiped away the tears of frustration on her cheek. “I’m going home. I’m just the ex-boyfriend now. It doesn’t feel right to stay.” Mary didn’t return to our apartment until days later. She seemed surprised to find me awake. “Why are you back?” I asked, my voice flat. She lowered her gaze. “I just came to pack a few things. Toby is in a really fragile state right now. I need to keep an eye on him.” When I didn’t answer, she let out a tired sigh. “Zack, you saw what happened. I didn’t have a choice.” I didn’t say a word, continuing to fold my shirts. Mary’s brows knit together. She stepped forward, grabbing my wrist to stop me from reaching into the closet. But when she saw that the clothes I was handling were all hers, her anger seemed to dissipate. “You don’t need to pack all of this for me.” “I’ll only be gone a few days. I don’t need this much.” I looked at her, my expression entirely empty. “Pack as much as you can. I’m putting the apartment on the market.” The clothes slipped from her grip, falling to the floor in a quiet, heavy heap. Mary grabbed my collar, her words hissed through clenched teeth. “Zackary, what kind of game is this?” “I already explained it to you! He’s a highly sensitive teenager going through a crisis. I am just humoring him to keep him safe. It doesn’t mean anything!” I met her furious, desperate glare. “Mary, we started dating on my eighteenth birthday, too.” She didn’t get it. Or perhaps she chose not to. “What does that have to do with anything? Was I supposed to let him die? Why do you have to be so incredibly dramatic?” I didn’t answer. Over the next few days, Mary busy-bodied herself playing the doting girlfriend for Toby. They acted as if they were cramming an entire lifetime of romance into a few short days. Meanwhile, I spent my time packing my life into boxes and listing the apartment. Every now and then, my phone would buzz with photos from an unknown number. Pictures of Mary and Toby together. I thought my heart was already numb to her. But life always finds a way to prove you wrong. On the day the apartment officially went up for sale, I went to the clinic to pick up my medical results. After nearly nine months of careful treatment and lifestyle changes, my health metrics had finally reached the standard. The plans we had made to start a family were finally within reach. But the weather was miserable. The rain hung in the air, refusing to fall, leaving the atmosphere thick and suffocating. My chest felt just as heavy. “I had an injury some months ago,” I told the doctor, my voice trembling as the tears began to blur my vision. “I fell hard. My lower abdomen was in severe pain, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. Afterward, I felt weak, and once I even coughed up a bit of blood, but I assumed it was just a stomach ulcer from all the stress.” My words felt clumsy, coming out slow and disjointed. The doctor let out a soft sigh, looking at me with pity. “Try to stay calm. I’ve scheduled a comprehensive contrast scan for you tomorrow morning. We need to evaluate the extent of the internal scarring and see if the trauma permanently impacted your reproductive health.” I don’t know how Mary tracked me down, but she was waiting outside the clinic. “Zack, did you really list the apartment?” Just looking at her made a phantom pain flare up in my abdomen. “Zack, I’m talking to you!” The medical envelope slipped from my hand, spilling the papers onto the floor. Mary leaned down and gathered them. As she read the words on the page, her face went entirely pale. “Zack… we were trying for a baby? We’re going to have a child?” Her hand reached out, trembling, wanting to touch my face but stopping inches away. “I’m coming home tonight. I’ll take care of you.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” I let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Aren’t you in a relationship?” Her eyes darted away guiltily. “Zack, none of that is real. Besides, the seven days I promised him… today is the sixth day. Just wait for me. Toby is actually downstairs right now. I’ll go down and make everything clear to him once and for all.” Make things clear? How could anything be clear when Toby suddenly charged through the clinic doors, a kitchen knife glittering in his hand, plunging it straight into my stomach? His face was twisted into something feral, unrecognizable. “I won’t let you take her! She’s mine! She belongs to me!” “I’m telling you, we’ve done everything! If you can give her a baby, I can give her the rest of my life!” The blade felt cold at first. Then came a searing, white-hot agony that felt like my internal organs were being torn to shreds. Blood began to pool, hot and fast, soaking through my shirt. At first, Mary just stood there, paralyzed. She had believed Toby when he said he wanted to come up alone to offer me a final, sincere apology. She believed him right up until the metal caught the fluorescent light. The storm that had been brewing all day finally broke. The rain came down in a deafening sheet, washing the blood across the concrete outside the clinic doors. I watched Mary scramble toward me on her knees, completely stripping away the cool, collected demeanor she usually wore like armor. I never knew rain could make a person feel so cold. My vision began to fray at the edges, dissolving into dark patches. “Zack—” “Don’t close your eyes! Look at me, please, I’m begging you, look at me!” Mary was screaming, her voice raw and ruined, competing with the thunder. Rain, tears, and blood all ran together on her hands. Just minutes ago, she had looked into my eyes and promised, “From now on, it’ll just be the three of us.” But Mary. Look at us now. Where is our “us” supposed to go?

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My name and his assistant’s name differed by only a single, silent letter. She was Megan Clark. I was Meghan Clarke. The latest time she “accidentally” mixed up our names was at the office party Liam’s partners were throwing to celebrate our upcoming wedding. The bass from the speakers hummed through the floorboards of the private lounge as a massive vinyl banner was unfurled across the back wall. Someone read the bold print aloud over the noise. “Congratulations to Liam and Megan Clark! Wishing you a lifetime of love and happiness!” The room went dead silent. The clinking of glasses stopped, and the easy laughter died instantly. Then, Megan Clark’s soft, timid voice cut through the quiet. “Oh my god, Meghan, I am so, so sorry. I ordered it so late last night, I must have made a typo. I didn’t mean to…” I didn’t say a word. I just turned my head to look at Liam. Liam didn’t even flinch. His hand instinctively rested on her shoulder in a comforting gesture before he stepped directly in front of her, completely shielding her small frame from my gaze. His eyes held that familiar, warning coldness he always wore when she was involved. “Meghan, it’s just a banner,” he said, his voice low and tight. “Megan didn’t do it on purpose. Everyone here knows who the real bride is. Don’t make a scene over a spelling mistake, okay?” Megan. Meghan. It was glaringly obvious, wasn’t it? I slowly let go of the string of the helium balloon I was holding. “Right,” I said quietly. “I won’t make a scene.” And I never would again. … The released balloon drifted toward the high ceiling of the lounge, its bright red color exceptionally loud in the stifling silence before it finally bumped against a light fixture and hovered there, deflated. In the awkward lull, one of the junior designers whispered, “So… do we still hang the banner, or…?” “Hang it,” I said, my face completely expressionless. “Someone worked very hard on it, after all.” The moment the words left my mouth, Megan’s eyes welled with tears. “Meghan, please, I worked until 11 PM to get this ordered last night. I was just so exhausted, my fingers must have slipped. I’m so sorry!” Before I could even open my mouth, Liam’s brow furrowed deep with irritation. “Meghan, it’s one letter. There’s no need to bully a younger girl who’s already working herself to the bone. Just pretend it’s your name and let it go.” I stared at him. I genuinely couldn’t comprehend how, in his mind, my silence equated to bullying her. Liam’s eyes hardened, the displeasure in them growing so thick I could practically feel it. He opened his mouth to reprimand me further, but Brad, one of our co-founders, quickly stepped in to break the tension. “Hey, come on! Let’s get some drinks! Meghan, Liam, tomorrow is your last official night of freedom. Let’s celebrate!” Once the alcohol started flowing, the suffocating atmosphere began to thaw, and the room grew loud again. I sat quietly in my chair. Liam sat next to me, his fingers flying as he peeled spicy peel-and-eat shrimp. He did it quickly and effortlessly because he knew how much I loved them; he had peeled them for me for the nine years we had been together. Within minutes, a small mountain of clean, pink shrimp sat in the bowl in front of him. I was about to tell him I didn’t have much of an appetite when he slid the bowl directly to his right—straight into Megan’s hands. His eyes remained on me as he spoke. “She just got a fresh set of acrylics done, so it’s hard for her to peel them. Don’t overthink it.” A dull, throbbing ache flared behind my ribs, sharp as shards of glass. “Meg, I promise I’ll only ever peel shrimp for you in this life.” Liam’s voice from years ago echoed in my head, so clear it made my throat tight. I couldn’t help but wonder how a person’s heart could rot and change so quickly. The pile of shrimp in Megan’s bowl looked violently red under the lounge lights. My eyes burned. I quietly stood up and slipped out to the restroom. On my way back, as I reached the heavy door of the private room, I heard Brad’s muffled, teasing laugh from inside. “Liam, man, you’re getting your marriage license on Friday, and you’re still this sweet to our little Megan? Are you trying to have your cake and eat it too?” Liam didn’t deny it. Instead, Megan’s voice piped up, sweet and defensive. “Oh, stop it, you guys! Liam is just looking out for me because I’m new.” Her tone wasn’t a rejection of the joke; it was a flirtatious, lingering whine. A chorus of knowing chuckles followed. I pushed the door open. The laughter cut off instantly, and the group awkwardly shifted the conversation to quarterly targets. Liam still had a lingering smile on his face as he pushed a small plate toward me. It had a few dry, cold pieces of shrimp left on it. “Didn’t you say you wanted some earlier? Here.” Leftovers. He remembered, but in his mind, I was now the person who only deserved her scraps. I didn’t touch my silverware for the rest of the night, not even when they dragged us up for a group photo. But Liam didn’t notice. He was too busy making sure Megan didn’t trip on her heels. By the time the party wrapped up, a torrential downpour had started outside. I stood under the awning of the lounge, waiting for Liam to bring the car around. The sleek black sedan pulled up to the curb, and the door opened. Liam stepped out, holding a large umbrella. He walked straight past me, not even casting a glance in my direction, and held the umbrella over Megan, guiding her gently into the passenger seat. Only after she was safely buckled did he turn and call out to me through the sheet of rain. “What are you standing there for? It’s pouring. Get in!” He forgot. My left shoulder was still recovering from a minor surgery, and the doctor had warned me repeatedly that the incision could not get wet. The cold rain soaked through my blouse in seconds, and with it, the very last ember of warmth in my chest went entirely cold. I let out a quiet, bitter laugh, opened the back door, and climbed into the dry car. The entire drive home was filled with Megan’s endless, bright chatter about trivial things—what she should wear to the office tomorrow, how her goldendoodle had been refusing to eat his kibble. Liam replied in soft, patient murmurs, a small smile playing on his lips. It was hard to reconcile this man with the one who used to snap at me, telling me that passenger-seat chatter distracted him from driving. I pulled out my phone. The screen lit up with the online portal for the city clerk’s office. Our appointment to sign our marriage license was scheduled for Friday morning. My fingers trembled slightly, but I didn’t hesitate as I pressed “Cancel”. Maybe because I had been silent for too long, Liam glanced up at the rearview mirror as we neared our building. He offered a rare, defensive explanation. “Megan is on her period today. She couldn’t risk getting soaked and catching a cold. Don’t take it the wrong way.” What an incredibly attentive boss. He could remember his assistant’s menstrual cycle, but he couldn’t remember that his girlfriend of nine years had surgical staples in her shoulder. I clutched my throbbing shoulder, a familiar wave of anger rising in my throat. I wanted to scream, to ask him why he knew when she bled, why he fed me her garbage, why he treated her like glass and me like stone. But as the words reached my lips, they dissolved into nothing. “It’s fine,” I murmured. What was the point? I had fought this battle a hundred times since Megan joined Vanguard Digital six months ago. I was tired of the sound of my own voice. I still remembered the first time Megan “accidentally” swapped our names. It was during a pitch to Horizon Media, our biggest prospective client. I had pulled seven consecutive all-nighters to build the strategy deck. But when Liam presented the slides to the board, Megan’s name was listed as the lead strategist on the cover. When I asked Liam why he didn’t correct it during the meeting, his response was cold: “It makes the agency look disorganized if we correct typos in front of a client. The internal team knows you did the work.” But when the contract was signed, the ten-thousand-dollar performance bonus went into Megan’s account, and she was the one featured in the industry newsletter. When I confronted him in his office, he simply Venmoed me three thousand dollars from his personal account with a text that read: “Is this enough?” Those three words had choked the air right out of my lungs, leaving nothing but a bitter, metallic taste. After that, the “mix-ups” became our normal. The flowers Liam ordered for our anniversary were delivered to Megan’s desk. The seating arrangement at the annual charity gala placed Megan right next to him, while I was relegated to a table near the kitchen. Every single time, Liam had an excuse. She was his junior alumnus from college; she was young; she didn’t mean it; I was being petty. But I never imagined he would let her have my wedding banner, too. The car clicked into park in our building’s garage. “We’re home. Get out,” Liam said. I didn’t move. My eyes were locked on the rearview mirror, where a plush, pink bunny keychain now hung. “Where is the little tiger keychain I bought you in Chicago?” I asked quietly. He gave a light, dismissive chuckle. “Megan said the old one was looking ragged and dirty. She bought me this one. It’s cute, right? Just a cheap little thing, don’t read too much into it.” The tiger wasn’t the only thing that was ragged and old in his eyes. I was, too. I didn’t reply. As I reached for the door handle, Liam finally realized that the only umbrella we had in the car was the one he had given to Megan. He looked back, momentarily startled, and quickly peeled off his light suit jacket, holding it out to me. “It’s still pouring. Use this to cover your head.” I looked at the thin, expensive fabric. I didn’t take it. I simply pressed the door open and walked out into the torrential rain, letting the cold water drench my clothes and sting my open skin. By the time I got upstairs, my shoulder was throbbing with a dull, white-hot heat. I took a quick, painful shower, carefully avoiding the incision, and clumsily replaced the wet gauze with a fresh bandage. When I walked into the living room, Liam was pouring himself a glass of bourbon. He froze when he saw the fresh white tape on my collarbone. A flicker of genuine guilt crossed his handsome face. “Meg… I’m sorry about tonight.” But the very next sentence that came out of his mouth was colder than the rain outside. “As compensation, I want you to hand over the Horizon Media account to Megan. You’ve been working too hard lately. You need to rest.” I stared at him, a dry, hysterical laugh bubbling up in my chest. I had spent four grueling months securing that account. Horizon was notorious for being incredibly demanding, and I had personally negotiated every single term, refining the deliverables a dozen times. Now that the contract was ready to be signed, he wanted me to hand it over? “Based on what?” I asked, my voice deadly quiet. “I refuse.” The guilt in Liam’s eyes evaporated, replaced instantly by sharp impatience. “Based on the fact that I own this agency, and you are my employee. Meghan, why do you always have to be so incredibly difficult? Why can’t you be more like Megan? You two have almost the exact same name, but why is there such a massive difference in your attitude?” Something inside my chest, something I had guarded fiercely for nine years, finally snapped with a quiet, clean sound. When we first started Vanguard Digital in his cramped studio apartment, he had held my hands, telling me how brilliant I was, promising me that one day we’d own a beautiful home and I’d never have to worry about a thing. Now, he could afford everything, but his eyes were entirely empty of me. I smiled. “Fine. Give her the project. But if you do, I resign.” Liam let out a harsh, mocking scoff. “Go ahead. You submit it, I’ll approve it. You’re getting really good at these empty threats lately, Meg.” He turned on his heel and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. His rigid back told me everything: he was entirely convinced I would never actually leave. The next morning, the office was already buzzing when I walked in. I sat down at my desk and could hear the interns gossiping near the copier. “Did you see how smug Megan was last night? Even after she messed up the banner, Liam didn’t say a word. She was practically sitting in his lap by the end of the night.” “Honestly, we need to watch our step around her. It’s pretty obvious who’s really running things now.” “When do you think she’s going to officially take Meghan’s place?” I set my handbag on my desk and spoke up calmly, “Soon.” The interns jumped as if they’d seen a ghost. One of them turned bright red, stammering, “Meghan! Oh my god, we were just joking, we didn’t mean—” I gave them a small, reassuring smile. The sharp click of designer heels echoed down the hallway. Megan strutted toward my desk, a thick stack of folders cradled in her arms. She made sure her voice was loud enough for the entire floor to hear. “Meghan, Liam asked me to do the transition for the Horizon account. He said I’ll be taking the lead from now on, so I need your files.” I looked at the triumphant, mocking smirk on her face and felt absolutely nothing. Without a word, I pulled up the project directory, transferred ownership of the files to her email, and signed the physical transition sheet. Megan leaned over my desk, lowering her voice so only I could hear. “Look, Meghan, I didn’t want to steal your spotlight, but Liam insisted. He said I’m just much better suited for high-profile clients. I hope there are no hard feelings.” She spun around, her hips swaying with victory as she walked away. I opened a blank document on my computer, typed up my formal resignation letter, printed it, and walked straight into Liam’s office. Behind me, the whispers started up again. I knew exactly what they were saying—that I had lost, that I was being pushed out, that Megan had won. A week ago, those whispers would have made my chest ache. Now, they were just background noise. When I entered the office, Liam was leaning over Megan’s shoulder, pointing at a slide on her laptop. It was the exact strategy deck I had spent months perfecting, and he was explaining my own insights to her word for word, feeding her my hard work like a mother bird. I walked up and laid the resignation letter flat on his mahogany desk. Liam glanced down. When he read the header, his pupils contracted sharply. “Are you really throwing this big of a tantrum over her?” he hissed, his voice dropping. I kept my tone entirely professional. “Please sign it, Mr. Davis.” He let out a cold, bitter laugh and grabbed his pen. “You think you can manipulate me with this? You think you’re indispensable, Meghan?” He scribbled his signature across the bottom with aggressive strokes and threw the paper at my chest. “Have it your way!” I picked up the paper, turned, and walked out. The moment I sat back down at my desk, a company-wide Slack notification popped up. “[Announcement: Effective immediately, due to Meghan Clarke’s recent unstable performance, the Horizon Media account will be managed entirely by Megan Clark. All departments are requested to cooperate fully.]” “Unstable performance.” He didn’t even try to find a professional excuse. He wanted to publicly humiliate me, to strip away my dignity so I would crawl back to him. I felt the eyes of the entire office boring into me. My face didn’t change. I was the first person to reply to the thread: “Received.” That evening, Liam didn’t come home. I sat on our velvet sofa, staring at the empty living room, and opened Instagram. Megan had posted a photo of her desk, lit by a single desk lamp, with a Starbucks cup and Liam’s silver pen in the frame. The caption read: “Working late with the most amazing boss who stays up to guide me step-by-step. I’d follow him to the end of the earth!”. I let out a soft chuckle, locked my phone, and went to bed. Liam didn’t return until the next morning. He kicked off his loafers at the door, his voice weary but casual. “We worked late on the transition and I ended up crashing on the office couch. You’ve had twenty-four hours to cool down, Meg. Stop throwing a tantrum. Since you resigned, let’s just go to the clerk’s office today and get the marriage license. I’ll take care of you. You don’t need to work anymore.” He walked over to the sofa, leaning down to wrap his arms around me. Before his skin could touch mine, a heavy, cloying scent of Jo Malone peony perfume hit my nose. It was Megan’s signature scent. It was so thick it made me physically sick. I pushed against his chest, holding him at arm’s length. “Liam, let’s break up.” He froze, his posture straightening slowly. A smug, patronizing smile spread across his lips. “Meghan, stop acting like a child.” “We’ve been together for nine years. Everyone in our social circle, every client we have, knows we’re a unit.” “Besides, be realistic. Who is going to want a thirty-year-old woman?” “You know as well as I do—without this agency, and without me, you are absolutely nothing.” So that was what he truly thought of me. Even though my heart was already dead, hearing the words aloud felt like a slow blade twisting in my chest. I forced down the rising acidity in my throat and looked him dead in the eye. “I’m not acting. I cancelled our marriage license appointment. I did it two days ago, on the way back from the lounge.” Before he could process my words, his phone rang. His face immediately softened as he answered. “What’s wrong, Megan? Did Horizon call?” A frantic, tearful voice bled through the receiver. Liam’s expression went completely white. He hung up the phone and grabbed his keys, rushing toward the door. “We’ll talk about this later. There’s a massive crisis with the Horizon account. Megan is panicking.” He didn’t wait for my response. The door slammed shut, the lock clicking into place. I smiled to myself. Megan’s minor inconveniences would always be enough to shatter Liam’s composure, while my entire life could fall apart and he wouldn’t look up from his phone. I dragged my large suitcase out of the closet and began packing my clothes. Once I was done, I drove to the office to complete my physical exit paperwork. The moment I stepped onto our floor, the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense. The junior designer, Sarah, scurried over to me, her voice barely a whisper. “Meghan, everything is falling apart. The Horizon team just called. There’s a massive error in the core financial projections. They are furious.” Before I could ask for details, Megan stepped out of Liam’s office, her eyes red and puffy. “Meghan,” she said, her voice dripping with venom. “Liam wants to see you.” I looked at the subtle, ugly triumph hidden behind her tears, and a cold dread settled in my stomach. I walked into the corner office. Liam was standing by the window, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his cheek were twitching. “Meghan,” he said, turning around slowly. “Did you do this on purpose?” “Do what?” I asked. Megan stepped in behind me, fresh tears spilling over her cheeks. “Liam, I swear I didn’t touch the raw data sheets she sent me. I trusted her! I didn’t know she would intentionally sabotage the numbers. I know she hates me, but how could she hurt the agency like this?” The sheer absurdity of the accusation made the blood rush to my ears, hot and loud. I stared at Liam. “You actually think I would intentionally corrupt a project database?” Liam’s face was dark, empty of any trust. “Who else had the motive, Meghan? You’ve been acting out for weeks. You were furious that I gave the account to her. You wanted to humiliate her, to make me regret my decision. Isn’t that right?” His words felt like a bucket of ice water poured directly over my head. I didn’t bother trying to defend myself. I just let out a cold, sharp laugh. “The file transfer logs on the secure server don’t lie, Liam. You can trace every single edit. Go check them.” A momentary flicker of doubt crossed his eyes. Seeing this, Megan lunged forward, grabbing my arm roughly. “Meghan, if you had a problem with me, you should have just taken it out on me! Why did you have to ruin the agency’s reputation? Do you have any idea how hard Liam worked for this?” Disgusted by her touch, I yanked my arm back. My fingernail accidentally grazed her cheek. It was a tiny, superficial scratch, but Megan let out a dramatic shriek and collapsed onto the hardwood floor, clutching her face. Liam lunged forward, grabbing my wrist in a grip so tight my bones ached. His face was twisted in absolute disgust. “You are completely out of control!” he roared. He looked down at Megan. “Megan, get up. Slap her.” The air left my lungs. I thrashed against his grip, trying to wrench my wrist free, but his hand was like an iron shackle. Megan looked up from the floor, a flash of pure, malicious satisfaction gleaming in her eyes before she stood up. I stopped struggling and looked directly into Liam’s eyes, my voice dropping to a harsh, quiet whisper. “Liam Davis, the single biggest mistake of my life was ever helping you build this godforsaken company.” “Slap.” The impact snapped my head to the side. My cheek burned with a sharp, stinging heat. The office outside the glass walls fell into a horrific, absolute silence. Liam’s grip on my wrist loosened, and he stumbled back half a step, his fingers twitching. When he spoke, he still tried to sound commanding, but his voice was trembling. “I… I couldn’t let you keep acting like this without consequences.” I didn’t say a word. I didn’t cry. I didn’t look at either of them again. I turned on his heel and walked out of the building. By the time I reached my apartment, the company Slack and LinkedIn pages updated with an official statement: “[Notice of Termination: Employee Meghan Clarke has been dismissed immediately for gross professional misconduct and intentional leakage of proprietary client data.]” My mind went completely blank for a long, quiet minute. He had blacklisted me. To protect Megan’s incompetence and soothe his own ego, he had completely destroyed my professional reputation, blocking every path I had in this industry. A text from Liam arrived a second later: “If you apologize to Megan and help her resolve the Horizon crisis, I’ll let you come back to the agency once the storm blows over.” I didn’t reply. I zipped my suitcase, grabbed my keys, and walked out of the apartment we had shared for five years, leaving the keys on the kitchen counter.

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Five years with Gloria, and my life felt like a black-and-white newspaper. She was rigidly proper, detesting any form of communication that wasn’t plain text. If I sent a simple emoticon, she’d say she didn’t get it. If I sent a meme, she’d call it childish. Then came the night before our wedding. I emailed her the final draft of our wedding vows. Instead of her usual brief, text-only acknowledgment, she replied with a GIF. It was a cute, animated cartoon bear blowing a kiss. The caption read: “Kisses for Bear.” My best friend Barrett’s nickname was Bear. And that specific cartoon bear was a custom sticker pack he’d designed for himself. Suddenly, the curtain pulled back. In a corner of her life I could never see, someone else had chipped away at her rigid exterior, teaching her how to be playful. I stared at the bouncing little bear on my screen, my chest tightening, and dialed our wedding planner. If she wanted to save her playful side for someone else, she could give him the wedding, too. … “Mr. Adler?” the wedding planner asked, her voice cracking with disbelief. “Are you saying you want to change the groom on the welcome banner? To someone else?” The planner sounded stunned, unable to comprehend why a groom would willingly swap himself out just three days before the ceremony. I stared at the looping GIF of the cute little bear, swallowing the bitter lump in my throat. “Yes,” I said quietly. “I’m sending you the photo now.” Right after I hung up, Gloria’s bubble popped up again on my screen. She had unsent the GIF. In its place was a line of her usual, sterile text: “Vows received. Well written.” I didn’t reply. I locked my phone and tossed it onto the desk. Gloria’s leather-bound planner lay open in front of me, filled with her meticulous notes for the wedding. From the 5:00 AM makeup call down to the specific dietary restrictions of each guest. Page after page of tiny, perfect handwriting. As I flipped through the sheets, a heavy wave of nostalgia and grief washed over me. For five years, Gloria had been the perfect partner on paper. She didn’t party, she didn’t drink, she woke up early to make breakfast, and we commuted together every single day. Everyone in our circle told me I’d hit the jackpot, that I must have done something saintly in a past life to deserve a woman so devoted. But they didn’t know the quiet reality. Gloria was clinical. Cold. She didn’t do sweet talk. She didn’t do romance. I had complained to my friends more than once that being with her felt less like a relationship and more like a structured lecture. But Barrett would always laugh it off, saying, “That’s the kind of woman you want to marry, Wes. Steady. Loyal.” Looking back, he was right. Gloria “was” incredible. She was so incredible that she would rewrite her entire personality for him, learning how to send silly cartoon stickers. My fingers idly flipped another page, catching on a folded corner. “The 24th: Barrett’s stomach issues flare-up. Remind him to avoid cold drinks and raw seafood.” “Medication: Chewable antacids, brand-name Pepcid works best.” Right next to the note was a small, crudely drawn smiley face. I stared at those words for a long time, the letters blurring before my eyes. So, Gloria “did” know how to buy stomach medicine. Last winter, the power went out in the middle of a freezing night. My chronic gastritis flared up—a dull, tearing pain that left me shivering on the couch. I had clutched the hem of Gloria’s sleeve, practically begging her to drive to the 24-hour pharmacy to get me something. She had stood there, looking mildly inconvenienced. “Stomach medicine?” she had said, her voice flat. “I don’t really know anything about that, and I wouldn’t know what to get. Can’t you just order it on DoorDash?” But at 3:00 AM in a blackout, no drivers were active. In the end, I had to wrap myself in a heavy coat, grit my teeth through the pain, and walk twenty minutes through the dark to a convenience store myself. At the time, I defended her. “She’s just practical,” I told myself. “She’s not a caretaker type. She doesn’t understand medicine.” But she did. She knew the brands, the active ingredients, the exact dosages. She just didn’t care enough to learn them for me. A profound sense of absurdity washed over me. I felt like a colossal fool, a man who had spent five years living a lie. I didn’t know they were seeing each other, let alone when it had started. And all the while, I had treated Barrett like my brother, confiding in him about our relationship milestones, our petty arguments, our quiet triumphs. Taking a deep breath, I closed the planner, smoothing the leather cover, and grabbed my car keys. I needed to go to the tailor. Since the groom was changing, there was no point in keeping my suit. The receptionist at the boutique greeted me with a warm, knowing smile. “Mr. Adler! You are a very lucky man. Your fiancée is incredibly attentive—she even came in personally to help select the groomsman’s suit.” I froze. Looking past her toward the fitting platforms, I saw Barrett. He was standing in front of the three-way mirror, admiring himself in a gorgeous, bespoke ivory suit. It featured delicate embroidery and subtle silver thread detailing. It was from the luxury designer brand I had been dreaming of for months. But when Gloria and I had come to choose my tuxedo, she had dismissed that exact designer as “pretentious and overpriced,” steering me toward a basic, off-the-rack wool blend. Under her pressure, I had settled for a simple five-hundred-dollar suit. Yet the custom groomsman suit Barrett was wearing—the brand’s flagship piece—cost easily over two thousand dollars. Through the reflection of the mirror, Gloria caught my eye. She stiffened, turning around in a hurry. “Wes?” The lingering warmth in her eyes clashed violently with the panic that instantly flooded her face. Barrett noticed me next. His easy smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he quickly smoothed his expression and jogged over, the expensive fabric rustling. “Wes! What are you doing here?” He slung a familiar arm around my shoulder, just like he always did. “I’m actually doing a trial run for you! Gloria knew how much you loved this brand and wanted to surprise you, so she dragged me here to test the fit and comfort first.” Seeing how effortlessly the lie rolled off his tongue, a cold smile crept onto my face. “And? How does it ‘test’?” Gloria quickly chimed in, stepping between us. “Honestly, it’s just like I said before. Pretentious and overrated. The fabric is actually quite stiff. It only really works as a flashy groomsman outfit.” Barrett nodded eagerly. “Yeah, Wes. Honestly, the simpler suit Gloria picked out for you fits your vibe much better.” They stood side-by-side, their voices harmonizing perfectly as they praised my cheap, off-the-rack suit like it was the pinnacle of style. Watching them, a chilling realization hit me. I finally understood why they belonged together. They were cut from the exact same cloth—equally hollow, equally self-righteous. After a few minutes of trying to convince me, they finally ran out of steam and fell silent, looking at me expectantly. They were waiting for me to nod, to accept their excuses like I always did. Instead, I spoke softly. “If it’s so uncomfortable, then let’s forget about it.” A suit that doesn’t fit right isn’t worth keeping. Neither is a relationship. Barrett blinked, glancing down at his luxurious jacket, then over to Gloria with a pained look. “Wes, are you mad at me?” he asked softly. “Look, if you don’t like it, I don’t have to wear it.” He lingered, dragging his feet as he slowly turned to walk back to the dressing room. Gloria caught up to him in three quick strides, grabbing his wrist. “Why would you change? It looks great on you.” The moment the words escaped her lips, she caught my icy gaze and quickly let go, clearing her throat. “I… I just meant that the groomsman’s suit isn’t a big deal. It doesn’t matter what he wears.” Watching her scramble for justifications made my stomach turn. “I meant,” I repeated, “I don’t want it.” Not the suit. Not her. Not any of this. I walked straight past them to the front desk, calling over the manager to request a refund on my purchase. Fortunately, because Gloria had insisted I get a standard off-the-rack cut rather than a custom-tailored piece, the store policy allowed a return with a minor restocking fee. Gloria’s face distorted with disbelief. “Wes, are you serious? The wedding is in three days, and you’re returning your suit now? Just because I took Barrett out shopping without telling you?” “He literally told you, we were trying to surprise you.” “How can you be this petty? Have you even thought about how this is going to look on our wedding day?” I looked at her, standing there so utterly convinced she was the victim, and felt nothing but exhaustion. Once the refund cleared on my card, I turned back to her, slipping my wallet into my pocket. “You’ll see on the wedding day,” I said. I turned and walked out the door. Behind me, Barrett called out, “Wes, come on, don’t do this! I won’t wear the suit, okay? Wes…” But his voice was quickly cut off by Gloria’s sharp, irritated tone: “Let him go. The wedding is in three days. Let’s see what he does when he has nothing to wear down the aisle.” “And I’m warning you, Barrett, do not offer to stand in as his groom.” Maybe that was Gloria’s subconscious dream all along. To walk down the aisle with Barrett, even if they had to call him the best man. With a heart heavy with bitter clarity, I went back to our apartment and started packing her things. It was only then that I realized how thoroughly Barrett’s presence had permeated her life. Her favorite silk scarf was a deep royal blue—Barrett’s favorite color. Her watch was a limited-edition artist collab she’d bought to match his. Even the house slippers she wore were the silly cartoon pair Barrett had won at a boardwalk ring-toss game over the summer. I threw them all into a cardboard box. I was halfway through when the front door clicked open. Gloria walked in. Wherever she and Barrett had gone after the tailor shop, it had worked wonders on her mood. Her irritation from earlier had vanished, replaced by a soft, relaxed hum. When she saw the boxes on the floor, she stopped. “What’s all this? Why are you packing?” I looked at her, my expression deadpan. “You need to move out tomorrow.” Alone. Gloria’s face fell, her voice instantly dropping an octave. “Move out? To our new house?” “I thought we agreed that since the house is sitting empty, Barrett could stay there for a while?” “Are you really trying to kick him out just because of what happened at the tailor shop? Wes, he’s your best friend.” When Barrett had returned to the country six months ago, he kept complaining about not finding a decent place to live. I had been the one who practically begged Gloria to let him crash at the townhouse she’d put a down payment on. At the time, she had been incredibly cold and reluctant about it. To get her to agree, I had woken up early every single day to make her favorite breakfast, washed her car, and did everything I could to win her over. Eventually, she relented, allowing him to stay temporarily. She had warned me repeatedly: “Tell him to find a place quickly. It’s our future home. Having an outsider live there just feels wrong.” I had promised her I would, and I spent weeks helping Barrett look for apartments. But no matter what place I found, Barrett always claimed it wasn’t right. And Gloria never brought up his moving out again. I used to think she was just being generous for my sake. Now, I realized that was probably the very first time she had bent the rules for him. “I’m telling “you” to move in there,” I said, keeping my words deliberately ambiguous, searching her eyes for any flicker of guilt. “I never said he had to leave.” Gloria’s brain seemed to stall for a second before her eyes lit up with a sudden, unmistakable brightness. “Oh! Well, yeah, there are plenty of extra bedrooms. Sharing the space for a while wouldn’t hurt.” She stepped forward, eagerly grabbing my hands. “I knew it. You guys are brothers—you wouldn’t actually kick him out over a little misunderstanding.” “After you left the store, Barrett felt so guilty. He even said that if it made you uncomfortable, he’d step down as the best man.” “It took me forever to convince him to stay.” She went on and on, but her voice began to sound like it was coming from underwater. A cold numbness spread through my chest. She had never spoken this many words to me in a single breath. Whenever I tried to talk to her, her responses were always curt: “Sure. Fine. You decide.” It was as if she were rationing her vocabulary just for me. “Barrett was actually worried he’d have to scramble to find a place before the wedding,” Gloria murmured, completely absorbed in her excitement. “This is perfect. It saves so much trouble.” She pulled out her phone right in front of me, her fingers flying across the screen. “Let me text him right now and tell him you’re not mad, and that we’re all going to live together.” The screen lit up. The contact name at the top of her chat list read: “Bear”. My contact name, saved right below his, was my full name: “Wes Adler”. In that split second, I saw her pinned chats. The top one was “Bear”. I was second. After sending the message, she looked radiant. She reached out to wrap her arms around my neck, guiding me toward our bedroom. A wave of revulsion washed over my skin. I instinctively stepped back, pushing her hands away. “Sleep in the guest room tonight,” I said. Gloria’s arms fell to her sides, the warmth vanishing from her face. “What is it now?” She let out a long, heavy sigh, adopting that familiar, patronizing tone she always used when she wanted to make me feel small. “Wes, we are getting married in three days. You need to start acting like an adult. This constant need for drama is exhausting.” “Look at Barrett. He is so easygoing.” “Honestly, if it weren’t for my patience, I don’t know who would put up with these tantrums of yours.” “Do you even realize—” I couldn’t stand to hear another word. I stepped into the master bedroom and slammed the door shut, cutting her off. A second later, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was an email from the wedding planner. “Hi Wes, we’ve finalized the welcome banner design as requested.” Attached was a JPEG. The face on the groom’s body was no longer mine. It was Barrett’s. The next morning, I took my keys and drove over to my parents’ house. Since I wasn’t going to be the groom anymore, there was no reason for them to dip into their life savings for our wedding gift fund. But as I pulled onto their street, I noticed a large moving truck parked in front of their driveway. Two movers were hauling my dad’s beloved antique mahogany sofa down the steps. Panic seized my chest. I scrambled out of the car and ran up the stairs. When I pushed the front door open, the living room was already half-empty. “Dad? Mom?” My dad straightened up, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. “Oh, Wes! Gloria stopped by yesterday. She told us about a business opportunity—a franchise we could invest in. She said it would guarantee us a steady monthly payout, some extra security for our retirement.” “What kind of franchise?” I asked, my heart pounding against my ribs. My dad paused, scratching his head. “Some high-end French boutique floral shop… Lavender and roses from Provence, she said.” My mind went completely blank. A Provence-style luxury florist. Two weeks ago, the three of us had gone out for dinner. Over drinks, Barrett had lamented about wanting to open a high-end flower shop that imported specialty roses directly from France. At the time, I had laughed it off. “In a town like ours? Who’s going to pay fifty dollars for a single rose, Barrett?” Barrett had pouted, looking at Gloria. “Well, maybe Gloria can think of a way to make it work.” Gloria had smiled softly and nodded. “Don’t worry. Leave it to me.” I hadn’t thought twice about it then, assuming she was just being polite. I never dreamed she would actually try to fund his dream—especially not by milking my parents’ retirement fund. “Gloria is such a quiet girl,” my dad continued, pride shining in his eyes. “But she’s so thoughtful. To think she’s already looking out for our financial future like this.” A lump of hot anger and grief wedged itself in my throat. I couldn’t swallow it down. I clenched my jaw, fighting back the sting of tears, and forced a calm breath. “Dad, Mom… I actually came to talk to you about that. Gloria is a bit old-fashioned about money. If you give the cash directly to her, she’ll feel awkward and probably refuse to take it.” “Why don’t you wire the investment to my account, and I’ll handle the transaction with her?” My dad clapped his hand to his forehead. “Ah, of course! You always think ahead, Wes.” Without a second thought, he authorized the wire transfer from the sale of their antique furniture and savings straight to my bank account. Once the money was safely secured in my account, I knew I had to get them out of harm’s way. I lied and told them that the wedding venue had a scheduling conflict and the ceremony was being postponed by a few weeks. Before they could ask too many questions, I booked them a spontaneous, all-inclusive beach resort trip to Cape Cod and drove them straight to the airport. Only when their plane took off did I finally breathe a sigh of relief. As long as Gloria couldn’t reach them, I could handle the fallout without my parents being caught in the crossfire. Right then, my phone buzzed. “There’s a fireworks show by the harbor tonight. Want to watch?” It was Gloria. As usual, the text was written with perfect, sterile punctuation—as if she were drafting a legal memo. I replied with a simple: “Sure.” I wanted to see for myself. I wanted to see exactly how far she and Barrett had gone. The wind off the harbor was biting. From fifty yards away, I spotted them. Barrett was laughing, holding out his iced boba tea and slipping the straw directly between Gloria’s lips. This was the same Gloria who claimed to be a germaphobe, who hated sharing food with anyone. Yet she didn’t flinch. Instead, her features softened as she took a slow sip, smiling up at him. Their hands rested close together on the railing, the moonlight catching matching silver bands on their pinky fingers. In that exact moment, the first firework erupted in the night sky, illuminating the intimate warmth on their faces. Gloria looked up and finally noticed me standing there. “I got you one,” she said smoothly, handing me a sealed plastic cup as if she hadn’t just been sharing an intimate drink with my best friend. The cup was dripping with condensation, packed with ice and extra sugar—the exact way Barrett liked his drinks. But I hated sweet drinks. And cold liquids made my stomach cramp violently. I stared directly into Gloria’s eyes, speaking slowly and deliberately. “My. Stomach. Is. Flaring. Up.” Gloria blinked, her brow furrowing slightly. “Oh.” Barrett cradled his cup, offering a sheepish, dimpled smile. “My bad! I completely forgot Wes has a sensitive stomach. Bad Gloria, you should have remembered!” Gloria’s lips twitched upward, her eyes soft as she looked at him. Barrett pulled me down to sit on the bench beside him, acting as if nothing was wrong. “You know, when you walked out of the tailor shop the other day, Gloria was worried sick.” They were incredibly synchronized. Gloria said Barrett felt guilty; Barrett said Gloria was worried. I didn’t play along this time. I sat in silence, staring directly at Barrett, waiting for the real reason they had called me out here. Feeling the pressure, Barrett shifted uncomfortably and glanced at Gloria. Gloria cleared her throat, hesitating before she finally forced the words out. “Since you returned the suit… I was thinking you could just wear that white button-down shirt I got you for your birthday. It looks fine.” “And?” I asked, my voice flat. Gloria and Barrett exchanged a brief, telling look. “For the processional tomorrow,” Gloria said, “I was thinking I could walk down the aisle holding your hand on one side, and you could hold Barrett’s hand on the other. You’d be right in the middle. What do you think?” I stared at her, completely dumbfounded, wondering if I had actually misheard her. A groom in a casual white shirt, flanked by a bride in a custom gown on one side and a best man in a two-thousand-dollar designer tux on the other, walking hand-in-hand down the aisle. The sheer absurdity of the image was staggering. The cold harbor wind carried her ridiculous explanation straight to my ears. Even though my heart was already dead to this relationship, a fresh wave of bitterness still managed to break through. “Gloria,” I said quietly, “do you remember what you told my parents when we got engaged?” “Of course I do,” her voice softened slightly. “I told them I would always give you the absolute best.” Then, she pivoted without missing a beat. “And because of that promise, I want your best friend to be right there by your side during the most important moment of your life.” I looked at her face—so calm, so utterly convinced of her own logic—and realized I had never truly known the woman standing in front of me. After a long pause, I swallowed the tightness in my throat and forced out a single word. “Okay.” Gloria let out a breath she’d been holding, her shoulders relaxing. “I knew you’d understand, Wes. I knew you’d see it makes sense.” The wind off the water was freezing, but it had finally, fully woken me up. We drove back to our apartment in silence. The moment we stepped inside, I picked up the cardboard box containing her belongings and placed it in her arms. “There’s an old tradition,” I said. “The bride and groom shouldn’t spend the night before the wedding under the same roof.” “Go stay at the new house tonight. I’ll meet you at the venue tomorrow.” Gloria stared at the box, her expression turning into a scowl. She clearly didn’t want to leave. But as she looked at me standing firmly in the doorway, blocking her path, she let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine. You always get so superstitious about these things.” “Get some rest tonight. I’ll see you at the hotel tomorrow.” She turned and walked down the hallway, pulling out her phone to send a text before she even reached the elevator. I didn’t need to guess who it was for. I shut the door, locked it, and dialed the real estate agent’s number. “The apartment under my name—list it. Below market price for a quick cash sale.” Then, I grabbed my suitcase and walked out of the home where I had spent the last five years of my life.

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