Author: Momo Chan

My cousin Schumacher was getting married, but my wife refused to attend the wedding with me. I’d expected this—just like how she always found excuses not to visit my hometown with me. Though I was prepared, facing relatives’ questions at the wedding reception still left a bitter taste in my mouth. I’d long known that many people gossiped behind my back, saying I wasn’t man enough to even bring my own wife home. Some even whispered that I’d gotten divorced. I drank silently, coming to a decision. No need for rumors anymore. I pulled out my phone and called my wife. She hung up… hung up again… and again. [Can you stop? I’m busy] Faced with her attitude, I calmly typed: [Let’s get divorced] [Are you insane? You want a divorce just because I won’t go to Schumacher’s wedding?] [My sister’s visiting for the holidays. Can’t I spend time with her?] I used to try reasoning with her, telling her how I felt. She said she hated social obligations, but with her own family, she was always enthusiastic. Big events or small, I had to attend everything on her side. When it came to my side, she called it annoying. I’d tried reasoning too many times. I was done talking. [I’m serious. Think about what you want in the divorce, and I’ll state my terms too] [Split assets fifty-fifty. If you agree, we’ll do an uncontested divorce] I sent the two messages. [Are you crazy?] She replied with the same line again. I put away my phone with no intention of responding further. Over the next few days, she went silent, and I didn’t contact her either. On the last day of the holiday, she came home. Seeing my stern face, she said nothing. After setting down her things, she went into the bedroom and slammed the door hard. Moments later she stormed out angrily, holding divorce papers in her hand. “What is this supposed to mean?” She threw the papers at me. “Divorce.” “I want a reason.” “I’m tired. I don’t want to live with you anymore.” I looked at her calmly. “You’re leaving me for Schumacher?” She started crying. Her tears used to make me panic. Now, I ignored them. “We’re both adults. Can’t we be civilized about this?” “Civilized? You call divorce civilized?” Green tore up the divorce papers. “I’ll never divorce you. I can’t handle that kind of humiliation.” I got up and retrieved my pre-packed suitcase from the study. “You have three days to think it over. If you won’t agree to an uncontested divorce, I’ll file a lawsuit.” “Stop right there, Davis! What gives you the right to divorce me? What have I ever done wrong to you?” “Are you seeing someone else?” I glanced at her, too tired to argue. I just wanted to end this marriage as quickly as possible, even if it meant taking a financial loss. Less than two hours after I left home, my father-in-law Ant called, asking me to come back and talk. If we could divorce peacefully, I didn’t want things to get too ugly. I headed back quickly. Ant, my mother-in-law Bella, and Green’s sister Lavinia were all there. The whole family sat formally, like they were conducting an interrogation. Bella spoke first. “Davis, Green’s told us everything. You’re really going too far. You want a divorce just because she wouldn’t go home with you for your wedding?” “Do you think marriage is a joke? Don’t you take Green seriously at all?” I stayed silent, unwilling to engage in this pointless argument. Green and I had argued enough over the years.

Our sex life—her cold rejections. I’d complained many times. It never helped. My income—no matter how my salary increased, there was always someone earning more that she could use to put me down. And my time off work and holidays—I couldn’t have any recreational activities of my own. She’d always say I was lazy, greedy, sneaky, and lacked ambition. Five years of marriage, and she refused to have kids, constantly citing my lack of ambition and insufficient income. Living in that atmosphere every day, I couldn’t find any meaning in life. The thing was, to make things easier for herself, she’d taken a job paying two thousand a month where she could watch shows and scroll through videos all day. After work, she was either playing cards or getting beauty treatments. Shopping and traveling were mandatory on holidays. I didn’t accept this double standard. “Green hasn’t enjoyed a single day of happiness since marrying you. What right do you have to ask for a divorce?” Bella continued her tirade. I glanced at the gold bracelet on her wrist—I’d bought that. She and Ant had no income. I gave them living expenses every month. Every month, I gave them three thousand dollars. As for Green’s jewelry—I never missed Valentine’s Day, birthdays, or anniversaries. Not once in five years. I didn’t know what suffering they’d endured, or what hardships Green had faced with me. Perhaps the greatest hardship she’d suffered was drinking iced Americanos. Whenever I went back with Green, Bella never stopped talking—either about whose son-in-law made so much money in business or whose daughter acquired what nice things. Her family was a bottomless pit. I looked at Bella. “I came here to talk with you all. Can you shut your mouth?” Bella stood up, glaring. “How dare you! You dare tell me to shut up? Green, look at what you’ve found.” She pointed at me. “With us here, this is your attitude. God knows how you bully Green normally.” “If that’s your attitude, I’ll see you in court.” I stood to leave. “Stop right there! Is this how your parents raised you? Do you have any respect for us?” “Mom, please say less.” Green quickly stopped Bella. “Your parents should be here soon. We’ll discuss this when they arrive.” Ant finally spoke up. Divorce was a big deal—impossible to hide from my parents. Since they’d already notified my folks, we might as well sit down together and settle this. Shortly after I sat back down, my parents arrived. “Finally, you’re here.” Bella wore a stern expression. “Davis is absolutely terrible. You need to control him. I said a few words to him and he told me to shut up.” “This kind of disrespect for elders—only Green could tolerate him.” “Anyone else would have divorced him long ago.” My dad didn’t take the bait, just looked at me. “You’ve thought this through?” “Yes.” “Then divorce.” Bella’s expression darkened. “What do you mean? I called you here to mediate.” “Mediate?” My dad glanced at her. “I don’t see you trying to mediate.” “And speaking of disrespecting elders, does Green respect me and her mother-in-law?” “They’ve been married five years. Has she ever visited us?” “In all these years, has she ever called us Mom and Dad?” “Only the people who gave birth to me are Mom and Dad. Is it wrong that I don’t call you that?” Green lost her temper too. “Then divorce it is.” My dad repeated. “On this matter, I support Davis.”

“I thought you were reasonable people, that’s why I called you over.” Ant’s face darkened. “Since this is your attitude too, there’s no need to let Green suffer with you anymore.” Ant looked at me. “Davis, you can divorce Green, but you leave with nothing.” I ignored him, staring at Green instead. “If you agree to an uncontested divorce, we split assets fifty-fifty. If not, I’ll sue and fight for all the assets, leaving you with nothing.” “Fight for all the assets? Who the hell do you think you are?” Bella put one hand on her hip, pointing at me with the other. “How dare you even mention assets? Have you no shame?” “I’ve been too nice to you, haven’t I?” I stopped indulging her. “You have two daughters. Lavinia married far away, so you expect me and Green to support you in old age. You’re the shameless one.” “You… you… you…” Bella pointed at me. “Won’t our inheritance be yours when we die?” “Inheritance? What inheritance do you have?” I laughed bitterly. “Because you raised daughters, you retired early and started living off others.” “Now even your living expenses come from me, and you dare mention inheritance?” “And the car, house, jewelry—did Green go without any of them?” “If you haven’t learned to be human, you should die and reincarnate to learn again.” Seeing her face flush with anger, I turned back to Green. “I’m just waiting for one word from you. I want to divorce you as soon as possible.” “As long as you agree to an uncontested divorce, you get half the assets. If I sue, you won’t get anything.” “Davis, you’re bullying me.” Green wiped away tears pitifully. “You’re the one leaving me. You want the divorce. What right do you have to split assets?” “What have I done wrong to you?” “You just think I’m too old. You must be seeing someone else.” “Exactly.” Bella chimed in. “Divorce is fine, but you must explain why. If you can’t, you leave with nothing.” “You know perfectly well why I want a divorce.” I stared at Green. “Are you sure you want me to say it now?” “I don’t know. Say it right now why you want a divorce.” “I can tolerate anything about you, but not matters of principle. That’s why I want a divorce.” “What do you mean?” Green glared at me. “You don’t understand what I mean?” “I don’t understand.” Green stepped forward. “You must explain clearly.” I said coldly: “You cheated on me.” “Bullshit! You’re the one who cheated! Don’t slander me.” Green became agitated. “You need proof—you need evidence. Where’s your proof?” She rushed at me shouting, “You’re inhuman! How can you say such things? I’ll tear your mouth off!” Slap… I raised my hand and struck her face. In all our years of marriage, I’d never argued with her. When she was willful or threw tantrums, I’d always laughed it off. But on matters of principle, there could be no forgiveness. Actually, I didn’t want to hit her. I found her disgusting. I just wanted to end this marriage quickly, but facing Green’s fake innocence, I couldn’t hold back. That slap lit the fuse. “You dare hit Green!” Bella rushed forward, Ant followed, and Lavinia joined in too. My parents immediately entered the fray.

Numbers-wise, we were at a disadvantage. But the other side only had Ant as a male, so we gained the upper hand. All those years of pent-up frustration, I released through my fists and feet on Green. I found the chance to slap the domineering Bella several times. Finally, my dad and I teamed up to take down Ant and used my size 11 shoe to greet his face. I proved to Bella through action that I dared not only to hit Green, but her too. Whether it was dirty or not didn’t matter anymore. It felt great. Though feeling great came at a cost—the police took us all in. This kind of family conflict was hard to assign responsibility for. In the end, everyone got a verbal warning. This negotiation ended in physical combat. Clearly, an uncontested divorce was off the table now. Time to sue. Half a month later, the court arranged the first mediation. That day, all of Green’s relatives who could come showed up, clearly planning to get revenge through force. At the mediation, Green’s relatives looked menacing. Seeing this, my dad called my family’s relatives. I figured once mediation ended, another battle was inevitable. The mediator looked stern. “I know you’re all emotional, but today we’re here to resolve your conflicts.” “Davis, Green doesn’t agree to your divorce request, and she’s very upset about your accusation of her infidelity.” “If you have no evidence, she has the right to hold you accountable.” I looked at Green. “Since you won’t take the easy way out, today I’ll let all your relatives see your true face.” “Green, listen carefully. Before Schumacher’s wedding half a month ago, I installed cameras at home. Do you think I have evidence of your affair?” I looked at the mediator. “I have a video that can prove Green’s infidelity.” Green’s face went pale. “I agree to divorce. I agree to leave with nothing.” Too late. For people who don’t appreciate kindness, they must learn pain. I told the mediator, “I request to play this video publicly to prove I didn’t slander Green.” “No, you can’t!” Green panicked. “You heard her—Green says you can’t.” Bella joined in. “Green said you can’t.” Lavinia also shouted. Green’s whole family panicked. I watched silently. The expressions on Bella and the others’ faces made me realize they’d known about Green’s affair all along. “This is evidence proving my innocence.” I stood up. “It’s also key evidence for the divorce and asset division.” The mediator didn’t indulge Green and her family. The video was played on the spot. The day I went to Schumacher’s wedding, Green confirmed I wasn’t home. She brought her lover back to the house. The camera clearly recorded everything, including their conversation. “It’s more exciting at your place.” “Baby, I want something even more exciting. One day you should slip him some sleeping pills.” Hearing this dialogue, my dad immediately cursed. The scene erupted into chaos. “You violated my privacy rights! I’ll sue you!” Green shouted at the top of her lungs. The mediation couldn’t continue. Both sides left. Outside, Green pointed at me. “He violated my privacy and just insulted me. Beat him up!” Her relatives’ faces couldn’t have looked worse. “What a disgrace! We thought Green was really wronged.” “Turns out she’s shameless! She’s completely humiliated us, and now she wants us to beat Davis? You must be joking.”

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My dad died in a car accident when I was ten. Only later did I learn that the crash wasn’t an accident. The brakes had been tampered with. And the person who did it was my mom. My dad died never knowing his wife had already found another man. Less than three months after his death, she married that man, grooming their son to become his successor. She even stole my dad’s last composition, claiming it was her other son’s original work. Fifteen years later, I sat on the judging panel of an international piano competition. On stage, that “child prodigy” was playing my dad’s final piece. I pressed the stop bell. “That piece isn’t yours.” The microphone carried my voice to everyone in the hall. “I refuse to score you.” The hall erupted, camera flashes going off like a storm. Andrew’s face instantly went pale, his lips trembling as he looked at Molina in the audience. I saw Molina’s face twitch, but she didn’t react publicly. She just stared at me, a sinister glint in her eyes. The competition was halted. I left the judging panel and walked toward the backstage lounge. Before the door could close, someone pushed it open. Andrew stood in the doorway, his eyes red, his chest heaving. “How dare you?” His tone was arrogant, nothing like the “child prodigy” on stage. “How dare you interrupt me? Do you have any idea how long I prepared?” I stayed seated. “I don’t care how long you prepared. That piece isn’t yours, so I won’t score you.” “If it’s not mine, is it yours?” He sneered, growing more agitated. “I composed it myself! My mom personally guided me! Who do you think you are, saying it’s not mine?” I looked up at him. He didn’t know the true owner of the piece. He didn’t know his mother had stolen someone else’s posthumous work. And he certainly didn’t know that I was Molina’s first son. “I said it’s not, so it’s not.” My voice was calm. “The composition date, the structural logic, the harmonic progression of this piece are completely different from your usual style. Any professional judge would hear it.” “Bullshit!” he practically screamed. “You’re just jealous of me! You just want attention!” He slammed the door shut and left. I closed my eyes, my hand trembling. Not from fear, but from hatred. Fifteen years. My dad died in that “accident.” No one suspected anything, no one knew the brakes had been tampered with. But I found out. It took ten years, piecing it together, bit by bit. The old mechanic from that repair shop was still alive. He remembered someone giving that car “special maintenance” that day. The person he described looked exactly like Molina in her youth. My dad died never knowing. He didn’t know his wife had been with another man when she was pregnant. He didn’t know that man’s family wealth could elevate Molina to the top overnight. He just practiced the piano every day, composed, taught me, and eagerly awaited the concert that could change our lives. He got into that car and never came back. My phone screen lit up. A notification: Andrew’s studio released a statement, strongly condemning the judge for “maliciously disrupting the competition.” The comment section already had tens of thousands of posts. [Who’s this judge? Chasing clout, probably?] [Poor Andrew, he’s being bullied.] [Boycott this judge!] I turned off my phone. I knew this was just the beginning.

The next morning, three distinct knocks, neither too loud nor too soft, sounded at my hotel room door. I opened it, and a man stood there. In his early fifties, remarkably well-preserved, in a custom-tailored suit, a Patek Philippe on his wrist. Osmond. Molina’s husband, Andrew’s father, and the man she’d been with before she even divorced. “Judge Lewis, aren’t you going to invite me in?” He smiled politely, but there was no warmth in his eyes. I stepped aside, letting him enter. He sat on the sofa, crossed his legs, and surveyed the hotel room as if sizing up something of no value. “Judge Lewis, I’ll get straight to the point.” He took an envelope from his bag, placed it on the coffee table, and slid it toward me. I glanced down, an eight-figure sum. “That’s ten years’ worth of your judging income,” he said. “All you have to do is release a statement tomorrow, saying you misheard the piece that day and acted impulsively, and this money is yours.” “Additionally, the Conservatory will give you a visiting professor position. You won’t have to teach annually, just lend your name to the position.” I looked at him, saying nothing. He thought I was hesitating, so he added: “Judge Lewis, you’re a smart man. You should know that going against the Osmond family never ends well.” “Mr. Osmond,” I finally spoke. “The Osmond family, you say?” “My wife is an Osmond, my son is an Osmond. Is there a problem?” “And that piece?” I asked. “Are you sure it belongs to the Osmond family?” Osmond’s expression subtly changed, but he quickly regained his composure. “That piece is Andrew’s original work, and it’s copyrighted.” “Judge Lewis, if you can’t provide evidence, you’d best be careful what you say. Defamation carries legal consequences.” “Is that so?” I picked up the check, looked at it, then slowly tore it in half. Osmond’s face finally darkened. “Lewis, you’re testing my patience, aren’t you?” He stood up, looking down at me. “You think winning a few international awards means you can just waltz in here and call the shots? Let me tell you who truly runs things in this industry.” “The Osmond family?” I finished his sentence. “Glad you know.” “Then let me tell you something too,” I looked up at him. “I, Lewis, didn’t get to where I am today through anyone’s charity. You can’t touch me.” Osmond sneered. “Lewis, you’re too naive.” He picked up his bag, walked to the door, and glanced back at me. “Within three days, you’ll be crawling back to me.” The door slammed shut. I watched the door, my lips slowly flattening. Beg him? My dad never begged anyone. He didn’t even know Osmond existed. He only knew his wife suddenly became very busy during his struggling period, often not coming home. He thought she was focused on her career. He raised me alone, practicing piano, composing, teaching lessons, scrimping and saving. He never complained once. When he died, his bag still held a family photo. On the back, it read: “When Lewis grows up, we’ll go to Vienna together.” I took an archive folder from the drawer. Inside were the pieces of evidence I’d collected over the years. The mechanic’s recorded statement. Molina’s transfer records for purchasing brake fluid that year, through an intermediary, but the money trail eventually led back to her private account. And the original manuscript of the piece. My dad wrote it in an old notebook, the date clearly marked: three months before the accident. What he took with him that day was a clean copy. The original was safe at Grandpa Arthur’s. Molina didn’t know; she thought it was all destroyed. She didn’t know my dad had a backup. I turned to the last page of the manuscript. A line of small lettering read: “To my son, Lewis. I couldn’t be there to watch you grow, but I’ve left you my best music.” My fingers gently traced the words. Dad, rest assured. I won’t let anyone steal your music.

On the third day, Molina herself arrived. She didn’t knock; the hotel manager used a master key to open the door for her. She wore a sharply tailored business suit, her hair impeccably styled, her entire presence exuding “successful woman.” She stood in the doorway, looking at me as if I were a naive insect. “Lewis, let’s talk.” I sat by the window, not moving. She walked in, closed the door, and sat opposite me. “You know who I am, right?” “I do,” I said. “Molina, Dean of the Conservatory, renowned pianist.” “And what else?” “Andrew’s mother.” She nodded, crossed her legs, her tone like she was lecturing a junior. “Lewis, you interrupted my son during the competition and claimed that piece wasn’t his. Do you know what that kind of behavior is called?” “Upholding my principles,” I said. She smiled, a cold smile. “It’s called courting disaster.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “I won’t beat around the bush. I don’t care if you have any evidence. But I’ve already looked into you.” She pulled out her phone and swiped a few times: “Your agent’s name is Collins, right? Your contract with him has three years left.” “His wife’s company happens to have a favor to ask of me. One word from me, and he’ll drop you.” “Your mentor, Professor Johnson, is seventy this year, not in the best health, and applying for a Lifetime Achievement Award.” “My committee decides who gets that award.” “And your next performance – your recital at the Vienna Concert Hall next month.” “The organizers are old friends of mine. If I tell them to cancel it, they won’t dare refuse.” She listed them one by one, her tone flat, as if reading a menu. “Lewis, I just have to lift a finger, and I can make you completely disappear from this industry.” “Do you believe me?” I looked into her eyes. This woman’s ruthlessness wasn’t an overt aggression, but a deep-seated contempt. She felt crushing me was like crushing an insect. “Dean Molina, are you finished?” I asked. Her brows furrowed slightly. “I’m telling you all this because Andrew is my son. If you touch him, you touch me.” “I’m giving you one last chance. At tomorrow’s press conference, you will publicly apologize.” “You’ll say you misheard the piece, that it was an impulsive act. Then, you’ll voluntarily resign from your judging position.” “What if I don’t?” She stood up, looking down at me. “Then you won’t have a place in this industry anymore.” “You think winning a few international awards makes you secure?” She scoffed. “Lewis, in this industry, there are more ways to make someone disappear than you can imagine.” “Molina,” I addressed her directly. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell the truth?” “The truth?” She laughed, a dismissive laugh. “With what? A few flimsy papers? A recording?” “You think those things can make any real waves?” She turned and walked toward the door, not looking back. “Tomorrow at 3 PM, Seattle Grand Hotel. Come or not, it’s your decision.” “However – if you don’t come, face the consequences.” The door slammed shut. I sat alone in the room, my hand trembling for a long time. Not from fear, but from hatred. Fifteen years. She stole my dad’s music, killed my dad, and propelled her other son to fame. Now, she was going to use my career, my mentor, my agent, to force me to bow down. She didn’t know who I was. When she abandoned me, I was already ten years old. Yet she didn’t even find me familiar. She didn’t recognize that the young man before her was the son she had with her first husband. But tomorrow, she would know.

After packing my things, I opened my phone. It was flooded with hate comments and criticisms. #Lewis Get Out Of Music# topped the trending list, with over 300 million views. The top Ins post was from a music critic with a million followers: “A judge like Lewis, utterly unprofessional, is a disgrace to the entire industry.” “Maliciously interrupting a performer to grab headlines, ruining a child prodigy’s future.” “I recommend all concert halls, agencies, and conservatories to collectively boycott him.” The comments below were all in agreement. [This kind of person dares to be a judge? How well-connected is he?] [I heard he has no background, just slept his way to the top.] [I always thought his competitions were rigged.] [Support Andrew! Support Dean Molina!] My agency released a statement. Not supporting me, but “suspending all collaboration with Mr. Lewis, pending investigation results.” Polite but unambiguous – they had dropped me. Collins didn’t answer my call, only replied with a WhatsApp message: “I’m sorry, I can’t do anything.” My mentor, Professor Johnson, sent a message through someone: “Lewis, don’t be impulsive. Just apologize and it will blow over. You’re still young.” I didn’t reply. I found a video Andrew had posted last night. He sat at the piano, his eyes red and swollen, his voice choked: “I don’t blame Judge Lewis. Maybe he was just tired, or misheard. My mom told me to learn to be forgiving.” “That piece truly is my own, the fruit of two years of painstaking effort. It makes me sad that someone claims it’s not mine, but I will prove myself with more compositions.” The comments flooded in: [Don’t cry, Andrew! We believe you!] [Kind boys have the most power!] [The Osmond family has such exemplary upbringing!] I almost laughed out loud. Two years of painstaking effort? That was my dad’s fifteen years of tireless work. I turned off my phone. Tomorrow, it was time to settle the score. The next day, Seattle Grand Hotel, third-floor banquet hall. By 2:30 PM, the entrance was swarming with reporters. Wearing a hat and mask, I entered through the staff entrance and found a seat in a corner. Exactly 3 PM, the Osmond family walked onto the stage. Molina was in a business suit, a solemn expression on her face. Osmond wore a dark suit, his eyes slightly red. Andrew, in a white shirt, hung his head, looking like a fragile white flower battered by the storm. Molina spoke first. She stood at the microphone, silent for five seconds, then bowed deeply. “First, I want to apologize to everyone concerned about this matter.” “It was my excessive trust in this industry that led to Andrew suffering undeserved hardship.” Someone in the audience shouted, “Dean Molina, you did nothing wrong!” She raised her hand, gesturing for silence, her voice low: “Andrew has loved music since he was a child. He started learning piano at four, performed on stage at eight, and composed his first piece at twelve.” “This piece, ‘Autumn Night Variations,’ he painstakingly refined for two whole years.” “Every note, a piece of his soul. Every modulation, a spark of inspiration from his late-night practice sessions.” “As a mother, I am proud of him.” Her eyes welled up as she said this. Applause broke out in the audience. Osmond took the microphone, his voice carrying a hint of anger: “I am just a father. My son was humiliated in front of a national audience; it pains me deeply.” “Lewis is also a man; he will have children someday. How would he feel if his children were treated this way?” “I ask for nothing else but justice.” He turned to Andrew, and the father and son put their arms around each other, patting each other’s backs in a show of mutual support. Andrew sighed, then managed a strained, bitter smile. “I don’t hate Judge Lewis. I just hope everyone stops criticizing him. He might truly have his own difficulties.” Someone in the audience shouted: “Andrew, you’re too kind!” “The Osmond family truly has an exemplary upbringing!” I sat in the corner, watching the three perform on stage. Every expression, every line, every pause was precise, as if rehearsed countless times. They weren’t holding a press conference; they were filming a movie. And I was the mere pawn, cast as the villain. The host stepped onto the stage: “Next, a representative from the Musicians’ Association will announce the decision regarding Lewis.” A middle-aged man with glasses stood up, unfolding a piece of paper: “After deliberation by the Musicians’ Association Review Committee, it has been decided to revoke Lewis’s qualification as an international piano competition judge.” “His ‘Annual Outstanding Young Musician’ title is rescinded, and all music conservatories and performing arts organizations are advised to suspend cooperation with him.” “Additionally, the Association calls on Mr. Lewis to acknowledge his errors, publicly apologize, and restore public trust.” A wave of sustained applause. Everyone stood up, except for me. I slowly removed my hat and mask, then stood up. “Wait a moment.” My voice wasn’t loud, but the banquet hall’s sound system carried my every word throughout the hall. The entire hall fell into a stunned silence. Hundreds of eyes turned to me. On stage, Molina’s pupils constricted sharply. Osmond’s tears instantly dried. Andrew’s smile froze. I faced all the cameras, walking step by step toward the stage. “Didn’t you say you wanted justice?” “I’ll give it to you.”

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When I went to replace my bank card, the teller casually mentioned that I had a quarterly patent income of $300,000 under my name. But as the patent inventor, I had never seen a single cent of it. Following the account trail, I discovered that over five years, my wife, Trent, had not only secretly transferred over $5.5 million in patent fees that rightfully belonged to me, but she had also been supporting a lover behind my back. When I confronted her, she looked at me with utter contempt: “What can you do besides tinker with tech?” Even her lover showed up at my door, tossing a check at me. “$50,000, stay away from Trent.” I looked at the despicable pair in front of me and suddenly smiled. They thought I was a pushover, a useless academic they could easily manipulate. They had no idea that everything they possessed was originally mine. It was 2 PM, and I stood at the bank counter, reporting my old card lost. I’d lost the card last week but hadn’t gotten around to replacing it. The teller took my ID, checked the system, and suddenly paused. “Sir, you have a regular deposit of patent licensing fees under your name. Would you like to link it to your new card?” I froze. “What patent licensing fees?” She turned the screen to show me. I squinted for three seconds, and my mind exploded. The screen clearly displayed: A regular quarterly deposit of $300,000, into a bank card under my name that I’d never seen before. The deposit history began five years ago and continued until now. Five years, twenty quarters, $6 million. My fingers began to tremble. I remembered five years ago, I was burning the midnight oil in the lab, tirelessly doing R&D. My wife, Trent, came to me with a stack of documents, asking me to sign. She said it was for registering a company, just going through the procedures, and needed my signature as a “tech partner.” I was so busy back then, I didn’t even lift my head. I just grabbed the pen and signed. She smiled and said, “Ethan, you just focus on your tech. I’ll handle the business side of things. You’re a tech guy; you don’t get business.” From then on, I was sidelined, becoming a nominal consultant. She never discussed company matters with me. Every time I asked, she’d say, “Don’t worry about it, it’s barely anything.” And now, this card received $300,000 every quarter. So, this was what she meant by “barely anything.” I took a deep breath. My hands stopped shaking. My mind had never been clearer. “Link it to my new card.” My voice was so calm it surprised even me. “From now on, every deposit should be transferred directly to my personal account.” She glanced at me, didn’t ask any more questions, and began the process. Five minutes later, the transaction was complete. At 7 PM, I returned home. The house was empty. Trent was still away on a business trip. She had gotten increasingly busy these past two years, traveling internationally at least once a month, saying she was “negotiating deals, meeting clients.” I used to believe her. Now, thinking back, what was she really busy with? I walked into her study and opened her computer. I tried the password three times; it was her birthday. I logged into her email and started sifting through her correspondence. The more I read, the colder my hands grew. Over the past five years, the company had signed seven patent licensing agreements. Every single agreement licensed my patents. And in the signature field, it was Trent’s name, every single time. My patents, my technology, she took them to sell for profit. Yet, she only gave me $1,000 a month for “living expenses,” claiming, “the company’s not doing well, we need to be careful with money.” A thousand dollars. I kept scrolling, finding a contact named “Kevin.” The email exchanges started two years ago. The content slowly shifted from “pleasant to work with” to “miss you,” “can’t wait for you to come back.” There were also a few photos. Trent was leaning against a man in a suit, smiling brightly, with the Eiffel Tower in the background. That was last year, when she said she was “going to France for an industry summit.” I stared at the photos, my knuckles turning white. Five years. She had lied to me for five years. I shut the laptop, leaning back in the chair, as the night deepened outside the window.

At 2 AM, the doorbell rang. Someone was frantically ringing the bell and pounding on the door. I rose from the sofa, walked slowly and deliberately to the door, and opened it. Trent stood outside, her hair disheveled, eyes red, dragging a suitcase, breathless. She had clearly taken a cab straight from the airport. “Ethan… Ethan, have you lost your mind?!” She stormed in, grabbing my collar. “Why did you touch that card?! Do you even know what you’re doing?!” I looked down at her hand clutching my collar and smiled. “Trent, I was just about to ask you, what kind of money is on that card?” She paused, her eyes flickering. “That’s… that’s the company’s operating capital! If you mess with it, there will be huge problems!” “Company’s operating capital?” I pushed her hand away, my voice calm. “A quarterly patent licensing fee of $300,000 is the company’s operating capital?” Trent’s face changed. “You… how did you know?” “I also know that you and Kevin were managing those patent fees for me, right?” She took a step back, her expression flustered, but quickly regained her composure. She looked at me, slowly sat on the sofa, and lit a cigarette. I had never seen her smoke before. “You went through my emails?” she asked. “Yep.” She exhaled a puff of smoke and smiled. It wasn’t a guilty smile, but a relieved one. “Good.” She leaned back against the sofa, looking at me, her eyes devoid of guilt, only a strange frankness. “Ethan, what do you want to know?” “I’ll tell you.” “Kevin isn’t just a client. We’ve been together for two years.” She tapped the ash from her cigarette, her tone as flat as if she were commenting on the weather. “You didn’t know anything for these past five years, and you seemed quite happy, didn’t you?” I clenched my fist, my knuckles turning white. She glanced at me and stubbed out her cigarette. “So stop making trouble.” “It’s useless for you to link that card back. The patent licensing agreement has the company’s seal on it, not your personal one.” “You won’t get it back that easily.” She stood up, patting down her dress. “You’re just a techie; you don’t get business, and you certainly can’t win this fight.” She dragged her suitcase into the master bedroom and shut the door. I was left alone in the living room. I stood rooted to the spot, feeling a chill run through me. She didn’t even bother lying to me anymore. The next morning, I left for work. As I reached the entrance of my apartment complex, a black Porsche pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down, and a man in sunglasses smiled at me. “You’re Ethan?” I stopped. “Who are you?” He took off his sunglasses, revealing a pair of narrow eyes. “Kevin. Kevin Matthews.” My blood rushed to my head. He leaned against the car door, sizing me up, a playful smirk on his lips. “Trent told me you made a scene yesterday. I came to check in and have a chat.” “Nothing to chat about.” I turned to leave, but he spoke calmly behind me. “Ethan, I mean no harm.” “Honestly, I admire you. Your tech work is truly excellent.” “But you know, just having technology isn’t enough.” “Your patents, without Trent’s business operations, aren’t worth a dime.” I stopped. “So?” “So, I’m here to make you an offer.” He walked up to me, pulling a check from his suit pocket. “$50,000. You cancel the new card link and stop meddling in company affairs.” He held the check out to me. I stared at that check. I barely made $15,000 a year. This was five years of my salary. But those patents had earned $6 million in five years. He was offering $50,000 to get rid of me? “No.” Kevin raised an eyebrow. “Ethan, don’t be foolish.” He took back the check and patted my shoulder. That touch sent shivers down my spine. “Go home and think about it. This offer won’t be available again.” He got into his car, the engine roared, and he sped away. I stood there, clenching my fists.

At noon, I didn’t go to work. Instead, I went to the local Intellectual Property Office. After two hours of searching, I found the crucial information. The seven patent licensing agreements listed “Trent Technologies” as the licensor. But in the patent holder section, it clearly stated: Ethan. This meant the company only had the right to operate and use the patents, but the ownership of the patents remained with me. The agreement Trent had me sign back then only “licensed” the patents for the company’s use. And there was a clause in the licensing contract: the patent holder had the right to terminate the license at any time. I hadn’t even read it when I signed it years ago. But now, this clause was my biggest trump card. If I terminated the license, all of Trent Technologies’ product lines would lose their technical foundation overnight. $1.2 million in patent fees a year? They wouldn’t get a single cent. That afternoon, I visited a law firm, finding a lawyer who specialized in intellectual property. “Adriana Hayes, what’s the process if I want to terminate a patent license?” Adriana Hayes reviewed the contract and nodded. “According to Article 11 of the contract, the patent holder can terminate the licensing agreement with sixty days’ written notice. The other party has no right of veto.” “So, I just need to send a lawyer’s letter, and sixty days later, the company can’t use my patents anymore?” “Correct.” “Good.” I drafted the lawyer’s letter, but I didn’t send it immediately. I would wait until all my chess pieces were in place before making my move. Leaving the law firm, I stopped at an electronics store. I bought a professional voice recorder, palm-sized, capable of continuous recording for seventy-two hours. Back home, I slipped it into my shirt pocket. From today on, I would record every word Trent and Kevin said. The more arrogant they were, the better it would look in court later. I didn’t make a scene. I went to work and came home as usual every day, and I didn’t even mention the new card again. She thought I’d caved. On the fifth day, she probed me, “Ethan, have you thought things through about that card?” I sat on the sofa watching TV, not even looking up. “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t understand business. Why bother messing around?” She sighed in relief and smiled, sitting next to me. “That’s what you should have thought earlier. Just focus on your tech, I’ve got everything else handled.” I smiled, but said nothing. She picked up her phone and walked onto the balcony to make a call. I perked up my ears. “Mm… don’t worry, he hasn’t done anything else… Right, he’s just a naive academic; scare him a little, and he’ll back down…” Her voice drifted in intermittently with the breeze. “When are you coming back from your business trip? I miss you…” I gripped the remote control, my knuckles white, but my face showed nothing. The voice recorder in my pocket quietly did its work.

On the eighth day, my mother-in-law, Clara, arrived. Clara walked in and got straight to the point. “Ethan, Trent told me about the scene you made a while ago.” She sat opposite me at the dining table, hands clasped, her face full of impatience. “What are you unhappy about? She feeds you, she takes care of you, she never lets you worry about company matters.” “You’re just a tech guy; why are you so nosy?” I paused, a forkful of food midway to my mouth. “Mom, I was just curious; I didn’t mean anything else.” “Curious?” Clara sneered. “You signed the papers, you got what you were supposed to get. Don’t go overstepping your bounds.” Trent, sitting nearby, tried to smooth things over, smiling. “Mom, that’s enough, he gets it now.” Clara glared at me. “Good that he gets it.” She pulled a card from her purse and slapped it on the table. “This is the new allowance card Trent got you. From now on, it’s $1,400 a month. That’s $400 more than before, pretty generous, wouldn’t you say?” $1,400. My patents made $1.2 million a year, and they gave me a raise to $1,400, acting like it was a huge favor. I picked up the card and smiled. “Thank you, Mom.” Clara nodded, satisfied. “That’s more like it. A man should be grateful for what he has and not make trouble.” After dinner, Trent walked Clara downstairs. I sat at the dining table, turning the $1,400 card over and over in my hand. On the tenth day, I received a message from Adriana Hayes. “Mr. Ethan, I looked into Trent Technologies’ corporate registration filings for the past three years.” “I found that three months ago, the company added a new shareholder: Kevin, holding 25%. His capital contribution method was ‘technical investment’.” I stared at the screen, a cold laugh escaping my lips. Technical investment? Using my technology, what kind of investment was he making? They kicked me out, claimed my technology as their own, and even let my wife’s lover use my patents to gain equity. What a masterful deception. On the fifteenth day, everything was as usual. Trent came home on time every day, cooked, cleaned, and occasionally acted sweet with me. The better she acted, the more disgusted I felt, but I kept it in. Because there was one last step remaining. That afternoon, I received a call from Adriana Hayes. “Mr. Ethan, all the documents are ready. Come over, and we’ll do a final review.” I took half a day off and went to the law firm. On Adriana Hayes’s desk, a thick stack of files was spread out. “Let’s go through them.” She pointed to the first document. “First, the letter of counsel for patent license termination.” “Second, the formal complaint submitted to the court.” “Third, the divorce petition.” I looked at the three documents and took a deep breath. “And this.” I pulled the voice recorder from my pocket and placed it on the table. “Over these fifteen days, I recorded more than seventy hours of content.” “This includes Trent’s confession about her relationship with Kevin, her admission of concealing patent income, and Kevin’s own statements to me.” Adriana Hayes listened to a few key recordings, her eyebrows raising higher and higher. “Mr. Ethan, these recordings are fully admissible as evidence in court.” She closed the folder and looked at me. “Are you sure you want to leave no room for retreat?” I smiled. “Adriana Hayes, it’s been five years.” “They embezzled over $5.5 million from me, stole my technology, slept with my wife, and still think giving me $1,400 for living expenses is a huge favor.” “Even today, they still think I’m just a naive academic who can’t stir anything up.” I stood up. “Then let them see how I stir up a storm.”

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Years into our marriage, when the critical condition notice for me arrived, Caleb Reed didn’t hesitate. He suggested mortgaging our house. To cover the sky-high medical costs, he, who once held himself so high, now toiled day and night, stripped of his pride. I couldn’t bear to be a burden on him and was preparing to give up on treatment. Then, a financial headline froze me in place. *“Reed Empire’s Heir Returns for Love! Takes Control of Multi-Billion-Dollar Company to Save His Beloved’s Life!”* The photo in the headline showed Caleb’s tired but deeply affectionate profile. I trembled, thinking this was his final desperate fight for *me*. But then the camera panned, and the woman in the sterile hospital gown was the same girl from the faded photo tucked away in his wallet. And I, I was foolish enough to believe he truly loved me. When Caleb pushed open the door, a chill from the late night swept in with him. He took off his cheap jacket, his face etched with exhaustion. “How are you feeling today?” He expertly poured a cup of hot water and brought it to my bedside. I shook my head, too weak to even speak. He sat on the edge of the bed, feeling my forehead to check my temperature. “The doctors say the situation isn’t optimistic, but Claire, don’t be scared. I’ve already sorted out the money.” He pulled a document from inside his jacket, carefully unfolding it. “I’ve already… mortgaged the house.” My heart constricted sharply. “You…” “Don’t say anything foolish.” He cut me off, as if expecting me to be moved by his gesture again. “Nothing is more important than you. As long as you get better, I’d be willing to sleep under a bridge.” He spoke with such earnestness, such deep affection. If I hadn’t seen that news just a few hours earlier, I would have believed every word. Caleb Reed, the scion of Reed Industries. My husband, who had played the role of a broke student for five years. “Caleb, do we… really have to come to this?” I asked, my voice dry. He was silent for a moment, then pulled out another document. It was a voluntary organ donation agreement. “Claire, the doctors said that given your condition, we might need to prepare for the worst.” His voice was light, but every word pierced my heart. “I know you’re the kindest person. The doctor told me today about a girl named Sarah Miller. She’s been waiting for a suitable heart for a very, very long time.” Sarah Miller. He finally said the name. The girl in the faded photo in his wallet’s hidden compartment, worn smooth from countless touches. “She’s really pitiful. She’s been sick since childhood, always living in pain.” He calmly recounted someone else’s story, a story that was, in fact, about my life and death. “If you… I mean, *if* you were to donate your heart to her, it would be a continuation of life, wouldn’t it?” I looked at this man who seemed to be losing his patience, not even bothering to craft another lie. He knew I was terminally ill and couldn’t afford the exorbitant treatment costs. He also believed, with certainty, that I loved him beyond words and would fulfill his every request. “So, mortgaging the house was to prepare for *her* surgery?” I asked bluntly. He paused, seemingly not expecting such a direct question. Then, he offered a sorrowful smile. “Claire, how could you think that of me? I’m doing this to cure *you*!” He became deeply affectionate again. “But your illness… you know, hope is slim. I just thought, on the off chance, if we fail, as the doctor said, we could save another life. It would be a way for a part of you to live on, wouldn’t it?” He held my hand, his hands warm and strong. “Just for my sake, okay? I don’t want you to leave with regrets.” “Sign this first, then we’ll fight together, alright?” I pulled my cold hand away. “I’m tired. I want to sleep for a bit.” A flicker of impatience crossed his face, but it was quickly masked by tenderness. “Okay, you rest. Don’t overthink things.” He placed the agreement and a pen neatly on my bedside table. In a spot I’d see the moment I opened my eyes. He got up, put on his jacket, and prepared to leave. At the door, he suddenly turned back and added, “Oh, and the doctor introduced me to the patient, Sarah. She’s in the VIP room on the top floor. If you want, I can arrange for you two to meet. She’s a really sweet girl.” With that, he closed the door. I stared at the agreement and the pen he’d left behind. It felt like a sharp blade, slowly carving into my heart.

The next day, a young nurse came to change my dressing. She was quick and efficient with her hands, but her mouth never stopped. “Ms. Davies, you really need to take good care of yourself. Your husband is so good to you.” I closed my eyes, not wanting to respond. “He comes to stay with you every day, running around for your medical bills. Everyone else is so jealous.” Jealous? Yes, how enviable. “Let me tell you, that lady on the top floor, in the VIP suite, she’s rich, but she’s truly pathetic.” The nurse lowered her voice, gossiping. “I heard her boyfriend is also a big shot – the scion of Reed Industries!” My fingers curled. “But honestly, I don’t think he cares that much about Ms. Miller. He’s busy with company affairs all day, only visits occasionally. Not like your husband, who practically wants to be glued to your side twenty-four-seven.” The nurse’s words dragged me back into my memories. I remembered when we first got together, Caleb was a broke student with nothing to his name. He would work odd jobs for a week just to buy me a lipstick I liked. He said, “Claire, when I’m rich, I promise I’ll give you the best life.” But later, after we graduated, he turned down all the high-paying offers, choosing the most ordinary job. He said, “Claire, I don’t want to work too hard. I just want to come home early every day to cook for you.” I believed him. I thought he didn’t care for wealth or status, that he loved me more than anything. Now, looking back, it was all just an act. He didn’t love me; he only cared about saving his Sarah’s life. “Ms. Davies? Ms. Davies? What’s wrong?” The nurse’s voice pulled me back to reality. I opened my eyes; she was looking at me with concern. “Did I say something wrong?” I shook my head. “No, just thinking about a few things.” The nurse sighed in relief, packed her things, and prepared to leave. “Your husband just called. He said he’ll be late tonight and not to wait up for him.” “Okay.” I replied. I knew he probably wouldn’t come tonight. Sarah Miller’s condition must be critical now, more important than me, his backup organ bank. In the evening, Caleb indeed didn’t show up. I propped myself up, slowly sitting. The agreement was still on the bedside table. Next to it lay my favorite poetry collection, the first gift Caleb ever gave me. He’d said, “Claire, in my eyes, you’re like a clear poem, I adore you so much.” I reached for the book. Its pages had yellowed, but it still held our unique scent. I opened the front cover, where his bold, sweeping handwriting read: *To my lifelong love, Claire Davies.* How ironic. Just then, the hospital room door opened. Caleb stood in the doorway. He saw the book in my hand and the still-blank agreement beside it. When he walked in, he carried a faint scent of perfume and a hint of red wine, strikingly clear in my sterile room. He didn’t ask if I’d eaten, walking straight to the bed and picking up the poetry collection. After absentmindedly flipping through a few pages, he finally couldn’t help but ask, “Claire, have you heard any gossip?” His question was calm. I didn’t answer, just watched him. Watched this stranger I shared my bed with. “Gossip spreads fast in a place like this. Just hear it and forget it, don’t take it to heart.” He was still playing the role of a considerate husband, comforting his emotional wife. “Who is Sarah Miller?” I finally spoke, mustering immense courage. His movements stopped. A few seconds later, he closed the book and set it aside. “To be honest, she’s just a friend of mine.” He answered airily. “A friend you need *my* heart to save?” I pressed. The air instantly solidified. The gentle expression on Caleb Reed’s face finally shifted. He stared at me, no longer bothering to pretend. “Yes.” He admitted it. “She’s really pitiful, she’s lived with illness since she was a child. Don’t you have any sympathy?” He countered. “Why should I sympathize with her? Sympathize with her using *my* life?” My emotions flared, and a sharp pain shot through my chest. “Claire Davies!” He raised his voice. “What kind of attitude is that? I’m discussing this with you, not begging you!” The impatience in his eyes was no longer hidden. “Are you sick, and your mind’s gone foggy too? When did you become so selfish?” Selfish? For him, I’d given up so many opportunities that could have given me a better life. For him, I wore cheap clothes, riding the bus, living on a shoestring budget for five years. Now, he wanted my life to save another woman, and then had the audacity to accuse me of being selfish. “Caleb Reed, you truly disgust me.” *“CRACK!”* A sharp sound. The poetry collection in his hand was violently thrown to the floor, its pages scattering everywhere.

“Don’t you dare be ungrateful, Claire!” His chest heaved violently. “Do you think you’re in any position to bargain with me now? Without me, you can’t even afford tomorrow’s medical bills!” This was the first time he had so blatantly threatened me with money. “Do you even deserve to look at these things in your current state?” He saw me staring at the floor, then pointed at the scattered poetry collection. “A dying person shouldn’t have any sentiment for our past!” His words tore my heart to shreds. In his mind, I was just a dying person, unworthy of anything beautiful anymore. I gave a bitter laugh, wiping away my tears. “So, you’re threatening me now? If I don’t sign, you’ll stop my treatment?” He probably hadn’t seen me like this before; he was momentarily stunned. But he quickly regained his cold composure. “I’m just making you face reality. Signing it is good for all of us.” He said “all of us,” which included Sarah Miller, but definitely not me. Just then, his phone rang. He answered, his impatient expression instantly turning anxious. “What? Her condition worsened? I’ll be right up!” He hung up, shooting me a furious glare. There was no love or tenderness left in his eyes. He advanced on me, step by step. “Claire Davies, now, immediately, sign it!” I leaned against the headboard, watching him coldly. Watching him frantic and distraught over another woman. Just as I’d suspected, he’d dropped all pretense because Sarah probably didn’t have much time left to wait. “What if I don’t sign?” “You have no choice.” He squeezed the words through clenched teeth. “Claire, don’t make me force you.” He started calling me by my name again, a cruel gentleness masking his true intentions. “Sarah can’t wait any longer. Help her, and you’ll be helping me.” He finally spoke his true thoughts. Not for any good deed, not for any continuation of my life, but simply to help *him*. To help him keep the woman he loved. “I spent five miserable years with you, Claire. Even if you don’t think for yourself, you should think for me, shouldn’t you?” “These five years, do you know what I gave up? I, the scion of the Reed family, lived with you in that tiny, rundown apartment, endured those tough years. I’ve done more than enough!” He completely tore off his disguise, revealing his true, ugly self. “It was all for Sarah! I approached you, married you, tolerated you – it was all for this day!” “The doctor said you had a weak constitution, that you wouldn’t live long, so I patiently waited for you!” “I thought once you died, I could naturally get your heart. I never expected you to drag it out for so long!” So that was it. My entire existence, from the beginning, had been a meticulously planned deception. A five-year performance staged solely to extract my heart. He saw my prolonged silence and seemed to realize he’d said too much. “Claire, struggling now is meaningless.” He picked up the agreement and the pen, pushing them into my hand. “Sign it. This is the last thing you can do for me.” “Is there anything you need to say, or any unfulfilled wishes you have in this life? I promise I’ll take care of them later!” I lowered my head, looking at the agreement in my hand. *Donor: Claire Davies.* *Recipient: Sarah Miller.* What a clean, cut-and-dry transaction. My hand trembled. Caleb thought I had given in. He leaned down, whispering into my ear. “Good girl, sign it. I’ll remember your kindness.” His breath on my earlobe made me feel a wave of nausea. I gripped the pen tightly. Then I looked up at him and smiled. He froze. The next second, I didn’t put pen to paper. Instead, I used every ounce of strength I had to tear the agreement in half. The tearing sound was deafening in the silent room. He hadn’t even reacted yet. I then tore those two halves into four, then eight… Countless pieces of paper fluttered from my fingertips, scattering across the floor. I dropped the pen; it rolled a few times on the ground, stopping at Caleb Reed’s feet. “Caleb Reed, you wish!” Before, I would have thought I had no money for treatment, no hope of getting better. But now, Caleb had inherited a fortune for a critically ill Sarah Miller. Logically, half of it should be mine. Why couldn’t I live?

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My parents, because I wasn’t “perfect” enough, implanted an AI chip in me. They said it would completely transform me. After the chip was implanted, I became the perfect daughter they’d always dreamed of. But the side effect was that every day, I’d forget something. I forgot the taste of Mom’s homemade soup. I forgot my favorite video game. I forgot my childhood friends. Eventually, I forgot my parents. When I saw them again, my eyes were smiling, but I spoke in a cold, mechanical voice, “Excuse me, who are you?” They froze. They stared at me, speechless for a long time after I said that. “…” Mom’s voice was a little impatient. “Lily, what act are you putting on now?” I searched my memories, but there was nothing there. I genuinely didn’t recognize them. So I firmly shook my head. “That’s correct.” “Lily,” Dad’s face darkened instantly. “What kind of joke is this?” “I know!” He frowned, as if something occurred to him. “Is it because you don’t want to go to school tomorrow, so you’re deliberately pretending?” My face still held the perfect smile I’d practiced countless times, and I replied in a flat, mechanical tone, “I apologize, but I genuinely don’t recognize you.” “I am not afraid of exams, nor am I afraid of starting school. I am the newest model of the Perfect Daughter System.” “I do not lie to anyone.” My tone was polite yet utterly unfamiliar. After speaking, I checked the synchronized time inside me. “According to my schedule, it is now bedtime. Sufficient rest is required to ensure optimal efficiency for school tomorrow.” I turned sideways and walked past them. “Please move aside.” My shoulder lightly brushed Mom’s arm. She seemed to flinch. She instinctively tried to stop me, but I easily dodged her. The programming inside me told me I couldn’t waste a single moment. I walked directly to my bedroom. Behind me, there was dead silence. Before closing the door, I caught a glimpse in my peripheral vision. They were still standing there, watching me. Dad’s shoulders slumped, and Mom raised a hand to cover her mouth. The lights cast their long shadows across the empty living room floor. Then, I heard Dad’s voice, very low. “What’s going on?” … I had no interest in listening to the rest. The lock clicked shut. I sat on my bed and pulled up my memory index. Pale blue data streams appeared in my vision. All input information, from the day of implantation, was categorized and clearly organized. Yesterday’s math formulas, last week’s English vocabulary, last month’s piano sheet music… Every memory was clear. But no matter how I searched, I couldn’t find the two people who had just claimed to be my parents. Suspecting an overload error, I scanned my brain space again. [Self-check complete. System operating normally. Memory bank intact. Logic module functioning correctly.] It seemed those two were indeed a cognitive error. I genuinely didn’t recognize them. I lay down and closed my eyes. Faintly, I felt a hollow emptiness somewhere. That feeling was very sad. But my brain told me it wasn’t important. … Actually, I did have some impressions of before. I was born into a dual-income household; both my Mom and Dad were high school teachers. Since I was their only child, they usually doted on me. But such a combination naturally meant they were stricter with their own child. They always wanted me to be first in everything, to excel at all costs. Yet, I seemed to be born without that particular knack. My grades were average, my competition results mediocre, always falling short of their expectations. But I had my own strengths. I was lively and outgoing, always friendly to others. When they were stressed from work and bickering at home, I would always squeeze in between them, cracking jokes and sharing funny school stories, which always managed to calm them down for a while. All the neighbors liked me. When Mrs. Henderson from downstairs came back from grocery shopping, I’d help her carry her bags up. When I saw Mr. Jenkins and Mrs. Miller, I’d wave and smile from afar, offering to help with anything I could. If a classmate was being bullied, I’d stand up for them. Even my homeroom teacher said I was a good kid. I always thought that counted as a form of excellence. But my Mom and Dad didn’t see it that way. They admired Mrs. Davies’ daughter, Sophia, more. She was three years older than me, an incredibly accomplished older girl. Always in the top three of her class, grade 10 piano, a stack of competition certificates. I’d met her before. She was refined and well-mannered, always speaking softly. But I always felt she lacked a certain spark; she always spoke in a rigid, textbook manner. To be honest, I didn’t dislike her. But I hated my parents for constantly comparing me to her. One evening at dinner, Mom brought up Sophia winning an award in a physics competition again. I felt a pang of discomfort and stirred the rice in my bowl, deliberately changing the subject. “Mom, I got chosen to lead our class during the school sports day parade this year! Isn’t that great?” The table fell silent. I thought they’d praise me. But instead, Dad just put down his fork. “All this superficial stuff, what’s the point?”

Mom chimed in, “Exactly. We don’t need that. We need solid grades, rankings, achievements like Sophia’s that we can show off!” I hadn’t expected such a response, and my heart felt like it had been pricked by a tiny needle. I tried to explain. “But I’m trying too, I…” “We don’t need you to try,” Dad cut me off, his voice not loud, but it felt like a heavy stone. “We need results. Results like Sophia’s.” Later, they even went to Mrs. Davies to seek advice, asking for her secrets to success. Mrs. Davies confidentially told them that Sophia used to be disobedient too, but then she found someone to get her the latest AI chip. After it was implanted, her child could grow exactly as the parents envisioned. She even claimed the chip was government-developed, capable of eliminating all “ineffective emotions” and “distractions.” My parents were swayed. They paid a hefty sum to Ms. Peterson to get this chip. And it was Sophia who told me about it. That day after school, she stopped me in the hallway, her eyes filled with an urgency I’d never seen before. “My mom lied to you guys. Remember, absolutely do not let them implant that chip in you,” she whispered, speaking very quickly. “Listen to me, don’t, under any circumstances.” I was stunned. It was the first time I’d seen such a vivid expression on her face. “What…?” I asked instinctively. She gripped my hand, explaining word by word, “It’s that AI chip my mom gave your parents, the one that’s supposed to make you obedient!” Then, she took a deep breath, leaned closer, and lowered her voice even more. “That thing will erode your brain. Once implanted, you won’t be you anymore. An AI program will slowly overwrite all your memories and emotions; it will take over your body.” “By then, what’s left will just be an empty shell, perfectly executing parental commands. Do you understand?” “By then, the real you will be no different from being dead.” She grabbed my arm, her fingers squeezing hard. “Don’t agree, no matter what, don’t agree.” I saw the light in her eyes, a light filled with fear and pleading. My intuition told me she wasn’t lying. That night, I tossed and turned. Sophia’s words buzzed in my head. A few days later, Mom and Dad did indeed have a serious talk with me. Mom held a small silver box in her hand, her eyes eager yet somewhat evasive. “Sweetie, this is something that can make you even better…” I looked at the box, a chill running down my spine. I remembered Sophia’s trembling voice. “Dad, Mom,” I looked at them, a hint of pleading in my voice. “If I use this, I’ll become the perfect daughter, right?” “Of course!” Mom immediately nodded. “But…” I took a breath, gathering my courage to finish. “What if that perfect daughter, actually… isn’t me anymore?” “What if the person sitting in front of you is just an obedient machine? Do you truly want a daughter like that?” The air in the living room instantly solidified. Mom’s smile froze on her face. “What are you talking about?” Her voice suddenly rose. “What do you mean ‘not you’? Huh? Isn’t it still your body? Mrs. Davies said this chip is absolutely safe! It’s just a tool to help you learn!” “But Sophia said…” “Sophia is jealous!” Mom cut me off, her face red. “She’s afraid you’ll surpass her! Can’t you see that? How much effort have we put into you? Huh? Are you just going to let outsiders provoke you?” Dad stepped forward, his face pale with anger. “I think you just don’t want to work hard! You’re making up these twisted excuses!” “I’m not…” I tried desperately to explain, but they wouldn’t listen to a single word. “You’re just lazy! Selfish!” Mom shrieked, tears welling up. “We’ve planned everything for you, and this is how you repay us? Do you want to be a failure your whole life?” Hearing such accusations, I suddenly had nothing to say. After a long silence, Mom suddenly knelt down, her eyes level with mine. Her eyes were red.

“Mom has been a teacher her entire life, and she’s taught so many students,” her voice began to tremble. “I always wanted, always wanted to prove through my own child that my education was right, that it was successful.” “Our expectations for you were too high… too high. Seeing you so ordinary, we worried, we feared… feared that we weren’t doing enough.” “Please… Lily…” I saw the desperate yearning behind her tears. In that moment, I suddenly understood everything. They didn’t love me; they loved the perfect educational dream they wanted me to fulfill. My chest felt squeezed by something, a bitter, swelling ache. But it was okay. I loved them. “I understand.” That sour feeling got stuck in my throat, but I swallowed it down. “If that’s what you want…” I looked at the silver box and slowly nodded. “I’m willing.” For the sake of the perfect daughter in your minds. I could stop being me. The chip implantation went smoothly. When I woke up, I didn’t immediately feel any different. I was still me. The only change was that I could no longer say no to my parents’ demands. If they told me to get up at six to memorize vocabulary, I got up at six. If they told me to do three practice tests a day, I did three practice tests. If they told me to go to piano and advanced math on the weekend, I grabbed my backpack and went. My grades started to improve rapidly. My monthly exam ranking shot from twentieth into the top ten. Mom held my report card, her eyes gleaming. “That’s wonderful!” She stroked my head. “This is our good daughter.” And to reward me, she suddenly suggested, “Come on, Mom’s taking you to get burgers. Didn’t you always beg for them?” I paused. I had vague memories of that, tugging on her sleeve, standing in front of a brightly lit red sign, pleading for a burger. Only to be pulled away without explanation. She said it was junk food. Now, she was proactively taking me there. We sat in the bright restaurant. She pushed a tray towards me, holding a golden burger, fries, and a soda. “Eat,” she said, smiling, with a warm anticipation in her eyes. I looked at the burger. A pale blue analysis interface automatically appeared in my vision: [High calories, saturated fatty acids exceeding limits, insufficient dietary fiber. Recommended intake: zero.] I looked up and replied in a steady voice, “According to the health management program analysis, this is junk food and detrimental to health.” “I decline to consume it.” Mom’s smile froze on her face. She looked at me for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed again, this time more heartily. “Right, right, right, can’t eat it! See how useful this system is? It helps you control your cravings! So good!” She seemed very happy, took the burger back, and ate it herself. I sat quietly until she finished. When we got home, she said she would make me soup, the lotus root and pork rib soup I used to love most. She bustled around in the kitchen. I followed my directives, sitting at the dining table and waiting. Suddenly, with a clang, followed by Mom’s sharp intake of breath. She had accidentally knocked over the pot lid, and hot water splashed out, reddening the back of her hand. She frowned, instinctively putting her hand under the faucet to rinse it, then glanced back at me. I remained seated, looking straight ahead, my face maintaining the calm expression programmed into me. Her frown deepened. “Lily,” her voice held a hint of suspicion. “Mom burned her hand, didn’t you see?”

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I’m a straightforward, love-struck girl who only falls for powerful people. The brilliant, unattainable genius shamed me for my bad grades. I thought he was so charming. My fault, I’m too dumb. I’ll learn. My super-handsome first love cheated on me with a glamorous, curly-haired woman. I thought he had great taste. My fault, I’m too lacking in competitiveness. I’ll learn. My rich ex-boyfriend dumped me for being too broke. I thought he was so smart. My fault, I wasn’t working hard enough. I’ll learn. But then, the three of them got into a huge fight over who would get back with me, and I just felt annoyed. Like I said, I’m a straightforward, love-struck girl who only falls for powerful people. But now I’m good-looking, rich, and talented. I’m the most powerful! The day Ethan transferred to our school, the whole class buzzed. He looked handsome and refined, tall and well-built, with fair skin. In our small town, where two-thirds of the class were from less affluent backgrounds, he truly stood out. The entire class instantly fell for him, except for me! My deskmate, Sophia, nudged me, her face flushed. “He looks like an actor from a TV show!” I didn’t pay attention. Because I was busy carefully changing my 30-point math test to an 80-point. There was no room for error. If my mom found out, my favorite snack for tonight would be gone. But just as I was in the zone, making the change look completely natural, Ethan bumped my desk — and my snack fell. I stiffly looked up, watching him take the seat in front of me. He casually glanced at me, then meticulously wiped his desk with a fragrant tissue. What a jerk! That was my first impression of him. This class was a test, and Mr. Harrison, our homeroom teacher, handing out the papers stopped the trash talk forming on my tongue. I quieted down because I was waiting to copy Sophia’s answers. Mr. Harrison went to the restroom midway through, and Ethan’s deskmate bravely spoke to him. “Only twenty minutes, and you finished?” “Too easy.” What a show-off! That was my second impression of him. Ethan’s deskmate asked hopefully. “Then, can I copy yours?” “Whatever.” Ethan’s answers quickly spread throughout the entire class, even Sophia copied them. But I found him smug and arrogant, and still held a grudge over my snack, so I unilaterally decided we were enemies. Stubbornly, I decided to write my own answers! As a result, that day, everyone in class passed or got high scores, except for me. And me? Mr. Harrison dragged me to his office. He yelled, asking if I’d answered the test with my feet to get a 15. I hung my head, listening with one ear and letting it out the other, my mind on Ethan. I was shocked he really got a perfect score on the physics test in twenty minutes. So impressive! That was my third impression. When I returned to the classroom, my seat was already taken. A crowd eagerly surrounded Ethan, their eyes gleaming with admiration. It was the first time I’d seen such expressions on my usually lifeless classmates. Ethan sat back, arms loosely crossed. He’d glance at a question and casually answer the problems, whether simple or complex. His handwriting was beautiful, his voice clear, and his appearance outstanding. The golden-orange sunset cast a glow on his features. He seemed to sweep his eyes over me. A never-before-seen charm impacted my heart. I was captivated. Ethan’s name spread throughout the school, love letters rained down like snowflakes. “Hey, can you give this love letter to Ethan for me?” Returning from the restroom, a girl blushingly handed me a pink envelope. I blushed too. Deliver a love letter? Then I’d get to talk to him! So I took on the task. Yes, I was an introverted person, and despite being captivated, I still hadn’t managed to talk to him. I mentally prepared myself, cleared my throat, and called him. “Ethan.” He casually looked my way. The words I’d planned stumbled out, a nervous mess. He saw the letter in my hand and paused. His gaze then swept over my 15-point test on my desk, and he raised an eyebrow in surprise. He scrutinized me as if I were a rare specimen. “15 points? Are you a paramecium?” Suppressed laughter erupted around us. The glaring red numbers suddenly felt piercing. My face burned. I quickly mumbled, head down. “It’s a love letter. A classmate from the next class asked me to give it to you!” “Oh.” Ethan shrugged. “Could you do me a favor and throw it away?” Ethan was different from others. Even when he mocked me, he had extraordinary charm. I felt self-conscious and blamed myself. I couldn’t live so miserably under his nose, breathing the same air as him. So I decided to study hard.

That weekend when I went home, my mom saw me struggling with my books and was so happy she could practically do a happy dance. She didn’t even scold me for my 15-point test. My dad just shook his head, grumbling. “If you ask me, studying is useless with your brain. You might as well come home early and learn to farm, then find a boy to settle down with, that’s more practical.” My dad used to be abusive, an alcoholic, and favored boys. When he saw I was a girl, he wanted to give me away. But after a particularly violent argument with my mom, something shifted in him. He completely turned his life around. He started treating me like his precious gem, hoping I’d achieve great things and build a strong family legacy. “What do you know? You’re so short-sighted.” My mom scoffed. Then she turned to me and said she’d buy a brighter lamp for me tomorrow in town, so I wouldn’t strain my eyes studying at night. She even pulled out some bills from her pocket, telling me to buy study materials. I nodded enthusiastically. “So, tonight’s snack…” “No.” I started listening intently in class, taking notes, and submitting homework on time. I even stayed in class to review during my favorite P.E. lessons. Sophia was surprised by my transformation. “You’ve changed your tune!” She raised her voice. “Don’t tell me you’re using studying as an excuse to ask Ethan for help?” “No!” I buried my head in my textbook, my heart pounding. Ethan’s deskmate turned around and scoffed. “You girls are so cunning, you’ll do anything to get Ethan’s attention.” Ethan’s gaze landed on the top of my head. “Hmm, I am a little curious about the upper limit of a paramecium.” Ugh, his voice was so nice. His delicate, pale fingers tapped my test paper. “Here, that’s wrong.” He offered, as if bestowing a favor. “You can ask if you have questions, just like those other girls.” “Watching you all fight over me is occasionally quite entertaining.” Oh, he’s so nice, but I couldn’t agree to it. Being near him, hearing his voice, I couldn’t think straight. Even sitting behind him, I couldn’t help but get distracted. After much deliberation, I painfully asked Mr. Harrison to change my seat. The front row VIP spot. As I packed my books, the entire class stared at me in shock. Even Ethan gave me a complex look, staring for an extra moment. My secret crush and my studies progressed side by side, and soon a year had passed. After immersing myself in my studies for so long, on the day the final exam results came out, I actually just barely made the cut to get into the same top-tier high school in the state as Ethan. The only catch was, he was in the honors class, and I was in the lowest-ranked class. Mr. Harrison teared up, using me as a legend to future students. My parents called every relative they had and celebrated like I’d won the lottery. Only I felt a mix of joy and worry. Joy because I’d see my idol again. Worry because: barely making it in, how could I claim to be from the same school as my idol? I wasn’t good enough, I had to keep striving. Day and night studying began again. I didn’t even let the holidays stop me. Whenever I got tired, I’d grab my vocabulary book and secretly find a corner to stake out Ethan. Just to catch a glimpse of him. He was voted “Campus Heartthrob” and was still the center of attention. Boys tried to get close, girls crushed on him. I liked him so much. Occasionally, I’d stare for too long and get noticed by Ethan and his friends. His friend would sneer, “Another fangirl, Ethan, do you know her?” Ethan would look at me and let out a dismissive chuckle. “Just a simple-minded paramecium.” My face turned red again, but his voice was as pleasant as ever! Days turned into weeks, then months, years passed by. My college entrance exam results came out. I was the top student in the state. My parents’ phones were ringing off the hook with calls from universities across the country. The school put up banners of honor, and the state and school gave me prize money. Everything felt like a dazzling fireworks display. I was a bit dazed. It wasn’t until I stood at the university entrance, face-to-face with Ethan, that I felt a sense of grounding. That’s right, I wasn’t a genius, but I had some intelligence and a lot of effort. My scores had steadily climbed, and by the third mock exam, I was tied with Ethan. Problems Ethan solved effortlessly, I also solved with ease. When Ethan chatted effortlessly, I could just as easily apply those theorems and formulas. Even for the big problems Ethan hesitated on, I had some ideas. Getting into Beacon University was a given. Winning by a hair, a given. I was thrilled. Finally, I was worthy of confessing to Ethan!

“Long time no see, I’m Chloe.” I spoke first. Ethan looked at me intently, a faint, strange resentment in his eyes. “You think I’d forget?” I didn’t understand, and eagerly confessed my long-held feelings. “Um, actually, I’ve liked you for many years.” His expression became even stranger. “Are you saying you worked so hard to surpass me just to pursue me?” I nodded firmly. “Only someone excellent enough can be worthy of you.” Ethan was silent. “You want to be with me?” His eyes seemed to flicker with encouragement. I looked up, a little excited, but then I suddenly noticed that the aura around Ethan had disappeared. “I…” Just as I hesitated, about to admit it, a group of foreign students squeezed into the international student registration area. As I moved to avoid them, I suddenly felt my rear lightly but distinctly pinched. At the same moment, a girl shrieked. “Who’s got grabby hands?” A few foreign students smirked, their eyes brazenly scanning our bodies. They spoke in French, which I didn’t understand. One of them even pointed at me, snickering lewdly. The girl was furious, stamping her foot, and demanded in English. The foreign students, emboldened, shrugged and finally spoke in English. “You say it was us? Got any proof?” The girl decisively turned her head to me. “You got touched too, didn’t you?” Countless eyes fixed on me. But I was a timid, easily rattled person who avoided trouble. That was always the policy for kids from less affluent backgrounds when they were away from home. Seeing this, Ethan silently stepped in front of me, shielding me from their stares. The foreign students smirked in triumph. “Heard you local girls love foreign guys, even for free. Is that you too?” “How much for a night?” The girl’s face flushed crimson with rage. Some people who couldn’t stand it tried to argue, but the foreign students just spoke in French, leaving them powerless. Until a young man named Julian appeared. The Student Council members seemed to find their backbone, visibly relieved. Julian gently comforted the girl for a few moments. Then his face hardened, and he looked sternly at the foreign students. Though tall, he still seemed slender compared to the group of nearly six-foot-three white men. But his presence showed no weakness. He conversed with the foreign students in fluent, firm French. Their arrogance gradually turned into bluster. Julian pulled out a statement and made a phone call. The big, burly white men’s faces changed; they exchanged glances. They grudgingly apologized to the girl, quickly registered, and slunk away. “Hmph, these foreign students still think they have privileges like before, but the Ministry of Education and the school have issued management announcements.” “It’s a good thing Julian arrived in time this time, otherwise we’d just be forced to accept it again.” The freshmen were full of curiosity and admiration. “Is he the Student Council President?” “Yes, Julian is a school legend, fluent in four languages, the student representative and planner for the college.” “He wins awards constantly, manages event projects flawlessly, and even brought in $100,000 in sponsorship for orientation.” “It feels like there’s nothing he can’t handle. I heard even the strictest Dean Thompson praised him, and several top-tier companies have extended job offers.” The Student Council members were full of praise and reverence. Julian, at the center of the crowd, was charming and approachable, a true gentleman. With just a few words, he lifted the girl’s bad mood, and she offered a shy smile. I whispered Julian’s name. For the second time in my life, I was captivated, my heart completely drawn to him. Ethan remembered the unfinished conversation. “Right, you still haven’t answered. Confessing to me, do you want to take things further?” I hesitated for two seconds. Looking over his shoulder, I saw Julian suddenly walking our way. My mind went into a frenzy, and I blurted out something random. “No, I didn’t mean that. I think love is about adapting to circumstances.” Ethan: ?

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The day my dad remarried, my stepmother, Sharon, gently welcomed me into her home. She’d simmered chicken soup for three hours just for me. But as I picked up a drumstick and took a few bites, she suddenly grabbed the scalding hot soup and poured it all over my head. “Look at your wonderful daughter, David! She was born to bring misfortune to our family, wasn’t she?” I shrieked, burned and bewildered, looking at Dad, hoping he’d speak up for me. Instead, he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, slapped it on the table – a document severing our father-daughter relationship – and said coldly, “Get out. I don’t have a daughter like you.” 0 The scalding, greasy chicken soup streamed down my head. My whole body was soaked, and the smell of chicken soup instantly filled the air. I stood there stunned, helplessly looking at Dad. I wondered if I’d offended Sharon somehow and wanted to apologize. But Dad pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and slapped it on the table. It was a “Document of Severance of Father-Daughter Relationship.” “Get out. I don’t have a daughter like you.” He finished speaking and yanked my arm, pulling me toward the door. “Why, Dad? What did I do wrong?” Today was Dad’s remarriage, and it was my first time at Sharon’s house. She had been incredibly gentle with me, speaking softly, smiling as she welcomed me in, and personally cooked chicken soup for three hours. But as I picked up a drumstick and took a few bites, Sharon, who was still scooping soup for me, suddenly dropped the ladle, grabbed the bowl, and poured the soup over my head. “What did I do to make Sharon angry? Just tell me, I’ll apologize to her.” I shook my head repeatedly, desperately clinging to the doorframe, demanding answers. Dad pried my fingers off the frame one by one, replying, “You have the nerve to ask? I’m too ashamed to even answer you. Do you think what you did was something to be proud of? Mia, I can’t believe I raised a daughter like you!” He shoved me to the ground, followed by the deafening slam of the door. The sound rattled me, leaving my ears ringing for a long while. I stumbled to my feet, messy like a drowned rat, and left. Growing up, Dad always treated me like the apple of his eye. If I accidentally bumped a table corner, the next day, every corner would be padded with soft protectors. But why today… I tossed and turned, unable to sleep, so I called Grandma Martha and burst into tears. Thankfully, Martha was still on my side, promising to call Dad and give him a piece of her mind. I choked back tears, my shoulders trembling uncontrollably: “Grandma, I was so careful at Sharon’s house, I didn’t dare touch anything.” “I even helped her with chores, helping her chop vegetables while she was cooking.” “All I did was eat one chicken drumstick, and she poured the whole pot of soup on me.” “Was that chicken some kind of golden goose? That precious?” But when I mentioned the chicken drumstick, Martha’s tone instantly turned cold: “You ate the chicken drumstick?” I mumbled a “yes,” completely confused. “Yes, I did. Was it really a golden goose? I had no idea that chicken was so precious. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have touched it.” Martha cleared her throat on the other end of the line, saying sternly: “Tell me exactly what happened that day, don’t leave out a single detail.” A strange nervousness crept into me as I started recalling the scene of eating the drumstick, describing even the color and pattern of the soup bowl in detail. “And then I just ate a chicken drumstick, and before I even had a chance to drink the soup, all that happened.” Before I could finish, I only heard a busy tone. I thought Martha had hung up accidentally. I called back, only to hear: “The number you have dialed is busy. Please try again later…” I tried several times, but it was always the same. Grandma Martha had blocked me. 0

The next day, I used someone else’s phone to call Martha. “Grandma, why did you block me? Just because I ate a chicken drumstick?” I’d lived with Martha since I was little. Whatever I wanted, it would appear in her hands the next day. Her voice rose, sharp and piercing, as if it would shatter my eardrums: “I don’t have a granddaughter like you. Your dad should never have had you!” My legs instantly went weak, and I sank to the floor. What had I done wrong? Why were they treating me like this? Both Dad and Grandma Martha wanted to cut ties with me, all because I ate a few bites of chicken drumstick. My heart was a mess of emotions. Were they hiding something from me? Perhaps they were in some kind of trouble and were using this as an excuse to cut me off, so I wouldn’t get involved. I was completely baffled. I called every relative I could think of, asking about them. But their answers were identical: “No, everything’s fine. They’re all healthy, and their careers are going smoothly.” My head felt heavy, the world spinning around me. Could they really be cutting ties with me just because I ate a chicken drumstick? I spent the next night tossing and turning, unable to sleep. I decided to go back to my hometown to see Martha and get a clear explanation. But I was currently working on a major project and could only wait until my vacation. More than ten days passed. I was constantly traveling for work and didn’t have time to dwell on these things. I also tried to reassure myself that if they weren’t willing to let me eat a simple chicken drumstick, then maybe such a family wasn’t worth having. Through this, I realized my standing in their hearts was nothing special. From now on, I’d live my own life, relying on myself to create a good future. That was the only way. But ever since that incident, I hadn’t eaten a chicken drumstick again. I thought the whole thing was over, but at the project completion celebration, Mr. Hayes invited our team to a rustic restaurant known for its free-range chicken. I got incredibly stressed at the mention of anything chicken-related. I immediately called Mr. Hayes to try and decline, but he was surprisingly inflexible: “Mia, you were the main person in charge of this project. How can you not attend?” “If your teammates see you not coming, aren’t you disrespecting me, your manager?” “Your team also has interns. You need to lead by example, right?” “No more excuses. If you don’t show up, don’t bother coming in again.” Mr. Hayes was usually very approachable, but this time, for some reason, he absolutely insisted I go. This was the first major project I’d completed since leading the team, and I’d poured a lot of effort into it. To keep my job, I drove there. Everyone was toasting each other, the atmosphere was lively, and they kept raising their glasses to me. But when the steaming hot chicken soup was placed on the table, I couldn’t help but frown. Before, just for eating one chicken drumstick, my own father wanted to cut ties with me, and Grandma Martha, who loved me most, vowed to never contact me again. If I ate a chicken drumstick today, would I lose my job too? At that thought, I recoiled, pulling back my fork, and shivered. I stood up, intending to get some fresh air outside. But just as I was about to leave, Lisa, who usually couldn’t stand me, spoke up, her voice sharp, making everyone look my way: “Mia, Mr. Hayes specifically ordered this free-range chicken for you. Not even touching your fork is a huge slap in his face, isn’t it?” We’d worked together for two years, and she’d filed reports against me at least a dozen times, always trying to trip me up and make my life miserable. I steadied myself and spoke calmly: “I’ve been feeling under the weather lately, so I can’t have chicken soup or chicken meat.” “Everyone, enjoy your food and have a great time.” With that, I practically fled towards the door. 0

Just as I was about to reach the exit, Lisa rushed over and blocked me. The cheap perfume filling my nostrils made me sneeze. “Oh, this is an old hen, not a young rooster. It’s actually good for you, so don’t worry, just eat it.” All my colleagues looked at me. Other team members also chimed in: “Mia, you’re the MVP of this project. You pulled so many all-nighters, you really need to replenish your strength.” “Lisa’s just looking out for you. Just have a bite, please.” Mr. Hayes, who had been silent for a long time, also spoke up, persuading me: “This is their own farm-raised chicken, not like the factory-farmed ones. Just try a piece.” Cold sweat beaded on my forehead as I forced an awkward smile. Lisa being this nice to me? I wondered what her game was. But now I was essentially on the hot seat. If I still refused, they’d accuse me of disrespecting Mr. Hayes and being arrogant about my achievements. If I wanted a promotion or raise later, someone would surely bring this up. After two or three seconds of hesitation, I had no choice but to return to the table and sit down. I picked up my fork and took a chicken drumstick. I put the drumstick in my mouth. It was incredibly tender. Seeing that no one reacted, I continued eating on my own. Until I had eaten it down to the bone. Time seemed to stop. Everyone fell silent, as if by unspoken agreement. The private room was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. The smiles on everyone’s faces instantly froze. The malice in their eyes shot at me like sharp daggers. “Mia, you’re absolutely shameless!” My best friend at work was the first to react, clenching her fist and slamming it on the table, her eyes practically spitting fire: “I must have been blind to ever be your friend.” “You’re utterly disgusting!” “Mr. Hayes, fire her immediately. People like her don’t belong in our company.” My heart tightened, and my legs started to tremble uncontrollably: “The restaurant owner brought the chicken soup, and Lisa told me to eat it!” “What did I do wrong?” But my colleagues just stared at me coldly, ignoring my breakdown. I looked pleadingly at Sarah, my mentor, who brought me into this industry. When I first started, Sarah taught me everything, meticulously, detail by detail. She saw my potential, my champion. I hoped she would speak up for me. But to my surprise, Sarah seemed like a different person today. Her eyes held an expression I couldn’t understand, distant, like she was looking at a complete stranger. “Mia, if I’d known you were this kind of person, I would’ve fired you during the interview.” Mr. Hayes picked up the chicken soup bowl and smashed it violently on the floor, roaring: “Mia, don’t bother coming in tomorrow. Our company doesn’t need someone with your unethical conduct.” It felt like a bucket of cold water had been dumped on me. I stood there, stunned. My colleagues shot me disgusted looks and dispersed. As they passed me, some even spat at me. “Ugh, she’s absolutely shameless. She’s a waste of space, a waste of oxygen.” I had worked here since graduating, diligently and meticulously, never made a single mistake. Was eating one chicken drumstick going to end my career of so many years? The private room was a mess. Overturned wine bottles dripped onto the floor, and I felt my strength draining away, slumping to the ground. The company SnapChat group erupted in condemnation against me. But I scrolled through thousands of messages and couldn’t find a single reason why they were treating me like this. When I returned to the office, my desk supplies had already been dumped next to the trash can, smelling of garbage. I was thrown out of the company like trash. A dozen colleagues stood by the entrance, staring at me like I was a pathetic stray. Like a puppet, I picked up my belongings, walking back to my rental apartment like I’d lost my soul. I lost all strength and fainted on the floor. 0

I was woken in the middle of the night by the cold draft coming through the window, which cleared my head considerably. I contacted the restaurant owner and requested the surveillance footage from that night, hoping to figure out what happened. Was I just too stressed from work, or had I developed dissociative identity disorder, doing something outrageous? Is that why everyone turned on me the moment I ate a chicken drumstick? I watched the footage from sunrise to sunset, my eyes bloodshot, but I found no signs of dissociative identity disorder. After much deliberation, I booked an appointment with a renowned psychiatrist. After I explained the whole situation, the doctor patted my shoulder and comforted me: “It’s normal for people today to experience high stress, sometimes leading to dissociative identity disorder or memory loss.” I clutched at that lifeline, pulling out my phone to show him the surveillance video from that night. But before I could even take my phone back, the doctor shoved it into my hand and pushed me out the door: “You’re beyond help. Please find another doctor.” “Or perhaps it’s best not to treat you at all. Even if cured, it won’t erase the evil within you.” I stood outside the door, helplessly wringing my hands, tears streaming down my face like a broken string of pearls. I stumbled back to my apartment complex in a daze, only to bump into my landlord. She angrily declared: “Get out within an hour! You disgusting creature, renting my apartment! Who knows if anyone will rent it after you’re done with it.” “If I’d known what kind of person you were, I never would have rented to you.” My entire body went limp, and I knelt at my landlord’s feet, begging for an explanation like a beggar. But she just kicked me away, refusing to even look at me, and walked off without a backward glance. Dragging my luggage, bag after bag, I had nowhere to go. So I called Eleanor, my mom. When I finally threw myself into Eleanor’s arms, all the hurt and frustration of the past few days spilled out. I hugged her and cried for over ten minutes. Eleanor didn’t say a word, didn’t ask anything. She just held me, gently stroking my hair. Ethan, my brother, also took time off work to come home, saying he missed me. The days with Eleanor were peaceful and wonderful, gradually allowing me to lower my guard and forget what had happened. Six months passed peacefully. Eventually, I needed to get back to life, so I interviewed for a company online, ready to resume working. Seeing me getting better, Eleanor smiled with relief and started bustling around, insisting I eat a full meal before leaving. Eleanor cooked many dishes, all my favorites. Just as I put down my fork and was about to go pack more things. Eleanor brought out a bowl of chicken soup! I looked at the greasy chicken soup and suddenly felt nauseous, the room spinning around me. “Mia, Mom made this chicken soup for you herself. Simmered slowly, so nourishing and delicious.” “You really should eat a big bowl. You won’t find anything like this anywhere else.” My head throbbed. All those painful memories flooded my mind at once. I was trying to think of an excuse to escape, but then I noticed Eleanor’s hands, red and blistered from burns. Eleanor noticed my gaze and tugged at her sleeve, trying to hide them: “It’s nothing, just accidentally burned myself with the pot while making soup. I’ve already put ointment on it.” My throat tightened, and I couldn’t bring myself to refuse her: “Thank you, Mom. I’m definitely going to eat a big chicken drumstick.” Eleanor looked at me gently, “Eat up, eat up. It’s all yours.” With that, Eleanor started to clear away the other dishes, letting me eat slowly. Seeing nothing amiss, I lowered my guard. After all, I’d always loved Eleanor’s chicken soup the most. I picked up the bowl and took a sip of soup. A warm feeling spread through me instantly, leaving a sweet and savory aftertaste. Eleanor freed one hand to wipe a spot of grease from the corner of my mouth. But as I picked up the chicken drumstick and took a few bites, Eleanor slammed the cleared dishes onto the floor, shattering porcelain pieces across the floor. Before I could react, Eleanor’s slap already stung my cheek. “Mia, how could I have raised such a monster? I’m going to beat you to death!” With that, she grabbed a broom and swung it at me. Just as I raised my hand to block it, Ethan stepped in front of me. “Mom, what did Mia do wrong? How can you hit her?” Eleanor’s chest heaved violently, and the veins on her forehead bulged. She yanked Ethan aside and whispered something in his ear: “I served Mia chicken soup, and she actually…”

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At two in the morning, while a tired ER resident was looping black thread through the split skin on my forehead, my husband, Luke, updated his Instagram. The photo showed his colleague, Lexie, slouched in the passenger seat of his car, cradling a warm paper cup. His caption was dripping with mock-exasperation and cheap affection: “Chauffeur duty, round twenty. Too drunk to remember where she parked. I swear I don’t know what to do with her.” It had been posted at one-thirty. Exactly when my sedan was crumpled on the shoulder of the dark interstate, thirty miles outside the city, and I was clutching a blood-soaked napkin to my brow, dialing his number for the thirty-third time. I had bargained with God in the dark. I told myself that if he answered just once, I would turn down the massive promotion at our Chicago headquarters. I would stay here, in Boston, and fight for our marriage. But he never answered. He only sent a single, clinical text. “Lexie is too drunk to get home safe. I’ll be back later. Be good.” He was terrified for Lexie’s safety. He had no idea I was stranded on a pitch-black stretch of highway with a shattered windshield and a head wound. In our single year of marriage, he had played late-night chauffeur for Lexie twenty times. I had worked late sixty-eight times. He had never picked me up once. My mind drifted back to the worst of those nights—when a drunk stranger had cornered me in our office’s underground parking garage. I’d been so terrified I’d locked myself in my car and called the police. At the station, the female officer had looked at me with deep pity and asked, “Where is your husband, sweetie? Why isn’t he here?” I had forced a polite, empty smile. “He’s slammed at work. I can handle it.” Yes. I could handle it. In seven days, I would board a one-way flight to Chicago. The divorce papers waiting on my laptop were simply the final, quiet surrender. 1 At two-thirty, I finally pushed open our front door. I pulled off my heavy knit beanie, exposing the stark white gauze taped over my temple. The wound throbbed with a dull, sickening rhythm. The living room lights were blazing. Luke was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, a wet microfiber cloth in his hand, meticulously dabbing at a stain on a delicate silk scarf. Hearing the door, he looked up, a familiar crease forming between his brows. “Why are you working so late?” Then his eyes caught the bandage, and he froze. “What happened to your head?” “I bumped it,” I said, my voice entirely flat. “How are you so careless?” He didn’t ask how I had bumped it. I looked at the women’s scarf in his hands and felt too exhausted to explain. An hour ago, I had been rear-ended by a hit-and-run driver on a dark highway, my face slammed into the steering wheel. I had called him thirty-three times. And he had been cleaning silk. “You picked up Lexie tonight?” I asked, watching his face. Luke’s expression remained perfectly innocent. He lifted the scarf slightly. “Yeah. Her department was entertaining clients. She’s young, got pressured into drinking too much. She couldn’t even find her car in the dark. If I didn’t go, and something happened to her, I’d never forgive myself. The company wouldn’t either.” He paused, looking down at the fabric. “She ruined her scarf when she got sick. I brought it back to see if I could save it.” He had thought of everything for her. He treated her cheap silk with more tenderness than he treated my life. “I called you thirty-three times,” I said. My voice was so calm it surprised me. Luke blinked, pulling his phone from his pocket. He stared at the screen, a flicker of genuine guilt crossing his face. “I’m sorry, Novia. I was driving, and I didn’t want to get distracted, so I put it on silent. Next time you work late, let me know. I’ll come get you.” Next time. In a year, he had driven Lexie twenty times because “it wasn’t safe for a girl.” For my sixty-eight late nights, his only contribution had been a text telling me to “be careful.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I simply walked past him toward the bedroom. “Get some rest,” I whispered. “I’m tired.” As the bedroom door clicked shut, my phone buzzed. It was an email from the HR director in Chicago. “Dear Novia, your transfer paperwork is officially finalized. We look forward to seeing you in seven days. Please let us know if you need assistance with relocation.” I stared at the screen and typed a two-word reply: “Confirmed. Thanks.” Seven days. That was all that remained of this marriage. 2 I woke up the next morning to a violent wave of nausea. The pain in my forehead was sharp, radiating down into my neck. I forced myself out of bed, holding the wall for support. In the hallway, Luke was already fully dressed, putting on his watch. “Luke,” I called out, my hand gripping the doorframe. My knuckles were white. “I’m incredibly dizzy. Can you take the morning off and drive me to the clinic?” He turned, and when he saw my pale face, a flash of real concern came over him. “Of course. Let me grab my keys.” A tiny, foolish ember of warmth flared in my chest. Then his phone rang. The moment he swiped the screen, his face hardened into panic. “What? Someone hit your car?” “Lexie, hey, stop crying. Deep breaths. I’m coming right now.” He hung up and looked at me, his eyes full of frantic apology. “Novia, Lexie just got rear-ended on her way to work. The other driver is some aggressive guy, and she’s hysterical. She’s just a kid, she’s terrified. I need to handle this. I’ll be back in thirty minutes to take you, okay? Just sit down.” He squeezed my shoulder, grabbed his keys, and was out the door before I could speak. Thirty minutes passed. Then an hour. Then two. By ten o’clock, the apartment was silent except for the ticking clock. I sent him a text: “Are you coming back?” Ten minutes later, a voice memo arrived. In the background, I could hear Lexie’s soft, theatrical sobbing. “Novia, I’m so sorry. The guy is being completely unreasonable, demanding a cash settlement and threatening her. Lexie is a wreck, and the police are taking forever. If you’re really feeling terrible, can you just call an Uber to the clinic? I’ll Venmo you for it later.” I stared at the message and let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. I didn’t reply. I booked my own ride to the hospital. The CT scan revealed a mild concussion. The doctor handed me a prescription and warned me to rest, strictly forbidding any physical or mental strain. As I sat in the sterile waiting room waiting for my medication, a familiar voice called my name. “Novia? What happened to you?” It was Gavin, a close friend of ours from college. He hurried over, his brow furrowed as he looked at my bandage. “Just a clumsy accident,” I said with a weak smile. Gavin looked around the empty waiting area. “Where’s Luke? Why isn’t he here with you?” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I actually just walked past the bistro across the street. I could swear I saw him in there with a young girl.” “He’s busy,” I said, my voice perfectly steady. “A colleague had an emergency and he had to help out. I can handle this myself.” After Gavin left, I stared up at the flourescent lights of the hospital ceiling. I realized then that when disappointment reaches a certain depth, you don’t even have the energy to be angry anymore. You just go numb. 3 Four days left. I had been cold, distant, and quiet. Luke, finally sensing the shift, had booked a table at a newly starred French bistro downtown—a place I had wanted to try for months. He said he wanted to make up for our missed anniversary. That evening, I put on the deep red dress he loved and arrived early. A few minutes later, the door opened. The polite smile I had prepared froze on my face. Luke walked in, and trailing right behind him was Lexie. “Hi, Novia! I am so, so sorry to crash your date!” Lexie wore Luke’s oversized trench coat over her shoulders. She looked tiny, fragile, and utterly innocent. “Luke told me it was your anniversary, and I told him absolutely not, but my roommate locked me out of our apartment tonight and it’s freezing. Luke was worried I’d catch pneumonia, so he insisted I come.” She tilted her head, her eyes wide. “You’re not mad at him, are you? You’re always so understanding.” Luke pulled out a chair for her, then gave me an apologetic shrug. “Novia, she was shivering on the street. I figured it’s just one more plate. We can still have a nice dinner.” I stared at the trench coat she was wearing. I had bought it for Luke just last month. “The coat…” I murmured. “Oh, Lexie was freezing,” Luke said dismissively. “I had it in the back seat. Here, let’s order.” He handed the menu to Lexie. She immediately selected three highly spiced, heavy dishes. Then she gasped, covering her mouth in mock horror. “Oh my gosh, Novia, can you even eat spicy food? I’m so selfish, I only ordered what I like. Luke, why didn’t you stop me?” Luke laughed it off. “It’s fine. Novia’s had a terrible appetite lately. Maybe some spice will wake up her stomach.” A cold weight settled in my chest. Only yesterday, I had texted him a photo of my discharge papers and medical instructions, explicitly stating I had to avoid spicy and irritating foods due to the concussion nausea. He hadn’t even opened the message. “Luke, I can’t eat spicy food,” I said, my voice devoid of warmth. He blinked, the realization slowly hitting him. “Oh… right. Your head. I’m sorry, Novia, I’ve had so much on my mind I forgot. Server, can we change those—” “Don’t worry about it,” I interrupted. Lexie’s lower lip began to tremble. “Novia, are you mad at me? If I’m ruining your night, I’ll just leave…” She scrambled to stand up, her movements dramatic enough that her arm caught her water glass. The glass tipped, splashing warm water directly onto her hand. “Ow!” she gasped. Luke immediately grabbed a handful of napkins. He snatched her wrist, his face tight with concern. “Are you okay? Is it burned? Does it hurt?” I sat there, watching them. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw a glass. While Luke was frantically dabbing at Lexie’s hand, I quietly stood up, grabbed my purse, and walked out of the restaurant. The autumn wind outside was freezing, but this time, I didn’t look back. 4 The morning of my departure. I woke up early, folding my remaining clothes and placing them neatly into my twenty-eight-inch suitcase. In the living room, Luke was adjusting his tie in front of the mirror. “You’re going out? On a Saturday?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah, Lexie is moving today. Her moving company is sketchy, and she has a ton of boxes. I promised I’d help her out.” He put on his coat and walked toward me, reaching out to pat my shoulder. I took a step back, slipping away from his touch. I looked into his eyes, giving him one last, silent test. “Luke, I feel really sick today. My head is spinning, and I have this awful tightness in my chest.” My voice was quiet, dead serious. “Can you stay? Just today. Stay with me.” Luke paused. For a second, a flicker of hesitation crossed his face. Then his phone rang. The moment he answered, Lexie’s crying voice leaked through the speaker. “Luke… the movers are demanding double the price, and they’re getting aggressive… I’m so scared, please get here…” The hesitation vanished from Luke’s face instantly. “Don’t argue with them,” he said into the phone. “I’m on my way.” He hung up and turned to me, his voice returning to that patronizing, soothing tone. “Novia, you heard her. She can’t handle those guys alone. Just take your meds and rest. I promise I’ll be back by noon to check on you, okay?” I watched his hurried retreat. The final, microscopic spark of hope in my heart went cold. “Okay,” I whispered. The front door slammed shut. I walked over to the coffee table and placed the signed divorce agreement right in the center, where he couldn’t miss it. Next to the agreement, I laid out two documents. One was my ER diagnosis for a concussion and head trauma. The other was the police report from the hit-and-run on the highway. As I dragged my suitcase out of the apartment lobby, I popped the SIM card out of my phone, snapped it in half, and tossed it into the trash can on the corner. Three hours later, my flight touched down in Chicago. I slid a new SIM card into my phone. The moment it connected, iMessages began to flood the screen in a violent, unending stream.

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I live alone, but lately, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that there’s a phantom in my apartment. It started with the small things. I’d make breakfast, turn my back for a single second, and the center of my fried egg would be scooped out, gone. Freshly laundered shirts hung in my closet would suddenly have faint, muddy smudges on the collars before I ever wore them. I tore the place apart, installed hidden cameras, and found absolutely nothing. Just as I started to let my guard down, convinced I was losing my mind, my girlfriend wrapped her arms around me from behind, her laugh warm against my neck. “You were so aggressive last night, babe,” she murmured. “I barely walked through the door before you pinned me to the wall.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. Because last night, I hadn’t been home at all. 1 Sophia’s fingertips were still tracing the line of my arm. When she noticed my face had drained of color, she paused, leaning in to brush her nose against my cheek. Her tone was light, teasing. “What’s wrong? Feeling shy? You certainly weren’t like this last night when you had your hands tangled in my hair, begging me not to let go.” Every muscle in my body locked into place. The sharp sting of my fingernails biting into my own palms was the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. I stared dead into her eyes, my voice trembling so hard I barely recognized it. “You’re saying… you saw me in my apartment last night?” Sophia nodded, the playful smile still lingering on her lips. She reached out to wrap her arms around my waist, but I flinched, stepping back instinctively. She froze, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Yeah. The power went out in my building, remember? I was bored, so I came over to surprise you.” “The lights were off when I walked in, and before I could even reach for the switch, you grabbed me. I ran my hands through your hair. You just got that new textured fade. I know the exact feel of it.” Every word she spoke felt like an ice pick driving into my bones. I grabbed her arm, squeezing hard enough that she winced. “I am not joking with you, Sophia. I was not home last night.” “I told you last week. Brody went through that horrible breakup, and I took him out drinking. I crashed on his couch. I never stepped foot in this apartment last night.” The smile on Sophia’s face died a slow, agonizing death. She reached out, her hand hovering nervously near my forehead. Panic was beginning to bleed into her voice. “Stop it, babe. This isn’t funny.” “Only you and I have keys to this place. You just installed that new smart deadbolt last month. Who else could it possibly be?” “We’ve been together for three years! Do you really think I wouldn’t recognize your body? Your voice? You sounded exactly like you always do. You even smelled like the cedarwood detergent you use for your sheets!” I didn’t argue. With shaking hands, I pulled out my phone, found Brody’s contact, and put it on speaker. He picked up on the second ring, his voice gravelly with sleep. “What’s up, man? You left your leather jacket on my chair when you took off this morning. When are you coming back for it?” I drew in a sharp, ragged breath. “Brody, tell me the truth. Did I sleep at your place last night?” “No shit, man. Where else would you be?” Brody yawned, a hint of amusement returning to his voice. “We stayed up until three in the morning watching some terrible rom-com. You got all emotional, told me you wanted to get married, and made me fetch you an iced Coke. Don’t tell me you blacked out.” “Wait, is Sophia interrogating you? Do you need me to vouch for you?” “No. Thanks, Brody.” I ended the call. When I looked up, Sophia’s face was the color of ash. A cold sweat had broken out along her hairline. She stumbled backward, her hip colliding with the dining table. The glass of water I had just poured wobbled perilously before tipping over the edge, shattering into a hundred glittering pieces on the hardwood. “No… that’s impossible. How could that be?” She muttered the words to herself before suddenly snapping. Like a woman possessed, she sprinted toward the bedroom. I heard the violent crash of the closet doors being ripped open, the sound of hangers clattering to the floor as she tore through my clothes. Then came the frantic scraping of her dropping to her knees, checking under the bed, ripping apart the storage bins on the balcony. She tore through the apartment like a burglar, leaving chaos in her wake. Ten minutes later, she emerged from the hallway, covered in dust, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She slowly shook her head. “Nothing… there’s no one here.” I slumped against the wall, my legs suddenly too weak to hold my weight, and finally dialed 911. 2 The police arrived within fifteen minutes. When Officer Harris and a crime scene technician stepped through my front door, I was still shaking. I tried to hand them bottles of water, but my grip was so unstable I nearly dropped them. I told them everything. From the very beginning. I told them about the breakfast food vanishing into thin air months ago. The mysterious smudges on my freshly washed shirts. And then, the events of last night. With every word, the trembling in my hands grew worse. The technician, wearing latex gloves, methodically swept the apartment. The windows were intact. The heavy steel deadbolt showed zero signs of tampering. The security bars on the balcony—which I’d had professionally installed last month—were welded shut. You couldn’t even slip a hand through the gaps. He ran a specialized scanner over every inch of the walls. No listening devices. No hidden pinhole cameras. No secret compartments large enough to conceal a human being. “Let’s go take a look at the building’s security footage,” Officer Harris said, offering a reassuring pat on my shoulder. “Take a deep breath, son. Let’s see what the cameras say.” Sophia and I followed them down to the property manager’s office. Standing behind the officers, we watched the monitors as they fast-forwarded through the footage, starting from the moment I left yesterday afternoon. The screen showed it clearly: At 5:20 PM yesterday, I walked out of the lobby doors wearing a white t-shirt and jeans. I never returned. At 11:07 PM, Sophia keyed into the lobby. At 8:10 AM this morning, she left to pick up coffee and bagels. In between those hours, aside from a FedEx guy and a DoorDash driver dropping off food on other floors, not a single unfamiliar face stepped off the elevator onto my floor. The last remaining drop of color drained from Sophia’s face. She gripped the edge of the security desk, her voice vibrating with sheer terror. “It’s not possible… Then who was in that room with me last night?” “His voice, his build… it was exactly like Declan’s. I know what I felt. Declan, you have to—” “Is this really the time for that?!” I snapped, cutting her off before turning back to the police. “Officer, I’ve suspected someone was living in my apartment for months.” “Sometimes I’d leave a glass of water on the nightstand before work, and when I came home, it had moved two inches to the left. I’d make a turkey sandwich, turn around to grab a LaCroix from the fridge, and half the sandwich would be gone. I’d hang a clean white t-shirt in the closet, and the next day the collar would be stained yellow, like someone had sweat in it.” “Last week, I put my keys on the entryway console. I swear on my life I put them there. When I got home, they were sitting on the kitchen island. I convinced myself I was just losing my memory. But looking at this… I wasn’t forgetting things. Someone is in there.” Hearing this, Officer Harris took the technician back up to my unit. They spent another grueling hour tearing the place apart. They removed the ceiling tiles in the bathroom. They knocked on the drywall around the plumbing shafts. Nothing. Finally, Officer Harris let out a heavy sigh and handed me his card. “We’re going to pull the last three months of lobby footage and run it through the system. If you notice anything else, call me directly.” He hesitated, his tone shifting into something overly gentle. “It’s also entirely possible that the stress of your job is getting to you. Memory lapses happen. If it gives you peace of mind, maybe talk to a doctor. But for now, I’d suggest staying somewhere else for a few days.” After the police left, the apartment fell into a suffocating, dead silence. Sophia and I sat on opposite ends of the sofa. Neither of us spoke. The only sound was the heavy, jagged rhythm of our breathing. After what felt like an eternity, I stood up and pulled my suitcase from the closet. Sophia blinked, snapping out of her trance, and hurried over to help me fold my clothes. “You’re right. We can’t stay here. We’ll check into a hotel.” Once we were checked into a downtown suite, Sophia immediately pulled out her laptop and called a high-end security firm. “I need your best technicians at my boyfriend’s apartment first thing tomorrow morning. I want the highest-grade cameras you have—local storage, battery backups, night vision. I want every single blind spot covered. I don’t care what it costs!” She hung up the phone and threw her arms around my neck, her body wracked with violent sobs. “Don’t worry, babe. I swear to God, we’re going to catch whoever is doing this.” I held her, but I felt entirely hollow. My chest was a cavern of ice. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that two weeks ago, I had secretly hidden a micro-camera inside the air conditioning vent. The very next day, the feed had gone black. I thought it was a defective unit. I bought three more, from three different brands. Every single one of them mysteriously died within forty-eight hours, having recorded absolutely nothing. Would this time really be any different? 3 First thing the next morning, Sophia and I went back to the apartment. We hovered over the technicians as they installed four state-of-the-art 4K cameras in the living room, bedroom, balcony, and entryway. Every possible angle was covered. When they finished calibrating the system, the lead tech looked me in the eye and swore on his reputation. The cameras were tamper-proof, connected to an independent cellular network, and saved directly to the cloud and a physical hard drive. They would not fail. As soon as they left, we locked the door and retreated to the hotel. We sat on the bed, staring at the live feeds on my iPad. We watched for an entire day. The apartment remained perfectly, hauntingly still. Not even the curtains shifted. My anxiety only tightened its grip. By late afternoon, my phone rang. It was Officer Harris. “Declan, we’ve reviewed the last three months of security footage for your building.” “Aside from you and your girlfriend, the only other person to visit your unit was your friend Brody, who came by once last month. No unauthorized personnel have entered the building.” “Everyone who used the stairs or elevator was a verified resident, a delivery driver, or a postal worker. None of them lingered on your floor.” His voice softened, taking on that same pitying tone from yesterday. “Son, I strongly recommend you schedule an appointment with a professional. Work stress can cause severe dissociation and memory gaps. There’s no shame in it. Don’t carry this burden alone.” When I hung up, my heart sank to the bottom of the ocean. Sophia, having overheard the conversation, threw her phone onto the mattress and burst into tears. I silently handed her a tissue. She took it, wiping aggressively at her mascara-stained cheeks, and grabbed her silk robe. “I’m going to take a shower, babe. Let’s go out and get a nice dinner afterward. Let’s just… try not to think about it for one night.” She disappeared into the bathroom. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the endless stream of traffic on the avenue below, my mind a tangled, rotting mess. Was I actually going crazy? Was I having a psychotic break? But the missing food… the dirty laundry… the man who had touched Sophia in the dark. Those things were real. They couldn’t be hallucinations. I let out a shaky breath, pulling my gaze away from the window, and glanced down at the iPad on the nightstand. My blood stopped flowing. Just seconds ago, the feeds had been crystal clear. Now, all four screens were pitch black. A red icon blinked in the corner of the screen: Signal Lost. It looked like a slashed, bleeding eye. I shot up from the bed. They were dead. Again. Before, I could convince myself it was a faulty wire or a dropped Wi-Fi signal. But this system was brand new. It ran on its own cellular data. Even if the network crashed, it was supposed to record locally. There was no technical reason for all four to die simultaneously. There was someone in my apartment. Right now. I grabbed my phone. I didn’t even bother grabbing my jacket. I tore open the hotel door and sprinted down the hallway. I practically fell into a taxi on the street, barking my address at the driver. My voice was completely unhinged. The driver took one look at my wild eyes in the rearview mirror, swallowed hard, and gunned the engine. Halfway there, my phone lit up. Sophia. Her voice was thick with panic, the sound of the running shower echoing in the background. “Declan, where did you go? I heard the door slam. Why did you leave?” “The cameras went black!” I screamed into the receiver. “He’s in my apartment! He’s there right now!” “Declan, stop! Wait for me!” she shrieked. “Do not go in there alone!” “I’m not waiting!” I hung up on her. My hands were shaking so violently I dropped my phone twice trying to open my texts. I found Officer Harris’s number and typed frantically: The new cameras died. Someone is inside. I am going there now. Please hurry. The taxi screeched to a halt outside my building. I threw a twenty-dollar bill at the front seat and bolted. The elevator was stuck on the penthouse floor. I couldn’t wait. I shoved open the fire door and started sprinting up the twelve flights of stairs. Halfway up, the echoing silence of the stairwell began to mess with my head. I kept hearing footsteps behind me, but every time I whipped around, there was nothing but the sickly green glow of the EXIT signs. My lungs burned. My legs felt like lead. By the time I hit the twelfth-floor landing, I was gasping for air, leaning heavily against the wall to keep from collapsing. I fumbled for my keys. They slipped from my sweaty fingers, hitting the concrete floor with a deafening clang. I snatched them up, my hands trembling as I slid the key into the deadbolt. The moment the lock clicked, it hit me. The smell of Tom Ford Ombré Leather. My cologne. Drifting out from under the door. I took a deep breath and kicked the door open. The living room lights were on. Bathed in the warm glow of my floor lamp, a man was sitting on my expensive leather sofa. One leg was casually crossed over the other. He was lounging comfortably, scrolling through my iPad. He had the exact same textured fade I had just gotten at the barber last week. Hearing the door crash open, he tapped the screen off and slowly, lazily looked up. I froze. The breath was knocked out of my lungs. The face staring back at me… was my own.

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I spent seven years as Blake Warner’s dirty little secret. The day his company finally went public, he walked onto the trading floor holding another woman’s hand. “Gwen, I have to take care of her,” he told me, his voice excruciatingly calm. “You’re tough. You’ve always been a survivor. You’ll make it without me. But her? She only has me.” Adult breakups are supposed to be clean. Civil. Dignified. But when my car finally pulled up to the driveway of the old family estate I hadn’t seen in years, a familiar face was waiting under the porch light. “Finally decided to come home?” Chase stood there, his voice a cool breeze, though the grease-stained paper bag of warm cinnamon-sugar donuts he shoved into my hands was piping hot. He leaned against the wooden railing, his eyes burning through the dark. “I’ve been waiting ten damn years for you.” 1 The night before the IPO, Blake was relentless. He kept me awake until the sky turned a bruised, pre-dawn purple, pulling me into different positions on the mattress, desperate and feverish. I was so exhausted I could barely move. I kicked him weakly beneath the sheets. “Tomorrow is your big day, not your execution. If you keep tearing me apart like this, how are we supposed to survive the rest of our lives?” He had just stepped out of the bathroom, damp hair dripping water onto his shoulders. “What if I said we weren’t going to survive it? Would you make a scene?” “It’s been seven years, Blake…” I propped myself up on my elbows, a sudden chill settling in my chest. “Are you out of your mind?” Then the reality of his words clicked, and my breath caught. “Is there someone else?” If this had happened seven years ago, I would have thrown myself at him, screaming, crying, begging for an explanation. But I was twenty-seven now. The fire had been replaced by a slow, freezing numbness. I reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand and lit one. “What about the engagement party we planned? The deposit is already paid.” Blake reached down and took the cigarette from my fingers. “Don’t start smoking. You know I hate it.” I watched him put the same cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. A sharp, suffocating ache bloomed behind my eyes. “Who is she, Blake? Who is she?” Was she beautiful? Was her family wealthy enough to buy him the respect he had always craved? What did she have that gave her the right to steal the heart I had spent nearly a decade keeping alive? A tear slipped down my cheek, betraying my forced composure. Blake frowned, looking more annoyed than remorseful. “Gwen, we’re adults here. Let’s not do the whole hysterical, tragic scene, okay?” Blake had never been good at comforting me. In the beginning, when I actually let myself show anger, he would always wear this exact expression—this strained, patronizing tolerance. I hated it. So, I changed. Over the years, he used to brag to his friends about me. My Gwen is so good, he’d say. She doesn’t throw tantrums or act needy like other girls. But sitting on that bed, the truth finally tasted like ash. Other girls threw tantrums because they had the security of being loved. They had safety nets. I was “good” because I had nothing else to lose. My reward for seven years of silence was being erased entirely, without so much as a proper goodbye. I wiped my face, pulled myself out of bed, and began putting on my clothes. Blake reached out and grabbed my wrist. I froze. The dim yellow light of the bedside lamp cast long, ugly shadows across his face, making him look like a stranger. “It’s barely four in the morning. Just wait. It’s not safe to call an Uber right now.” His words were like a needle, piercing the very last pocket of softness left in my heart. I felt like a clown. I wrenched my hand away, but he grabbed me again, his patience finally snapping. “Have you had enough? If you hadn’t changed so much, do you think I ever would have looked at someone else? Gwen, why can’t you just reflect on your own behavior for once?” I almost laughed out loud. He was the one who cheated. He was the one who broke every promise we ever made. Yet here he was, standing on his moral high ground, blaming me for turning into the woman his neglect had created. The warmth inside me died. The tears stopped. I gently removed his hand from my wrist and quietly whispered, “Okay.” There was no point in arguing. Blake had forgotten that beneath the quiet, compliant shell he had molded, I was still Gwen Taylor. I was born with a vicious temper, and I had never lacked the courage to cut my losses. Seeing me calm down, Blake relaxed back into his usual detached, corporate persona. He began to talk about her. “Her name is Cassidy Wells. She’s not even twenty yet. She’s sheltered, sweet, and incredibly innocent.” “I have to protect her. She wouldn’t survive a day in my world without a proper title. She needs me.” “Gwen, you’re street-smart. You’re a survivor. You’ll make it without me. But her? She only has me.” His voice softened as he spoke her name, his sharp jawline relaxing in a way I hadn’t seen in years. He looked exactly like the twenty-one-year-old Blake Warner who used to lean against his battered motorcycle, holding my hand. Are you sure about this, Gwen? he had asked me back then. There’s no future for a bastard child like me. Later that day, he drove that motorcycle across the city, sold it for forty-eight hundred dollars, and rented our very first studio apartment. We were so poor we could barely afford heat, but we were so full of love that the cold never touched us. At six in the morning, Blake’s phone rang. It was Cassidy. “Blake, I had a nightmare,” her voice whimpered through the receiver, sweet and fragile. “I dreamed you left me.” She sounded so small, so beautifully helpless. Without a single word to me, Blake grabbed his coat and rushed out the door. Ten minutes later, a text popped up on my screen: Take your time packing. I’m taking her to a hotel for a few days. Try not to leave any of your things behind. If she sees them, she’ll cry. I stared at the screen, my hands trembling. Then, another text arrived: If you ever need help, you can still call me. We can still be friends. My fingers tightened around the metal frame of my phone. The next second, I threw it against the drywall with every ounce of strength I had left. Blake, you cruel, arrogant bastard. How terrified were you that I wouldn’t leave? How pathetic did you have to be to offer me the scraps of your “friendship” just to ease your own guilt? 2 We had only lived in this penthouse for two years, but as I packed, I realized how much of my life had accumulated in the corners. Outside, a gray, relentless rain began to beat against the floor-to-ceiling windows. I stood on a chair, reaching up to peel the very last Polaroid off the memory wall. A friend of Blake’s had taken it years ago in a smoky, subterranean pool hall. Blake was leaning against a cue stick, exhaling a plume of gray smoke. I was standing next to him, my face flushed red from coughing. He had laughed, his eyes dark and lazy. Gwen, this isn’t a place for a good girl like you. In response, I had grabbed the hem of his denim jacket, leaned in, and took a drag straight from his cigarette. He had panicked, pinching my nose and forcing me to exhale, laughing as I coughed my lungs out in his arms. Blake, I had gasped through my tears, wherever you are, that’s where I belong. Back then, his mother had just died, and his wealthy father refused to acknowledge his existence. He was working security at that pool hall just to have a cot to sleep on. A regular customer had taken our photo with a Polaroid camera that night. We couldn’t afford dinners or gifts; that cheap piece of film was our only treasure. My thumb brushed over my younger face in the photo. So young. So fierce. So willing to burn alive for him. A twenty-one-year-old Blake had squeezed my hand and looked at that photo. Just wait, Gwen. I’m going to make it to the top. And when I do, I’m going to give you the biggest wedding this city has ever seen. My new phone vibrated in my pocket. A contact from our old circle had sent me a video link. In the video, Blake was standing in a VIP lounge, his arm wrapped tightly around a young girl with straight, dark hair. This is my girlfriend, Cassidy, he announced to the room. Take good care of her, guys. Her face was young, but there was something disturbingly familiar about her. The friend who sent the video texted: What’s going on? Are you guys playing games again? I stared at the screen, then slowly crumpled the Polaroid in my fist and tossed it into the trash bag. No games, I replied. This time, it’s over. Once my suitcases were packed, I didn’t just leave. I hired a high-end demolition crew and paid them triple to strip the penthouse bare. Every custom sofa, every piece of Italian marble furniture, every light fixture I had picked out—I sold them to liquidators for pennies or had them hauled to the dump. I wanted to return the keys to a space that was white, hollow, and blindingly empty. Just like what he had left of my chest. Before I could leave the city, the company’s head accountant, Natalie, called me in tears. There was a discrepancy in the audit before the final SEC filing, and she couldn’t resolve it without me. My abrupt departure had left my former team pulling ninety-hour weeks to clean up the transition. I felt a pang of guilt. They hadn’t done anything wrong. So, I agreed to go in one last time. But when I swiped my card at the glass turnstiles of the corporate headquarters, the biometric scanner buzzed red. Access denied. The young receptionist looked up, her eyes widening when she realized who I was without my heavy makeup and tailored power suits. “Miss Taylor?” she stammered. She escorted me up to the financial department personally. Before she left, she whispered, “Gwen… you look so beautiful today. You look so young with your hair down.” I had naturally soft, youthful features. But for seven years, I had dressed in razor-sharp stilettos and severe, dark blazers to help Blake command respect in boardrooms. My feet ached so constantly I had forgotten what it felt like to walk on flat ground. Natalie was waiting for me with a stack of ledgers. After we corrected the errors, she walked me back down to the lobby. It was five o’clock, and the elevators were pouring out employees. Within seconds, a dozen of my former staff members surrounded me, their faces heavy with genuine regret. “Gwen, it’s not the same without you. The client from the Eastside project threw a fit this morning.” “Exactly. Without you leading the negotiation, we had to slash our margins by 5% just to keep them from walking.” I kept a polite, professional smile on my face, refusing to say a single negative word about Blake. Adults leave quietly. I had bled for this company. I had built its foundation from the ground up. Even if I was being discarded, I didn’t want to burn down the house I had built. During our first few years, Blake’s father had planted corporate spies and hostile executives to sabotage us. I was the one who went to war, taking the hits in public while Blake quietly consolidated power behind the scenes. It took us three years of absolute hell to purge his father’s men from the board. “Is this company really going to collapse just because we lost one Gwen Taylor?” The cold, mocking voice cut through the lobby like a blade. 3 The crowd of employees instantly fell silent, parting to create a wide path. Blake walked through the double doors, his fingers locked tightly with Cassidy’s. He glared at the gathered staff, his eyes dark with displeasure. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think Gwen was the one signing your paychecks.” He raised an eyebrow. “If you miss her so much, feel free to submit your resignations and follow her out.” No one dared to breathe. In this building, Blake’s word was absolute law. He had grown comfortable in his tailored Tom Ford suits, carrying himself with the ruthless authority of a man who answered to no one. But none of them had expected him to kick out the woman who had put him on that throne the moment he arrived. Cassidy tugged gently on his sleeve, her voice dripping with a soft, delicate innocence. “Babe… is this Gwen? She looks… different than I pictured.” Her eyes drifted down to my feet, and she gasped softly. “Oh! We have the same shoes…” Blake’s brow furrowed as he scanned me from head to toe. It wasn’t just the shoes. My camel trench coat and black baseball cap were from the exact same luxury designer. When I had seen that video of Cassidy the night before, I knew she looked familiar. Seeing her in person, the truth was almost laughable. She looked exactly like me at twenty. The same pin-straight, waist-length black hair. The same pale, clean skin. The same wide, quiet eyes. A bitter smile touched my lips. Blake’s taste in women really was incredibly consistent. “Gwen, we agreed there would be no scenes,” Blake said, his voice dropping into a warning register. I let out a soft sigh. “I didn’t seek her out, Blake. Believe whatever you want.” Cassidy bit her lower lip, looking terribly slighted. “But these boots just came out. Blake bought them for me two days ago as a special gift…” I knew exactly what she was trying to imply. But what she didn’t know was that I was a black-card VIP at that boutique. The boots had been delivered to our penthouse before they even hit the retail floor. In fact, Blake had been the one to sign for the package at our door. I kept my mouth shut, waiting to see what he would do. Blake made a sharp, clicking sound with his tongue, his fingers tapping against his thigh—his signature tell when his patience was entirely exhausted. “It’s pathetic, Gwen.” “Why are you doing this to yourself? It’s embarrassing.” “Go to the department store across the street and buy something else. Change out of those clothes.” He gestured to his secretary, who immediately handed him a leather checkbook. He unscrewed his fountain pen, his hand hovering over the paper. “How much do you want?” “Give me a number. Let’s make this a clean break so you don’t have to keep pulling these desperate stunts.” Natalie’s grip on my arm tightened so hard it bruised. My nails dug into the palms of my hands, breaking the skin. My chest tightened, my stomach twisting into a hard, painful knot. “Blake,” I said, my voice rising, vibrating with raw fury. “You think this is about money?” Blake’s expression turned to ice. “You gave me seven years. Think of this as severance. It’s only fair.” Outside of our executive circle, very few people in the company knew the true nature of our relationship. We had kept it hidden in the early years to protect the company from his father’s attacks. Once the danger passed, Blake simply never brought up making us public again. I had spent years imagining the day we would finally share our love with the world—the congratulations, the shared smiles. I never imagined that when the truth finally came out, it would be to paint me as a bitter, money-grubbing ex-employee who refused to let go. Cassidy leaned her entire body against Blake’s shoulder, looking up at him with adoration. Even during our most intimate years, Blake had rarely held my hand in public, always claiming he wanted to keep “professional boundaries.” Yet here they were, Cassidy’s lips practically brushing his ear. “It’s okay, babe. She doesn’t have to change. I understand Gwen. When a man is as incredible as you, any girl would find it hard to let go.” She turned her wide, doe-like eyes to me. “I just feel so incredibly lucky. As long as you love me, Blake, nothing else matters.” Blake’s gaze softened instantly. He leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to her lips, right there in front of his entire staff. Something inside me shattered into fine, sharp dust. The words tasted like copper in my mouth. I watched him stroke Cassidy’s cheek, whispering, “You’re so good to me. I won’t let anyone make you feel small. I’ve got you.” I bit my lip until I tasted blood, using the physical pain to force my voice steady. “Fine. There is one thing I want.” Blake looked down at me, a smug, victorious smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Name your price.” 4 I took two steps forward, reaching out until my fingers wrapped around the silver chain resting against his collarbone. Hanging from it was a hand-carved silver medallion. The year his father had handed him that failing subsidiary, Blake had been terrified of failing. I had spent weeks working twenty-hour days, drinking myself into a stomach ulcer just to land the accounts that saved us. The day we signed the contract, I collapsed and was rushed into emergency surgery for a ruptured ulcer. That was the first time I had ever seen Blake look truly terrified. He had sprinted through the hospital corridors, covered in mud and sweat from a fall on his way there. He looked worse than I did. He had taken my hand, tears streaming down his face. Gwen, does it hurt? I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. He stayed by my bedside for four days straight. As the anesthesia wore off, I kept calling his name in my sleep. Every single time I called out, he answered. He didn’t sleep; he barely drank water. When I finally woke up, his voice was completely gone, his throat raw. The nurse had smiled at me. While you were asleep, he never stopped talking to you. He kept telling you not to be afraid, that he was right here. He must love you very much. He did love me. Once. The day I was discharged, he disappeared for twelve hours. When he came back, his knees and forehead were scraped and bleeding. But he had smiled like a fool, holding out two matching, hand-carved silver medallions of Saint Jude, the patron of lost causes. He had hiked up a steep, rocky trail to a remote mountain monastery to get them blessed. They say if your lover places this around your neck, you’ll belong to each other for a lifetime, he had whispered, his hands shaking as he clasped the silver chain around my neck. Gwen, with this, we’ll never be lost. A lifetime. It turned out a lifetime only lasted seven years. The tears finally spilled over my lashes, hot and fast, as I looked Blake dead in the eyes. I watched the smugness in his expression slowly turn into a cold, hollow panic. “I want this, Blake,” I whispered. “Seven years of my life, paid in full with this.” I yanked the chain with everything I had. He let out a sharp gasp of pain as the metal clasp snapped. Originally, the medallion had been on a simple, sturdy cord. But as Blake grew wealthier, he had insisted on replacing it with a heavy gold chain. More expensive. But far more fragile. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my own matching silver medallion. Seeing them both in my hands, Blake reached out, his voice suddenly desperate. “Gwen, don’t—” But it was too late. I threw both silver medallions onto the polished marble floor with all my strength. The silver struck the stone with a sharp, echoing clatter, rolling into the dark corners of the lobby. A broken mirror can never be made whole. “Goodbye, Blake.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “456754”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel