Author: Momo Chan

In our family, we had an old mountain tradition: on the night a daughter got engaged, her father and brother were supposed to light the heirloom brass hurricane lantern and walk down to the edge of the property at the foot of the ridge to guide the prospective groom home. The old folks used to say that as long as the flame didn’t go out, the daughter’s future would never be swallowed by the dark. My sister and I were engaged on the exact same night. As dusk settled into an inky black, Dad brought out the red-tinted brass lantern that had been in our family for three generations. Tracy, my older brother, filled the reservoir with oil three times over, carefully polishing the glass and tying a fresh crimson silk ribbon around the handle. Josie leaned against Dad’s arm, her voice dripping with spoiled affection. “Dad, don’t walk too fast, okay? It’s Logan’s first time driving up the mountain trail—I don’t want him getting lost.” Dad smiled softly, tapping the tip of her nose. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart. I’ll hold the light high. I guarantee I’ll bring your man right to the front door.” Tracy clicked on his heavy-duty flashlight, clicking it to high beam. “And I’ll cover the rear. No matter how hard the mountain wind blows tonight, this light isn’t going out.” Mom looked at them, her face glowing with fond pride. “Our little Josie really is the lucky one, isn’t she?” Not a single person looked at me. My fiancé was waiting at the western approach to the mountain—a completely different trail, miles away on the opposite side of the ridge. I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked at Dad. “Once you bring Logan in… could you and Tracy go down to the West Fork and guide Jonah up?” Tracy checked his watch, his forehead furrowing into an immediate, impatient scowl. “By the time we trek back and forth, it’ll be pitch black. He’s a grown man. He can look at a map and figure it out himself.” Mom’s voice turned sharp and irritated before I could even reply. “If he can’t even navigate a simple mountain path on his own, how is he supposed to take care of you in the real world?” But the West Fork trail didn’t have a single streetlamp. It was a narrow, unpaved gravel track hugging a sharp, sixty-foot drop-off. I watched the red glow of the brass lantern drift further and further down the eastern trail, until it was nothing more than a tiny, trembling pinprick of light in the dark. Tears blurred my vision. If this family refused to hold a light for me tonight, then no matter how bright my path became in the future, I would never shine it back toward them again. … The red light vanished around the bend, taking the road toward the eastern entrance of the hollow. I stood at the back of the crowd of gathered relatives, staring hopelessly toward the pitch-black western trail. My fiancé, Jonah, was waiting at the other end. Half an hour ago, he had sent me a picture. In it, he was wearing his tailored black suit, a red carnation pinned to his lapel, standing proudly beside six meticulously wrapped, high-end engagement gift boxes. He had no idea that our family possessed only one heirloom lantern. And he certainly didn’t know that from the very beginning, that lantern was never meant to burn for me. Forty minutes later, firecrackers echoed through the yard. Logan Caldwell was escorted through the front gates, surrounded by a noisy, cheering crowd of my family and relatives. I immediately pushed my way through the hubbub and grabbed my brother’s arm. “Tracy, can you go get Jonah now? Please.” Tracy shook his arm free. “It’s pitch dark out there now. Why would I head out now?” “Because it’s pitch dark! The West Fork doesn’t have lighting, and the drop-off is right next to the path!” Frantic, I turned to my father. “Dad, please. Say something.” Dad shifted his weight, refusing to meet my eyes. “There’s nothing I can do, Lydia.” “What do you mean?” “It’s family tradition,” Dad muttered, his tone flat. “The welcome lamp can’t be used to guide two different sons-in-law in a single night. It’s bad luck for the first bride.” I froze. They weren’t exhausted. They weren’t too tired to walk. They were simply terrified that my fiancé might steal a sliver of the good fortune meant for my sister. Tracy hung the glowing lantern directly on the doorframe of Josie’s bedroom. “If Jonah actually cares about you, he’ll crawl through the dark to get here.” Mom pulled me roughly by the elbow toward the kitchen. “Josie’s about to perform the ceremonial tea service. Stop making a scene and causing trouble.” Around us, the aunts and uncles nodded in solemn agreement. “Exactly. If a man doesn’t even have the courage to walk a dark trail, how’s he going to provide for a family?” “It’s a good test. Let’s see if he’s actually sincere.” They spoke so casually, as if that treacherous gravel path along the cliff edge was nothing more than a doorstep in the yard. I stopped pleading. I turned, ran out into the chilly night, and pulled out my phone, my eyes burning. “Jonah, go back. Don’t come up tonight.” His reply came almost instantly: “They aren’t coming to guide me? It’s okay, honey. I have my headlights and a flashlight. I’ll drive slow and walk up.” I wiped away a falling tear and turned to run down the western track to meet him myself, but Mom’s hand clamped down hard on my shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going? Josie is pouring tea, and as her older sister, you need to hold the serving tray.” “Jonah is out on the ridge by himself!” “He’s a grown man! He’s not going to dissolve into thin air!” Mom shoved a heavy, scalding silver teapot into my hands. “Every relative we own is sitting in that living room. Put a smile on your face and stop looking like someone died. It’s bad luck.” I was forced to stand behind my sister like a prop. I held the heavy tray through endless rounds of tea poured for aunt after aunt, uncle after uncle. Finally, my Aunt Sarah looked up and asked casually, “Lydia, where’s your guy? Isn’t Jonah coming?” Before I could answer, heavy, uneven footsteps echoed from the porch outside. I dropped the tray onto a nearby table and sprinted for the front door. Jonah was standing on the threshold. His sharp black suit jacket was torn by briars, the back of his right hand was dripping blood, and his right pant leg was shredded from knee to ankle, soaked in dirt and crimson. Yet, held tightly in his arms and stacked carefully at his feet were the six engagement boxes—pristine, spotless, and completely unharmed. When he saw me, he offered a weak, breathless smile. “I… I didn’t keep you waiting too long, did I?” My chest heaved, and the dam broke. Tears poured down my face as I rushed forward to support his weight. Mom strolled out to the porch behind me. When her eyes landed on Jonah, her brows pinched into a deep crease of disapproval. “Goodness, why on earth are you dressed like a stray dog on your engagement night?” Jonah’s smile stiffened. I ignored my mother completely, putting his arm over my shoulder and helping him into my room to tend to his injuries. As I gently pressed an alcohol swab against the gash on his hand, his fingers twitched with agonizing pain. Still, he kept his voice low, trying to comfort me: “Don’t cry, Lydia. Really, it looks worse than it is.” Outside the window, the heirloom red lantern hung high over the porch, glowing brightly, casting a warm, celebratory light over Josie’s loud and merry celebration. I set the cotton swab down and looked up at him through a veil of tears. “Jonah… that overseas company transfer you mentioned last month… is the slot still open?” Jonah blinked, taken aback. My voice broke into a sob. “Say yes. I want to leave with you.” … Early the next morning, Mom spread out the customary return-gift items across the dining room table. According to local custom, when the bride’s family accepts the betrothal gifts, they must prepare an equally lavish set of return gifts the following day to show respect and goodwill to the groom’s family. The table was covered in a pristine red cloth. On it sat two cartons of imported luxury cigars, two bottles of rare, aged scotch, a pair of heavy 18-karat gold dragon-and-phoenix bangles, and a silk embroidery bedding set. Josie picked up the jewelry box, lifting the bangles to the morning light, turning them this way and that. “Mom, aren’t these a little plain? When Logan’s mother came over last week, the bracelet she was wearing was way thicker than this.” Mom instantly snatched the box back. “Then we’ll trade them in. I’ll take you to the fine jeweler downtown this afternoon and pick out a heavier set.” Dad walked over, clipboard in hand, meticulously ticking off every item. “And swap those cigars for the limited-edition ones. Don’t use the standard scotch, either—go to the high-end liquor store in the city and get two bottles of the top-shelf single malt. Our Josie’s return gift can’t let the Caldwell family look down on us.” I stood silently by the door. Only after they finished their meticulous tally did I quiet softly ask, “Mom… what about Jonah’s return gifts?” The room fell dead silent for a second. Mom didn’t even look up from her list. “We’re prioritizing Josie’s stuff first. Yours can wait.” “But both families brought their engagement gifts yesterday,” I said, my voice tight. “Aren’t the return gifts supposed to be prepared together?” Tracy was crouching near the floor, sealing a cardboard shipping crate with heavy tape. Hearing my question, he stood up, his face full of annoyance. “Jonah brought six simple gift boxes. Logan brought eight massive, custom-curated trunks. The return gift reflects the weight of what came in. How are Mom and Dad supposed to make them equal?” Josie whimpered softly under her breath. “Exactly… It’s not like we can send back eight luxury crates for Jonah too. What would Logan’s mother think if she found out we treated them the exact same?” I looked at the table stacked with carefully curated luxuries, feeling a cold, suffocating knot tighten in my throat. This kind of contrast was never new. Josie and I shared the exact same birthday. Yet every year growing up, my parents only bought one gift—for Josie. The cake always bore only her name written in pink frosting. When I was little, Mom would brush it off with a wave of her hand: “You’re celebrating together anyway, what difference does a name make?” But Josie was the one who blew out the candles. Josie was the one who opened the envelopes. I was just the girl standing beside her, expected to clap my hands on cue. When we were kids and there was only one chicken drumstick at dinner, Dad would slide it straight into Josie’s bowl. “Josie’s constitution is delicate. You’re the older sister, Lydia—learn to be generous.” When we reached middle school, the school organized an out-of-town class trip. My parents would only pay for one student. Mom signed Josie up, then turned around to give me a gentle pat on the head. “You have great grades, sweetie. Missing one trip won’t hurt you.” Later, when smartphones became essential, Josie got the brand-new flagship model. I was handed her cracked, discarded hand-me-down—a phone with a shattered corner and a battery that died every four hours. When I mentioned it, Tracy had scoffed: “It still turns on, doesn’t it? Why are you so shallow and materialistic?” From childhood to adulthood, whenever there was only one of something, it automatically belonged to Josie. They gave Josie the absolute best of everything, and then praised me for being “sensible” and “understanding.” Now, it was happening with our engagements. One welcome lantern—reserved exclusively to guide her fiancé. One lavish set of return gifts—curated entirely for her future in-laws. I lowered my eyes, asking no further questions. Mom, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, walked over and jammed a receipt and order slip into my hand. “Since you’re standing around, take Jonah and drive into town,” she instructed crisply. “Josie’s custom engagement pastries are ready for pickup today. While you’re there, buy two more cases of those cigars. We need them for her return boxes urgently.” I gripped the paper tightly. “Jonah’s leg is badly cut up, Mom. He shouldn’t be driving or walking long distances today.” Mom’s brow furrowed in deep irritation. “He’s a young guy with a couple of surface scratches! Since when did men become so delicate? Your brother has to take Josie to the jeweler this afternoon. You two have nothing better to do anyway, so what’s the big deal about running an errand?” I swallowed the bitterness, looking down at the receipt. “Fine.” Back in my bedroom, I grabbed my ID, passport, and bank cards, tucking them securely into my purse. Jonah was leaning against the bedframe, struggling to stand. “Are we heading into town?” I slung his arm gently over my shoulder, holding him steady. “First, we’re going to the urgent care clinic to clean and bandage that leg properly. Then, we’re going to the administrative office to expedite our passport and visa paperwork.” As for Josie’s custom wedding pastries and luxury cigars… I would get to them at the very end of the day. For once in my life, I wanted to put myself first. … By the time we drove back from town, the sky had turned a dark, moody purple. Jonah’s leg had been properly disinfected and stitched, and the doctor had sternly ordered him to keep off it as much as possible for the next few days. Yet, he still dragged his leg, leaning on a pair of wooden crutches I’d bought him, using his free hand to carry the delicate boxes of custom pastries. I followed behind, my arms aching from carrying two heavy cases of cigars. The moment we walked into the gravel courtyard, Mom rushed out to meet us. “What took you two so long? Josie’s been waiting so long she’s practically in tears!” Josie unboxed the pastries, inspected them, and immediately pouted. “Mom, look! Two of the decorative cake boxes are crushed on the corner!” I tried to explain: “The mountain road was bumpy, and Jonah couldn’t carry them smoothly with his crutches—” Tracy cut me off coldly. “If the stuff is damaged, it’s damaged. Why are you dragging Jonah into this? Acting like somebody forced him to go.” Mom picked out the two bruised pastry boxes and shoved them back into my arms with a scowl. “Go back tomorrow and exchange them. Return gifts can’t have dented boxes. It looks cheap and disgraceful.” I opened my mouth to speak. The bakery downtown had explicitly stated that custom, hand-crafted engagement cakes were strictly non-refundable and non-exchangeable. But looking at my mother’s dark, impatient face, I simply lowered my head. “Okay.” Stepping into the hallway, I stopped dead in my tracks. My bedroom door was wide open. My mattress, duvet, and stacks of personal books had been hoisted out and dumped unceremoniously into the narrow corridor. Inside my room, the floor space was completely covered with Josie’s massive wooden return crates, silk gift boxes, and embroidered linens. Even my packed leather suitcase had been shoved into the farthest corner, flattened under two heavy wooden crates of wine. I stood frozen for several seconds. “Mom… why are all these things in my room?” Mom didn’t bother looking up from sorting ribbon. “Josie’s room is too small to fit all these return gifts. Your room is spacious, so we’re borrowing it for a few days.” “Where is Jonah supposed to sleep tonight then? His leg is injured.” Tracy gestured casually toward the backyard with his chin. “The storage shed back there is empty. Sweep it out and he can sleep there.” The backyard storage shed had a leaky roof, dirt floors, and was packed with rusted lawnmowers, bags of fertilizer, and old tools. I couldn’t control the tremor in my voice. “He came here as a fiancé, not a laborer. If people find out we made him sleep in a leaky tool shed on his engagement weekend, what are they going to say about us?” Mom’s face instantly darkened into a mask of rage. “Then what do you propose, Lydia? Should I stack Josie’s thousand-dollar return gifts out in the rain to get ruined?” Josie’s eyes welled with tears on cue. “Sister, if you’re really that unwilling to share, just say so. I’ll move the boxes out right now. If they get ruined in the dirt, I won’t ask you to pay for them!” She bent over, dramatically reaching for the top crate. Mom rushed forward, pulling her back. “Don’t touch that! It’s heavy—what if you pull a muscle in your back?!” Tracy stepped in front of Josie, glaring at me with icy disgust. “We’re borrowing your room for two days and you’re throwing a tantrum? Jonah’s a grown man—he can sleep anywhere for one night! If Josie’s return gifts get damaged, can you afford to replace them?” I stood framed in the doorway, holding two dented boxes of pastries in my arms. It was “my” bedroom. Yet in their eyes, asking a basic question made me an unreasonable, selfish monster. Jonah gently touched my wrist. “It’s okay, Lydia. I can sleep in the shed.” I turned to look at him. Beaded sweat stood out on his pale forehead, and fresh blood was slowly seeping through the white bandages around his knee. Still, he offered me a reassuring, gentle smile. “It’s just for one night. Don’t fight with your family over me.” Hearing Jonah’s concession, Mom’s expression smoothed over slightly. “See? Even Jonah is being reasonable. You’re the only one constantly creating drama.” In the end, Jonah and I spent over an hour hauling rusted metal and heavy sacks out of the tool shed. The wooden cot inside was damp and warped; even covered with an extra blanket, it reeked of mildew and wet earth. The wooden window frame couldn’t close flush, letting icy gusts of wind howl through the cracks. I knelt on the cold ground, carefully changing the bandages on Jonah’s leg. A tear slipped from my eye, landing with a soft “plink” against the gauze. Jonah reached down, his thumb gently wiping the moisture from my cheek. “Don’t cry. Once our paperwork clears, we’re out of here.” I nodded, clamping my lips tight to keep from sobbing aloud. Across the yard in the main house, Mom and Tracy were laughing loudly as they helped Josie do a final count of her gifts. The warmth and cheer echoed right through the thin shed wall, making our dark corner feel like a completely different world. A few minutes later, Mom’s voice yelled out across the dark yard. “Lydia! Stop hiding in there like a lazy bump on a log! Josie’s favor bags aren’t finished yet—get out here and help!” I leaned down, carefully pulling the scratchy blanket over Jonah’s shoulders. “Get some sleep,” I whispered. “I’ll come back as soon as I’m done.” But as I stepped out of the shed into the chilly night air, I paused. The red hurricane lantern still hung high above Josie’s bedroom door, casting a bright, celebratory glow over a house full of laughter and abundance. Only the dark, forgotten storage shed where Jonah and I stood remained buried in the shadows where the light could never reach. … For the next two days, the entire household revolved entirely around Josie’s upcoming formal visit to deliver her return gifts to Logan’s family. Dad walked through the neighborhood, handing out invitations to the departure dinner, beaming at every neighbor he passed. “Our Josie hit the jackpot. The Caldwells cherish her so much, so we can’t look cheap with our return offerings.” Tracy drove into town three times in a single day. When Josie complained that the candy boxes weren’t fancy enough, he immediately drove out to replace them. When she decided the shade of red silk ribbon was slightly off, he hopped right back on his bike to hunt down a different shade. Mom hovered over the pile of gifts, counting and recounting every box, terrified that a tiny oversight might cause Josie to lose face in front of her future in-laws. Nobody asked about Jonah’s return gifts. It was as if I hadn’t gotten engaged at all. I was in the middle of changing Jonah’s bandages in the shed when my phone buzzed with a text from him. “The corporate expedited visa went through. We assemble at the city dispatch office at nine a.m. sharp the day after tomorrow. A company shuttle will take us straight to the airport. Don’t be late.” I stared at the words “the day after tomorrow”, feeling an overwhelming wave of relief wash over my chest. Two more days. Just two more days, and I would be free. My passport and essential documents were already tucked safely inside my purse. I walked back toward my room, intending to grab a few basic changes of clothes. When I entered, Josie’s return boxes were piled so high they spilled from the floor onto the mattress. Cases of liquor, cigars, gift boxes, and embroidered silk filled every square inch, leaving nowhere to even step. My wardrobe doors had been flung wide open—and cleared out entirely. Hanging inside were Josie’s expensive dresses for her visit to the Caldwells, while the bottom drawers were packed to the brim with her velvet jewelry organizers. “Mom, where are the clothes from my closet?” Mom was crouching on the floor, tying a golden ribbon around a wooden crate. She didn’t look up. “Your brother said there wasn’t enough room for the return boxes, so he cleared it out for you.” “Cleared it out to where?” “Under the porch eaves out back. Go look for it yourself.” I walked quickly out to the back porch. Lying in the dirt under the dripping roof eaves were two bulging black trash bags. My clothes, my favorite books, and my daily toiletries had been stuffed inside without care. The top bag hadn’t even been tied closed; a cream-colored cardigan had spilled out onto the muddy ground, covered in dark, filthy boot prints. I knelt down and picked it up. It was the birthday gift Jonah had bought for me last year. I had only worn it twice, keeping it carefully wrapped in tissue paper because I was so afraid of getting it dirty. Now, it was ruined with mud. Tracy came walking around the corner holding a heavy crate of scotch. I held up the muddy sweater, my voice barely above a whisper. “When you moved my stuff… why didn’t you even tell me?” “Tell you what?” Tracy stepped around me impatiently. “Josie’s return gifts are worth tens of thousands of dollars. Did you want me to leave them outside in the rain?” “But that is “my” room.” He stopped, throwing his hands up in irritation. “It’s for two damn days, Lydia! Are you seriously going to throw a fit over this?” Mom heard the rising voices and walked out onto the porch. She glanced indifferently at the ruined cardigan in my hand. “Just toss it in the wash, Lydia. It’s just an old piece of clothing—don’t start drama and ruin everyone’s mood right before Josie heads over to the Caldwells.” Josie appeared at the doorway, her voice small and delicate. “If sister is really that upset, I’ll tell Tracy to move my stuff back out. At worst, we’ll leave the scotch in the yard. If it gets ruined by the weather, we’ll just take the loss.” Mom instantly pulled Josie back. “Don’t you dare touch those heavy crates! She’s just throwin’ a tantrum because she can’t stand seeing the family focus on you for once.” It was “my” room that had been invaded. It was “my” personal belongings that had been dragged into the dirt. Yet somehow, in their minds, I was still the selfish, spoiled sister throwing a senseless fit. I hugged the heavy trash bag against my chest and lowered my head. “Don’t bother moving them,” I said quietly. Mom’s face softened slightly. “That’s more like it. We’re family—stop keeping score over every little detail.” She turned and bustled back inside to help Josie. Through the doorway, I heard her ask warmly, “For your visit to the Caldwells on Thursday morning, do you want your hair styled up in an elegant updos, or left down in loose curls?” Thursday morning… was also the morning I was leaving forever. Gathering every ounce of courage I had left, I called out toward the dimly lit hallway: “Mom… I’m leaving Thursday morning.” Inside, Josie was chattering excitedly about getting a fresh perm at the salon, and Mom was laughing in agreement. My voice was swallowed whole by their joy, unheard and ignored. … On the morning of my departure, the sky was still a bruised, pre-dawn gray. I packed three plain outfits into an old duffel bag and swept the storage shed clean. Jonah stood outside the main gate, leaning heavily on his crutches, waiting for me. Dragging my duffel bag across the courtyard, I passed the main house. The entire family was already bustling awake. Dad was carefully loading crates of fine wine into the trunk of a rental car. Tracy was reverently holding the red brass hurricane lantern, checking its glass. Mom was kneeling on the floor in front of Josie, adjusting the hem of her expensive lace dress. Josie wriggled her shoulders, pouting playfully. “Mom, stop tugging at it, you’re gonna mess up my hair!” “Okay, okay, Mom will be gentle, sweetie.” The small plastic wheels of my duffel bag clattered loudly against the cobblestone path. As I reached the front gate, Mom’s voice suddenly called out behind me. “Lydia.” My boots froze on the gravel. For a tiny, foolish split-second, my heart gave an involuntary leap. The next second, Mom thrust a plastic bag filled with leftover favor candies into my hands. “Since you’re heading toward town, drop these off at your Aunt Sarah’s place on your way. Don’t be lazy and forget.” I set the bag of candy gently down on the fence post. “I’m not going to town,” I said softly. Mom frowned, opening her mouth to scold me, but Josie’s impatient voice called out from the car door: “Mom, hurry up! Logan says his parents are already waiting at the restaurant!” “Coming, sweetie! Coming!” Mom turned around without a second glance, rushing toward the car. Dad held the lantern high. Tracy carried the last velvet box. They formed a tight, protective ring around Josie, guiding her down the eastern road as the sun began to rise. Jonah walked into the courtyard, gently taking the heavy duffel bag from my hands. I stood at the gate, watching the red glow of the heirloom lantern fade into the morning mist. They were escorting their favored daughter toward her glowing future. Jonah and I turned away, walking down the dark western path in the exact opposite direction. Not a single person turned around. Not a single person realized. This time, I was truly gone. And I was never coming back.

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After the family photo session, my younger sister, Lynn, sat hunched over the computer screen, scrolling through the raw shots one by one. Too much squinting—delete. Smile isn’t sweet enough—delete. Showing too much teeth—delete. Out of forty proofs, she finally picked a single shot. She pointed at the monitor with a triumphant nod. “This is the one,” Lynn declared. “Dad looks warm, Mom looks graceful, Jordan looks so handsome, and I look gorgeous.” Our parents leaned in, nodding in eager agreement. My older brother, Jordan, chuckled beside them. “Definitely. That’s the best one by far.” “Our Lynn always has great taste,” Mom praised, beaming. The photographer hesitated, hovering his mouse over the image. “Are you sure you want to go with this one?” Curious, I stepped closer to look over their shoulders. It was only then that I realized what had happened. In the photo, the bright pink balloon Lynn was holding happened to completely block my face. All that was left of me was a tiny sliver of a shoulder tucked into the far right corner of the frame. I stared at the screen, a quiet lump forming in my throat. “Can we pick a different one?” I asked softly. “You can’t even see me in this.” Lynn blinked up at me, innocent as a doll. “So what if you can’t see your face? It’s not like people don’t know you were standing there.” She turned back to the photographer and pointed at the pink orb. “Actually, can you edit this balloon to be a little bigger? It’ll make my face look smaller.” The photographer complied. With a few clicks of his mouse, the balloon expanded. My shoulder vanished completely. Mom patted my arm, her voice laced with mild annoyance. “Carlin, it’s a family photo. Does every single person really need to be visible? Don’t ruin the mood for everyone.” Dad was already pulling out his wallet, urging the photographer to print and frame the enlarged print right away. Later, that portrait was hung smack in the center of our new living room wall. Every guest who came over gushed about what a picture-perfect family of four they were. Not a single person noticed that behind the giant pink balloon stood a fifth member. There was no room for me in that family portrait. But then again, when had there ever been room for me in this house? … “Oh, Beth, this portrait turned out so beautifully!” Aunt Susan gushed the moment she stepped through the front door, her eyes fixed on the canvas in the entryway. “Lynn is stunning, Jordan looks so sharp, and you and David look like a power couple.” She stared at it for a long minute, entirely oblivious to the fact that I wasn’t in it. After showering the portrait with praise, Aunt Susan turned around with a bright smile and pulled two glossy gift bags from her tote bag, handing them to Lynn and Jordan. “For my favorite girl, some designer perfume. And for Jordan, those new sneakers you wanted. Take a look—hope you guys love them!” By the time she turned to me, her hands were empty. Instead, she reached out and casually patted my head, a well-practiced gesture. “Carlin, honey, I wanted to pick something up for you too, but the mall was completely out of stock. Next time, okay? I’ll definitely make it up to you next time.” I nodded, my expression carefully blank. It was always out of stock. It was always “next time”. When I was little, I used to tug on her sleeve and naively ask, “Aunt Susan, when is next time?” It wasn’t until I grew up that I finally understood the polite lies adults tell to keep the peace. A promised “next time” was just a gentler way of saying “never”. Mom soon called us over to the dining table for dinner. In the center sat a platter of steamed blue crabs. Six people at the table, but only five crabs on the plate. Mom picked up her tongs and served Aunt Susan first, then placed the two largest, meatiest crabs into Lynn’s and Jordan’s plates. The remaining two went to Dad and herself. Catching my eye as I looked over, Mom paused, as if suddenly remembering my existence. “Oh, you don’t like crab anyway, right?” I froze. When I was a little girl, crab had been my absolute favorite. But every time I cracked open a shell, Lynn would stare at it with wide, envious eyes. And every time, my parents would say, “She’s younger, Carlin. Let your sister have it.” After years of stepping back, everyone simply convinced themselves that I had never liked it to begin with. I forced a tight smile and quickly lowered my head to eat my rice, terrified that if I paused for even a second, someone would catch the tears brimming in my eyes. Halfway through dinner, the doorbell rang. Jordan walked back in carrying a gorgeous three-tiered bakery box, and Lynn squealed, clapping her hands together. “Is that to celebrate me taking first place in the regional dance showcase?” she squeaked. Dad lovingly pinched her cheek. “Of course, sweetheart. Our Lynn worked so hard, we have to celebrate properly.” The candles were lit, casting a warm, golden glow across everyone’s faces. Aunt Susan placed a sparkly birthday crown on Lynn’s head, Dad pulled out his phone to record a video, and Jordan urged her to hurry up and make a wish. It wasn’t even her birthday, yet the fuss they made was grander than any birthday I had ever seen. After making her wish, Lynn began slicing the cake. When my plate was handed to me, it contained a thin, dry sliver of crust from the very edge. I took a tiny bite and said softly, “This bakery is really good. Maybe we can get a cake from here tomorrow too.” The table fell dead silent. Jordan furrowed his brows, glaring across the table at me. “We’re eating cake today, why would we get another one tomorrow? It’s just cake, don’t you get sick of it?” Mom gave me a look of deep disapproval. “We bought this because your sister won an award and everyone is happy. Carlin, why do you have to compete with her over literally everything?” My throat tightened. I bit my tongue and said nothing. Tomorrow was my birthday. Clearly, not a single soul at this table remembered. After dinner, everyone gathered in the living room around Lynn’s laptop to help her curate photos for her social media celebration post. I went into the kitchen alone to clear the table and wash the dishes. A chipped ceramic bowl caught the edge of my thumb, slicing through the skin. Blood immediately welled up, bright and red. I had just rinsed it under the cold tap when Lynn strolled into the kitchen, leaning casually against the doorframe while waving her phone in my face. “Hey, Carlin, I found this dress online, but I’m short about four hundred bucks,” she said smoothly. “Didn’t you just get your academic scholarship check deposited? Transfer it to me.” I turned off the faucet, clutching a paper towel around my thumb. “I need that money for my dorm housing deposit next semester.” Lynn pouted, her lower lip sticking out. “You can just ask Mom and Dad for dorm money. The dress goes off sale in two days!” Over in the living room, Mom heard the commotion and raised her voice in reprimand. “Carlin, Lynn rarely asks you for anything. How can you be so stingy as an older sister?” Jordan added his impatient voice to the chorus. “Just send her the money already. Don’t ruin everyone’s night over a few hundred dollars.” Lynn held up her phone, her payment code already pulled up on the screen, her eyes filled with absolute certainty that I wouldn’t dare say no. I looked at the crimson blood soaking through the paper towel, then at the silent, united wall of judgment from my family. Without a word, I pulled out my phone and transferred the four hundred dollars. When I finally retreated to my bedroom—a space cramped with Lynn’s overflow clutter—a text notification buzzed on my screen. It was from Cassidy, a senior in my department. [Here’s the group photo from our last volunteer teaching trip to the rural schools. It was such an incredible, eye-opening experience. I really hope you’ll consider joining us this summer.] I opened the attached photo. Dozens of students and local kids stood gathered in front of a rustic schoolhouse. No one was blocked. No one was pushed out of the frame. My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I slowly typed back: [Cassidy… does everyone who goes actually end up in the group photo?] Her reply came back almost instantly: [Of course! Every single person matters. We wouldn’t leave anyone out.] I looked back at the hallway, toward the living room where that massive family portrait hung with a giant pink balloon obliterating my existence. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I opened the application link and checked the confirmation box. [Cassidy, count me in. I’m going.] The day after I confirmed my spot on the volunteer trip happened to be my birthday. Unsurprisingly, no one in the house uttered a word about it. That afternoon, Jordan’s university called requesting some archived family documentation for his study-abroad file. Mom pulled a folding chair into the home office to reach the top shelf of the tall closet. I watched as she pulled out color-coded pink folders containing Lynn’s vaccination records, growth charts, and even a tiny velvet box holding her baby teeth. Next to Jordan’s birth certificate was a plastic baggie holding the soft hair from his very first haircut. Standing behind her, I couldn’t stop the question from slipping out. “Mom… where are my baby records?” “You lived out in the countryside with your grandmother until you were six,” Mom said without turning around, her tone matter-of-fact. “How could we possibly have kept track of those things?” She stepped down from the chair, her eyebrows pulled into an annoyed scowl. “Besides, we’re pulling files for your brother’s university today. Why are you hovering?” Just as the words left her mouth, a yellowed piece of paper slipped from a crease in the back of the cabinet and fluttered to the floor. Mom bent down to pick it up. As her eyes scanned the birth date printed on the hospital record, she froze for a fraction of a second. “Oh,” she said, her voice entirely flat. “Today’s your birthday.” She brushed a piece of lint off her pants, entirely unbothered. “I’ve been so swamped lately it completely slipped my mind. I’ll make it up to you tonight.” I didn’t ask her why she had never once forgotten Lynn’s or Jordan’s birthdays in her entire life. Just that casual promise—”I’ll make it up to you”—was enough to light a desperate, pathetic flare of hope in my chest. But at five o’clock that evening, Mom and Dad took a frantic phone call and rushed out the door without a word. I sat alone in the quiet, darkening living room, watching the sun dip below the horizon, waiting into the dead of night. Midnight came and went. The front door remained shut. It wasn’t until one in the morning that the key finally turned in the lock. Mom walked in, looking exhausted. When she saw me still sitting on the couch, she blinked in surprise. “Why are you still awake?” Before I could answer, she offered a hasty explanation. “Lynn twisted her ankle during her late dance rehearsal. Your dad and I had to rush her to the ER to get X-rays. Look, today’s already over anyway. Once things settle down around the house, we’ll throw you a proper late birthday, okay?” It had been six years since Grandma passed away and I was brought back to this house. And in those six years, I hadn’t had a single birthday. A wave of bitter injustice crashed over me, and I couldn’t stop the quiet whisper from escaping my lips. “But… you promised you’d make it up to me today.” Jordan stepped through the door behind her, his face instantly hardening. “Carlin, how can you be so damn selfish? Lynn literally twisted her ankle and all you care about is your stupid birthday!” I looked past his shoulder. Lynn had just slipped off Dad’s back. She was currently standing on the foyer rug, balancing effortlessly on both feet without so much as a wince. The words of defense choked in my throat. I swallowed them down, lowered my head, and quickly walked back to my room. Sometime later, a light knock sounded on my door. Dad stepped in, shutting it quietly behind him. He sat down at the edge of my bed and slipped two hundred-dollar bills into my hand. “Take this, go buy yourself something you like,” he murmured gently. “Don’t hold a grudge against your sister. She’s young, and she got hurt today. Naturally, your mother and I had to focus on her a bit more.” When I didn’t respond, Dad let out a long sigh, patted my knee, and stood up to leave. The door clicked shut. Tears finally leaked from the corners of my eyes, tracing hot paths down my temples and soaking into the hair around my ears. Mom had lost her corporate job when she was pregnant with me, and she had resented my existence ever since. The moment I turned a month old, she shipped me off to the countryside to be raised by my grandmother. Lynn felt that my eventual return threatened her status as the undisputed princess of the household, so she hated me. And in Jordan’s eyes, Lynn was his only real sister. In this entire house, Dad was the only one who occasionally threw me a scrap of kindness. But it was only ever this: quietly slipping me a couple of hundred-dollar bills “after” everyone else had trampled over me. Every single time I was wronged, he stood on the sidelines. He never stopped them, and he never took my side. Because compared to the precious peace of the family, my feelings were entirely negligible. This breadcrumb of affection was never enough to make me feel truly loved—yet just enough to keep me from giving up entirely. I pulled up my phone. Cassidy had sent over the final itinerary: our volunteer team was scheduled to depart for the mountain region in five days. I stared at the screen, my hands trembling slightly. Then, I pushed off the bed and walked toward the door. I didn’t want Dad’s half-baked, cowardly love anymore. And I was done using these pathetic scraps of affection to trick myself into staying in this house. I walked down the hallway toward the master bedroom, intending to give the money back. But as I reached the door, Mom’s hushed voice carried through the crack. “Did you give her the money?” “Yeah,” Dad’s voice was low. Mom immediately pressed, “Lynn didn’t see you, right? Last time she found out you gave Carlin cash, she threw a massive fit for two days straight until we bought her that designer handbag!” “She didn’t see.” Mom let out a heavy sigh of relief. “Lynn just doesn’t understand our intentions. We’re only acting nice to Carlin right now for “her” sake! When we get old, someone is going to have to take care of Lynn. Carlin is her older sister. If we don’t keep her leash tight now, who’s going to look after Lynn when we’re gone?” I stood frozen in the hallway, as if doused in a bucket of ice water. A cold, suffocating numbness spread through my limbs. So even Dad’s shallow scraps of affection weren’t born out of love for me. It was just a game of good cop, bad cop. A calculated strategy to make me feel grateful, to keep me weighed down by guilt—so that I would willingly remain in this house as a lifelong servant to their favored daughter. I don’t even remember how I dragged myself back to my room. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I pulled out my suitcase and packed away every single thing I owned. The next morning, Mom pushed my door open without knocking, holding an official university form in her hand. “Carlin, I need you to file for a gap year at school.” She said it casually, handing me the paper. “Lynn’s college entrance auditions for the performing arts academy are coming up, and she needs someone full-time to handle her meals and schedule. Your dad and I have to work, and Jordan is starting his internship. You’re the only one available to accompany her.” Her tone was so offhand, as if pausing my college education wasn’t a life-altering decision. I looked up at her, my voice cold. “I’m not taking a gap year. Lynn is your daughter. I have no obligation to serve her.” Mom’s face instantly darkened. “Your sister is at a critical turning point in her life! As her older sister, can’t you just make a small sacrifice to help her out?” Dad hurried into the room behind her, letting out his signature sigh. “Beth, go outside for a second. Let me talk to Carlin.” Once Mom left, Dad sat at the edge of my bed. “Carlin, Dad knows you feel wronged. But you know how much I care about you. Just do it for Dad—endure it one last time, okay?” Last night, when I stood outside their bedroom door, he hadn’t said a word to defend me. Yet a tiny, pathetic part of me had held onto a thread of delusion—hoping that maybe he was just weak, that deep down, he still cared. Now, that final delusion shattered into dust. I reached under my pillow, pulled out the two hundred-dollar bills, and slapped them firmly into his palm. “You gave me this money just so I’d act as Lynn’s live-in maid?” I asked softly. “Then I don’t want it.” Dad’s face froze, his expression twisting into an irritated scowl. “Why are you being so completely unreasonable?!” Luckily, Lynn’s loud, spoiled voice echoed from the hallway, saving me from further lecture. “I don’t even want her coming with me!” Lynn threw a tantrum, stomping her feet. “She’s clumsy and depressing! Looking at her makes me sick!” She grabbed Mom’s arm, whining, “Mom, you come with me instead! You take time off!” The anger on Mom’s face melted instantly into pure, overflowing tenderness. This was the woman who had resented me for eighteen years because my birth cost her a corporate position. Yet now, with just a few whines from Lynn, she pulled out her phone and dialed her boss right in front of me. “Director Palmer? Hi, yes… I’d like to submit my resignation, effective immediately.” I stood in the doorway, unable to tell whether I felt envy or disgust. We were both her biological daughters. Yet Lynn only had to pout, and Mom would throw away her job without a second thought. While my very existence had been labeled a burden from the day I was born. I turned to go back into my room, but Jordan blocked the doorway. “Carlin,” he said, leaning against the frame, his tone oozing entitlement. “Since you refuse to go with her, you need to contribute financially. Lynn’s intensive dance prep camp costs seven thousand dollars. I put in seven hundred. You need to chip in three hundred.” I squeezed my fists tightly. “I don’t have money.” Jordan let out a harsh scoff. “What about your scholarship money? You gave Lynn four hundred the other day, so you should still have about five hundred left, right? Keep a hundred and fifty for food, and give the rest to your sister.” To Jordan, seven hundred dollars was just skipping a pair of limited-edition sneakers. But that remaining five hundred was my entire living allowance and book budget for the upcoming semester. I shook my head. “No.” Jordan’s expression turned nasty. He pushed past me, grabbed my backpack off the desk, and aggressively unzipped it. “Where’s your debit card?” “Give that back!” I lunged forward to grab it. During the struggle, the backpack zipper burst open with a sharp snap. My ID, student card, and my printed volunteer teaching confirmation form spilled out, scattering across the hardwood floor. My heart shot into my throat. I dropped to my knees, frantically gathering the papers. Thankfully, Jordan’s eyes were only searching for plastic. He snatched my bank card off the floor, completely ignoring the official university document lying right beside his shoe. I was leaving in four days anyway. They wouldn’t notice a thing. In the end, he forced the transfer through my online banking app, taking the three hundred dollars. Late that night, a text from Cassidy popped up on my screen: [Hey Carlin! Great news—the university board approved a special grant for our volunteer team. Next semester’s dorm housing fees are completely waived, and all our round-trip train tickets are being fully reimbursed!] The tight, suffocating knot in my chest finally loosened, allowing me to take a real breath. The next afternoon, Mom unexpectedly called out to me. “Carlin, come with us to the mall. Lynn needs supplies for her intensive camp, so come along and see if there’s anything you need.” I stood frozen in the hallway. It was the very first time in my life she had voluntarily asked me what I needed. Even knowing it was just an afterthought, a faint ache bloomed in my chest. At the shopping center, Jordan pushed a massive shopping cart while Mom and Dad hovered on either side, credit cards ready. Lynn complained that the dorm mattresses were too firm, so Dad immediately purchased a high-end latex topper. Lynn mentioned her knees hurt after practice, so Mom picked out imported knee braces, an electric massager, a silk sleep mask, an aroma diffuser, a smart kettle, and a set of luxury travel toiletries. The cart overflowed. I looked down at my phone, checking the simple packing list provided by the volunteer organization: “A sun hat, insect repellent, a pack of Band-Aids, a sturdy water bottle.” Nothing expensive. I hesitated for a long time before finally picking up a cheap tube of clearance sunscreen, a box of discounted Band-Aids, and a pair of thick cotton socks. The total came to less than fifteen dollars. When we got home, Mom dumped the heavy shopping bags onto the living room floor. “Carlin, sort through your sister’s stuff and pack it into her suitcase.” I knelt on the floor, pulling the items out one by one. Lynn’s sleep mask, Lynn’s knee pads, Lynn’s toiletries, Lynn’s plush slippers… Everything belonged to Lynn. When I reached the bottom, the bags were completely empty. My sunscreen, Band-Aids, and socks were nowhere to be found. I sat back on my heels. “Where are my things?” Lynn was busy unboxing her new diffuser on the couch. She didn’t even bother looking up. “Oh, those? I saw some cheap garbage in the bag at checkout and thought some stranger dropped them in by mistake, so I tossed them in the trash.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Honestly, those cheap items looked like something an old lady bought at a flea market.” The living room fell dead silent. My fingers curled into tight fists, my voice raspy. “Those were mine.” Lynn laughed carelessly. “Sis, you actually wanted those? They looked so cheap and low-class.” What Lynn didn’t know was that those “cheap” items were the only things I had built up the courage to put in that cart after standing there for half an hour. Mom, as always, immediately chimed in to defend Lynn. “Carlin, why do you have to be so petty? It was fifteen dollars worth of junk! If it’s lost, it’s lost. Can’t you just buy it again later? Lynn didn’t do it on purpose—do you really have to ruin her mood right before her big training camp?” I didn’t bother explaining. In this house, there was no “later” for me anyway. Over the next two days, the house was a whirlwind of chaotic preparation. Mom was busy completing her resignation paperwork and researching meal prep for Lynn’s training. Dad was frantically calling real estate agents to lease an apartment near the prep center—worried that cheaper places were too far, and closer places were too expensive. Jordan took Lynn out to escape rooms and amusement parks to help her “de-stress.” No one asked me what I was doing. And no one noticed that my bedroom was growing emptier with each passing hour. On the third night, everything was finally arranged. Dad booked a reservation at an upscale restaurant downtown to throw Lynn a send-off dinner. I had just rolled my heavy suitcase to the front door when Mom’s call came through. “Carlin, don’t bother coming tonight,” her voice echoed through the speaker. “Director Hoffman from the state performing arts board is joining us. We worked so hard to secure this dinner with him. He’s always believed Lynn is an only child, so bringing you along would just make introductions awkward.” Tonight was the night my volunteer team was set to board the train. I had never intended to go to their dinner in the first place. Yet hearing those words aloud still sent a sharp, familiar sting through my ribs. By the time I pulled my luggage through the crowded concourse of the train station, my phone buzzed with another text from Mom: [On second thought, get over here right now. Director Hoffman used to be married to your high school principal. He said he remembers you well and asked about you. Stop throwing a tantrum and get an Uber immediately.] I looked down at the glowing screen and let out a bitter, silent laugh. They only ever remembered I existed when I was useful to Lynn. Over the intercom, the boarding call for my train sounded. I didn’t bother replying. I turned off my phone, gripped the handle of my suitcase, and walked toward the gate. Behind me lay a house full of cold indifference. Ahead of me lay thousands of miles of open sky. From this moment on, I would only walk forward. I was never turning back.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556435”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When I begged my multi-millionaire husband for enough money to buy groceries, the girl who had been living in our guest house—his childhood best friend—snapped a hideous photo of me crying. She posted it straight to his Instagram. “The leech is begging for cash again. One like equals one hundred dollars for her allowance. How many likes do we think she’s worth?” I lunged for the phone, desperate to delete it. But my mother-in-law stepped in, grabbing my wrist with a manicured hand. “Leave it,” she said with a cold smile. “I think it’s a brilliant idea.” My husband, Colin, chimed in, praising Melody for her “creative solution.” Right then and there, he decreed that from that day forward, my living expenses would be strictly dictated by the number of likes that humiliating post received. For the sake of my grandmother, who was lying in a hospital bed clinging to life, I swallowed the bitter bile in my throat. I didn’t dare fight back. Over the next three years, the likes dwindled. The joke grew old for his country club friends. When my grandmother was eight thousand dollars short for a life-saving surgery, I begged everyone I knew. The post only garnered 70 likes. When I finally got pregnant, my body was so severely malnourished that I needed prenatal supplements just to keep the baby viable. That post got exactly 2 likes. My grandmother died because her heart couldn’t wait for a check that never came. And the child in my womb, starved of the very nutrients it needed to survive, quietly faded away into a pooling mess of blood on the bathroom floor. It was on the day my heart finally turned to ash, the day I resolved to file for divorce, that Colin was in a horrific car crash. Now, his broken body lay tethered to life-support in the ICU, but his spirit—his arrogant, insufferable soul—was floating near the ceiling, screaming at me. [Get the doctors! Call the best neurologists in the country! Have them flown in!] [If I wake up and find out you delayed this, I swear to God I won’t give you a single dime!] I didn’t flinch. I just pulled out my phone with its cracked screen, snapped a photo of his mangled face wrapped in bandages, and posted it to my Instagram. “Gathering likes. One like, and I pull the plug.” 1 The moment the post went live, Colin’s ghost nearly resurrected himself out of sheer rage. He floated down, thrashing and clawing at the air, muttering violently about how he was going to make me pay. But for all his spectral fury, the most he could manage was a faint breeze that shifted a single strand of my hair. [Jocelyn, are you out of your goddamn mind?] [Delete that post right now! Go tell the doctor you can see me! Make them fix this, or I swear I will—] I clicked my screen off, looking right through his translucent form with a bitter smirk. “Or what? You’ll post a poll on Facebook to make sure my grocery budget is capped at two hundred bucks next month? You’ll make sure I starve?” I tilted my head. “You’ve already done that to me, Colin. You’ve already done your worst. I’m not afraid of you anymore.” Colin’s ethereal face faltered. He knew exactly what that two-hundred-dollar limit had done. He knew it was the reason I miscarried. A flicker of genuine guilt crossed his features, but in true Colin fashion, his bruised ego quickly recovered. [No one is going to like that post,] he sneered, crossing his arms. [No one is going to join your little psychotic break and become an accomplice to murder!] I tapped my screen to check. He wasn’t wrong. The post had been up for fifteen minutes, and the little heart icon remained entirely empty. Zero likes. It made sense, really. For three years, every time Colin posted a photo mocking me for money, I had spammed our mutual friends, begging them to throw a ‘like’ my way just so I could eat. I had exhausted them. Over time, they had all either muted or blocked me. And even the ones who hadn’t wouldn’t dare touch a post joking about murder. I let out a soft, hollow sigh. What a shame. Colin smirked, assuming I had admitted defeat. He started barking orders again, telling me to get off my ass and fetch the attending physician. I didn’t move. I just looked at him, my eyes tracing the terrified contour of his fading jawline. “I know one person who will like it,” I whispered. “Someone who wants you dead more than anyone else in the world.” Before Colin could even process the confusion on his face, I looked down at my screen. I tapped the little heart icon beneath my own post. “One like.” Without giving him a second to react, I reached over to the wall and ripped the ventilator tube straight out of the socket. 2 The moment the oxygen was severed, the symphony of machines keeping Colin’s body alive erupted into a frantic, flashing panic. Alarms shrieked. The monitor above his bed began to draw jagged, desperate lines, warning us both that the meat suit on the mattress was rapidly expiring. The green line of his heartbeat began to flatten, stretching out like a long, terrible sigh. It looked exactly like the monitor next to my grandmother’s bed, on that rainy Tuesday when I sat beside her, sobbing because I couldn’t afford her life. It took a few agonizing seconds for Colin to realize what I had done. I wasn’t playing a game. I wasn’t being dramatic. I truly, deeply wanted him to die. His ghost froze, staring at his own suffocating body, and then he began to scream. He threw himself against the heavy oak door of the ICU suite, pounding his fists against the glass, screaming for help. But the universe has a wickedly ironic sense of humor. He was a ghost. I was the only one who could see him. I was the only one who could hear his terror. Realizing he was trapped, he floated back to me, dropping to his translucent knees. [Jocelyn, stop being crazy! Plug it back in! Call the doctors!] [What happened to your grandmother and our baby… that was an accident! But what you’re doing right now is murder!] [Are you trying to throw your life away for me?] [I’m begging you. Plug it in. I promise, the second I wake up, I won’t hold this against you. We can go back to how things were!] I let out a sharp, breathless laugh. Go back to how things were? A hundred dollars a like? “I don’t think so,” I said, my voice shockingly calm. “You might have stopped seeing me as your wife a long time ago, but legally speaking, I am still your next of kin.” I reached over to the rolling tray and casually picked up the Do Not Resuscitate order the doctors had asked me to review. I waved the paper in the air. “Which means I have the legal right to sign away your life. I can legally, rightfully, and completely lawfully pull your plug and send you straight to hell to apologize to my grandmother and my baby.” I leaned in closer to his shimmering face. “Besides, I played by your rules. I waited the agonizing fifteen minutes until the post got a like before I made my move. I learned this all from you, Colin. Did I do a good job?” 3 Colin was speechless. Because I hadn’t lied. Everything shattered the day Melody—the fragile, golden-haired ghost of his childhood—returned from Paris and declared she had nowhere to go. She moved into our guest house, and my marriage fractured overnight. Colin swallowed every manipulative lie she fed him. He grew cold. Distant. To prove his loyalty to her, he froze my bank accounts. He used his connections in the industry to blacklist me so I couldn’t find a job. He reduced me to a beggar in my own home, forcing me to hold up a whiteboard detailing exactly why I needed money, while Melody snapped pictures for his Instagram. One like, one hundred dollars. Those little digital hearts had stripped me of my dignity, my family, and my future. Looking at my dead eyes, Colin finally understood that the woman who used to love him was gone. He knew I was going to stand there and watch him die. So, he bowed his head and pressed his ghostly forehead against the linoleum floor. [I don’t want to die,] he sobbed. I stood up, looking down at him from a great, insurmountable height. “You don’t want to die? Do you think my grandmother wanted to die? Do you think my baby wanted to turn into blood?” He wept harder, his spectral form shivering as he poured out his apologies. [I know I was wrong. I know it. But please, for the sake of the love we used to have, give me a chance to fix this.] [When I wake up, I’ll treat you like a queen. I’ll send my mother and Melody away. I’ll never let them hurt you again.] [And if you really can’t stand the sight of me, I’ll give you the divorce. We’ll split everything fifty-fifty. We can walk away clean. Please?] A slow, dark smile crept onto my lips. “You know, I really did want a divorce,” I murmured. “But right now, I think being a widow sounds infinitely better.” “You never got around to signing a will, did you? Under state law, I’ll inherit at least three-quarters of your estate. That’s a hell of a lot better than fifty-fifty.” Colin began to frantically kowtow against the floor. It was a bizarre sight—he couldn’t touch the physical world, yet the violent impact of his head against the ground seemed real to his soul. The ghostly skin of his forehead began to bruise, turning a sickly purple before ethereal blood started to seep into his eyes. I felt absolutely nothing. I just turned my gaze back to the monitor, watching the jagged line smooth out into a flat, decisive finality. But at that exact, critical second—the heavy door flew open. A hand snatched the oxygen tube from my grip and jammed it forcefully back into the wall. 4 I sighed, turning my head with a profound sense of disappointment. It was Melody. Colin’s ghost leaped up, vibrating with sheer ecstasy. He rushed over to her, his phantom tears mixing with the spectral blood on his face. [Melody! Oh my god, thank god you’re here!] [This crazy bitch just tried to kill me! Go get the doctors! Tell them to—] But before Colin could finish his sentence, Melody raised her hand and delivered a vicious, stinging slap across my cheek. Her hand phased right through Colin’s incorporeal chest to hit me. [Jocelyn, you calculating little whore,] she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. [Did you honestly think that if this idiot died, you could just waltz in, take his money, and kick me to the curb? In your dreams!] [I told you the very first day I moved into this house. I didn’t come here to join your little family. I came here to destroy it. Did you forget?] I hadn’t forgotten. But Colin had never known. The shock on his face was a masterpiece. He couldn’t fathom that the truth I had screamed at him for years was real—that his sweet, innocent, fragile childhood friend was actually a venomous snake. Seeing the utter devastation in Colin’s eyes, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well?” I said, looking right through Melody to the ghost behind her. “Do you see how amazing your little golden girl is now? Do you finally realize if you were loving a woman or a monster?” Melody followed my gaze, blinking at the empty air. She couldn’t see a thing. “Jocelyn, who the hell are you talking to?” I kindly explained the situation. I told her Colin was floating right between us. But, predictably, Melody just assumed I had finally suffered a complete psychological break. I didn’t waste another breath on her. I simply reached out, intending to yank the cord out again. But Melody lunged. She grabbed my wrists, her grip surprisingly strong, and began to scream at the top of her lungs. “Help! Somebody help!” And then, just as the door handle clicked open, she violently slapped her own face, threw herself onto the cold hospital floor, and burst into hysterical, trembling sobs. “Jocelyn, please! Whatever I did to make you hate me, I’m sorry!” she wailed, tears streaming down her perfectly contoured cheeks. “Take it out on me, but please don’t hurt Colin! Please don’t kill him!” 5 It was a flawless performance. The transition from cruel mastermind to helpless victim was smoother than silk. Colin and I had watched this exact play countless times over the years. Except this time, Colin finally realized that all those times he had punished me for “bullying” her, I had been completely innocent. [What… what is happening?] Colin stammered, staring at her in horror. [She hit herself. She just… did it herself.] I gave him a tired, entirely accustomed smile. “What’s the point of this scene, Melody?” I asked wearily. “Your biggest fan is currently in a coma. Who exactly is this performance for?” Melody’s crying hitched for a fraction of a second. Muscle memory had taken over, and she had momentarily forgotten the context. But she didn’t break character. Instead, she scrambled on her knees toward the bewildered doctor who had just rushed into the room. “Doctor, please! Call the police!” she cried, gripping his lab coat. “I saw her post on Instagram—she threatened to murder him! I’m his best friend, so I rushed over. The second I walked in, this psycho pulled his life support! She’s trying to kill him!” As horrified as Colin was by Melody’s betrayal, his survival instinct trumped his heartbreak. He immediately sided with her. [You’re done, Jocelyn!] he sneered, puffing out his chest. [When you’re rotting in a prison cell, I’ll make sure to visit you just to laugh!] I ignored him entirely, keeping my eyes fixed on the doctor. The physician took one look at the monitors, checked the chart, and let out a heavy sigh, clearly annoyed by the theatrics. “Miss,” the doctor said, gently but firmly prying Melody’s hands off his coat. “Mrs. Jocelyn is the patient’s legal wife and medical proxy.” “She was the first to arrive after the accident. She reviewed his grim prognosis and signed a DNR. What she just did was execute her legal right to refuse further medical intervention. It is fully compliant with state law and hospital ethics. It is “not” murder.” The doctor adjusted his glasses, looking down at Melody. “If you are merely a friend of the patient, you have absolutely no say in his medical care.” Both Colin and Melody froze, sheer panic washing over them. But a split second later, the door slammed open again. “She might not have a say, but I certainly do!” 6 It was Cynthia, my mother-in-law. Since she was Colin’s biological mother, she absolutely had the standing to contest my medical decisions if they hadn’t been formalized through court yet. I rolled my eyes. This is exactly why the villains in movies always lose—they talk too much. I never should have posted that stupid Instagram photo just for a momentary thrill. I should have kept my mouth shut, skipped the monologue, and just pulled the damn plug. The moment Cynthia swept into the room, she bypassed her dying son entirely and immediately helped Melody off the floor, cooing over her. Then, she marched over to the doctor’s chart, snatched the DNR I had signed, and ripped it into pieces. “Resume all life-saving measures immediately,” she barked. “I want a new treatment plan on my desk in an hour.” The medical team, clearly realizing they had stumbled into a vicious family war, nodded awkwardly and hurried out to adjust the machines. The second the door clicked shut, Cynthia turned and slapped me hard across the face. “You ungrateful bitch.” “If Melody hadn’t texted me, I would have lost my son today.” Colin noticed the slap before I even registered the sting. For some inexplicable reason, his ghost rushed forward, throwing his arms up to block his mother’s hand, though it phased right through him. [Mom, stop! It’s not what you think!] [Melody is a snake! We’ve been wrong about Jocelyn this whole time. Honestly, she had every right to pull the plug. Don’t hit her!] Unfortunately for him, Cynthia couldn’t hear the dead. She turned her back on me and gently cupped Melody’s cheek, her eyes filled with maternal grief. “Colin is already lying in a coma,” Cynthia whispered softly to Melody. “Why did you have to play the victim card and hurt yourself like this? Don’t you know how much it breaks my heart to see you in pain?” Colin’s ghost stopped dead in his tracks. [What does she mean by that?] he asked, his voice trembling. [Did she… did she know this whole time? Has she been helping Melody abuse you?] I touched my stinging cheek and nodded. “Yep. Looks like you’re finally meeting the real women in your life, Colin.” Cynthia frowned, confused by my conversation with thin air. Melody quickly jumped in. “She’s faking a psychotic episode, Cynthia. She claims Colin’s ghost is floating right next to us, watching everything.” She stroked Cynthia’s arm. “You should go home and rest. Leave this to me. I’ll handle the trash.” 7 Cynthia nodded, glaring at me one last time before sweeping out of the room. I didn’t leave. I just stood at the foot of the bed, looking at Colin’s shattered spirit. “Congratulations,” I said dryly. “You get to live.” Despite the earth-shattering revelations about his mother and his so-called best friend, Colin’s deeply ingrained narcissism immediately began working overtime to protect his ego. [Melody is just doing this because she loves me so much,] he reasoned, pacing the air. [And my mom only helped her because she knows Melody is the right woman for me!] [I’m not mad at them. I get it. When I wake up, I’m going to use this little psychotic break of yours to lock you in a mental ward, finalize the divorce, and marry Melody!] I smiled slowly. And then, I very generously repeated his entire monologue, word for word, to Melody. Melody stared at me like I was a grotesque alien. “Jocelyn, what kind of sick game are you playing?” she spat, dropping the sweet voice completely. “You know better than anyone that I don’t give a shit about Colin. Only a pathetic loser like you could ever love a moron like him. I’ve only ever been here for the money.” She crossed her arms, smirking. “You knew I was after his cash, and you were so terrified I’d scam your precious husband that you refused to divorce him. You brought every ounce of your suffering upon yourself. You deserve it.” Oh, I knew all of that. That was exactly why I repeated his words. I wanted maximum collateral damage. I wanted Colin to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth. I glanced at Colin. He looked like he had been hollowed out with a rusty spoon. Satisfied, I turned to leave. But suddenly, Melody lunged at me again. She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin. Colin and I both stared at her in utter bewilderment. What was she acting out now? Before I could brace myself, she overpowered me, dragged my hand toward the wall, and used my own grip to rip the oxygen tube out of the socket for the second time. With the life support severed again, Colin’s heart monitor let out a long, uninterrupted shriek. The line went totally flat. I was stunned. Before I could ask what the hell she was doing, Melody threw my arm away, sprinted out into the hallway, and began screaming with bloodcurdling terror. “Help! Murder! Somebody help me!” “Jocelyn is murdering him! She’s killing Colin!”

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On our fifth wedding anniversary, I took the day off work and spent hours preparing a lavish dinner filled with all of Tracy’s favorite dishes. When he finally walked through the door, he wasn’t alone. He brought half his team from the office—including his new executive assistant, Sadie. “Sadie can’t stand onions,” Tracy said without looking at me as he hung up his coat. “Go pick them out of the dishes.” Then he glanced toward the kitchen. “Do we have any sparkling peach soda? If not, run downstairs and grab a case. Sadie loves it.” When I stood there, frozen, he narrowed his eyes, his tone dropping into a familiar, icy reprimand. “Everyone came over to celebrate us tonight, Regina. Be reasonable.” I opened my mouth, but the words withered in my throat. Turning back to the bedroom, I peeled off the elegant, backless dress I’d picked out just for him, put on a pair of oversized sweatpants, and walked out into the cold night air. By the time I returned, carrying a heavy box of soda that left deep, red ridges across my palms, laughter and raucous cheering echoed from the living room. “Truth or Dare! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” I paused near the entryway, clutching the cardboard box. “I pick Truth,” a sweet, bubbly voice chimed above the noise. It was Sadie, the night’s big winner. She leaned across the coffee table, her eyes glittering with faux innocence as she looked at Tracy. “Tracy, you’ve been married for so long. Do you still love Regina?” The room went dead silent. My heart slammed against my ribs, a sharp, hopeful pang so intense it almost made me forget the burning pain in my fingers. “Yes,” Tracy replied simply. The single word sent a tremor through my chest. “She’s easy to live with,” Tracy continued casually, taking a sip of his drink. “Compliant. Low maintenance. I’m allergic to latex, and she’s had to go through three abortions without ever complaining. She’s a model wife.” A low hum of laughter rippled through the room. I stood in the shadows of the hallway, numbness spreading from the tips of my toes all the way to my head. Something inside me snapped—quietly, cleanly, like a dry twig in the dead of winter. It suddenly felt so agonizingly pointless. I didn’t want to be the compliant one anymore. If I could do it all over again, I thought, I would choose a love where I didn’t have to shrink myself just to be tolerable. … I pushed open the glass door and set the sodas on the dining table, only to find Sadie perched in my usual chair, right beside Tracy. “Thanks so much, Regina! You’re such a good cook,” Sadie cooed, her eyes bright as she effortlessly grabbed a bottle of the peach soda. Before she could unscrew the cap, Tracy snatched it out of her hand. His brow furrowed as his fingers brushed the chilled glass. “It’s icy cold. You shouldn’t be having cold drinks right now.” Sadie reached up playfully to grab it back, but Tracy held it high above her reach. In her attempt to catch it, Sadie tumbled forward, practically collapsing into his lap. The crowd broke into a chorus of catcalls and whistles, entirely unbothered by the intimate display. It was as if this was a routine they had all seen a hundred times before. “Regina,” Tracy called out, his voice completely level. “Sadie’s cramping today. Having an iced drink will make her stomach ache worse. Go brew a pot of warm brown sugar tea with sweet rice.” My throat felt tight, choked with ash. I gave a vague, frantic nod, ducking my head to hide the hot shame flushing across my face. Five years of marriage. Tracy still didn’t know I was violently allergic to peaches. He could never remember my birthday. I couldn’t handle spicy food, yet his absolute favorite was fire-hot Hunan cuisine—which meant a bowl of lukewarm tap water lived permanently beside my plate so I could rinse off every piece of meat before eating it. The food I ate was always washed bare of flavor, rendered soggy and bland. For years, I had convinced myself that Tracy was simply born cold—a distant, quiet man who just didn’t know how to tenderly love a woman. Until Sadie arrived. She was a scholarship student from a impoverished Appalachian town whom I had sponsored through college. When she graduated and moved to our city, Tracy initially resisted my idea of letting her stay in our guest room. Yet slowly, quietly, the shift happened. He learned the name of her favorite pop star. He brought home armfuls of sunflowers because she mentioned loving them. And now, he had even memorized the precise dates of her menstrual cycle. “What are you standing there for?” Tracy’s voice snapped me back. “Go make the tea.” I fled to the kitchen. My hands were shaking so violently I couldn’t tie the strings of my apron. The kitchen door creaked open. Seeing my clumsy efforts, Tracy stepped up behind me and reached around my waist to pull the string tight. The moment his fingers brushed against mine, I flinched as if I’d touched a live wire, pulling back sharply. Tracy frowned. “Regina, just make the tea and join us at the table. Don’t make everyone feel awkward.” I wanted so desperately to ask him: “With Sadie sitting in my chair, where exactly am I supposed to sit?” He didn’t give me the chance to speak. He turned to the upper cupboard and pulled out a set of yellow pastel ceramic tableware. It was a set Sadie had bought when she was staying with us. Tracy used to sneer at it, calling it tacky and immature. Yet after she moved out to her own apartment, I watched him secretly tuck it away into the top shelf, out of sight. On the stove, the pot of water began to boil, thick bubbles popping aggressively. I put on thick oven mitts and lifted the heavy pot. As I turned toward the doorway, a shadow suddenly crossed the threshold. The collision was instantaneous. The sound of shattering ceramic echoed through the apartment, mingled with screaming. Most of the boiling, sticky liquid washed directly over my bare feet and ankles, while a few tiny droplets splashed onto the hem of Sadie’s white dress. “Sadie! Are you okay?” Tracy lunged forward like a frantic shadow. He didn’t even cast a glance at me as I staggered back, gripping the counter to keep from falling. His eyes were wide with a raw, agonizing panic as he inspected Sadie. “Regina, how many times have I told you? I only view Sadie as a little sister. Why do you have to make things so difficult for her?” Tracy turned on me, his face contorted in fury. “You know she has her final board presentation for her internship tomorrow morning! What if she got burned?” A white-hot, agonizing pain radiated from my feet, searing through my nerves. I clamped my jaws together, forcing myself not to let a single tear drop. “You’re right, Tracy,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I’m useless. I’m impossible. So let’s get a divorce.” Tracy’s anger instantly dissolved into absolute shock. “Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea what today is? What kind of ridiculous scene are you trying to pull?” So he “did” remember what day it was. It was our fifth wedding anniversary. Two weeks ago, I had begged him: “Honey, for our fifth anniversary, can we just have a quiet dinner at home and watch a movie together? Just the two of us?” No expensive gifts, no luxury trips. All I had wanted was a single evening of his undivided presence. And now, here I was—drenched in brown, scalded liquid, my bare ankles already blistering into angry, fluid-filled bubbles. I was broken, bleeding, and somehow, I was the one making a scene. “Tracy… it hurts so much,” Sadie sobbed softly, tugging at his sleeve with trembling fingers. Without another word, Tracy scooped Sadie into his arms, turning toward the door. One of his younger male colleagues stood by the dining room, looking uncomfortable. “Tracy… Mrs. Walker looks really badly burned.” Tracy’s footsteps paused for a fraction of a second. He didn’t turn around. “Sadie’s skin prone to keloid scarring. If we don’t treat her burns immediately, she’ll be marked for life.” Then he rushed out, slamming the door behind him. He left me standing alone in the middle of the ruined room. The nearest hospital was six miles away. He had left without an ounce of hesitation. I took a cab to the emergency room, every single step feeling like I was walking on shattered glass. I suddenly remembered the story of the Little Mermaid—giving up her voice, stepping on knives with every movement, all for the sake of love. Was it ever worth it? “How did you get burned this badly without running cold water over it first?” the doctor chid, gently cleansing the wounds with sterile saline. “The blistering is terrible. Even after this heals, you’re likely going to need skin grafts if you want it to look normal.” The doctor was as gentle as possible, but cold sweat drenched my back nonetheless. “Skin grafts.” To cut away the dead, ruined flesh so something healthy could grow back. Maybe my marriage needed the exact same procedure. Cut out the rotten past so I could retain what little dignity I had left. Because of the risk of severe infection, the doctor admitted me to the observation ward for twenty-four hours. In the bed beside mine was an elderly woman who had sliced her hand while chopping vegetables. Her white-haired husband sat beside her, wringing his hands, drowning in self-reproach. “It was just my own clumsiness, dear. It really doesn’t hurt,” the old woman soothed softly. Her husband shook his head, insisting on feeding her broth, acting as though he wished he could bear every ounce of her pain himself. Seeing me stare at them, the old man gently extended a hand and offered me half a sliced apple. “Here, sweetheart. You’re hurt so badly… where’s your family?” I took a bite of the apple. It tasted bitter and sour. “He… he had something very important to handle. He couldn’t come.” At that moment, my phone buzzed repeatedly. It was a barrage of social media updates from Sadie. Photos of an amusement park. Tracy sitting beside her on a brightly lit carousel, his eyes soft and glowing like stars. Sadie twirling with a sparkler while Tracy held up his phone, capturing her laughter, a look of unadulterated adoration on his face. Tracy, a man who suffered from severe acrophobia, was sitting inside a Ferris wheel, smiling gently at the girl across from him. For five years, every time I had asked him to drive back with me to my hometown to visit my ailing father, he would sigh with deep annoyance: “Regina, you know I get terrible motion sickness and vertigo. I can’t handle long trips. Just go by yourself.” It turned out he wasn’t afraid of heights at all. I was simply never worth his courage. That night in the hospital, I watched the old man wake up countless times to adjust his wife’s blankets and fetch her water. And quietly, amidst the cold sterile smell of antiseptic, I wept until every last drop of love I held for Tracy Walker was completely drained. The next morning, a nurse walked in holding a lab report. “Ms. Walker? Your blood work came back. We need to schedule an ultrasound right away.” She looked up at me with a serious expression. “You’re pregnant.” …… When I discharged myself and returned to the apartment, the mess on the floor remained untouched. Over the past two days, the sticky brown tea had dried into a dark, crusted, disgusting stain across the hardwood. I walked straight into the master bedroom. On the nightstand stood our wedding photo. Tracy was unsmiling, looking distant as always, but back then, I had convinced myself that the subtle warmth in his eyes was real. My mind drifted back to our very first pregnancy, three years ago. His company was just taking off. When I showed him the positive test, it was the first time I had ever seen tears in his eyes. “Regina,” he had whispered, pulling me close. “I’m terrified I won’t be able to provide for you and a baby right now. Can you give me a little more time?” I loved him so fiercely that I couldn’t bear to see him stressed. So I went to the clinic alone. By the third time I fell pregnant, just last year, his tone had morphed into cold indifference: “You know the drill at the women’s clinic. The doctors know you. Just take an Uber.” The warning signs had been there all along. I had simply chosen to be an ostrich, burying my head in the sand, pretending that if I gave enough, he would love me back. I rested my hand against my lower abdomen, remembering the doctor’s warning earlier that morning: “Your uterine lining is dangerously thin from past procedures. If you want a child, I strongly advise you to keep this one. If you terminate, you may never be able to conceive again.” I had finally mustered the courage to walk away from this marriage, only for this miracle to arrive now. I picked up my phone. Not a single text from Tracy. Not a single missed call. I typed out a short message: [Come home. We need to talk.] …… Tracy arrived sooner than I expected. Right before he unlocked the door, I had been thinking about the elderly couple in the hospital ward. I had wondered, foolishly: “If Sadie had never entered our lives, would Tracy and I have quietly drifted into old age together?” The front door slammed open. Tracy strode in, his face dark with fury. The look he threw me was sharp enough to draw blood. “Regina, I missed one stupid anniversary dinner with you, and this is how you react? How could you do something so malicious to Sadie?” “What are you talking about?” I asked quietly. I had summoned him here to tell him about the baby, and to hand him the divorce terms. He thrust his phone directly into my face. “Stop playing dumb! Exposing Sadie’s private background online? Spreading rumors that she’s a homewrecker? Don’t tell me this wasn’t your doing!” Confused, I took the phone. It was a trending post on X: [Real-life Snake in the Grass: Poverty-Stricken Student Seduces Her Benefactor’s Husband.] The post laid out Sadie’s background in excruciating detail. It detailed how I had funded her high school education, helped her apply for colleges, bought her first smartphone, paid four years of her tuition, and landed her an internship at our firm upon graduation. Every word was true, though the tone was dripping with moral outrage. At the bottom of the article were several candid photos. One showed Sadie leaning over Tracy’s desk in his corporate office, adjusting his necktie. Another showed them inside his Tesla—Tracy reaching across to pull her seatbelt, Sadie’s lips practically brushed against his cheek. There were no curse words in the article, but the comment section was an absolute bloodbath of public condemnation. “I didn’t write this,” I said softly. Yet a familiar, sickening ache flared in my chest. I hadn’t sat in the passenger seat of Tracy’s car in months. The last time I tried to open the passenger door, he had snapped at me impatiently: “Sit in the back, Regina. Sadie left her ergonomic lumbar pillow up front, and she hates when people touch her stuff.” I remembered that pillow clearly. It was a bright, obnoxious pink—a color Tracy used to claim he despised. “Regina, wasn’t it “you” who asked me to take care of Sadie in the first place?” Tracy’s voice rose, dense with suppressed rage. “I did exactly what you asked! And now you fabricate rumors to ruin her? How can you be so ruthless? Do you have any idea how hard a girl from her background has worked just to survive?” I looked at him, feeling an overwhelming sense of absurdity. The article was tame compared to the cozy photos Sadie had personally texted me late at night. “You need to issue a public statement right now apologizing to Sadie,” Tracy ordered, his voice cold and hard. “I didn’t write it,” I repeated, looking him dead in the eye. “And I’m not apologizing for something I didn’t do.” Tracy stared at me, his eyes filled with profound disappointment. “Regina… you used to be so understanding. So sensible. When did you turn into someone so vindictive?” “Sensible.” Ever since we started dating, he had always told me he loved how low-maintenance and sensible I was. So while he built his company, I worked a full-time job while simultaneously managing his parents’ healthcare and household needs. Because I was “sensible,” when I was sick, I drove myself to the urgent care clinic. When I was involved in a minor car accident last year, cornered by an aggressive driver on the highway, I didn’t dare call him to interrupt his board meeting; I sat in the broken vehicle, shivering violently, waiting alone for the police. To be sensible was to compromise. And in love, the person who compromises is always the one taken for granted. “Tracy,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Let’s get a divorce.” Tracy’s chest heaved. “You’re using divorce to threaten me just so you can destroy a young girl’s life? Fine. You want to play dirty? Don’t blame me for ignoring five years of marriage.” He pulled out his phone and dialed a number on speaker. “Dr. Harrison? This is Tracy Walker. Cut the life-support and monitoring equipment for Thomas Walker in Room 36. Go ahead and process his discharge paperwork this afternoon.” I stared at him in utter disbelief. “Tracy… you’re cutting off my father’s medical care… for Sadie?” My mother died young. My father worked brutal hours in construction to raise me. After I married Tracy, I threw myself into his business, taking care of his needs, spending every holiday with his family while my own father sat alone in his tiny house. Two years ago, my father suffered a massive hemorrhagic stroke. If a neighbor hadn’t knocked on his door the next day, I would have lost him forever. I had been consumed by guilt. Back then, Tracy had pulled me into his arms, wiping my tears, promising: “Don’t be scared, honey. I’ll hire the best neurologists in the country. We’ll move him to a premier care facility near us so you can see him every day.” When my father became paralyzed, he felt like a burden and wanted to give up. It was Tracy who convinced him to enter the private facility. “As long as your father is alive, Regina, you still have a home.” Those words were still echoing in my mind. How could the same man be so utterly ruthless today? “Regina, you came from a small town too,” Tracy spat, stepping closer. “You know how brutal it is for someone like Sadie. You’re backing her into a corner, trying to kill her!” Who was backing whom into a corner? My feet were wrapped in thick bandages. I was carrying a high-risk pregnancy. And my paralyzed father wouldn’t survive three days without the specialized machinery at the facility. An agonizing, suffocating despair surged through me, strangling the breath from my lungs. “It really wasn’t me,” I choked out. “Tracy… if you love Sadie so much, let’s just get divorced. I’m letting you go.” Tracy pulled at his tie in frustration. “Stop using divorce as a weapon! Sadie and I are clean—there’s nothing trashy going on between us!” I closed my eyes. What was the point of his denial now? “I’m giving you half a day,” Tracy said coldly, heading for the front door. “If I don’t see a public retraction and apology from you by tonight, your father gets turned out onto the street. You decide what’s more important.” He turned to leave. I surged forward to stop him, but the sharp pain in my bandaged feet shot straight up my spine. My knees buckled, and I fell heavily onto the hardwood floor. A sharp, unbearable contraction ripped through my lower abdomen. Cold sweat broke out across my forehead instantly. The doctor’s stark warnings flashed through my mind. “Tracy… stop… take me to the hospital,” I gasped, my voice trembling violently as panic seized my throat. “I’m… I’m pregnant.” Tracy paused near the door. He turned around, looking down at me on the floor, his expression entirely devoid of warmth. “You know Sadie threatened to end her life today, so now you’re pulling a fake pregnancy stunt to keep me here?” He shook his head, disgust written all over his face. “Regina, you’ve become so manipulative I barely recognize you.” “I’m not lying… the medical report is right on the coffee table! Just look at it—” A sudden, warm burst of fluid soaked through my linen pants. Pain rolled through my core in violent waves. “Please,” I sobbed, stretching my hand out toward his trousers. “I’m begging you…” Just as my fingers were an inch from his hem, Tracy stepped back neatly, avoiding my touch. “If you want to beg someone, beg Sadie. She’s the victim here.” At that exact second, Tracy’s phone rang loudly. He snatched it up immediately. Sadie’s frantic, hysterical crying echoed through the speaker: “Tracy… I don’t want to live anymore… there’s media outside my apartment…” Tracy didn’t give me another glance. He turned, opened the door, and strode out into the hallway. I tried desperately to drag myself up, but the pain tore through me like a physical knife. I pushed myself up once, twice, only to collapse back down into the puddle of my own blood. As the crimson pool expanded across the floor, taking my strength and my baby with it, my vision began to blur around the edges. I stopped fighting. I closed my eyes, letting the darkness swallow me whole. Maybe… if my child, my father, and I all left this world together, it would finally be a quiet kind of peace.

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At our engagement gala, my fiancé’s executive assistant suggested a game of “Bizarre Wedding Blind Boxes” to kick off the night. I reached into the silk-lined bowl and drew a black velvet card. I pulled the Funeral Box. In an instant, the centerpiece of crimson roses on our table was swapped for arrangements of stark white lilies. The vibrant red gown I had tailored over six months was replaced on the digital displays with a tailored white burial shroud. On the main screen, my smiling face in our engagement portraits had been edited into black-and-white. Standing beside me in the altered photo was a tall, sharp-jawed man with dark, glacial eyes. Whitney’s manicured nail tapped against the glass of the display case. “He’s been dead for ten years,” she purred, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “But I picked him out just for you. Isn’t he gorgeous?” The blood drained from my face, my pulse hammering in my ears. My voice shook, thick with rising fury. “Whitney, this is my engagement party. What the hell is wrong with you?!” Beck stepped smoothly between us, putting a protective arm around her shoulders. His tone was dismissive, almost bored. “Shirley, stop making a scene. Whitney was just trying to liven up the room with a little lighthearted prank. Don’t be so dramatic and ruin the night for everyone.” Beside him, one of his groomsmen leaned in, whispering under his breath, “Beck, man, isn’t this taking it a bit far? Shirley’s waited seven years for this. Whitney sabotages her engagement party every single year. Aren’t you worried she’s actually going to walk this time?” “Worried about what?” Beck murmured, picking up a white bloom and idly twirling it between his fingers. “She’s pushing thirty. Who else is going to take her?” That single sentence shattered seven years of devotion, patience, and silent endurance. Under the cruel, amused gazes of two hundred high-society guests, I turned and walked out into the rain. Late that night, in the quiet darkness of my bedroom, a dream pulled me under. Someone gently brushed my damp hair away from my forehead. The man from the photograph—dressed in the same dark, bespoke suit—hovered over me. The pad of his thumb wiped a stray tear from my cheek. His voice was low and resonant, echoing as if rising through a subterranean mist: “When I return to the living realm, I am coming to claim you as my bride.” … I opened my eyes as the morning sun broke through the blinds, the dream receding like a tidal wave. The man’s voice lingered in my mind—deep, heavy, yet searing warm against the shell of my ear. Something deep within me whispered that he was far from mortal. A sharp chime from my phone startled me back to reality. A bank notification flashed on the screen. My account had just been credited with fifty million dollars. The memo line contained only two words: “Bride Price.” On my nightstand lay a sheet of thick crimson parchment—a traditional marriage contract. Written in bold, commanding calligraphy were the words: “Groom: Dorian.” My whole body went rigid. It hadn’t been a dream. From the hallway outside, Whitney’s softly cooing, performatively anxious voice drifted through the crack in the door. “Beck… do you think I went too far yesterday? Is Shirley angry with me?” She paused, lowering her voice to a suggestive whisper. “People at the office are already gossiping. They say I intentionally ruin your engagement parties every year because… because of how I feel about you…” The sentence hung in the air, weighted with deliberate flirtation. I looked through the sliver of the doorway. Beck was leaning down, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s fine,” he said quietly. “People will forget in a few weeks. Shirley isn’t that petty.” Seven years. For seven years, he had always been generous with my grace, offering forgiveness on my behalf for wounds he never felt. I swallowed the lump in my throat and pushed the door open. My gaze landed on the platinum diamond engagement ring on Beck’s finger. It had once been the beacon of everything I hoped our future would be. I walked up to Whitney, took off the matching diamond band I had spent the night staring at, and took her hand. I slid the platinum band onto her ring finger. “It’s always been a little too tight on me,” I said, my voice steady. “It fits you perfectly.” The night before the party, when I had tried it on, I mentioned it pinched my knuckle. Beck had barely looked up from his tablet, asking, “Have you gained weight recently?” It was never a matter of size. The ring had simply never belonged to me. Beck froze, his tone shifting into his usual patronizing humoring. “Still throwing a tantrum? Shirley, don’t be like this.” That casual, throwaway dismissal snapped the last string of my self-control. The humiliation of the night before rushed back. The celebratory pink rose petals had felt like funeral confetti. The crowded ballroom had felt less like a celebration and more like a mockery arranged for my public execution. Whitney had stood in the center of the room, beaming. “Shirley, it’s just a prank game. You’re older than the rest of us—you ought to be a good sport.” Every word a subtle reminder that I was almost thirty, the desperate woman clinging to a man who refused to lock the door. And Beck had only offered her a mild, indulgent reprimand: “Whitney, just this once. Don’t cause trouble next time.” No defense. No comfort. Not a single word spoken to protect my dignity. Seeing the shift in my expression, Beck stepped closer, offering the same empty promise I’d heard for seven years. “Sweetheart, stop being angry. Next year, no games, no gimmicks. I’ll marry you properly. Our actual wedding will be a thousand times grander than this.” Always the same. Soft tones, grand promises, and a distant, ever-receding “next time.” The first year, Whitney “accidentally” spilled red wine down the front of my gown. Beck said, “She’s new to the firm, she doesn’t know better.” The second year, she falsely claimed his mother had been rushed to the emergency room right before our vows. Beck said, “She was just worried about my family.” The third year, she hired six male models to crash the reception pretending to be my exes. Beck said, “It was a joke. Don’t be so thin-skinned.” Year after year, the same script. I had waited from twenty-three to thirty, until people started calling me the leftover girl, while Beck couldn’t even be bothered to stand up for me once. I met the eyes of the man I had loved for seven years and spoke quietly. “Beck, if you won’t marry me, I’m going to marry someone else.” As the words left my mouth, a pathetic, lingering sliver of hope flickered in my chest. I wanted him to panic. I wanted him to grab my wrist, to plead, to finally promise me something real. But the panic never came. Beck let out a low, amused breath, looking down at me with condescending pity. “Shirley, you know how much I hate being threatened. Seven years, seven engagement parties—when have you ever actually walked away?” I opened my mouth to tell him that this time was different. Before I could speak, Whitney stepped forward holding a velvet jewelry box. “Shirley, I came to apologize,” she said softly, opening the box to reveal a pair of modest pearl earrings. “Yesterday was my fault. Beck already scolded me. Please forgive me.” She reached out in a show of delicate reconciliation, but my eyes locked onto the solid white jade bracelet on her wrist. I knew that hand-carved pattern intimately. It was the heirloom bracelet Beck had given me as an anniversary gift years ago. It had gone missing from my jewelry box a month ago. It hadn’t been lost. He had simply given it to her. Whitney caught my gaze, a flash of smug triumph gleaming in her eyes before she instantly put on a look of panic, reaching down as if to strip the bracelet off. “Shirley, I forgot this was yours! I’ll take it off right now—” A cold numbness flooded my veins. I didn’t reach out to catch it. I didn’t want dirty things back. Her movements were frantic, exaggerated. In the clumsy scuffle, the heavy jade slipped from her hand and slammed into the hardwood floor, shattering into sharp white splinters. A flying shard scraped across my cheek. A thin line of red trickled down my jaw. Beck’s eyes narrowed, his temper flaring instantly. “Shirley, haven’t you had enough?!” he snapped. “I didn’t even blame you when you lost that bracelet, and now when Whitney tries to return it out of the goodness of her heart, you smash it on purpose? You’re becoming completely unreasonable!” His blind accusation crushed the absolute last remnant of my foolishness. Without waiting for an explanation, he took the tearful Whitney by the arm and walked away. In the silence of the empty hall, the deep voice from my dream echoed in my mind: “If you are unwilling, marry another within seven days, and the covenant will be broken.” But the man I wanted to marry no longer wanted me. I walked down the long corridor and opened the door at the very end. It was the room Beck had once designed to be a nursery. Years ago, he had wrapped his arms around me from behind and whispered, “Shirley, we’ll have a daughter. We’ll paint the walls pastel pink and fill a closet with tiny princess dresses.” His tenderness back then had been so real, so grounded, that I had believed in it for years. Now, the grand room was nothing more than a graveyard for seven ruined engagements. Twenty-three draft versions of custom invitations; six sets of discarded bridal portraits; champagne flutes glued back together after being knocked over; a veil stained dark with spilled Merlot… And at the very top of the debris lay the ruined gown from yesterday, splattered in harsh white paint. In the framed photo beside it, I stood in that ruined dress, looking small and desolate. Beck stood half a step behind me, one hand tucked carelessly into his pocket, looking at me like an adult watching a child throw a ridiculous tantrum. I pulled the cool, heavy crimson paper from my coat pocket. A drop of blood from the cut on my cheek fell onto the page, right over the space designated for the bride. I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed a pen and signed my name in clear, unwavering strokes: “Shirley Perry.” The moment the ink dried, the invisible chain that had bound my heart for seven years finally snapped. That evening, Beck moved out to stay at his corporate penthouse. “Shirley, take a few days to cool off,” he texted me. “Stop acting out. It’s pathetic.” It was fine. He needed to cool off, and I needed to clear out. I called a moving company to help me pack up the house that had held seven years of my life. Memories kept bleeding through the noise. Once upon a time, Beck would kneel in public to tie my shoelace. He would pick the onions out of my food. He would curl up with me on the bay window bench, planning a life for three. The love hadn’t been fake; it had simply rotted. While packing, I opened social media and saw an update from Whitney. The photo was a close-up of the sunlit bay window nook in my master bedroom. A comment below asked: “Where is this?” Whitney’s reply was brief: “My future home.” Those three words extinguished the final spark of warmth left in my chest. A sudden, aggressive pounding echoed off the front door. I went to answer it, thinking it was the movers. The moment the lock clicked, two heavy hands clamped onto my shoulders, and a rag soaked in a sweet, chemical scent was shoved over my nose and mouth. I thrashed violently, but my limbs grew heavy. A smooth, venomous voice drifted into my ear. “Shirley, did you really think playing the ‘breakup’ card would make Beck come crawling back to you?” Whitney whispered softly. “Once you’re legally bound to a dead man, Beck will never touch you again.” Her words sent a jolt of terror through me. I reached blindly into my coat pocket, pulling out the crimson paper. “I’m not trying to get him back… I’ve already agreed to marry someone else…” Whitney let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Marry who? That corpse?” she sneered. “Shirley, if you’re going to lie, come up with something believable. You’ve been obsessed with Beck for seven years—how could you ever let him go?” She turned to the muscular men holding me down. “Take her.” They dragged me toward an unmarked van parked in the driveway. As I fought against the waning light of my consciousness, a familiar voice cut through the air. “Whitney? What are you guys doing?” It was Beck. Whitney’s aggressive stance vanished instantly, replaced by her signature soft, trembling posture. “Beck! What are you doing back? Shirley said she wants to break up with you for good and go back home to do setup dates. I was just trying to talk her out of it…” Beck didn’t question her for a second. His face hardened with cold contempt. “Let her go!” he called out coldly toward the van. “I want to see who on earth would ever marry her after this.” I curled up on the floor of the vehicle, absorbing every jagged, merciless word. The van jolted over uneven roads for what felt like hours. When it finally stopped, the men dragged my semi-conscious body into a cold, dimly lit stone hall and shoved me into a heavy, wooden coffin. I had always been terrified of the dark, terrified of tight, enclosed spaces. From outside the heavy oak box, vulgar, muffled voices echoed. “Man, this chick is gorgeous. Cruel as hell that she’s being forced into a shadow marriage with a dead guy.” “The guy’s been dead ten years anyway. He ain’t gonna use her. Might as well let us have some fun first.” “Once the ceremony wrapping is done, let’s pry the lid back open…” Before I could process the words, a rough, calloused hand reached into the gap of the lid, grabbing at my shoulder. Gathering every ounce of strength left in my drugged body, I leaned forward and bit down viciously on his wrist. The taste of copper filled my mouth. The man screamed in pain. The heavy coffin lid was shoved back with a deafening rattle. “You bitch!” A heavy blow struck the side of my face, sending fresh blood trickling down my jaw. Hands reached in, grabbing, tearing at my clothes. An overwhelming wave of humiliation and horror threatened to break my sanity. Then, a thunderous crash shattered the air. It sounded as if a massive structure had collapsed against the far wall. The framed portrait of Dorian hanging above the alter slipped from its iron hooks, crashing to the stone floor. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces, but the sharp, carved lines of his face remained intact, his faint, dark smile unbothered. “Ghost—it’s a ghost!” someone shrieked. Pandemonium erupted through the hall. “He’s alive! The guy from the picture is alive!” “It’s the underworld lord! Run!” “We were forced into this! Please, spare us!” The men didn’t even see who—or what—was attacking them. Invisible force waves slammed through the room, throwing heavy men against stone pillars. Bones cracked; screams of agony filled the air. The lingering sedative in my blood reached its peak. In the final second before darkness took me entirely, a cool, gentle breeze swept over my face, brushing away the cold sweat on my forehead. A tall, broad-shouldered figure knelt beside the coffin. A low, velvet voice brushed against my ear, melting away every trace of terror. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here.” I forced my heavy eyelids open. Through a blurred, fading field of vision, the sharp, elegant face from my dreams came into absolute focus. He wasn’t wearing ancient robes or dark shadows. He wore an impeccably tailored modern suit that set off his commanding, athletic frame. The emotional shock, combined with the lingering drug, dragged me under. I closed my eyes and surrendered to the dark. … At that exact moment, Beck walked back into his empty house. An uncharacteristic knot of anxiety tightened in his chest. Usually, after any fight, he would receive a text from me by the following morning at the latest. Sometimes a photo of breakfast, sometimes a gentle “It’s cold today, wear a heavier coat,” or just a simple emoji. He was used to that tacit rhythm—the idea that no matter how hard I cried, I would always self-soothe and return. Today, there was nothing. The silence in the house was heavy. His groomsmen, who had come over to watch the game, tried to break the tension. “Beck, Shirley’s stuck by you through seven engagement disasters. All it takes is a quick phone call and a decent apology, and she’ll be back.” Beck let out a cold snort, leaning back against the leather sofa with practiced arrogance. “No need. You guys actually buy into this push-and-pull game women play?” Yet even as he spoke the words, his thumb kept refreshing his phone screen. A social media notification popped up from a mutual acquaintance. “A match made in heaven. What a breathtaking couple!” Beck’s thumb froze. What day was today? He stared at the screen for half a second before remembering a conversation from last year. His mother had checked the almanac and said, “This specific date next year is the luckiest day for a wedding. Set it for then.” They had set it, delayed it, canceled it, and rescheduled it through seven iterations. But today was, in fact, that exact date. He refreshed the feed again. Another friend had posted an update filled with exclamation points: “The bride is stunning! Absolute royalty energy!” Attached was a somewhat blurry, candid shot of a bride from a distance. Despite the soft focus, the elegant profile, the line of the neck, the delicate jawline were unmistakably mine. Beck stared at the photo for three full seconds, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edges of his phone. “Let’s go, let’s go!” his friends teased, catching a glimpse of his screen. “Look at you, Beck—you put on your wedding suit hours ago and pretended you didn’t care!” Beck looked down at the tailored three-piece suit he had put on that morning. A faint, triumphant smirk touched the corner of his lips. His pride was stiff, but his actions were swift. He stood up, adjusted his silk tie, and prepared to head out—ready to offer me a graceful way down from my stance. The moment he reached for the door handle, his phone buzzed violently. It was one of his groomsmen who had stayed behind near the city venue. The guy’s voice was shaking, breathless with utter shock. “Beck! Who the hell is the man standing next to Shirley?!” “Isn’t today supposed to be “your” wedding?!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556432”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day the typhoon warning was upgraded to a severe category threat, I went to the hospital for my prenatal checkup alone. On my way back, the coastal bridge was shut down due to flooding, trapping me in the emergency room lobby. That was when Cora—Jared’s childhood sweet, frail best friend—called him, sobbing into the receiver that the thunder was scaring her to death. He abandoned me, driving through a city submerged in gale-force winds and downpours just to hold her hand. Meanwhile, sitting in the lobby, I clutched my bleeding lower abdomen and begged him over the phone to come back and sign my emergency surgery consent form. His response was a cold, impatient snap: “Sally, can you stop making a scene at a time like this?” After the procedure was over, I sat alone in the stark, freezing recovery ward and sent him one last text message. “Jared, the baby is gone. You’re free.” … 1. When I woke up, dawn hadn’t broken yet. The overhead fluorescent lights in the post-op observation room glared down, making my eyes sting. A dull, rhythmic agony dragged at my lower belly—a persistent, hollow cramp. Nurse Jenkins slapped a sheet of post-operative instructions onto the wall beside my headboard, her tone crisp and hurried. “You need round-the-clock supervision for the next twenty-four hours. Absolutely no getting out of bed on your own. If the bleeding surges, hit the call button immediately.” She paused, her eyes sweeping over the empty plastic chair beside my bed. “Where’s your family?” I stared up at the speckled ceiling tiles, unable to answer. My phone buzzed against the pillow. Jared’s name illuminated the screen. In that quiet, miserable second, my heart betrayed me. It softened. I desperately wanted to believe that he was calling to ask where I was, to ask if I was okay. I answered. Jared’s voice came through low and tightly wound. “Sally, what on earth are you trying to accomplish?” I stayed silent, my breath hitching in my throat. “Using a fake baby emergency to scare me—do you think that’s funny?” he continued, his tone sharp with accusation. “Cora was so terrified earlier she couldn’t even stand up on her own. Did you really have to pick this exact moment to throw a hysterical fit?” Nurse Jenkins was standing close enough to hear every word. Her expression hardened instantly. Without asking, she reached down, took the phone from my trembling fingers, and pressed the speakerphone button. “This is the head nurse in OB-GYN Emergency,” she said, her voice like ice. “Your wife, Sally, just underwent an emergency D&C following a severe hemorrhage and incomplete miscarriage. The fetus could not be saved. She is currently in post-op observation, and we need an immediate family member on-site to sign her risk disclosures and discharge paperwork.” The line went dead silent. It lasted so long that all I could hear was the metallic rattle of a supply cart being wheeled down the linoleum floor far down the corridor. Finally, Jared spoke. “Can… can she talk right now?” Nurse Jenkins looked down at me, her eyes filled with grim sympathy. “What she needs right now is someone to take care of her.” Half an hour later, Jared arrived. The first thing I saw wasn’t him—it was the wheelchair. Cora was sitting in it, wrapped in Jared’s heavy black trench coat, a blue gel ice pack strapped around her slender ankle. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her fingers clutching the lapels of his coat as if it were her only lifeline. “Sally…” she whimpered, her voice cracking as tears spilled over her lashes. “I’m so sorry… I didn’t know you were actually…” She broke off into helpless sniffling. Jared pushed her chair into the cramped space, his eyes alighting on my pale face for a fraction of a second before pivoting straight to Nurse Jenkins. “She slipped and sprained her ankle during the storm earlier,” Jared said, his voice brimming with urgency. “Can someone here take a look at her foot while we’re here?” The observation room plunged into a breathless quiet. Nurse Jenkins snapped her medical chart shut with a loud “thwack”. “This is Obstetrics and Gynecology Emergency, sir. Orthopedics and trauma are downstairs.” Jared’s brow furrowed into a deep, irritated V. “She’s emotionally unstable right now, and the lines down there are way too long.” Nurse Jenkins ignored his explanation entirely. She pointed a firm finger at the digital monitor beside my bed. “This woman right here just lost her pregnancy. Her post-op bleeding risk is dangerously elevated. You need to sign these risk documents immediately.” Jared’s face darkened. He walked over to the side of my bed, his eyes finally landing on the blood-soaked pad beneath me, the IV drip, and the laminated medical chart. For a brief instant, the absolute conviction in his posture crumbled. Then Cora clutched her chest with a small, dramatic gasp. “Jared… I feel so dizzy…” Jared spun around instantaneously, dropping to his knee to catch her shoulder. He looked back over his shoulder at me, his tone dropping into that familiar, pacifying murmur he always used when he wanted me to yield. “Sally, let me take Cora down to trauma first. I’ll be right back up. Don’t overthink things. I’ll handle everything.” An attending physician stepped through the curtain holding a clipboard. “Family needs to sign the consent and post-op acknowledgment now.” Jared reached out and took the pen. The tip touched the paper. Before he could press down, Cora let out a delicate, shuddering moan. “Jared… I’m scared.” The pen froze. I watched, numb, as he set the pen down on the rolling tray table. “I’ll take her down first,” he muttered. Nurse Jenkins stepped into his path. “Sir, she just came out of surgery. She has no one here.” Jared stared down at me, his gaze cold, almost resentful. “Sally, you’ve always been the sensible one. Don’t make a scene in a hospital.” Those words crashed over me like ice water. My head throbbed; my vision blurred around the edges. He turned and pushed Cora out the door. The rubber wheels of the chair clicked against the floor tiles, the sound echoing down the hallway until it faded into nothing. Nurse Jenkins stood beside my bed for a long time before asking softly, “Do you still want him listed as your primary emergency contact?” I swallowed the metallic taste of blood in my mouth and recited my mother’s cell phone number instead. My phone buzzed on the mattress. A text from Jared: “Wait for me. Don’t start letting your mind run wild.” I deleted the message thread, deleted his contact entry, and removed him from my medical profile entirely. Then, opening a healthcare concierge app on my phone, I booked a single private room at a specialized postpartum recovery lodge in the neighboring county. Outside the heavy hospital windows, the roar of the thunder had finally ceased. Yet inside my head, the sound of those wheelchair wheels rolling away kept playing, over and over again. 2. The day I was discharged, Jared didn’t come. His personal driver parked the sedan at the curb downstairs, refusing to meet my eyes as he loaded my small bag into the trunk. “Mrs. Ellis… Mr. Ellis had an urgent meeting come up at the firm,” the driver stammered. “He asked me to take you home safely.” I stood holding the handle of the passenger door for a few long seconds, a sharp, dragging ache pulling down on my lower belly. In the elevator up to our apartment, I rested my forehead against the cool metallic wall, breathing in the lingering smell of hospital disinfectant clinging to my sleeves. The apartment door swung open. Two heavy hard-shell suitcases were stacked right in the foyer. Beside a bright pink suitcase sat a soaking wet umbrella, rain pooling from its tip and creeping into the seams of the hardwood floor. My hand froze on my keys. From deep inside the master suite came Cora’s soft, melodic voice. “Jared? Where did you put my heating pad?” I walked in. The door to the nursery was wide open. That room—the room Jared and I had spent three tedious, blissful months measuring, painting, and decorating—was unrecognizable. The crib we had assembled together was gone. In its place stood Cora’s luggage, her marble essential oil diffuser, her silk robes, and rows of prescription medication bottles. Out on the balcony, a section of the rolled-up organic crib mattress was drenched, splashed by the driving rain. A clear plastic storage bin had been dumped near the door, stuffed with my prenatal records. My ultrasound photos were taped to the outside of a paper folder, the ink bleeding and smeared by water damage. Jared walked out of the kitchen holding a mug of warm steaming porridge. When his eyes met mine, his tense brow smoothed out slightly. “You’re back?” he said, setting the mug on the dining table. “Sit down and eat something first.” I stared into the transformed nursery. “She’s living here?” Jared adjusted his cuffs. “Cora’s apartment suffered severe water damage from the storm. Building maintenance said it’ll take days to repair. I wasn’t comfortable leaving her alone in a flooded place. It’s temporary.” Cora stepped out of the nursery, wearing my oversized maternity loungewear set. The soft cotton draped awkwardly off her thin shoulders. “Sally…” she said softly, peering at me with wide, apologetic eyes. “I didn’t bring enough spare clothes, so I borrowed this. I hope you don’t mind.” I didn’t answer her. I walked into the room, leaned down, and picked up the damp folder containing my baby’s ultrasound scans. Water had already seeped through the thick cardstock. Cora rushed forward, her hands fluttering in panic. “I was trying to pack those away safely for you, I swear! But the storm outside was just so violent…” Jared walked over, setting a cup of warm herbal tea into her hands. “Take your medicine first,” he said gently to her. Then he turned to me, his tone leveling into a flat, reprimanding instruction. “You can sort through those boxes later, Sally. You just had a procedure. Stop pushing yourself to make a point.” My mother-in-law’s video call incoming chime suddenly blasted through Jared’s phone. He answered it immediately, stepping slightly away and lowering his voice. “Mom. Yeah, Sally just got home.” His mother’s voice boomed through the speaker: “How did the checkup go today? What did the specialist say about the baby’s growth measurements?” Jared instantly pulled the phone further from his face, shooting a nervous, warnings-filled glance at me. “Mom, let me call you back in a bit.” I sat down right there on the wooden floor of the nursery, picking up the scattered crib hardware piece by piece and dropping them into a cardboard box. Two of the custom gold screws were missing. A tiny pair of knitted yellow booties lay crushed beneath Cora’s heavy cosmetic case, the edges frayed and dirty. Cora stood at the threshold, coughing delicately twice into her palm. Jared stepped inside, reached down, and abruptly snatched the cardboard box out of my hands. “Stop obsessing over this right now!” The box slipped. Wooden building blocks cascaded across the floorboards with a loud “clatter”. A small plush rabbit tumbled across the floor, stopping right at Cora’s slippered feet. Cora bent down to retrieve it, her fingers brushing against the damp ultrasound folder. In an instant, her face crumbled, and tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Jared… I really didn’t know she would be this broken up about it…” Jared immediately wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her up. His voice was heavy with sheer exhaustion. “Sally, laying all this stuff out on the floor like a shrine isn’t helping anyone. Cora is already eaten up with guilt over what happened.” I slowly lifted my head and looked up at him. “Then where exactly am I supposed to put my grief?” He had no answer for that. Cora clutched his sleeve, her knuckles white. “Jared… maybe I should just go to a hotel. I can’t bear causing this…” Jared didn’t let go of her arm. “It’s pouring buckets outside, Cora. Where could you possibly go?” I picked up the ruined ultrasound photo. The paper was soft, disintegrating at the borders, the faint, curved white outline of my baby’s spine blurred into an unrecognizable smudge. That night, Jared sat in the living room until two in the morning, holding Cora’s hand while guiding her through an emergency tele-health consultation with her psychiatrist. I walked into the master bedroom, pulled my overnight bag from the top closet shelf, and systematically packed my passport, social security card, marriage certificate, medical history records, and a few changes of comfortable clothes. In the bottom drawer of the dresser lay a small stack of unworn newborn onesies. I picked out two clean, plain white ones, folded them meticulously, and placed them into the inner zipper pocket of my bag. At 1:00 AM, the living room lights were still brightly lit. Through the crack in the door, I heard Cora whispering that she couldn’t sleep because the shadows in the room scared her. Jared poured her a fresh glass of warm water, his movements smooth, practiced, and endlessly patient. Leaning against the headboard, I pulled up my banking app and transferred the final payment for my private stay at the recovery lodge. When the confirmation text popped up on my screen, the sweet, sickly scent of Cora’s vanilla diffuser crept under the bedroom door, filling my lungs. I pulled open the window latch, letting a sliver of icy night air rush into the room. The shock of the cold sent a violent cramp through my lower abdomen. I bit down hard on my lower lip until I tasted iron, and I didn’t call his name once. 3. The next morning, I went down to the underground parking garage to find my post-op prescriptions. The night before, Jared had mentioned that the pharmacy bag was left in the back seat of his car, telling me not to worry, that he would grab it for me. But when Cora developed a low-grade fever at midnight, he had stayed up attending to her until dawn, completely forgetting about my medicine. The subterranean garage was freezing and damp. I leaned into the passenger side of his SUV, reaching into the crevice between the leather seats to feel for the plastic prescription bag. My fingers brushed against a piece of stiff, laminated paper. It was an automated parking garage receipt. The timestamp read: “Day of prenatal checkup, 9:20 AM.” The location stamped at the top: “The Grandview Residences Garage”—Cora’s luxury apartment building. My appointment at the hospital that morning had been scheduled for 10:30 AM. I sat in the passenger seat, reaching over to tap the central navigation console. The system history hadn’t been cleared. “1. The Grandview Residences.” “2. St. Jude’s Women’s Hospital.” “3. The Grandview Residences.” Three route markers pinned across the digital map, glowing like three iron nails driven into the dashboard. I took the parking receipt, closed the car door, and went back upstairs. In the sunlit living room, Jared was carefully measuring out a packet of soluble cold medicine for Cora. She sat wrapped in a cashmere throw on the sofa, her complexion looking far healthier than it had the night before. I walked over and slapped the parking receipt flat onto the marble coffee table. “The morning I went in for my checkup… where were you really?” The metal spoon clinked sharply against the side of the ceramic mug. Jared glanced down at the ticket, his brows immediately pulling into a sharp knot. “I went to Cora’s place first.” Cora sat up straight instantly, her hands trembling as she reached for her blanket. “Sally, that morning my bedroom window latch snapped in the high winds! The rain was gushing in, I was so terrified—” I didn’t even look at her. My gaze remained locked on Jared. “You swore to me you would be at the clinic by my side.” Jared set the mug down heavily. “My plan was to fix her window and head straight to the hospital! How was I supposed to know the city emergency crew was going to lock down the bridge suspension? Everything got chaotic after that!” “How many times did I call you, Jared?” He went quiet. I pulled out my cell phone, opened my call log, and turned the screen toward his face. “27 Missed Calls.” Starting from the moment the bright red blood started dripping down my thighs, right up until the anesthesiologist put the mask over my face on the operating table. Jared stared at the screen, the color slowly draining from his lips. Cora’s voice rose in a soft, trembling quiver. “I… I told Jared he should leave for the hospital… It was all my fault, I was shaking so badly I couldn’t breathe…” Jared almost reflexively shifted his body, stepping between me and Cora to cover her. “This has nothing to do with you, Cora.” I stared at him. “Why didn’t you answer my phone?” He looked out toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. After a agonizing pause, his voice came out flat. “Cora’s PTSD gets severe with sudden loud noises. I put my phone on Do Not Disturb.” He added, his voice lacking conviction: “I honestly didn’t think anything serious was actually happening to you.” I took the parking receipt off the table, folding it neatly in half, then in quarters. “I want us to live apart,” I said. Jared’s expression altered dramatically. “You just had major surgery. You aren’t going anywhere.” “I booked a private suite at a recovery lodge.” “Cancel it.” He stepped past me to the front entrance, grabbed my key card and my spare car keys off the marble tray, and slipped them into his pocket. “It is infinitely safer for you to stay right here where you can be looked after,” he said sternly. “Sally, do not use your physical recovery to throw a petulant tantrum.” On the sofa, Cora bowed her head, her shoulders shaking softly. “Maybe I should just pack my things and leave… You two shouldn’t be destroying your marriage over me…” Jared turned to her instantly. “Don’t move an inch. In your mental state, you have no business being alone.” Every single word he spoke was a masterclass in domestic management. Arranging for Cora to stay protected. Arranging for me to endure silently. Arranging for my agony to be neatly compartmentalized and swept under the rug. My fingers gripped the interior zipper of my purse, feeling the hard edges of my ID card and marriage certificate. I didn’t bother arguing with him over the car keys. Late that night, I got out of bed to get a glass of water. The hallway lights were dimmed, but the living room glowed softly. Cora was standing near the door of the nursery, her voice barely a whisper. “Jared… what if Sally really leaves you over this?” Jared was sitting on the sofa, his elbows resting on his knees as he rubbed his temples. “She won’t,” he muttered quietly. “She loves this home too much. She’s too invested in us.” He paused, his voice heavy with weary certainty. “Give her a few days. She’ll come around.” I stood in the shadows at the end of the corridor, feeling an icy chill seep deep into my bone marrow. The refrigerator compressor hummed softly, then clicked off, leaving the house in total silence. I walked back into the master bedroom, took my medical folder, and slid it into the bottom compartment of my overnight bag. Then I opened my phone and purchased a one-way high-speed train ticket to the neighboring city for 8:00 AM the next morning. After the transaction went through, I laid the phone face-down on the nightstand. From the adjacent room came the sound of Cora coughing. Seconds later, I heard Jared’s footsteps as he rose from the couch to pour her another warm glass of water. 4. At dawn, Jared walked into the bedroom and placed my key card and phone charger back inside my tote bag. “I took time off work today,” he said smoothly, placing a mug of hot brown-sugar tea on my nightstand. “I’m driving you to your follow-up appointment myself.” He looked at me, his eyes earnest. “From now on, I will be present for every single checkup. I promise.” If he had said those words three days ago, I might have wept with gratitude. Now, I simply picked up my medical file, held it against my chest, and walked past him to the passenger seat of his car. I left the mug of tea sitting untouched on the nightstand. As the car pulled out of the gated community, my phone rang. Nurse Jenkins’ voice echoed crisply through the speaker. “Sally, are you experiencing any abnormal cramping or bleeding this morning? Make sure you arrive for your post-op ultrasound before noon. Do not push this off.” “I’m on my way,” I said softly. Jared pressed down on the accelerator, pushing the SUV into the fast lane. The GPS displayed a 25-minute ETA to St. Jude’s. For five minutes, the interior of the car was completely quiet. Then his dashboard screen lit up with an incoming call. “Cora.” Jared glanced at the display and tapped the steering wheel controls to take the call over Bluetooth. Cora’s hysterical sobbing flooded the vehicle instantly. “Jared! The power went out in my building! The elevator stalled out between floors for a second when I was inside—I managed to get out, but I’m trapped on the lobby floor, I can’t breathe! My psychiatric appointment is in twenty minutes, and I can’t find my anti-anxiety meds…” Jared’s hands tightened on the leather steering wheel. The car began to lose speed. “Stay right where you are,” Jared said, his tone dripping with protective panic. “I’m turning around to pick you up.” I turned my head to look at him. “My post-op scan appointment will expire if we detour.” He checked the navigation map quickly. “Her building is a ten-minute detour, Sally. We grab her, pull into the hospital drop-off together, and get you both seen. It won’t delay you by more than a few minutes.” “The doctor explicitly told me I had to be evaluated this morning,” I reminded him, my voice eerily calm. He didn’t answer me. He threw the SUV into a sharp U-turn at the next intersection, racing toward Cora’s complex. The rain-slicked asphalt reflected the gray morning sky. Cora was already waiting at the curb, wrapped in Jared’s heavy coat, clutching her pill bottle with wild, disheveled hair. Jared slammed the car into park, snatched an umbrella from the back seat, and bolted out to get her. That umbrella was the sturdy, large golf umbrella I had bought and kept in the trunk specifically for my prenatal visits. Cora slid into the back seat, gasping for air. “Jared… I really thought I was going to suffocate in that elevator… I can’t do this anymore…” Jared pulled a box of tissues from the console and handed them to her. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.” I stared ahead at the rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers. “Jared,” I said, my voice cutting through her sobs. “I’m actively bleeding.” Jared’s hands froze on the gear shift. In the back, Cora’s breathing hitched violently. “Jared… am I being a burden again? Should I just get out?” Jared immediately turned his head to comfort her. “Don’t say things like that, Cora. You’re not a burden.” Then, he grabbed my medical folder from my lap and stuffed it back into my hands. “The women’s hospital is only two blocks from this intersection,” Jared said, opening his phone app with rapid thumb taps. “I just ordered an Uber for you. It’ll be here in two minutes. Go ahead and check in at the clinic counter first. I’ll take Cora to her therapist, drop her off, and come straight to the OB ward to meet you.” The interior of the car fell into an absolute, suffocating silence. I stared at him. “I am hemorrhaging after an emergency abortion. She is having an anxiety attack. And you are choosing to drive her first?” Jared deliberately avoided my eyes, clicking his screen. “Sally, psychiatric crises are unpredictable and dangerous. Yours is a routine follow-up scan. Go let the floor nurse evaluate you first.” A white sedan pulled up behind us, flashing its hazard lights. The Uber had arrived. I unlocked the door and stepped out into the misty rain. As I closed the door, I looked through the tinted rear window. Cora was leaning back against the leather seat, and Jared was leaning over the console, tenderly pulling her seatbelt across her chest. “Don’t be scared,” I heard him whisper softly through the cracked window. “I’m right here.” The Uber driver looked at me through his rearview mirror. “Heading to St. Jude’s Women’s Hospital, correct?” I watched Jared’s SUV pull away, accelerating effortlessly into the traffic stream. Through the back glass, I caught a glimpse of Cora’s profile—her head resting near the window, the faint, triumphant curve of a smile hovering at the corner of her lips. I looked at the driver. “No,” I said quietly. “Take me to the Central Railway Station.” The driver blinked in surprise. “The train station? Not the hospital?” “The train station.” Twenty minutes later, I stood before an automated courier kiosk inside the station concourse. I filled out a local express delivery slip. The delivery address: Our marital home. Inside the padded courier envelope, I placed my signed divorce petition, my diamond wedding ring, and a photocopy of my post-operative discharge summary. I sealed the envelope, dropped it into the vault slot, and pressed confirm. The overhead station speakers boomed with the final boarding call for the express train out of the city. I pulled out my phone, powered it down completely, and walked through the boarding gate holding my medical folder close to my chest. As the heavy glass doors of the train sealed shut, the storm outside swept sheets of rain across the platform. Jared believed I was sitting obediently in an OB-GYN waiting room, waiting for him to show up. He had no idea that I had already left his world behind.

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I met a familiar face while working bottle service at the VIP lounge. She was lavish with her tips and didn’t demand much from me—she just asked that I sit beside her, sliding a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills across the marble table. “You look about the same age as my son,” she said, her voice soft against the low rumble of bass from the main floor. “You’re already out here making an honest living. Not like him. He still clings to me like a child.” She paused, her gaze drifting toward the ice bucket. “I lost a child years ago. I like to think that whenever I do something good for someone your age, maybe the universe will pass that kindness along to him.” Before I could answer, the heavy mahogany door was kicked open. A young man, dripping in head-to-toe designer clothes, stormed into the room. Without a word, he swung his arm and planted a sharp slap right across my face. “You little leech,” he snarled, his breath hot against my burning cheek. “Trying to slide your way into my mother’s pocket?” The woman sighed, her expression a mix of helplessness and quiet apology. “Brody, stop talking nonsense,” she said softly, before turning to me. “I’m so sorry. I’ve spoiled him rotten.” While she returned to her business conversation, her son leaned back against the plush velvet sofa, crossing his arms and picking me apart with a toxic, sneering arrogance. “I’ve seen trash like you a thousand times,” he sneered, leaning in close so only I could hear. “Thinking you can claw your way to the top. Look in the mirror. You’re nothing.” I knelt on the plush carpet at his feet, my right hand clenching into a tight, white-knuckled fist. “Just get through tonight,” I told myself. “Just tonight.” If I could make it through this shift, I’d finally have enough saved for a bus ticket south to meet the contact who claimed to know where my birth mother was. But then Brody found another excuse to strike me, his palm cracking against my temple. Stumbling slightly, I looked past him toward the woman—watching her shake her head with that familiar, indulgent tolerance—and a bitter laugh caught in my throat. “Mom… do you really not recognize me?” … The private room was thick with a haze of expensive cigar smoke and perfumed air. A cluster of polished, impeccably dressed women were gathered around the velvet sectional, discussing real estate and investment portfolios. I stepped forward to top off a glass of cabernet for the woman at the center of the table. She gently waved her hand, stopping me. “That’s enough, sweetheart. Sit down.” I hesitated, pulling at the stiff collar of my sheer shirt, before awkwardly perching on the edge of the sofa beside her. “Is this work hard on you?” she asked. “It’s… it’s fine, ma’am.” She looked up from her tablet, her eyes sweeping over my exhausted face. Reaching into her handbag, she pulled out an envelope of cash and slid it toward me. “Take it. You don’t have to pour drinks. Just stay and talk to me for a bit.” The ambient chatter in the room lulled, leaving only the faint, melancholy melody of the background track floating through the speakers. “I’ve been searching for my missing son for twenty years,” she said, her voice dropping into a quiet, reflective tone. “Whenever I see young men your age, I can’t help but wonder. I just hope that if I put enough good out into the world, it might somehow find its way to him.” Across from us, my coworker Cooper leaned over, his eyes wide. “That’s crazy, Mrs. Barrett. Our guy here has been looking for his mom, too. He was taken when he was just a little kid—never managed to track his family down.” Cooper smiled warmly. “Kind of feels like fate, meeting here tonight.” Mrs. Barrett froze. Slowly, she raised her head and looked directly at me. It was then that I saw it—a tiny, crimson beauty mark right at the outer corner of her left eye. My breath hitched in my chest. Memory hit me like a tidal wave. I was three years old again, lifted high in my mother’s arms on a crowded, sunlit street, looking down at the sea of faces around us. I remembered leaning my head against her shoulder, looking up to see that exact red mark near her eye and the soft, radiant smile on her face. And then, the memory snapped to black—a rough cloth shoved over my head, cold arms tearing me away, and the terrifying dark that followed. For twenty years, I had never seen anyone with that specific red mark. “Young man,” she said, her voice snapping me back to the dim lounge. “Are you really looking for your family, too?” My throat closed up. I gripped the fabric of my trousers so hard my fingernails bit into my palms. “Yes,” I wanted to scream. “I’ve been looking for you, Mom.” But as my eyes caught my reflection in the dark glass table—wearing a fitted, semi-sheer mesh shirt designed to draw eyes and tips in a venue like this—the words died on my tongue. If she really was my mother… what would she think seeing me like this? A boy selling smiles and presence in a high-end lounge? “Are you…” I rasped, my voice trembling. “Are you—” Before I could finish, the heavy door slammed open. “Mom!” A young man strutted in, draped in an oversized designer jacket and layered gold chains. His gaze landed on me, his pupils contracting for a fraction of a second before twisting into pure, unadulterated disgust. He crossed the room in three sharp strides and delivered a heavy backhand across my cheek. “You cheap little leech,” he snarled. “Slithering your way up to my mother?” The room went dead silent. I cupped my stinging face, a familiar, toxic hum of degradation surging through my veins. Mrs. Barrett pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a weary sigh. “Brody, stop talking nonsense.” Brody sneered, flopping down heavily on the couch right beside her. He dragged his eyes over me from head to toe, his lip curling. “What kind of trashy clothes are those? Made up like some boy toy. You actually sell yourself for a living?” I kept my mouth shut, squeezing my hands into tight fists. The fragile thread of hope inside my chest snapped cleanly in two. She already had a son. A son who called her Mom, who sat beside her with complete entitlement. She couldn’t be mine. “What are you staring at?” Brody spat. “Crack.” Another slap landed, harder than the first, ringing through the quiet room. My head snapped to the side, my breath catching in my throat. I pressed my hand against my throbbing cheek, keeping my face turned away. “Endure it,” I told myself. “Just endure it for a few more hours.” If I could just finish this shift and collect my pay, I’d have enough for a bus ticket down south to meet the investigator who claimed to have a lead on my mother’s maiden name. That would bring me one step closer. In the next second, Mrs. Barrett stood up. I held my breath, a foolish, quiet part of me expecting her to step between us, to tell him it was wrong. “Brody, sweetheart, did you hurt your hand?” Instead, she bypassed me entirely, taking Brody’s wrist and inspecting his knuckles with maternal devotion. “Why do you always hit things so hard? Don’t come crying to me later when your fingers are sore.” Only after she satisfied herself that his hand was uninjured did she turn her cool, polite gaze back to me. “I’m sorry about him,” she said with a faint, apologetic smile. “I adopted Brody when he was young, and I’m afraid I’ve spoiled him terribly. I suppose… I always hoped that if someone else had taken in my lost boy, they’d pamper him like a prince, too.” Brody pouted, though the bitter jealousy in his eyes flared bright as he glared at me. One of the other women at the table chimed in, trying to smooth over the tension. “It’s true, you know. Catherine built her entire company while searching for her boy.” “Every time she drinks a little too much, she cries about her late husband and her son,” another added gently. “She always says she was so young and clumsy back then. Didn’t even know how to heat up milk properly—accidentally spilled boiling water on her baby’s right arm and left a terrible scar.” My heart slammed against my ribs. My hand moved involuntarily, clutching at my right upper arm. Beneath the sleeve of my shirt sat a long, jagged, pale line of scar tissue. My pulse raced, a deafening roar filling my ears. The truth was screaming right in front of me. Brody seemed to sense the shift in the room. He quickly wrapped his arms around Catherine’s waist, burying his face against her side and whining softly. “Alright, alright,” Catherine said, her voice softening as she used her pinky finger to lightly flick the tip of Brody’s nose. “Let’s not talk about sad things in front of Brody.” “Mom…” The unspoken word screamed inside my chest. Memories I thought had been erased by time came rushing back in blinding clarity. Before I was taken, I hadn’t understood much. But I remembered that tiny red mark. And I remembered “that gesture”. Whenever I was stubborn as a toddler, my mother would hook her pinky with mine, then gently flick my nose with her pinky finger, laughing softly: “I really don’t know what to do with you, sweet pea. Want Mom to get you some candy?” She hadn’t forgotten. She had just given all those tiny, intimate habits to another boy. “Mom, I’m starving,” Brody whined, rubbing his stomach. Cooper quickly stepped forward, offering a laminated VIP menu. Brody flipped through it dismissively before pointing at a dish. “Bring two bowls of scallion oil noodles. Extra green onions.” I looked over at Catherine. She was staring down at her phone, indifferent. My mind spun backward into the haze of early childhood. In our old house, green onions were never bought. Every time our neighbor cooked for us, my mother would repeat the same gentle warning: “Please remember, no scallions or chives. My son and I are deathly allergic.” Before I could process the thought, Brody grabbed a pair of serving chopsticks, lifted a cluster of steaming, onion-draped noodles, and reached toward Catherine’s mouth. “Mom, try some. Say ah—” “She’s allergic to scallions!” The words tore out of my throat before I could stop them. The entire VIP room went dead silent. The steam rose lazily from the noodles. Brody’s chopsticks hovered in midair, frozen. Catherine slowly lowered her phone. She raised her head, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the air feel thin. “How do you know I don’t eat scallions?” she asked. There was a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in her voice—a sliver of raw, fragile hope. My heart hammered against my sternum. A voice inside me screamed: “Tell her. Tell her right now. Ask for a DNA test. Tell her who you are.” I took a deep breath, throwing my shoulders back, preparing to speak the words I had carried for twenty years. “Smack.” Brody’s hand flew across my face again, sending me staggering sideways. “You dirty little stalker!” Brody barked, a harsh, mocking laugh bursting from his chest. “You really did your homework, didn’t you? Researched that my mom doesn’t eat scallions just so you could pull this dramatic little rescue scene? God, that is so cheap.” “No—no, that’s not it—” I shook my head frantically, tasting iron in my mouth. “I didn’t research anything. I just wanted to ask if Mrs. Barrett might be my—” “My mother.” The words never made it out. A heavy sigh cut through the room. It was a sound steeped in deep, soul-crushing disappointment. “Young man,” Catherine said quietly. I lifted my head slowly. She wasn’t looking at me anymore. Her eyes were fixed on Brody, but her tone carried a tragic, weary judgment. “Trying to take shortcuts in life… it’s just wrong.” A deafening ring buzzed in my ears. She turned to the women at her table, her voice thick with melancholy. “Can you imagine? If my own son had grown up and turned into someone like this… I wouldn’t even know how to live with myself.” The women murmured in sympathetic agreement, casting pitying, uncomfortable glances in my direction. In that single moment, I didn’t know whether to scream or drown in my own shame. Part of me wanted to strip away whatever dignity I had left, to throw myself at her feet and detail every single day of the last twenty years. To tell her how I was sold three times after being snatched at three years old. How I ended up in an off-grid mountain town deep in the backcountry, where there were no roads, no cell signals, and the only way out was through people who owned you. Where my only perceived value was as extra labor until I was old enough to work the fields. To tell her how, when I finally escaped, people offered me “easy” ways out. Men who offered to take care of me if I compromised myself. People who threw stacks of cash in my face to do dangerous, dirty work. I never took the easy way out. On the coldest winter nights, lying on a thin cot in a drafty aluminum shed, the only thing that kept me breathing was the faint memory of a red mark near my mother’s eye. I worked double shifts at convenience stores, washed dishes until my hands bled, worked construction sites until my back bruised—all to save enough money to keep searching for her. I never took a shortcut. Not once. I only came into this VIP room, wearing this degrading, sheer shirt, because someone told me a woman matching her description frequented this club. I wasn’t looking for a payday. I was just looking for my mom. I swallowed down the lump in my throat, opening my clenched fists. “I understand,” I said. My voice was eerily calm, stripped of all emotion. “If you don’t need anything else, I’ll take my leave.” “Sorry for bothering you.” I brushed my hair back from my forehead and turned to walk out. As I turned, the sharp edge of a side table caught the fabric of my sleeve, ripping the sheer material wide open. Catherine’s eyes caught the pale, jagged line of scar tissue running down my bare right upper arm. Her pupils shrank. “Stop right there!” It wasn’t Catherine who spoke. It was Brody. He stepped into my path, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight, like a cat cornering a half-dead mouse. “I’m not finished talking to you. Who said you could leave?” I turned back slowly, meeting his mocking stare. I didn’t resist. I knew that no matter what I said, he would just find another reason to put his hands on me. The women at the couch resumed their low chatter, ignoring the drama at the door. Only Brody kept his eyes locked on me. “I hear guys like you will do literally anything when you’re desperate for cash,” Brody said, reaching into his leather clutch and pulling out a thick band of hundred-dollar bills. He laid it casually on the edge of the table. “Kneel down and bow to me, and this is yours.” I felt a few eyes glance over at us, then quickly look away. “What, still holding out?” Brody smirked, his tone dripping with disdain. “You’re a bottle-service boy. You’ve probably knelt a hundred times for tips. Stop acting like you’re above it.” I stood frozen. Suddenly, a hard boot struck the back of my knee from behind. My legs gave out, and I hit the floor with a heavy “thump”. I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, refusing to make a sound. Brody let out a soft laugh. He picked up the stack of bills, held it high above my head, and let his fingers fan out. The bills fluttered down through the air, scattering around me like fallen leaves. A few brushed against the back of my hand. One landed right in front of my face—weightless, cheap, and disposable. Just like my life had been. “Now that’s more like it,” Brody purred. “You look much better on your knees.” “Trash like you belongs on the floor, serving people like me. You thought you could seduce my mom? Maybe in your next life, if you’re lucky enough to be born human.” “Brody!” Catherine’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her approach. She crouched down, her silk skirt rustling softly, and picked up the scattered bills one by one. She squared the stack neatly and placed it inside a clean white envelope. “Get up, young man,” she said softly. Her tone carried an unbearable, distant pity. I raised my head slowly, meeting her eyes. We were so close I could see the tiny red beauty mark near her eye. I could see the fine silver threads hiding in her hair at her temples. She slid the envelope toward me. “There’s ten thousand dollars in here,” Catherine said. “It’s not charity. Consider it… an apology for my son’s behavior tonight.” She paused, her voice dropping lower. “Take it and find something respectable to do. You’re still young. Don’t throw your life away like this.” I swallowed hard, my vocal cords straining to produce a sound. Her eyes drifted down to the scar on my right arm, and she let out a long, heavy sigh. “You really did your homework. You even knew my son has a scar on his arm. But… I’ve met too many people trying to scam me over the years. I just can’t bring myself to believe anymore.” She stood up, turning to leave with Brody. Noticing the dark look still lingering in Brody’s eyes, one of the lounge managers quickly stepped in, pressing a heavy hand onto the back of my neck and shoving my face down against the floorboards. “Well? Don’t just sit there! Bow to Mrs. Barrett and Master Brody and thank them for their generosity!” My forehead was slammed against the wooden floor, once, twice, until dark red smeared across my field of vision. Through the blur of pain, I watched her figure recede toward the door. Once she crossed that threshold, she would disappear back into the vast, indifferent city—a stranger who had nothing to do with me. For the rest of my life, my mother would just be someone else’s mom. In my lightheaded haze, a melody began to hum in the back of my throat. It was a little song my mother had made up when I was small. She used to whisper that it was our secret—that only the two of us in the whole wide world knew it. For twenty years, I hadn’t dared to forget a single note. I was terrified that if I forgot it, she would never be able to find her way back to me. “Fly, firefly, fly… drifting through the dark sky… Who are you missing, who makes you cry…” Just as she reached the doorway, Catherine stopped dead in her tracks. She turned back, her face pale, her eyes wide with shock as she stared at me on the floor. “How… how do you know that song?”

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My coworker stuck a fake parking ticket on my windshield as a prank. I actually took it seriously. I turned to Brady, who was sitting in the passenger seat beside me. “Hey, my coworker just texted me a photo of a parking violation on our car. Do you mind handling it?” Brady was scrolling on his phone, not even bothering to look up. “My car’s been parked in the basement garage all week. There’s no way I have a parking ticket.” I couldn’t shake the nagging anxiety that he had missed something in his usual hurry, so I decided to check the online DMV portal myself. The physical ticket on my windshield was a joke, but when I typed in our license plate, a real citation popped up on the screen. The violation: failure to wear seatbelts—both driver and front passenger. In the traffic camera snap, the passenger’s face was blurred, but I could still tell it was a young woman. I stared at that grainy black-and-white photo for a long time before I finally forced myself to speak. “Two days ago… did you really go out of town on a business trip?” Brady didn’t catch the strange tension in my voice. He answered automatically, “Yeah, why?” I stared numbly at the location timestamp on the citation. It was logged right here in the city center. In that exact second, a crystal-clear certainty washed over me: I was done. He hadn’t just lied to me about a parking ticket or a business trip. He had lied about all the days I had so naively believed in. … My fingertip rested lightly on the cold glass of my phone screen. My voice was barely a whisper. “It’s nothing. Just noticed a traffic citation on the portal, that’s all.” Brady didn’t glance up, waving a dismissive hand. “Just pay it for me, would you? I don’t have time for petty administrative stuff.” Before his words even fully settled, his phone rang from his coat pocket. He answered instantly. His tone transformed into something soft, warm, and attentive—a stark contrast to the cold, distracted cadence he used with me. “Of course. I’m on my way right now.” He grabbed his jacket from the sofa without a second thought, not a trace of apology in his eyes. “Corporate called. Urgent emergency out of town. I have to leave immediately. Don’t wait up for dinner.” I stepped forward, blocking his path to the front door, my brows pulling together in a tight line. “Did you forget? My parents are coming over for dinner tonight. You promised.” Brady didn’t even pause as he zipped up his coat, sidestepping me smoothly. “Use your head—what’s more important, urgent work matters or a casual dinner?” “Just explain it to your folks. It’s a family dinner—you can reschedule any day, can’t you?” I grabbed his sleeve, tightening my grip as my voice turned pleading. “Please don’t leave. They flew all the way here for this. Stay—if only to save face for me.” Brady forcefully yanked his sleeve out of my grasp, his forehead creased with deep irritation. “Look, I genuinely can’t get out of this. Besides, your parents are staying at a hotel tonight anyway. Just ask them to stay an extra day. Once I wrap things up, I’ll come right back and take everyone out for a nice meal.” My fingers slipped away. All I could do was watch as Brady opened the front door, stepping out without a single glance back, and drove off into the dusk. The anticipation that had filled my heart all week collapsed into a heavy, bitter lump in my throat. I stood frozen by the entryway for a few seconds. Then, an unstoppable, restless urge flared up in my chest. I needed to know who was so important that he was rushing off to meet them. Without hesitation, I grabbed the spare car keys, ran down to the garage, and got into my own car, keeping a safe distance behind his taillights. I followed him all the way to the underground parking structure of the downtown commercial center. I watched him park and walk briskly toward the movie theater entrance on the top floor. Pulling my cap down low, I trailed behind him quietly. Positioned behind a decorative marble pillar in the theater lounge, I saw her clearly—the woman holding his arm. It was Kristin, the new intern in his department. Across the quiet space of the lounge, every word of their conversation hit my ears with brutal clarity. Kristin’s eyes were lit up with joy as she clung tightly to Brady’s arm, swaying playfully. “I had no idea this movie opened today! I’m so glad you made time for me, otherwise I would’ve had to watch it all alone.” Before she even finished speaking, Kristin stood on her tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to Brady’s cheek. Brady didn’t pull away at all. Instead, he naturally wrapped his arm around her waist. “I cleared a few minor obligations just to be here with you. How could I ever let you watch a movie alone?” He gently ruffled her hair, his tone oozing tender fondness. I stood paralyzed in the shadow of the pillar, a dull, throbbing pain radiating from my chest. To him, a promised dinner with my parents was just a “minor obligation”—far less important than taking Kristin to the movies. Brady hated movies. He had told me dozens of times that sitting in a dark theater was a complete waste of time. Whenever I asked him to go with me, he preferred to stay home reviewing work spreadsheets rather than spare two hours for me. And whenever we were in public, if I tried to hold his arm or lean into him, he would subtly step aside, lecturing me in a stern voice about maintaining proper boundaries. Now, the scene playing out right before my eyes shattered every excuse I had ever crafted to comfort myself. Kristin walked with a light, bouncy step, looking up at Brady with a sweet, radiant smile. “I knew it! You’re the absolute best to me. After the movie, let’s go downstairs for dessert. I’ve been dying to try that bakery’s fresh cream cake!” “Whatever you want,” he replied warmly. Flirting and giggling, they walked shoulder-to-shoulder through the ticket check. Slowly, the sharp agony in my chest began to fade, leaving behind a strange, hollow quiet. I had spent three years convincing myself that Brady was simply an overly rigid, reserved man. I never realized that his rules were tailored exclusively for me. I drove home in a daze. The moment I unlocked the front door, my parents were already seated in the living room. My mother instantly caught the pale, drawn look on my face. She stood up, rushing to support my arm, her voice laced with worry. “What’s wrong, Josie? Are you feeling sick? You look completely drained.” My throat tightened. Swallowing back the prickle of tears in my eyes, I couldn’t bring myself to speak. My father looked around the empty apartment, noticing Brady’s absence. “Where’s Brady? Didn’t he come back with you?” My fingers clenched so tightly my knuckles turned white. I forced out the excuse I had rehearsed on the drive back. “An emergency came up at work. He had to go out of town on short notice.” “He asked me to take you two out for dinner tonight, and said he’ll make it up to you as soon as he wraps things up in a day or two.” A flash of disappointment crossed my parents’ faces, though my mother quickly squeezed my hand, offering a gentle smile. “That’s how corporate jobs are—unpredictable. We completely understand.” I watched my parents accept the lie with such grace, but my stomach twisted in turmoil. Finally, I looked up at them, my voice steadying. “Mom, Dad… I’m getting a divorce.” They both froze in shock. My father’s eyebrows pulled together instantly. “Where is this coming from all of a sudden? Just because he had an unexpected business trip?” “Josie, don’t let temper tantrums get the better of you…” My mother gently patted my father’s arm, signing for him to be quiet. She turned back to me, looking at my defeated posture. There wasn’t a hint of blame in her eyes—only profound heartache. “Your father is just impatient and speaks without thinking. Don’t mind him.” She reached for my hand. “Has being with him been too exhausting for you, sweetheart? No matter what you decide, your father and I are always in your corner.” A wave of warmth flooded my heart, and the bitter grief I had been holding back erupted. My nose pricked, and tears spilled uncontrollably down my face. I wrestled with whether I should lay out Brady’s affair right then and there. But in the end, I swallowed the harsh truth. I didn’t want my parents to suffer more heartache than necessary. Seeing my tears, my parents refrained from prying any further. They quietly picked up luggage bags and started helping me pack up my belongings. My mother carefully folded my clothes, murmuring softly, “Since you’ve made up your mind, it’s good that we’re here. We’ll help you pack everything up tonight, and we can ship these boxes back home over the next couple of days.” My phone buzzed on the counter. A text message from Brady popped up: “Did your parents arrive? I felt terrible leaving so abruptly tonight. Please apologize to them on my behalf.” “If you don’t feel like cooking, take them out to a nice restaurant. Let me know how much it costs and I’ll reimburse you.” Looking at the banner, I felt nothing but a numb, sickening irritation. Without a second thought, I flipped the phone face down on the coffee table, leaving it unanswered. I walked into the study to clear out my desk. As I scanned the tabletop, I noticed his desktop computer screen was still awake. His messaging app was open, showing a pinned chat at the top of the list. Compelled by a dark impulse, I clicked into it. Line after line of text chilled my blood. Kristin: “Saw a chubby little stray cat on my walk home today! So cute!” Brady (replying almost instantly): “Definitely cute. Just like you.” Kristin: “The lamp on my desk is way too glare-heavy. My eyes hurt after working for a bit.” Brady: “I just ordered an ergonomic eye-care desk lamp for you. It’ll be delivered tomorrow.” Endless streams of mundane banter—and he replied to every single frivolous word. I switched over to his chat thread with me. Scrolling through, it read like a formal business ledger—stiff, transactional, brief. Even though I had told myself I didn’t care anymore, the stark contrast hit me like a physical blow. The phone on the desk buzzed again, lighting up with another message from Brady: “Why aren’t you replying to me?” I simply set the phone to silent and stopped looking at his relentless prompts. The next day, I was sitting at my office desk in our company building, head down as I organized hand-off documents. Brady strode over to my cubicle, lowering his voice to a sharp whisper. “Why didn’t you answer any of my texts yesterday?” My pen paused for a second, but I didn’t look up. His tone grew increasingly impatient. “I spent the whole night worrying that you weren’t taking proper care of your parents. You vanished without a word. That’s incredibly disrespectful.” “Disrespectful?” I raised my eyes, my voice raspy. “Aren’t you the one who lacks respect? Making plans weeks in advance with elders, only to ditch them without a second thought…” Brady’s face hardened. He glanced nervously around at our nearby coworkers, his voice dropping an octave as his bravado wavered. “I told you yesterday, it was a work emergency. I had to go.” “I sprinted back today just so I could have dinner with your parents!” I let out a bitter laugh and held up my phone screen. “Work emergency? Is this what you call urgent work?” On the screen was a crisp photo I had taken in the theater lounge: Brady and Kristin standing intimately close, his arm securely around her waist. The air around us froze. Brady’s eyes darted frantically, stammering to patch up his lie. “I… I only said it was work because I knew how sensitive and overthinking you get! I didn’t want you jumping to crazy conclusions!” Then his tone turned cold and defensive. “You stalked me.” I didn’t bother arguing. I just nodded calmly. “Yes.” My straightforward admission caught him off guard. He let out a long, heavy sigh, softening his posture. “Josie, you don’t need to make a mountain out of a molehill.” “Kristin just moved to this city after graduating. She doesn’t know anyone here, and her situation is really pathetic. I was just looking out for her out of pity. Are you really going to pick a fight over a young girl?” “Her situation is pathetic?” My husband refuses to have a casual conversation with me, but sneaks off to the movies with another woman. Who was the pathetic one here? I quietly lowered my phone, turning my focus back to the files on my desk. “Whatever you say.” It didn’t matter anyway. My resignation letter had already been approved by HR. Once I finished handing off these final tasks, I was free. By the time I finished checking and transferring every last document, dusk had fallen. The office was nearly empty. Knowing there were still a few loose ends to pack up at the apartment, I grabbed my handbag and drove home. The moment I opened the front door, the rich aroma of home-cooked food rushed out to meet me. Warm yellow light illuminated the kitchen. Brady was wearing an apron, hunched over the stove as he tossed ingredients in a sizzling pan, the spatula clinking softly against the metal. Hearing the door, he looked back over his shoulder. “You’re back! I felt so guilty about yesterday, so I decided to cook a full feast for your parents tonight.” “Call your mom and dad right now and have them come over. By the time they get here, dinner will be hot and ready.” I stood motionless in the entryway, looking at the dishes already spread across the dining table. Steam rose softly, blurring my vision. Part of me wished that everything I had discovered was just a bad dream. Part of me wished that the man standing before me could have kept loving only me… Brady wiped his hands on a towel and pulled an elegantly wrapped gift box from his pocket. He opened it to reveal a solid gold bangle—the exact design I had mentioned wanting months ago. He held the box out to me, his tone earnest and soft. “Babe, I was wrong. Please don’t hold a grudge over a little misunderstanding, okay?” Memories came flooding back unbidden. I remembered how we used to be when we first fell in love. Knowing how forgetful I was, he would secretly slip an umbrella into my bag on rainy days, or wait at the bus stop to walk me home under a shared canopy. Knowing how easily I caught cold, he kept hand warmers stashed in his coat pockets for me every winter. Those sweet, tangible moments had been so real. And now… My nose burned, and grief choked back my words. Brady failed to notice the profound heartbreak in my eyes. Assuming I was just being stubborn about our argument earlier, he reached out to pat my back gently. “Stop pouting. I promise I won’t ever hide anything from you again. I’ll report everything I do.” As he spoke, he took the bangle out, insisting on putting it on my wrist himself. But no matter how hard he pushed, angled, or forced it, the gold ring caught painfully on my wrist bone. It jammed tightly, refusing to slide over my hand. After several awkward, futile attempts, the smile on Brady’s face began to falter, replaced by a flush of embarrassment. “It… looks like I bought the wrong size.” “It’s fine. I’ll take it back to the store later and exchange it for your actual size.” I looked down at the rigid gold ring stuck against my wrist, feeling nothing but cold irony. Three years together, and he didn’t even remember my wrist size. A low, dry laugh escaped my lips. “It’s fine. I’ll call my parents now.” I walked out to the balcony, turning my back on his gaze in the living room. I calmly called my parents and asked them to come over. I had made up my mind: tonight, I would lay everything out on the table and end this marriage once and for all. Fifteen minutes later, the doorbell rang. Assuming it was my parents, I walked quickly to open the door. To my surprise, standing on the threshold was Kristin. She looked delicate and fragile, her voice carrying a deliberate, probing sweetness. “Hi, Josie. Brady told me he cooked a huge feast tonight and invited me over to eat with you guys.” “I hope I’m not intruding… you don’t mind, right?” Behind me, Brady hurried over. He pulled a brand-new pair of guest slippers from the shoe cabinet and placed them at Kristin’s feet. I caught the faint, secret smirk lifting the corners of his mouth. Kristin slid into the slippers and immediately noticed the gold bangle sitting on the dining table—the one that had refused to fit me. Her eyes lit up, and she gasped with dramatic envy. “Wow, what a gorgeous gold bracelet! I’ve been wanting one forever, but I just graduated and money is tight, so I couldn’t bring myself to buy it.” “Can I try it on?” Without waiting for my permission, she reached out, grabbed the bangle from the table, and slipped it onto her arm. The gold ring slid effortlessly over her hand, resting perfectly on her slender wrist. Not too big, not too small. A flawless fit. I stared at the scene, feeling a wave of self-deprecating mockery. He hadn’t bought the wrong size at all. From the very beginning, this bracelet was bought for Kristin. Kristin pulled out a chair and sat down at the dining table without ceremony. “Mm, this smells incredible! I won’t be shy then!” She picked up a fork and chopsticks, digging into the dishes. She poked and stirred through every plate, picking out pieces and leaving the serving platters messy and picked over. Brady didn’t offer a single word of correction. Instead, he leaned in attentively, carefully picking out the vegetables she disliked and placing choice cuts of meat onto her plate. A level of meticulous care he had never once shown me. A few minutes later, Kristin patted her stomach, suddenly clapping her hand to her forehead in exaggerated panic. “Oh no! I was so focused on eating that I forgot my puppy is still at the groomer’s! They’re about to close, and he’ll be terrified if I leave him there alone!” “Brady, can you drive me to pick him up? Please?” Brady hesitated for a second, fully aware that my parents were due to arrive any minute. Yet, he chose to prioritize Kristin. Just then, the doorbell rang again. This time, it was my parents. Brady’s face immediately relaxed into a relieved smile. “Mom, Dad, you got here just in time!” “I cooked everything, so please help yourselves!” “I have an urgent errand to step out for, but I promise I’ll be back real quick. Just wait for me!” His tone was light and nonchalant, showing not an ounce of remorse for leaving my parents with a table of picked-over cold leftovers. The moment the front door clicked shut, absolute silence fell over the apartment. My parents looked at me, their eyes filled with aching sorrow. I silently stood up and finished packing the last of my belongings into my suitcase. Wheeling my luggage to the entryway, I felt a profound sense of lightness. Though I hadn’t expected three years of marriage to end so abruptly, it was for the best. No more dragging things out, no more screaming matches, no more wasted time. I turned to take one last look at the place. “Brady,” I whispered softly to the empty hall. “Goodbye forever.”

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I am a professional breakup coach. My specialty is helping young women untangle themselves from toxic, dead-end relationships with toxic men. Lately, though, I’d been consulting for an unusually strange client. I told “him” that the very first step in initiating a breakup was to drop all pet names and intimate forms of address. The next morning, Beckett stopped calling me “babe”. My name became, strictly, Piper. I told “him” that the second step was a total purge—getting rid of every shared item, every couple’s keepsake in the house. Almost immediately, under the guise of an overdue spring cleaning, Beckett threw out our matching silk pajamas, the custom throw pillows, and even the silver promise rings we’d worn for years. When I asked him about it, he brushed it off with a casual shrug. “I’m just sick of looking at them.” I told “him” that the third step was behavioral indifference. So when we went on vacation, Beckett stranded me in a foreign city and flew back to Chicago alone. That was the day the cold dread finally took root. Pushed to my limit, I sent my anonymous client a probing text: “Why are you so desperate to break up with her?” His response was immediate and devoid of armor: “Because I don’t love her anymore. I fell in love with someone else—someone she knows. I just want to get rid of my fiancée as quickly as possible.” Every time a text popped up on my screen, the phone sitting across from me on the coffee table vibrated in exact sync. My entire body froze. A wave of sickening desolation washed over me as the horrific truth clicked into place. If he wanted a lesson in how to break up, fine. I was going to teach him personally. … I looked up at Beckett. He really was a model student. The matching silver chain and the ring he usually wore around his neck were gone. Vanished. “Where’s your ring?” I asked, keeping my voice level. “I haven’t seen you wear it lately.” He didn’t even lift his eyes from his screen, his tone dripping with dismissive boredom. “Didn’t feel like wearing it. It’s just cheap copper anyway. It was starting to tarnish.” A sharp knot tightened in my throat. I had forged that ring by hand. He finally looked up, his brow furrowing into a scowl of irritation. “Piper, we aren’t broke college kids living in a basement apartment anymore. Stop handing me cheap, discolored metal. It makes me look low-class.” He went back to tapping furiously on his phone, completely unbothered by how pale my face had turned. Text notifications pinged on my screen. “I want to end things fast. Do you have any good ideas on how to speed this up?” I took a slow, agonizing breath. I didn’t answer his question directly. Instead, I typed back: “Who is she? The woman you fell in love with?” He didn’t suspect a thing. To him, my anonymous coach profile was simply a safe, void-like outlet for his repressed guilt. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” he replied. “We don’t know each other in real life, so I might as well tell you. Her name is Jenny. My fiancée saved her a year ago from a remote town back in the mountains.” My eyes widened. The shock hit me like a physical blow, leaving my mind completely blank. Jenny… It was “Jenny”. A year ago, I had traveled to a rural town in West Virginia searching for artistic inspiration for a choreography piece. That was where I found her. She was eighteen, covered in bruises from her abusive stepfather, who was preparing to sell her off to a disabled neighbor to bear children. Looking at that terrified, desperate girl, my heart had broken. I paid her stepfather fifteen thousand dollars in cash to buy her freedom. That day, covered in tears, she had fallen to her knees in the dirt, clutching my hands. “Thank you, Piper! Thank you so much! I’ll work like a dog for the rest of my life to repay you! You saved my life!” I brought her back to Chicago, paid for her medical bills, and let her heal. And this… this was how she repaid me. I closed my eyes tight as a wave of nausea and suffocating rage rushed through my veins. Another message pinged from Beckett. “She’s so fragile. I can’t help but pity her, but she feels so guilty toward my fiancée that she’s in constant pain. That’s why I have to end my relationship fast.” I stared at those words until they burned into my retinas. When I looked over at Beckett, the hard, impatient grimace he’d given me moments ago was completely gone. Just thinking about Jenny softened his features into a gentle, tender glow. The contrast pierced straight through my chest. I forced my breathing to steady and typed back: “If you do this, how do you think your fiancée will feel?” He didn’t text back immediately. Across the sofa, I felt his heavy, complex gaze land on me. “What is it?” I asked, forcing the words past the raw ache in my throat. Beckett stared at me deeply. His lips parted, but in the end, he closed his mouth and looked away. “Nothing.” My coach phone buzzed again: “I can’t bring myself to say it to her face. I know I owe her everything. So… I’m planning on leaving all my assets to her when I walk away.” My expression froze. “You mean… you’re willing to walk away with nothing, just to be with this girl?” His reply was instantaneous: “Yes.” I stared at that single word, my nails digging so hard into my palms that my skin nearly broke, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over. I knew better than anyone what it had taken him to build his company over the last decade. The sweat, the sleepless nights, the sacrifices. And for Jenny, he was ready to throw it all away. I lowered my eyes, hiding the redness creeping into them. All those memories—eating stale bread with him in a drafty basement, running through the scorching heat to pitch clients, riding a rusted scooter together through pouring rain—had been reduced to a pathetic joke. A moment later, he messaged again: “So, what do you think? Do we have a good chance of pulling off this breakup? Are you going to guide me through it or not?” I could sense the desperation in his eyes across the room. I let out a hollow, self-deprecating laugh. “I’ll guide you.” I would personally teach him how to sever a ten-year bond. “First step: Stop keeping your distance from Jenny in front of your fiancée.” Beckett’s brows knitted slightly. “Won’t that be too direct?” he replied. “I’m afraid of hurting her too much. After all, she gave me ten years of her life.” A wave of intense irony washed over me. What a hypocrite. I didn’t bother responding. Across from me, Beckett locked his phone, pondered for a moment, and then looked at me. “The girl you rescued gets discharged from the hospital today. Aren’t you going to pick her up?” “That’s my business,” I said evenly. “If you want to go, go by yourself.” His thin lips snapped shut, a flicker of defensive anger rising in his eyes, as if I’d exposed a secret desire. “Why the attitude this morning?” he snapped. “If she wasn’t your charity case, I wouldn’t even waste my time looking at her!” I clenched my fists under my coat. “Is that so? Then I must have misunderstood. Let’s go together.” A flash of genuine delight lit up the depths of his eyes, though he quickly suppressed it, putting on a forced, put-out expression. “Fine. I’ll come along to carry her bags.” He walked over and reached out to ruffle my hair. “Only because she’s your rescue. I have to look after your people.” I subtly dodged his touch. The gesture, which I used to find warm and affectionate, now filled me with pure repulsion. He didn’t notice. He was far too consumed by the giddy anticipation of seeing Jenny. His steps were practically light. I pulled out my phone and messaged him through my coach persona: “When did you fall in love with Jenny?” He didn’t answer right away. I realized he had walked into the kitchen to mix a mug of warm honey water for me—a small ritual he had maintained for years whenever I suffered from severe period cramps. He remembered every detail. On one hand, there was this lingering, thoughtful care. On the other, a message popped up on my phone that rendered me breathless: “The very first time I saw her.” Love at first sight. The phrase stabbed through me like a needle. He kept typing: “A few months ago, my fiancée was out of town on a business trip and couldn’t be there for Jenny’s surgery. She was worried no one would be there to sign the consent forms, so she asked me to go.” His tone through the screen was drenched in gentleness. “The moment I saw her, I felt this overwhelming, instinctive need to protect her, to make her happy. I’ve never felt that kind of protective urge with my fiancée.” My fingers felt numb against the screen. “Then what do you feel for your fiancée?” “Duty,” he replied. A bitter smile broke across my face. Ten years of devotion, from a damp basement to a suburban mansion, from an entry-level clerk to the CEO of a publicly traded firm—and all I had earned was the word “duty”. Beckett stepped out of the kitchen, handing me the warm mug. “Ready to go? What are you looking at so intently?” I tucked my phone away and shook my head. “Nothing.” The entire drive there, I stared out the passenger window, my heart heavy as lead. Beside me, Beckett hummed a tune under his breath, unable to hide his buoyant mood. I didn’t call him out. I was simply too exhausted. An hour later, we arrived at the hospital. Beckett rushed ahead of me, pushing open the door to Jenny’s room with unmistakable urgency. “Jenny, I’m here.” The young woman resting on the bed lit up instantly. “Beck—” The intimate name died on her lips the moment I stepped into the room behind him. “Mr. Hollister,” she corrected herself smoothly, her posture turning modest. Then she looked at me with bright, emotional eyes. “Piper! You came to pick me up! I knew I was getting discharged today—thank you so much.” A wave of disgust churned in my stomach. I gave a faint, detached nod and asked pointedly, “Now that you’re discharged, what are your plans? Where are you going to stay?” Jenny froze. Ever since I brought her out of the mountains, she had been staying in hospitals and care facilities, recovering from her trauma. She had zero means of supporting herself in a city like this. She wrung her fingers nervously, looking helpless. “I… I…” Beckett stepped in smoothly, adopting a reasonable, considerate tone. “Piper, how about this? Since Jenny is your person, I’ll make an exception and hire her as my personal assistant. As for housing… why doesn’t she stay at our place for now?” Jenny’s eyes sparkled, though she carefully kept her expression timid, looking to me for permission. I looked at the expectant glow in Beckett’s eyes, an overwhelming sorrow settling in my chest. What a brilliant student he was. He was executing the advice I gave him to the absolute letter. “Sure,” I said quietly. It didn’t matter anymore. I was preparing to walk away anyway. While Beckett went to finalize the discharge paperwork, my phone buzzed. “I’m bringing Jenny home with us,” he messaged. “What’s the next step?” I stared at the screen for a moment before typing back: “Breakup Step Two: Differential treatment.” He replied instantly: “That’s easy. I’m already struggling not to do that anyway.” When Beckett returned from the billing office, he picked up Jenny’s small suitcase and turned to me. “Jenny still has trouble walking long distances. I’ll carry her out. You don’t mind, right?” Without waiting for my answer, he stepped forward, looking down at her with intense tenderness. Before she could protest, he swept her up into a bridal carry and walked right past me. A faint, mocking smile touched my lips as I walked behind them. I saw the soft blush creeping up Jenny’s neck, and the deep flush burning on the tips of Beckett’s ears. My mind flashed back ten years ago, to that cramped, dark basement. He had taken a pull-tab from a soda can and slipped it onto my finger. “Piper, will you marry me? I swear, I’m going to work until I can give you the real thing and make you the happiest woman in the world.” I had nodded, crying tears of joy. His ears had burned with that exact same shade of red back then. Ten years had passed. We never got married, the soda tab never turned into a wedding band, and his ears no longer turned red for me. I lowered my eyes to my bare hand, only to notice something sparkling on Jenny’s ring finger. A diamond ring. I recognized it instantly. It was a custom piece Beckett had spent two million dollars on at a private auction six months ago. He had told me it was an investment for the company. Turns out, it was a gift for Jenny. The driver was waiting at the curb. I instinctively moved toward the back door, but Beckett blocked my path. “Take the front passenger seat,” he said, gently settling Jenny into the back row. “There’s more legroom back here, and Jenny can’t bend her knee properly.” With that, he slid into the backseat right beside her. I let out a soft, ironic breath and didn’t argue. I opened the front door and sat down. In the rearview mirror, I caught Jenny biting her lip, looking at me with faint, performative anxiety. “Piper… maybe you should sit back here with Mr. Hollister. I really don’t mind…” Beckett was about to speak, but I cut in first. “No need.” He blinked, taken aback. He glanced at me with a complex, flicking expression, a sudden swell of irritation flaring in his eyes before vanishing just as quickly. He patted Jenny’s head softly. “Listen to her. Sit still and don’t agitate your knee.” Jenny gave a shy, obedient nod, leaning closer to him. Sitting in the front seat, I watched the whole display in the mirror. Quietly, I pulled up my browser and booked a one-way flight to New York. Back in college, I had majored in psychology, which eventually led to my side gig as a behavioral consultant—a “breakup coach.” NYU had one of the top psychology programs in the world, and my application for a doctoral fellowship there had been accepted months ago. I had delayed my enrollment purely for Beckett. Now, I could finally go. When we pulled up to the estate, Beckett hopped out and hurried around to open Jenny’s door, lifting her into his arms naturally. Jenny glanced at me hesitantly. “Mr. Hollister, I can walk on my own, really…” Beckett pulled her closer against his chest. “What are you afraid of? Piper won’t mind. She’s not unreasonable.” With a single sentence, he backed me into a corner where showing any anger would make me the petty, immature one. I trailed behind them, my phone ringing. It was Jenny’s primary care physician from the hospital. “Ms. Raines, I saw that Jenny was discharged today, but I need to remind you of something critical,” the doctor said over the line. “Her constitution is very fragile. On top of that, she suffered a severe miscarriage six months ago. Please ensure she avoids raw or cold foods, especially seafood.” The world seemed to go silent around me. “A miscarriage?” Whose child could it have been? My mind raced back six months. That was the exact two-month window when I was away attending an intensive seminar in California—the exact period I had asked Beckett to check in on her. The betrayal ran deeper and was far more sickening than I had ever imagined. I forced myself to draw a long, deep breath, crushing the suffocating storm rising in my chest, and walked into the house. My flight was tonight. It was almost over. Everything was almost over. In the living room, Beckett was kneeling on the rug, gently massaging Jenny’s leg. I paused at the threshold. I hadn’t seen such devotion and tenderness on his face in years. A moment later, Beckett finished the massage and sent a message to the “Breakup Coach.” “I’ve done everything you said, but why isn’t my fiancée reacting at all? She’s completely calm.” I looked at my phone, my heart a flat, lifeless plain. “Maybe she just doesn’t care anymore. Isn’t that the exact outcome you wanted?” Beckett froze. Across the room, I saw his body go stiff, a shadow of confusion and discomfort crossing his features. He typed back: “Is there anything else I should do?” I replied: “No. Just wait for her to leave on her own.” Beckett’s brow furrowed tightly as he typed: “I don’t think she’ll ever leave me. You don’t understand—I’m the person she loves most in this world. She wouldn’t just walk away. Whatever, forget it. I just sent your fee.” He went offline. I felt a cold wave of amusement. To him, my ten years of love were nothing more than a stubborn inconvenience he assumed he could never shake. That afternoon, Beckett personally took Jenny to the firm to finalize her employment paperwork. I worked at the company too, though I held a low-profile position in the research department. Within minutes of their arrival, the executive floor was buzzing. A coworker grabbed my arm and pulled me into the breakroom, her face red with indignation. “What is going on out there?! Who is that girl with Mr. Hollister? Don’t you feel like something is completely wrong?” I remained silent for a beat. “What’s wrong?” “They’re acting practically attached at the hip!” She pulled up a video someone had secretly recorded and held it out for me to see. I looked down at the screen. Beckett was walking through the main lobby holding Jenny’s hand, their fingers intertwined. He didn’t care who saw them. He led her directly to the desk closest to his private office, setting her down gently before cupping her face with his hand. “Just hang out here and relax. You don’t actually have to do any real work. Just stay where I can see you.” His gaze was dripping with affection. Jenny bit her lip, blushing furiously. The video ended. The coworkers in the breakroom looked at me with varying degrees of pity and shock. Everyone knew I was the one who had stood by Beckett back when the company was nothing more than a dream in a garage. “Piper… you guys…” My expression didn’t change. I offered a faint, lifeless smile. “Honestly, Beckett and I don’t have that kind of relationship anymore.” Before they could recover from the shock, I turned and walked out. Behind me, the whispers erupted immediately. “Not together? Yeah, right!” “I knew Mr. Hollister wouldn’t stay with someone like her forever. Have you ever seen him hold her hand in public like that?” “Look at the new girl! If you ask me, “she’s” the real future Mrs. Hollister. Piper was just fooling herself thinking she meant something.” They pieced together their theories with total confidence. My spine stiffened, a quiet pang of humiliation washing over me. But objectively, they weren’t entirely wrong. In the five years since the company went public, Beckett had never once publicly acknowledged our relationship. He had always told me sternly, “It’s bad for corporate image. I’m the CEO—if I bring romance into the workplace, it looks unprofessional. Be mature, Piper.” Now, watching him shatter every rule for Jenny, I finally understood. It wasn’t that he cared about corporate image. I just wasn’t the woman he wanted to break the rules for. Later that afternoon, Jenny found me in the breakroom. She bit her lower lip, looking at me with watery, pleading eyes. “Piper… you know everything now, right?” she whimpered, her voice dripping with helpless desperation. “Can’t you just let him go? Can’t you give Beckett to me? You have everything—an education, a career. I’m just a poor girl from the mountains. He’s all I have. Please don’t take him from me!” I almost laughed out loud. I stared at her, my eyes colder than ice. “Jenny, I really should have let your stepfather beat you to death.” Her face went pale, tears instantly streaming down her cheeks. “I know I owe you my life! But you can’t use gratitude to hold me hostage emotionally!” I rolled my eyes, muttered, “You’re insane,” and walked straight out of the room. I went back to my desk, submitted my formal resignation through the portal, and began packing my personal belongings. Suddenly, an uproar broke out down the hall. “Someone’s on the roof! She’s going to jump!” Before I could react, Beckett burst out of his office, his face thunderous. He stormed over, grabbed my wrist in a vice-like grip, and dragged me forcefully toward the stairwell. “Let go of me!” I struggled. His breath was ragged, his eyes wild with terror and rage. “What the hell did you say to her?! Jenny just called me—she said she’s going to give her life back to you!” He shoved me against the wall, stepping close, his voice a low, vicious threat. “Piper, if anything happens to her, I swear to God I will make you pay!” With a violent push, he threw me to the ground and sprinted up the stairs toward the roof. The whispers of the watching employees echoed around me like buzzing hornets. I closed my eyes tightly, lying on the cold floor. When I opened them again, there was nothing left inside me. No pain, no anger—just absolute emptiness. I stood up, adjusted my coat, and walked out of the building. Standing in the parking lot, I opened my phone, took complete screenshots of my chat logs with Beckett under my “Breakup Coach” profile, and posted them online. Then, I drove straight to the airport, boarding my flight to pursue the dream I had deferred for far too long.

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The news broadcast warned that a Category 4 hurricane was set to make landfall on the coast by six o’clock this evening. By four, my coworkers were already packing up their desks, anxious to beat the storm. Public transit had already been suspended, and those with cars were generously offering rides to those without. When one of them paused by my cubicle to ask if I needed a lift, I gave him a grateful smile and declined. “Thanks, man, but I’m good. My girlfriend’s picking me up.” He grinned, clapping my shoulder. “Must be nice having someone looking out for you.” By five o’clock, the wind outside had turned into a low, predatory howl, rattling the glass panes of our high-rise office. I dialed Lauren’s phone. It went straight to voicemail. I pulled up our text thread. Her last message was from an hour ago: “On my way, babe!” Traffic in this weather was bound to be a nightmare. I told myself it was normal for her to be delayed. By five-thirty, the sky had turned a bruising shade of purple, and torrential rain began hammering the windows. I was the last person left in the entire building. Suddenly, the fluorescent light above my head flickered violently, hummed, and snapped off. The entire floor plunged into pitch darkness. Standing alone in the shadows, I tried Lauren’s number again. This time, the call connected. But the voice that answered wasn’t hers. It was a man’s voice—smooth, familiar, and instantly recognizable. “Seth?” I froze, the phone heavy against my ear. “Where’s Lauren?” “Oh, hey, Seth!” Mike said, his tone entirely too casual. “Lauren’s driving right now, so her hands are occupied.” “Where are you guys?” “On the way to my apartment. Lauren said it was way too dangerous for me to navigate the storm on my own. Oh, by the way—she said she sent you a text half an hour ago telling you to grab an Uber home. You made it back safe, right?” Outside, the wind shrieked against the building. Inside, my chest went completely hollow, a cold numbness spreading from my heart outward to my fingertips. For three years, Lauren had funneled every ounce of her warmth, concern, and domestic tender loving care into this junior colleague. And standing alone in the dark, I felt the very last ember of my love for her quietly burn out. “Yeah,” I said softly, my voice devoid of any inflection. “I’m home.” A home that would never feature her in it again. … I heard Mike let out an audible sigh of relief over the speaker. “Glad you made it back! We’re almost at my place, too. Lauren wanted me to let you know that since the storm is hitting hard, she’s probably just going to crash on my couch tonight.” “Okay,” I murmured flatly. In the background, I could hear Lauren’s voice. Even through the staticky connection, the subtle, protective tenderness in her tone was unmistakable. “Are you cold, Mike? Should I crank up the heat in the car?” Mike chuckled. “Babe—I mean, Lauren—it’s the middle of July!” Right. It was summer. Yet I was shivering, a deep, bone-chilling cold settling into the marrow of my bones. The call disconnected. I stared down at the glowing screen of my phone, scrolling back through our chat. There was no message telling me to call an Uber. She probably “had” typed one out. Maybe the signal dropped before it went through. But all that proved was that after hitting ‘send,’ she hadn’t bothered to look at our conversation—or think about me—even once. She didn’t use to be like this. When we first started dating seven years ago, her phone was practically glued to her hand whenever we weren’t physically together. She would send me the most mundane updates—a funny-looking cloud, a stray dog that barked at her on her morning commute, what she had for breakfast. My messages were met with instantaneous replies. She used to tell me she hated the idea of keeping me waiting, terrified that I might need her and she wouldn’t be there. Now, her devotion belonged to someone else. A bitter ache bloomed in the back of my throat. The gale-force winds outside felt like an invisible hand squeezing my heart, tight and unrelenting. At six o’clock sharp, the hurricane officially hit land. And I was completely trapped in an abandoned office building. I made my way blindly into the breakroom, shutting the heavy door tight behind me. Sitting on the small sofa, I called my parents, who lived two states away, to tell them I was safe. “Are you with Lauren?” my mother asked softly, her voice laced with concern. I paused, staring into the dark. “Yeah,” I lied. “We’re together.” When the call ended, the screen went black, and the room dissolved back into pitch darkness. The silence inside was suffocating, broken only by the terrifying roar of the tempest outside. A moment later, my screen illuminated again. My heart shot into my throat—a foolish, instinctual reaction—and I snatched the phone up instantly. The hope died just as fast. It was an automated emergency broadcast from the city: “Please shelter in place with your loved ones. Though the storm is fierce, we will weather it together.” I opened my social media apps just to distract myself. My feed was filled with posts from friends marveling at the storm’s power while sharing photos of cozy family dinners and home-cooked meals. My stomach growled loudly. I realized I hadn’t eaten anything since noon. Rummaging through the breakroom cabinets, I found a stale package of saltine crackers. I chewed on them quietly, washing them down with water while mindlessly staring at the photos of delicious food on my screen. As I scrolled, my thumb froze. A familiar profile picture popped up. It was a post from Mike: “How am I supposed to eat normal food again when my coworker cooks like a five-star chef? She’s totally ruined my palate.” The attached photo showed three mouthwatering dishes and a bowl of soup—Lauren’s signature recipes. In the corner of the frame, a woman’s hand was visible, throwing up a playful peace sign. I remembered the night she first made those dishes for me, years ago. She had wrapped her arms around my neck and whispered that aside from her parents, I was the only person in the world she would ever cook for. I guess her “forever” had a three-year expiration date. I pressed the ‘like’ button on Mike’s post, then typed a public comment beneath it: “Sounds like you should ask her to be your girlfriend, then.” Less than two minutes later, a private message from Lauren flashed at the top of my screen. “Seth, what is your problem? Is that supposed to be funny?” Was it funny? I wondered if she realized that what they were doing behind my back was far more absurd than anything I could write in a comment section. She had opened our chat to confront me, yet she still hadn’t noticed the red exclamation point beside her unsent text from earlier. She hadn’t bothered to check if I was safe. She hadn’t even asked where I was. My fingers tightened around the aluminum casing of my phone until my knuckles turned white. I was just typing out a response—telling her that I was stranded, alone, in an unlit office building—when a deafening, thunderous “CRASH” shattered the air outside the breakroom! I flinched violence, my heart leaping into my throat. Peering through the slats of the breakroom blinds, I watched in absolute horror as a massive section of the floor-to-ceiling glass wall on the main office floor caved inward under the storm’s pressure. Violent, screaming gusts of wind flooded the open-plan office, tearing papers, office supplies, and ceiling tiles into a chaotic vortex. A heavy wooden partition flew through the breach, slamming with terrifying force against the breakroom door. Instinct took over. I shoved the sofa against the door, bracing myself as the structure groaned under the wind pressure. Panic flooded my system, turning my brain into a blank slate. Before I even realized what I was doing, my thumb was pressing Lauren’s speed dial. The phone rang for nearly thirty seconds before she picked up. Before I could speak, Lauren’s impatient voice cut through the speaker: “Seth, give me a second, I’m kind of busy right now—” “Lauren!” I gasped, trying to keep the terror out of my voice. “I’m at the office. The floor-to-ceiling glass windows just blew out, I’m—” There was a pause on her end, followed by the muffled sound of a television. “Wait, glass broke?” she said, her voice dripping with mild annoyance. “In our living room? Seth, just go into the bedroom and shut the door. It’s fine. I’ll call a glass repair company tomorrow morning…” In the background, the distinctive sound effects of a video game echoed loudly. A second later, Mike’s voice boomed through the receiver, yelling in triumph: “Yes! Beat your high score again!” Lauren’s fond, affectionate chuckle drifted through the line. “Fine, fine, you win! A bet’s a bet. Dinner’s on me next time.” “Hey, why wait for next time? How about tomorrow?” Mike teased. “Alright, alright…” Lauren laughed softly. Every single word I was about to say died in my throat. Standing in the dark, listening to her flirt with another man while storm winds raged feet away from me, I finally surrendered to the cold, undeniable truth: Seven years of history, loyalty, and shared dreams had lost to a three-year workplace crush. … I remembered the first time Lauren had ever mentioned Mike to me, three years ago. Her tone back then had been one of mild exasperation. He was a fresh hire, placed on her team right out of college. She complained that he messed up his data spreadsheets, forcing her to work late two nights in a row to fix his mistakes. She complained that he accidentally spilled hot coffee on her favorite blazer. For months, mentioning Mike came with a heavy sigh and an rolling of her eyes. Then came her department’s summer party, to which partners were invited. That was the first time I met the guy. He was a year younger than us, fair-skinned, with soft, boyish features and an easy, eager-to-please smile. Lauren had introduced me to him, nudging his elbow playfulness. “Say hi to Seth.” He had smiled dutifully. “Hey, Seth. Nice to meet you, man.” That night, I caught Lauren watching him while he struggled to open a beer bottle. There was a look in her eyes that made my stomach turn—a soft, indulgent warmth. I didn’t have a word for it back then. Now I did. It was devotion. After that night, the subtle shifts began. When I asked Lauren to go to a local art exhibition with me one weekend, she apologized, saying Mike’s laptop had crashed and she needed to help him recover his project files. When I stayed silent, she quickly added that the entire team’s quarterly performance depended on those files. When a highly anticipated psychological thriller hit theaters, I bought two tickets. She hesitated, then admitted she’d already seen it with Mike. “The company gave out free passes,” she explained. “The whole team went.” I later found out from a mutual friend that she and Mike had sat in the back corner of the theater, miles away from the rest of their department. Eventually, it escalated. She started driving him home every time it rained. She memorized his favorite clothing brands. Whenever we went out to eat, she would meticulously instruct the server not to put onions or garlic in certain dishes—because Mike was allergic. One evening, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Lauren… are you in love with Mike?” She had blinked at me in genuine shock, then burst out laughing. “Are you out of your mind? He’s a kid, Seth! He’s just an idiot coworker who needs a little extra guidance, and I’m just trying to be a good senior teammate.” “An idiot coworker.” Such an affectionate, protective little label. And the things she was doing for him had long surpassed the boundaries of being “a good teammate.” I don’t remember when I finally fell asleep that night, huddled on the breakroom sofa amidst the roaring wind. I just remember entering a long, suffocating nightmare where I was chasing her through a fog, calling her name, while she walked away without looking back. When I opened my eyes, the sun was shining. The rain had cleared, the wind had died down, and the faint, familiar sounds of morning traffic drifted up from the streets below. The storm was over. And so was my nightmare. I left the office, took a cab home, showered, and changed into clean clothes. Just as I stepped out of the bathroom, the front door clicked open. Lauren walked in, looking tired. When she saw me standing in the hallway, she let out a visible sigh of relief. “Thank God you’re okay,” she said, walking toward me. “Yesterday was crazy… what happened with the glass window?” She turned her head to look at our living room bay window. It was completely pristine, reflecting the bright morning sun. She froze, confusion washing over her face. I looked at her, my voice entirely devoid of emotion. “It was just a bad dream.” She blinked, then nodded slowly, assuming I meant I had panicked over nothing. Seeing me put on my jacket, she stepped into my path, her expression suddenly hesitant. “Seth… about that dinner with your parents next Wednesday… can we reschedule?” I met her gaze, my face a mask of absolute calm. “Why?” Her voice softened into that familiar, pitying cadence she used whenever Mike was involved. “Next Wednesday is the anniversary of Mike’s mom passing away. His dad is stuck overseas on business, so he’s completely alone. It’s just… he’s in a really dark place, Seth. Going to her grave by himself seems so heartbreaking.” My hands clenched into tight fists inside my jacket pockets, the nails digging into my palms until it hurt. I forced my breathing to remain steady. “This is the fourth time you’ve canceled on my parents, Lauren. And their flight tickets are already booked.” She frowned, her tone shifting from soft to exasperated. “Seth, be reasonable! Am I just supposed to abandon him when he’s grieving? We’re a team.” “And we are supposed to be partners.” The words sat on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t bother saying them out loud. What was the point? A sharp, throbbing ache pulsed behind my temples—a leftover gift from last night’s stress. I rubbed my forehead and sighed quietly. “Fine. Do whatever you want.” Her face instantly lit up with relief. “I knew you’d understand! Don’t worry, I promise I’ll make it up to your parents. I’ll host a huge dinner for them next time they’re in town!” Her phone chimed with a familiar ringtone. She answered it immediately, turning on her heel and walking toward the bedroom. “Hey, Mike! Seth said it’s totally fine. I’ll be there with you on Wednesday…” I pulled out my own phone, opened a text thread with my mother, and typed out a message: “Hey Mom. You know how you’ve been wanting me to meet your friend’s daughter—the artist you keep raving about? Let’s set up that dinner for next Wednesday.” … When I arrived at the office later that morning, contractors were already hard at work installing a temporary wooden barrier over the shattered window frame. My coworkers were huddled in small groups, whispering nervously. “Man, thank God we left early yesterday. That wind was terrifying.” One of my team leads spotted me and walked over. “Hey, Seth! Glad to see you made it in. Your girlfriend picked you up alright yesterday, right?” I offered a faint, hollow smile. “No. She was busy driving her male coworker home.” The small circle of coworkers went dead silent. Someone asked carefully, “So… you took an Uber home in that crazy storm?” “No,” I replied calmly. “I spent the night in the breakroom.” A collective sharp intake of breath echoed through the room. For a long moment, no one spoke. Finally, my team lead reached out and gave my shoulder a heavy, sympathetic squeeze. “Seth… man. You’re stronger than I’d ever be.” I didn’t feel strong, but I saw no reason to hide the truth. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Near the end of the workday, my phone buzzed. A text from Lauren: “I’m parked downstairs waiting for you.” I stared at the screen, my eyes dimming. She hadn’t picked me up from work in over a year. Whenever she promised to come by, it inevitably ended with a last-minute cancellation because Mike needed a ride, or Mike needed help with an errand. I took the elevator down to the lobby and stepped out into the evening air. Sure enough, her sedan was idling by the curb. I walked over, reaching for the front passenger door handle. Before I could pull it open, the glass rolled down, revealing Mike’s boyish, smiling face in the passenger seat. “Hey, Seth! What’s up?” Lauren leaned over from the driver’s seat, offering an apologetic smile. “Mike said a really good new authentic Szechuan hotpot place opened near your office. I booked a table for us—wanna grab a bite?” I stood by the car, looking at her. My voice was very quiet, almost lost in the ambient noise of the street. “Lauren. I can’t eat spicy food.” She blinked. A sudden, violent flash of embarrassment crossed her face. She had forgotten. She had completely forgotten a basic detail about my body, when years ago, she used to carefully pick every single chili flake out of a shared dish just so I wouldn’t burn my tongue. Without another word, I pulled my hand back from the door handle. They drove off a few moments later. She hadn’t come to pick me up. She had simply realized I was nearby and treated me as an afterthought. A dull, familiar ache throbbed in my chest, but my mind cleared it away with cold, surgical precision. I was done. I resolved to officially end things with her this weekend. That evening, however, Lauren acted strangely secretive. She sent me a text asking me to meet her at an upscale restaurant downtown on Saturday morning at ten o’clock sharp, promising a “huge surprise.” I stared at the date on my calendar. Saturday was our seven-year anniversary. A faint spark of confusion flickered in my mind. She actually remembered? Part of me wondered what she was planning, but it didn’t change my mind. I decided I would let her say whatever she wanted to say, and then I would end it. On Saturday morning, traffic was horrific due to post-storm road repairs. By the time I arrived at the restaurant’s private dining room, it was ten-thirty. Walking down the carpeted hallway, memories involuntarily flooded my mind. Lauren used to obsess over our anniversaries. She once set up dozens of tea lights spelling out the date we first met. Another year, she secretly spent months learning acoustic guitar just to sing a song I had offhandedly mentioned loving. She made scrapbooks of every trip we ever took. But starting three years ago, every single anniversary had been derailed. Three years ago, Mike caught the flu, and she abandoned our dinner reservation because “we have plenty of anniversaries ahead of us, and he’s all alone in the hospital.” Two years ago, Mike sliced his hand open while meal-prepping, and she abandoned a half-frosted cake to rush him to Urgent Care. Last year, Mike drank too much at a bar, and she claimed she was just dropping him off—only to disappear for the entire night. I didn’t expect anything grand this time. I just wanted to get through a meal, say my piece, and walk away clean. I pushed open the heavy wooden door of the private room. “POP!” A shower of colorful confetti exploded into the air, raining down over my hair and shoulders. The room was packed with nearly twenty people, all cheering—until they looked at my face. The room went dead quiet. “Wait… that’s not Mike,” someone whispered. “Who shouted that the footsteps sounded like him?!” another complained. “Quick, sweep up the ribbons! He’s gonna be here any second!” I stood anchored to the doorway, entirely bewildered. Before I could process the scene, Lauren darted out from the crowd, grabbed my arm, and shoved a plastic confetti popper into my hands. “I told you to be here at ten!” she hissed under her breath. “Hurry, stand by the door! When Mike walks in, twist the bottom!” A sound crept up my throat—a dry, absurd laugh that I barely contained. I looked down at her, my voice unnaturally steady. “Lauren. What is this?” Her eyes were fixed entirely on the hallway outside, not even looking at me. “Oh, I forgot to tell you! Mike’s big project got officially approved by executive management, so he’s getting promoted to senior manager! The whole team chipped in for a surprise party.” She paused, glancing at me briefly. “You always complain that I never include you when I hang out with my work friends, so I thought I’d invite you along this time.” I stared at her. The coldness inside me was absolute. “Lauren. Do you know what today is?” She blinked at me, her mind clearly blank. “What do you mean?” I nodded slowly, a small, sad smile touching my lips. “Lauren,” I said, my voice quiet and crystal clear. “Let’s break up.” “POP!” “CONGRATS ON THE PROMOTION, Mike!” A roar of cheers, applause, and popping party streamers exploded behind me, completely drowning out my final sentence. Lauren didn’t hear a word. She had already spun around and bounded across the room, throwing her arms around Mike’s neck in a joyful, tight hug. I pulled a piece of foil confetti off my lapel, turned on my heel, and walked out of the room. Outside in the quiet corridor, my phone buzzed. A text from my mother: “Your dad and I just boarded our flight. Seth, I’m so glad you finally came to your senses about her.” My mother had mentioned that her friend’s daughter, Violet, happened to be living in the city as well, and had agreed to join us for dinner on Wednesday evening. I typed back a single word: “Okay.” Then I headed toward the airport. … The next day, I took my parents to check out a few local sights. We had just finished touring a historic garden when my phone began ringing off the hook. It was Lauren. I ignored the first three calls, but on the fourth, she sent a panic-stricken text: “Seth, where are you?! Something terrible happened, answer me!” Thinking it might be an actual emergency, I dropped a pin of my current location. Ten minutes later, a car screeched to a halt near the park entrance. Lauren sprinted toward me—with Mike trailing right behind her. She caught sight of my parents sitting on a nearby bench, froze for a fraction of a second, then grabbed my arm and dragged me several yards away, her voice hushed and panicked. “What is going on, Seth?! I told you I have to be with Mike on Wednesday! I don’t have time to entertain your parents!” I looked down at her hand on my sleeve, then flicked my eyes up to hers. “If you don’t have time, am I not allowed to invite someone else?” She assumed I was just making a sarcastic, bitter comment and brushed it off. Pulling out her phone, she opened a viral social media post and shoved the screen into my face. “Did you post this comment?!” she demanded. The post was a series of photos uploaded by Mike from yesterday’s party. The first photo showed Lauren hugging Mike tightly. The second showed her laughing as she smeared cake frosting on his nose. The third showed the two of them leaning their heads together, grinning intimately into the camera. The account belonged to Mike, captioned: “Celebrating with my absolute favorite coworker! Best day ever~” Even though a dozen coworkers had attended the party, every single photo in his album featured only him and Lauren. His subtle, possessive intentions were glaringly obvious. I let out a soft, mocking chuckle, my gaze dropping to the top-voted comment under the post. It read: “Not gonna lie, this female coworker has a long-term boyfriend.” Right below it, someone had attached a picture of me and Lauren from two years ago. The comment section had completely exploded. Hundreds of netizens were slamming Mike, calling him a shameless workplace intruder and a homewrecker. No wonder Lauren was frantic. “Mike’s notifications are out of control!” Lauren hissed, her face flushed with anxiety. “People are calling his department, calling him a mistress! If management sees this, his promotion could be revoked! You need to log on right now, reply to that comment, and say you’re the guy in the photo, you were at the party too, and you’re all just great friends!” I met her desperate eyes. “And what if I say no?” Lauren stared at me in disbelief. Before she could speak, Mike suddenly covered his face and let out a choked, dramatic sob. “I’m really not a bad guy…” he whimpered, his eyes red. “If the VP sees those comments, three years of my hard work are gone…” My parents noticed the commotion from the bench and began looking over, their faces filled with worry. Lauren noticed them too. She turned back to me, her teeth gritted, her voice dropping into a low threat. “Seth. If you don’t clear his name right now, I’m going over there to tell your parents everything and ask them to make you!” A cold disgust washed over me. I didn’t want my parents dragged into her pathetic drama. “Fine,” I said, my voice dead. “I’ll reply.” I pulled out my phone, opened the app, found Mike’s viral post, and typed out a response directly under the top comment: “I am the man in the photo. The female pictured and I have officially broken up. Whatever she and her colleague do from this point forward has nothing to do with me.” Lauren leaned over my shoulder to read it. Her brows pulled into a deep frown. “Seth… even if you’re trying to clear his name, you didn’t have to phrase it so harshly.” Still, with the public clarification posted, the immediate crisis was defused. She let out a long sigh, her face softening into a look of condescending gratitude. “I knew you were still a good person at heart, Seth,” she said softly. “Don’t worry about tomorrow’s dinner. I’ll wrap things up with Mike as fast as I can and rush over to meet your parents.” I didn’t say a word. Taking my silence as agreement, she grabbed Mike’s arm and walked away. … The next evening, our dinner reservation was set for six o’clock. At seven, a text arrived from Lauren: “Just dropped Mike off at his place! On my way now!” At eight, another text: “Mike’s stomach ulcer flared up from stress, I’m at the pharmacy getting his prescription. I’ll be a little late!” At nine o’clock sharp, heavy, hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway outside our private dining room. A second later, the door was pushed open. Lauren burst into the room, holding several high-end gift bags in her hands, out of breath. “Auntie, Uncle, I am so, so sorry I’m late—” She froze mid-sentence. The warm, apologetic smile on her face shattered instantly.

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