Author: Momo Chan

Ever since I was diagnosed with narcolepsy—or what the doctors could only call a bizarre, daylight-onset coma—I would lose consciousness the moment the sun came up. We consulted endless specialists, flew to clinics across the country, but every diagnostic test came back frustratingly normal. Then, on the eve of my son’s birthday, I had a dream. A strange woman stood before me, her silhouette stark against a blinding white background. “You don’t actually believe you’re sick, do you? That a medical condition is what keeps you asleep all day?” I stared at her, paralyzed with confusion. She leaned in, a sharp, knowing smile on her lips. “It’s because my soul is fused with yours. We split this body. Twelve hours each. I get the day; you get the night.” “And the best part? Your husband and your son know all about it. In fact, to keep me around, they ran the only spiritual medium who could separate us right out of the city.” My mind went entirely blank. My hands, hanging at my sides, began to shake violently. She looked thoroughly satisfied with my horror. As the dreamscape began to fade with the rising sun, she whispered mockingly: “Don’t believe me? I’ll step back for the next few days. See for yourself.” … For three years, this was the first time I had ever opened my eyes during the day. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting golden stripes across our bedroom. The alarm on the nightstand buzzed. Elliott, who had been heading toward the master bath, stopped. Seeing me wide awake, his eyes softened, and he slid back into bed, wrapping his arms around me from behind. “Morning, beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. “Do I get a reward? I did exactly what you asked last night—I didn’t touch Naomi once.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. Ever since the daylight sleeping started, Elliott and I hadn’t been intimate. Not once. At first, he was too consumed by worry to even think about it. But at some point, the late nights started. Every evening when I woke up at dusk, the house was dark, empty, and silent. Unaware of my sudden terror, Elliott buried his face in the crook of my neck, breathing me in. His voice was low, teasing, and intimate. “Melanie, I’m skipping the office today. Let me just drop Toby off at school, and when I get back…” Before he could finish, our five-year-old, Toby, burst through the door. “Daddy! You’re hogging Mommy again!” “You broke our promise! You don’t have to work during the day, so you get her all the time. We agreed mornings belong to me!” I stared blankly at the scene playing out in front of me, feeling as if I’d been doused in freezing water. It all made sense now. Why Elliott, the CEO of his firm, worked so late every night. He wasn’t working. He was saving all his daylight hours to spend with Melanie, leaving only the dark, exhausting nights to Naomi. Elliott pecked Toby on the forehead, then leaned in to kiss my lips. I turned my head away sharply, a bitter lump rising in my throat. “Go help Toby brush his teeth first,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. “You know he always gets his collar soaked when he does it himself.” Without waiting for a response, I threw off the duvet, practically bolted out of bed, and locked myself in the bathroom. By the time I unlocked the door and stepped out, Toby was already dressed in his preschool uniform, sitting at the kitchen island. Elliott emerged from the kitchen holding a warm skillet. “Here we go, sweetheart. Sunny-side up eggs and avocado toast, just the way you like them.” I stared at the plate. I had always preferred a simple bowl of warm oatmeal, but Melanie must have craved this instead. My chest felt heavy, as if a lead weight were crushing my lungs. Yet, in some twisted form of self-torture, I picked up the fork under Elliott’s expectant gaze and took a bite. It tasted like cardboard. “It’s good,” I lied. I needed to see how far they had gone for Melanie over the last three years. I needed to witness the full depth of their betrayal. Before they left, Toby wrapped his little arms tightly around my waist. “Mommy, can you bring me two lunchboxes today?” “I want to save one for dinner. I’ll ask the teacher to heat it up for me. I don’t want to eat the food the “other” mommy makes.” I stood frozen as Toby clung to me, my fingertips turning numb with cold. No wonder. Every night, I would wake up and pour my heart into preparing a beautiful dinner, only for Toby to take two bites, drop his fork, and run to his room. I thought he was just a picky eater. It wasn’t that. He had already eaten the dinner prepared by his “real” mother during the day. Elliott scooped Toby up into his arms, his brow furrowing slightly. “Toby, we’ve talked about this.” I snapped my gaze to Elliott, my fingernails biting hard into my palms. A tiny, desperate spark of hope flared in my chest. “Naomi is still your mother. You need to respect her enough to finish the dinner she makes you.” Seeing Toby pout, Elliott chuckled softly and pinched his cheek. “Besides, Daddy has found a way to let Mommy Melanie stay with us for much longer.” “Remember that spiritual medium who almost let Naomi find out the truth last year?” “He knows how to bind her soul so Naomi only wakes up once every seven days. Daddy’s assistant is already tracking him down.” A sharp, agonizing pain pierced my heart. The rest of Elliott’s words faded into a loud, ringing silence. I managed to whisper, “I’m going back to sleep,” before retreating inside and shutting the door on them. I sat alone in the quiet, echoing house. When the tears finally stopped flowing, there was nothing left inside me but an empty hollow. I pulled out my phone, scrolled to the very bottom of my contacts, and found the number I had saved months ago. To: Alistair “I will pay you triple your fee.” “But when you bind my soul, I need you to do one more thing.” … Later that morning, an emergency cropped up at Elliott’s firm. He went in to resolve it, wrapping up his other meetings while he was there. For the first time in years, he didn’t have to “work late” that evening. But when he and Toby returned at twilight, their warm, affectionate behavior from the morning had vanished completely. They looked at me as if I were a stranger occupying their space. “Hi, Mom,” Toby mumbled, skirting past me to head straight to his room. And Elliott, facing the wife he hadn’t seen all day, offered only a cold, practiced indifference. “Oh, you’re awake.” If this had been the past, I would have run to him, excited to ask about his day and share whatever little things had happened in my quiet hours. Today, I merely nodded. I turned my back on him and walked into the kitchen. At dinner, Toby pushed his food around, took two reluctant bites, and dropped his napkin. “Can I go to my room?” But with Elliott actually at the table tonight, he couldn’t let it slide. He cleared his throat, his tone firm. “Toby, sit back down. You don’t disrespect the effort your mother put into making this dinner.” I stared at them, finding the irony almost comical. Only hours ago, I had lovingly packed leftover roasted chicken and vegetables into two bento boxes and brought them to Toby’s preschool. He had devoured every bite with a massive smile on his face. Yet here we were, with the exact same ingredients, cooked the exact same way, and he refused to even touch it. It wasn’t the food. He just hated that the woman who cooked it was me. I stood up abruptly, snatched Toby’s plate from the table, and walked over to the sink, dumping it with a loud clatter. “If you don’t want to eat, go to your room. Don’t ruin everyone else’s appetite.” It was the first time I had ever spoken to Toby like that. No matter how difficult or spoiled he had been, I had always met him with infinite patience. Startled, Toby burst into tears. He cried loudly, casting covert glances at me, clearly expecting me to fold, to rush over and pull him into my lap the way I always did. But I only frowned. I turned around, went into the master bedroom, and shut the door, letting the wood block out his escalating wails. It took half an hour for the crying to stop, dying down as Toby cried himself to sleep. Shortly after, Elliott stepped into the room. He slid his arms around my waist from behind, pulling a small velvet jewelry box from his pocket and draping a diamond tennis bracelet over my wrist. My chest tightened. Earlier today, shortly after Elliott texted that he was heading to the office, his personal assistant had arrived at our house with several luxury boutique couriers in tow. “Mrs. Ward, Mr. Ward said he’s tied up today. Should we leave these apology gifts upstairs as usual?” Curiosity—or perhaps a grim desire for truth—led me to follow the assistant up to the 25th-floor penthouse closet. The first thing I saw on the wall was a massive portrait of Elliott, Toby, and me at Disneyland. Or rather, Melanie in my body, looking radiant. Inside the walk-in closet were rows of designer handbags, couture dresses, and three custom-built jewelry islands. When Elliott and I married, his startup was on the verge of bankruptcy. I remembered the night he proposed on one knee with a cheap silver band, swearing that one day he would buy me enough diamonds to fill an entire vault. But as his business grew, his time dwindled. His promises were deferred, year after year. And yet, another woman had stepped into my skin and claimed the life he had promised to build for me. I violently shook my arm, knocking the tennis bracelet from Elliott’s hand. It clattered onto the hardwood floor. I had seen the receipt for this exact bracelet in the boutique bags delivered this morning. It wasn’t a gift of love; it was a companion piece bought to meet a minimum spending limit for one of Melanie’s designer bags. Elliott stared at the fallen jewelry, his eyes shifting from confusion to a cold, familiar annoyance. Looking at him, I finally spoke. “Elliott, I want a divorce.” He froze, the word registering slowly. “No way. Absolutely not!” The panic in his eyes was real as he reached out to grab my hand. I saw my own reflection in his pupils, but I knew with absolute certainty that he wasn’t looking at me. He was desperate to keep the body that housed Melanie. “You love someone else, Elliott. I’m stepping aside so you can be with her. Isn’t that what you want?” Elliott blinked, stunned. “What?” Then, a harsh, dismissive laugh escaped him. “I wondered why you’ve been acting like this all day. You think I have a mistress?” I realized then that he had no idea I knew about Melanie. To him, the concept of two souls sharing one body was too bizarre to ever be discovered. If Melanie hadn’t revealed herself to me, I would have spent my entire life in the dark. I didn’t bother explaining. “Believe whatever you want.” My silence only hardened his contempt. He stepped closer, his voice dripping with condescension. “Naomi, be realistic. Do you really think you can walk away from this?” “You’re twenty-eight, not eighteen. You’re a mother who hasn’t worked a day in years. Without me, how are you going to afford a life like this?” “Go to bed. We have Toby’s birthday party tomorrow.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked out, heading to Toby’s room. I watched his back disappear, feeling nothing but a profound, exhausting emptiness. When I woke up the next morning, the atmosphere in the house had shifted completely. It was as if they were entirely different people. The impatience and irritation that usually shadowed Elliott’s face when he looked at me were gone, replaced by a soft, attentive warmth. Toby crawled into bed with me, snuggling close and whispering about how much he hated the “bad mommy” from last night who wouldn’t let him eat. He was talking to Melanie, of course, but his words only made my chest ache with a dull, hollow throb. Because they had both slept in, we had to rush to get dressed and drive over to the private dining club where Toby’s birthday lunch was being held. The moment we stepped into the private room, family members swarmed us. “Toby looks more and more like Elliott every day!” “Melanie, sweetheart, thank you so much for the plum wine you had Elliott send over. Your father-in-law and I absolutely loved it.” “She sent me some too! Oh, it was divine!” As Elliott’s mother and aunt chatted, none of the other relatives batted an eye. It was clear as day: Elliott had already introduced Melanie to his entire family under my name, or perhaps they simply knew and accepted her. They had built an entire life around her, while I, the actual wife, was treated like a ghost who had finally decided to show up. After lunch came the cake. Toby proudly cut the first slice and brought it directly to me. “For you, Mommy Melanie!” His eyes were bright with adoration. I looked down at the perfectly iced slice of cake. In the three years since Melanie had taken over my days, I hadn’t attended a single one of Toby’s birthday parties. The first year, I woke up in the evening to a smashed plate of half-eaten frosting and squished fruit. After that, they simply stopped saving any for me. After pressing the paper plate into my hand, Toby tugged on my sleeve, gesturing for me to lean down. He leaned in close and whispered in my ear: “Mommy Melanie, my birthday wish this year was for the bad mommy to go away forever. I only want you.” I stared at this little boy. When I was in labor with him, the doctors had told Elliott that my life was in severe danger and they might only be able to save one of us. I had begged them to save my baby. I endured forty-eight hours of excruciating labor just to bring him into this world. A bitter smile touched my lips as I reached out to ruffle his hair one last time. “Okay,” I whispered. “Mommy will make your wish come true.” “If you don’t want me, I won’t want you either.” Elliott walked over, joining us. He put a hand on Toby’s shoulder, then wrapped his other arm around my waist, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “What secrets are you two whispering about? Share with—” Before he could finish, a sudden, violent wave of nausea surged up my throat. I pushed him away and began to gag uncontrollably. The smell of his cologne, his touch, his breath—it all made my stomach heave. The room erupted into worried murmurs as relatives gathered around. Without answering their questions, Elliott scooped me into his arms, ushered Toby out, and drove at breakneck speed to the hospital. In the exam room, the doctor handed us the results. “Pregnancy: Five weeks.” Elliott’s hands shook with sheer joy as he read the paper. “Melanie, what do you want to eat? Tell me, I’ll get it right now.” “I’ll have my assistant order some top-tier organic supplements. And I’ll slice some fruit for you—how about I make those little apple bunnies you like?” I watched him, his eyes filled with a tenderness I hadn’t seen in years. When I was pregnant with Toby, Elliott’s company was failing. We were so poor we lived on instant ramen and stale bread. He was never home, always running from meeting to meeting, too exhausted to even ask how I felt. Now, carrying a child in the exact same body, I was receiving the care I had desperately craved back then. But it wasn’t for me. It was for Melanie. I looked away, my heart entirely cold. Elliott’s phone buzzed. It was his assistant. “Mr. Ward, the spiritual medium, Alistair, has just arrived in the city. Should I bring him to the house now?” Before Elliott could speak, I cut in, mimicking Melanie’s soft, breathy cadence: “Elliott, let’s go home. I don’t want to only have twelve hours with you anymore. I want us to be together for good.” When we got back, Alistair was already waiting in the living room, surrounded by his bags of herbs and candles. Yet, Elliott, who had been so eager to initiate this, suddenly fell silent. His eyes drifted to the cheap, framed wedding photo hanging on the wall—a photo of me in a simple white dress, taken back when we had nothing. Alistair didn’t rush him, patiently waiting. After a long pause, Elliott spoke up, his voice tense. “If we do this… can we change it back later?” “Of course,” Alistair replied smoothly. “But my energy is limited. I can only perform the ritual once a year.” “Then do it,” Elliott decided. “If Naomi learns to accept Melanie’s presence, we can always switch back to sharing the days later.” Alistair began setting up his brass bowls and lighting the sage. Toby danced around me excitedly. “Yay! Mommy Melanie is going to put me to sleep tonight!” Elliott walked over, taking my hand in his. “Melanie, soon we’ll have all the time in the world.” I pulled my hand back gently and smiled at him. “Yes. I can’t wait.” I was smiling, but for some reason, the moment my hand left his, Elliott’s heart seemed to skip a beat. A sudden, cold dread flashed through his eyes. The ritual began. I could feel my soul being forcibly peeled away from my body. It was an agonizing, shredding pain, like a thousand tiny knives slicing through my consciousness. I collapsed onto the floor, screaming and writhing. Alistair hadn’t lied to Elliott. If it were a simple binding ritual, it could be undone in a year. But I hadn’t paid him to bind me. I had paid him to sever my soul completely. Once a soul is fully severed, it can never, ever return to the host body. A brilliant white light engulfed my vision, and I plunged into absolute darkness. At that exact moment, Melanie took full possession of the physical body. She opened her eyes, gasping, and immediately threw her arms around a stunned Elliott. “Elliott, it’s me!” “That idiot Naomi was the one playing tricks the last few days. But she just had the medium perform a full soul severance. She’s gone, Elliott! She’s never coming back!”

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Ever since my father-in-law moved into my house, I’ve been afraid to even open my own refrigerator. He had taped a note onto the crisper drawer where the Bing cherries were kept: Bought by Dad. For daughter only. Others, buy your own. Until last week, when my four-year-old son, Max, reached in and took one. My father-in-law slapped the back of his tiny hand so hard the cherry flew out of his grip and rolled across the hardwood floor. “Just like your father,” he sneered. “Always looking for a free handout.” Then he turned to my wife and said, “While you’re still young, you need to have a daughter. Send this boy to his father’s parents. Let them raise him.” And my wife? She just hummed in agreement. A quiet, dismissive, “Mmhmm.” That was it. I knelt down, picked up the cherry, wiped the dust off, and popped it into my son’s mouth. Then I walked over to the fridge, ripped down my father-in-law’s note, and taped a new one in its place. It read: This refrigerator, along with this entire property, belongs to Darren. Anyone not listed on the deed must vacate within three days. … “Darren, what the hell is wrong with you? Take this ridiculous note down right now!” Rae slammed the bedroom door open. She was clutching the note I had taped to the fridge the night before, her knuckles white. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, bending down to pull a pair of dinosaur socks onto Max’s tiny feet. At the sound of her voice, Max’s small shoulders flinched. He instinctively tried to tuck his hand—the one with the red, swollen bruise on the back of it—behind his back. I reached out, gently pressing his shoulder to keep him steady, trying to offer what little comfort I could. Only then did I look up, my gaze cool as I met my wife’s furious eyes. Rae marched across the room in three sharp strides and slapped the crumpled paper onto my dresser. “Do you have any idea how upset my father is? He couldn’t even eat breakfast!” “His blood pressure is already sky-high, and you’re in here trying to tear this family apart!” I stood up, stepping deliberately between her and my son. “Whether he eats breakfast or starves is none of my concern.” Rae stared at me, her mouth slightly open in disbelief. “Darren, listen to yourself. When did you become so utterly unreasonable?” “It was a single cherry! My dad was just teaching him a lesson. You don’t take things that don’t belong to you!” “And you? You write a note telling him to pack up and leave in three days?” “Are you trying to humiliate him? Or are you trying to humiliate me?” Her voice rose, turning shrill. My voice remained perfectly level. “This house is solely in my name. I paid the down payment, and I’ve paid every single mortgage payment. If I want someone out of my house, I don’t need your permission.” Rae froze, her voice cracking as anger hid her sudden embarrassment. “You… don’t you dare hold this house over my head! We’re married! What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine. It is a daughter’s duty to take care of her father!” “Go to the living room and apologize to him right now, and we can forget this ever happened.” I didn’t answer her. Instead, I turned to the closet, pulled out Max’s small winter coat, and carefully zipped him into it. “Daddy, is Grandpa going to hit me again?” Max whispered, tugging weakly at my sleeve. I knelt down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “I promise you, buddy. No one is ever going to hurt you again.” I took his small hand in mine, brushed past Rae, and walked out. Rae grabbed my arm, her nails digging in. “Darren! Are you listening to me?” “If you walk out that door today, don’t bother coming back tonight!” I stopped and turned my head slowly to look at her. “Rae.” I said her name quietly. “You have two and a half days left.” She blinked, caught off guard. “What?” “The deadline on that note. Two and a half days.” I peeled her fingers off my arm, one by one. “When the clock runs out, if he’s still here, I will personally throw his things onto the curb.” With that, I walked out of the bedroom, leading my son. In the living room, my father-in-law, Richard, was sprawled on the sofa, cracking sunflower seeds and spitting the shells onto the hardwood floor. When he saw me, he rolled his eyes and practically screamed toward the back of the house. “Oh, Rae! Come look at this wonderful husband of yours!” “He hasn’t even made a name for himself, and he’s already throwing me out!” “What a miserable life I have! I raised you with my own sweat and blood, and now I don’t even have a corner to lay my head!” He wailed dramatically, though his shifty eyes kept darting to see my reaction. Rae stormed out of the bedroom, her face pale with frustration. “Dad, stop crying. He’s just throwing a tantrum. He won’t actually kick you out.” She glared at me. “Darren, if you dare go to work today, we’re getting a divorce!” I reached the entryway and slipped on my shoes. I opened the door. “Fine,” I said, without looking back. “See you at the courthouse tomorrow morning.” The door clicked shut behind us. After dropping Max off at his preschool, I didn’t head to the office. Instead, I pulled into the parking lot of a quiet coffee shop I frequent, took a seat by the window, and ordered a black coffee. When I unlocked my phone, my screen was flooded with notifications. Rae had sent over a dozen voice messages. I tapped the speech-to-text option, and the screen filled with defensive, angry text. Are you losing your mind, Darren? You want a divorce over a single cherry? My dad is an old man. Can’t you just show some respect for once? I’ll buy a whole carton of cherries tonight for you and Max. Just come home. I stared at the promise of a carton of cherries and let out a cold, humorless laugh. That was always Rae’s logic. She genuinely believed that throwing a little material comfort at a problem could erase the terror my son felt, or the years of humiliation I had endured. But the cherries were never the point. What broke me was the cold, indifferent “Mmhmm” she uttered while our son’s hand was being struck. That single sound had severed the last remaining thread of our marriage. I swiped out of messages and opened our smart home security app. When I bought the house, I had installed a camera in the living room to keep an eye on Max when he was playing. The feed buffered for a few seconds before the room appeared in sharp high-definition. Rae had already left for work. Richard was home alone, humming a cheerful, off-key tune as he wandered around the living room with a pair of heavy kitchen shears in his hand. He stepped out onto the balcony, his eyes settling on the potted orchid I had kept alive for four years. I had bought that rare orchid to celebrate the day Max was born. Richard sneered, raised the shears, and snipped off every single blooming bud. “Pointless weed,” he muttered, tossing the delicate white petals into the trash can. “Taking up space where my granddaughter’s toys should go.” Then, he walked into the master bedroom. The camera couldn’t see inside the bedroom, but the audio was crystal clear. I heard drawers being violently yanked open and slammed shut, followed by the heavy, hollow sound of glass bottles hitting the bottom of a wastebasket. “Buying all this expensive skincare… spending my daughter’s hard-earned money!” Richard grumbled. “Once we get rid of that useless boy, I’ll make sure Rae finds a real man who can give her a proper daughter.” His venomous muttering spilled out of my phone’s speaker. I watched the screen, my face entirely numb. I downloaded the footage, merged it with the recording of him striking Max from the night before, and backed it up to my secure cloud storage. Then, I called my old college friend, Matt, who was now a senior partner at a divorce law firm. “Hey, Matt. It’s Darren.” “Yeah. I’ve made up my mind. I need a divorce.” Half an hour later, I was sitting in Matt’s high-rise office. I slid a folder across his mahogany desk. Inside was a copy of the deed, the pre-marital purchase agreement, and four years of bank statements. Matt adjusted his glasses, scanning the documents. “You bought this property in full before the marriage. There’s no dispute here—it’s solely your personal asset.” “But what if she claims she contributed to the mortgage after you got married?” Matt asked, looking up. I pointed to the stack of bank statements. “There is no mortgage. I paid the full amount upfront to save on interest.” “As for our living expenses over the last four years, every single utility bill, grocery run, and repair came directly out of my checking account.” “Rae’s paychecks? The day after she gets paid, her entire salary is transferred straight into her father’s bank account.” Matt paused, his fingers resting on the paper. He looked at me, a flicker of genuine pity in his eyes. “So you’re telling me that for four years, she lived rent-free in your home and didn’t contribute a single dime to your lives?” “It gets worse.” I unlocked my phone and slid it over, playing the security footage. “She enabled her father’s physical abuse of my son, and they’ve openly discussed abandoning him.” As the video played, Matt’s expression hardened. “This is crucial evidence. It’s more than enough to secure you sole custody and ensure she leaves with absolutely nothing.” Matt closed the folder with a heavy thud. “But Darren, prepare yourself. Women who are used to treating their husbands like a personal piggy bank don’t react well when the card gets declined. She’s going to get ugly.” I took a slow sip of my water. “I don’t care how ugly she gets.” “I just want her out of my life.” I pulled a draft of a divorce agreement from my bag—one I had quietly prepared weeks ago. “Help me finalize this, Matt. I want her to sign it in forty-eight hours.” After leaving the law firm, I drove straight to our building’s management office. I placed my deed on the manager’s desk. “Mr. Isaac, could you check how many key fobs are currently registered to my unit?” Mr. Isaac tapped away at his keyboard. “You have three active fobs, Darren.” “Deactivate two of them,” I said without hesitation. “Only keep mine active. And please schedule a locksmith to come to my unit. Two days from now. Eight o’clock sharp. I want the locks changed.” Mr. Isaac blinked, taken aback by my cold tone, but he nodded. “Understood, Darren. We’ll have them there.” I walked out of the office and looked up at the sky. The afternoon sun was blindingly bright, but for the first time in years, the suffocating fog in my mind had completely cleared. For the next two days, I didn’t go back to the apartment. I checked Max and myself into a clean business hotel near my office. Initially, Rae bombarded my phone with calls and texts. When I didn’t reply, she must have assumed I was just sulking. But by the second night, her tone shifted. She sent a long, breathless voicemail. “Darren, seriously, stop throwing a tantrum. Do you have any idea how much money you’re wasting staying at a hotel? You think money grows on trees?” “My dad already said that if you just come home and apologize to him, he’ll drop the whole cherry thing. Let’s just move on.” I listened to the message, felt absolutely nothing, and blocked her number. Sitting at the hotel desk, I spent the evening organizing a spreadsheet of our finances from the last four years. The columns of numbers were a stark record of our marriage: everything from high-end kitchen appliances to the imported joint supplements my father-in-law insisted on taking. I had paid for all of it. Rae had spent years systematically draining my savings to fund her birth family. On the afternoon of the third day, I left work early to pick Max up from preschool. “Daddy, are we going home today?” Max asked quietly from the backseat, his large eyes reflecting a quiet fear. “Yes, buddy,” I said, reaching back to squeeze his hand. “But first, we’re going to meet a few nice uncles who are going to help us.” I parked my car along the curb outside our building. A few minutes later, a large moving truck pulled up behind us. Four broad-shouldered movers jumped out of the cab. The foreman walked over and tapped on my window. “Mr. Scott? You called for the clean-out service?” I nodded and stepped out of the car. “Yes. Thank you for coming. Just follow my lead.” Right then, my phone buzzed in my palm. It was a motion-alert notification from my home security app. I tapped the live stream. The living room was crowded. Aside from Richard, Rae’s younger sister, Emily, was there along with her husband, Greg, and their five-year-old daughter, Zoe. They had clearly just arrived. Massive duffel bags and cardboard boxes blocked the entire entryway. Greg was lounging on my sofa, laughing as he watched Zoe bounce up and down on the premium white leather cushions. “Wow, Dad, Rae’s place is amazing. It’s so spacious,” Emily said, biting into an apple as she paced the room. Richard sat in my armchair like a king on his throne. “Of course it is! My eldest daughter is a success. This house is the new foundation for our family.” “I already told Rae to have you guys move in.” “Darren and that useless boy are occupying the second bedroom anyway. It’s a total waste of space. We’ll clear them out so Zoe can have her own room.” Richard’s loud, boastful voice echoed through my phone speaker. I stared at the screen, and felt a sudden, icy surge of laughter bubble up in my throat. Rae really was something else. Instead of taking my three-day warning seriously, she had invited her entire parasitic family over to claim my home as their own. I locked my phone and looked at the movers. “Gentlemen, no matter how much they scream or cry, I want you to carry every single item that doesn’t belong to me out of that apartment.” “If there are any issues, I will take full responsibility.” The foreman cracked his knuckles with a grin. “Don’t worry, boss. We’re professionals. As long as you’ve got the deed, we’ll clear ’em out even if the President himself is sitting in there.” I took a deep, steadying breath and took Max’s hand. “Come on, Max. Let’s go clean up our house.” With four movers and two building security guards behind me, we stepped into the elevator. The floor numbers ticked up slowly, but my heart rate remained perfectly, beautifully calm. The doors opened on the sixteenth floor. I walked up to my front door, bypassed my keys, and pressed the doorbell. From inside the apartment, a chaotic rush of footsteps scrambled toward the door. The lock clicked, and the door swung open. Emily’s smug grin instantly froze when she saw me. She took a step back, her eyes darting nervously from me to the four towering movers and the two uniformed security guards standing behind me. “Darren…?” she stammered. I didn’t answer. I simply guided Max past her and stepped into the living room. The air in the apartment was thick and rancid. A portable electric stove sat on the coffee table, a greasy hot pot bubbling away, splattering red chili oil everywhere. The hardwood floor was littered with empty beer bottles, used napkins, and sunflower seed shells. My three-thousand-dollar white leather sofa was covered in dark, greasy footprints from where Zoe had been jumping. Richard was in the middle of dipping a piece of beef into the pot. When he saw me enter, he paused, then slammed his chopsticks down onto the table. “Oh, look who decided to crawl back!” Richard sneered, his eyes narrowing. “I thought you’d starved to death out there!” “Well, don’t just stand there. Go to the kitchen, wash the dishes, and slice some fruit for us.” He completely ignored the small army standing behind me, still expecting me to play the submissive servant. At that moment, the master bedroom door opened. Rae walked out, wearing her silk bathrobe and yawning. When she saw me, her brow furrowed, but then a triumphant smile spread across her face. “What’s the matter? Couldn’t afford the hotel bill, so you finally came crawling back?” She walked over to the sofa, sat down, and crossed her legs. “I hate to break it to you, Darren, but you’re too late.” “My sister and her family moved in today. They’ve already taken the second bedroom.” “You and the boy can sleep on the living room couch tonight.” She pointed lazily to the oil-stained leather sofa, her voice dripping with venomous satisfaction. I stood in the center of the room, quietly watching her little performance—watching the smug, ugly entitlement written all over her face. “Rae,” I said. My voice was very quiet, very cold, cutting straight through the noisy bubbling of the hot pot. “Can you not read?” “My note said to vacate within three days.” “Today is the third day.” Rae snapped, jumping to her feet and pointing a trembling finger at my face. “Darren, have you completely lost your mind?” “My entire family is here today. I dare you to try and lay a single finger on my father!” “You think bringing a couple of security guards is going to scare us?” Richard slammed his hand on the table, joining in. “Exactly! This is my daughter’s home! Who the hell are you to throw us out, you outsider?” “Greg, get up and throw this trash out!” Greg looked uneasy, but with his father-in-law watching, he took a hesitant step forward. “Come on, Darren, don’t make a scene. We’re family, there’s no need to make things so ugly…” I didn’t take a single step back. I reached into my bag, pulled out a document, and threw it down onto the table right next to the boiling hot pot. “Look closely,” I said, my voice deadpan. “That is a certified copy of the deed. This house belongs to me.” “The ground you are standing on is my private property.” Rae’s eyes fell on the paper. The smugness on her face instantly shattered. She stared at the words Sole Owner: Darren, her lips trembling as she tried to form a sentence. “You… why do you have this?” Her voice shook, all her previous bravado evaporating in an instant. I didn’t bother answering her. I turned to the movers and security guards behind me. “Gentlemen, begin.” “Take every single piece of property that doesn’t belong to me and throw it out.” “Officers, please monitor them. If anyone tries to interfere, call the police immediately and have them arrested for trespassing.” The moment the words left my mouth, the four movers charged into the living room and the second bedroom. “Hey! What are you doing? Stop! That’s my bag!” Richard shrieked, lunging forward to grab a duffel bag from one of the movers. But he was no match for a grown man half his age. With a gentle nudge, the mover sent him tumbling back onto the floor. Emily and Greg clutched each other and their daughter, too terrified to utter a single sound. Rae completely panicked. She rushed toward me, trying to grab my hand. “Darren! You’ve gone mad! We can talk about this! Why are you letting strangers ruin our home?” I violently slapped her hand away. I reached into my bag one last time, pulled out another document, and threw it directly into her face. “Our home?” I stared at her face, which had gone entirely bloodless. “Look closely, Rae. Those are divorce papers.” “Now, take your father, take your sister, and get the hell out of my house.”

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During the wedding rehearsal, when the celebrant called the best man, Oliver, the groom for the third consecutive time, I was still clutching the wedding itinerary I’d stayed up until 3:00 a.m. revising for the seventh time. Victoria only offered a soft, dismissive laugh, her fingers casually reaching up to straighten the silk bowtie on Oliver’s tuxedo. “Let’s just have Oliver walk through it with me first,” she said, her voice smooth and practical. “His memory is sharper than yours, Henry. Let’s not waste everyone’s afternoon.” From the front pews, a few of her childhood friends and corporate colleagues laughed, murmuring about how striking they looked together—the brilliant Victoria Albright and the golden boy, side-by-side like they were born for it. I stood at the edge of the altar, waiting for Victoria to speak up. To correct them. Instead, she tilted her head to look down at me, her eyes carrying that familiar, quiet arrogance that usually silenced boardrooms. “Henry, be the bigger man here,” she murmured, her voice barely carrying past the first row. “We have guests here today. Don’t make a scene and turn us into a joke.” Oliver, wearing a bespoke white tuxedo identical to mine down to the Italian stitching, toyed with his cufflink, a faint, mocking smile playing on his lips. “Henry, maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to stand in,” Oliver said, his voice dripping with soft contrition. “But Victoria insisted you were the most generous man she knew, that you wouldn’t mind. Besides, when we played house as kids, I was always the one waiting for her at the altar…” I didn’t answer him. I just looked down at the first page of the itinerary in my hands. Under the section marked Processional, in the slot reserved for the groom, my name had been casually struck through in gray pencil. Next to the smudge, Victoria’s elegant, precise handwriting had filled in his name instead: Oliver. In that quiet beat, the last seven years of our relationship shriveled into a grotesque punchline. I didn’t even have the energy to utter the words: This is my wedding. … I closed the folder and handed it back to the wedding coordinator standing beside me. “Run it exactly how Victoria laid it out,” I said. Victoria turned back, a look of cool satisfaction washing over her features. “I knew you’d understand,” she said, her tone softening with a patronizing warmth. “Oliver’s health has been so fragile lately, and since he’s still single, he was just curious about how a real ceremony feels. Let him have his fun. I know you’re exhausted from your night shift at the hospital anyway. Go home, get some rest, and tonight I’ll take you to that little sushi place you love downtown.” Oliver’s eyes pooled with theatrical gratitude. “Thank you, Henry. Victoria always tells me what an incredible doctor you are—so selfless, always putting everyone else’s feelings first.” “Enjoy the rehearsal,” I said softly, stepping back from the stage lights into the shadows of the empty cathedral. Victoria’s brow furrowed. Her heels clicked to a halt on the marble. “Henry, what is it now?” The irritation in her voice was a sharp edge. “It’s just a rehearsal. Do you really have to ruin the mood? If it bothers you that much, I’ll tell Oliver to step down right now.” But her feet didn’t move. In fact, her hand instinctively shifted to shield Oliver’s elbow, a protective gesture so natural she probably didn’t even realize she was doing it. “I’m not upset,” I replied, my voice flat. “The hospital called. I have a shift to cover. I’m leaving.” Before she could piece together an argument, I turned toward the heavy mahogany exit doors. Behind me, Oliver’s soft, fragile voice drifted through the vaulted hall. “Victoria, the floor is so slick here… I think I twisted my ankle…” “Oh, honey, be careful.” The clicking of Victoria’s heels hurried in the opposite direction. There was a sudden, frantic tenderness in her voice that she never used with me anymore. I pushed through the heavy glass doors of the hotel. A freezing Boston wind whipped against my neck. I pulled my coat tight and hailed an Uber. When I unlocked the door to the apartment we’d spent three years decorating, the living room smelled faintly of lavender and cardboard. On the coffee table lay the unfinished wedding favors. They were custom-made wax seal kits I’d spent weeks designing with a boutique in Back Bay. The brass stamp was supposed to bear our initials: V & H. I walked over, picked up one of the heavy brass seals, and turned it over. V & O. Victoria and Oliver. My fingernails dug into my palms, but I felt nothing but a dull, hollow absurdity. I pulled out my phone and called the boutique. “Mr. Henry. Did they arrive safely?” the owner asked warmly. “Ms. Albright’s assistant called yesterday in a panic. She said she needed a last-minute adjustment for a special set of favors for a dear friend. We had to work through the night to change the initials.” “Yes,” I said, my throat dry. “They’re here. Thank you for your hard work.” After hanging up, I sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at the polished brass V & O for a long time. She had always been this way. In her mind, as long as she handed me a signed marriage certificate at the end of the day, any private concession she made to Oliver was harmless. She thought changing a few letters on a wax stamp was just a harmless indulgence for her childhood friend, something my family would never notice. My phone buzzed. A text from Victoria. Oliver’s ankle is badly swollen. Taking him to the ER for X-rays. We’ll do sushi tomorrow. Be good. I didn’t reply. I walked into the study, pulled open the bottom drawer of my desk, and retrieved the printed confirmation for our marriage license appointment at City Hall. I tore it down the middle, then into quarters, and let the white scraps flutter into the wastebasket. Then, I opened my laptop and created a group chat with only my family and closest friends. I’m sorry to inform you all that the wedding scheduled for this Sunday has been canceled. Thank you for your understanding, and I apologize for any inconvenience. — Henry. I clicked send. Instantly, the screen lit up with a barrage of questions. I set my phone to Do Not Disturb. The electronic lock beeped at the front door. Victoria was home. She kicked off her heels in the foyer, holding a grease-stained paper bag. “Henry, I grabbed you those lamb gyros from the food truck on the corner,” she said, rubbing her temples as she set the box on the kitchen island. “Oliver wanted them because his stomach was acting up, and the line was wrapped around the block. I made sure to grab an extra order for you.” She pulled the container out, and the pungent, heavy aroma of roasted lamb immediately filled the kitchen. I stood three feet away, staring at the container. “Victoria, I don’t eat lamb,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I’m severely allergic. It triggers immediate hives, and last time, I went into anaphylactic shock. Did you forget?” Victoria’s hand froze on the button of her trench coat. She looked at the gyros, then at me, a flicker of defensiveness and irritation crossing her face. “I’ve had a million things on my mind today, Henry. It slipped my mind. Oliver said they were delicious, so I just grabbed them. If you don’t want them, I’ll throw them out. There’s no need to interrogate me like I did it on purpose.” The next morning, I walked back to the hotel’s events wing. As I approached the double doors of the grand ballroom, Oliver’s voice drifted out. “Victoria, what if we used yellow orchids for the head table? White roses look so sterile, almost like a funeral.” Inside, Victoria stood with her arms crossed, studying a floor plan. Behind her, the massive LED screens were looping our engagement photos. “Henry wants white roses,” she muttered, not looking up. Oliver immediately stepped closer, slipping his hand casually onto her waist. “But Victoria, I’m terribly allergic to rose pollen. Have you forgotten? And I’m the one bringing up the rings tomorrow. What if I have an asthma attack on stage? Henry is a grown man, surely he wouldn’t want me to suffer over a few flowers?” Victoria’s hand hovered over the blueprints. She glanced up at the screen displaying my face, then sighed. “Fine. Swap them for the yellow orchids,” she told the event coordinator. The coordinator looked uneasy. “Ms. Albright, the white roses were imported from Ecuador. Mr. Henry spent six months securing this specific batch. Changing them now means forfeiting the deposit…” “Put the fee on my corporate account,” Victoria interrupted coldly. “And let’s reconfigure the seating arrangements for the head table.” From the doorway, I watched Oliver hand a slip of paper to the coordinator. “Please put my parents in these two seats,” he said with a sweet, innocent smile. “They drove all the way from upstate, and Victoria promised them the best view. As for Henry’s parents… just put them at one of the side tables. They’re from a small town anyway; they won’t really care about formal seating etiquette.” I took a slow breath and pushed the doors open. “There’s no need to change anything.” Victoria spun around. When she saw me, her brow snapped together in an immediate scowl. “What are you doing here?” she snapped. “I told you to rest. My assistant has this covered. Why are you here making a fuss?” Oliver flinched, stepping slightly behind Victoria like a frightened child. “Henry, please don’t be mad! I just thought since there were empty seats at the head table, my parents…” “It doesn’t matter,” I said. I didn’t even look at him. I walked past them and handed a document to the coordinator. “Mr. Jenkins, please cancel the fifteen tables reserved for my guests.” The ballroom went dead silent. Mr. Jenkins froze, looking between the document in his hands and Victoria’s tightening expression. Victoria lunged forward, her hand slamming onto the paper, her manicured nail leaving a deep crease across the page. “Henry, have you lost your mind?” she hissed under her breath. “The wedding is tomorrow. If you cancel fifteen tables now, where is your family supposed to sit? You’re thirty years old—are you really going to throw a tantrum over table settings and humiliate us?” “They aren’t coming,” I said, pulling the paper from under her palm. I pulled a tissue from my pocket and casually wiped the back of my hand where her fingers had brushed mine. “They aren’t coming?” Victoria let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Fifteen tables of guests just decided not to show up? Henry, pick your battles! If this is about the flowers, I’ll buy you that sports car you looked at last month. Just stop this nonsense!” She turned back to Mr. Jenkins. “Ignore him. Proceed with the original plan. Swap the flowers to orchids, and add two seats to the head table!” I didn’t bother arguing with her. I simply slid the signed cancellation form back to Jenkins. “I paid the deposit from my personal bank account, and my signature is on the contract,” I told him. “Per the cancellation policy, refund the remaining balance to the card on file. If this isn’t processed within the hour, my hospital’s legal counsel will be here to handle it.” Jenkins wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. He looked at Victoria’s frozen, icy glare, then reluctantly picked up his pen and signed. Victoria watched him sign, her face hardening into a mask of pure, absolute cold. “Fine, Henry. Have it your way,” she sneered, stepping back with a bitter laugh. “If your family shows up tomorrow with nowhere to sit, that’s on you. Don’t expect me to save face for you.” She was entirely convinced this was just a desperate bid to make her crawl back. For seven years, no matter how much I protested her behavior, she always assumed a firm hand would bring me to my knees because of how deeply I loved her. Oliver reached out, gently tugging the sleeve of Victoria’s blazer. “Victoria, is Henry mad at me? I’m so sorry… I shouldn’t have asked for the head table. I’ll leave…” “You’re not going anywhere,” Victoria snapped, her fingers closing tightly around his wrist. “You aren’t the one who needs to leave.” She glared at me, her eyes flashing with the cold authority of an executive delivering a final warning: “Henry, I am giving you one last chance. Withdraw the cancellation. Put the tables back. Don’t humiliate me tomorrow. You know exactly where my boundary lies.” I looked down at her hand wrapped around Oliver’s wrist, and a wave of pure nausea washed over me. “No thank you,” I said, tucking the signed copy into my coat pocket. “Carry on.” As I walked away, Victoria’s furious voice echoed through the vaulted space behind me: “Henry! If you walk out that door, don’t you dare think I’ll come crawling after you!” I didn’t look back. Outside, the autumn sun was blinding, but it held absolutely no warmth. I pulled out my phone and sent a message to my department head. Dr. Weaver, is the opening for the East Africa medical relief mission still available? He replied almost immediately. It is, Henry. But pre-deployment training begins in forty-eight hours, and it’s a strict two-year commitment. Aren’t you getting married tomorrow? The wedding is off, I typed back. I’ll report to the training facility tomorrow morning. By 9:00 p.m., I was folding my last two white coats and packing them into my suitcase. The closet was mostly empty now. I’d left behind all the designer suits and luxury items Victoria had bought me over the years—expensive, ill-fitting armor meant to make me look presentable at her corporate galas. The front door beeped, and Victoria walked into the bedroom. She froze at the sight of the suitcase on the floor. “What is this?” her voice rose, her eyes scanning the bare closet. “Henry, when is this tantrum going to end? First you cancel the reception, and now you’re playing the runaway? This little act was old yesterday.” I zipped the suitcase and wheeled it to the corner. “I’m just clearing out the things I don’t need.” Victoria stared at me, a flicker of unease finally breaking through her irritation. She stepped closer, reaching up to squeeze the back of my neck in that familiar, placating gesture of hers. “Look,” she said, her voice dropping into a softer, patronizing tone. “I lost my temper this afternoon. I should have considered your feelings. I already called the manager back. Your parents can have the head table, and I told them to use the white roses. Are we good now?” It was her signature move: a slap followed by a hollow peace offering. Three years ago, I would have been so incredibly grateful for the crumb of affection. But this time, I stepped back, letting her hand fall through empty air. “Victoria, my parents aren’t coming,” I said plainly. “Why do you have to be so stubborn?” The softness vanished, her eyes hardening again. “I’ve already compromised. What else do you want from me? Do you expect me to completely banish Oliver from my life? You know how fragile his mental health is. I’m not leaving him to sit alone in a corner tomorrow.” I looked away. “Do whatever you want.” Right then, her phone lit up. Oliver was flashing on the screen. She shot me a quick look before picking up, her voice softening instantly. “What’s wrong?” Oliver’s panicked voice spilled from the receiver, loud enough for me to hear. “Victoria… the rings are gone. I had them in my bag, but they’re not there! I’m so sorry… if we don’t have them tomorrow, you’re going to hate me, aren’t you?” Victoria’s face went pale. “Don’t panic, honey. Where are you? I’m coming to help you look.” She hung up and grabbed her car keys. “Oliver lost the rings. I have to go help him search.” “Get some sleep,” she added hurriedly as she rushed toward the door. “The stylist will be here at seven sharp. Don’t be late.” She didn’t even stop to explain why our wedding bands were in another man’s bag in the first place. The door slammed shut. The silence returned. I logged into the hospital portal on my phone. Under Emergency Contact, I stared at Victoria’s name. I had entered it there seven years ago, on my first day of residency. With a single tap, I cleared her name and phone number, replacing them with Dr. Weaver’s details. I used to think she was my anchor. Now, I realized I’d just been chained to a sinking ship. A text from her came through: The rings might have slipped out near the hotel. I’m going to the precinct with Oliver to check the street cameras. It might take all night. Don’t overthink it, get some sleep. I stared at the screen and let out a dry laugh. I unpinned her contact and muted her thread. After tomorrow, she would have all the time in the world to search for whatever she wanted. At 6:00 a.m., the sky was a pale, icy blue. I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the foyer, dressed not in a tailored tuxedo, but in a simple black windbreaker and jeans. I looked exactly like the twenty-three-year-old Henry who had graduated from medical school seven years ago. I took the spare keys and the keycard to the apartment. Victoria had bought this place with cash, promising it would be our home. But for the past three years, I had been little more than an on-call housekeeper. I slid the keys and keycard into a plain manila envelope, along with the wrinkled wedding itinerary with my name crossed out. I left it on the console table by the door. I took one last look at the apartment, stepped out, and let the lock click shut behind me. By 7:30 a.m., I arrived at the specialized training facility outside the city. The shuttle buses were lined up on the tarmac. Dr. Caroline Foster, the chief medical officer and team lead, walked over to help me with my bags. She was dressed in crisp, black tactical gear, her eyes sharp but warm. “Henry, are you absolutely sure about this?” she asked. “Two years in East Africa is no joke. The conditions are grueling, and the medical risks are real. And wasn’t your wedding scheduled for today? I can’t imagine your fiancée letting you go without a fight.” “I’m sure,” I replied, hoisting my suitcase into the bay. My voice was as steady as if I were discussing a routine chart. “The wedding is off.” Caroline paused, studying my face for a moment before nodding respectfully. “Understood. Go grab your training gear. Welcome to the team, Dr. Henry.” At 8:00 a.m., the overhead speakers chimed, instructing all personnel to surrender their personal communication devices. The training period was strictly closed-door. I handed my phone to the coordinator at the desk. “Just a reminder, Dr. Henry,” she said as she logged it. “Once this is turned in, there is no outside contact for the next three months, barring extreme family emergencies.” “I know,” I said, signing the non-disclosure and deployment agreement without a second thought.

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At the party, my girlfriend lost a game of Truth or Dare. Someone in the crowd jeered, daring her to list ten things she loved about my best friend, Jared. Lauren didn’t even hesitate. “He’s outgoing. Extremely handsome. In great shape. He knows exactly how to charm people.” “He’s always smiling, highly intuitive, driven, and he has incredible taste.” “Oh, and… he’s really good with his hands.” The room erupted into hoots and catcalls, with a few stray, pitying glances darting toward me. For the next round, Jared grinned, throwing the question right back at her. “So, what about Connor? What are his best qualities?” Lauren looked at me. She froze for a few seconds. Finally, she managed just one word. “Steady.” Someone laughed nervously, trying to ease the tension. “And? What else?” Lauren frowned, appearing to search her mind in earnest. But she couldn’t find a second thing to say. In that excruciating silence, a profound exhaustion settled over me. Lauren and I had been together for seven years. Our wedding was next week. Yet, after searching her mind so desperately, the only virtue she could find in me was that I was “steady”. This time, I didn’t want to be the steady one anymore. … I was about to slip out when someone slammed a hand on the table. “Don’t go yet, Connor! Last round.” “Let’s do something messy. Let’s see who has the most text exchanges on their phone.” Jared slid his phone onto the table with a lighthearted laugh. “Sure, why not? I’ve got nothing to hide.” But when the screen compiled the results, the private room fell dead silent. The contact Lauren texted the most wasn’t me. It was Jared. A couple of people let out awkward, forced chuckles. “Well… looks like Lauren and Jared have a lot to talk about.” Jared blinked, his tone breezy and effortless. “Hey, it’s not what you think. Connor is always so swamped, you know? He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. Lauren gets stressed sometimes, and she just needs someone to vent to.” As he spoke, his finger accidentally—or perhaps intentionally—tapped into one of their chat threads. A message Lauren had sent him popped up on the screen. “Connor is obsessing over the wedding itinerary again.” “He’s taking this way too seriously.” Jared’s reply: “He’s just wound too tight. Unlike me—getting married should actually be fun.” Lauren: “Exactly. Talking to you is so much easier than talking to him.” My chest tightened, a slow, cold ache spreading through my ribs. Then, the screen scrolled to another thread. Lauren: “Connor is wearing that white suit again today.” “Does he actually think he looks good in white?” Jared: “Aww, don’t be mean to him.” “But yeah, it’s not really his look. A bit stiff.” Lauren: “Right? You’d look way better in it.” The room went entirely quiet. I stood frozen, a thick lump forming in my throat. A quiet, searing humiliation washed over me, making even the act of breathing feel heavy. All my quiet anticipation, the nervous excitement I felt when trying on my wedding suit… to Lauren, it was nothing more than cheap gossip to share with Jared over a laugh. Jared walked over, throwing a familiar arm around my shoulder. “Hey, Connor, don’t be mad. If she were talking to anyone else like this, I’d kick her butt for you. But I’m your best friend.” He tilted his head, giving me a look of pure innocence. “I’m just looking out for her for you. Isn’t that a good thing?” I stared at the hand resting on my shoulder. On his wrist was a watch. It looked incredibly familiar. A few days ago, Lauren had sent me a photo of it while she was away on a business trip, asking if I liked it. I had stared at that photo for a long time, my heart racing with quiet joy as I typed back: “I love it.” I thought it was a surprise she was bringing home for me. I had even planned to act surprised, to playfully ask if she’d brought me anything back. But I had waited for days, and the surprise never came. Now, it was strapped to Jared’s wrist. I slowly pulled my shoulder out of his grip. Jared’s face flushed, a look of wounded disbelief taking over. “Connor, do you seriously not even trust me?” Lauren finally creased her brow. “Connor. Everyone is just playing a game. Don’t be so sensitive.” Hearing those words, the anger drained right out of me, leaving behind only a hollow emptiness. I stood up, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m tired. I’m going home.” I made it to the door before realizing I’d left my coat on the back of the sofa. When I turned back to retrieve it, the heavy wooden door of the private room wasn’t shut completely. Through the crack, I heard a hushed voice advising her. “Lauren, are you seriously not going after him? Connor looked ghost-white.” Lauren paused for a second, her voice carrying an infuriating certainty. “He won’t actually stay mad. He’s too sensible. He just needs a night to sleep it off.” My hand froze on the brass handle. Then she added, “Jared, on the other hand, looked so uncomfortable with everyone teasing him. I need to go cheer him up.” My fingers went entirely numb against the cold metal. “Sensible.” A word that felt like a blunt knife. No blood, just a dull, agonizing sawing against my heart. I didn’t go back inside. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was our wedding coordinator. “Mr. Davis, are you sure you want to cancel the wedding? You’ve spent over six months curating this entire plan. From the floral arrangements to the lighting, the invitations to the seating cards, you hand-selected every single detail. It would be such a shame to let it all go.” I stared at the digital renderings he had sent. I remembered how, in the beginning, I had wanted a wedding filled with white camellias. But Lauren had taken one look at the design and said, “Jared says camellias look too washed out. A wedding should feel alive.” So, the camellias were replaced with red roses—Jared’s favorite. I had wanted soft, warm gold lighting. Lauren had countered, “Jared says sunset orange photographs better.” I had wanted minimalist, textured paper for the invitations. Lauren had said, “Let’s just trust Jared on this. He has incredible taste.” Only now did the truth finally settle in. The wedding I had spent half a year meticulously planning had been slowly, systematically reshaped into Jared’s dream. And I, the groom, was nothing more than a placeholder name on the invitation. The coordinator sent another text. “Are you absolutely sure you want to cancel?” I looked at the rendering of a wedding that no longer belonged to me, and a dry laugh escaped my throat. I typed back: “Yes. Cancel it. I will cover any cancellation fees.” When I got back to the apartment, I started packing. We had chosen this place together. Lauren had promised me that after a long day at work, the entryway light would always be on, a hot pot of soup would be waiting on the stove, and we would grow my beloved camellias on the balcony. It had sounded like a dream. But standing in the quiet of the living room, I realized the space was already saturated with Jared. The fridge was packed with his favorite peach seltzers. His discarded jacket lay draped over our sofa. Even the best man’s suit hanging next to mine in the closet looked more bespoke, more cared-for, than my own wedding tuxedo. I stood in the closet, staring at the two garments hanging side by side. A bitter ache swelled in my chest. The wedding hadn’t even happened yet, but Lauren had already systematically replaced me with Jared in every corner of her life. I didn’t cry. I simply retrieved my suitcase and began packing my documents, my passport, and a few essential clothes. Halfway through, the front door clicked open. Lauren was home. She was carrying a small boutique bag, her tone carrying a gentle, placating warmth. “Hey, baby. Don’t be mad anymore, okay? I was passing by the store and saw these. I remembered you saying you liked obsidian.” She opened a small velvet box to reveal a pair of obsidian cufflinks. I did love obsidian. Years ago, I had stared at a pair through a shop window for a long time, ultimately walking away because they were far too expensive for our budget back then. Lauren had squeezed my hand and laughed, promising, “When we get married, I’ll buy you an even better pair.” Now she had bought them. But she had bought cufflinks. I never wore French cuff shirts. Jared did. She wrapped her arms around me from behind. “Let’s just put tonight behind us, okay?” I stared down at the cufflinks. Before I could speak, a small slip of paper drifted out of the shopping bag. The receipt. The total on it was staggering. It was for a designer tie, priced at ten times the cost of the cufflinks. I recognized the brand instantly. Only thirty minutes ago, Jared had posted a photo on his Instagram feed. He was wearing that exact tie, a brilliant, cocky smile on his face. The caption read: “Complimentary wedding gift from a very special sponsor. Going to be the best-looking best man next week.” I stared at the receipt, and a single, hot tear spilled over my lashes, dripping onto the paper. The patience on Lauren’s face instantly evaporated. “Why are you crying again? Connor, honestly, dealing with you is so exhausting.” I froze, her words echoing in the quiet room. There was a time when my tears would panic her. She used to clumsily wipe them away, pulling me into her arms and murmuring over and over, “Connor, please don’t cry. My heart breaks when you cry.” Once, after a terrible nightmare in the middle of the night, she had driven across three neighborhoods just to buy me a bowl of hot soup to calm me down. She had said, “My Connor didn’t have anyone to comfort him when he was a kid. But from now on, every time you cry, I’ll be here to dry your tears.” Back then, she truly cared. Now, my grief was merely “exhausting.” When your tears no longer touch a person’s heart, it is time to dry them yourself. I wiped my face, my voice quiet and flat. “I’m fine.” Lauren seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. She leaned in, attempting to kiss my cheek, but I instinctively turned my face away. Her expression hardened into cold irritation. She ran a frustrated hand through her hair. “Whatever. Cool off.” She turned on her heel and walked into the study, slamming the door behind her. Later that night, as I was turning off the lights, the iPad on the nightstand lit up. Lauren’s messages were synced to it. I only intended to turn off the screen, but the name flashing on the display made my chest tighten with a sharp, familiar pain. It was Jared. Jared: “Did you smooth things over?” Lauren: “No. He’s getting harder and harder to deal with lately.” Jared sent a smirk emoji. Jared: “Did you make it up to him in bed tonight, then?” A few seconds passed before her reply appeared. Lauren: “Please. He turned me down.” Lauren: “Honestly, it’s fine. It’s been seven years; I don’t really feel anything for his body anymore. It’s a relief he pushed me away. Otherwise, I would have had to force myself to get intimate.” I stared at those lines. My eyes burned, but the tears had run completely dry. So even touch had become a chore she had to steel herself to perform. I shut down the iPad. I took the obsidian cufflinks, placed them back inside the boutique box, and set them on the entryway table. Beside them, I laid my wedding band. It felt like returning the remnants of a dream I had finally woken up from. Right then, my phone buzzed with a notification. My ticket was confirmed. A 3:00 AM flight to Iceland. From this moment on, whichever city I flew to, I would never again land by her side. The next morning, as I rolled my suitcase past the study, the door was slightly ajar. From inside came the sound of Lauren’s soft, amused laughter. She was on a video call. Jared, dressed in his pajamas, was leaning back against his headboard, holding a printout of our wedding vows. “Lauren, this part is way too formal,” he read aloud, chuckling. “‘Connor, thank you for seven years of companionship.’ It sounds like a corporate speech from a CEO.” Lauren laughed softly. “I’m terrible at writing that kind of stuff.” Jared rested his chin on his hand, looking at the screen. “You should write something like: You’re like springtime, you make me feel light. Isn’t that more romantic?” The line fell into a quiet, heavy silence. “That sounds more like you,” Lauren said, her voice dropping to a murmur. A beat of silence stretched through the speaker. “Are you sure you want to say that to Connor, then?” Jared asked quietly. Lauren didn’t answer immediately. After a long pause, she spoke. “It’s a wedding. It doesn’t really matter who I’m reading them to. Just pretend I’m secretly saying them to you.” Standing in the hallway, I felt something tear quietly inside my chest. For those vows, I had spent nights drafting three pages of text. Writing, revising, erasing. Removing anything that sounded too cliché, leaving only the rawest, most honest pieces of my heart. I had once asked her, “Should we write our vows together?” She had brushed it off: “There’s no need for that kind of empty performance.” It wasn’t that she found it empty. It was just that performing it with me wasn’t worth the effort. On the screen, Jared leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Come closer.” Lauren creased her brow. “What?” He didn’t answer. He simply leaned forward and pressed his lips gently against his camera lens. An absurd, lingering kiss. And Lauren didn’t pull away. She only sighed softly after a brief silence. “Jared. Don’t do that anymore. I’m getting married.” Jared lowered his eyes, his voice laced with practiced vulnerability. “I know. That’s why I wanted to be selfish one last time before you belong to someone else.” Lauren didn’t reprimand him. Her silence was a quiet permission. My fingers grew cold. If she truly felt a line had been crossed, why hadn’t she hung up immediately? Jared quickly flipped to another file on his screen—the layout for our wedding photo wall. “Do we really have to display all these old couple photos? Honestly, seeing how happy you two used to be… it hurts a little.” Lauren looked at the screen, silent for a moment. Finally, she spoke. “We can just take them down, then.” “Connor is easygoing anyway. He won’t mind.” A sudden, sharp heat pressed behind my eyes. That photo wall was the one part of the wedding I had fought to keep. Seven years of memories. The first snow we watched together. Our very first road trip, holding hands in the car. The slightly lopsided cake she had baked for my birthday. I had spent hours choosing those photographs because I believed they were the physical proof of our love. Yet, with a single complaint from Jared, Lauren discarded them without a second thought. The moments I had treasured for seven years were nothing more than an inconvenience. I suppose when you reach the absolute limit of heartbreak, you no longer feel the pain. It turns into a deep, hollow numbness. I quietly turned around, pulling my suitcase behind me. My phone lit up. It was the wedding coordinator. “Mr. Davis, Ms. Lauren just confirmed the removal of the photo wall. Additionally, the wedding vows have been modified by Mr. Jared. Are you absolutely certain you wish to cancel?” I stared at the words and let out a small, tired smile. I typed back: “Yes. Cancel it.” The chill of the early morning wind swept through the stairwell as I walked out, the wheels of my suitcase clicking softly against the concrete. Seven years of photos, erased in a single sentence by Lauren. And so, I left Lauren behind in those seven years, too. As I handed my boarding pass to the gate agent, the automated cancellation notification finally made its way to Lauren’s phone. She immediately dialed the coordinator, her voice tight and panicked. “What is the meaning of this?” The coordinator sounded more bewildered than she was. “The cancellation was requested by Mr. Davis himself. He mentioned he accepted a position in Iceland and likely won’t be returning. Ms. Lauren… did you not know?”

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In three years of marriage to Adrienne, I had never asked her for a single favor. The only time I did was this summer, after my little sister, Molly, graduated high school. I asked Adrienne if she could find Molly a summer internship at her firm. She hadn’t even looked up from her tablet. “Tell her to report to the reception desk. They can always use a hand.” Molly took a seventeen-hour Greyhound bus, wearing her only decent white button-down, and waited in the lobby all afternoon. By evening, I saw the Slack notifications from the company’s general channel. “Who’s the country bumpkin at the front desk? Her collar is literally yellowing. I can’t.” “Apparently, she’s the boss’s husband’s sister.” “Wait, seriously? Didn’t Adrienne personally walk Lawrence’s little sister around all the departments today?” The attached photo showed Adrienne with her arm around another girl’s shoulder, smiling warmly, looking every bit the elegant CEO. Same floor, same afternoon. Someone replied with a hand-over-mouth emoji. “Both sisters, but what a difference.” When Molly came home that night, she pulled a bag of sun-dried peach slices from her backpack. “Travis, I brought these for Adrienne. She was so busy today, I’ll try to give them to her next time.” “The girl at the front desk gave me a cup of cucumber water. It tasted so good.” I smiled, brushing a stray hair from her forehead, then stepped out onto the balcony to call my lawyer. “Could you draft a divorce agreement for me? Yes, as soon as possible.” … In the living room, Molly was hunched over the coffee table, writing on a post-it note. As I walked over, she instinctively hid it behind her back, her ears flushing red. “What are you writing?” “Nothing… just nothing.” I reached out. She shrank back but couldn’t avoid me. I gently took the crumpled piece of paper from her hand. It read: Adrienne, I left the dried peaches on the table for you. They’re from this year’s harvest. Mom said they’re your favorite. I stared at her neat, round handwriting, a heavy ache settling in my chest. Five years ago, when Adrienne first came to my hometown, she really did love them. It was Thanksgiving. I had driven eleven hours to take her back to our small town in rural Kentucky. Molly was only in seventh grade then. Hearing her brother’s girlfriend was coming, she ran all the way from the dusty county road to the edge of our driveway. When the car door opened, she stood there panting, clutching a Ziploc bag, her cheap t-shirt damp with sweat. Adrienne had knelt in the gravel, unzipped the bag, and eaten three slices right then and there. “These are incredible. Way better than those organic, overpriced ones I get in Chicago.” Molly’s eyes had lit up like stars. For the rest of the trip, Adrienne carried that bag everywhere. My mother pulled me aside later, whispering, “Adrienne is just being sweet. Country things like dried peaches can’t compare to what she’s used to in the city.” I had laughed, completely sure of her. “She’s not just being polite, Mom. She truly loves them.” My mother beamed and spent the next day dehydrating two massive trays. Now, that bag of freshly dried peaches sat on our marble coffee table, brought all the way from Kentucky. Seventeen hours on a cramped bus, cradled in Molly’s lap so they wouldn’t get crushed. The front door clicked open just after eleven. Adrienne walked in, hanging her coat on the rack. Passing the coffee table, she paused, her eyes sweeping over the Ziploc bag. Her nose wrinkled slightly, and she nudged it toward the edge of the table to clear space for her keys. “Is your sister asleep?” “Yeah.” She murmured an acknowledgment, leaning against the kitchen island to check her phone. I watched her open Slack. Please arrange a lunch for Chelsea tomorrow. Invite the marketing team so she can start networking. After sending that, she texted Lawrence, her executive assistant. Your sister did great today. I’ll take her to the site visit with me tomorrow so she can get some hands-on experience. Lawrence replied instantly with a smiley face: Thank you so much, Adrienne. Chelsea is thrilled. A faint smile played on Adrienne’s lips. When she finally looked up at me, her expression smoothed into her usual calm facade. “Travis,” she said, as if suddenly remembering. “HR mentioned a new face at the front desk. Is that Molly?” I looked at her. “You’re just finding out now?” She blinked, caught off guard, but quickly recovered. “It was a hectic day. I couldn’t get away. I assume she’s doing fine down there? Megan at the front desk is usually very helpful.” I didn’t answer. She didn’t press, taking her glass of water toward the bedroom. As she passed the coffee table, her sleeve caught the bag of dried peaches, sending it sliding onto the hardwood floor. She didn’t stop. I knelt, picked up the bag, smoothed out the plastic, and placed it back on the table. My phone buzzed. A text from Molly, sent from her room—likely because she didn’t want to say it aloud. Travis, can I go to the office early tomorrow? Megan said she’d show me how to organize the files. I want to get a head start so I don’t embarrass Adrienne. The next afternoon, I brought a lunchbox to the office. Megan, the receptionist, smiled awkwardly. “Travis. Adrienne is upstairs in a meeting. Should I page her?” “No need. I’m here to see my sister. Where is Molly?” Megan’s smile faltered. “Molly… she’s down in Basement 2. The archives. Lawrence reassigned her yesterday.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “Travis, there’s no AC down there, and the air is really musty. Do you want me to mention it to Adrienne? Maybe she can move her.” “I’ll go down first.” When the elevator doors opened at B2, the smell of damp cardboard hit me instantly. At the end of the dimly lit hallway, the heavy metal door was propped half-open. Old folders were stacked nearly to the ceiling. Molly was crouching on the concrete floor, her white sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her forehead slick with sweat. Her face brightened when she saw me. “Travis! What are you doing here? It’s not even lunchtime yet.” She grinned, looking like the same goofy kid from Kentucky. “Brought you lunch. Isn’t it hot down here?” She took the lunchbox, wiping her dusty hands on her jeans before opening it. “It’s fine. There’s a fan.” She pointed to a rusted box fan rattling in the corner, its blades coated in thick gray dust. “Actually, Travis, I really like this job,” she said, taking a bite. “Look, I’ve already organized three shelves. I put little colored labels on every single bin. Now, anyone looking for old tax records can find them in five seconds.” I looked where she was pointing. The labels were written in her neat, careful handwriting. On a few of them, she’d drawn tiny, hand-drawn flowers in the corner—a habit she’d had since she was a little girl. I knelt beside her, helping her close a heavy storage box. “Eat your lunch first. Then take a break.” “I can’t,” she said, swallowing quickly and looking up at me with absolute earnestness. “Lawrence said this whole section needs to be logged by Friday. I don’t want to slack off and make Adrienne look bad.” I looked at her damp eyelashes, clenching my jaw to keep my composure. When I took the empty lunchbox back upstairs, the elevator stopped on the seventeenth floor. As the doors slid open, I saw the glass-walled conference room directly opposite. Adrienne sat at the head of the long table. Chelsea sat opposite her. A few marketing directors were gathered around them, laughing. Adrienne leaned over, gently adjusting Chelsea’s hand as she held her pen, showing her how to annotate a brief. The gesture was incredibly natural, filled with the patient warmth of an older mentor. Chelsea smiled shyly, and Adrienne tapped her shoulder encouragingly, her eyes soft. The elevator doors slowly slid shut. It was the same look Adrienne had given Molly at our wedding three years ago. Molly, wearing a rented dress, had been so nervous her fingers wouldn’t stop shaking. Adrienne had taken her hands, gently placing the silver spoon in her palm. “Don’t worry,” Adrienne had whispered. “You’ve got me now.” Molly had looked up, her eyes rimmed with red, smiling so wide. “Adrienne.” “We’re family now, Molly.” The seventeenth floor: a bright room, shared laughter, and an artisanal catered lunch. Basement 2: dust, heat, and a broken fan. In the lobby, I ran into Lawrence. He was carrying two iced lattes, his leather shoes clicking sharply on the polished tile. “Travis, hey. Adrienne was just asking about you,” he said smoothly. “By the way, is Molly settling into the archives okay? Let me know if she needs anything.” I forced a tight smile and walked past him without a word. Molly came home very late that night. Her white shirt had a dark, blotchy stain right below the collar. “What happened to your shirt?” She looked down, quickly pulling her collar up to hide it. “It’s nothing, Travis.” “Molly.” She didn’t answer, slipping past me into the kitchen. The sink faucet began to run. I stood at the doorway, watching her vigorously scrub the stain with dish soap. After a long silence, she spoke in a small, tight voice. “I was delivering some old files upstairs this afternoon. I ran into Chelsea.” “She and Adrienne were coming out of a conference room. Chelsea was holding an iced coffee. She said I was blocking the hallway.” “I tried to step aside, but she bumped into me… I’m sure it was an accident.” Her voice trailed off, lacking any real conviction. “Did Adrienne see it?” Molly’s hands paused. She shook her head, then quickly forced a smile. “Really, Travis, it’s fine. It’ll wash out. Tomorrow I’ll wear a cardigan over it, no one will see.” That was her only decent white shirt. Before going to bed, I opened my phone. A photo was circulating in the company’s group chat. Adrienne was standing at the podium of the main boardroom, Chelsea beside her. The caption read: The CEO personally mentoring our new intern. Chelsea knocked her first presentation out of the park today! Below it, someone had forwarded Adrienne’s quote: Chelsea is young, but she has a rare spark. I already look at her like a little sister. I stared at those words until the screen went black. Molly finished organizing the entire archives on her fifth day. When she told me, she looked incredibly proud but slightly anxious. “Travis, do you think I could show the catalog to Adrienne? Do you think she’d like it?” I smoothed her hair. “She will.” She washed her face carefully before we left. She spent a long time in front of the mirror, buttoning her collar all the way to the top, then unbuttoning it, and finally buttoning it back up. Megan told me what happened next. When Molly reached the executive suite, the assistant told her Adrienne was in a meeting. Molly nodded, clutched her stack of organized folders, and stood quietly against the hallway wall. She waited for two hours. People walked past, casting curious sidelong glances, whispering to one another. Megan tried to persuade her to go down to the breakroom, but Molly shook her head, holding the folders even tighter. “I want to give them to her myself.” Finally, the boardroom doors opened. Adrienne and Chelsea walked out side-by-side, deep in conversation. Molly’s eyes lit up. She took a step forward. “Adrienne…” Adrienne’s gaze swept over her, pausing for less than a second on Molly’s frayed collar and dusty shoes. “Mmm.” She didn’t even break her stride. Molly’s outstretched hand froze in midair, the heavy folders slipping slightly in her grip. Chelsea looked back, her eyes lingering on the stain on Molly’s collar. A faint, mocking smile touched her lips before she turned and caught up with Adrienne. Megan said that when she went to comfort Molly, Molly just stood there for a long time, staring down at the folders in her arms. Then, she whispered, “Adrienne must just be really busy today.” Those folders were eventually tossed into a storage bin by HR. Adrienne never saw them. That night, Adrienne arrived home before Molly. I set a glass of water on the kitchen island in front of her. “Molly went to see you today.” Her hand paused on her cufflink. “Oh. I think I saw her outside the boardroom. What did she want?” “She finished the archives. She wanted to show you her work.” Adrienne leaned back against the sofa, sighing. “She should have just handed that to HR. Tell her to text me next time instead of standing in the hallway like that. It doesn’t look professional.” “Professional?” “Travis, we have clients coming in and out of the executive suite. Having her stand outside my door looking like that…” She stopped herself. “Just tell her to wait downstairs next time.” Silence stretched across the living room. I stared at her, suddenly remembering the hardest year of her startup. Molly had pawned the gold baby locket our parents had left her and spent two weeks doing heavy labor at a warehouse to help us pay rent. She was only thirteen then. Her hands were so raw and dry from the cold that they bled when she washed them, yet she’d smiled and said she was just glad to help her sister-in-law. That winter, Adrienne had gotten drunk and cried, holding Molly tight. She had sworn she would always protect Molly, would treat her like her own flesh and blood. “Have you forgotten all of that?” I asked quietly. Adrienne’s face went momentarily blank. She rubbed her temples, looking irritated. “Travis, things are different now. Can you please stop bringing up the past every time we have a minor issue?” “My position is different. People are watching me. I can’t exactly introduce a girl who looks like she just crawled out of a coal mine as my sister-in-law to my board of directors, can I?” She sighed. “Look, what is she unhappy about? Does she want a different department?” I looked at her. “I’m sending her back home the day after tomorrow.” Adrienne frowned. “I thought she was staying for the whole summer.” “Her classes start soon.” “In July? Her semester doesn’t start until September.” I didn’t answer. When I opened Molly’s bedroom door, she was already packing her duffel bag. The white shirt was folded into a neat square, tucked at the very bottom. “Travis.” She didn’t turn around. “Is it… hard for Adrienne to have me around?” “No. She’s just got a lot on her plate at the company.” Molly nodded quietly. After a moment, she whispered, “Actually, Travis, I know.” She turned to face me. At eighteen, the bright, eager girl who had run down a dirt road to hand a stranger a bag of dried peaches was gone. “I saw the Slack messages. I borrowed Megan’s phone to look up some transit directions, and the notifications popped up.” She offered a small, fragile smile. “They said I was a country bumpkin. They laughed at my shirt.” She looked down at her hands. “It is yellow. I couldn’t get the stain out.” A lump formed in my throat, thick and painful. Molly reached out, squeezing my arm to comfort me instead. “Don’t be mad at Adrienne, Travis. She runs a huge company. It was nice of her to let me work there at all.” She pressed the white shirt deeper into her bag. “I’m just not cut out for the city.” Before she left, Molly went to a department store downtown. Her stipend for those five days was only three hundred dollars. She spent a hundred and twenty of it on a silk scarf. She had stared at it in the display case for an hour before finally pulling out her crumpled bills. “Travis, do you think this color looks good on Adrienne? Will she like it?” The price tag was still attached, and she held the box so carefully to ensure the corners wouldn’t get dented. Looking at her hopeful, anxious face, my chest tightened. “It’s beautiful. She’ll love it.” Molly let out a sigh of relief. Then she reached into her backpack pocket and pulled out a white envelope, placing it on the coffee table. “This is for you.” “What’s this?” She rubbed the back of her neck, blushing. “My savings. My stipend, plus the allowance money you sent me over the years that I didn’t spend. I saved it all.” “It’s not much, but… happy early third anniversary to you and Adrienne.” I opened the envelope. Three thousand two hundred dollars. A few hundred-dollar bills, but mostly crumpled twenties, tens, and fives. On the way to the Greyhound station, Molly kept her eyes glued to the window. “Chicago is so big, Travis.” “If I get into grad school here, we can see each other every day.” She smiled but didn’t say anything else. After a while, she asked softly, “Travis, do you remember the creek behind our old house?” “Of course.” “Remember when it flooded, and Adrienne carried me across? The water came all the way up to her waist. I begged her to put me down, but she wouldn’t.” She smiled down at her lap. “She told me that when she made it big, she’d build a real bridge for our town. I thought she was just bragging.” She paused, staring out at the passing highway, her voice barely a whisper. “But she actually sent the money to the town council. The bridge was finished this summer, Travis. I don’t think she even knows.” The bus station was packed. Molly handed me the gift box for Adrienne, with a small note tucked inside. “Go home, Travis. I can handle the ride.” “It’s seventeen hours, Molly.” “It was seventeen hours coming here, and I survived.” She flashed her teeth, showing her familiar dimples. “Besides, I bought instant ramen.” As she walked through the gate, she turned and waved. Her lips moved, her voice drowned out by the roaring engines, but I could read her lips perfectly. Tell Adrienne I said thank you. The metal gate clicked shut. I stood there for a long time until my phone buzzed. A message in the company chat: Adrienne is hosting a farewell dinner for Chelsea at the Peninsula Hotel tonight. Private room, all the VPs are there. Wow, that’s huge. Wait, didn’t the boss’s sister-in-law intern here too? Why is only one getting a send-off? One is a VIP guest. The other was basically a volunteer. You can’t compare them. I stared at the screen and felt a sudden, bitter urge to laugh. On the exact same day. Molly was starting a seventeen-hour bus ride with a cup of instant ramen, having spent half her money on a gift for Adrienne. Chelsea was sitting in a five-star dining room, wearing a designer necklace Adrienne had bought her, surrounded by executives. I had seen that necklace in a boutique window last week. Twelve thousand dollars. When I got back to the empty apartment, I set the silk scarf on the coffee table. Next to it sat the bag of dried peaches, untouched since the day Molly arrived. I went into the study and pulled out the divorce papers. As I lowered the pen to the paper, memories flooded back. Adrienne sitting on the gravel eating dried peaches; Molly laughing on her shoulders; Adrienne tucking the spoon into Molly’s hand at our wedding. But my hand didn’t tremble. I signed my name. I went into the bedroom, pulled out my suitcase, and began to pack. The front door opened around midnight. Adrienne stepped in, smelling faintly of wine. She kicked off her heels, calling out, “Travis? Why are the lights—” Her voice stopped dead. She was staring at the coffee table. The signed divorce papers, my wedding ring, the bag of dried peaches. And the cheap box containing the silk scarf.

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The golden boy of our school lived for dares. During our three years of high school, he was always either making some poor freshman bark like a dog on the football field or leading a crowd to confess their undying love to the cafeteria chef. On the morning of our AP Finals—the ones our college futures rode on—his chaotic streak hit a peak. He boarded the charter bus early and hid everyone’s exam passes. He called it “the ultimate senior prank.” “Better start looking, guys!” he grinned, dangling a blank envelope. “If we find them, we walk in together. If not… well, there’s always next year.” Just as I knitted my brows to stop him, glowing lines of text began scrolling across my field of vision like a live stream chat. [Our golden boy is so cool. I can’t believe he’s playing a prank this big during the AP Finals.] [Ugh, the side character is so annoying. Here he goes again with the lecture.] [Just let him talk. He tries to call the cops and ruin the golden boy’s exams, but the female lead secretly sabotages his Ivy League application out of spite. With her family squeezing him out of every opportunity, he spirals into depression and ends it. Meanwhile, our golden boy, carried by her family’s wealth, ends up as the youngest MD in the country.] I froze. My thumb hovered over my phone screen, where I had already dialed 911. Slowly, I closed the emergency call screen. Instead, I opened my email, tapped the official offer from Cambridge University, and clicked “Accept”. … A second later, a slender hand reached out and snatched my phone. I looked up, straight into Serena’s guarded eyes. “Don’t even think about snitching,” she said, her voice sharp. “Taylor is just trying to take the edge off. I’ll hold onto your phone until the game is over.” Before I could say a word, Taylor peeked out from behind her shoulder, his eyes wide and watery. “Liam, I know you’ve never liked me, and Mr. Henderson always takes your side,” he whispered, sounding incredibly small. “But this is our last day together. I just wanted to make a memory. Even if they suspend me for this, I don’t care.” With those few words, he turned the entire bus against me. The kids who had been hesitating seconds ago instantly rallied around him. “Seriously, Liam, stop acting like the hall monitor. Why does everything have to be a federal case?” “Ignore him. They’re not going to cancel the exams for the whole honors class just because we’re a few minutes late.” “God, a senior prank during the actual finals? If we vlog this, it’ll go viral on TikTok in seconds!” “Come on, Taylor, let’s do it! If we get caught, we all take the blame together. We’re not snitches.” [Wow, our boy really is everyone’s favorite. He has the female lead to coddle him, and the whole class to shield him.] [Our precious boy is crying! It breaks my heart. When is this annoying side character going to exit the story?] [This is the part where the sidekick snaps because nobody is listening to him. He’s about to lose his mind.] I stared at the text hovering in the air and let out a soft, dry laugh. “Who said I was going to snitch?” I said. “Actually, I’m in. Let’s play.” The scrolling text froze. Even Serena looked taken aback. “Are you serious?” she asked, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. “You’re not trying to pull something, are you?” Seeing the sheer distrust in her eyes, I knew the scrolling text wasn’t a hallucination. It was the absolute truth. This was not the girl who had promised we would conquer the Ivy League together. I let out a self-deprecating laugh, snatched my phone back from her hand, and hurled it straight out the open window. “Now do you believe me?” I asked. Serena stared at me, a flicker of genuine panic crossing her eyes. Taylor’s jaw went slack. He clearly hadn’t anticipated me throwing my own life-line out a window. “Well, look at that. Our class president finally got a personality,” Paula, our track captain, yelled. She glanced at Taylor, and seeing no objection, she grinned. “Let’s go all out then! Everyone power down. No phones, no trackable GPS, completely off the grid!” She held her phone up, waving it like a trophy, her thumb pressing down hard on the power button. “Watch me!” she cheered as the screen went black. “Anyone who doesn’t turn theirs off is a coward.” The cabin erupted. Some eagerly yanked out their phones; others hesitated, looking to Taylor for validation. Taylor quickly recovered his composure, flashing a bright, easy smile as he shut his phone down. “If Liam’s on board, let’s do it,” Taylor said. “No distractions. Let’s make this unforgettable.” Serena reached out, suddenly hesitant. “Isn’t this a bit too far? What if we actually miss the gate?” Paula rolled her eyes at me and laughed. “Then I guess we’ll see who has the worst luck today.” Taylor winked. “Exactly. It’s a game. There have to be winners and losers.” With that, a chorus of digital chimes echoed through the bus as everyone turned their phones off. Serena bit her lip, then powered her phone down, too. [Wait, why isn’t the sidekick stopping them?] [Yeah, and with everyone’s phones off, what if there’s an emergency?] [What are you worried about? The sidekick is right there. If anything goes wrong, he’s the perfect scapegoat anyway.] I stared at the floating words, a cold smile forming on my face. They were right. If I had refused to play, I’d be labeled a killjoy, a stuck-up snob. If I played, the game would be rigged so I’d lose. When other kids lost, they got silly dares. But when I “lost” Taylor’s games in the past, my worst photos became the class group chat icon, my private messages with Serena were leaked to make me look like a pathetic simp, and I was eventually pressured to give up my spot in the prestigious National Math Olympiad. Serena had gone from fiercely protecting me to finding me rigid, suffocating, and boring. And now, she was actively participating in a stunt that could ruin my entire academic future. But they had no idea. This time, I was the one holding the deck. Watching their eager, stupid faces, my lips curved upward. Idiots. You want an immersive experience? You won’t even realize you’ve walked into your own slaughter. Taylor clapped his hands, throwing a provocative glance my way. “Alright, let the game begin.” He produced a black envelope seemingly out of thin air. “Clue number one: Look beneath your feet.” The bus erupted into pure chaos. Paula was the first to drop, sliding flat onto the dirty floor to pull a crumpled piece of paper from under a seat. “Damn it! It’s blank.” “That’s just a decoy,” Taylor said, his eyes curving into crescents. “The real passes are hidden much, much better.” People were kicking seats, banging into armrests, and dumping their backpacks onto the floor. Loose-leaf paper scattered everywhere. The aisle quickly became a bottleneck of bodies—squatting, crawling, reaching up to the overhead bins. The sharp scent of sweat mingled with cold breakfast sandwiches. Paula tore through the overhead racks, ripping open bags with enough force to dismantle the bus. “Are they inside the seat covers?” someone yelled. A row of students began peeling back the fabric, running their fingers through the grime of the seams. “Nothing here!” “Ugh, gross… I just touched old gum.” Some cursed, some laughed, and those who grew tired of the hunt slumped back into their seats, panting. Jordan was moving through the crowd, filming the whole thing with his digital camera. As Taylor’s loyal shadow, he made sure to shout, “Taylor, you’re a genius! This is way better than listening to some stuck-up snitch.” Taylor clapped, cheering them on. “It’s our last ride together, guys! We have to make it count. Keep looking!” But as the minutes ticked away, not a single valid exam pass was found. The floating text began to shift from blind praise to creeping doubt. [Wait, he stuffed the passes into his clothing? Who on earth is going to find them there?] [This is kind of messed up. It looks like he’s trying to drag everyone down with him.] [The person above must be a hater. Our boy only cares about the female lead anyway; he doesn’t need some stupid exam.] [Um, maybe the other kids do? Like Liam? He worked his butt off coming from that small town just to get this shot.] My gaze sharpened, landing on Taylor, who was still bouncing around the bus. No wonder he was wearing that oversized hoodie. No wonder he was asking questions instead of actually searching. The passes were on him. He was treating his entire class like toys, letting them sweat for nothing. But this class wasn’t his playground. This was the AP Honors tier. The pride of the academy. This was the class for which Mr. Henderson had worked himself to exhaustion, teaching us from a hospital bed when his health failed. My fists clenched at the memory. Despite everything, a part of me still couldn’t bear to watch it all burn. Taking advantage of a sudden lull in the complaints, I looked Taylor dead in the eye. “Are the passes actually on this bus, Taylor?” Taylor’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “What is that supposed to mean, Liam?” I gestured to the wrecked cabin. “Forty minutes. Forty-five people. And not a single pass has turned up. That’s statistically impossible.” Serena frowned, stepping defensively in front of Taylor. “It just means Taylor did a good job hiding them. If you have time to complain, why don’t you go dig through the trash cans?” “Yeah! We’re having fun. Even if we’re late, it’s worth it.” “Looks like he’s getting cold feet. Want to back out now, Liam? Too late.” The voices pressed in on me from all sides. Standing behind Serena, Taylor offered me a smug shrug. I pointed a finger at him and opened my mouth to speak. Before the words could leave my throat, Paula screamed from the front of the bus. “I found one!” She pulled a crumpled slip of paper from the inner lining of the trash bin and held it high. “Whose is it?” the crowd surged forward. She flattened the paper, squinted at the photo, and turned to grin at me. “Well, look at that. It’s Liam’s.” “Here you go, Chief.” She thrust the paper toward me. But before my fingers could fully close around it—”rip”. The paper split in two. Half remained in my hand. The other half dangled from Paula’s fingers. “No need to thank me,” she said, dusting off her hands. “That’s what you get for accusing Taylor. Consider it incentive to apologize. Honestly, it looks better this way.” The bus erupted into cruel laughter. “Nice one, Paula!” “Seriously. Taylor was just trying to help us destress, and Liam’s been trying to ruin the vibe from start to finish.” “Wait, is that legal? How is he supposed to get into the test center?” someone whispered. Serena pushed her way through the crowd. “Alright, that’s enough. We only have fifteen minutes left. Keep looking.” She glanced at the torn paper in my hand and sighed, her voice laced with mild irritation. “Once we get off, I’ll walk you to the administration office to print a duplicate. We have enough time.” I looked down at the torn slip, my chest tightening. “Don’t bother.” Serena stiffened, her expression hardening. “Fine. Have it your way.” Taylor bit his lip, his eyes turning watery again. “Liam, I… I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m so sorry…” “It’s not your fault,” Serena said, taking his hand. “He’s just jealous of you. Ignore him. Let’s go.” As she led him away, Taylor cast a quick, mocking smirk back at me over his shoulder. [Okay, now I actually feel bad for the sidekick.] [Are you serious? He brought this on himself. Didn’t he just try to expose our precious boy?] [Yeah, Taylor was obviously planning a grand reveal to surprise everyone. Liam had to ruin the moment. No wonder the female lead ruins him later. Who would tolerate someone constantly trying to humiliate their guy?] [Am I the only one who thinks Liam has had a miserable life from the start? He was almost abused by his stepmother in middle school. When the female lead saved him back then, he thought she was his savior, but she was just setting him up for a worse fall.] [Get over it. She saved some poor stray kid back then for fun. Did he think he was entitled to her for life? He didn’t know his place, so he got put in it. Totally deserved.] The comments scrolled in an endless, dizzying blur. I sank into my seat, holding the torn slip of paper, my hands shaking uncontrollably. But in that moment, the fog in my mind cleared completely. The comments were right. My life had been hard enough. Why was I still trying to save people who wanted to drown? For the first time, I felt a wave of profound relief. Thank God I saw those floating words. Thank God I had already accepted Cambridge. As for them? They were no longer my problem. “Where is it? Seriously, this is getting weird.” “Hey, did anyone in the student council find theirs?” “No. I checked under the seats, the overheads, and the trash again. Nothing.” “Taylor, come on, give us another clue! Time’s almost up.” Taylor stamped his foot playfully. “I told you, it’s beneath your feet! Keep looking. See? Liam’s was in the trash.” Serena glanced at her watch. “Stop panicking. The gates stay open for fifteen minutes after the test starts. We just need to make it by then. Take your time.” Easy for her to say, but the tension in the bus was reaching a boiling point. The laughter died out. The only sound left was the frantic rustling of paper and bags. Exactly five minutes before the scheduled start of the exam, Mr. Henderson burst onto the bus. “The exam is starting in five minutes! What on earth are you all doing in here?” He was drenched in sweat, gasping for air as he clung to the doorframe. “Mr. Henderson, we’re just playing a little dare,” Taylor said, blinking innocent, wide eyes. “We’re looking for our exam passes.” “Have you lost your minds?” Mr. Henderson’s voice cracked. “Do you know what today is? Who hid them? Bring them out right now!” Taylor shrank back, and Serena instantly stepped forward to shield him. “Mr. Henderson, there’s no need to yell. We all agreed to this. You’re going to scare Taylor.” “Exactly,” Paula added, crossing her arms. “We know what we’re doing. Stop treating us like kids.” “Just let us finish the game.” Mr. Henderson pointed a trembling finger at them, his face turning pale with sheer disbelief. He turned to me. “Liam, what is going on? Why didn’t you stop them? And why is your phone off?” I didn’t answer. I just kept my eyes glued to the torn piece of paper in my hand. His eyes followed mine. When he saw the ripped ticket, he froze. “Who… who did this?” I slowly looked up. “Don’t ask, Mr. Henderson. It doesn’t matter.” He knelt in the aisle, looking at the torn paper, then swept his eyes over the class. Nobody met his gaze. “We’ll deal with this later,” he breathed, his voice shaky. “Everyone off the bus. Go to the testing center now.” Nobody moved. “Mr. Henderson, Liam wanted to play too,” Paula said defensively. “Yeah, he’s just playing the victim now.” “You always take his side anyway.” Mr. Henderson inhaled deeply, his voice sounding entirely broken. “Please. Just go take the test. Okay?” Silence. He grabbed my arm and pulled me off the bus. “Come on. Let’s get you a duplicate.” As our feet hit the asphalt, the first warning bell rang across the campus. Students were filing through the main gates. Only a few stragglers were sprinting. Mr. Henderson took two steps, then hesitated. “Go to the office quickly. I have to go back and get them off that bus.” I nodded. I didn’t say a word. By the time I walked out of the administrative office with my duplicate pass, shouting had erupted at the school gates. “What do you mean you forgot? My mom will literally kill me if I miss this test!” “You’re the one who hid them! How do you not know where they are?” “It’s a huge stack of paper! Where could you possibly have put them? Think!” Taylor was surrounded by the class, sobbing hysterically. “I… I forgot because Liam was staring at me and putting so much pressure on me! I panicked!” But this time, the blame-shifting didn’t work. Serena’s face was white. She was frantically dumping the contents of Taylor’s backpack onto the pavement, searching over and over again. Mr. Henderson stood near the entrance, his phone pressed to his ear, his forehead creased with deep, anxious lines. “Yes, the AP honors class… there’s an issue with the exam passes…” He hung up. Redialed. Hung up again. When he looked up, his eyes were bloodshot. “I’ll… I’ll try to find another way,” he muttered, though the hope had drained from his voice. He looked ten years older. A crowd of parents, who had gathered to support their kids, began to swarm Taylor. Their voices grew sharp and frantic. “Find them right now! If my daughter misses this exam, I will sue your family!” “A prank? Are you insane? What kind of delinquent plays with people’s futures like this?” Taylor kept his head down, tears streaming down his face. “Can we just print duplicates?” a parent cried out. “How? The gates are already closing! They won’t let them register once the timer starts!” “Then what? We just give up? A whole year of prep gone?” “My son spent two years studying for this standard matriculation!” The scene quickly descended into hysterics. Mothers started sobbing, fathers barked into their phones, and some ran to the security guards, begging, “Please, just let them in! The teacher is right here, he can vouch for them! Let them take the test!” But rules were rules. The guards looked away. The proctors stared coldly at their clipboards. Everyone watched in stunned silence as the heavy iron gates slowly swung shut. With a heavy, final “click”, the padlock snapped into place. Then, Taylor’s eyes landed on me. His face lit up with a sick kind of hope. “Liam! Liam has the early-admission honors pass from Stanford! He can talk to the board! He can get the school to schedule a makeup exam for us!” In an instant, every single eye in the crowd locked onto me. Paula was the first to jump on it. “Yes! He has the board’s ear! He can get us a makeup test!” “The administration won’t let the entire AP honors class fail! They’ll listen to him!” “Liam, please. Just help us. One call from you is all it takes.” The waves of voices crashed over me once more. Only this time, they weren’t screaming insults. They were begging. [As expected of our darling Taylor. He turned the tables on the sidekick in two seconds.] [Are you people seriously cheering for this? Your moral compass is completely broken.] [Wait, why does the sidekick look so calm? Does he have a trick up his sleeve?] I ignored the floating text, choosing instead to quietly watch the comedy unfold before me. It was poetry, really. Twenty minutes ago, they had ripped my exam ticket to shreds. Now, they were looking to my achievements to save their lives. Serena stepped forward. She looked at me, her lips parting, but no sound came out. She didn’t beg me herself. But she didn’t stop the others from begging either. “The Stanford honors track?” I said, my voice echoing in the sudden silence. They fell completely quiet, hanging on my every word. “I’m afraid that won’t work. An hour ago, I turned down Stanford. I accepted my offer from Cambridge University instead.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “518499”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day we buried my mother, the sky broke open in a torrential downpour. Gideon stood beside the headstone, his coat immaculate, utterly refusing to bow his head or kneel in the mud to pay his respects. “It’s a Harrington rule,” he’d whispered, his voice cold and dry despite the dampness in the air. “We only kneel before God and our own blood. Not to anyone else.” The whispers started immediately among the gathered relatives, sharp as the rain. My father’s eyes were rimmed with red, his face flushing with embarrassment as he tried to smooth things over. “It’s fine, really,” Dad murmured, offering a tight, apologetic smile to the whispering crowd. “Gideon… well, he went to Oxford. He isn’t used to our old-school ways. A simple nod of respect is plenty.” I knelt in the freezing mud, watching him offer a perfunctory, barely-there nod. At the time, I truly believed it was just his nature. I thought Gideon Harrington was simply too proud, too unyielding, to bend for anyone. Until three days later, when I happened to drive past St. Jude’s Sanctuary on the outskirts of the city. There, on the steep stone steps leading up the hillside, I saw him. He looked like a different man. His expression was one of absolute, desperate devotion. Every three steps, he dropped to his knees. Every nine steps, he prostrated himself fully on the cold stone, his forehead pressed hard against the wet steps. His forehead was already bruised and bleeding; his expensive trousers were soaked through with mud and dirty water. I slammed on the brakes, got out of the car, and intercepted Simon, his closest friend, who was waiting at the bottom of the steps. I demanded to know what Gideon was begging for. Simon couldn’t look me in the eye. He shifted his weight, his gaze darting toward the trees. “Hazel… look, it’s…” “Daphne’s doctor found a tumor. It’s benign, but… Gideon came here to pray for her. He’s doing a penance walk to get her a blessing.” Daphne. The ex-girlfriend he had loved for years. The one who had walked away, yet somehow never truly left. At that moment, the air left my lungs. I felt a coldness so absolute it felt like physical pain. Without a word, I slipped my wedding band off my finger and tossed it into the deep, dark waters of the sanctuary’s wishing well. … When I got back to the house, the hallway was dim. My father was kneeling on the floor by the entryway, tenderly wiping a few stray drops of rainwater from my mother’s framed portrait. In the black-and-white photograph, Mom smiled her warm, familiar smile—the one that made you feel like she was about to pop her head out of the kitchen any second, asking if Gideon wanted a hot bowl of soup after his long day. Hearing the door click, Dad scrambled to his feet, his joints popping. “Hazel, is Gideon done with his meetings?” he asked, trying to sound cheerful. “If he’s exhausted, tell him he doesn’t have to stay for the vigil tonight. He should rest.” I looked at the portrait, a heavy, suffocating tightness squeezing my chest. Exhausted? It was the night before my mother’s seventh-day vigil—the traditional night to honor her spirit—and her son-in-law hadn’t even shown his face. My phone buzzed in my hand. A text from Gideon. Daphne has her pre-op scans tonight. She’s terrified to be there alone. I’m going to be late. It wasn’t a life-or-death surgery. It was a routine, outpatient scan for a benign growth. Yet, her fear outweighed his respect for my dead mother. Seeing me stare at my phone in silence, Dad slowly walked over to the dining table. He lifted the ceramic bowl covering a plate of cold pasta and vegetables. “I’ll keep it warm in the oven,” Dad murmured, his voice so soft it barely carried across the quiet room. “Just in case he gets back late and hasn’t eaten.” The sheer vulnerability in his voice made my throat ache. All my father knew was that Gideon was a wealthy, powerful businessman from a prominent family, and that my marrying him was seen as a massive step up for the Prescotts. That was why, even when Gideon refused to show proper respect at the burial, Dad had forced himself to smile and make excuses. He was so terrified of Gideon mistreating me that he swallowed every ounce of his own dignity. I walked over and gently placed my hand over his to stop him. “Don’t worry about it, Dad,” I said quietly. “He won’t be eating here tonight.” I took the plate into the kitchen and scraped the food straight into the trash can. As I turned around, my phone lit up with a notification. It was an Instagram update from Daphne. She had posted a picture of a silver Saint Jude medallion resting in her palm. In the edge of the frame, the cuff of Gideon’s tailored coat was unmistakable. Her caption read: Someone told me that if he took every painful step for me, I’d never have to walk in fear again. Below it, mutual acquaintances had already left comments: Gideon really is one of a kind. Nothing compares to childhood sweethearts. I stared at the medallion on the screen for a long, agonizing moment before locking the phone. Gideon slipped into the house at two in the morning. The living room was dark, save for the flickering flame of the memorial candle on the altar. He brought the cold night air in with him, along with a small white bakery box. “I stopped by the bakery down the street,” he said, setting the box on the coffee table. “I know you haven’t eaten all day.” Inside were the glazed lemon tarts I used to love. I didn’t look at them. “Where were you today, Gideon?” His hand paused on his tie. “Just handling some business.” His voice was flat, perfectly controlled. I raised my eyes to meet his. “Does business usually require kneeling on ninety-nine stone steps, Gideon?” His fingers went completely still. A subtle, defensive frown creased his forehead. “Hazel, she’s sick. I only did it because she’s sick.” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “My mother loved you like her own son, yet you couldn’t be bothered to show a single gesture of respect at her grave. But Daphne gets a benign tumor, and you’re willing to bloody your knees on stone steps to buy her peace of mind?” Gideon took a step toward me, reaching for my hand. “I know you’re grieving your mother, Hazel. But Daphne was terrified. The doctors said the tumor is in a delicate spot. I was just trying to give her some comfort.” I pointed to my mother’s portrait on the mantelpiece. “Don’t explain it to me. Turn around and say it to her. Tell her that ‘Harringtons only kneel to God and blood, not to strangers.’” The kitchen door creaked open slightly. My father stood in the shadow of the doorway, holding a fresh plate of food. He looked caught, frozen between stepping forward and retreating. “Hazel, please, don’t raise your voice,” Dad pleaded softly, his eyes darting toward the walls, terrified the neighbors might hear. “Gideon just got home. Let him eat something warm first.” Watching my father shrink himself to keep the peace made a hot, sharp pain flare in my chest. My nails dug into my palms. My phone buzzed again. It was a message from Simon. Hazel, I shouldn’t have kept this from you. The sanctuary keeps a donor registry for these prayer walks. If you want proof, I can get it for you. Gideon’s gaze followed mine down to my hands. His eyes locked onto my left hand. His brow furrowed deeply. “Hazel, where is your ring?” “It got dirty. I took it off.” I brushed past him, walking toward the closet to grab a change of clothes. Gideon grabbed my wrist, his grip tightening until my bones ached. “What is this supposed to mean?” he hissed, trying to keep his voice down but failing to hide his irritation. “I visit a sanctuary for a sick friend, and you decide to take off your wedding ring? Aren’t you overreacting?” I looked at him, my expression dead. “Let go of me, Gideon.” He took a sharp breath and released his grip. “Hazel, be reasonable,” he said, throwing his hands up. “Your mother is gone. Nothing we do can change that. But Daphne is still here, and she’s living through a nightmare. She’s scared, she’s hurting, and she’s spiraling.” His words cut through me like a physical blade. In his mind, he was a savior to the living. And in that grand, heroic narrative, minimizing my mother’s passing was a perfectly acceptable casualty. My father, unable to rest, wrapped his cardigan tighter around his shoulders and stepped into the living room. “Gideon has a point, Hazel. We have to care for the living,” Dad said, his eyes pleading with me to let it go. “Your mother… she was a kind soul. She wouldn’t want any bad blood over this. Don’t be difficult, sweetheart.” The more accommodating my father tried to be, the deeper the resentment burned in my chest. I stepped forward, gently but firmly pulling my father behind me. “Dad, Mom might have forgiven him,” I said, my voice echoing in the quiet room. “But I won’t.” Gideon’s jaw tightened. Before he could reply, his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. The screen lit up with FaceTime. Daphne. He answered it without hesitation. Daphne’s pale face appeared on the screen. She was sitting in a sterile hospital room, clutching the Saint Jude medallion tightly in her fingers. “Gideon,” she whispered, her voice cracking with tears. “The nurse said I can be admitted for observation tomorrow morning.” She sniffled, looking directly into the camera. “Can you come stay with me? I’m so scared to be alone in here.” Gideon shot me a defensive look, almost as if to spite me. “I’ll be right there.” He hung up and grabbed his coat from the rack. As he walked past the memorial table, his eyes fell on a worn, dark sandalwood rosary resting beside the candle. My mother had worn those beads around her wrist for as long as I could remember. After the funeral, Dad couldn’t bear to let them go, keeping them on the mantel as a physical piece of her presence. Gideon reached out and picked them up. “Daphne has a rough morning ahead. I’ll take these to help calm her nerves,” he said, slipping the rosary into his pocket as if it were a common trinket. “Your mother won’t be needing them anymore anyway.” I threw myself in front of the door, blocking his exit. “Put them back,” I whispered, my entire body shaking with fury. Gideon sighed, his expression hardening into pure impatience. “I’ll bring them back tomorrow, Hazel. I’m not going to lose them. She’s falling apart right now and needs something to ground her.” “That belonged to my mother!” My voice cracked. “You are taking my dead mother’s rosary to comfort your ex-girlfriend?” Gideon’s face darkened. “Do you have to make everything sound so ugly, Hazel? It’s a piece of wood. I can buy you ten identical ones tomorrow if it matters that much.” I let out a harsh, dry laugh. “Do you really think your money fixes everything, Gideon?” My father gently tugged at the hem of my shirt from behind. His hand was trembling violently. “It’s alright, Hazel,” Dad whispered, his eyes swimming with unshed tears. “Your mother was a generous woman. If it helps keep someone safe… she wouldn’t mind.” Taking advantage of my sudden hesitation, Gideon pushed past me and stepped out into the hallway. Before the elevator arrived, he turned to his assistant, who was waiting in the corridor. “Arrange for the most expensive floral wreaths and memorial donations to be sent here tomorrow. Make sure the vigil looks impeccable. I don’t want anyone whispering.” The heavy front door clicked shut. I stared at the empty space on the mantelpiece, and the tears finally spilled over. My phone rang. It was Simon. “Hazel, the Harrington family is planning to turn the vigil into a public relations stunt tomorrow,” his voice was quiet, filled with warning. “If you’re going to make a stand, don’t do it alone. I’ll be there.” After hanging up, I walked to my mother’s dresser and opened her jewelry box. Underneath her vintage brooches lay a small, folded piece of paper. She had written it in secret, right after receiving her terminal diagnosis. Her elegant handwriting was shaky, weakened by the illness: Hazel, my sweet girl, I know how deeply you feel things, and how often you bend to keep others happy. But if life ever becomes too heavy, remember that you have the right to choose your own path. We will always stand behind you, no matter what. I squeezed the note tightly in my fist. I understand, Mom. I’ve got it. By the next evening, my family’s old house was packed with guests. The Harringtons arrived with a massive entourage, turning a private mourning into a spectacle. My mother-in-law, Helena Harrington, sat regally in our old high-backed armchair, wearing a dark, custom-tailored charcoal silk dress. She didn’t look at my mother’s portrait once. “Hazel, we are all deeply saddened by your mother’s passing,” she began, her tone transactional as she sipped her tea. “But Gideon is facing a public relations nightmare online right now. You need to release a statement.” She set her cup down with a soft, deliberate click. “Whatever marital issues you have can be dealt with behind closed doors. We cannot have the family name dragged through the mud.” I stood by the altar, looking at her cold, manicured face. “And what exactly did he do that requires my defense, Helena?” Helena’s smile faded. “Just post a short update. Say that Gideon went to the sanctuary to pray for a dear family friend, and that your marriage is as solid as ever. Let everyone know that the rumors about his lack of respect for your mother are completely unfounded.” “Was it also an unfounded rumor when he refused to bow at her burial?” I asked, my voice deadly quiet. Helena’s expression hardened. “Gideon is a Harrington. His respect is not cheap, Hazel. Your mother was a retired high school teacher; she didn’t require that level of deference from him. Don’t let your family overreach.” In the corner of the room, my father’s shoulders flinched. He looked smaller than ever. A sudden commotion at the door interrupted us. A delivery courier walked in carrying a massive arrangement of white lilies. The card was signed by Daphne. I know Margaret would have understood Gideon’s kind heart in trying to save a life. I stared at the pristine white petals, a wave of nausea washing over me. She hadn’t even shown her face, yet she managed to twist Gideon’s performance of penance into a noble, heroic act of mercy. She was even using my dead mother to validate it. Helena nodded in approval. “You see? Even while battling an illness, Daphne knows how to show proper etiquette. Thomas, perhaps you should talk some sense into your daughter.” She turned her cold gaze directly toward my father. “Once a woman is married, she cannot keep bringing her family’s drama into her husband’s household.” My father stood up, looking utterly lost. He rubbed his worn hands together, his back hunched as he stepped toward Helena. “I… I apologize, Mrs. Harrington. Hazel is just emotional right now. We didn’t mean to cause any trouble for your family.” His voice was so low it was practically a whisper. I squeezed my hands so hard my knuckles turned white. Right then, Gideon’s phone rang again. He tapped the screen, and Daphne’s panicked voice echoed into the room. “Gideon… there are reporters and photographers outside my room. They’re shouting questions at me… I can’t leave. I’m terrified…” Gideon stood up instantly, grabbing his car keys. I took a step forward, blocking his path once more. “Today is my mother’s vigil, Gideon.” Gideon looked at me, his eyes wide with anxiety. “I know, Hazel. But Daphne is alone. She can’t handle a media frenzy by herself.” I pointed toward the corner of the room. “My father is alone, too.” Gideon’s jaw set into a cold line. And then he delivered the words that finally broke whatever was left of my heart: “Your father at least has you.” He stepped around me, his stride hurried and resolute as he headed for the door. He paused briefly at the threshold, reaching out to touch my arm, but I recoiled. “We’ll talk when I get back,” he muttered. He gestured to his assistant to handle the remaining guests and walked out without looking back. Simon entered the house just as the door closed. Ignoring the Harringtons entirely, he walked straight over to me and handed me his phone. On the screen was the official donor log of St. Jude’s Sanctuary. At the very top, under the most prominent prayer requests, was a line that stood out in bold print: Gideon Harrington offers penance and prayer for Daphne Coyle. May she find healing, safety, and a lifetime of peace. My father leaned in to read the screen. He stared at those words for a very long time. Slowly, the tension that had held his fragile shoulders upright for days simply collapsed. He didn’t make any more excuses for Gideon. He just turned around, looking at my mother’s portrait, and asked in a dry, raspy voice: “Hazel… when your mother passed, he wouldn’t kneel for her?” “But he knelt in the mud for someone else?” I looked at the tears spilling over his weathered cheeks and nodded slowly. My phone buzzed in my hand. A message from Gideon. The Harrington Group’s Anniversary Gala is tomorrow night. I need you by my side. Daphne will be there too—don’t make things difficult for her. The Harrington Group’s Gala was held in the grand ballroom of the Four Seasons. The room was a sea of silk, diamonds, and clinking champagne glasses. Shareholders, business partners, prominent media figures, and high-society regulars filled the space. Gideon, looking flawless in his custom tuxedo, stood near the entrance greeting guests. When he saw me walk in, the tension in his shoulders visibly eased. He assumed I was there to play my part, to keep up appearances. He had his assistant slide a folded piece of paper—a pre-written speech—into my hand. “Don’t be difficult tonight, Hazel,” he whispered, his voice low and commanding as he leaned in. “We have to protect the family name.” I squeezed the paper in my hand and said nothing. Midway through the evening, Daphne suddenly gasped, clutching her chest as she swayed on her feet. Gideon moved on pure instinct, rushing forward to catch her before she could fall. The host on stage, sensing the shift in the room, seamlessly adapted his script. “Tonight, our CEO also wishes to extend his deepest gratitude to a very special lifelong partner.” Gideon didn’t correct him. Instead, he guided Daphne to the head table, seating her directly in the chair that belonged to me. Meanwhile, a polite waiter escorted me to a quiet table near the back of the room. I sat in the shadows, watching the laughter and warm conversation flowing at the main table. Suddenly, my gaze locked onto Daphne’s wrist. There, wrapped around her pale arm, was the worn, dark sandalwood rosary Gideon had stolen from my mother’s altar the night before. I stood up, walked across the ballroom, and stopped directly in front of them. Gideon’s face went pale when he saw me standing there. “She was incredibly anxious tonight. I just let her wear them to ground herself,” he whispered quickly, trying to cut me off. I looked down at Daphne. “That belongs to my mother.” Daphne immediately slipped the beads off her wrist, her eyes welling with instant, delicate tears. “Hazel, I am so, so sorry,” she whimpered, her voice trembling. “I didn’t think your mother would mind…” She let the apology hang in the air, a subtle but sharp jab, dragging my deceased mother into her performance. Gideon stood up abruptly, shielding Daphne behind him. “Hazel, don’t do this here,” he hissed in a low, dangerous whisper. “Whatever you want to settle, we will do it at home.” I looked up at the face of the man I had loved for three years. “My mother’s dignity. How much is that worth to you, Gideon?” Gideon’s jaw went rigid. “Do you have to be so incredibly dramatic?” Helena stepped forward, holding her glass of champagne, her eyes drilling into me. “Hazel, you need to remember your place. Your presence at this gala is a privilege granted by the Harrington name.” I looked at her, and a laugh bubbled up in my chest—a sound so hollow it brought tears to my eyes. “And did your family offer my mother any dignity on the day we buried her?” The immediate area fell deathly quiet. I didn’t wait for her reply. I turned on my heel and walked directly onto the stage. Before the host could react, I took the microphone from his hand. I pulled the divorce papers from my purse and slammed them onto the podium. Then, I gave a brief nod to the AV booth at the back. Simon had taken care of the rest. The massive LED screens behind me flickered to life. Three things flashed in high-definition before the entire room: First, a screenshot of the official donor log from St. Jude’s Sanctuary. Second, a grainy video captured by a bystander showing Gideon Harrington on his knees in the pouring rain, dragging himself up ninety-nine stone steps. Third, a video from my mother’s funeral, showing Gideon standing stiffly by her casket, utterly refusing to bow his head. The videos looped, side by side. A suffocating silence descended upon the grand ballroom. I gripped the microphone, my voice steady, clear, and carrying to every corner of the room. “My mother loved Gideon Harrington like her own child. When she passed, he told me his dignity was too precious to bend for a stranger. But when Daphne Coyle was diagnosed with a benign tumor, he dragged his knees through the mud up ninety-nine stone steps.” I looked down at Gideon. His face was entirely devoid of color. “Gideon, I’m done fighting for a place in your life.” The room erupted. Camera flashes began to go off like lightning. Reporters pushed forward like sharks sensing blood in the water. Gideon panicked. He shoved his way through the crowd, stumbling toward the stage. “Hazel, please—listen to me, it’s not what you think…” I stepped back, away from him. As he reached the edge of the stage, his knees seemed to buckle beneath the sheer weight of the moment, dipping toward the floor. I looked at him and smiled softly, the feeling entirely gone from my heart. “We’re done, Gideon.”

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When the world ended, my entire family woke up with miracles in their veins. Everyone except me. To them, I was just dead weight, the only powerless one in a squad of elite survivors. But they didn’t know the truth. I wasn’t useless. I was the anchor—their living hotspot. Only within a five-hundred-yard radius of me could they wield their magnificent, terrifying gifts. Without me, they were as vulnerable as anyone else. So, I stayed glued to their side, never letting them out of my sight. And in return, believing I was a fragile, ordinary girl who needed constant protection, they held me close, keeping me safe like a precious secret. Until the day my brother pulled a girl out of a screaming horde of the infected. A girl who looked so much like my mother it made my breath hitch. That was the day I found out I was the imposter. The fake daughter switched at birth. Once she was brought back into the fold, she unlocked a rare space-manipulation ability, a pocket-dimension storage system that allowed her to stockpile endless supplies for the camp. But during our next scavenging run, she grabbed my arm, yanked me out of our defense circle, and threw me straight toward a grocery store crawling with the infected. “You’ve been playing princess in my house for twenty years, you useless leech!” she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. “Everyone else is out here bleeding, and you think you can just hide in the back and ride our coattails?” I broke free from her grip, desperate to make her understand. “I can’t go in there! If I die, your powers, all of them, they’ll—” I didn’t get to finish. I couldn’t even get the word vanish out of my mouth before the cold, heavy metal of a gun barrel pressed hard against my forehead. … “Go in, or I’ll blow your useless brains out right here.” Cassie’s voice was ice. Cold, calculated, and malicious. My scalp prickled. The terror of facing her gun was far worse than the mindless groans of the monsters lurking nearby. Go in empty-handed? She wasn’t just asking me to scavenge. She was executing me. And the people who had spent my entire life promising to protect me? They stood by, completely silent. Cassie had deliberately sent our parents and my brother to scout another block. Right now, there was no one to speak for me. Suddenly, a rusted piece of rebar, slick with dark, coagulated blood, was thrust into my line of vision. It was Jared Caldwell. He was the quiet one in our group. Silent, stoic, and completely powerless—just like me. “Take it,” Jared said, his voice low but steady. “Stay right behind me.” He didn’t have any powers either. He was just a normal guy, yet he was the only one brave enough to stand between me and a bullet. I managed a small, grateful smile, my fingers wrapping tightly around the cold iron. Seeing this, Cassie let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Look at that. The useless helping the useless. What is this, a tragic romance movie in the middle of the apocalypse?” She tapped the side of my face with the gun barrel, her lip curling. “You two trash bags really do belong together.” I grit my teeth, giving her one long, silent look. I couldn’t die. Not because I was afraid, but because the lives of everyone in this camp—including hers—were tethered to my heartbeat. The supermarket entrance loomed before us like the open maw of some sleeping beast. Clutching my makeshift weapon, I followed Jared into the shadows. The stench of rot was thick enough to taste. Between the towering metal shelves, dark silhouettes drifted, emitting low, guttural clicks. We moved cautiously toward the canned goods. Suddenly, a tiny metallic clink echoed through the aisle. A single brass bullet casing rolled across the floor, stopping right at my feet. Cassie had thrown it. Groooaaarrr— The sound broke the silence, and a snarling shape lunged from the darkness directly at my throat! My heart hammered against my ribs. Adrenaline taking over, I swung the rebar with everything I had, driving the jagged tip straight into the creature’s milky eye. As I yanked it free, three more emerged from the shadows, snapping their jaws. Jared didn’t hesitate. He stepped in, his back pressed against mine. Together, we swung, stabbed, and fought, our movements falling into a desperate, rhythmic dance of survival. Meanwhile, Cassie walked behind us like she was on a Sunday stroll, shielded by a ring of our family’s elite guards. With a casual wave of her hand, she swept canned soup, boxed rice, and dry goods into her pocket dimension. Holding a lavender-scented handkerchief to her nose, she scoffed. “Hurry up! This is why normal people are such a drag. An evolved human could clear this room with a flick of their wrist, and you two are taking all day.” By the time we finally cleared the aisle, the shelves were completely bare. Our own backpacks held nothing but a few pitiful sleeves of hardtack crackers. Then, Cassie’s eyes locked onto a heavy, bolted metal door at the back of the store. “The main warehouse,” she whispered, her eyes lighting up with greed. Without a second thought, she reached for the handle. “Don’t open it!” I screamed, a cold dread seizing my chest. But it was too late. She yanked the heavy door open. A foul, humid wind rushed out, and with it, a massive, mutated hound—shaggy, blood-matted, and twice the size of a wolf. Cassie shrieked. But instead of running, she reached out, grabbed my shoulder, and pulled me violently in front of her to block the attack. My pupils dilated. Time slowed down. I could see the yellowed, serrated teeth of the beast inches from my neck. Then, a brilliant flash of purple lightning cut through the gloom, striking the beast directly on its skull. The hound collapsed, instantly charred to ash. It was my brother, Brody. I turned around, gasping for air, only to see Cassie throwing herself into Brody’s arms, sobbing hysterically. “It’s her fault! The useless thing… she was running around like a headless chicken, she almost got me killed!” Brody stroked her hair, his eyes softening as he murmured, “I’m here, Cassie. You’re safe now. Don’t cry.” But when his eyes shifted to me, the warmth vanished, replaced by a gaze as cold as winter stone. “If I had been a second later, Cassie would have been torn apart.” “Gwen, I don’t ever want to see you pull a stunt like this again.” By then, our parents had rushed in, panic written all over their faces. My mother grabbed Cassie’s hands, checking her for scratches, before immediately casting a shimmering, iridescent kinetic shield around her. My father, without saying a word, channeled his healing light over Cassie’s body, even though she didn’t have a single scratch on her skin. Only when they were absolutely certain their precious biological daughter was unharmed did they turn their attention to me. Not with worry. With disgust. My mother looked at my blood-spattered, disheveled clothes and sighed, her voice tight with anger. “If you don’t have powers, Gwen, you need to stay locked up in the safe zone. Stop coming out here and making a mess of things!” “Cassie spent twenty years suffering in the slums because of a hospital mistake. I will not let her get hurt. Not even a little.” My father frowned, letting out a long, heavy sigh. “Gwen… to make sure you learn your lesson this time, I won’t be healing your cuts. Maybe a little pain will teach you some respect.” I opened my mouth, the truth burning at the back of my throat. I wanted to scream it at them. But I knew it wouldn’t matter. From the moment Cassie stepped through our door, their hearts had completely shifted. Whenever Cassie shed a single tear, they would look at me with silent guilt, asking me to give her my bedroom, my favorite sweaters, my share of the fresh milk. I had been relegated to a damp, drafty apartment on the outermost edge of our compound, while Cassie took three-hour hot baths in a world where water was more precious than gold. Even this dangerous scavenging run was put together just because Cassie wanted to find some high-end designer makeup. They called it compensation. My fingers tightened around my palm, where the hard brass bullet casing Cassie had thrown was biting into my skin. I had loved them. I had considered them my flesh and blood. But Cassie wanted me dead, and they were letting her do it. Seeing the family rally around her, Cassie’s face twisted into a smug, triumphant grin. She tilted her head, pointing a manicured finger at my dusty backpack. “Hand over everything you scavenged. It belongs in my space.” I froze, my face pale. “I fought for these… Jared and I nearly died for these crackers…” “And?” Cassie sneered, laughing as if I’d said something hilarious. “You lived high on the hog under the Galloway name for twenty years. You stole my life. You stole my parents. What’s a few packets of crackers compared to that?” “This isn’t a tax, Gwen. This is back-payment.” “You’re a parasite who took over my nest. It’s time you paid me back.” Her words were sharp, her hatred raw and suffocating. Brody pinched the bridge of his nose, looking at me with a tired, dismissive expression. “Gwen, please. The mix-up at the hospital is a sore spot for Cassie. Just let her have the backpack.” Without waiting for my answer, he reached over, unclipped my pack, and tossed it at Cassie’s feet. Cassie looked inside, wrinkling her nose at the cheap crackers. “Is this it? Gosh, normal people really are pathetic.” Brody ruffled her hair, his voice dripping with affection. “Don’t let it ruin your day, kiddo. Come on, let’s go find that perfume you wanted.” As their backs retreated down the aisle, I stood frozen in the dark, my chest feeling as though it were filling with lead. During our afternoon break, neither Jared nor I were given any rations. Exhausted, bruised, and lightheaded from hunger, I could feel my vision swimming. Since all our food was locked away in Cassie’s pocket dimension, I forced myself to stand up and walk toward the trucks to find her. But as I approached Brody’s armored SUV, I stopped. Cassie was sitting in the passenger seat, taking a bite out of a crisp, red apple, her fingers playfully tugging at Brody’s sleeve. “Brody, you’re just too soft on her,” she pouted. “Gwen has no power, and she’s a magnet for trouble. Keeping a parasite like her around is just a waste of good food. When the real hordes hit us, she’s going to get us all killed.” Brody chuckled, flicking her forehead affectionately. “She might be useless, Cassie, but she hasn’t done anything unforgivable yet. I can’t just dump her on the side of the road.” Useless. The word felt like a physical weight, pressing down on my lungs. A wave of nausea washed over me. Not from hunger, but from pure, unadulterated disgust. On the very first day of the outbreak, we were all just terrified human beings. My parents and Brody had been cornered in our driveway by a dozen snarling, flesh-eating monsters. They had been paralyzed, screaming, unable to even run. I was the one who grabbed a shovel, screamed at the top of my lungs, and drew the pack away from them. I ran until my lungs burned, dodging teeth and claws by mere inches. It was in that terrifying moment of life and death that a strange, humming warmth had bloomed deep inside my chest. I had unlocked my gift. And at that exact second, my parents and Brody felt their own powers ignite. My mother raised her hands and conjured a shimmering, impenetrable shield, stopping a lunging zombie inches from my face. My brother summoned a web of crackling purple electricity, frying the monsters in an instant. My father ran to me, his hands glowing with a warm, soothing light that closed my scrapes. That night, they had clung to me, weeping, asking me what magnificent power I had received. When I told them my power didn’t let me throw fire or lightning—that I was just a living generator, a “hotspot” that allowed their powers to exist—they had laughed, hugging me tightly. “It doesn’t matter if you can’t fight, Gwen,” they had whispered. “We will protect you forever.” Their love back then had been real. Their disgust now was just as real. Suddenly, a dark, wrapped square appeared in front of my face. “Eat it,” Jared whispered. “It’s still sealed.” My heart swelled. A chocolate bar in this barren wasteland was worth its weight in gold. I shook my head, pushing his hand away. “I can’t take your food, Jared.” But Jared was stubborn. He pressed it firmly into my hand, his dark eyes fierce with sincerity. “It was always yours.” “A year ago, when I was starving in the outer sector, you gave me half your sandwich. All I had left was this chocolate bar. I saved it for you.” I stared at him, my throat tightening. Then, a soft, genuine smile broke through my exhaustion. I tore the wrapper, snapped the bar perfectly in half, and handed one piece back to him. “We share.” But before our fingers could touch, a sharp hand smacked the chocolate out of my grip. Cassie’s shrill voice cut through the air like a siren. “Gwen! How dare you steal from our supply cache!” The chocolate landed in the dirt, covered in gray dust. I slowly stood up, looking straight into her eyes. “I didn’t steal anything. If anything, you’re the one who withheld our lunch.” Cassie sneered, her voice rising to make sure the entire camp could hear. “You contribute absolutely nothing to this squad, Gwen. Why on earth should you get fed?” Her shouting quickly drew a crowd. The other combatants and scavengers began to gather around us. Cassie picked up the dirty chocolate wrapper and held it high above her head. “Look at this, everyone! She thinks because she was raised a Galloway, she can just leech off us forever. And now, she’s stealing premium rations from our vault to feed her little stray dog!” The crowd erupted. “Seriously? Stealing from the vault? That is so cheap!” “I’ve been sick of Gwen for months. She’s the only one who gets a free ride while the rest of us risk our necks!” “Cassie is the real Galloway, and her pocket dimension keeps this entire camp alive!” “Gwen is just a charity case. An ungrateful parasite. We should kick her out!” “Yeah! Exile her!” The sea of angry faces parted as three familiar figures pushed their way to the front. My mother’s eyes were red, looking at me with a mixture of shame and fury. “You’re fighting with Cassie over some useless boy? You are dragging our family name through the dirt, Gwen!” My father stepped in front of Cassie, his face hard with disappointment. “Ever since Cassie came back, you’ve turned into a bitter, jealous stranger, Gwen. You hate that she’s our flesh and blood, and you hate that she has a real gift.” Brody’s face was like granite, his tone icy. “We never held your lack of power against you, Gwen. But stealing from the camp’s survival reserve is where I draw the line.” “The people want you gone, and honestly, I can’t blame them.” My heart didn’t just break; it froze over. So this was my “unforgivable crime”? I let out a soft, dry laugh. “Exile me?” I raised my head, letting my gaze sweep over the angry crowd, finally resting on the cold, indifferent faces of the family I had loved for twenty years. “If I leave, you will regret it. Every single one of you.” “The moment I walk away, those magnificent powers you’re so proud of? They will vanish. Completely.” For a second, there was silence. Then, the Galloways burst out laughing. My mother’s face was filled with mockery. “Vanish? Gwen, listen to yourself. You have officially lost your mind. You are a powerless, ordinary girl.” My father shook his head in disgust. “You would make up a pathetic lie like that just to keep your warm bed?” Brody’s eyes held no warmth, his voice dropping to a freezing whisper. “Get out.” “Don’t make me drag you out myself.” To emphasize his point, he drew his sidearm, pointing the dark, hollow barrel of his pistol straight at my head. At that exact moment, a blood-curdling roar ripped through the trees. The ground began to vibrate. “Oh god! It’s a Goliath class!” someone screamed. “An alpha zombie! It’s leading a horde right to us!” Brody’s face paled. He immediately turned to the squad. “Fall back! Defensive positions, now!” A sea of gray, rotting bodies began to pour over the ridge. In the ensuing chaos, Cassie’s face twisted with pure malice. She subtly stuck her foot out, trying to trip me into the path of the oncoming stampede. But she was too eager. Her foot caught my ankle at an awkward angle, causing her to lose her balance and face-plant hard into the dirt. To my parents and Brody, who had only seen the sudden movement, it looked like I had shoved her. “Gwen! How dare you hurt Cassie!” Brody roared, his face contorted with rage. He lunged forward and kicked me hard in the ribs, sending me sprawling. Screeech— The alpha zombie was almost upon us, its towering, mutated frame shadowing the clearing. With a ruthless glint in his eyes, Brody drew a hunting knife from his belt and sliced it clean across my left wrist. “Since you’re so eager to kill, you can be useful for once. Distract the alpha. Bleed for us.” The thick, metallic scent of fresh blood immediately filled the air. Brody gave me a violent shove, throwing me directly into the path of the towering monster. The roaring horde closed in around me, swallowing me whole. My parents didn’t even look back. Only Jared went wild, trying to break through the line of guards to reach me. “Gwen!” he screamed, his voice cracking with desperation. As the monsters closed in, I screamed back, “Jared, run! Don’t look back!” Surrounded by teeth, claws, and the stench of death, a sudden, violent surge of heat exploded from the depths of my soul. My hidden gift—the dormant, quiet anchor inside me—didn’t just activate. It evolved. I looked through the gaps in the rotting bodies, my eyes locking onto the retreating figures of the three Galloways, who were desperately shielding Cassie as they ran. A parasite? A useless normal? No. Without me, you are the powerless ones. “Since you no longer choose to be my family,” I whispered, the words tasting like iron, “I am taking back everything I ever gave you.”

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I was serving dinner when my son accidentally knocked his bowl of soup onto the floor. He stood there, shivering violently, not daring to look at me. “What are you crying for? You can’t even hold a bowl of soup steady. You’re just as useless as your father!” “Why did I even give birth to you? You’re nothing but a drag!” 1 I stood with my hands on my hips, my voice shrill enough to pierce the thin walls of our damp, hundred-and-fifty-square-foot basement apartment. Jude’s hand froze on the doorknob. He was holding a plastic bag of marked-down bread, his knuckles white from the strain. He looked at me, then down at Sammy, who was shivering on the floor. The dark pools of Jude’s eyes clouded over with a heavy, painful shadow. “Maeve…” his voice was raw, barely a whisper. “Listen to him. He’s only six.” “So what if he’s six?” I sneered, slamming my hand onto the rickety wooden table. “Six years old and he still doesn’t know how to walk on eggshells? He’ll end up just like you, starving to death in this rat hole!” Jude lowered his gaze. He didn’t say a word. He walked over, knelt down, and used his sleeve to wipe the tears from Sammy’s face. The cuff of his shirt was frayed, washed out to a pale gray. “Daddy,” Sammy whimpered, “I’m hungry…” “Daddy will get you something,” Jude said, pulling a crumpled twenty-dollar bill from his pocket. It was what he had earned this afternoon hauling upright pianos at the music shop. After cleaning up the mess on the floor, he glanced at me one last time. There is no anger in his eyes—just a crushing, suffocating exhaustion. He patted Sammy gently on the back and walked out the door. The moment the door clicked shut, my knees buckled. I slid down and collapsed onto the linoleum floor. In my head, the System’s electronic voice went off like confetti cannons. [Incredible! Absolutely villainous! The male lead’s Heartbreak Index is off the charts!] [Reward of $15,000 has been deposited! Next mission preview: Kick the male lead out on a freezing winter night. Let him catch a raging fever in the cold so he can cross paths with the destined Female Lead in his deepest despair!] I took a slow, shaking breath. This job paid well, but it was soul-crushing. Every time I completed a mission, my conscience took a brutal beating. Now that Jude was gone, Sammy instantly dropped the act. The trembling, pitiful little boy disappeared. “Mom,” he said, sitting cross-legged in front of me like a tiny, critical director. “That last line—’starving to death in this rat hole’—the delivery was great. Solid nine out of ten. But that ‘dead weight’ bit at the beginning? You hesitated. It felt a little forced.” “Oh, really? You want to try being the bad guy?” “I can’t,” he said, throwing his little hands up. “I’m cast as the victim. But hey, when Daddy hugged me just now, I wiped some spit and snot on his shoulder to make it look more realistic.” I silently pulled out fifteen hundred dollars from my stash and handed him his cut. He scoots over, slides the money into a metal cookie tin hidden beneath the bed, and peeks back out. “Mom, can I get a little extra this time? I want to buy Daddy a nice pair of work gloves. His hands are all cracked from moving those pianos.” “No,” I said, keeping my face stern. “A ninety-ten split. That was the deal we made.” “Gotta teach financial literacy early, right?” He pouted, but then pulled a few bills from his own stack and pressed them into my palm. “You buy them then, Mom. You have better taste anyway.” I held the crumpled cash, a sudden lump forming in my throat. The cookie tin held Sammy’s “acting fees.” We put on these cruel dramas to trigger the System’s rewards, then pool the money to buy Jude pain-relief patches, knee braces, and the expensive stomach medicine he refused to buy for himself. Three months ago, I woke up with this entity in my head. It told me I was the “evil ex-wife” in a classic redemption romance novel. My job was to abuse the fallen male lead, Jude, and his son, until the gentle female lead appeared to save them. Then, I was supposed to run off with whatever money I could steal, leaving them to suffer in poverty until she healed their broken hearts. My first instinct was to tear the System apart. But then we negotiated. It agreed to pay me a hefty cash reward for every “cruelty mission” I successfully completed. I did the math. Jude’s hands had been severely injured years ago when his family went bankrupt, and now hauling pianos left him in agonizing pain every night. Sammy was severely malnourished, a head shorter than other kids his age. And we were living in a basement where black mold crept up the walls. Between playing the villain and ensuring they actually survived, I chose a third path. I played the cruel stepmother, Sammy played the abused child, and we split the profits, secretly using the money to keep Jude alive. “By the way, Mom,” Sammy says, shoving the tin back under the bed. “When Daddy picked me up from school yesterday, he stood outside the pharmacy for a long time. He didn’t go in. His stomach must be hurting again.” “I know.” I reached under my pillow, pulled out my phone, and ordered stomach medicine and heating patches. “Later, pretend you’re going out to play. Grab the package from the Amazon locker and tell him… tell him you found it.” “Ah, the classic ‘I found it on the street’ routine,” Sammy rolled his eyes. “Mom, can we get a more challenging script next time?” I ruffled his messy hair. “We’ll see.” 2 The next mission from the System came fast. [Major Winter Heartbreak! Kick the male lead out of the house. Force him to spend the night under a bridge in twenty-degree weather. Once his fever hits 104, the Female Lead will make her grand entrance and nurse him back to health!] [Reward: $30,000!] That night, a brutal blizzard hit the city. There is no heating in our basement. Even wrapped in our thin blankets, I could see my own breath puffing into white clouds. Jude sat at the edge of the mattress, studying an old sheet music score under the dim glow of a cheap desk lamp. It was a piece he wrote years ago. Once, his only dream was to be a concert pianist. But when his family’s business collapsed, he lost the means to play, and those compositions became nothing more than useless scraps of paper. I took a deep breath and picked up a basin of cold soapy water. “Jude,” I said, stepping over. “You were twenty minutes late tonight. The soup is ice cold.” He looked up, dark bags weighing heavily under his eyes. “The shop had a last-minute delivery.” “A last-minute delivery?” I let out a mocking laugh. “Does a last-minute delivery pay an extra twenty bucks? Does it put real food on your son’s plate?” “Maeve…” “Don’t say my name!” I raised my voice, making sure it carried. “I must have been blind to marry you. From a brownstone to a basement, from a pianist to a glorified mover. Jude, this is all you’ll ever be. Just accept it!” He pressed his lips together, his jaw clenching tight. I steeled my heart, raising the basin, and threw the water directly at his chest. The cold water drenched his shirt instantly, sticking to his skin. He shivered violently, but he didn’t flinch. He didn’t move. “Get out!” I pointed to the door. “I can’t stand the sight of you. Go freeze your head and think about what a pathetic failure you are!” Jude slowly stood up. Water dripped from his collarbone, splashing onto the floor. He looked at me for what feels like an eternity. His gaze was so intense, so dark, it felt like he was trying to etch my face into his memory. “Okay,” he said quietly. Just one word. Soft, but so heavy it made my chest ache. He turned and grabbed the thin jacket draped over the chair. It was a jacket I secretly bought for him, lined with a hidden down layer I had hand-stitched inside. To him, though, I had claimed it was just a cheap rag I found in a donation bin. He opened the door, and the freezing wind and snow howled inside. Sammy poked his head out of the covers. I gave him a quick nod. He caught on instantly. He jumped out of bed barefoot, crying out as he threw himself toward the door. “Daddy! Daddy, don’t go! Mom, please don’t make him leave!” Jude’s silhouette froze in the doorway. He turned around. Sammy clung to his leg, sobbing hysterically. “Daddy, it’s too cold outside! You’ll freeze!” The crying sounded so painfully real. For a second, even I couldn’t tell if he was acting. Jude kneeled down, using his wet sleeve to wipe Sammy’s face. “Be good, Sammy. Daddy’s just going out for a little bit. Just a little bit.” “You’re lying!” Sammy buried his face in Jude’s neck. “You’re not coming back! Mom says you’re useless and you can’t afford to keep us, so you’re going to abandon me!” My heart twisted violently. Sammy and I usually go over our scripts before every scene. But this line… I never wrote this line. Jude was trembling. He pulled his son close, his voice cracking. “Daddy will never abandon you. Never.” He looked up at me one last time. There was no hatred in his eyes. Only a silent, desperate plea. A quiet, humbling prayer that said: “Don’t do this. At least not in front of our son.” I turned my face away, forcing my voice to sound like ice. “Take your little drama outside. Don’t ruin my night.” Jude stood, gently nudging Sammy back into the room, and quietly closed the door behind him. The howling wind was instantly cut off. Sammy’s tears stopped on a dime. He wiped his face, ran to the small basement window, and stood on his tiptoes to peer out. “Mom, Daddy’s heading toward the highway overpass.” I grabbed the backpack I had prepared hours ago. Inside was a thick fleece blanket, a thermos filled with hot ginger tea, some over-the-counter fever reducers, and hand warmers. “Lock the door behind me. Don’t open it for anyone. I’m going to drop this off. Stay warm.” “Got it,” Sammy climbed back into bed. “I know the drill.” I pulled on my mask and beanie, slipping out the back door. The snow was falling hard now. Jude’s figure was just a tiny speck beneath the streetlights. He walked slowly, stopping occasionally to cough. Even with the extra insulation I sewed in, that jacket was barely enough for a night like this. I took a shortcut to the overpass, hiding the backpack behind a stack of abandoned concrete slabs in the darkest corner. Then, I hid inside a large, rusted drainage pipe nearby, watching him walk in. He stood in the darkness for a long time, then slowly slid down against the concrete wall, pulling his knees to his chest. He looked so small. Like a child abandoned by the entire world. I bit down on my hand to keep from sobbing out loud. Jude sat there for about ten minutes before he noticed something. He reached behind the concrete slab and froze. He pulled out the thick blanket. He stared at it for a long, silent moment, then felt the warmth of the thermos. And then, he did something that made the blood run cold in my veins—he raised his head and looked directly at the drainage pipe where I was hiding.

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Ever since Wesley and I got together, I became the textbook definition of the perfectly devoted girlfriend. My best friend, Victoria, always used to scold me for it. “A woman needs her own ambition, Mallory. What’s the point of clinging to a man like a lapdog all day?” “Wesley used to be a serial player. You think he hasn’t seen women bend over backward for him before?” “You need to use your own magnetism to keep him hooked, otherwise, he’s going to get lured away by someone else sooner or later.” I would just smile, nod, and carefully place the perfectly peeled shrimp into the bento box I was packing for Wesley’s lunch. Victoria would sigh, looking at me with absolute devastation. “You really have zero self-respect. What on earth makes that walking red flag good enough for you?” Victoria had an incredible career and razor-sharp competence; she was the undeniable main character of her own life. Naturally, she harbored a deep-seated contempt for Wesley and his endless history of casual flings. I, on the other hand, was painfully ordinary. It had taken me five grueling years to finally win Wesley over, and I counted my lucky stars every single day. Then came my birthday. Wesley took a phone call, claimed there was an absolute emergency at the office, and rushed out the door so fast he left his apartment keys sitting on the coffee table. I grabbed the keys and chased after him. Only to stumble upon them in the dimly lit alley right below our apartment building. Victoria had her arms hooked tightly around Wesley’s neck. They were kissing, utterly lost in each other. I stood frozen for a long moment. Then, in the silence, I quietly tossed the keys in my hand into the rusted trash can by the curb. 1 The keys hit the bottom of the empty metal bin with a dull, hollow “clack”. Under the sickly yellow glow of the streetlamp, the two embraced figures jolted apart and turned toward the sound. The second Wesley saw me, he shoved Victoria away in a sheer panic. The blood drained from his face, leaving behind an unfiltered, raw terror that he couldn’t mask. “Mallory? What are you doing down here?” The biting wind of early winter slashed through my clothes, sinking straight into my bones. My body began to violently tremble. It felt as if every inch of my skin had been instantaneously stripped of its warmth. I rubbed my freezing hands together and managed to mumble, “Nothing. Just came down to grab something from the bodega.” My mind was a sprawling expanse of static. It was as if the cold had frozen my ability to process complex thought. Victoria casually lifted a thumb to the corner of her mouth, wiping away the lipstick Wesley had smudged. A sharp, breathy laugh slipped past her lips. “Mallory, you’re still as terrible a liar as ever. Look at you, stiff as a board. It’s so unnatural.” “You were just keeping a tight leash on Wesley, right? Checking up on him. It’s fine, it’s just who you are.” I squeezed my numb fingers into fists, my nails digging into my palms. My lips parted, but not a single sound came out. What was I supposed to say? My best friend of over a decade was standing in an alley with the boyfriend I had chased for five years. She looked so poised, so brazenly unapologetic, that it almost made “me” feel like the one who had done something wrong. Victoria playfully punched Wesley’s arm, her tone teetering between teasing and scolding. “Wesley, you really don’t know your own strength when you’re going at it, do you? You completely ruined my makeup!” Wesley frowned, swatting her hand away with aggressive discomfort. “Enough, Victoria! Shut up.” Victoria suddenly giggled, the sound sharp and bright in the quiet alley. “Oh, Wesley, why are you in such a rush to push me away? Are you worried Mallory is going to care?” She turned her gaze to me. “This is nothing. Mallory won’t make a fuss over a little thing like this. Besides, now that she knows, it just means we don’t have to hide it anymore, right?” She looked at me, her smile easy, her voice carrying that familiar, effortless cadence she always used with me. “Mallory, I know exactly how much you love Wesley. You aren’t going to hold this against us, are you?” Back in high school, whenever I encountered a math problem I couldn’t solve, I would take it to Victoria. She was so brilliant, so capable; it only ever took her a few sentences to point out the core of the issue. And then, with that exact same effortless cadence, she would ask, “Mallory, this equation is simple. You won’t mess it up again, will you?” But right now, standing in the freezing cold, I couldn’t bring myself to nod like I did when we were kids. My facial muscles were so paralyzed I couldn’t even force the corners of my mouth into a grateful smile. Wesley stepped forward and grabbed my hands. He looked me up and down, a deep frown creasing his forehead. “Mallory, even if you don’t trust me, how could you run out here without a coat?” “If you catch a chill, you’re going to be up all night with a fever again.” He stripped off his heavy parka and draped it over my shoulders, meticulously zipping it up to my chin. I had picked out that heavy winter coat for him myself. Premium goose down, designed to keep out the chill even in sub-zero temperatures. Yet, standing at the mouth of that alley, enveloped in his coat, my hands continued to shake uncontrollably. I took a deep, jagged breath and pulled my hands out of his grasp. Then, I willed my stiff, frozen legs to move. And I ran. Look at me. I really was this pathetic. No matter how hard I tried, I could never handle a situation with the effortless grace Victoria possessed. Aside from fleeing, my brain couldn’t formulate a single method of survival. I heard Wesley shout my name behind me, his footsteps starting to follow. But I didn’t want to see his face. Not even for a second. I slammed the apartment door shut, locking Wesley and his desperate calls out in the hallway. He stood on the other side of the wood, his voice muffled but frantic. “Mallory, you have to believe me. I promised you I wouldn’t mess around with other women anymore, and I meant it!” “Just open the door, baby. We can talk about this. Please!” I sat alone in the dark living room, staring blankly at the birthday cake on the dining table. My mind was a chaotic hive, buzzing so loudly I thought I might go deaf. I didn’t know how much time passed before the noise outside the door finally ceased. Wesley must have realized he didn’t have his keys and eventually gave up on knocking. The lavish feast I had spent hours cooking had gone entirely cold. When he had told me he’d be free to celebrate my birthday with me, I had been over the moon. I had woken up at dawn to prep all his favorite dishes. Like a ghost, I picked up my chopsticks, grabbed a piece of the spicy Cajun chicken I had made, and placed it in my mouth. The moment the spices hit the back of my throat, a violent coughing fit seized me. Right at that moment, someone knocked on the front door again. A stranger’s voice called out, “Delivery for this unit!” I practically leaped to my feet and threw the door open. Only to find myself face-to-face with Victoria’s beaming, unbothered smile. “Hey, Mal! Wesley had an emergency and had to run back to the office, so I came over to celebrate your birthday with you!” 2 The delivery driver standing behind Victoria awkwardly shoved a paper bag into my hands. He glanced at Victoria, then at me, and offered a polite smile. “Happy birthday, ma’am! You’ve got a really great friend here.” With that, he hurried off down the hall. Victoria cheerfully draped an arm around my stiff shoulders. “Open it, Mal! Let’s see if you like your gift.” I looked down. Inside the delivery bag was the exact bottle of designer perfume I had mentioned to her in passing a month ago. Under normal circumstances, I would have smiled, told her I loved it, and kissed her on the cheek. But right now, there wasn’t a single drop of joy left in my barren heart. I looked up, locking onto Victoria’s face. Without thinking, the question slipped out. “Why are you doing this?” Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she casually patted my shoulder. Her tone was breezy, light as air. “You know me, Mal. My career is the focal point of my life. Sleeping with guys is just how I relieve the pressure.” “You’re always going on and on about how good Wesley is to you, how attentive he is. I guess I was just a little curious. I’ve never actually tried a guy like him before.” “And I have to say, he’s probably the best I’ve ever had. Especially when we did it in his office. You can’t even imagine how good it is for stress relief.” “You’ve got decent taste, Mallory. I’ll give you that.” My hand trembled. The paper bag slipped through my fingers. “Crash.” The sharp, distinct sound of the glass perfume bottle shattering against the hardwood floor echoed in the quiet apartment. I had always known Victoria and I viewed the world differently. She was incredibly open and transactional when it came to men. If she wanted someone, she got him. But none of her relationships ever lasted, and she honestly couldn’t care less. To her, men fell into one of two categories: professional rivals, or objects for physical release. I had always assumed Wesley fell into the first category for her. They were both fiercely ambitious, undeniably arrogant people. It made sense that they naturally rubbed each other the wrong way. But I had forgotten a crucial detail: because they were both so exceptional, they were the ones who truly understood each other. Victoria bent down, glancing at the dripping paper bag with a sigh of pity. “You’re always so clumsy. It’s fine, I’ll buy you another bottle tomorrow.” The faint, elegant floral scent of the ruined perfume filled the air, thick and cloying. A wave of nausea surged from my stomach to my throat. I closed my eyes, my voice coming out like sandpaper. “Don’t bother. I don’t want it.” Victoria narrowed her eyes just a fraction. “Mallory, you aren’t actually going to throw a tantrum and ruin our friendship over a man, are you?” “I let it slide when you act like his personal maid, trailing behind him and pouring his coffee, but if you’re actually going to get mad at me over him, I’m not going to tolerate it.” I shook my head slowly, offering her the only truth I had left. “I don’t know.” Everything had happened too fast. My painfully average brain was short-circuiting under the weight of it all. Victoria used to tell me how much she despised men with heavy romantic baggage. She swore that if she ever settled down, it would be with a guy who had a clean slate, someone who only had eyes for her. Because of that, she always treated Wesley with thinly veiled disdain. She never gave him the time of day when we hung out. She called him a “walking red flag.” He called her an “ice queen.” Even when we shared a dinner table, the two of them would trade subtle, barbed insults disguised as conversation. I was always the peacekeeper, caught in the middle, smoothing things over and defending them to each other. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine they would end up in bed together. Victoria let out a bright, radiant laugh, as if a massive weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “I knew it. You’re the best, Mal.” “You mentioned you wanted to marry him, that you were planning to take him back home to meet your parents. I promise I won’t steal your husband.” “But you know how many women he’s been with. His body is never going to be exclusively yours. We’ve both just been so overwhelmed with work lately, we wanted the thrill of something new. Neither of us took it seriously.” Her mouth kept moving, forming words, but my eyes drifted to the Chanel handbag slung over her shoulder. Hanging from the strap was a small, plush leather sheep charm with a little pink bow. It looked utterly ridiculous against the sleek, elegant leather of the bag. But the problem was, I had seen an almost identical sheep charm—this one with a blue bowtie—stuffed inside Wesley’s luggage. It was blindingly obvious they were a matching set. About a year ago, Wesley had returned from a business trip in Europe. I was unpacking his bags when the little plush toy fell out of a side pocket. Since he was never the type to buy cute trinkets, I had casually asked him about it. Wesley had given a nonchalant shrug. “A client’s kid was obsessed with them. I ended up getting roped into buying one.” His tone had been so fond yet exasperated, making it sound like an endearing inconvenience. I hadn’t thought twice about it. I believed him completely. But seeing the pink one now, an entire year’s worth of tiny, overlooked details suddenly slammed into place. How Victoria, who supposedly hated Wesley, would always bring his favorite artisanal chili crisp when she came over. How Wesley, when complaining about how annoying Victoria was, would perfectly omit the hazelnut syrup from the coffee order because he somehow knew she was violently allergic. And how, when Victoria came with me to drop off lunch at his office, the receptionist had greeted both me “and” Victoria by name. I had foolishly smiled at Wesley back then and said, “Wow, your front desk staff is amazing. They even remember Victoria.” Victoria had pinched my cheek, laughing. “I’m your best friend, Mal. Of course they remember me.” And Wesley had smiled that easy smile of his, saying it was just standard protocol. I had been so busy happily unpacking his lunch that I completely missed the dark, electric undercurrent passing between them. Every single memory was a dull blade sawing against my ribs. Staring into Victoria’s beautiful, clear eyes, I forced out every word with deliberate precision. “Leave. I don’t want to celebrate my birthday.” 3 Victoria’s perfectly arched brows drew together. She was visibly displeased. “Mallory, you—” Before she could finish, her cell phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID, and the irritation vanished from her face instantly. She answered it. “Wesley, I thought you had a work emergency? Why are you calling me?” “Well, perfect timing. Your girlfriend is throwing a tantrum. You need to talk her down.” A beat later, Victoria’s eyes slid over to me. Lazy. Triumphant. She said, “Mal, Wesley wants to talk to you.” Before I could even agree or object, she put the phone on speaker. His deep, magnetic voice filled the room. “Mallory, look, I know you’re upset, but it’s not what you think.” “A few weeks ago, Victoria was getting pressured to drink by some aggressive clients at a dinner. I couldn’t just sit there and watch, so I stepped in. I took her home, and things just got a little blurred…” Victoria rolled her eyes, letting out a soft scoff. “Mallory, you know I deleted every other girl from my phone the day we started dating. But she’s your best friend. I couldn’t just abandon her.” A fiery, suffocating rage erupted in my chest. My breathing turned ragged. Right. The love of my life slept with my best friend to “save” her. What a noble, perfectly rational excuse. Just last night, as we lay in bed, I had been describing my dream wedding to him. He had held me so tenderly, whispering softly against my ear, “Whatever you want, baby. As long as I get to marry you, I don’t care what the wedding looks like.” He had nuzzled his face into my neck, his hair tickling my skin until I laughed. “I’m so lucky to have you,” he had murmured. “I don’t know who else in the world would ever treat me as well as you do.” His words had been so poetic, so deeply affectionate. They had made me laugh with pure, unadulterated happiness. And now, their utter shamelessness was making me laugh all over again. “Wesley, I threw your keys in the garbage. Don’t bother coming back.” The nausea sitting heavy at the back of my throat threatened to spill over. I gripped my hands so tightly my nails broke the skin, using the physical pain to keep from throwing up. Wesley let out a heavy sigh, his tone shifting into tired condescension. “Can you just stop acting crazy for one second? I’m about to walk into a meeting. I’ll come home and deal with this tonight.” The call clicked off. Victoria raised an eyebrow, a flash of genuine surprise in her eyes. “Mallory, even if you’re pissed, you don’t need to take the joke that far, do you?” “You accepted his parade of ex-girlfriends without a fight. Besides, I just told you I’m not trying to take him from you. Just marry the guy and be happy.” “You literally brought him water when he was nursing his ex-girlfriend through a fever. Why are you suddenly drawing the line here? Aren’t you afraid you’re going to push him away?” I lowered my eyes. It felt like someone had hollowed out my chest with a spoon. She was right. When I was desperately trying to win Wesley over, she had witnessed every single pathetic, humiliating thing I did. In her eyes, I was a woman who would gladly sacrifice every ounce of her dignity and temper just to keep Wesley happy. And she wasn’t wrong. I “was” that spineless. I was so pathetic that even after catching them making out, I didn’t even have the courage to scream. Victoria unhurriedly pulled a slim cigarette from her purse. The lighter “clicked”. The tip glowed orange. She took a long drag and blew a stream of smoke into the air between us. “Mallory, I’m only warning you because you’re my best friend. Wesley and I are incredibly sexually compatible.” “I won’t actively try to steal him from you, but if you keep pushing him away like this, and he decides to jump ship? Don’t blame me.” “You can take your time to think about it. I’ll let myself out.” Through the haze of the cigarette smoke, Victoria’s expression suddenly looked foreign to me. Like a stranger’s. The heavy door shut with a definitive “thud”, leaving me alone. 4 It wasn’t until my phone buzzed with a text from Victoria that I realized I had been sitting in the dark, silent living room until late into the night. She wrote: [Wesley knows you go to bed early, so he said he wouldn’t bother coming back tonight since he’s working late.] [Since you already know, I figured I wouldn’t hide it from you anymore.] Following the text was a photo. It was Wesley, eyes closed in deep sleep, his damp hair resting against his forehead. Beneath him were the distinctive dark satin sheets of Victoria’s bed. I noticed immediately that he wasn’t wearing the dress shirt he had left the apartment in. He was wearing a familiar men’s pajama top. I had seen the matching women’s set hanging in Victoria’s closet a hundred times. In the photo, the collar of the pajamas was slightly unbuttoned, revealing fresh, dark red marks scattered across his collarbone. Jarring and violently bright. They had clearly been made very recently. Another message popped up: [He was just too exhausted today. He’s crashing at my place. Don’t worry, he’s in good hands.] The tight, agonizing string that had been holding my brain together abruptly snapped. The phone screen went dark, reflecting my plain, unremarkable face. I curled my freezing body into a tight ball, feeling as if every drop of strength had been siphoned from my veins. I couldn’t even keep a steady grip on my phone. Then, the screen lit up again. It was my mom, checking in via text: [Hey honey, are you out celebrating with Victoria for your birthday?] I was so incredibly thankful she hadn’t called. I wouldn’t have known how to manipulate my voice to lie to her. I forced my stiff, rigid fingers to move. I typed back a completely fabricated response: [Yeah!] I even attached a giant, grinning emoji. The screen dimmed for a second before lighting up again. My mom was a fast typer. [You’re twenty-eight today. When are you bringing Wesley back home to visit?] I stared at the glowing words, entirely paralyzed. I had previously told my mom that things with Wesley were incredibly stable. That I was going to bring him home for the holidays this year, and that we would probably start looking at rings soon. Now, it was all a sick, twisted joke. Sensing my hesitation, my mom quickly sent another message. [You aren’t getting any younger, sweetie. You aren’t a big-shot executive like Victoria. You need to find a good man and settle down.] [Mom knows best. Time isn’t kind to women. You really need to lock down a timeline with him.] I blinked, my eyes burning with unshed tears. Growing up, my grades were perfectly average. My jobs were unremarkable. The thing I heard most from my parents was: “Why can’t you be a little more like Victoria?” There were times I tried. I would study until my eyes bled, but I couldn’t even come close to her class ranking. I hated to admit it, but whenever I looked at Victoria, I was consumed by awe. And underneath that awe, a deeply rooted, quiet inferiority. The first time I met Wesley was right after I entered the corporate world. He was the liaison for a massive client account, and within three sentences, he had effortlessly resolved a project bottleneck that had been plaguing our team for weeks. One look was all it took for me to realize he was cut from the exact same luminous cloth as Victoria. He had that magnetic, untouchable gravity that made an insecure girl like me instantly drown. To me, brilliant people like Wesley and Victoria were like the moon. I could look up at them, admire them from afar. But I was just a tiny, insignificant moth, desperately fluttering my wings, trying to get a little closer to the light. For a brief moment, the moon’s light had landed on me, and in my absolute delusion, I thought I could keep it forever. I sniffled quietly, wiping my nose as I typed a few words back to my mom. [Mom, I’m so tired. Can I come home?] If you can’t catch the moon, you have to stop chasing it. It was time to wake up. [Of course. I’ll be waiting for you, baby.] I backed out of the chat and opened Wesley’s. His contact name was still “Mr. Pierce”—the formal title I had saved him under years ago when I boldly asked for his number under the guise of work. I took a deep breath, pressed the microphone button, and sent him a single voice memo. “Wesley, it’s over.”

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