Author: Momo Chan

1 I never expected to run into my wife of three years on the set of a reality dating show. Serena Ross was an A-list darling with two Best Actress statuettes sitting on her mantel and enough star power to shut down LAX whenever she landed. I, on the other hand, was an uncredited working actor whose greatest career milestone was handing a poisoned goblet to an A-list lead in a period drama two seasons ago. Our marriage was an arrangement brokered by our grandmothers before mine passed away. We had a private ceremony with fewer than ten people, signed the papers, and drew up a clear set of rules: keep it off the public radar, never interfere with each other’s careers, play the dutiful couple at family holiday dinners, and live completely separate lives the moment the front door closed. Over the last three years, the number of nights we spent under the same roof barely required two hands to count. So when she walked through the doors of The Coastline Retreat—a beachfront villa in Malibu rigged with forty live-streaming cameras—my fingers froze around my glass of water, nearly letting it shatter against the hardwood. Serena stopped dead in her tracks. The sleek black pen in her hand gave a sharp, involuntary click. We ended up standing at the far end of the emergency stairwell during the pre-show break, staring at each other like two thieves caught with their hands in the same safe. “What are you doing here?” I kept my voice low. She looked at me, her sharp hazel eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here?” “One of the male leads threw his back out this morning,” I said. “The casting director called me seven times begging for a last-minute fill-in.” “My agency booked this as part of a promotional rollout.” Silence settled between us, heavy and suffocating. After half a minute, Serena asked, “Did production pair you up with anyone before you walked in?” I shook my head. “Did they pair you?” “They want a showmance between me and Mason Price.” Mason Price. The twenty-two-year-old pop prodigy turned screen heartthrob. Flawless skin, tailored streetwear, and an army of rabid teenage fans. Just last month, I worked as his scene partner and body double on a streaming series. He took fourteen takes to get through a single crying scene, and when the show aired, the edit used the back of my head and my trembling hands for the close-ups. Twitter spent three days praising his ‘shattered, raw vulnerability.’ In this town, building your brand on someone else’s uncredited labor wasn’t an outrage; it was just Tuesday. I let out a dry, quiet laugh. “You’re Serena Ross. Since when does your agency dictate who you date on camera?” She pressed two fingers against the bridge of her nose. “The network and the studio finalized the press package before I even saw the schedule.” “You didn’t want to come?” “I’ve turned down every unscripted show for five years.” “Then why are you standing in this stairwell?” She looked past the heavy fire door toward the hallway, where production assistants were calling for touch-ups. “My father asked me to do it. He said the Price family did ours a massive favor back in the day, and Mason’s team needed an A-list co-star to cement his transition into serious film.” I didn’t answer. The Ross family had once owed my grandmother a debt, too. If they hadn’t, my grandmother would never have pushed me into this hollow marriage in the first place. Serena caught my eye. “It’s just television, Jesse. It’s business.” “I know the drill. Scripted chemistry.” She paused, studying my face. “What about you? Are you planning on actually looking for someone here?” I almost laughed. “Relax. I’m seat-filler. I smile, stay out of the way, collect my day rate, and walk out of here as single as I arrived.” Serena looked at me for two long seconds. “Single?” I lifted my left hand, lightly tapping the empty space on my ring finger. “To the rest of the world, isn’t that what we are?” The producer’s voice outside grew frantic, shouting for the talent. I pushed the stairwell door open first. Right by the craft services table stood Mason Price, holding a ceramic mug of hot tea. He glanced at me, then at Serena stepping out right behind me, his boyish face breaking into an easy, calculated smile. “Hey, Jesse,” Mason said smoothly. “You and Serena know each other?” Serena fell in beside him, her expression perfectly composed. “We worked on a set together once.” Mason beamed. “Oh, got it. For a second there, I thought you two were close.” I looked at the steam curling off his mug. “Not at all.” Serena’s gaze flicked to my face, but I didn’t look back. 2 The eight of us—four men, four women—sat on the low linen couches in the living room facing the panoramic ocean view. The main cameras zeroed in on Serena and Mason immediately. Production had seated them side by side, with nothing between them but a single throw pillow. I was shoved onto the furthest armchair by the potted ficus, barely in the wide shot. When the introduction reached me, I gave a brief nod to the lens. “I’m Jesse Cole. Working actor.” Across from us, the live chat monitor flickered with viewer comments: Serena Ross is actually here?! Mason and Serena look insanely gorgeous together. Who is Jesse Cole? He played the guard who died in episode three, right? Looks familiar, but totally forgettable. I picked up a grape from the fruit platter and chewed it slowly. The comments weren’t wrong about my status, even if they had no idea the associate producer had practically begged on his knees for me to save their production schedule. For the first round of anonymous ‘First Impression’ votes, I tossed my vote to Nora Finch, an indie folk singer sitting quietly across the room with her guitar case leaning against her leg. When the board lit up, I had zero votes. All three other male contestants had voted for Serena. Serena’s vote was locked on Mason. The host turned toward my corner with a sympathetic, made-for-TV smile. “Jesse, walking away with zero votes in the first round… feeling a little discouraged?” I dropped the grape skin into a napkin. “Not really. I’m used to it.” Mason leaned over and lightly tapped Hayley Evans, an influencer-turned-panelist sitting beside him. “Don’t put him on the spot like that. Jesse’s a contestant, too.” The line sounded defensive, but the patronizing undertone drove the nail straight into the coffin. The showrunner immediately seized the narrative, announcing over the house mic that since Jesse was ‘unattached,’ he would serve as tonight’s kitchen assistant to help prep the welcome dinner. The live chat scrolled at lightning speed: He really does give off house-help energy. Why did they even cast a D-lister with this lineup? I tossed the napkin into the wastebasket. Mason picked up the printed dinner menu and walked it over to my chair, offering a contrite smile. “Jesse, do you mind handling the prep? I sprained my wrist during tour rehearsals last week.” I took the paper from his hand. “Sure.” Hayley giggled from the couch. “Looks like we’re relying on Jesse tonight.” Serena’s brow pulled tight. “The schedule said dinner prep is a group activity. It’s not meant for one person.” Mason immediately ducked his head, looking small. “I just thought… since Jesse does so much period drama work, he’s probably really good at taking care of people.” I looked up from the menu, meeting his wide, innocent eyes. “Playing an extra in an apron doesn’t mean I was born to wear one in real life.” 3 In the kitchen, I stood by the deep stainless sink, scaling a whole sea bass. Mason hovered around the marble island, holding a sprig of fresh mint over a serving platter. “Serena, does this look better on the rim or tucked under the lemon slice?” “Either is fine,” Serena said without looking up from the wine glasses she was setting out. “I think our presentation should look clean,” Mason said, leaning slightly into her space. The camera mounted on the overhead track glided forward to catch the intimacy. I kept my head down, the rhythmic scrape of the scaler against fish skin the only sound coming from my station. Hayley leaned against the double refrigerator, sipping seltzer. “You’re pretty fast with that knife, Jesse. Do you practice that on set?” “I practiced it growing up,” I said. “My grandmother taught me.” Mason chimed in from the island, his tone dripping with faux wonder. “Your family must be super ordinary, right? Someone on the last crew told me you still take the subway home after wrapping late.” I laid the cleaned fish onto a prep tray. “Taking public transit isn’t a crime.” He blinked rapidly, all wide-eyed innocence. “Oh, no! I just mean you’re so… down-to-earth.” Nora Finch walked over, placing a bowl of washed scallions on my cutting board. She turned slightly, looking straight at Mason. “‘Down-to-earth’ isn’t a polite synonym for poor, Mason.” Mason’s smile stiffened. Hayley tried to laugh it off. “Nora’s always so protective.” “I just have a low tolerance for performative stupidity,” Nora said evenly, not bothering to look at Hayley. Mason lowered his head, biting his lip. “I’m sorry. I guess I phrased that wrong.” He set the mint down and turned to grab a ceramic bowl from the counter behind me. As he squeezed past, his elbow caught the edge of a large prep bowl filled with chili oil and dark soy marinade. The heavy bowl tipped. A wave of red, oily sauce splashed straight across my chest. My crisp white shirt was ruined in a second, soaked from collar to waistband in greasy crimson. The camera zoomed in instantly. Hayley’s first reaction was a dry laugh. “Well, that color certainly makes a statement.” Serena set the wine glasses down with a sharp clack. “Cut the feed.” The red tally lights on the cameras stayed solid. The director wasn’t stopping anything. Mason grabbed a fistful of paper towels and rushed forward, frantically dabbing at my chest. The rough paper only ground the chili grease deeper into the cotton fibers, spreading the stain. I reached out and caught him by the left wrist, gripping it firmly. “Stop touching me.” Mason’s eyes welled with tears instantly. “I was just trying to help…” Serena crossed the kitchen in three quick strides, pulling off her oversized black designer blazer and holding it out to me. “Take this. Go change.” I didn’t reach for it. Mason pulled his arm back, rubbing his wrist and speaking in a small, trembling voice. “Serena, please don’t be mad at Jesse. He’s just upset about his shirt.” I looked directly at Serena. “What do you think?” She hesitated, her eyes flickering toward the ceiling cameras before settling back on my ruined clothes. “Just… go take care of the shirt first.” I turned without another word and walked down the hallway toward the guest suites. As I passed the living room monitor, the chat was a blur of outrage: Jesse has zero anger management. Mason was literally crying while apologizing! Serena offering her jacket was so classy. What is his problem? In the bathroom, I stripped the shirt off and turned the faucet on high. The hot water hit the cotton, turning the chili oil into a smear of pale orange, impossible to wash out. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, an uninvited memory surfaced. Three years ago, standing on the steps of the county courthouse, Serena had worn a tailored white shirt, too. She had looked at me with the polite detachment of a corporate executive signing a lease. “Mr. Cole, this marriage is solely to satisfy our families’ wishes. If you meet someone you genuinely care for, I will never stand in your way.” And I had looked back at her with the same sterile courtesy. “The same applies to you, Ms. Ross.” A light knock sounded on the bathroom door. “Jesse?” Nora’s voice came through the wood. “The wardrobe department didn’t pack extra shirts for the male guests. I had my assistant bring an extra hoodie from my van. It’s outside the door.” I cracked the door open an inch. On the floor sat a clean grey zip-up hoodie with the tags still on. “Thanks,” I said. Nora stood two paces back, keeping her eyes respectfully averted. “There’s a stationary camera mounted above the spice rack. The lens angle caught his elbow. He aimed for the bowl.” I looked at her through the gap. “Why are you telling me this?” “Because,” Nora said quietly, “I hate watching people get used as stepping stones.” 4 When I walked back out into the hall wearing the grey hoodie, Serena was standing near the corridor archway. Her black blazer had already been returned by a production assistant, draped uselessly over her arm. She took in the grey fleece on my shoulders. “Whose is that?” “Nora’s.” Her brow twitched. “You two are close enough to share clothes?” I couldn’t help a dry chuckle. “Serena, this is a dating show. That’s the premise.” She looked at me, her voice dropping. “I know what show this is.” “Then don’t ask questions you don’t actually care about.” She stepped forward, blocking my path to the kitchen. “Earlier… I wasn’t taking his side.” “You handed me a jacket,” I said. “Very generous.” “The cameras were on us.” “Right. And you didn’t want your agency’s golden boy looking bad on a live feed.” She went silent. I nodded slowly. “Got it.” She reached out, her fingers brushing the sleeve of my hoodie, but I took an immediate step back, out of reach. “Don’t,” I said coldly. “If the cameras catch you touching the extra, you’ll have a hard time explaining it to your father.” When I stepped back into the kitchen, Mason was sitting on a high stool near the counter, sniffing softly. Serena’s black blazer was now draped over his shoulders. The floor director patted Mason’s shoulder, looking over at me. “Mason’s pretty shaken up, Jesse. He’s young. Let’s try to show some mutual understanding here.” I tied a clean canvas apron around my waist. “He ruins my clothes, and I’m the one who needs to show understanding?” Mason lifted his tear-streaked face. “I said I was sorry…” Hayley chimed in from the doorway. “It’s just a shirt, Jesse. There’s no need to make a federal case out of an accident.” I looked straight at Hayley. “How about I dump a bowl of hot oil down your silk blouse, tell you I’m sorry, and we call it even?” The director frowned, tapping his headset. “We’re live, people. Watch the tone.” I picked up the chef’s knife. “Are we finishing dinner, or are we staging another scene?” Nora walked past Hayley and grabbed a cutting board. “I’ll help you prep the sides.” Mason suddenly cleared his throat, putting a hand over his mouth. “The fish smell… it’s making me a little nauseous.” The director looked at Serena, waiting for her to intervene. Before she could open her mouth, I drove the blade cleanly through the fish spine, letting the heavy thud echo off the stainless steel. “The fish is the main course for eight people,” I said without looking up. “If his stomach is too delicate, the pantry has instant oatmeal.” Mason bit his lower lip, looking devastated. “Jesse… are you still mad at me?” “Yes,” I said. He froze, clearly not expecting anyone to bypass the polite showbiz script on camera. “I don’t like people ruining my things,” I said, my voice completely level. “And I like it even less when they sit at the table crying like they’re the ones who got burned.” Mason reached out with a trembling hand, grabbing the edge of Serena’s sleeve. “Serena, please… don’t let him fight. It’s all my fault.” As he tugged her sleeve, the oversized blazer shifted, sliding down his arm to expose a faint red line across his wrist. The director pounced like he’d found gold. “Mason, is your wrist hurt? Camera two, get a close-up on that.” Mason tried to pull his sleeve down, looking brave. “It’s fine. It’s just… Jesse grabbed me a little hard earlier.” Hayley gasped. “You actually bruised him?” Nora set her colander down in the sink with a sharp clatter. “The red mark is on his right wrist. Jesse caught his left wrist when he knocked the bowl over. There are three overhead lenses in this room that can replay the footage right now.” Mason’s face went dead white. A fresh wave of tears spilled over his eyelashes. “I… I got confused. I was just so panicked…” Serena finally spoke, her voice cutting through the room like ice. “Mason. Enough.” He clamped his mouth shut. I lowered the seasoned fish into the smoking pan, the roar of hot oil filling the silence with a rich, savory aroma. Serena walked over to the range, stepping into my peripheral vision. “Let me take the pan.” I didn’t move an inch. “No need.” She paused, her voice low. “The oil is spitting.” “Ms. Ross,” I said, keeping my eyes on the searing skin, “I’ve spent twelve-hour days frying prop chicken on period sets. I know how hot grease works.” 5 Dinner was served at eight. The pan-seared sea bass was undeniably the centerpiece of the table. Mason didn’t touch it, sitting quietly in his seat while sipping a bowl of plain rice soup. Toward the end of the meal, the director prompted everyone to share their impression of their designated partners. When the microphone reached Serena, she kept her gaze neutral. “Mason is very dedicated to his craft.” “And?” the director prodded, angling for romance. Serena paused, her eyes drifting across the table toward my side of the layout. “And Jesse is an exceptional cook.” The dining room went dead quiet. Mason’s porcelain spoon hit the rim of his bowl with a sharp clink. My hand, lifting a forkful of greens, paused for a fraction of a second before continuing. The director forced a laugh to smooth over the awkwardness. “Well! Looks like Jesse’s culinary skills made a serious impression on our leading lady tonight.” Hayley smirked, leaning across the table. “Does that mean Serena might consider giving Jesse her vote next round?” Mason lowered his head, coughing faintly into a napkin. I picked a fish bone from my plate and set it neatly on the edge of the dish. “Let’s not. I’d rather not spend tomorrow getting crucified by the internet.” Right on cue, the living room monitor refreshed its display, pulling in live social media metrics. The top trending entertainment tags lit up the screen: #1 Mason Price Chili Spill #2 Jesse Cole Wrist Footage #3 Nora Finch Calls Out the BS The color drained entirely from Mason’s face. 6 The next morning, production announced a sudden rule change: each of the four male contestants had to prepare a signature breakfast plate. The female contestants would do a blind taste test, and the man with the most votes would earn priority booking for tonight’s private date. I was in the dressing room finishing a cup of black coffee when Mason caught me in front of the vanity mirrors. His PR team had already been working overtime. He showed me his phone screen with a smug little tilt of his chin. The official press release claimed Mason had suffered an accidental slip in the kitchen, Jesse had reacted with understandable emotion resulting in a minor scratch, and both parties had reached a warm, professional reconciliation behind the scenes. I looked at the text and smiled faintly. “Who reconciled with you?” He locked his phone, dropping his boyish charm. “We still have four days of shooting, Jesse. Wouldn’t it be better for everyone if we kept things civilized?” “Civilized doesn’t mean letting you use my back as a floor mat.” Mason set his powder puff down, lowering his voice so only the two of us could hear. “You’ve been grinding in this industry for years. You should know how this game works. Some people have capital behind them, and some people don’t. Serena’s agency is protecting me. Production is protecting me. Why make yourself look like an angry, bitter nobody?” I looked at his flawless, airbrushed reflection in the mirror. “Are you really that sure Serena is going to protect you forever?” He let out a soft laugh. “Right now? She’s standing on my side.” The dressing room door swung open. Serena stood in the doorway, her expression dark and unreadable. Mason’s demeanor shifted in a split second, his shoulders caving in. “Serena… I was just trying to apologize to Jesse again.” Serena looked at me. “Jesse, give us a minute. I need to speak to Mason.” “Gladly,” I said, stepping past her into the hallway. Before the heavy door clicked shut behind me, I heard Mason’s soft, fragile whine: “Serena, my wrist really aches today…” For the challenge, I made a slow-simmered seafood and ginger rice porridge, using the exact broth reduction my grandmother spent decades perfecting. When the blind tastings concluded, Serena chose my bowl. Nora chose mine, too. Mason’s sweet pumpkin puree received a single vote from Hayley. The host’s smile stiffened as he revealed the cards. “Serena, are you sure about this dish? You didn’t prefer the sweet puree?” “This had the best depth of flavor,” Serena said simply. Mason’s spoon hovered in mid-air. Hayley chimed in with an exaggerated pout. “I thought you said Mason had a delicate stomach, Serena?” Serena didn’t blink. “It’s a blind tasting. I voted for the cooking.” When my name was revealed as the winner of the date priority, Mason’s smile cracked at the seams. The host turned to me. “Jesse, as the winner of the morning challenge, you get to choose—” “Ah…” Mason suddenly slumped back in his chair, pressing both hands hard against his abdomen, his breathing shallow. Serena turned immediately. “What’s wrong?” “My stomach…” Mason gasped, leaning his weight heavily against the table. “I didn’t eat anything last night… I think it’s flaring up.” The crew instantly swarmed the table. Mason reached out blindly, his fingers curling tight around the cuff of Serena’s sweater. “Serena… can you please come to the urgent care clinic with me? I’m scared of getting a shot alone.” Serena looked toward the floor manager. “I’ll ride in the transport van with him.” The director turned to me, offering a placating shrug. “Jesse, we’ll hold your date voucher for later. Medical emergencies take precedence.” “Fine by me,” I said. As two production assistants helped Mason out of his chair, he brushed past my shoulder. Leaning in, his voice was a razor-thin whisper meant only for my ear: “Win all you want, Jesse. You still end up alone.” Nora walked up beside me as the van pulled away from the driveway. “You’re really just going to let that slide?” “Does arguing change anything?” I asked. She looked at the empty gravel road. “I can help you with the afternoon chore instead.” The maintenance task for the un-paired guests was restoring the beach house’s weathered wooden welcome sign. I crouched in the gravel courtyard with a bucket of white and marine-blue weather paint, while Nora held the heavy redwood plank steady on two sawhorses. She watched my brushwork—the clean, even strokes and the way I mixed the tint. “You’ve done professional restoration before?” “Picked it up hanging around the scenic art department between takes,” I said. “Figures.” “Figures what?” “Yesterday the fish, today the lacquer. None of it looks like something a person just ‘picks up’ for a hobby.” I mixed a dollop of deep blue into the base white. “When you’re an extra trying to stay alive in this town, you learn how to do all the work nobody else wants to get their hands dirty doing.” Nora was quiet for a long moment. “You shouldn’t be spending your life in the background, Jesse.” My phone buzzed against my thigh. I pulled it out. An unsaved number had sent a single text: The elder Mrs. Price wants to see you regarding the outstanding Cole family ledgers. I read the screen once, held my thumb down, and hit delete. Nora glanced over. “Everything okay?” I slid the phone back into my pocket. “Just spam.” Around four in the afternoon, the production van returned. Mason stepped out wearing a fresh white linen shirt, his skin painted with a delicate, pale ‘convalescent’ makeup palette. He walked straight over to the courtyard holding an insulated bakery box, offering it to me with both hands. “Jesse, I had Serena stop by that French patisserie on the way back from the clinic. I felt terrible about ruining your morning date voucher.” Serena stood a few paces behind him, watching us in silence. I didn’t reach for the box. “You had her buy it?” Mason nodded eagerly. “She picked them out herself. She said you probably needed something sweet after working in the sun all day.” I looked past him to Serena. Her jaw tightened slightly. “Mason mentioned you’d had a long afternoon.” “I don’t eat peanuts,” I said flatly. Mason blinked, looking confused. “Oh, these aren’t peanut. They’re roasted hazelnut tarts.” “I don’t eat tree nuts either,” I said. Serena stared at the bakery box, her throat moving as she swallowed. When she spoke, her voice was raspy. “You’re allergic to tree nuts?” I let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Ms. Ross, we’ve known each other for three years.” The camera operator standing six feet away instantly lowered his lens by several inches, looking panicked, as if he’d just captured something that could get him fired on the spot. Mason’s eyes darted between the two of us. “Three years? I thought you guys only crossed paths on that one guest spot?” Serena didn’t say a word.

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1 The discharge nurse handed me my paperwork at noon. When I called Garrett, his voice was clipped, background chatter buzzing through the line. “I’m stuck in meetings, Nora. Take an Uber.” By the time the cab pulled up to our townhouse, the surgical anesthesia had long worn off, leaving a dull, rhythmic ache throbbing in my lower abdomen. I dragged myself up the front steps, keyed the door open, and found Garrett standing in the foyer. His finger went to his lips before I could even kick off my flats. He leaned in, his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, his gaze darting toward our master bedroom. “Serena’s dog fell sick last night,” he murmured, keeping his tone carefully hushed. “She was up until dawn at the emergency vet. I was terrified she’d pass out behind the wheel, so I brought her over to get some sleep.” My hand froze on the doorknob. “I went to set up the guest room,” he continued, without missing a beat, “and by the time I walked back out, she’d collapsed across our bed. She was dead to the world, Nora. I didn’t have the heart to wake her.” He turned, opened the linen closet, and shoved a thin fleece throw into my chest. “The guest bed is made. You just had surgery, so you need quiet anyway. Just sleep in there for now. Sorry for the inconvenience.” I stared down at the coarse blanket in my hands. The hospital smell—antiseptic and iodine—was still clinging to my skin. “Garrett. I was discharged an hour ago.” “I know,” he said, a flick of annoyance sharpening his brow. “It was just a minor laparoscopic procedure.” I didn’t take the blanket. I let it drop between us, staring into his eyes. “Serena pulled an all-nighter for a dog, so she gets our master suite. I had my abdomen cut open, and you’re banishing me to the spare room?” He moved in, catching my shoulder to block my path. “Don’t start making a federal case out of this, Nora. Keep your voice down.” I held his gaze in silence. A memory flashed behind my eyes: six months ago, when Serena—his childhood sweetheart, the girl next door he’d known since preschool—was admitted for mild dehydration, Garrett had taken two weeks of leave to sleep in an armchair by her hospital bed. Today, my surgeon had discharged me after cutting tissue from my uterus, and my husband hadn’t even spared the twenty minutes to drive me home. We were both human. We were both unwell. But in Garrett’s world, only one woman was fragile. I gripped the strap of my overnight bag and took two steps down the hall toward the spare room. Garrett’s hand shot out again, clamping over my wrist. “Shh. Walk softer. Don’t wake her.” I looked at his fingers digging into my skin. The sharp, tearing pain in my belly was coming in waves now, cold sweat prickling my forehead. He was terrified of waking Serena. Yet in the five minutes since I’d walked through our front door, not once had he looked at my face and asked, Are you alright? “Let go of me.” “Can you just be a little considerate for once?” Garrett hissed, throwing another anxious glance toward our bedroom door. “She had a panic attack last night. She had nightmares all morning. Just show an ounce of empathy, okay?” The corner of my mouth twitched into a bitter line. “What traumatic ordeal did she suffer, exactly?” “Her heart is too soft. She thought the puppy was dying. She cried all night.” He scrutinized my pale, tight face, his jaw hardening. “And wipe that expression off your face. Serena is sensitive. If she wakes up and sees you glaring like that, she’ll think it’s her fault and spiral.” It was almost comical. I had barely stepped off an operating table, clutching discharge papers that explicitly ordered bed rest for seventy-two hours. But Serena’s delicate sensibilities took precedence; my pain might upset her. Garrett turned and pushed open the guest room door. A wave of biting chill rolled over me. “Why is the radiant floor heating turned off in here?” I asked, teeth chattering. “Serena said the house felt stifling. High heat makes her nauseous.” “The doctor told me I cannot get chilled. It causes uterine spasms.” “There are extra quilts in the closet. Layer up.” He sighed, dismissive. “You’ve always had a strong constitution, Nora. Stop acting so dramatic.” I stood frozen in the doorway, my fingers turning numb. We had been married for three years. In those three years, I had never known Garrett to be mindful of anyone feeling stuffy, or sensitive to noise, or plagued by bad dreams. It turned out he possessed infinite tenderness. It was simply reserved for someone else. I bent down to pull back the duvet. A sudden, violent spasm ripped through my lower abdomen. The pain was so sharp my breath caught in my throat; my knee buckled, and my forehead cracked hard against the corner of the nightstand. A warm, sickening trickle ran down the inside of my thigh, blooming into a dark red stain through my linen pants. Hearing the thud, Garrett stepped into the doorway. But his eyes didn’t look at my head or my trembling hands—his gaze locked onto the floor, his face instantly darkening. “What are you doing?” Before I could speak, he dropped to one knee, inspecting the cream-colored cashmere runner. “Serena picked this rug out last week. She loved it. Don’t ruin it.” He spun around, pulled a handful of tissues from the box on the dresser, and thrust them down at me. “Wipe it up. Don’t let a bloodstain set in. It’ll make her miserable if she sees it.” I stared at the crumpled white paper in his hand. He was telling me to scrub the floor with tissues while blood ran down my leg. Oddly, the physical pain in my stomach faded. When the chest aches deeply enough, the rest of the body simply numbs out. “Garrett,” I whispered, looking up at him. “Do you not see that I’m bleeding?” “Then go to the bathroom and take care of it! What are you standing here for?” He kept his voice low, pure irritation vibrating in his throat. “Do you really have to turn this entire house upside down and make everyone cater to your drama before you’re satisfied?” Clutching the paper, I dragged myself into the adjoining bathroom. The woman in the vanity mirror had bloodless lips, her hair matted to her temples with cold sweat. I stared at her for a long time, then turned the faucet on to drown out the silence. Through the crack in the door, the master bedroom clicked open. Serena stepped out into the hallway, wrapped in Garrett’s oversized silk bathrobe, her bare feet padding against the hardwood. She rubbed her eyes, her voice sweet and raspy with sleep. “Garrett… my throat is so dry. Can I have some water?” Garrett rushed over instantly, his hands gently cradling her bare shoulders. “Why are you walking barefoot? The floor is freezing. If you need water, you just call for me, okay?” Serena glanced over, catching sight of me standing in the bathroom doorway, and startled. “Nora… you’re back! I’m so sorry, I fell into such a deep sleep, I didn’t hear a thing…” Her eyes dropped to the bloodstain on my pants. Her face drained of color, and she shrank back against Garrett’s chest, hiding her face in the crook of his neck. “Garrett… why is there blood? I’m scared…” Garrett’s expression instantly turned venomous as he glared at me. “Nora, what are you standing there for? Go change your clothes! Stop trying to terrify her!” Serena tugged at his sleeve, whispering softly, “Garrett, don’t be mad at Nora… she just had surgery. She must be in so much pain…” Her words were sweet and self-effacing, yet her manicured fingers gripped the lapel of his shirt with absolute possession. Garrett patted her back, his voice melting into pure warmth. “It’s fine. I’m not blaming her. Sit on the sofa, I’ll brew some hot ginger tea with brown sugar to settle your stomach.” When I finished cleaning myself up and walked into the kitchen, the small pot was simmering on the stove. The sweet, spicy aroma filled the room. A foolish, desperate ember of hope flickered in my frozen chest. I stepped closer and reached to turn the burner down. “Did you… make this for me?” Garrett looked up from the counter, his eyes utterly flat. “Serena’s stomach is upset. This cup is for her.” “I just had surgery,” my voice trembled. “I’m still actively bleeding.” “She had a panic attack last night, her system is weak. She needs something warm to settle her nerves first.” He lifted the pot, pouring the steaming amber liquid into a ceramic mug, and carried it straight to the living room, setting it in front of Serena. I stood by the counter, and in that instant, every ounce of fight drained out of me. Serena held the mug between both hands, looking up at me with wide, watery eyes. “Nora… maybe you should drink this instead?” Garrett gently pressed her hands down around the warm cup, his face full of indulgent fondness. “Don’t be silly. She just had surgery; the doctor said to stick to a strict post-op diet, no excess sugar. Your body is delicate. Be good and drink it.” Listening to the soft, rhythmic hum of his coaxing voice, my hands went rigid. I remembered the afternoon we signed our marriage license at City Hall. Garrett had held my cold fingers between his warm palms, looking into my eyes, promising that as long as he lived, he would never let anyone make me feel small. It had only been three years. And now, the man leading the charge to break me was him. The next evening was the Hayes family dinner at his parents’ estate. I hadn’t planned on going. But his mother called that morning, her voice filled with genuine warmth. “Nora, darling, you’ve been married into our family for three years now. Your grandmother’s vintage jade and emerald heirloom bracelet—it’s time I officially pass it on to you.” I wore a high-collared knit dress, carefully concealing the fresh IV bruises on the back of my hands and the post-op allergic hives on my neck. When I walked into the dining room, Serena was already seated beside Garrett. She wore an ivory silk dress, her cheeks glowing with health, without a single trace of the delicate fainting spells from the day before. Mrs. Hayes saw her, and her smile subtly tightened. “Serena? I didn’t realize you were coming tonight.” Serena linked her arm through Garrett’s, smiling sweetly. “Garrett was worried I’d be lonely at home moping around, so he insisted on bringing me along to join the family.” Mrs. Hayes looked at me, a brief flicker of apology in her eyes. “Nora, come sit by me.” She reached for an antique velvet jewelry box on the credenza and clicked it open, revealing the luminous, flawless green bangle resting against cream silk. Before my hand could reach it, Garrett’s arm cut across the table, snapping the lid shut with a crisp click. “Mom,” Garrett said casually, “Nora tends to be clumsy with delicate things. Wearing an heirloom this valuable every day doesn’t make much sense.” Mrs. Hayes blinked, stunned. “This piece was willed specifically to the eldest son’s wife. Why wouldn’t it make sense?” “Serena grew up in this household like family,” Garrett replied smoothly. “Let Serena wear it for a while. That way, Nora won’t accidentally crack it and break your heart.” Without waiting for his mother to respond, he lifted the bracelet and slid it directly over Serena’s slender wrist. Serena gave a performative gasp, pulling back her hand. “Oh, Garrett, I can’t… Nora will be upset with me.” Garrett caught her wrist firmly, pushing the jade further up her arm. “It’s just a piece of jewelry. Why would she be upset?” His mother’s face went rigid with quiet anger. I lowered my head, picking at the roast chicken on my plate, a wave of nausea rolling through my stomach. A moment later, Serena stood up and brought out a platter of chilled desserts from the kitchen. “I made fresh mango mousse tarts!” she announced cheerfully. “Garrett, I remembered mango was always your absolute favorite.” She plated a delicate tart and walked over to my seat, placing it directly in front of me with a wide, radiant smile. “Nora, you must try one. I felt so awful about disturbing you at the house yesterday. Please take this as my peace offering. Let’s not have any hard feelings, okay?” My silverware froze on the plate. “I can’t eat this,” I said quietly. “I have a severe mango allergy.” Garrett glanced up from across the table, his tone dry and dismissive. “It’s one bite, Nora. Just taste it. It’s not going to kill you.” Serena’s eyes rimmed with tears instantly. “Does Nora really hate me that much? You won’t even touch a dessert I spent three hours baking? I just wanted everyone to have a wonderful dinner…” A chorus of relatives at the table immediately chimed in. “Nora, it’s a family celebration. Don’t be a party pooper.” “Exactly, Serena went out of her way. Just take a tiny polite bite to be gracious.” Garrett picked up the dessert plate, walked around the table, and stopped right beside my chair. “Nora. Apologize to Serena.” “Why on earth should I apologize to her?” “She spent all afternoon preparing this for the family, and you’re sitting here throwing a tantrum. Who are you trying to embarrass?” Looking at the yellow glaze of the mango, my chest tightened with rising panic. “Garrett, I will go into anaphylactic shock!” “Are you really pulling this victim card again?” His fingers clamped hard around my chin, forcing my head up. He scooped a small portion onto the spoon and shoved it against my closed lips. “Open your mouth. Eat it.” I clenched my teeth together. Garrett’s grip tightened until the bone bruised, the sweet, sticky cream smearing across my mouth and slipping between my parted lips. “Stop throwing fits, Nora. The elders are watching. Don’t make a scene.” The mango paste hit the back of my tongue. Within three seconds, a fiery, suffocating itch erupted in my throat. Panicking, I shoved his chest with both hands. The heavy dining chair tipped backward, crashing onto the hardwood floor with a deafening thud. Serena let out a theatrical shriek. Garrett looked down at me, his face utterly disgusted. “Nora, have you finally finished your little performance?” I clawed at the edge of the mahogany table, my airway constricting, every breath turning into a shallow, whistling wheeze. Garrett looked down, his eyes cold. “Now you’re playing dead? I am so sick of your endless manipulative games.” Mrs. Hayes gasped, her face pale as she scrambled in her purse for her phone. “Garrett, look at her! Her lips are turning blue! Call 911! Call an ambulance right now!” Garrett cut her off with an impatient wave of his hand. “Mom, stop letting her manipulate you.” He strode forward, seized my arm, and dragged me across the dining room floor toward the foyer. “If you love acting so much, go sit in the car and cool off. Stop humiliating yourself in front of my family.” My knees struck the hard corner of a chair leg on the way out. Through the haze of oxygen deprivation, a feral surge of survival instinct took over; I leaned down and sank my teeth deep into the flesh of Garrett’s hand. He hissed in pain, instinctively letting go. I collapsed against the baseboards, gasping violently for air that wouldn’t reach my lungs. Mrs. Hayes shoved Garrett hard against the wall, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she dialed emergency services. “Garrett, are you out of your mind?! She is in full anaphylaxis!” Several cousins rushed forward to hold Garrett back as he tried to approach me again. I curled into a ball on the cold parquet floor, my vision tunneling into black dots. Above the shouting and the chaos, I heard his voice, flat, disgusted, and distant: “Still acting.” In the emergency room, the doctors pumped me full of epinephrine, IV antihistamines, and steroids, keeping me under observation until four in the morning. Garrett never showed up. Just as the grey dawn began to break over the hospital window, my phone buzzed with an automated bank alert: “Notice: Your authorized user access for card ending in 0678 has been suspended.” A second later, a text from Garrett arrived: “Nora, since you have so much pride, stop using my money.” The next afternoon, having nowhere else to go, I checked into a cheap motel two blocks from the hospital. My phone rang at 3:00 PM. “Is this Nora Lawson? Your father has suffered an acute massive myocardial infarction. He’s in critical condition at Metro General. Get here immediately!” By the time I sprinted through the emergency department sliding doors, my father had already been wheeled into the cath lab. The charge nurse thrust a clipboard with a critical condition notice into my trembling hands. “Ms. Lawson, your father had an extensive anterior wall heart attack complicated by severe aortic tearing. He needs emergency bypass and catheterization right this second!” My fingers shook so badly the pen clattered to the floor. “Then do it! Please, I’m begging you, save him…” The nurse sighed, tapping the financial consent form. “The hospital requires a ten-thousand-dollar emergency surgical deposit cleared within thirty minutes to dispatch the specialized cardiovascular team and prep the surgical kit. You need to clear the deposit at billing immediately. We are literally racing against brain death here.” Ten thousand dollars. I pulled open my banking apps with shaking thumbs. Across my checking and savings accounts, my total balance was less than nine hundred dollars. When Garrett was building his tech startup four years ago and drowning in debt, I had cashed out my entire trust fund and wedding dowry that my father had saved for thirty years. Garrett had wept that night, holding me in our unfurnished studio, swearing he would spend the rest of his life giving me the world. Now, Serena was living in my home. My father was dying on an operating table. And I couldn’t pull together ten grand. The nurse checked her watch. Desperate, I dialed Garrett’s number. It rang for a full minute before he finally picked up. The background was deafening—laughter, pop music, glasses clinking, and a voice shouting: “Serena, make a wish!” My throat felt like it was coated in glass. “Garrett. I need ten thousand dollars. My dad had a massive heart attack. He’s in the ER, they need the surgical deposit right now.” The line went quiet for two seconds. “Nora, are you seriously doing this again?” “Garrett, I swear on my life I am not lying! I am at Metro General ER right now, you can call the desk and verify it yourself!” “Your dad has had stable coronary disease for five years on beta-blockers,” Garrett let out a cold, mocking scoff. “He never had a problem before, but mysteriously he goes into cardiac arrest on the exact night of Serena’s birthday dinner?” The world seemed to tilt on its axis. “Yesterday you faked an allergy attack,” he continued smoothly. “Today you’re using your own father’s health to stage a tragedy? Can’t you come up with some new material?” I gripped the billing slip so tightly the paper tore. “Garrett, I am begging you. Just this once. I will pay you back every cent. Please.” Then, Serena’s soft, honeyed voice drifted through the receiver. “Garrett, we’re about to cut the cake! Why are you still on the phone?” Garrett’s voice instantly shifted, dropping into gentle warmth. “Coming, honey.” Then, turning back to the mic, his tone became ice: “Don’t call back. Don’t ruin her night.” He hung up. Outside, a torrential downpour was hammering the city. Without an umbrella or a coat, I ran into the street, flagged a cab, and gave the address of the waterfront restaurant where Serena’s party was being held. When I shoved open the heavy oak doors of the private dining room, the room was aglow with crystal chandeliers and candlelight. Garrett was standing in the center of the crowd, his fingers carefully fastening a brilliant diamond pendant around Serena’s neck. A colleague laughed loudly, “Damn, Garrett! A fifteen-thousand-dollar custom Harry Winston piece? You really don’t hold back!” I was soaked to the bone, water dripping from my hair onto the plush carpet. When the door slammed, the entire room fell dead silent. The smile on Garrett’s face vanished instantly. “Nora. What the hell are you doing here?” I lunged forward, grabbing his suit sleeve with both hands. “The hospital needs ten thousand dollars! My dad is crashing! That necklace around her neck costs more than his life—just give me the deposit, please, save him!” The room gasped. Serena’s hand fluttered up to the diamond at her throat, her eyes instantly brimming with glistening tears. “Nora… is it because the necklace is too expensive? Did it hurt your feelings? I’ll take it off right now! Garrett, return it, give her the money…” Her fingers fumbled with the clasp, but Garrett reached out and firmly caught her hands. “Don’t touch it.” He turned to me, his eyes filled with bottomless disgust. “Nora, have you lost your mind? You’re making up a story about your father dying just because you’re jealous of a necklace?” I stared at him, my breath hitching. “You honestly believe I would use my own father’s life as a lie?” “You threw yourself on the floor last night at my mother’s house. You’re an exceptional actress.” My phone vibrated violently in my pocket. A red banner alert popped up: Urgent: Patient Arthur Lawson blood pressure dropping. Surgical team standing by deposit clearance. My knees gave out. Pride, dignity, self-respect—everything shattered into dust. I dropped to the floor, grabbing the hem of his trousers. “Garrett, I am begging you on my knees! He is the only family I have left! Please don’t let him die!” He looked down at me, his lips curving into a cold, cruel smirk. “You want the money? Fine.” I snapped my head up, hope flaring in my eyes. Garrett tilted his chin toward Serena. “Get on your knees in front of Serena. Apologize to her. Admit that you faked your allergy yesterday, and admit that you came here tonight just to sabotage her birthday.” Serena waved her hands in frantic distress, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Garrett, please don’t! Nora is just upset, you don’t have to make her do this…” Garrett ignored her, his eyes locked onto me like an executioner. “You want to save your father? Show me how sincere you are.” I stared at the man I had loved for six years. The man who had stood before my father on our wedding day, swearing he would protect me with his life. Now, he was demanding I kneel and humiliate myself before the woman who took my place, just to buy thirty minutes of oxygen for the man who raised me. My forehead hit the marble floor. The icy stone pressed against my brow. “I’m sorry.” Serena covered her mouth, sobbing softly. “Nora… please get up, I can’t take this…” Garrett stood over me, unmoving. “Not sincere enough. Do it properly.” I pressed my forehead against the floor a second time, the impact sending a dull ringing through my skull. My vision blurred with tears and dizziness. I lifted my head, looking up at him. “Can you transfer the money now?” Garrett went silent. Serena took a step back, clutching her chest, weeping softly. “Garrett… my chest hurts so much. I didn’t know Nora would stoop to this for money… is this my fault? Did I do something wrong?” Garrett immediately wrapped an arm around Serena’s waist to steady her, then turned to me with an expression of pure revulsion. “Nora, you really are pathetic.” My entire body went rigid. “What do you mean?” “Your lies were exposed, and you dropped to your knees without missing a beat. People like you—if I give you ten thousand today, you’ll invent another crisis tomorrow.” He turned his head and signaled the two security guards standing by the door. “Escort her out. Don’t let her disturb the guests.” I lunged forward, clawing frantically at his pant leg. “Garrett! You promised! You said you’d give me the money!” He peeled my fingers off his trousers, one by one, with mechanical coldness. “I said you needed to apologize. I never promised to give you a single cent.” The security guards seized my arms, hauling me backward across the floor. I fought them like a wild animal, my voice cracking until it was raw: “He’s going to die! Garrett Hayes, if you don’t give me the money, my father is going to die tonight!” He turned his back, pulling Serena into his chest, not sparing me a single backward glance. “Then that is his fate.” I was thrown down the concrete steps into the pouring rain. My phone tumbled onto the wet sidewalk, its screen lighting up with an incoming call. I scrambled on hands and knees to answer it. The nurse’s voice was breathless and hushed: “Ms. Lawson… your father just went into ventricular fibrillation. The crash team is doing CPR, but… his vitals are bottoming out…” My fingers trembled so violently I could barely hold the device to my ear. “I’m coming right now! I have the money, just keep pumping his chest, please, please wait for me…” Through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the restaurant, I saw Garrett gently wiping the tears from Serena’s cheek. The fifteen-thousand-dollar diamond pendant sparkled under the chandelier light, burning itself into my retinas. Over the line, the background noise turned into chaotic shouting: “Clear! Shocking at 200! Push one milligram of epi!” A few seconds later, the nurse spoke again, her voice dropping into a devastating, solemn quiet. “Ms. Lawson… I’m so sorry. Your father… he isn’t going to make it until you get back.” When I finally reached the ICU, my father was already behind the glass. The resident told me that missing the golden window for intervention had caused irreversible multi-organ failure. He said it gently. But I understood. My father was already gone; the machines were merely humming over a shell. I stood outside the glass, looking at him. Tubes were taped across his face. His eyes were closed. His forearms were mottled with purple needle bruises. When I was little and terrified of shots, he would hide a peppermint candy in his palm to make me smile. When I got married, he emptied out his life savings to ensure I walked into the Hayes family with pride. He had always been terrified that Garrett’s wealthy family would look down on me. And for three years, every time he asked how I was, I smiled and told him Garrett treated me like a queen. I had lied to him for three years. At 3:15 AM, the doctor stepped out of the unit, pulled off his surgical cap, and gave me a quiet nod. My father’s heart had stopped. I stood there in the empty corridor, and it took a very long time before the first tear finally spilled over. My phone started ringing. It was Garrett. I didn’t answer. He called twelve times in a row before I finally swiped the screen. “Where did you run off to in the middle of the night?” Garrett’s voice was annoyed. “Serena is having an emotional breakdown after what you pulled. Come back to the house and apologize to her properly so she can sleep.” “My dad is dead.” The line went completely dead. A few seconds passed before Garrett’s voice returned, lower, slightly hesitant. “…How could it happen so suddenly?” “Didn’t you claim with utter certainty that his illness was just a performance?” He didn’t answer. Another pause stretched between us. Finally, he muttered, “My condolences. On the day of the funeral, I’ll try my best to clear my schedule and drop by.” The day of my father’s burial, the sky opened up in a torrential downpour. I stood by the gates of the memorial park, clutching the wooden urn against my chest, waiting in the freezing rain for three hours. Garrett never showed. At 2:00 PM, Serena posted a video on Instagram. Garrett had rented out an entire seaside amusement pier for her. In the video, they were riding the illuminated carousel together; Serena leaned her head against his shoulder, laughing, while Garrett held a giant cloud of pink cotton candy for her. Her caption read: [Thank you for always dropping everything to make sure I’m smiling.] Staring at the screen, my fingers went completely numb in the cold rain. So that was his version of trying his best to clear his schedule. He was clearing his schedule to buy cotton candy for Serena. I locked my phone, put it away, and went back to the townhouse one last time to cut every remaining thread between us. The moment I pushed open the front door, I saw Serena sitting on the living room sofa, a white Samoyed curled at her feet. In the dog’s velvet bed lay a pile of shredded paper. I walked over. My breath caught in my throat. It was the original landscape painting my father had spent months sourcing through an art curator friend as a wedding gift. Before he died, my dad had smiled and said, “When you and Garrett have your first baby, hang this in the nursery.” Now, it was torn into ragged strips, covered in dog saliva and mud. “Who did this?” Serena looked up, her expression entirely innocent. “The puppy is still little, he doesn’t know any better… he must have pawed through the credenza and pulled it out to play.” Garrett walked down the stairs, saw the look on my face, and sighed with heavy exhaustion. “It’s just an old painting, Nora. It’s ruined, so what? I’ll buy you a new one from an art gallery tomorrow.” I looked up at him. “That was my father’s dying gift to me.” “Your father is already gone!” Garrett snapped. “Do you really need to make a scene over a piece of paper?” Serena gathered the dog into her arms, whispering softly, “Nora… please lower your voice. You’re scaring the puppy. He gets anxious so easily…” I didn’t say another word. I turned, walked into the master bedroom, and began throwing my clothes into an open suitcase. Garrett leaned against the doorframe, watching me with crossed arms. “Packing your bags? You’re playing the runaway wife routine again?” “I’m moving out.” “If you want to move, wait a few days,” Garrett said casually. “Serena is staying here for the week. You dragging a rolling suitcase up and down the stairs will disturb her rest.” The sweater in my hands dropped to the floor. At that moment, Serena let out a piercing scream from the hallway. “Oh my God! My diamond ring! It’s gone!” She clutched her hands to her chest, sobbing hysterically. “It was in my coat pocket ten minutes ago… that was the only heirloom my mother left me before she passed!” Garrett’s face hardened instantly. He turned on me, his eyes sharp with suspicion. “Nora. Open your suitcase. Let me search it.” I stood still. “I didn’t touch her ring.” “You’re completely unstable right now. Who knows what you’d do out of spite?” Without waiting for permission, he kicked my suitcase over. The zipper burst. Clothes, my father’s old photo albums, and personal documents spilled across the hardwood floor. Tucked inside a folder, my father’s official death certificate fluttered out. Garrett took a step forward, his heavy dress shoe landing squarely on the paper, grinding the heel over my father’s printed name. I stared down at the dirty footprint over my dad’s name. And suddenly, I laughed. I laughed so hard tears spilled down my cheeks. Garrett frowned, unsettled. “What the hell are you laughing at?” I bent down, lifted the death certificate, and gently wiped the dust from my father’s name with my sleeve. “I’m laughing at myself,” I whispered. “For spending three years being the biggest, most pathetic joke on earth.” I reached into my handbag, pulled out the signed divorce decree, and tossed it onto the console table between us. “Sign it.” Garrett’s face changed. “You’re divorcing me over these petty, insignificant squabbles?” “Yes. I want a divorce.” “Nora, think very carefully,” he sneered, though a flicker of unease crossed his eyes. “Without me, without the Hayes family, where do you think you can go? Who is going to take care of you?” I reached up, twisted the platinum wedding band off my finger, and threw it at his feet. The ring bounced twice on the hardwood, rolling to a stop right beside the scuff mark where he had stepped on my father’s name. “Garrett,” I said softly, looking him dead in the eye. “I hope you never, ever regret what you did today.” I grabbed the handle of my broken suitcase and walked out the front door. He shouted my name from the porch. I never looked back. At midnight, I boarded a slow, long-distance train heading north into the mountains. As the city lights faded into the black horizon, I held my father’s framed portrait against my chest, and finally, quietly, let the tears fall.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “557579”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 The day I tried on my bespoke Vera Wang couture bridal gown, Garrett walked out on me. It took nothing more than a single Instagram story from his first love, posted from the arrivals lounge at JFK: The wind in this city is so cold. I wish someone was here to hold me. Garrett had grabbed his car keys off the marble console table, his voice coated in that thin, dismissive impatience he had perfected over the years. “Amber’s having another depressive relapse. If she’s left alone at the airport in that state, something terrible could happen.” He didn’t even look at me as he shoved his phone into his pocket. “Just pick whichever dress you want. Honestly, on you, they all look pretty much the same.” The bridal consultant stood beside me, her hands frozen mid-air, holding the cathedral-length lace veil as the heavy glass door clicked shut behind him. An uncomfortable flush crept up her neck. “Ma’am… would you like to try on the second look?” If this had been a year ago—or even three months ago—I would have swallowed my pride, begged him to stay, or spent the rest of the afternoon weeping in the dressing room. Instead, I reached back, unzipped the hundred-thousand-dollar silk-satin gown with steady fingers, and stepped out of it. “No,” I said quietly. “Cancel the order. All of it.” Garrett had spent years believing that my love for him was an unconditional constant—that I had stripped myself of every ounce of dignity just to remain in his orbit, and that no matter how cruelly he tested the perimeter, I would never leave. What he didn’t know was that in the back of my closet, tucked beneath layers of winter coats, sat a vintage brass box containing exactly one hundred letters—seven years of unspoken, one-sided devotion. Over the past three months, ever since Amber returned to New York, I made a silent vow: every time he abandoned me to go running to her, I would burn one letter. Ten minutes ago, while locked inside the boutique’s private dressing suite, I had struck a match and watched the final, hundredth letter curl into black ash over the porcelain sink. Seven years of devotion had been reduced to soot and rinsed down the drain. When Garrett finally finished consoling his fragile muse and returned home, expecting to toss me a scrap of guilt-ridden affection, he would find nothing but an empty penthouse. “Kate, what kind of childish tantrum are you throwing now?” I had barely stepped onto Madison Avenue when Garrett’s name flashed across my phone. When I answered, his voice was nearly drowned out by the muffled chime of terminal announcements in the background. “The boutique manager just called my assistant,” he snapped. “She said you canceled the custom lace gown I picked out for you.” I stopped beneath the shade of an autumn-gold elm, watching the pedestrian light across the street shift from red to green. “Yes. I canceled it.” “Are you honestly trying to use a dress to guilt-trip me into coming back to the fitting?” Garrett let out a sharp, incredulous scoff. “Amber was mobbed by paparazzi at Terminal 4. She had a full panic attack and nearly jumped the mezzanine railing. Can you put your petty, jealous little insecurities aside for once in your life?” I didn’t argue. I didn’t defend myself. In the past, I would have desperately scrambled to explain that I wasn’t being jealous, that I was just hurt, that I was trying to be the supportive, accommodating woman he demanded. But now, listening to him, my arm merely felt tired from holding the phone to my ear. “Think whatever you want, Garrett.” I raised a hand and flagged a passing yellow cab. My lack of reaction seemed to throw him off. There was a brief, jarring silence on the other end of the line—two full seconds of dead air. When he spoke again, he retreated into his default tone: an unbearable mix of condescension and transactional compromise. “Look, I’m not going to argue with you today,” he said, exhaling heavily. “Amber’s blood sugar plummeted. She’s dizzy and can’t stop crying. Go down to that bakery in Soho—the one with the artisanal elderberry pastries she loves—and bring a box to the hotel address I’m texting you.” He paused, as though offering me a rare privilege. “Consider it your apology for making a scene at the boutique.” The cab pulled up to the curb. The driver glanced back through the partition, asking where I was headed. I gave him the address of the Tribeca penthouse Garrett and I had shared, then spoke into the receiver. “I’m busy. I’m not going.” “Kate, do you seriously have to pick a fight right now?” Garrett’s voice dropped an octave, tight with anger. “Amber is hanging on by a thread mentally. As my future wife, do you really have so little grace and empathy?” “None at all,” I said, watching the brownstones blur past the window. “If you’re that worried about her pastry cravings, stand in line and buy them yourself.” Before he could respond, I hung up. A second later, a notification banner popped up on my screen. It was an iMessage from Amber. It was a photo: Garrett leaned over a hotel bed, gently smoothing an adhesive bandage over her scraped knee. Below the image was a single line of calculated faux-innocence: I’m so sorry, Kate. Garrett insisted I can’t take care of myself and wouldn’t let me stay alone. You aren’t mad at me, are you? I opened the thread, held down on the contact card, and hit Delete and Block. When I arrived at the penthouse—a home I had spent the last three years decorating down to the exact weight of the linen curtains—the foyer was still cluttered with the luxury wedding favors Garrett and I had selected just yesterday. I went straight to the storage closet by the front entrance, bypassed the organized bins, and pulled out a roll of heavy-duty black industrial trash bags. The purge started now. I walked into the walk-in closet and began pulling down my clothes. Everything that belonged to me went into a hard-shell Rimowa suitcase. Everything Garrett had ever tossed my way as an afterthought—the beige trench coat he had bought because “Amber wears this cut, and it would probably look decent on you too”—went straight into the trash bags. “What on earth are you doing?” A crisp, authoritative voice broke the silence behind me. I turned around. Garrett’s mother, Margaret Foster, was standing in the doorway holding an insulated carrier of high-grade organic bone broth. She looked at the trash bags at my feet, her manicured brows knitting into a deep scowl. “Where is Garrett? Isn’t today your final gown fitting? Why are you packing bags in an empty house?” I stopped folding a cashmere sweater and zipped the luggage shut. “He went to JFK to pick up Amber.” Margaret’s face darkened instantly. She set the thermos down on the vanity with a sharp thud. “That little parasite left the country two years ago. When did she crawl back?” “Three months ago,” I said, my voice entirely flat, as if recounting the weather. “In those three months, Garrett has accompanied her to the emergency room five times, taken her to three midnight movie screenings, and rented out an entire private rooftop terrace for her birthday.” Margaret’s chest rose and fell with fury. She crossed the room and took my wrist, her grip firm. “Are you out of your mind, Kate? Why didn’t you tell me this the moment it started?” She reached for her phone. “I’m calling that idiot right now. I’ll have him on his knees in front of you within the hour.” I placed my hand over hers and gently pushed her phone down. “Don’t bother, Margaret.” Looking at her—the only person in the Foster family who possessed a clear, unyielding sense of decency—my eyes didn’t even sting. “I canceled the gown,” I told her quietly. “And I called off the wedding. I’m vacating the space so he can give it to the woman he actually wants.” Margaret stared at me, her lips trembling slightly. “Kate, please. Don’t make an impulsive decision out of anger. Garrett is acting like a blind fool, but you are the only daughter-in-law I acknowledge. You gave up your gallery career for him. You spent years managing his entire life from the shadows. I’ve seen everything you sacrificed.” Her eyes were filled with genuine heartbreak. “As long as I’m alive, Amber Ross will never set foot across the threshold of this family.” “It’s not an impulsive decision, Margaret,” I said gently. I let go of her hand, turned around, and tied a double knot in the trash bag containing every cheap, thoughtless gift Garrett had ever given me. “I just don’t want him anymore.” 2 Margaret left with red-rimmed eyes. She didn’t try to persuade me further; she simply whispered, “The Foster family has failed you,” and walked out the door. The massive apartment sank back into absolute silence. I moved methodically from the study to the kitchen, and finally into the private screening room that Garrett considered his personal domain. When I slid open the media console drawer, my eyes caught a sleek white electronic dispenser. It was a smart, connected pillbox Garrett had purchased three months ago for Amber. At the time, he had justified it with righteous conviction: Amber’s depression requires strict medication management, and her memory is terrible. This tracks doses and records audio logs so I know she’s taking them. Because the device had been configured over the home Wi-Fi, the secondary administrator access was still linked to an app on my phone. On pure impulse, I opened the application. The log showed that the dispenser had been opened today at 2:15 PM, followed by an automatically uploaded thirty-second ambient audio clip. I tapped the play button. “Garrett, these pills taste so bitter. My stomach hurts every time I swallow them.” Amber’s voice, soft, fragile, and dripping with calculated helplessness, echoed through the quiet room. Then came Garrett’s voice, lower and infinitely tender—a tone he had never once used with me. “Hang in there. I already called the house and told them to start simmering that restorative ginger congee for you.” “The same congee you drank seven years ago when you had that awful gastric bleed?” Amber asked, dragging out her vowels in playful triumph. “If Kate finds out you learned how to make that specifically for me, won’t she throw another fit?” Garrett let out a dismissive snort through the speaker. “She doesn’t have the right to throw anything. She only learned that recipe because she copied how you used to make it for me anyway. Get some rest. I’m bringing you back to the penthouse tonight. It’s not safe for you at a hotel with the press sniffing around.” The recording clicked off. I stood there in the dim media room, staring at the waveform on the glass screen, a wave of cold nausea washing over me. Seven years ago, in the dead of an East Coast winter. Garrett had drunk himself into severe gastric hemorrhaging during an acquisition dinner and was rushed to the ER at three in the morning. Back then, I was just a quiet girl who barely dared to speak to him. To make a specialized herbal restorative broth that could soothe his ravaged stomach lining, I had walked miles through a crippling blizzard to find an old holistic practitioner who knew the traditional formulation. My fingers had developed severe chilblains from the freezing winds; I stood over the stove for four agonizing hours, blistering both of my palms against the heavy cast-iron pot. When I brought the thermos to his hospital bedside, he took one sip, grimaced, and pushed it away. “Tastes awful,” he had muttered. “Not even half as good as what Amber used to make.” For the next seven years, I spent endless weekends perfecting that recipe, trying to capture the elusive phantom of “Amber’s flavor.” And now, the truth laid bare. In Garrett’s memory, every drop of blood and sweat I had poured out for seven years was merely a crude imitation of his muse. He had rewritten history to give her credit for a bowl of broth she had never once made for him. The heavy sound of an engine idling below broke the quiet, followed by the electronic chime of the front door’s smart lock. I slipped my phone back into my pocket and walked out to the foyer. Garrett was carefully guiding Amber through the doorway, his arm wrapped supportively around her waist. Amber was wearing an oversized men’s Oxford shirt—a custom silk-cotton blend I had ordered for Garrett last month, the cuffs monogrammed with our initials, G&K, in silver thread. On her petite frame, the hem barely grazed the middle of her thighs, looking deliberate, messy, and blatantly territorial. “Oh… Kate, you’re home,” Amber said, shrinking instantly behind Garrett like a startled fawn. “Garrett said the paparazzi at the hotel were too dangerous and made me come stay for a few days. You don’t mind, do you?” Garrett tossed his keys onto the credenza. His gaze flickered coldly over the packed black trash bags sitting near the entryway. “Who are you putting on that funeral face for?” He stepped toward me, looking down from his height. “Amber’s condition is fragile right now. She needs absolute peace in a familiar environment. You’ll take the guest room for the next few days; she gets the primary suite.” I looked at his matter-of-fact expression, then let my eyes drift down to Amber’s bare legs beneath my fiancé’s shirt. “You don’t need my permission for where she sleeps,” I said evenly, stepping past him toward the door. “Because I have no intention of staying here anyway.” Garrett spun around and clamped his hand around my wrist. His grip was brutal, the pressure grinding bone against bone. “Kate, what game are you playing now?” he hissed. “First you cancel the gown, now you’re staging a runaway act? Do you honestly think these cheap, melodramatic stunts are going to make me chase you?” “Garrett, please don’t be mad at Kate,” Amber chimed in right on cue, tears pooling instantly in her wide eyes. “It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have come back. I’ll leave right now—even if the reporters tear me apart on the street, I can’t let myself ruin your relationship.” She made a dramatic move toward the door. Garrett released my wrist instantly, turning to catch Amber in his arms. “Stop talking nonsense. This is my home. You aren’t going anywhere.” He stroked her hair, his eyes darting back to glare at me with venomous irritation. “If you want to walk out that door, Kate, then get the hell out. Don’t expect me to indulge your childish tantrums like I used to. If you leave tonight, don’t you dare come crawling back.” 3 I didn’t waste a single breath responding. I walked back to the guest room, picked up my coat, and grabbed the handle of my rolling suitcase. Out in the living room, Amber’s delicate complaints were already escalating. “Garrett, the color of these charcoal linen sofas feels so dark and oppressive… I can barely breathe looking at them.” She paused, sniffing the air with exaggerated fragility. “And that potted flower near the terrace—the scent is so sharp, I think I’m starting to get an allergic reaction.” That plant was an ultra-rare hybrid Paphiopedilum orchid—a specimen Garrett had casually mentioned wanting three years ago. I had spent thousands of dollars, consulted five different master botanists, and monitored its soil pH and humidity every single morning to coax it into bloom. “If you don’t like it, get rid of it,” Garrett replied without a second of hesitation, his voice dripping with endless indulgence. “Martha, dig that weed out of the ceramic pot and throw it in the chute. Then call interior services to bring up a cream-colored slipcover set.” Martha, the housekeeper who had worked for the Fosters for over a decade, knew exactly what that orchid meant to me. She stood near the terrace, looking nervously between Garrett and the hallway. “Sir… that’s the orchid Miss Mercer spent three years cultivating—” “Did you not hear me?” Garrett’s voice cut through the air like a whip. “Amber’s health comes first. A piece of house foliage isn’t more important than a human life.” I wheeled my suitcase into the living room just in time to see Martha carrying the custom ceramic planter toward the service door, her hands trembling. As she moved, the tall, delicate bloom snapped against the doorframe, its pale, velvety petals shattering across the polished marble floor. I stopped and looked down at the broken stem. I waited for the familiar, agonizing ache in my chest. There was nothing. Not a pinch. Not a tremor. When a heart finally dies completely, it doesn’t even have the courtesy to hurt. Garrett saw me looking at the floor and immediately shifted his body, shielding Amber behind him as if anticipating an explosive scene. “That orchid triggers her allergies, so it’s gone,” he said defensively. “If you feel wronged, I’ll wire twenty thousand dollars to your checking account tomorrow and you can buy a dozen more.” He had always been like this. Crushing years of devotion beneath his heel, then tossing down cash like hush money. “Keep your money,” I said quietly, without looking at him or the flower. “It was trash anyway. Martha just saved me the trouble of throwing it out.” Garrett blinked, visibly unsettled by my lack of outrage. He narrowed his eyes at my suitcase. “What are you doing pacing around with an empty bag? Your theatricality is getting pathetic, Kate.” In Garrett’s mind, I was the dependent woman who used to panic if he was an hour late for dinner. He was entirely convinced that my suitcase was half-empty, that I was simply bluffing to see if he would stop me. Amber peeked out from behind his shoulder, a faint, victorious smirk dancing on her lips. “Kate, are you really leaving? The storm outside is getting terrible. It’s not safe out there alone. If you really can’t stand seeing me, I can sleep on the couch and let you have the bed.” She leaned heavier into Garrett’s chest as she spoke. “Amber, stop apologizing to an ungrateful woman,” Garrett sneered, resting his hand firmly on her shoulder. “Let her leave. I’d love to see where Kate Mercer thinks she can go in this city without my name behind her.” He looked toward the entryway. “Martha, change the smart lock passcodes tomorrow morning. Let’s see if she tries to sneak back in the middle of the night.” I reached into my handbag, pulled out the key fob and access cards to the building, and set them gently on the marble console table. “You don’t need to change the codes,” I said, looking at the face I had loved for seven long years. It was astonishing how quickly a man could become a complete stranger. “I’ve already notified our families and the press that our engagement is terminated,” I continued calmly. “Tomorrow morning, formal legal paperwork dissolving all corporate and personal alliances will be delivered to Foster Holdings.” I met his cold stare one last time. “I wish you two the life you deserve.” Before he could process the words, I pulled open the heavy front door and stepped out into the corridor. The door clicked shut behind me, sealing off the noise, the arrogance, and the rot of the last seven years. Outside the residential lobby, the skies cracked open with a violent thunderclap. Heavy autumn rain slammed against the concrete, washing over my face with an icy, drenching shock that felt less like pain and more like total, absolute liberation. I pulled my suitcase behind me through the deluge for twenty agonizing minutes before an available taxi finally pulled over. As I slid into the back seat, my phone buzzed on my lap. It was a text from Garrett: Kate, you’ve really lost your mind. Calling off the wedding in public? Who are you trying to embarrass? I’m giving you one final chance: get back here within thirty minutes and apologize to Amber, or you will never step foot in a Foster property again for the rest of your life. I looked at the glowing screen without an ounce of emotion, held down the power button until it went completely black, and shoved it into the bottom of my bag. The long, draining fever dream was finally over. 4 The downpour intensified, turning the Manhattan streets into slick, reflective black rivers. After twenty minutes in the freezing rain, my clothes were soaked through. A violent chill rattled my bones while my forehead burned with fever, and my stomach knotted into sharp, agonizing spasms. The chronic gastritis I had developed years ago chose this exact, storm-drowned night to tear through me. “Driver,” I rasped, pressing an arm tightly against my abdomen, my voice barely audible over the roar of the rain. “Please… take me to the nearest hospital.” The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror, his face tensing. “Hang on, miss. The highway ramp ahead is blocked by a downed branch. I have to detour around the underpass—” Before he could finish, the car lurched violently. A delivery van swerved into our lane to avoid the debris. The driver slammed on the brakes and cut the wheel, sending the taxi crashing hard into the metal barrier. The impact threw me forward with brutal force. My head slammed against the rigid plastic back of the front seat. A warm, thick liquid immediately began trickling down my eyebrow, blurring my vision. “Miss! Oh god, you’re bleeding!” the driver yelled, frantically unbuckling his seatbelt. Dizziness swirled through my head, mixing with the searing pain in my stomach until breathing felt impossible. Through pure, fading muscle memory, my trembling fingers dug into my bag, pulled out my phone, and powered it on. The emergency speed dial 1 had belonged to one person for seven years. The call connected. It rang and rang—so long that I thought the voicemail would pick up—until Garrett’s voice finally cut in, laden with disgust. “Kate, what is wrong with you? I just got Amber to sleep. Are you calling to haunt me?” “Garrett…” I gasped, my words coming in broken, shallow breaths. “The cab crashed… near the West Side Highway underpass… I’m bleeding, can you please—” “Could you try using some imagination for your lies?” Garrett interrupted harshly, his tone devoid of even a shred of concern, dripping only with the fury of someone who thought his intelligence was being insulted. “You were acting so proud and untouchable an hour ago. Now that you realize I’m not chasing you, you stage a car accident to beg for sympathy?” “Kate, I never realized how fundamentally manipulative you are.” “No… Garrett, I’m really—” A sharp cramp locked my diaphragm, cutting off my air. From the other end of the line, Amber’s muffled, tearful whimper drifted through the receiver. “Garrett… the thunder is so loud, I’m scared… don’t leave me…” Garrett’s voice instantly softened into that familiar, sickening tenderness. “I’m right here, Amber. I’m not going anywhere.” Then, turning back to the phone, he spat out his final words: “Kate, even if you actually die out on the street tonight, I won’t be the one coming to identify your body. Stop calling to disgust me.” Click. The line went dead. I stared at the dark screen, a terrible, bloodstained smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. Rain and blood dripped onto the glass. With the very last ounce of strength in my fingers, I opened his contact profile and hit Delete. “Miss! The ambulance can’t get through the flooded ramp—I’m carrying you to the clinic across the avenue!” the driver shouted. Darkness pulled me under. When I opened my eyes again, it was late the following afternoon. The room smelled of sharp antiseptic and sterile cotton. A heavy bandage was wrapped around my forehead, an IV line taped to the back of my left hand, and my scuffed suitcase rested against the bedside table. A nurse stepped in to change my saline bag. Seeing me awake, she let out a breath of relief. “You’re finally up. The cab driver paid your initial emergency intake deposit before he had to leave for the police report. Your phone had no emergency contacts listed, so we couldn’t reach your family.” “Thank you,” I croaked, my throat raw. Once the nurse left, I reached for my bag, pulled out a fresh SIM card I had ordered days ago, and slotted it into my phone. Then, I dialed a private direct line I hadn’t used in seven years. “Frank,” I said. The voice on the other end—the senior managing partner of Manhattan’s most formidable corporate law firm—froze for a second. “Miss Mercer? Is that… is that really you?” “It’s me,” I said, looking out the hospital window at the pale autumn sunlight slicing through the clouds. “Liquidate and pull all capital under my name currently backing Foster Holdings. Every single dollar. And issue the formal public statement terminating the engagement to all major financial outlets.” Frank let out a low, disbelieving breath. “Miss Mercer… you’ve finally decided?” “Yes,” I said quietly. “I’m done playing house. I’m coming back to take over the family office.” I hung up, looking around the small, sterile hospital room. There was no Garrett Foster here. There were no hundred burned letters. There was only Katherine Mercer, finally awake. At eight o’clock that evening, Garrett settled Amber into bed and drove back to the Tribeca penthouse. He kicked off his shoes in the foyer and tossed his designer blazer onto the sofa. “Kate. Haven’t you had enough of this drama? Come out and make dinner.” The apartment was dead silent. No one stepped out from the kitchen holding a mug of warm water with lemon. Garrett frowned, his chest tightening with annoyance as he marched toward the guest room. He pushed the door open. The room was stripped bare. The closet was empty. The vanity was cleared. There was not a single stray hairpin, not a single bottle of perfume, not a single strand of hair left behind. Garrett stood frozen in the doorway. A sudden, sharp dread—cold and venomous—coiled tightly around his ribs.

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1 “Wait, so the admin actually used to date Devin Cole?” “Oh my god, she literally made him lemon drops so he would quit smoking, and he pulled her in by the collar and kissed her in the rain.” “What kind of romance novel is this?! My heart can’t take it. Please, please get back together!” “+1” “+10,000.” The team facility was pitch-black. I sat alone on the living room sofa, the cold blue glow of my phone illuminating the dark as I scrolled through every single comment under that viral post. My thumbs hovered over the keypad for a long moment before I typed out a text to Devin: Are you going to clarify that I’m your actual girlfriend? Thirty minutes passed before the screen lit up with his reply: Can’t be bothered to post. Another thirty minutes crept by. A second message popped up: Why are you even paying attention to random internet gossip? I set my phone face down on the glass coffee table and let out a long, quiet breath. There was a time when becoming Devin Cole’s girlfriend was the only dream I had. But standing beside someone whom the entire world put on a pedestal was never the fairytale I’d imagined. 2 When I was seventeen, my childhood friend dragged me to my very first offline esports arena. I still remember the deafening roar of the crowd when the final nexus cracked, and the casters’ voices booming through the stadium speakers: “Who could ever forget Devin Cole? The greatest natural talent this region has ever seen—the undisputed king of tactical shooters!” “Unmatched mechanics, pure dominance, completely peerless!” Back then, Devin was magnetic. Men wanted to be him; women threw themselves at him; even passersby on the street couldn’t look away from his sharp, effortless brilliance. I spent five years loving him from afar. But unlike the countless girls who orbited his periphery, I didn’t want to just be a face in the crowd. I actually wanted to reach him. I majored in sports management in college and landed an administrative job at his organization the second I graduated. The first time I met him in the hallway of the training facility, I stepped right into his path. “Hi. I’m Nora.” He lowered his gaze, his dark, sharp eyes scanning me for two or three silent seconds. Then, holding his iced Americano, he walked right past my shoulder. “Move.” He was icy, aloof, and possessed the solitary arrogance of an untouchable prodigy. Later, I found out why he was particularly irritable that week: his first love had just broken up with him before moving abroad. I was young then, stubborn enough to run straight into a brick wall without slowing down. Everyone in the club quickly realized I was pursuing him. During one scrim review, the head coach leaned back and teased him, “Come on, Devin, just give the girl a chance. They say pursuing a guy is like parting a silk curtain, so why is she running into a vault door with you?” Devin barely looked up from his match replay. When he finally glanced at me, his mouth curved into a flat, humorless smirk. “What do you even like about me, Nora?” he asked coolly. “Tell me, and I’ll change it.” 3 “I like that you don’t like me,” I shot back. He stared at me, speechless, before grabbing a throw pillow from the couch and tossing it straight into my chest. People say consistency wears down stone, that warmth eventually melts ice. For years, I greeted his cold indifference with unconditional smiles. He treated me like background noise, but I never left. Until the night our team won a major tournament. The club went out to celebrate at a private lounge, and the room grew rowdy. Several players started egging me on to sing a duet with our rookie support player. Before I could even pick up the microphone, Devin abruptly stood up. He seized my wrist, dragged me out into the dim hallway, and backed me against the wall, staring down into my eyes. “Do you still like me?” he demanded, his voice low and raspy. “Doesn’t everyone like you, Devin?” I wasn’t lying. His god-tier mechanics had earned him a terrifyingly massive fanbase. There wasn’t an FPS player in the country who didn’t have his highlight clips saved on their hard drive. He was practically a living deity. Devin looked down at me for a few long, quiet seconds. Then he leaned in, his lips brushing softly against my cheek. “Then stop singing duets with other guys,” he murmured against my skin. “Be my girlfriend.” 4 That was how we started. Aside from our teammates and close industry insiders, our relationship was never made public online. Devin insisted on keeping it that way. While I told myself it was his choice, there were quiet nights when the secrecy stung. Whenever I brought it up, he would pull me onto his lap and wrap his arms around me. “What’s so great about being under the public microscope?” he’d say dismissively. “Do you really want strangers stopping you at the grocery store just to interrogate you about being my girlfriend?” He was right, in a way. I wasn’t an influencer; I was just behind-the-scenes staff. With his fanatical female fanbase, going public could have turned my life into a living nightmare. Yet on the night he lifted another regional trophy, his ex-girlfriend—Lacey, a prominent broadcast caster who had just returned from overseas—posted a sprawling, nostalgic letter on social media. “Devin and I met back in 2009. Watching him take the championship today brought a sudden ache to my chest. The boy who used to stay by my side through everything has finally grown up. He has a sensitive stomach. Sometimes, when I set a glass of warm milk on the nightstand, I realize that the boy who used to pout and beg me to comfort him isn’t there anymore. I’m posting this just to honor the past, I suppose. He and I can never go back to what we were~” Beneath the post, thousands of comments flooded in: “Omg, get back together! Please!” “The unresolved tension is killing me!” “Lacey, please take him back, you’re the only girl we’ll ever accept as our queen!” A dull, suffocating weight settled over my chest. I clicked my phone screen off. The heavy front door swung open. The championship squad was back from their afterparty. Devin, dressed in his black team jacket, furrowed his sharp brows as he tossed his keys onto the table and looked at me lazily. “What are you throwing a tantrum for?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to bed?” He knew exactly what was happening on the internet. He just didn’t care enough to say a single word of explanation. 5 “Devin, we need to talk.” It was two o’clock the following afternoon when Devin finally walked out of his bedroom. I hadn’t slept a wink all night. I stood directly in front of him, blocking his path down the hall. He squinted at me, his oversized black t-shirt hanging loosely over his broad shoulders. Droplets of water still clung to his jawline from a hasty face wash. Even exhausted and disheveled, he was undeniably striking. “Whatever it is, tell me later,” he said flatly. “I have a sponsored stream this afternoon.” He brushed past my shoulder without a second glance. Devin’s stream went live right after his title win, and the viewership instantly broke records. What I didn’t anticipate was that the person joining his voice channel was his ex-girlfriend, Lacey. “Hey, Devin, my aim is super rusty, okay? Don’t yell at me,” her voice came through the speakers, sweet and delicate. Devin gave a low, noncommittal hum. The chat exploded: [Look at him being so gentle!] [Devin Cole, you never speak that softly to anyone else!] I sat at my desk, watching the stream with a sick, masochistic fascination. Devin was notorious in the competitive scene for his short fuse; his unmatched mechanical skill came with brutal intolerance for teammates who couldn’t keep up. I still vividly remembered the first time he agreed to queue with me in a casual lobby. He had snapped within ten minutes: “Put your crosshair on the target and click. Is that complicated?” “Did you even turn your monitor on?” “Nora, if you’re going to play like dead weight, don’t ask me to duo.” On stream, Lacey was playing far worse than I had back then. She died in almost every duel, feeding round after round to the enemy team. “Um… Devin? I just got back from the UK, so I’m really bad at this,” she whispered hesitantly during a halftime break when Devin remained quiet. “Are you… mad at me?” The chat was already spamming: [Her gameplay is giving me brain damage.] [Devin is definitely fuming. He has never babysat anyone this bad.] Then, the mic clicked open. Devin’s deep voice resonated through the stream, softer than I had ever heard it: “No.” “That round was on me.” “If we don’t win, it’s because I played bad, not you.” The chat lost its collective mind. [WHAT?! Devin Cole admitting HE played bad?!] [If he’s bad, then the rest of the world doesn’t have hands!] [He loves her so much, I can’t breathe.] [Just announce you’re back together already!] I stared at the glowing monitor, a sharp, bitter ache tearing through my ribcage. So he did know how to comfort a girl. He wasn’t naturally ruthless to everyone. He just reserved his patience for someone else. When I first joined the org, the head coach had warned me that Devin’s first love had carved an indelible mark into him. Rumors said he had once threatened to tear up his contract just to follow her abroad when she left. It turned out the rumors hadn’t even captured the half of it. I closed the stream, walked over to the glass wall of the main scrim room, and watched him through the reflection. I had loved him for so many years. He had been the blinding center of gravity for my entire youth. Back then, I thought that standing beside him as his girlfriend would be the pinnacle of happiness. Now, standing in the quiet hallway, the truth finally crystallized. The person worshipped by millions, the person who inspired awe and devotion on stage, was Devin the Champion. Not the man before me, who looked through his own girlfriend as if she were made of glass. 6 Devin wrapped up his broadcast around seven in the evening. I was waiting outside the practice room when he pushed the door open. Seeing me standing there, he rubbed the bridge of his nose in visible annoyance. “What now? Do you really have to do this?” he sighed. “You want me to post a clarification, right? Fine. I’ll draft a tweet after dinner saying you’re my real girlfriend. Happy now?” He bent his knees slightly, leaning down to meet my face. A faint, mocking smile touched the corner of his lips. “Did you cry? Nora, aren’t you embarrassed?” His playful cadence held no real warmth—only condescension. I inhaled deeply, looking straight into his eyes. “Don’t bother posting anything.” “Let’s break up.” His smirk froze. A rare flicker of bewilderment passed over his features. “What did you just say?” I looked at him calmly and repeated every syllable: “I said, we’re done.” “Devin.”

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1 Before the bankruptcy, before the sirens and the ruined velvet boxes, I was known across Manhattan as the city’s most reckless heiress. I was the girl who once dropped three million dollars at a Christie’s evening auction on a Ming Dynasty porcelain vase simply because the cobalt glaze caught the light like the Atlantic at dusk. Then I married Harrison Cole. Harrison was a hedge fund founder who counted pennies like rosary beads. He measured every dollar by its yield, every indulgence by its moral hazard. To him, my wealth wasn’t an asset; it was a character flaw that required domestic rehabilitation. Six months into our marriage, he had a custom budgeting app installed on my phone—a spinning digital wheel programmed to control my daily discretionary allowance. He called it a behavioral correction tool. I went from white truffles and Maine lobster to five-dollar bodega bagels and drip coffee. When my best friend celebrated her thirtieth birthday at the Carlyle, I was permitted a twenty-dollar floral bouquet from a subway kiosk. The tipping point came on a sweltering Tuesday in July. I collapsed on the asphalt outside a Midtown gallery, suffering from severe heat exhaustion and dehydration. At the urgent care clinic on 8th Avenue, the triage nurse told me I needed an immediate saline IV drip. The co-pay was thirty dollars. My designated daily budget was zero. I called Harrison from the vinyl examination chair, dizzy and shivering under the fluorescent lights. His voice came through the receiver, crisp and detached. “We have principles for a reason, Nora. Spin the wheel.” I tapped the screen with a trembling thumb. The digital needle spun and clicked to a halt on Better Luck Next Time. Over the line, I heard his quiet, patronizing scoff. “Go home. Drink a glass of tap water with salt. It balances electrolytes just as well.” Before he could hang up, a woman’s breathy voice leaked through the speaker from his end. Victoria Brooks. “Harrison, please,” Victoria murmured, her tone dripping with delicate fragility. “It’s just mild exhaustion. You really didn’t need to book the entire penthouse recovery suite at Mount Sinai for five thousand a night.” Harrison’s tone shifted instantly—soft, warm, drenched in a tenderness I hadn’t heard in years. “Don’t look at the invoice, Tori. Your health is the only thing that matters.” In that sterile clinic room, smelling of cheap antiseptic and ozone, the haze cleared. Harrison wasn’t frugal. He wasn’t a principled minimalist trying to save my soul from consumerism. He was simply unwilling to spend a single cent on me. Eight months later, Victoria embezzled twelve million dollars from his offshore venture fund and caught a one-way flight to Zurich. With the firm on the edge of insolvency and his credit frozen, Harrison finally remembered he had a wife. He arrived at my townhouse in Gramercy Park at dusk. He didn’t knock; he collapsed against the doorframe, sinking onto his knees on the parquet floor, his hands desperately clutching the hem of my trousers. “Nora,” he rasped, his face hollow, his eyes rimmed with raw red. “I was blind. I’ve changed. Please, just give me one more chance.” It was a striking performance. But in the months since that sweltering July day, I had learned his lessons all too well. I had become the ultimate miser. I unlocked my phone, opened the budgeting app, and held the screen down toward his face. “Rules are rules, Harrison. You only get what you spin.” His throat bobbed. His trembling finger tapped the glass. The wheel spun, chiming softly, before grinding to a halt on the smallest denomination: Thirty Dollars. I pulled three crisp ten-dollar bills from my pocket and pressed them into his open, shaking palm. “Cab fare to the county courthouse,” I told him quietly. “Spend it carefully. I’m in a hurry to get divorced.” Harrison stared down at the three bills, his knuckles whitening as he balled them into his fist. “Nora, I’m on my knees in front of you,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “What else do you want from me?” His bespoke charcoal suit was crumpled, his collar open and frayed at the edges. The man who used to inspect his French cuffs with a jeweler’s precision had spent the last seventy-two hours begging every bank in the Tri-State area for liquidity. But he wasn’t just here for my family’s money. He was here because after Victoria stripped his accounts bare and blocked his number, he returned to an empty penthouse and realized no one was waiting up for him in the dark. “I was a monster,” he whispered. “That day at urgent care—I shouldn’t have made you use the app. And the things you loved… I shouldn’t have called them waste.” He reached into his breast pocket and produced a small, worn black velvet box, pushing it across the low marble table. Inside sat my original platinum wedding band. When I lay in that clinic without thirty dollars to my name, I had pawned it down on 47th Street just to settle my bill. Harrison had evidently spent days combing the Diamond District to buy it back. “I retrieved it,” he said, looking up at me with desperate, pleading eyes. “Put it back on. Let me start over.” I picked up the ring between two fingers. The inner band was still engraved with our initials and our wedding date. But it felt heavy with the phantom weight of every humiliation Victoria had handed me. “Keep it,” I said, dropping it back onto the velvet cushion. “Use it to cover payroll. Your company needs it more than I do.” Harrison flinched as if struck. “Nora, I won’t lie—we need the Reynolds Trust to back our bridge loan. But I didn’t come here just for a bailout. When Victoria took everything, it woke me up. I finally saw who actually stood by me.” I tilted my head, looking at him with detached curiosity. “So until she robbed you, I was invisible.” “That’s not what I meant—” “Then what did you mean, Harrison?” His lips parted, but no sound came out. He couldn’t answer because he didn’t know the truth himself: whether he was mourning the loss of a wife, or simply panicking over the loss of his safety net. The doorbell chimed, slicing through the tension. I walked over and pulled the door open. Gavin Pierce stood in the hallway, looking effortlessly sharp in a navy cashmere sweater, holding a ridiculous, four-foot-tall plush strawberry bear by its ribbon. “The yacht is untying from the marina in twenty minutes,” Gavin said, flashing a slow, easy grin. “Are you coming, or am I taking this bear to the Hamptons alone?” I reached out and took the bear by its paw. “I’m coming.” Harrison lunged forward, blocking the entryway, his arm bracing against the doorframe. “Nora, tonight is our third anniversary. I booked a table at Le Bernardin.” He thrust his phone forward to show me the confirmation screen. Le Bernardin. The restaurant I had asked him to take me to three separate times over two years. Each time, he had forced me to spin the app. Each time, it had landed on Better Luck Next Time. It wasn’t until months later that a mutual friend mentioned Harrison had booked out the entire private dining room there for Victoria’s birthday. “You don’t want to go anymore?” Harrison’s voice strained, tight and fragile. “I did once,” I said. “A long time ago.” “Then why not tonight?” “Because when you starve someone for long enough,” I said evenly, “they don’t want the meal anymore. They just lose their appetite.” Gavin reached past Harrison and took the handle of my Rimowa suitcase. Harrison’s hand shot out, clamping down on the aluminum bar. “You’re leaving with him just to spite me, aren’t you?” Harrison’s eyes bore into mine, searching for any flicker of jealousy, any residue of anger he could recognize as lingering love. “You won’t give me the capital. You won’t accept my apology. What else could this be except revenge?” I looked at him, feeling nothing except a mild irritation that the sun was beginning to dip below the Hudson and we were losing daylight. I pulled my phone out once more and opened the custom app. “Let’s not argue,” I said smoothly. “I added two names to the wheel. Whoever it lands on is who I leave with.” I flicked the screen. The needle whirred past Harrison and settled decisively on Gavin. I reached down and peeled Harrison’s fingers off the suitcase handle, one by one. “What a shame,” I said softly. “Looks like you didn’t win today either.” Harrison stood frozen in the doorway, watching as Gavin escorted me toward the elevator. Ten minutes later, as Gavin’s Aston Martin merged onto the West Side Highway, my phone buzzed on the console. I’ll be waiting at home for you, Harrison’s text read. Gavin glanced down at the screen, one hand casually resting on the steering wheel. “Want me to pull over so you can reply?” “No,” I said, turning my gaze out the window toward the open water. There was a time when a three-minute delay in Harrison’s replies would keep me awake until dawn, spiraling through quiet panic. Now, knowing he was sitting in a silent, cavernous apartment waiting for footsteps that would never come, I only thought about how clear the sky looked over the bay. I returned to the Gramercy townhouse at three in the morning, the scent of sea salt and champagne still clinging to my hair. The living room was dark except for a single amber floor lamp. Harrison was sitting on the sofa, still wearing his rumpled trousers, staring at a dining table covered in cold, untouched takeout containers. When he saw Gavin’s oversized wool coat draped over my shoulders, his expression hardened into stone. “Is that his?” “Yes.” “Take it off.” “On what authority?” “I’m your husband, Nora.” “Not for much longer.” Harrison’s chest hitched. He swallowed hard, visibly forcing his anger back down into his throat. He stood up and pushed a bowl of ginger-infused broth toward the edge of the counter. “You have a sensitive stomach when you drink. Have some.” The irony was almost poetic. When I had come down with the flu the winter before, he had told me that late-night pharmacy deliveries were an unnecessary luxury. Yet when Victoria had a craving for French macarons at midnight, he had driven across three boroughs in a blizzard to find an open bakery. I didn’t touch the spoon. “Nora, I know you’re furious,” he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping into a low, rational register. “But Gavin Pierce isn’t serious. He’s a trust-fund playboy. He collects women like sports cars. There’s no future there.” I leaned against the kitchen island. “Did you and Victoria have a future?” His jaw twitched. “Victoria is history. She stole from the fund and fled the country.” “So you didn’t end it because of a sudden burst of conscience,” I noted coolly. “You ended it because she discarded you.” The color drained entirely from his cheeks. He stood there for a long moment before sinking back onto the stool. “Yes,” he admitted in a cracked whisper. “I liked her. I was flattered by her. But infatuation isn’t marriage. You are my wife. You’ve always been the only one who made sense.” There it was again. The classic division: Victoria was meant to be adored, indulged, and protected. I was meant to be sensible, durable, and practical. Harrison reached into his leather portfolio and pulled out a stack of legal documents, laying them flat on the quartz counter. “If you co-sign this bridge loan, the banks will release the liquidity. The moment the funds settle, I will transfer full financial power of attorney to you. Every investment, every dollar, every distribution—you will have total veto power.” I pulled out my phone and loaded the wheel. “Let’s spin for the loan amount.” Harrison’s temple throbbed. “Nora, stop playing games. This is our livelihood.” “When I was lying in urgent care asking for thirty dollars to stop vomiting, that was my livelihood,” I said mildly. “You made me spin then.” He stared at me, his chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths. Finally, his finger hit the screen. The dial spun and clicked to a stop. One Dollar. I reached into my evening clutch, pulled out a one-dollar bill, and set it squarely in the middle of the signature line. “Take it,” I said. “Go save your company.” Harrison violently swept his arm across the counter. The paper and the bill fluttered to the floor. “Do you hate me that much?” he choked out. “I don’t hate you at all, Harrison.” “Then why are you torturing me?” I crouched down, picked up the single dollar, smoothed its creases, and slid it back into my wallet. “You only think it’s torture,” I told him, looking into his bloodshot eyes, “because for the first time in three years, the wheel is spinning for you.” He reached out and suddenly pulled me into his arms, wrapping his hands around my back with a suffocating, desperate grip. His scent—bergamot, expensive cedar, and stale sweat—flooded my senses. In the past, I would have traded a year of my life for him to hold me like this. But now, my body simply went rigid with an instinctive, physical revulsion. “Let go of me,” I said, my voice flat and cold. He dropped his arms as if he had touched live wire. “You never used to pull away.” “I used to have terrible taste.” The next afternoon, Gavin took me out to the equestrian club in Greenwich. We had barely saddled the horses when Harrison arrived. And beside him, impeccably dressed in a tailored white equestrian blazer and polished leather boots, was Victoria Brooks. She was looking up at Harrison with wide, dewy eyes, leaning close as he carefully adjusted the chin strap of her velvet riding helmet. It was almost comical. The woman who had supposedly stolen his money and fled was right here, playing the damsel. But I knew Harrison’s playbook: he hadn’t brought her here to ride. He had brought her here because he wanted an audience. He wanted to see me break. “Document everything,” I told Gavin under my breath, angling my sunglasses toward them. “Every touch, every asset transfer. It’s all going into the fault-based divorce filing.” Gavin pulled out his phone, leaning against the paddock railing with an amused smirk. “Already rolling.” Victoria caught my eye across the ring and smiled, walking toward the mounting block with Harrison in tow. “Nora, what a coincidence,” she said, her voice light and musical. “Harrison knew I was feeling overwhelmed after all the stress this week, so he insisted on bringing me out to get some fresh air.” Harrison didn’t correct her. He kept his gaze locked on me, waiting for the crack in my composure, waiting for the tears. Gavin brought over a magnificent black Dutch Warmblood, kneeling down on the gravel to check the tension on my stirrup leathers. “Stick close to my line, Nora. She has a strong mouth, but she’ll follow my lead.” I rested a hand lightly on Gavin’s broad shoulder. “Got it.” Harrison’s hand on his own horse’s reins jerked tight. Before we could clear the gate, Harrison mounted his chestnut gelding in one swift motion and cut directly across our path, blocking the paddock exit. “Nora,” Harrison commanded, his voice tight. “Dismount. We need to talk.” Gavin didn’t even look up from checking his girth. “Cole, this is an active schooling ring, not your private living room. You’re obstructing the gate.” Harrison ignored him completely, staring only at me. “You don’t know how to ride a Warmblood with this kind of power. You took a hard fall at this exact club two years ago. Have you forgotten?” I hadn’t forgotten. I had fractured my fibula that day. And while I lay waiting for the ambulance, Harrison had been thirty miles away at an outpatient clinic, holding Victoria’s hand through a routine allergy screening. It was Gavin who had carried me down the stable lane that afternoon. “I remember perfectly,” I said, meeting Harrison’s gaze without blinking. “Which is why I upgraded my instructor.” Harrison’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. “I can teach you.” “I don’t need your lessons.” “Nora, why do you insist on talking to me like I’m a stranger?” Victoria rode up beside him, resting a gloved hand on his horse’s shoulder. “Harrison, leave it. Nora clearly has company. She doesn’t want you hovering.” Harrison lingered for several long seconds, his knuckles white against the leather reins, before finally turning his horse around. But as they trotted toward the open field, he looked back over his shoulder every twenty yards. “Is he trying to look after her,” Gavin murmured, adjusting his reins, “or is he using her as a prop to get a rise out of you?” “Both,” I said, feeling a chill of distaste run down my spine. “Let’s focus on our ride. Irrelevant people aren’t worth the distraction.” That evening, the club hosted an autumn dinner in the timber-framed clubhouse. Victoria deliberately took the seat beside Harrison at the center table. Around her neck sat an eighty-carat Harry Winston diamond collar—a piece worth at least eight million dollars, purchased six months ago through our primary marital trust account. Gavin nudged my champagne flute with his own under the soft chandelier light. “The wire transfer records from the joint account cleared into my drive. If we can get him on record confirming another major gift on top of the necklace, the dissipation-of-assets claim is ironclad.” I discreetly tapped the voice memo app on my phone. Right on cue, Victoria raised her wine glass, her voice carrying across the quiet hum of the dining room. “Harrison, with the firm under so much scrutiny, I still feel terrible that you covered the twenty-million-dollar balloon payment on my villa in St. Moritz. It’s just too generous.” Harrison glanced toward me, his expression deliberately casual. “It’s pocket change, Tori. You don’t have family looking out for you overseas. I wasn’t going to let the bank foreclose on you.” A few people at the neighboring tables exchanged uneasy glances. An older board member tried to smooth over the awkwardness. “Harrison has always been loyal to his circle. Nora understands that, I’m sure.” I smiled politely and shook my head. “Not at all. I don’t mind.” Harrison’s hand froze around the stem of his wine glass. He leaned forward, staring at me across the linen tablecloth. “Nora, I used twenty million dollars of post-marital liquid assets to pay off Victoria’s personal property. And you’re sitting there telling everyone you don’t care?” “I truly don’t.” Victoria’s smile grew triumphant. She leaned into Harrison’s shoulder, purring softly, “See, Harrison? Nora is sensible. She knows how deep our history goes.” Harrison didn’t look triumphant. He stared at me, his brow furrowing into deep, turbulent lines. Slowly, almost roughly, he pulled his shoulder away from Victoria’s touch. Under the table, Gavin’s screen lit up with a text: Keep pushing. Get him to say it was an unconditional gift with no expectation of repayment. I opened my mouth to prompt him, but before the words formed, Harrison abruptly stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. “Actually,” Harrison announced, his voice ringing through the dining hall, “I’ve changed my mind. I won’t be covering the mortgage after all.” Victoria froze. “Harrison? What are you talking about?” “My legal counsel will be filing a clawback motion on Monday morning to recover the full twenty million.” A surge of genuine fury hit me. The recording was seconds away from establishing the legal threshold for willful dissipation of marital property. He was right on the hook, and he had just cut the line. Harrison walked around the long table until he stood directly beside me, his dark eyes fixated on Gavin’s hand, which was resting casually on the back of my dining chair. “I brought Victoria here,” Harrison whispered, his voice trembling with raw, suppressed frustration. “I adjusted her helmet. I bragged about paying her debts right in front of your face. Why haven’t you flinched once?” I looked down at my phone, where the voice memo had just flatlined into uselessness. Harrison leaned down, his face inches from mine, his breath ragged. “Nora. Tell me the truth. Are you angry at all?” I looked up at him, my eyes flashing. “Of course I’m furious!”

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My separation anxiety wasn’t just a quirky personality flaw—it was a crippling, suffocating panic that clawed at my chest the moment I was left alone. For five years, Lester and I had lived in different cities, separated by hundreds of miles. Every single night without fail, I needed to hear his voice on the phone just to fall asleep. No matter how exhausted he was, no matter how early his morning alarm was set, he always stayed on the line until my breathing turned slow and even. Until last night. I was walking home late after pulling an involuntary shift at the office. The streetlights along the alley were dead, leaving the narrow passage draped in pitch-black shadows. Terrified, I called him, hoping his voice would be my shield against the dark. Instead, I was met with icy, restless irritation. “Bonnie was right about you,” Lester snapped, his tone heavy with exhaustion and contempt. “You’re suffocatingly clingy, Cathy. I’m doing this for your own good—if I don’t force you to figure this out, you’re never going to learn how to be an adult.” I clutched the phone tighter, my knuckles white. “Lester, please, it’s pitch black out here—” “And Bonnie is a light sleeper,” he cut in coldly. “She needs her rest. From now on, let a sleep-tracker AI talk you down at night.” Bonnie was my childhood best friend—and his self-proclaimed “one of the guys.” She had recently fallen on hard times and moved into his apartment temporarily. What Lester didn’t know was that the very second he hung up on me, a thick, calloused palm slammed over my mouth from behind, dragging me backward into the dark. … “What did I tell you? I knew Cathy couldn’t handle a single night alone. She’ll pull whatever pathetic stunt she can think of to trick me into running back.” When Lester finally arrived at the precinct after the officers called him, his first words weren’t a desperate “Are you okay?” They were a sneer. Bonnie let out a theatrical sigh, reaching into her jacket pocket and pulling out a crisp fifty-dollar bill. “Fine, fine. You really do know her inside out. Here’s your money.” I sat frozen on a cold metal chair in the station lobby, my hair matted, my clothes torn, my eyes staring blankly at the scuffed linoleum floor. To them, my terror was nothing more than the punchline to a casual bet. Lester walked over, his shadow looming over me, his face dark with annoyance. “You’re not a toddler anymore, Cathy. Claiming you were almost assaulted just to get the police to play along with your little drama? Don’t you think that’s a bit childish?” He gestured vaguely between himself and Bonnie. “Making us drive three hours in the middle of the night just to humor you? If you don’t want to sleep, does that mean no one else gets to?” Bonnie stepped in immediately, stepping into her favorite role as the gentle mediator. “Alright, Lester, take it easy on her. Cathy is just attached to you—what’s so wrong with that?” As she spoke, she casually reached for the black velvet scrunchie wrapped around Lester’s wrist, using it to gather my disheveled hair into a ponytail. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment it had started, but over the past few months, Lester had formed a habit of carrying women’s essentials with him wherever he went. Hair ties, tampons, an extra cardigan in his backseat. But without exception, every single item was tailored specifically to Bonnie’s tastes. When we finally walked out of the precinct, muscle memory took over. I walked toward the passenger side of Lester’s car and pulled the handle. The door swung open, revealing an interior completely overhauled in soft pastel pink. “Pretty, isn’t it?” Bonnie slung an arm around Lester’s neck, flashing me a triumphant, dazzling smile. “We made a bet last weekend, he lost, and he actually re-did the whole interior just like I told him to.” I stared at the pink leather, a cold sensation spreading through my chest. I had asked him dozens of times over the years to change the depressing slate-gray interior of his car to pink. Every time, he had shot me down, calling it tacky and impractical. “Besides,” he used to say, “you barely sit in my car a few times a year. Stop trying to control everything.” He was a man who despised boundary-crossing and hated change. Yet now, he wore Bonnie’s backseat-driving like a second skin. Bonnie slid effortlessly into the front passenger seat. I stood on the pavement for a long, quiet second before opening the rear door and slipping into the back. Throughout the drive, the two of them filled the front seat with animated chatter—debating the tragic ending of a movie they had watched together, arguing over which high-end bistro had the best brunch. The speakers hummed with an indie-pop playlist that Bonnie had dropped into our group chat days ago. It wasn’t even the genre Lester usually listened to. Meanwhile, the foreign folk album I had recommended in that same chat weeks ago still sat there, unacknowledged, without a single reply. They had driven all this way under the pretense of picking me up, yet I had been relegated to invisible background noise. Neither of them noticed that in the dark of the backseat, my head was bowed over my phone, my thumb flying across the screen: “Mr. Becker, I’ve changed my mind. Is that overseas project in London still available?” When the car finally pulled up to the curb outside my apartment complex, the laughter in the front seat slowly tapered off. Lester glanced into the rearview mirror, his brow furrowing with impatience. “Well? Why aren’t you getting out?” My voice was flat, hollowed out. “You didn’t unlock the doors.” Lester blinked, caught off guard. Bonnie slapped her forehead, turning around to flash me an apologetic, playful pout. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry! We were so caught up talking, I completely forgot. Opening it now!” She pressed the unlock button on the dash with the casual authority of a woman operating her own vehicle. I didn’t move immediately. Bonnie glanced at Lester, making a dramatic show of unbuckling her seatbelt. “Cathy looks completely exhausted. Lester, you should go upstairs with her. I can just call a cab and stay at a hotel nearby.” “A young woman staying in a hotel alone at this hour? Are you insane?” Lester instantly reached out, grabbing her arm and pulling her back into her seat. He turned his head to glare at me in the back. “Cathy, you’ve dragged us through enough drama tonight. You can handle sleeping alone for one night. I’m going to go stay at the hotel with Bonnie to make sure she’s safe.” Bonnie couldn’t possibly stay in a hotel alone. But I had lived completely by myself for five years, and not once had he considered that unsafe. Before I could say a word, Lester was already unlocking his door, stepping out, and firmly escorting me out of the vehicle. I stood on the curb, watching the taillights of the car fade into the darkness, the bitter taste of betrayal coating my tongue. That car was supposed to be his dream gift to me. Years ago, when he was grinding through eighty-hour workweeks, he promised that once he bought it, he would drive me to work every single day so I’d never have to cram into a crowded subway again. Later, watching him burn out trying to save up, I emptied my own savings account to bridge the gap. Five thousand dollars wasn’t a fortune, but it was every cent I had painfully scraped together from working graveyard shifts. And now, another woman sat in the passenger seat I had paid for. It wasn’t until the following morning that Lester returned. He walked into my apartment carrying a bag of fresh pastries, stepping up behind me where I stood by the kitchen counter and wrapping his arms around my waist. “I was just worried about your friend last night, that’s why I stayed at the hotel with her,” he murmured gently, resting his chin on my shoulder. “I did it so you wouldn’t have to worry about her either. Don’t overthink it, babe. A tomboy like her isn’t even my type—she’s built like a teenage boy.” A flash of memory hit me like a physical blow—a story Bonnie had posted on Instagram at two in the morning. It was a photo of Lester asleep, his messy dark hair splayed across her arm. Her caption had read: “Some people have no shame. A giant king-sized bed and he STILL insists on crowding into my space!” My mind snapped back to the present. I stared at his reflection in the windowpane and asked quietly, “You say she’s built like a boy. Have you seen her?” The air in the kitchen instantly curdled into a suffocating silence. It grew so quiet I could hear the faint, uneven rhythm of his breathing. I reached down and peeled his hands off my waist. The moment his grip slipped, he exploded. “Catherine! I brought you breakfast, I’m trying to talk to you nicely, what more do you want from me?!” he yelled, throwing his hands up in frustration. “You lied to drag us three hours out of our way, and now you’re interrogating me? You don’t have separation anxiety—you’re completely unhinged!” The word hit me like a slap to the face. My eyes widened, staring at him as if he were a complete stranger. My separation anxiety hadn’t come out of nowhere. It was born on the night my mentally unstable mother murdered my father right in front of my eight-year-old eyes. I had watched the life leave his body, and from that terrifying moment on, sleeping alone in the dark became a living nightmare. When Lester first learned my story, he had wrapped me in his arms and wept with me, whispering again and again: “I will never leave you. I will never abandon you…” I had built my entire life around his promises. I had cherished his love like a sacred truth. And in the end, all it bought me was his disgust. I stared at him, the words “We’re done” rising from the depths of my heart, gathering at the back of my throat. But before I could speak them, his phone chimed loudly with an incoming call. He snatched it out of his pocket and answered immediately. Within seconds, the dark storm on his face evaporated, replaced by an easy, relaxed smile. He hung up, paused at the door, and casually tossed an instruction over his shoulder: “Tomorrow, the three of us are flying down to Austin for a quick weekend trip. Make sure you book your flight. Bonnie’s extending an olive branch here, Cathy—just take it and drop the attitude.” Not a single apology. Not a shred of comfort. He was simply notifying me of my place in his schedule, as he always did. It was always the same routine: the two of them would chatter and plan, settle every detail, and then passively inform me of the final itinerary. I was nothing more than an inconvenient, budget-friendly pack mule brought along to carry their luggage. And in the end, they still found me too burdensome to deal with. So I didn’t buy a ticket to Austin. Instead, I booked a one-way international ticket to London. Lester didn’t realize I wasn’t on the plane until he landed in Texas. When his calls started coming through, I declined them one by one. He sent me a string of furious texts accusing me of being a “buzzkill,” but my absence didn’t do a single thing to dampen their vacation. Bonnie’s social media feed updated relentlessly. They took a cable car up the mountain to a famous shrine. Lester—a devout atheist who usually scoffed at spiritualism—paid a hundred and fifty dollars to buy her a personalized love-fortune charm. Lester—who hated being in front of a camera—gladly posed for four separate photo grids, smiling softly as Bonnie snapped picture after picture. Whenever I had begged him to take photos with me on our trips, he would click the shutter once with a scowl, complaining, “I don’t get why women need to document every useless second.” Then, Bonnie posted a link to an event hosted by a high-end mall in downtown Austin: a “Couples Endurance Hug Challenge,” where the pair that held on the longest won a giant, limited-edition designer plushie. The cover photo showed Lester and Bonnie holding the massive stuffed bear, beaming radiantly at the camera. I clicked the “like” button under the post. A split second later, Lester’s call flashed across my screen. I answered. “We only entered that stupid contest to win that doll for you, Cathy!” Lester snapped defensively before I could speak. “Twenty minutes of standing there holding her—you have no idea how agonizing that was for me.” Bonnie immediately grabbed the phone from him, her voice dripping with playful complaint. “Cathy, I swear he was squeezing me so tight I could barely breathe! If it weren’t for my favorite girl in the world, I would “never” have let a smelly guy hug me for that long!” “For me.” Always under the grand banner of doing things “for my sake”, they crossed every line of respect and fidelity. Lester had taken Bonnie into his home without my consent “so I wouldn’t worry about her.” Bonnie attached herself to his hip twenty-four hours a day “to help me keep an eye on my boyfriend.” And now, they had wrapped their bodies together in public for twenty minutes for a toy I had never even asked for. The suffocating pressure that had been building in my chest finally ruptured. “Lester,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Let’s break up.” Silence deadened the line. Lester’s tone turned from defensive to utterly incredulous. “Are you seriously breaking up with me over a twenty-minute hug? What kind of joke is this, Cathy? We’re practically brothers!” In the background, Bonnie snatched the phone back, her voice suddenly fragile and innocent. “Cathy, please, we’re just good buddies! I’m so sorry, please don’t be mad at Lester…” “Why are you apologizing to her?!” Lester’s voice boomed through the receiver, sharp and vicious. “She’s constantly paranoid, looking for monsters under the bed! She’s inherited every last drop of her mother’s lunacy—stop walking on eggshells around her!” “Click.” The line went dead. In over eighteen hundred nights, he had never been the one to hang up first. I turned around, pulled my heavy suitcase off the top shelf of the closet, and began tossing my clothes inside. As I cleared off my desk, a folded piece of paper slipped out from beneath a stack of books. It was an official corporate transfer approval form from five years ago. It clearly stated that Lester’s company had approved his request to transfer to my city back then—with his salary, benefits, and seniority completely intact. My heart hammered against my ribs. On a strange, desperate whim, I dialed his regional supervisor’s direct line. When the man answered, his response knocked the breath right out of me. “Oh, Lester? I signed off on his relocation transfer five years ago, Ms. Whitlock. Full pay, great package. But he turned it down at the last minute. Said he had to stay behind for someone incredibly important.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. Five years ago, I had sat on the floor of my apartment holding my mother’s psychiatric admission papers, sobbing, begging Lester not to leave me, begging him not to do long-distance. He had packed his bags anyway, not even turning back as he walked out the door: “The salary package here is three times higher, Cathy. I’m doing this so we can buy a home and get married faster. Just hang in there a little longer.” I had ground myself to the bone, working endless overtime to build up my own savings, desperate to give him the financial security to come back to me. I had no idea that the “someone important” keeping him there was Bonnie. All those agonizing nights I had spent crying myself to sleep, clinging to his voice on a cell phone—they had been a lie from the very beginning. Five hours before my flight was scheduled to depart, I was packing my last bag when my phone buzzed with an urgent notification. A banking alert flashed across the screen: “$800,000.00 transferred out of account ending in 4092.” My brain went completely numb. I opened my mobile banking app with trembling hands. My remaining balance read: “$0.21.” That was my mother’s long-term care fund. It was also the money I had painstakingly saved over half a decade to build our future together. Only two people in the world had the password to that joint account: Lester and me. My fingers shook so violently I could barely dial the recipient details listed on the transaction receipt. It belonged to a high-end luxury real estate agency downtown. “Yes, ma’am,” the agent answered politely. “Mr. Payne just finalized the closing paperwork on a brand-new two-bedroom condo with us.” I took a cab straight to the sales office address. When I pushed open the heavy glass doors of the unit, Lester and Bonnie were bent over the kitchen island, their heads touching as they flipped through interior design catalogs. Lester pointed to the spacious master suite on the floor plan. “This bedroom is yours, Bonnie. That way, after Cathy and I get married, whenever you come over to stay, it’ll be super comfortable for you. Plus, it’s right next to your office—aren’t you going to thank me?” Bonnie squealed with excitement, launching herself into his arms and planting a loud, wet kiss on his cheek. My footsteps echoed hollowly against the bare floorboards. My voice was stripped raw. “Who gave you permission to touch that money?” Lester froze, awkwardly setting Bonnie back down on her feet. He straightened his collar, adopting a cool, reasonable tone. “Cathy, we’re getting married soon anyway. We needed to secure a proper home. Isn’t that what a marriage fund is for?” Buying a marital home—without the bride’s knowledge or consent. I swallowed the burning bile in my throat, forcing my voice to stay steady. “My mother needs that money for her psychiatric care. You didn’t leave a single penny?” A flicker of guilt flashed across Lester’s eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it came. Bonnie stepped forward, reaching out to gently touch my arm. “Cathy, please don’t be mad. We bought the place on a whim today, we haven’t even had time to walk you through it! If it bothers you that much, we can just cancel the purchase and refund it…” My eyes drifted down to the deed agreement resting on the kitchen island. Printed clearly on the line designated for the primary property owner was Bonnie’s name. Seeing where I was looking, Bonnie’s face flushed with mock embarrassment. “Oh dear… it looks like the title deed is already finalized. I don’t think we can refund it now…” Lester immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her behind his broad shoulders as he glared at me. “Putting it under her name just gives her a sense of security while she stays here! What difference does a name make on a piece of paper? We’re trying to build a future, Cathy—why are you so obsessed with dividing assets before we even walk down the aisle?” “I am not walking down the aisle with you,” I said, every word dripping with absolute exhaustion. “I am never marrying you.” Lester’s eyes widened in genuine shock. His mouth opened, but before he could say a word, Bonnie took an anxious step forward, her shoe catching on a decorative brass candle stand burning nearby. The stand tipped over. “Clatter.” The open flame ignited a stack of flammable designer wallpaper samples piled on the table. Within seconds, a wall of bright orange fire roared to life, sending thick, acrid black smoke billowing toward the ceiling. I choked, my lungs burning as if they were tearing apart. And in that split second of chaotic danger, the man who had sworn to protect me with his life instinctively lunged in the opposite direction—away from me. “Bonnie! Are you hurt?!” Bonnie coughed weakly, clinging to his shirt. “It’s all my fault… I ruined your home… Cathy is going to hate me forever…” “Who gives a damn about a house right now?!” Lester barked, scooping her up into his arms. He cast a hasty, careless glance back into the smoke toward me. “Cathy, get your ass out of here, move!” Before the words had even finished echoing, his figure vanished into the hallway, carrying Bonnie out to safety. I collapsed onto the floor, choking on the smoke, my tears finally breaking free and scalding my cheeks. After crawling my way out of the burning building, I didn’t look back. I hailed a cab and headed straight in the opposite direction. While sitting in the departure lounge at the airport, my phone buzzed incessantly. Caller ID: “Lester.” I declined every single call. One minute before boarding my flight to London, I opened my social media page and posted a single, public update. Once it was sent, I popped the SIM card out of my phone, walked over to the nearest trash receptacle, and tossed it deep inside. …… At the emergency room, Lester finally let out a long breath of relief after the doctor wheeled Bonnie out of the examination room. He turned around to check on his girlfriend, expecting to see her sitting on one of the waiting room chairs. The hallway was empty. Catherine hadn’t followed them. His heart violently skipped a beat. At that exact moment, a notification popped up on his phone—an update from Catherine’s account. He unlocked the screen, and as his eyes processed the words written there, his hand went completely limp. The phone slipped through his fingers and shattered against the floor.

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I was the D-list drama queen of the Hollywood scene, backed by Darren Ashford, the undisputed entertainment titan of the West Coast. No one knew that I was also the orphan student he had secretly funded for ten years—all because my face was a striking seven-tenths copy of his untouchable first love, Valerie Croft. Valerie was the darling of the industry, the pristine starlet everyone adored. But last night, paparazzi snapped her outside a luxury hotel alongside pop megastar Landon Perry. To protect her image, Darren ordered me to leak my own upcoming music video teasers with Landon, taking the hit for her secret rendezvous. This time, I didn’t throw a fit. I picked up my phone, tapped the screen, and sent the files. He blinked, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking his composure. “What’s this? Are you aiming for the cover of “Vogue” next month, or the lead role in the upcoming indie feature?” Just then, glowing, translucent commentary hovered right before my eyes: [Don’t feel bad, sweetie! You’re the actual female lead of this showbiz story! Valerie is just the toxic side character!] [Thirteen years of companionship—how could he not feel anything? Darren is just looking at Valerie through nostalgia filters. He stopped loving her ages ago.] [He loves you without realizing it! Just give him a little more time~] I looked at the floating text and smiled a tired, quiet smile. I didn’t want a movie role. And I wasn’t going to give him any more time. I was just waiting for my contract to expire. This game of love between him and Valerie? I was officially opting out. … “Darren? Did she post it?” Valerie’s voice came through the speaker, sweet, high-pitched, and laced with gentle grievance. “Please don’t misunderstand. It was just the cast wrap party, and we were leaving the hotel when the paparazzi caught us. Landon and I are nothing.” Darren held a lit cigarette between two slender fingers. The dark, intimidating gaze he’d aimed at me seconds ago melted into instant softness. “Yeah. She posted it. Don’t worry about it, go to sleep early.” “Next time there’s a dinner,” he added softly, “let me pick you up.” I stood near the floor lamp, feeling lightheaded. The last time he had spoken to me in that gentle tone was three years ago. Three years ago, Valerie was caught in a scandal involving a shady producer at a private club. It was Darren who found me—then a quiet second-year law student—and asked me to pose as an ambitious starlet desperate for a director’s attention, taking the fallout for her. That night, my name flooded every gossip blog in the country. I knew Darren bought those front-page headlines specifically to shield Valerie. From that day on, the public branded me a shameless, clout-chasing D-lister. The very next day, he signed me to his agency, Astra Media, pushing me into the spotlight as Hollywood’s favorite villain. No one remembered Valerie’s scandal anymore. And no one knew I was the student he had funded from high school through my master’s degree. Even fewer knew that on the countless late nights when he returned home drunk and sleepless, I was the woman lying in his bed. I had once dreamed of becoming a trial lawyer. But because of him, I willingly stepped into the entertainment industry to serve as a hidden shadow. The turning point came two years ago after a near-fatal car crash. Darren was critically injured and urgently needed a rare blood type. Without a second thought, I gave a massive transfusion, collapsing right outside the trauma room. When I woke up, I had been rewritten in Valerie’s narrative as a greedy opportunist who demanded lead roles in exchange for saving his life. Valerie had wept to him, claiming she selflessly gave up her lead role just to convince me to save his life. Darren never checked the hospital logs. He believed every word. From that day forward, his warmth evaporated. He gave me orders, never tenderness. The floating text suddenly flickered rapidly: [Sweetie, don’t be sad! He just thinks you helped him for money and got his heart broken!] [Valerie is a complete fake! She flirts with multiple guys behind his back!] [Darren is just stubborn! Since he broke up with Valerie, you’re the only woman around him. He already has you in his heart!] [Yes! He even prepared a surprise gift for you at the end of the reality show!] My thoughts snapped back as Darren hung up the phone. He looked up at me cold-eyed. “So,” he said, flicking his ash. “What do you want this time?” “When my contract ends,” I said calmly, “give me my ten-million-dollar severance, and I won’t renew.” His brows drew together tight. “Found another agency?” “Is there any agency in the city bigger than Astra Media?” he sneered. “With your reputation as a toxic clout-chaser, who else would take you?” “You don’t need to worry about that, Mr. Ashford. Just prepare the money.” I draped my coat over my arm and turned toward the bedroom. “Are you staying tonight? If not, lock the door on your way out.” His face darkened completely. He let out a cold laugh. “Fine. Walk out of Astra’s doors, and don’t ever think about crawling back.” He snatched his tailored suit jacket and slammed the door behind him. I had secretly hoped for the fairy-tale endings those floating texts promised. But I couldn’t bear another round of heartbreak. I had been seeing those floating comments ever since that blood donation two years ago. At first, I foolishly trusted them. Back then, even though Darren believed Valerie’s lies, he still had his private doctor deliver three doses of rare blood-replenishing medication to my room. Yet he never stepped foot into my hospital room himself. The comments had flashed across my vision back then: [Look, sweetie! He cares about you! His mother forced them to break up years ago, so he feels guilty toward Valerie, but you’re the one he loves! The original plot says he’ll pick you up from the hospital and confess once he finds out the truth!] I waited by the hospital door until night fell, but he never came. Later, when I went home, I saw the news. He was attending Valerie’s premiere party. The hashtag “#DarrenAndValerieReunited” topped the trends all night. I collapsed on the hardwood floor with a severe fever. It wasn’t until the cleaning lady arrived the next afternoon that anyone lifted me up. When the cleaning lady mentioned it to him, he only offered a dismissive laugh: “She got her movie role. Passing out for a bit isn’t going to kill her.” Over three years, things like this happened countless times. When Valerie threw diva tantrums on set, I took the blame and got torn apart online. When Valerie got caught secretly meeting male fans, I was the one who wore the “clout-chaser” label to draw the fire away. I survived again and again relying on the hints from those floating texts. And through every single choice he made in Valerie’s favor, my love for him was scraped away until nothing remained. …… The next morning, I followed the address sent by the production team to the location of the slow-paced reality show, “The Country Escape”. It was a show where Valerie and I were both regulars. During the filming of the first episode, Darren’s text messages to me had been endless. Valerie couldn’t cook, so he forced me to prepare a six-course meal two hours in advance, only for the editors to cut the footage to make Valerie look like a master chef. When Landon Perry’s luggage was accidentally knocked into a ravine by Valerie, Darren called me immediately, forcing me to take the blame publicly—even making me wear a low-cut top to apologize to Landon so the media could spin a “desperate starlet targeting pop star” story to clear Valerie’s name. But this time, the address sent to my phone led to a desolate, abandoned trail deep in the hills. By the time night fell, I still hadn’t found my way out. My palms were scratched and bleeding from sharp branches, and my ankle was badly sprained. I called Darren more than ten times. Every call went straight to voicemail. He was the executive guest star for this episode. The floating text later informed me: [His phone is on silent because he’s helping Valerie rehearse her lines.] When I finally managed to contact the producers, I realized no one on the crew had ever sent me that address. [Valerie used a burner phone to fake the text! She did it on purpose to sabotage you!] [Darren actually asked the director where you were just now! He is thinking about you~] I ignored the glowing messages and limped toward the actual filming compound. As I reached the rustic courtyard, I heard Valerie’s soft, airy voice chiming in: “Please don’t blame little Callie, everyone. She’s young and headstrong, it’s normal for her to throw a little temper. I’ll apologize on her behalf.” The host turned to Darren, the special guest. The entire internet was obsessing over their “reunited lovers” dynamic. “Mr. Ashford, Callie Lawson is an artist under your agency. What do you think about her missing the shoot without notice and playing the diva?” Darren held a glass of ice water. His eyes scanned the courtyard gate for the third time, his brow furrowed tightly. “She doesn’t know the rules. When we get back, I will discipline her according to company protocol.” The moment his words landed, I pushed the wooden gate open, dragging my injured leg behind me. Ignoring the cameras, I marched straight toward the lenses, holding up my phone to display the fake address message sent under the show’s name. Seeing me, Darren’s instinct was immediate—he stepped forward, subtly shielding Valerie behind his shoulder. “Callie,” he snapped in a low, stern voice. “We are filming right now. If you want to cause a scene, pick the right time and place.” I stared at his protective stance over her, and a laugh escaped my throat. I raised my phone, my voice flatter than it had ever been in my life. “Who said I was causing a scene? I came to apologize.” “I took a wrong turn on the way here and delayed the shoot. I’m sorry to keep everyone waiting.” He froze instantly. The arm he had raised to block Valerie remained suspended mid-air. He had probably never seen me like this. No screaming, no tears, no demands, no coaxing. Not even a single word of self-defense. I was obedient to a fault, distant, like someone who was never coming back. The moment the behind-the-scenes footage leaked, the media exploded. “#CallieLawsonDivaBehavior” “#DarrenProtectsHisMuse” “#CallieLawsonLeaveShowbiz” The trending topics were stacked back to back. I scrolled through my screen without a hint of emotion. Over three years, I had gone from crying myself to sleep over public hatred to feeling completely numb. Fifteen more days. Once the contract expired, I would walk away for good. My phone vibrated. It was a text from Darren. Four words: “Backyard. Now. Come out.” The text overlays flashed instantly: [Darren is heartbroken seeing you like this! He asked the crew to pause filming just to see you in private!] [Valerie asked him to go stargazing in the mountains, but he refused! He stayed behind just for you!] [Sweetie, explain it to him! He will definitely believe you!] I dragged my sprained ankle to the back patio, the hem of my pants stained with mud. Darren leaned against a wooden pillar. His eyes swept over my blood-caked palm and my heavily swollen ankle. His brows slammed together, and he took a half-step toward me before forcing himself to halt. “How did you end up like this?” His tone carried a strange, agitated edge. “Are you completely directionless? You can’t even read a map address?” “I was running through the script with Valerie earlier and had my phone on silent, so I missed your calls…” He paused, his jaw tightening. “Next time, I’ll set a special ringtone for you.” “Valerie sent me that address impersonating the crew,” I interrupted flatly. His expression turned icy in a split second. “Impossible. Valerie wouldn’t do something like that.” “Callie, while I still have patience, don’t push your luck.” I let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Of course.” The hope that the floating comments had tried to plant in me shattered completely, once again. “Is that why Mr. Ashford called me out here?” I asked. “If you have instructions, just give them.” A flicker of anger flashed in his eyes. “You delayed the shooting schedule by being late. Valerie doesn’t know how to cook, and the whole crew is waiting for dinner.” “Go to the kitchen and make the meals.” I held up my hand, showing him the scraped flesh and blood dried over my skin. “My hand is torn up, and my ankle is sprained. You still want me to cook?” His throat moved as he swallowed, a moment of hesitation clearly crossing his face. “Fine. I’ll order catering and say Astra Media is treating the crew.” Just then, Valerie ran over, her eyes glistening with tears. She wrapped her arms around his elbow, her voice trembling gently. “Darren… if you order catering, won’t everyone find out I can’t cook?” “I have several cookware brand endorsements in negotiations right now. My ‘domestic goddess’ image can’t break…” She turned to me, looking utterly fragile. “Callie, if you have any conditions, just name them. I’ll give you whatever I can.” I smiled faintly. “Ten million dollars.” Darren stared at me, his voice devoid of warmth. “Are you insane? Ten million dollars for a single meal? Callie, your greed is getting disgusting.” “Then cook it yourself,” I said softly. He held my gaze, his voice chillingly cold. “Fine. I’ll wire it to you.” “Thank you, Mr. Ashford. Wire it now, please.” “Callie,” he sneered, leaning in close, “you should be grateful that you have that face. It’s the only reason you’re qualified to negotiate with me.” The words hit like fine needles thrust deep into my chest. I clenched my fists, forcing back the burning tears, and turned toward the kitchen. Inside, the exhaust fan hummed loudly. As I chopped the vegetables, my mind drifted. Thirteen years ago, my father died in a tragic construction accident. My mother and I had stood outside Ashford Properties holding a banner, begging for an explanation. Darren was twenty-six then, having just taken over the family empire. He had crouched down and lifted my chin to look at me. With that single glance, I became his charity case. He funded my education from high school through my master’s degree. I should have understood long ago that every ounce of kindness he ever showed me was solely because of this face. How else could a girl raised in the mud like me have stayed by his side for thirteen years? Distracted by my thoughts, a burst of boiling oil splattered out of the pan, searing the back of my hand. I gasped from the sharp pain. Suddenly, a firm hand caught my wrist, pulling me back into a chest that smelled of cool pine. “Why are you being so careless?” It was Landon Perry. I immediately took a step back, pulling myself out of his arms. Landon was the top-tier pop star and a fellow regular on this show. When I first arrived at the compound, the crew had sent him to town for groceries, and he had just returned. He took the spatula from my hand. “Let me handle it.” I blinked. “You? The pop prince knows how to cook?” “I studied abroad when I was younger,” he said, rolling up his sleeves with smooth, practiced movements. “You learn to do everything yourself.” “No need,” I said. “I’m getting paid ten million for this. I can’t let you do my job.” He chuckled softly, and without taking no for an answer, he gently nudged me down onto a small wooden stool nearby. “Your hand and foot are wrecked. If you keep pushing it, tomorrow’s headline will be “Callie Lawson Plays Diva and Delays Production On Purpose”.” I stared at his profile, a trace of suspicion in my eyes. “You’re not sent by Valerie to set me up, are you?” After all, the paparazzi scandal outside the hotel was just two days ago. He only gave a light laugh without answering, his movements over the stove fluid and effortless. When the food was ready, Valerie walked into the kitchen and saw Landon at the stove. Her expression darkened instantly. “Landon! Why are you helping her cook?” she whined softly. “Did you forget how she knocked your luggage into the ravine last time and purposefully wore a low-cut shirt to get close to you?” “Your fans hate scheming, greedy women like her the most.” Landon turned off the burner and plated the dish without looking up. “Who actually knocked my luggage down the slope last time—are you sure you want to talk about that?” “I only kept quiet because my manager pushed me to,” he raised his eyes, looking at her with cold indifference. “Besides, I’m terminating my contract with the agency soon to start my own studio. I don’t have much to hide anymore.” I stood to the side, completely stunned. Valerie flushed with anger, grabbed the dishes, and walked out. Landon walked over to his room, retrieved a first-aid kit, and pulled my injured wrist toward him to apply medicine. The moment his fingertips touched my wound, another grip slammed down onto my wrist, pulling me back with fierce force. Darren stood at the kitchen doorway, his face darker than a storm cloud. “Landon. She’s an artist under Astra Media. It’s not your place to play the gentleman here.” Landon didn’t let go. He met Darren’s gaze with a smirk. “Mr. Ashford certainly cares for his employees. Her hand is burned, her ankle is swollen, and you’re forcing her to cook for your sweet muse?” Landon turned his gaze to me. “Callie, your contract is expiring soon, right? Why don’t you come to my studio? You can pick whatever projects you want.” “She will renew,” Darren said, his grip on my wrist tightening until it bruised. “I haven’t said I’m letting her go.” He pulled me out toward the quiet corner of the backyard, stopping only when we were completely alone. “Is Landon Perry the new backer you found?” His voice was laced with suppressed fury. “Did he offer you more than I did?” My wrist throbbed with pain. I tried to pull away twice but couldn’t. Exhaustion and absurdity washed over me. “Mr. Ashford, can you stop assuming the worst of everyone? I’m tired.” “I don’t want to spend my life as Valerie’s stand-in, and I certainly don’t want to be your secret mistress.” “I will not renew this contract.” The floating text exploded before my eyes: [Darren is panicking! Look at his eyes!] [Sweetie, wait a little longer! He specifically negotiated the lead role in that major legal drama film you always wanted to star in!] [He’s just bad with words! He doesn’t know how to express his feelings!] Darren’s throat rolled. His voice softened, carrying a rare note of coaxing. “Callie, I was going to tell you after the show finished.” “I know you’ve always wanted to play a lawyer. I secured the female lead in a top-tier legal film for you.” “Even with that, you still refuse to renew?” My heart gave a sudden, sharp thud. Becoming a great attorney had indeed been my dream for years—a dream I had completely abandoned for his sake. Seeing my silence, he took half a step closer. “Give me your answer tomorrow.” “In all these years, you are the only woman who has been by my side. Do you really still not understand my heart?” Understand what? Understand that I was a shadow meant to take the blame whenever called upon? I didn’t answer, but my mind was in turmoil all night. Early the next morning, as soon as I finished washing up, I refreshed my feed and saw Valerie’s latest post on social media. It was a photo of a script cover, captioned: “Lawyer Queen, coming soon~” I took my phone and went to find Darren, wanting a straight answer. He looked subtly uncomfortable. “Valerie thought the movie was a birthday gift from me and posted it prematurely.” His explanation felt rushed. “I prepared a different lead role for her, but she got confused. Callie… let Valerie have this lead role first.” The text overlays were screaming with rage: [Sweetie! Valerie overheard you guys and posted it first on purpose! She’s so toxic!] [Don’t be angry, sweetie! We don’t need this one movie!] [Just wait for the next one, Darren has tons of resources!] I looked at him, and suddenly, I laughed. The very last flicker of hesitation in my heart vanished, leaving behind total clarity. “It doesn’t matter, Mr. Ashford.” “I’ve made up my mind. I’m leaving the industry.” His face changed instantly. “Callie Lawson, you still have half a month left on your contract with Astra. The penalty for breach of contract is fifty million…” “I’ll pay it,” I interrupted him cleanly. “With the ten million you wired me yesterday, I have enough saved to cover it.” I turned around, walked past him, and stepped right in front of the main camera crew set up in the courtyard. Looking directly into the lens, I spoke clearly: “I, Callie Lawson, am officially retiring from the entertainment industry today.” “As for this show—I’m done filming.”

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When my family found out that my severe clinical depression was caused by years of emotional neglect, they were suddenly consumed by overwhelming guilt. My father ordered my older sister, Whitney, to pack up her stuff and hand over her spacious, sunlit bedroom to me. My mother grabbed the brand-new designer clothes she’d just bought for Whitney and forced them into my hands. Even my younger brother, Toby—who had spent years treating me with open coldness—baked a birthday cake from scratch with his own hands. He held it out to me with wide, expectant eyes, wishing me a speedy recovery. Never mind that they had gotten my birthday completely wrong. Wanting so desperately not to disappoint them or waste their sudden effort, I forced myself to smile. And in the very next second, Toby smashed the cake directly into my face. “I told you she was faking!” he sneered. “If she were actually depressed, how could she smile so easily?” Whitney burst through the doorway, her eyes rimmed red with theatrical tears: “Sadie, if you wanted attention, you could have just asked for it! Why fake an illness and drive Mom and Dad crazy with worry?” I caught the sudden shift in my parents’ faces—the guilt vanishing, replaced instantly by cold, familiar disgust. Panicked, I opened my mouth to explain. But sticky, cloying frosting filled my throat, choking back every word. I could only watch with wide, helpless eyes as they dragged my threadbare blanket out of the bright room and shoved it back into the cramped closet-bedroom under the stairs. As Mom snatched the new clothes off my lap and handed them right back to Whitney. Slowly, my vision blurred. Only my parents’ sharp, venomous words echoed clearly through the quiet apartment: “Faking depression at your age just to compete with your sister for attention—are you trying to put us in an early grave?” “If I knew you’d turn out to be this manipulative, I would have smothered you the day you were born!” So, I swallowed the bitter, cloying cake. And I made the very first real wish of my life. “May Mom and Dad finally be happy after I die.” … My parents’ sharp insults completely drowned out my whisper-thin wish. “Ungrateful little brat! Your father and I are sick with rage, and you have the nerve to sit there eating cake?” A heavy slap landed across my cheek. I opened my eyes sluggishly, meeting my mother’s gaze, which burned with pure resentment. “Did we starve you? Did we withhold clothes? You staged this whole illness just to scare us?” “If you’re going to fake being suicidal, why don’t you have the decency to pull it off and die?” A dull, sharp pain stabbed through my long-numb heart. I stared at my mother, remembering how just minutes ago, she had cupped my face with tender hands and whispered: “Sadie-girl, as long as you get better, I’ll give you anything you want. Even if you asked for my own life, I’d give it to you.” It had felt like a dream. Now, the dream was over. She was back to her true self, glaring down at me with utter revulsion. “What, caught red-handed so now you’re playing mute?” Dad rubbed his temples, letting out a long, irritated sigh. “Your mother and I took over a month off work to cater to your ‘illness.’ Do you have any idea how much money we lost?” “We have three kids to raise! Money is tight enough as it is. Can’t you just be sensible for once instead of pulling these dramatic stunts?” I had heard variations of those exact words countless times before my diagnosis. When buying new clothes, they said: “There are three of you, Sadie. Be sensible and wear Whitney’s hand-me-downs.” When assigning bedrooms: “Be sensible, give the bigger rooms to your sister and brother, and take the small box room.” When planning family trips: “Be sensible, we can’t afford everyone. Stay home.” Every single time back then, I used to cry and fight back. “Whitney is older, Toby is stronger—why am I the only one who always has to be “sensible”?” After the depression took hold, I lost the strength to fight. And ironically, once I stopped fighting, they stopped demanding I be sensible. Instead, they kept swearing: “Sadie, as long as you stay healthy and alive, even if you tear down the sky, Mom and Dad will hold it up for you.” Seeing me sit motionless on the floor, Mom swung her hand again, landing another hard slap on my face. “Say something! What are you so unsatisfied with?!” My ears buzzed from the impact. Oddly, though, my face didn’t hurt. Neither did my heart. It only solidified the quiet truth in my mind: “Mom and Dad will only be happy if I’m dead.” So I shook my head softly. “I’m sorry. I’ll be sensible from now on.” Even if “sensible” meant quietly dying. That single sentence consumed every last drop of air in my lungs. Seeing me slump amidst the ruined cake and smeared cream, Toby curled his lip in contempt. “Tch. Look at her, acting fragile again.” I looked up at his cruel, adolescent face. Unbidden, memories from the past month flooded my mind. Because of severe somatization, my body would give out without warning, leaving me tumbling to the hard floor. Whenever he saw my skin covered in purple bruises, Toby’s eyes used to turn red with tears. He had become my shadow, trailing behind me everywhere. He would reach out to catch my hand right before I hit the ground. And if he couldn’t catch me, he’d throw himself underneath me to act as a human cushion. And now? Here I sat on top of the ruined cake he had baked, slathered in whipped cream, looking pathetically broken. He didn’t reach out to lift me up. Instead, he hurled a heavy, leather-bound notebook straight at my face. The sharp corner sliced across my cheekbone, drawing a thin line of red. He didn’t even flinch. He just sneered, “If Whitney hadn’t found your secret diary and showed it to us, we’d still be fooled by your little act!” With trembling hands, I picked up the journal and opened it. The handwriting was intimately familiar, but the words written inside were terrifyingly foreign. [June 1, 2026: Mom, Dad, and Toby went to that concert with Whitney and left me behind again. I hate her. Why can’t Whitney just die? What do I have to do to make them love me instead?] [June 7, 2026: Symptoms of severe depressive somatization: loss of speech, vacant eyes, rapid hair loss, total exhaustion, loss of taste… God, please help me act convincing enough!] [June 11, 2026: The whole family took me to the doctor today. When the doctor said I had clinical depression, Mom and Dad cried. Toby even bought me cotton candy—it tasted so sweet. I really am a genius!] I flipped through the pages, a cold wave of panic rising in my chest. The physical symptoms described on the page were exactly what I had suffered through. But I had “never” written this diary. My hands shook violently, and the journal slipped from my fingers, clattering to the floor. Desperate, I blurted out, “Mom, this wasn’t me—” “Sadie!” Whitney stepped forward, grabbing my wrist and cutting me off, her voice laced with sorrowful restraint. “I know you’re jealous because Mom and Dad love me, and I know how badly you wanted their attention. But you shouldn’t have resorted to this!” “Lies will only push the people who love you further away.” As she spoke, a tiny flash of triumphant malice glinted in her tear-stained eyes. In an instant, a memory slammed into me. Years ago, when I was first brought back from my grandparents’ house, I wanted so desperately to make Whitney like me. I used to offer to do her homework by copying her handwriting. Over time, my handwriting became a mirror image of hers. I turned my head and stared directly at Whitney. Before I could demand an explanation, she gasped, tears spilling over her lashes. “Sadie, why are you glaring at me like that? Don’t tell me you’re going to accuse “me” of writing that diary?” She looked like the ultimate picture of injured innocence. “You envy me so much? Fine! I’ll give you all of Mom and Dad’s love! I’ll give you Toby’s love too! But we’re sisters—how could you think I’m so evil?” I stared into her eyes, seeing the hidden cruelty dancing beneath the tears. “Is she not evil?” The year I was brought back to this house, my parents saw how thin and frail I was after living with my grandparents in the countryside. I was so terrified of taking up space that I barely dared to reach for food at the dinner table. Back then, Mom and Dad had cried, holding me tight, promising they would make up for all those lost years. Even Toby, who was younger then, had placed the best drumstick into my bowl, promising he’d protect his big sister. But that warmth didn’t last. When Whitney returned home from boarding school and found me living in her house, she threw a massive, screaming tantrum. When screaming didn’t work, she turned to quiet poison. She started whispering to Mom and Dad that she saw me overwatering Mom’s precious indoor plants until they rotted, that she saw me ripping up Dad’s work documents, that she saw me smashing Toby’s limited-edition action figures. Every time I tried to explain that it wasn’t me, Whitney would tear up and say gently: “Forget it, Mom. Sadie is young, and if she made a mistake, it’s my fault for not guiding her. Let me take the blame.” Repetitive drops of water hollow out stone. Over time, Mom, Dad, and Toby began to believe her. They decided I was uncultured, sneaky, and raised improperly by my grandparents. They grew to resent me. Their standards for me became impossible, their coldness absolute. And like those indoor plants Whitney secretly killed, I slowly withered away inside, until I became the ghost standing here today. Seeing me frozen, Mom roared at me in rage. “Sadie, are you done yet?!” “Faking an illness wasn’t enough? Now you’re trying to frame your sister?!” Dad shook his head, looking at me with pure, gut-wrenching disappointment. “If I had known you’d grow up to be this calculating and wretched, your mother and I never would have brought you into this world.” Their cold, murderous disgust pooled around me like ice water. I wanted to speak. I wanted to defend myself. But my mouth felt glued shut. I couldn’t utter a single sound. I could only sit there, paralyzed, as they listed every grievance they held against my existence. Mom said I was born a curse—that the hospital bills and administrative fines from my birth had wiped out their savings. Dad said ever since I returned to this house, there hadn’t been a single day of peace. Toby blamed me for my fake depression, claiming that catering to me had ruined his focus and ruined his high school entrance exam scores. Finally, the three of them looked at me with shared, terrible hatred. “Sadie… you really are the most useless, extra thing in this family.” With those words, they turned away. No one looked at me again. Under Whitney’s gentle coaxing, they went about their business. I sat motionless on the floor until the cream on my skin dried into a sticky, suffocating film. When dinner was ready, Mom called out in a voice like stone: “Clean yourself up and get over here to eat. Or are you expecting me to wait on you hand and foot?” I snapped out of my daze, scrambling awkwardly. “I’ll clean up right now. You guys go ahead and eat… I’m not hungry…” Ever since the depression had taken hold, my appetite had completely evaporated. Before today, every mealtime would feature Mom cooking a table full of my favorite dishes, sitting beside me, softly spoon-feeding me bite by bite. Now, hearing me say I wasn’t hungry, Mom slammed her fork onto the table. “Sadie! Everyone in this house knows you’ve been faking! How long are you going to keep up this pathetic act?!” Seeing the sharp rage in her eyes, I didn’t dare utter another word. I practically crawled to the table, sat down, and began shoveling dry rice into my mouth with frantic, desperate bites. “Mom, don’t be mad. See? I’m eating. I’m eating…” The dry rice burned my dry throat like sand, and my stomach heaved violently in protest. Yet my compliance only infuriated Mom further. As if she couldn’t take it for another second, she snatched my bowl away and slammed it down. “If you don’t want to eat, then get out of my sight!” I stared at her blankly, my hand hovering in midair, torn over whether I should keep eating. Suddenly, Dad’s phone alarm chimed. I recognized the chime immediately—it was the daily reminder set for my evening medication. Instinctively, I walked over to the side table and reached for the pill bottle. Before my fingers could unscrew the cap, Dad struck my hand down with a loud, ringing smack. “Why are you taking medication if you’re not sick?!” “You leech! A single bottle of this stuff costs over two hundred dollars. I’m going to see if the pharmacy will take it back.” The bottle rolled across the floor, and Dad scooped it up, turning his back on me. I watched his silhouette, quietly praying that the pharmacy would accept the return. Maybe then, he’d be a little less angry. Dinner ended in miserable silence. When Dad sat down on the living room sofa to watch TV, my body moved on pure habit. Over the past month, on the doctor’s recommendation, Dad would sit beside me every night and watch warm, uplifting family movies with me. I walked over and sat down on the far cushion next to him. The moment I sat, the terrifying roar of a chainsaw shrieked from the speakers. Dad was watching a violent horror movie. Seeing me shiver uncontrollably, my face draining of all color, Dad scowled with immense irritation. “If you don’t want to watch, get the hell out.” I swallowed hard, pulled myself up, and dragged my feet back toward my tiny box room under the stairs. No food. No medicine. My stomach wasn’t hungry, but my brain was alive with a terrifying, chaotic nightmare of memories. Flash: I was six years old. Mom and Dad had dropped me off at my grandparents’ house in the countryside so they could prepare for Toby’s birth. I remembered sprinting down the dirt road behind their receding car, screaming until my lungs bled. Flash: I was twelve, on a freezing winter night. Whitney accused me of stealing money from Mom’s purse. Mom threw me out into the snow, shutting out my frantic, weeping explanations. Flash: I was eighteen, during Christmas break. We were driving for a family vacation, and because I misspoke during an argument, Dad pulled over onto the shoulder of the highway and left me behind in the cold. During the dark days of my depression, whenever these memories surfaced, I would break down, screaming in terror. And every time, Mom and Dad would hold me close, whispering gently: “Sadie, don’t think about it. That’s all in the past. We’re going to treat you right from now on. We promise.” But tonight… when I couldn’t stop the quiet sob from escaping my throat, the only response was Dad viciously kicking my bedroom door from the hallway. “Sadie! Shut the hell up! Crying, crying, crying—you’re wailing like someone died! You’re sucking all the peace out of this home!” Through the thin door, I heard Mom’s cold, dismissive voice: “Ignore her. Let’s all go out for a walk. She’ll stop her little show once she realizes no one’s listening.” Footsteps receded. The heavy front door clicked shut. Silence descended on the house. Yet inside my head, the noise grew deafeningly loud. “Sadie, why don’t you just die?” “Sadie, you’re extra. You were never meant to be here.” “Sadie, you liar. A fake. Mom and Dad will never love you… unless you prove you were really broken.” My exhausted, shattered body suddenly found a surge of terrifying strength. In a daze, I crawled toward the small window in my room. Looking through the dusty glass, I saw them. Mom and Dad were holding Whitney and Toby’s hands, all four of them walking side by side under the streetlights, laughing and talking as they walked into the distance. “Look at that,” I thought softly. “Without me, they really are happy.” I didn’t hesitate anymore. I pushed the window open, spread my arms into the cool night air, and stepped out into the dark. The moment my body slammed against the concrete below, I caught a brief, fleeting glimpse of my father turning his head back in the distance, his eyes wide with sudden, unimaginable horror.

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On my birthday, my wife trended on social media with another man. Tim had posted a photo wearing the limited-edition luxury watch I was supposed to unwrap that night. “My favorite little girl sure knows how to show respect,” his caption read. “Gave Papa her husband’s birthday present to wear first. Come kneel and thank me, and I might just grant you a kiss.” The image breaking the internet was a close-up of the two of them, mouths pressed together in an intimate, breathless kiss. Moments later, Adriana called me. “Tim was just messing around,” she said, her voice smooth, devoid of any real apology. “Don’t make a scene over this. I’ll make it up to you.” A notification chimed on my phone a second later: a wire transfer for one million dollars. In our social circle, the high-society trust-fund heirs were having a field day. They mocked me in private group chats, whispering that I couldn’t even hold my ground against my wife’s “guy best friend.” I accepted the money. My heart rate didn’t even spike. I didn’t care. Not anymore. Because three months ago, the System had given me a singular rule: every single cent I made in this world could be transferred back to my real life. I had given Adriana five years of my life. I wasn’t about to walk away empty-handed. Thirty days left. Just thirty more days, and I’d return home as a very, very wealthy man. … Tim posted another update. In the photo, Adriana was asleep on his sofa, her head resting on his shoulder. He angled his face close to hers, holding a single finger to his lips in a “shh” gesture. “Insisted on keeping up with me all night,” he wrote. “My good girl completely wore herself out.” The comments under the post were predictable. “Haha, you really broke her, didn’t you?” “Damn, Tim, the husband’s position is looking real fragile right now!” My phone buzzed relentlessly with direct messages. The guys-only group chat was practically on fire. “Larry, if you don’t put a leash on your wife, get the hell out of this chat. If you’re not embarrassed, we are.” “Letting her ‘platonic bestie’ walk all over you like this? How do you even look in the mirror?” I scrolled through the messages without replying. Sitting alone at the grand dining table, I continued eating my birthday dinner. When I swallowed the last bite of cake, I opened Tim’s post and gave it a polite like. I typed out a comment: “Thanks for looking out for her. She snores when she sleeps like that—make sure to put a blanket over her so she doesn’t catch a chill.” After posting, I opened my banking app to check the transaction history. One million dollars deposited tonight. Nice. At one in the morning, just as I was drifting off to sleep, Adriana called. “Larry!” Her voice was raspy, heavy with sleep. “What the hell is happening online? What did you do?” “I didn’t do anything,” I said mildly. “How is that possible? My parents just called me in a panic!” She was furious now. “I spent a little time playing games with my best friend—is that really worth turning into a national scandal? Do you care about my family’s reputation at all?” So, she cared about her reputation now. My voice remained entirely flat. “Adriana, the people who made a spectacle online were you and Tim. Not me.” “Stop acting so innocent!” She let out a sharp, disdainful sneer. “Today was your birthday. I wasn’t home, and you didn’t call me even once to nag me to come back. That isn’t like you!” “Not today,” I said, looking at the glowing digits on my phone. “It’s past midnight. Yesterday was my birthday.” Adriana went quiet for a beat. “So what?” she snapped, though her tone faltered slightly. “You never used to be like this. You used to blow up my phone until I came home……” I let out a soft laugh. I truly couldn’t follow her logic anymore. “You were spending quality time with your best friend,” I said softly. “If I kept calling to drag you home, wouldn’t I be disrespecting your bond?” Silence stretched across the line. She was right about one thing: I didn’t used to be like this. I used to scream. I used to break things. I used to cry until my throat burned. I used to drive out to Tim’s loft, corner him, and throw punches. But even knowing how much it destroyed me, Adriana refused to cut ties with him. Instead, she blamed me for being unreasonable, for being insecure. “He’s my brother!” she used to yell at me. “When you lay a finger on him, you’re disrespecting me!” Once, she abandoned me to go skateboarding with Tim. We had hired a surrogate who was five months pregnant with our child. I had just picked up the ultrasound reports with the surrogate when Tim came tearing down the concrete path on his board and slammed straight into her. The collision was brutal. We lost the baby that night. When Adriana arrived at the hospital, her expression was indifferent. “He didn’t mean it,” she had said coldly. “Who knew your surrogate was made of glass?” Then, she transferred a million dollars into my account. “Let it go,” she told me. “We can always hire another surrogate later.” She used a million dollars to buy out the life of our unborn child. That night, lying on the hospital cot, I stared at the confirmation page on my phone for hours. And then, I started laughing. I laughed until my chest ached, until tears burned my eyes. It was a bitter, hollow sound. That was the night I remembered the System’s original prompt. [Task: Win Adriana’s heart and stay married to her for five years. Upon completion, you may return to the real world.] [Special Bonus: Any wealth accumulated in this world can be transferred to your real-world bank account.] I had long forgotten about the mission because I had genuinely fallen in love with Adriana. I had wanted to build a real life here with her. But I didn’t want to love her anymore. From that day forward, I started counting down the days. When the five-year mark arrived, I would leave. And I would take every single cent I could get my hands on. The next morning, Adriana came home. She walked into the dining room carrying a bakery box, wearing an expectant smile that practically begged for gratitude. “I stood in line at seven this morning to get your favorite chestnut sponge cake,” she said, setting it in front of me. “Eat up.” I glanced at the cake. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” Her smile froze. “I’m severely allergic to chestnuts.” Annoyance flashed in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a sudden, jarring panic. I gave her a polite, unbothered smile. “Don’t you remember? Last year, Tim blended chestnuts into a powder and told me it was a protein smoothie. I drank it and ended up in the ICU.” My voice stayed conversational. “Back then, you told me Tim was just careless and didn’t mean anything by it.” Her mouth opened slightly. A rare pang of guilt washed over her face. “I…… I forgot.” “It’s fine,” I waved my hand dismissively and took my seat at the table. “You’re a busy woman. You can’t be expected to remember every little detail.” Adriana watched me, her gaze analytical, searching my face for a crack in the armor. “Larry…… are you really not angry?” I chuckled, taking a slow sip of my warm milk. “What is there to be angry about? If I had to guess, Tim was the one who suggested you pick up chestnut cake in the first place, wasn’t he?” She parted her lips to explain, but I cut her off gently. “He loves chestnut cake,” I said softly. “It makes complete sense that you’d buy one for him and grab an extra while you were at it. The fact that you thought of bringing one home to me at all is already very sweet.” Adriana stared at me, her expression a messy knot of confusion and guilt. I didn’t look at her again. I quietly ate the breakfast our butler, Frank, had already prepared for me. The grand gesture of bringing me breakfast was a performative act she was late to—Frank had already taken care of it. We ate the rest of the meal in silence. “There’s a company gala tomorrow night,” she said finally, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “I want you to come with me.” It was her classic routine. Every time she stepped out of line, she insisted on dragging me to public events to prove to the world that our marriage was as rock-solid as ever. I pondered it for a second. “Sure. But I’ll need a new suit and a pair of cuff links.” She visibly breathed a sigh of relief. My lack of resistance meant, in her mind, that the storm had passed. She immediately pulled out her phone and wired me five hundred thousand dollars. “Let me know if you need more.” It was more than enough. My closet was lined with custom suits I had bought for past galas. But if she was offering cash, I wasn’t going to turn it down. It had taken me four years to realize that cash was the only thing in this house that wouldn’t betray me. The next night, I arrived at the gala wearing a silver-grey bespoke suit, accessorized with diamond cuff links Adriana had gifted me years ago. Tim was already there. He was wearing a champagne-colored silk suit, cut low at the neck to show off his chest. When he spotted me, he smirked loudly enough for half the room to hear. “Look who it is! My girl actually brought her husband out tonight!” He stepped up, scanning me from head to toe. “Look at you, all dapper. This suit must’ve set you back a few hundred grand, huh?” “It was alright,” I replied coolly. “Thirty-eight thousand.” Tim’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second. My suit was significantly more expensive than his. A waiter carrying a tray of champagne walked past us. Tim executed a sudden, clumsy turn, deliberately brushing against the tray and sending a full flute of champagne splashing across his own chest. “Oh no!” he gasped dramatically. The amber liquid soaked down his front, turning the light silk a dark, ugly yellow. “I’m supposed to give a speech on stage in twenty minutes……” he whined, looking helpless. Adriana frowned, her eyes immediately darting to me. “Larry…… could you swap suits with him?” I remained silent. Tim playfully smacked Adriana on the head. “Hey, little girl, I’m wearing yours! Just take yours off and give it to me, hurry up.” Adriana blushed slightly. “Stop messing around. I have to go on stage later, too.” Then, her eyes locked onto me again. This time, it wasn’t a request. It was an order. I offered a perfectly practiced, polite smile. “Take mine.” Tim’s eyes gleamed with instant triumph. “Larry, you’re a real pal!” We walked into the VIP restroom to swap clothes. The moment the heavy door clicked shut behind us, the easy smile vanished from Tim’s face. “How do you tolerate this?” he asked, staring at me with pure contempt. I unbuttoned my jacket, my voice completely tranquil. “What do you mean? You’re her best friend. Helping you out is the right thing to do, isn’t it?” He let out a cold snort, taking the silver-grey jacket from my hands and slipping into it with agonizing slowness. It fit him like a glove. He turned in front of the mirror, admiring himself. “Honestly, I thought this suit looked tacky when I first saw it.” He glanced at my reflection through the glass. “Every piece of clothing Adriana gives you is something I rejected first.” I smiled softly, entirely unbothered. “Then you definitely made a mistake passing on this one.” I reached out to pick up his stained champagne suit from the counter. Tim casually let his hand slip, letting the dirty jacket tumble straight into the toilet bowl. “Oops. My hand slipped,” he said, his eyes glittering with smug malice. My expression faltered just enough to satisfy him. I was standing there in my undershirt and trousers. Tim grabbed the cuffs of his trousers, spun around on his designer leather shoes, and walked out, the heavy wooden door closing with a firm click. As soon as he was gone, I reached into my pocket and stopped the audio recording on my phone. Then, I dialed Adriana’s number. She picked up on the second ring. “Larry—” “Hey, stop talking on the phone, we’re up next—” Tim’s voice cut in through her speaker. The line went dead. When I tried calling back, her phone was switched off. I took a deep breath, dialed the hotel front desk, and spoke clearly into the receiver. “Hi, please send a size medium staff uniform to the main floor VIP restroom.” Ten minutes later, dressed in a plain black hotel polo and cargo pants, I slipped out of the venue through the service exit. By the time I reached home, my phone rang again. Adriana’s voice erupted with rage the moment I answered. “Where the hell did you go without telling me? Tim said you threw his thirty-thousand-dollar suit into the toilet! You need to pay him back right now!” I didn’t answer. I simply tapped on the audio file I had recorded in the restroom and sent it directly to her chat. Two minutes passed in absolute silence. Then, a voice note arrived from Adriana. “Tim didn’t mean it…… don’t take it to heart.” “He’s wearing your suit home tonight. I’ll reimburse you for it.” My phone buzzed with a bank notification. “Four hundred thousand dollars deposited.” I accepted the transfer, locked my phone, turned over, and fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. Twenty-five days left. The following morning, I began quietly liquidating my assets. Over the years, Adriana had transferred two luxury villas, ten prime commercial storefronts, and two plots of land into my name. I didn’t make a grand spectacle of it. Instead, I hired a discreet, high-end real estate broker to list everything quietly. My only condition was speed: sell at slightly below market value, but close as fast as humanly possible. The broker looked at me in surprise. “Mr. Vance—sorry, Mr. Larry—are you in urgent need of cash?” I nodded serenely. “Yes. I’m preparing to make a quick exit.” The broker chuckled, assuming I was pulling his leg. When I returned home that evening, Adriana and Tim were already sitting at the dining table. Frank had just finished serving a spread of elaborate dishes. “Here, try this, it’s amazing,” Tim said, using his own chopsticks to drop a piece of braised pork into Adriana’s bowl. Then, with casual familiarity, he reached into her bowl with the same chopsticks, picked out the green peppers she hated, and popped them into his own mouth. It was an exchange so practiced it looked like second nature. When Tim noticed me entering, he looked up with a easy grin. “Larry’s back! Come on, sit down and eat!” I sat across from them. Tim continued heaping food onto Adriana’s plate. I glanced at the serving utensils sitting untouched in the center of the table. Tim noticed my gaze and laughed it off. “Oh, come on, Larry. Adriana and I go way back. We don’t need to be so formal with serving spoons.” I said nothing, quietly eating the food in my own bowl. Adriana set her chopsticks down and cleared her throat softly. “Larry, I wanted to talk to you about something.” She paused, taking a breath. “Tim’s baby is going to be born soon. He wants to raise the child as a single father.” My hand holding the fork stilled for a fraction of a second. Tim was staring down at an ultrasound photo on his phone, a smug, triumphant smirk playing on his lips. “But his parents are extremely traditional,” Adriana continued, her fingers nervously twisting together. “They refuse to accept him being a single dad and are threatening to force the child into adoption.” She took a breath, watching my face closely. “So…… I was thinking I could enter a temporary, fake marriage with him. Just to get his parents off his back and secure the child’s legal birth certificate. Once the baby’s registered, we’ll get divorced immediately.” She emphasized quickly, “It’s just helping out a friend. It doesn’t mean anything.” I held my bowl, perfectly composed on the outside while a wave of pure, unadulterated thrill washed over me. I had been wondering how to extract one final, massive payout from her before my time was up. I looked up at the two of them. “Whose baby is it?” Tim waved a hand carelessly. “Who cares? Some girl from a party. I’m raising it on my own regardless.” Adriana frowned at him. “Watch your mouth.” I laid my utensils down, my tone entirely flat. “Fine. We can get divorced. But how are we dividing the property?” Adriana froze. “It’s a fake divorce, why would we divide anything? Don’t you trust me?” I shook my head slowly. “Then you transfer everything to my name and walk away with nothing.” I locked eyes with her, speaking each word deliberately. “Do “you” trust “me”?” Adriana’s lips parted, entirely caught off guard. Tim crossed his arms, leaning back with an annoyed scowl. “Walk away with nothing? On what grounds? Are you insane?” I ignored Tim entirely, keeping my eyes fixed on my wife. Adriana remained silent for a few agonizing seconds. “I have to keep the company under my name for operational reasons,” she said slowly. “Everything else…… I’ll sign over to you.” I nodded cleanly. “Deal.” Tim’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief. “Are you out of your mind? What if he—” Adriana offered a confident, relaxed smile. “I trust Larry. Besides, we’ll be remarrying in six months anyway.” I offered her a polite smile in return, choosing not to say a single word. The look Tim hurled at me was no longer just petty jealousy. It was poison. A few days later, Adriana and Tim publicly announced their sudden engagement online: “My best friend is about to become my forever family.” Social media exploded instantly. Old rumors and gossip were dragged back into the light. In front of a swarm of paparazzi, Tim officially moved his luggage into the estate. Adriana pulled me aside, whispering softly, “We have to make it look convincing for the media.” I shook my head gently. “I don’t mind.” I didn’t care. I had one week left. On the day we went to the family court to file for divorce, the entrance was swarming with reporters. Camera flashes went off like lightning strikes. “Ms. Adriana, are you divorcing your husband due to an extramarital affair?” “Mr. Larry, how do you feel about your wife marrying her best friend?” Adriana frowned, reaching out to block the camera lenses. I calmly wrapped my arm through hers, facing the reporters with a relaxed, composed smile. “Adriana signed over all her personal real estate and cash assets to me in the settlement,” I said clearly into the microphones. “What do I have to be unhappy about? Very few women in the world are this generous.” The crowd of journalists went dead silent. Someone whispered loudly in the back, “Damn, so Larry traded his dignity for a paycheck.” Adriana looked up at me, a flick of deep guilt flashing through her eyes. I simply maintained a refined, dignified smile. Inside the building, we filled out the paperwork, signed the agreements, and took the final photographs. When the clerk handed over the finalized divorce certificates, Adriana took hers, her expression deeply unsettled. “Larry…… I’m really sorry about all this.” I smiled softly. “If you’re truly feeling guilty, why don’t you transfer a portion of your company stock to me as well?” I said it lightly, as if making a casual joke. She thought about it for a moment. “Fine. I’ll give you ten percent.” Within two hours, her corporate lawyer drafted the “Equity Transfer Agreement”, and we both signed it without hesitation. As I walked out of the courthouse doors, Tim was waiting outside, leaning against a luxury sports car. The moment he saw us, he stepped forward and wrapped his arm around Adriana’s waist, pulling her toward the marriage registration window. A seamless transition. Very typical of Tim. Flashy, reckless, and entirely unbothered by public decency. Back at the house, I began packing my remaining belongings into a single suitcase. Adriana grabbed my wrist, stopping me. “Why don’t you just stay here? You can help me take care of Tim while he’s recovering.” I glanced down at her hand, then up at her face. “If I stay, what will Tim’s conservative parents think when they come over and see the ex-husband living in the guest room?” Adriana bit her lip, realizing her oversight. “Then…… at least stay until after the wedding,” she pleaded softly. “If you attend and give us your blessing, the rumors outside won’t be so vicious.” I glanced at the digital calendar on my phone. The wedding was scheduled in three days. The very last day of my five-year term. “Sure,” I smiled gently. “I’ll be there.” It was the perfect timing to deliver my final gift.

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The entertainment industry was in the middle of a brutal winter, but I was thriving on two fronts: as an A-list leading man on camera, and as the shadow boss behind the biggest PR smear network in Hollywood off camera. With tens of thousands of burner accounts and an ungodly stockpile of industry dirt at my fingertips, I had made countless toxic elite figures vanish overnight. After winning Best Actor at the Academy Awards, my mainstream career skyrocketed. I was planning to sunset the side hustle for good—until a high-paying, encrypted client dropped an outrageous sum into my private portal. “I want you to completely destroy someone.” “My biological son.” My core team went dead silent in the group chat. She sent a voice note over the encrypted app. Her voice was flat, devoid of any discernible warmth. “I have an adopted son who grew up with me. When he launched his career, he was brutally cyberbullied. He developed severe clinical depression and slashed his wrists twice.” “And my biological son—fully aware of what happened—constantly flexes in his face anyway.” “Best Actor trophy today. A major luxury global campaign tomorrow. A magazine cover the day after.” “I want him to taste what it feels like to fall from the sky. But I can’t bring myself to do it directly.” “So I want your team to use the most ruthless, professional methods to leave his reputation in ashes.” As a son myself, my hand holding the mouse went entirely numb. She added another line: “Don’t worry, I don’t want his life. I just want to take him down a peg.” “Smear him for a month. Ruin every project he has lined up.” “My adopted son was dragged through the mud for three years. One month for my birth son is more than fair.” In our private group chat, a few of my key operatives were already rubbing their hands together, eager for the massive payday. I took a sharp breath, preparing to reject this morally bankrupt contract. Then the client sent a password-protected zip file. “Here is the target.” I clicked on the first folder. My own face stared back at me from the screen. …… 1 “Boss… the guy in these photos… isn’t that Logan Archer? The guy who just won Best Actor?” Kyle, my second-in-command in the network, sent a quick voice message. Shock leaked through every syllable. I stared at the monitor. Lying inside the folder was a digitized copy of my intake records from the Oakwood Psychiatric Recovery Center in Chicago, dated back when I was eighteen years old. The watermark was thick across the pages. In the bottom right corner, signed in neat, precise script, was my full name. A sharp, dull ache clamped around my chest, spreading through my ribcage. The year my father died in a head-on collision, I couldn’t pull myself out of the wreckage. I spiraled into severe clinical depression. It was my mother who held my hand, guiding me into that facility to check me in. She had stroked my hair back then, tears brimming in her reddened eyes, swearing to me: “Don’t be afraid, Logan. Mom is here. I will take this secret to my grave.” Now, the woman who swore she would protect me was selling my deepest trauma to the highest bidder on the internet. I typed on my keyboard, switching to the encrypted private chat. “Client, the legal risk on this order is too high.” “Leaking sensitive dirt on an A-lister like this—if we get exposed for defamation, we’re looking at millions in legal damages.” The status at the top of the chat box flickered: “Typing…” Helena Archer didn’t hesitate for a single second. “It isn’t defamation.” “He had severe clinical depression. He was on Prozac for two years. He spent four full months locked in a psych ward.” “A man with a history of mental instability doesn’t deserve to sit on a pedestal under the spotlight.” I read those lines, the coldness creeping slowly down to my fingertips. An icy chill bled from the marrow of my bones, paralyzing me. I forced a deep breath and kept typing, trying to erect a wall. “Even if it’s true, invading medical privacy is illegal. Nocturne doesn’t touch jobs with zero ethical boundaries.” “Money isn’t an issue.” Helena sent a screenshot of a wire transfer. “A two-million-dollar deposit has already hit your offshore escrow account.” “I don’t need you to be the original source.” “Tonight at 11:50 PM, I will use an anonymous offshore burner email to send the original documents directly to his three biggest rival talent agencies.” “Your job is simple: once the leak breaks, push the scandal into the top three trending topics nationwide.” She paused, then sent one last message. “If you won’t take it, I’ll hire another agency.” “But everyone in the industry knows Nocturne has the most bulletproof push algorithm. I need guaranteed destruction.” The digital clock in the top corner of my monitor ticked forward. 11:45 PM. Five minutes left. My fingers tightened around the mouse until my knuckles turned stark white. An offshore burner email, scheduled delivery, sent to my three fiercest industry rivals. Helena had blocked every single exit. She knew I had plenty of ruthless enemies in Hollywood. She knew it better than anyone. The moment that email went out, those rival agencies would spend millions to make sure the scandal suffocated my career entirely. If I turned down this contract, she would simply hire another PR smear firm. And when that happened, the narrative machine would spin completely out of my control. “Boss, are we taking it? The boys are waiting,” Kyle pressed in the group chat. I bit down on the inside of my lip so hard I tasted copper. My throat felt plugged with bloody cotton. The biological son Helena insisted “deserved to fall from the clouds”—was me. The victim she was trying to avenge by destroying me—was also me. And she had no idea that she was handing the butcher’s knife straight into my hands. 11:48 PM. I picked up my personal phone and dialed Helena’s private line. It rang three times before she answered. “Logan? Sweetheart, why aren’t you asleep?” Helena’s voice was warm, dripping with the familiar, gentle concern of a loving mother. “Mom,” I said, straining to keep my tone steady. “What are you doing right now?” “Just finished some late work, getting ready to take a shower. What about you? Don’t you have that major global luxury campaign announcement tomorrow? You need your rest.” She brought up the campaign. It was the Cartier contract that Tyler—her adopted son—had been envying for two straight weeks. “Yeah. I’m going to sleep soon. Mom… have you run into any trouble lately?” “No, darling. Why do you ask out of nowhere?” She let out a soft laugh, her tone as light and breezy as if we were discussing the weekend weather. “Nothing. Just missed you. Goodnight.” “Goodnight, sweetie.” I hung up. I stared at the cold, glowing digital countdown on my monitor. 11:50 PM. In that exact instant, the global trending topics page suddenly exploded with a brand-new, deep-red tag: #LoganArcherPsychHistory Helena hadn’t waited for 11:50 PM. She had hit send early. The emails went out faster than I anticipated, and my rivals didn’t hesitate for a fraction of a second to pour gas on the fire. In the private portal, Helena sent one final message: “The leak is live. Get to work.” I covered my face with my hands, but no tears came. On the desk, my phone began to vibrate violently. My manager, Sam, was calling. The second I hit answer, his panicked, desperate voice almost shattered my eardrum. “Logan! What the hell are these medical records online?! The luxury brand just put an emergency freeze on the contract! Talk to me!” 2 By 2:00 AM, the crisis management room at my agency was lit up like a stadium. Sam slammed a thick stack of printed web articles down onto the glass table. “We can’t suppress it! We physically cannot drown this out!” “Whoever leaked this went straight for the jugular—the facility ID, the attending doctor’s signature, everything is authentic! A simple search verifies the whole paper trail!” His eyes were bloodshot as he stared at me. “Logan, tell me the truth. Aside from your mother, who else knew about this?” I sat in the corner of the leather sofa, watching the steam fade from my cooling cup of black coffee. “Nobody else.” “Then who leaked it?! We already served legal notices to Oakwood Recovery Center, but the internet doesn’t care about privacy violations—they only care if a top-billed actor with a psych record is going to snap on set!” Sam paced the room like a caged animal. “The director of “The Long Dark” just called. They’re officially reconsidering the lead role.” “You know Tyler’s team has been circling that project for weeks! Now that you’re in the mud, all those resources are going straight into his lap!” At the mention of Tyler’s name, I finally lifted my eyes. “Let him have it.” “What did you just say? Have you lost your mind?!” Sam stared at me, dumbfounded. “I said, don’t fight him for it. Let it cool off.” I stood up, grabbing my coat off the back of the chair. “Sam, trust me this once. Don’t make any sudden moves.” When I pushed open the front door of my house, the sky was already turning a pale grey. The house was empty, saved for a single warm nightlight burning in the foyer. At precisely 8:00 AM, the doorbell rang. I walked over to open it. Helena was standing on the porch, holding a warm brown bag from an artisanal bakery across town. “Logan, you haven’t eaten breakfast yet, have you?” She slipped off her shoes and walked into the kitchen with familiar ease, unpacking gourmet pastries and fresh breakfast boxes onto the island. The rich scent of butter and coffee filled the air. She turned around, looking at my pale, exhausted face, her eyebrows knitting together in deep distress. “I saw the news online. Don’t be afraid, Logan. Mom has already reached out to the top privacy attorneys in the city. We will find whoever leaked this.” She pulled out a chair for me. “Eat something first. Your stomach is delicate, you can’t skip meals.” I stood in place, watching her in complete silence. Those hands—the very same hands that, just hours ago, tapped away on a keyboard to transfer two million dollars to ruin me. Now, those hands were carefully peeling a hard-boiled egg, setting it gently onto a porcelain plate in front of me. “Mom.” “Hmm?” She looked up, her gaze overflowing with maternal heartache. “Who do you think put my medical records on the internet?” Helena’s hand paused for a fraction of a second—so brief it was almost imperceptible. “I don’t know, darling. Maybe an unethical employee at Oakwood looking to make a quick buck. Or maybe one of your rivals paid off someone at the clinic.” She wiped her fingers with a napkin, walked over, and gently patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry. If the sky falls, Mom will hold it up for you. I already talked to Tyler—I told him to clear his schedule and come spend time with you.” I couldn’t stop the soft, bitter laugh that escaped my lips. “What’s funny?” she asked smoothly. “Nothing. I just thought… it’s really nice having a mother.” Helena let out a quiet sigh, her expression growing even softer. “Silly boy. I’m your mother. Who else would I be good to if not you?” Her phone, sitting face-up on the island, lit up. The screen wasn’t locked. A preview banner from a messaging app popped up. It was from Tyler. “Mom, did you see the news? Logan is getting destroyed, he even lost the luxury deal. Are we being a little too harsh on him?” Helena had her back turned, pouring a glass of warm milk, and missed the notification. I lowered my eyes, locking my gaze onto the screen. Ten seconds later, Helena walked back with the glass. She picked up her phone, glanced at it, and her expression didn’t shift by a single millimeter. Her thumbs flew effortlessly across the glass. I didn’t need to look to know what she replied. Because in the admin portal of Nocturne, just seconds ago, a new directive had come in from Helena’s alternate account. “Double the pressure. Mix in fake stories about him being abusive to crew members early in his career.” “I want him to have nowhere left to stand by the end of today.” I lifted the glass of milk and took a slow sip. It was sweet. So sweet it made my stomach turn. “Mom… what if I’m really forced out of Hollywood?” I asked softly. Helena sat back down, meeting my eyes with unwavering warmth. “Then you leave. The industry is too toxic anyway—it was never suitable for someone as sensitive as you. You just stay home, and Mom will take care of you for the rest of your life.” Her voice was laced with pure sincerity. Every word carried the undeniable weight of an adoring, self-sacrificing mother. I nodded slowly, picking up the egg she had peeled for me. “Okay.” 3 By the third day, the narrative momentum had turned me into a pariah across the internet. Nocturne’s execution was terrifyingly efficient. Truth mixed seamlessly with meticulously crafted fabrications, rolling over my reputation like a tidal wave. Outlets that had praised my work ethic days ago were now publishing deep dives into my supposed “early signs of mental instability.” At 10:00 AM, I received a formal notice from the corporate legal team. I was required to report to headquarters immediately. Helena insisted on driving me. “In your current state, I can’t let you go alone. What if you run into unhinged anti-fans?” She held the steering wheel with a firm grip, her tone grave. I sat in the passenger seat, watching the city skyline drift past the window. “All right. Thanks, Mom.” The moment her car pulled into the executive underground garage, Tyler’s luxury SUV pulled up right beside us. He stepped out wearing a tailored high-fashion suit, stepping toward us with a look of perfectly calibrated concern. “Logan! Are you okay? I just got back from my audition for “The Long Dark”, and the second I heard you were coming to headquarters, I rushed right over.” He reached out, attempting to pat my arm, but I subtly stepped out of reach. Tyler’s hand froze mid-air. His eyes welled up with instant tears. “Logan… are you still blaming me? Honestly, regarding that luxury endorsement… I had no idea the brand would turn around and offer it to me.” Helena’s eyebrows instantly shot up. She took a swift step forward, placing herself directly between me and Tyler. “Logan, what is wrong with you? Tyler is just showing concern for you! The brand made its own choice—what does that have to do with him?” Her voice wasn’t loud, but the bite of maternal disapproval was unmistakable. “I don’t blame him,” I said, eyeing the mother and son duo. “I just don’t like people touching me.” “You never used to be like this,” Helena sighed, her voice heavy with tragic disappointment. “Is it because the stress is too much… and your condition is…” She trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished. But the unspoken words hung in the air like a blade. “Your condition is relapsing.” That was the exact signal she wanted to broadcast to everyone around us. The elevator rode straight to the executive boardroom on the top floor. When I pushed the door open, the entire senior leadership team was seated around the long conference table. Sam sat at the far end, his face ash-grey. “Logan. Have a seat,” CEO Richard Davies said, pointing to an empty chair directly across from him. Helena walked in behind me, pulling out the adjacent chair and sitting down. “Mr. Davies, Logan’s psychological state is extremely fragile right now. As his mother, I need to be present for this conversation.” Richard nodded curtly, sliding a thick document across the polished wood toward me. “Logan, you’ve seen the news. The agency spent incredible resources trying to protect you, but our brand sponsors have formed a coalition. They are demanding immediate contract terminations and millions in liquidated damages.” “On top of that, the producers of “The Long Dark” have officially served us notice. Your lead actor contract has been terminated.” I looked down at the stark black ink on the white paper. “And?” “And so, after a board vote, the company has decided to terminate your representation contract effective immediately.” Richard tapped his fingers on the table. “Of course, considering how much revenue you’ve generated for us in the past, the agency will swallow half of the total breach penalties. The remaining half… you will need to cover out of pocket.” Five million dollars. That was the number I was expected to pay. Sam bolted out of his chair. “Mr. Davies! That isn’t fair! Logan doesn’t have a dangerous mental illness—it was psychological trauma from saving a life years ago!” “Shut up, Sam!” I cut him off sharply. Sam froze, staring at me in utter shock. Helena turned her head toward me, a flash of panic darting through her eyes before she buried it deep beneath her composed facade. “Sam, facts are facts. There’s no point in making excuses,” I said calmly, twirling a pen between my fingers. Helena seized the opportunity effortlessly. “Mr. Davies, Logan genuinely needs to take a step back and rest. Honestly, Tyler’s career momentum has been phenomenal lately. If the agency is willing to reallocate Logan’s remaining project slate to Tyler… I will personally cover Logan’s five-million-dollar penalty.” The room went entirely silent. Richard and the executives exchanged quick, calculating looks. Behind Helena’s chair, Tyler tried—and failed—to keep the triumphant smirk from curling the corners of his lips. This was Helena’s ultimate objective. To use my complete annihilation to pave a golden highway for her adopted son. And to do it while cementing her saintly, devoted mother persona in front of the entire industry. “A mother’s love really is something else,” Richard mused, sliding another document toward Tyler. “In that case, Tyler, come sign the transition agreement.” Tyler stepped forward, trying desperately to mask his wild excitement as he picked up the pen. “Hold on.” My voice cut through the warm, celebratory atmosphere like a shattered sheet of ice. 4 Everyone turned to stare at me. Helena frowned, her voice dropping into a stern whisper. “Logan, don’t throw a tantrum. Mom is trying to save you.” “Save me?” My face remained entirely expressionless as I tossed the pen onto the glass tabletop with a dull “clack”. “No need. I’ll pay my own damages. And as for my projects… nobody touches them.” Tyler looked at Helena with wide, pitiful eyes. “Mom… is Logan getting worse? He’s talking nonsense…” Before he could finish, the heavy boardroom doors were pushed open with sudden force. A breathless young assistant stood in the doorway, clutching the handle. “Mr. Davies! Director Lawrence Drake is here! He brought his entire legal team!” The air in the room instantly turned to stone. Lawrence Drake. The most acclaimed director in modern cinema. An elusive recluse who held a mountain of international awards and answered to no studio. Why on earth was he here? Before anyone could regain their composure, a middle-aged man in a sharp black trench coat strode into the room. Behind him, a fleet of high-powered corporate attorneys carrying leather briefcases exuded a terrifying, ice-cold authority. Richard’s face immediately melted into a groveling, sycophantic smile as he rushed to greet him. “Director Drake! What an unexpected honor! You could have just called—please, take a seat!” Lawrence didn’t even grant him a glance. His sharp eyes swept across the boardroom before locking firmly onto me. Seeing this, Helena immediately grabbed my arm, shifting her body to block me from his view. “Director Drake, hello. I am Logan Archer’s mother. I am so deeply sorry about the scandal online. Logan’s psychological state is completely unstable right now. If he has offended you in any way, I apologize on his behalf.” Helena’s tone was polite, but every word was designed to nail down the narrative that I was out of my mind. Tyler seized the moment, stepping forward with a polished, humble smile. “Director Drake, my brother is unwell and unable to continue working. If you have any upcoming projects that require auditions, I am fully available.” “Who the hell are you to audition for my film?” Lawrence’s cold, rasping voice cut Tyler down where he stood. Tyler’s face flushed an intense, burning red. He froze instantly. Lawrence walked straight up to me. Behind him, one of his attorneys smoothly pulled out a chair for him. He sat down and looked me straight in the eye. “Logan Archer. Regarding those psychiatric records from the Oakwood Recovery Center…” The moment those words left his mouth, Helena’s fingers clenched around my arm with brutal force. She stared at Lawrence, waiting desperately for the explosive rage that was bound to follow. Richard hurriedly tried to wash his hands clean. “Director Drake, we are currently terminating Logan’s contract. His personal actions have zero relation to our agency—” Lawrence let out a harsh, mocking laugh, turning his head toward Richard. “Terminating him? Davies, your agency’s vision is pure, unadulterated trash.” He pulled a gold-embossed leather folder from his attorney’s briefcase and slammed it onto the table. “Mr. Logan Archer. Regarding those photos and intake forms from the recovery center…” He paused, his voice echoing with absolute authority through the silent room. “…that is precisely the broken soul our new masterpiece, “Into the Abyss”, has been searching for.” “Congratulations. The raw resilience you showed in crawling out of your darkest hour completely captivated our board of investors and production team.” “This is the lead actor contract for “Into the Abyss”. Fully funded, fifteen million dollar guaranteed base salary, plus global box office gross backend points.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556437”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel