Author: Momo Chan

Eight years of marriage, and Samantha had established one non-negotiable rule. We shared a high-yield savings account, and the money inside was reserved strictly for catastrophe. Neither of us was allowed to touch a single cent without absolute, mutual consent. A month ago, my dad needed emergency heart surgery. The hospital required a thirty-thousand-dollar deposit before they would put him on the surgical schedule. I begged Samantha to pull the money from our account. Instead, she slipped the platinum debit card into her personal wall safe and turned the dial. “Doesn’t your family have relatives you can borrow from?” she’d said, her voice completely devoid of warmth. “Stop eyeing our safety net every time something goes wrong. When are you going to grow up, Seth?” In the end, I sold my grandfather’s vintage gold Omega watch—the only heirloom I owned—to cover the deposit. Tonight, Brad invited us to a housewarming party at his brand-new high-rise condo downtown. His father raised a glass of scotch, beaming as he publicly thanked Samantha for putting up the hundred and twenty thousand dollars for their down payment. And there, sitting casually on the sleek glass coffee table, was the platinum card from our joint account. Brad put on his signature wounded look, his eyes welling up with practiced grief. “Please don’t be mad, Seth. Ever since my divorce, my dad and I haven’t had a real place to live. Sam was just looking out for us.” Samantha stepped in front of him, her brow furrowed with deep irritation as she faced me. “Money can always be made back,” she said, her tone sharp and dismissive. “They needed a place to live. Waiting a few extra days for your dad’s surgery didn’t kill him, Seth. Don’t go rubbing salt in Brad’s old wounds on his big night.” I looked at her, and suddenly, I didn’t even have the energy to argue. I had spent years believing that account was our shared shield against the storms of life. Now I realized it was nothing more than her secret safety net for another man. She broke the rule she swore was sacred. Which meant I was officially done holding this marriage together. … Inside Brad’s condo, the lights were bright, filled with the warm, easy laughter of Samantha’s inner circle. Someone complimented the city views; someone else praised Samantha for being such a loyal, selfless friend. That debit card remained on the coffee table, a gleaming silver monument to how much of a fool I had been for eight years. I set my glass down, turned, and walked toward the front door. Before the elevator doors could slide shut, Samantha caught up. She slammed her hand against the sensor, her face twisted in frustration. “Seth, are you seriously doing this right now?” “Doing what?” “Throwing a childish tantrum! Today is a major milestone for Brad. Who are you trying to play the victim for?” I stared at her hand resting against the elevator frame. That was the same hand that had pressed cold washcloths to my forehead when I had a fever years ago. It was also the same hand that had clicked the safe door shut while my dad was lying in a hospital bed. “I’m not throwing a tantrum.” “Then why are you leaving?” Her eyes burned with accusation. “Brad’s family and friends are all in there. When you pull a face like this, how is he supposed to hold his head up?” A dry, bitter laugh escaped my chest. “How he holds his head up is his problem, isn’t it?” Samantha’s expression hardened into ice. “Stop being so cruel. Brad has had a terrible year. He’s taking care of his sick father after a messy divorce without a roof over their heads. I just gave him a hand.” I nodded slowly. “A hundred and twenty thousand dollars for a down payment. That’s quite a hand, Sam. You’re remarkably generous with everyone except me.” I raised my left wrist for her to see. It was completely bare. The gold Omega watch my grandfather gave me was gone, transformed into a string of medical codes on a hospital billing statement. She glanced at my wrist for a fraction of a second, her impatience flaring. “Are you really bringing up that watch again? I told you a hundred times, it wasn’t that I didn’t care about your dad. It was about protecting our emergency fund. You sold that watch out of impulse. How is that my fault?” I looked at her, genuinely unable to process her words. “If I hadn’t sold it, my dad would have been wheeled right out of the surgical unit!” “Doesn’t your family have relatives?” she snapped, cutting me off before I could finish. “Seth, you can’t just run to our joint savings every time a bump in the road happens. That was our ultimate security. I just wanted you to be mature about it.” “Ultimate security.” Hearing those words come out of her mouth felt like a sick joke. Eight years ago, on the day we got married, she had slid that card into my palm and smiled. “Seth, no matter what life throws at us, we’ll always have this.” It turned out “no matter what” didn’t include my father’s life. Brad came hurrying out into the hallway, holding an umbrella, his eyes rimmed with red. “Seth, please don’t blame Sam. It’s all my fault. My dad’s knees are ruined—he couldn’t stay in that dark basement apartment anymore. If this makes you uncomfortable, I’ll put the condo on the market tomorrow.” The moment the words left his mouth, Samantha stepped protectively in front of him. “You will do no such thing. The place is bought. You don’t just sell a home because someone is having a mood swing.” She turned back to me, her tone dropping an octave, heavy with command. “Seth, your dad’s surgery is already over. The whole thing is behind us. Brad’s father has severe rheumatoid arthritis; he can barely get out of bed on rainy days. Can’t you show a little basic empathy?” In that quiet hallway, everything finally crystallized. It wasn’t that Samantha lacked empathy. She had plenty of it. She just saved every drop for someone else. I stepped out of the building into a heavy downpour. Brad held the umbrella out toward me. “Seth, take this. It’s pouring. You’ll get soaked.” I ignored him. Behind me, Samantha’s voice cut through the rain. “If you walk away tonight, Seth, don’t expect me to come begging you to come home!” I kept walking. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text from my dad. “Seth, the physical therapist helped me walk a few steps today. Sam works so hard at her firm, make sure you don’t fight with her on my account.” Rain drops hit the glass screen, blurring his words into a streak of light. I stood under a street lamp and dialed a number I’d saved earlier that afternoon. “Hi. That one-bedroom unit with the elevator near the old district? I’ll take it.” “Can I sign the lease tonight?” … The new rental was on the edge of the historic quarter. Small, but it had an elevator and plenty of afternoon sun. I put down three months’ rent upfront, then stopped by a pharmacy to pick up sterile dressings, antiseptic, and nutritional supplements. First thing the next morning, I took a cab to pick up my dad. He had been staying in a tiny, dilapidated ground-floor unit on the outskirts of town. The hallway was barely wide enough for one person, the paint flaking off in grey patches, mold creeping up the corners of the baseboards. When I pushed the door open, he was sitting on the edge of the narrow twin bed, mending an old canvas jacket with a needle and thread. The lights weren’t on. The window was blocked by the brick wall of the adjacent building, casting the room in a permanent, gloomy dusk. Hearing me come in, he frantically shoved the needle and thread under his pillow, looking like a child caught doing something wrong. “Seth! What are you doing here?” He forced a smile. “I’m doing fine here. You shouldn’t keep running over. Sam will get annoyed.” I didn’t answer. I knelt down and gently rolled up his pant leg. The surgical incision was red around the edges, the gauze underneath completely soaked through with sweat and fluid. “The doctor said you have to keep this clean and dry,” I said, my voice tight. “Why didn’t you call me?” “It’s nothing.” He quickly pulled his pant leg back down. “It’s just been humid with all this rain. Once the sun comes out, it’ll heal right up.” On the small folding table sat half a bowl of plain oat porridge. No vegetables. No protein. The small electric desk fan was unplugged, its plastic blades coated in a layer of dust. “Why isn’t the fan on?” Dad smiled sheepishly. “Electricity adds up…” He trailed off, catching the look on my face, and quickly added, “Besides, I’m not hot.” I didn’t press him. Asking more would only make me hate myself even more for letting him live like this. I unzipped my duffel bag and began packing his medications, his clothes, and his meager belongings. Panicking, Dad pushed himself up from the bed, using the frame for balance. “Seth, what are you doing? I’m fine here! It’s cheap. Don’t go throwing money away!” “I leased an apartment,” I said, packing a stack of his undershirts. “We’re moving today.” “Does Sam know?” My hands paused on the zipper. “She doesn’t need to know.” Dad’s expression shifted instantly. He grabbed my wrist, his eyes turning red with panic. “Did you two fight again? Seth, my life was saved by the surgeons—don’t go ruining your marriage over me!” Before I could reply, heavy footsteps echoed down the narrow hallway. Samantha appeared in the doorway, a set of valet car keys dangling from her fingers. Her eyebrows were drawn together, her nostrils flaring slightly as if the damp air of the building was physically repulsive to her. “Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” she demanded. “I need that vendor contract file. Where did you leave it?” The moment my dad saw her, he stood up straight, painfully anxious. “Sam! You’re here? Have you eaten? Let me get you some water.” His leg hadn’t healed, and he stumbled after taking just two steps, catching himself on the edge of the table before reaching for a plastic cup. Samantha instinctively took a step back, dodging the cup he held out. “No thanks. I’m not thirsty.” She held a hand up near her nose, her disgust barely concealed. “You need to wrap things up and come home, Seth. It smells terrible in here. I don’t know how anyone lives like this.” Dad’s hand froze in midair, holding the cup. I stepped forward, took the cup from his hand, and set it back on the table. “Yeah,” I said softly, looking her dead in the eye. “You’re right. It’s no place for a human being.” Samantha caught the venom in my tone, her face darkening. “Don’t take that tone with me, Seth. Your dad chose this place himself. I didn’t put him here.” “And why did he have to choose this place? Do you really not know?” “What am I supposed to know?” She threw her hands up, as if I were being completely delusional. “All I know is that every single time something goes wrong in your life, you find a way to make it my fault.” Right then, her phone buzzed. Samantha glanced at the caller ID, and the sharp edge in her voice evaporated instantly, replaced by a soft, tender warmth. “Brad? What’s wrong?” I couldn’t hear what he said on the other end, but Samantha walked over to the window, lowering her voice into a soothing murmur. “The new mattress feels too firm for your dad? Okay, don’t worry. I’ll order an imported latex topper right now.” “We’ll get the plush high-end one. His back is bad; he shouldn’t have to settle.” The small room fell dead silent. Dad lowered his eyes, quietly smoothing out the wrinkles on his thin sheet. The bed he was sitting on was an old, creaky wooden frame left behind by the landlord. The thin foam pad underneath was so worn down you could feel the slats pressing into your ribs. He had spent the last three days lying on that frame, enduring the pain after a major operation, afraid to say a word to me because he didn’t want to be a burden. Samantha hung up the phone, her face perfectly composed. “Where is the file?” “In the second drawer of the study desk,” I said flatly. She turned to leave, but her eyes caught my left wrist again. “Did you really sell your watch?” I didn’t answer. Her tone softened slightly, as if offering me a peace token. “When my quarterly bonus hits next month, I’ll buy you a new one. A better one. Stop letting this hang between us. Couples shouldn’t hold grudges.” “If you want to move your dad into a better place, go ahead and manage it. Just don’t come back complaining later that I didn’t help.” The door clicked shut behind her. Dad stood there for a long time before slowly sinking back onto the bed. He reached under his pillow and pulled out a thick wad of bills—tens and twenties, neatly folded and smoothed out. He pressed them into my hand. “There’s eight hundred dollars here,” he whispered. “You didn’t use Sam’s money for the surgery, but that watch was yours. Consider this me paying you back, bit by bit.” I looked at the wrinkled, sweat-stained bills in my palm. A lump lodged in my throat so tight I could barely breathe. Outside, thunder rumbled across the dark sky. I folded his fingers back over the money and squeezed his cold hand. “Dad. You don’t owe anyone a single cent.” … The night I settled my dad into his new apartment, he slept soundly through the entire night for the first time since his surgery. Before falling asleep, he kept mumbling, “This place is too nice, Seth. The rent must be crazy. Let’s break the lease tomorrow…” I tucked the blanket around his shoulders and stroked his graying hair. “Sleep, Dad. I’ve got it covered.” By the time I drove back to our house, it was past midnight. The living room lights were blazing. Samantha wasn’t home. On the glass coffee table lay a framed photo—a selfie from Brad’s housewarming party. Samantha was standing between Brad and his father, beaming at the camera, looking like part of a happy, perfect family. I walked into the study to find my passport and personal documents. Lying on the desk was Samantha’s iPad, its screen still lit. I swiped the screen. It wasn’t password-protected. A bank statement application was still open. I froze, then began scrolling down. It wasn’t just the hundred and twenty thousand dollar down payment. Over the past six months, Samantha had made multiple large transfers to Brad from our joint emergency account. “Physical therapy package: $1,800.” “Custom furniture balance: $6,500.” “Memo: Brad’s backup fund: $4,000.” I sat in the desk chair, reading every single transaction line by line. I thought I had grown numb to the pain. But sitting there in the quiet room, a surge of cold nausea rushed up my throat. On the third day after my dad’s surgery, the chief surgeon had recommended a high-grade imported anti-inflammatory regimen to prevent infection. It cost five hundred dollars. I had called Samantha to ask if we could charge it. She had said on the phone: “Generic medicine works just fine, Seth. Don’t go demanding the most expensive option for everything. You have zero financial discipline.” Yet the statements proved that the very next day, she had authorized an eighteen-hundred-dollar physical therapy package for Brad’s father. The front door lock chimed. Samantha walked in, carrying the faint, sweet scent of wine. When she saw me sitting in the dimly lit study, her steps faltered for a second, her brow instantly furrowing. “Are you going through my things again?” I turned the iPad toward her. The screen was still displaying the list of transfers. “When were you planning on telling me about these?” She glanced at the screen, snatching the tablet away with a flick of her wrist. “I don’t need to report every single routine expense to you.” “Routine expenses? You transferred tens of thousands of dollars from our joint savings to Brad!” “So what?” Her face turned cold and defensive. “We’ve been married for eight years, Seth. Do I not even have the right to manage our money?” A cold laugh escaped my lips, though my throat felt raw. “My dad needed thirty thousand dollars for life-saving surgery, and you called that account an ‘untouchable security fund.’ But the second Brad calls, you empty it out without batting an eye.” She rubbed her temples, looking at me as if I were a child throwing a irrational fit. “Brad’s situation was a genuine emergency! Their landlord broke the lease without warning. They were about to be put on the street. His father is ill—he couldn’t handle sleeping in a car!” “And my dad lying on an operating table wasn’t an emergency?” She sighed, softening her tone slightly, adopting a tone of patronizing patience. “Seth, it’s not that I didn’t care about your dad. I just knew your family had relatives to rely on to scrape the money together. Brad has nobody.” “Except he has you.” The moment those words left my mouth, her expression shifted dramatically. “Do you really have to make everything sound so disgusting?” “Is it disgusting? You were bold enough to do it, but you can’t bear to hear it out loud?” She stood there, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Seth, I work sixty hours a week. I am exhausted. I come home, and instead of peace, I have to deal with you putting me on trial over every petty detail.” “I spent money, and I will earn it back. Stop acting like a debt collector in your own home.” I chuckled, a sound entirely devoid of humor. “Right. Wanting my own money back makes me a debt collector.” She choked on her words, unable to find an immediate reply. After a long silence, Samantha spoke again, her tone carefully measured. “Seth, I know you’re bitter about selling that watch. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the jeweler. We’ll buy a new one—whatever brand you want.” “Let’s stop fighting over outsiders.” I didn’t answer. I stood up, walked over to the filing cabinet, and pulled out my birth certificate and our marriage license. She frowned. “What are you doing with those?” “Seth, if you’re trying to scare me by packing up and playing missing husband, I don’t have the energy for your games.” I slid the documents into my leather briefcase. “Don’t worry. Nobody is playing games with you.” Her phone rang again. A voice memo from Brad echoed clearly in the quiet room: “Sam… my dad says his chest feels really tight. I’m scared. Can you please come over and check on him?” Samantha looked at me, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face. But it lasted only a second. She reached for her coat on the chair. “Brad needs help. I’m going over for an hour. Stay here and cool off.” The door closed with a firm click. I sat back down at the computer, opened a browser, and typed into the search bar: “Marital Asset Division Agreement – Dissolution of Marriage.” … Over the next few days, I stopped arguing with Samantha entirely. I hired a family law attorney and began organizing our joint bank statements and financial records. Samantha started coming home later and later. Occasionally, when she caught me reviewing spreadsheets at the dining table, she would stop and ask, “Still pouting?” I would close the laptop. “No.” She would let out a sigh of relief and nod. “Good. Married couples shouldn’t keep dwelling on old mistakes.” One evening, she brought home a takeout container of artisanal hot dumplings from a little shop in Chinatown. She set it in front of me. “You used to love these.” I stared at the discount sticker on the plastic box. My mind drifted back to the first year of our marriage. It had been pouring rain, and she had stood in line for forty minutes to buy me a box of those exact dumplings. Back then, she barely had a hundred dollars left in her checking account, but she had slid the last dumpling into my bowl, smiling as she insisted she wasn’t hungry. It turned out that some fires only stay warm for a short season. … The following afternoon, a medical supply truck delivered a heavy-duty oxygen concentrator to the house. Dad’s lung capacity was weak post-surgery, and the cardiologist had strongly advised keeping a medical-grade unit at his place. I had researched models for days before dropping fourteen hundred dollars on this specific unit. It was the last major expense I could afford out of my personal salary this month. I left the machine boxed up in the entryway, intending to hire a van to haul it to Dad’s apartment that evening. I was finalizing the driver’s arrival time when the front door opened. Samantha walked in, trailing Brad and his father. Brad held a designer gift bag, offering a timid, polite smile. “Seth… we just came to pick up a few boxes Sam let me store here. I hope we’re not interrupting.” I ignored him, stepping past them to wheel the oxygen concentrator toward the hallway. Brad’s father suddenly caught sight of the heavy silver unit, his eyes lighting up. “Oh, what’s this? Looks like high-tech medical gear.” “An oxygen concentrator,” Samantha answered offhandedly. The old man reached out, running his hand over the slick plastic casing. “Lately, I’ve been feeling so short of breath at night. My chest gets so tight… I wonder if a machine like this actually helps?” Brad hastily pulled his father’s arm back. “Dad, don’t touch that. That’s Seth’s.” “I was just asking,” his father said with a faint, self-pitying chuckle. “An old chronic case like me isn’t worth using fancy gear like that anyway.” Samantha looked at the old man, a sudden decision flashing across her eyes. “If you like it, Uncle, take it home.” I froze, turning to look at her in disbelief. “What did you just say?” “It’s just sitting here anyway,” she said, reaching out to grab the handle of the unit. “I’ll help them load it into the car.” I stepped in front of the machine, slamming my hand down on the frame. “I bought this for my father’s post-operative recovery. I am taking it to him tonight.” Samantha’s face turned sour. “Isn’t your dad walking around fine now? It’s not like he needs oxygen twenty-four hours a day.” “Seth, stop buying expensive medical toys on a whim. Money doesn’t grow on trees.” I stared at her, a cold, empty smile creeping onto my face. “Buying this for my dad is throwing money away… but the second his father says his chest feels tight, you just give it to him?” Brad’s face turned pale. He frantically shook his hands. “Seth, no, really, we don’t want it! Sam, stop it, my dad isn’t that bad off—” Samantha’s voice dropped into a dark, warning register. “Seth, Brad’s father is standing right here. Don’t make a scene and embarrass me.” “I’ll buy your dad another one tomorrow.” “It’s just a few hundred bucks. Do you really have to be this pathetic and stingy?” I pulled the machine back half a step. “This isn’t about the money. Nobody is taking this machine today.” Samantha lost her temper entirely. She stepped forward, grabbed my wrist, and forcefully shoved me out of the way. The sudden push caught me off guard. My back slammed hard against the wooden edge of the entryway shoe cabinet. A dull, throbbing pain shot up my spine, and my grasp slipped—knocking over a brass tray. Keys spilled across the hardwood floor with a sharp, deafening clatter. The room went instantly dead silent. Samantha stood frozen for a second, staring down at her own hand, her mouth parting as if she wanted to say something. But Brad spoke first, his voice trembling dramatically. “Seth! Are you okay? Sam didn’t mean to shove you—it’s all my fault! I shouldn’t have brought my dad here!” Samantha immediately turned her attention to him, her tone softening with comfort. “Don’t cry, Brad. None of this is your fault.” Without giving me another glance, she grabbed the handles of the heavy oxygen concentrator, turned, and carried it out the door. I stood in the entryway, making no move to stop her. As Brad’s father walked out, he cast a lingering look back at me. “Seth, modern marriage requires flexibility. A woman willing to spend money on outsiders just proves she has a good, charitable heart.” The heavy front door clicked shut. The house was left in silence, save for the scattered keys lying around my feet. I knelt down slowly, picking them up one by one. House key. Garage opener. Mailbox key. And the last one—a tarnished brass key to a matching pair of novelty couple’s padlocks Samantha and I had bought during our sophomore year of college. It was covered in rust. I gathered them all together and placed them neatly on the glass coffee table. Next to them, I laid down three items: The signed divorce petition. My wedding ring. And the receipt for the fourteen-hundred-dollar oxygen concentrator. At nine o’clock that evening, I pulled my suitcase out the front door. As the elevator doors slid shut, my phone screen lit up with a text from Samantha: “Uncle is hooked up to the oxygen now. His breathing is much smoother. He feels a lot better.” I pressed the side button, darkening the screen. It felt like watching the very last ember of my marriage flicker out into pitch-black ash. A second later, another text popped up from her: “Stop being dramatic. Go cook some soup at home and wait for me to get back so we can talk.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556426”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After the miscarriage, insomnia became my shadow. I watched the sunrise every morning with hollow, burning eyes while my body deteriorated from the inside out. When my husband took me to a psychiatrist, the doctor diagnosed me with severe depression following pregnancy loss. “What’s the treatment plan?” I asked softly. “Family support. He needs to be present, deeply involved—” Before the doctor could finish, Dean’s phone buzzed on the glass desk. The caller ID popped up with a photo of his young secretary, Ashley. Dean stood up like a Pavlovian response. “Admit her,” he commanded the doctor, his eyes already fixed on the door. “Use your best equipment, your top specialists. Whatever it takes to fix her mental state.” He turned to me, offering a rushed, practiced excuse. “If I hadn’t taken time off to bring you here, I wouldn’t have left Ashley to handle that meeting alone. She’s trapped out at the golf course in a torrential downpour. I have to go get her.” He grabbed his coat. “Stay here and get better. The second you’re cured, I’ll bring you home.” He vanished down the hallway before I could draw a breath. He seemed to have forgotten why I fell in the first place—because Ashley had spilled scalding broth right beneath my feet. And now, because of her, he was handing me over to a psychiatric ward. In that quiet, terrifying moment, I finally understood: the child I had nearly destroyed myself to conceive meant far less to him than bringing an umbrella to his secretary. … “Laura,” the doctor said after Dean left, his voice filled with gentle sympathy. “Honestly, you don’t need to be hospitalized. I’ll write you a prescription to help you sleep. Once your body recovers, we can discuss resuming IVF treatments.” “No need for the prescription,” I said, staring at the sterile floor. “And I won’t be doing IVF anymore.” The doctor blinked, taken aback. “Giving up? But… you and Mr. Mitchell won’t be able to have children naturally.” “Then we won’t.” I didn’t tell him the rest. I had options if I truly wanted a child. Because the infertile one wasn’t me—it was Dean, diagnosed with severe oligospermia. To protect his ego and secure his position as sole heir to Mitchell Corporation, I had guarded his secret with my life. I had even bribed a fertility specialist during his routine executive checkup to harvest his sample. After enduring over two hundred agonizing hormone injections, we finally yielded a single, viable embryo. A miracle, the doctor had called it. And the day after my positive test, that miracle was erased by Ashley. The doctor had warned me that cultivating a second embryo was mathematically near-impossible. That baby was almost certainly our only chance. Which meant Dean wasn’t just losing a child. He was about to lose his kingdom. The irony was almost poetic. I had driven myself to the brink of a breakdown worrying about his legacy, while he slept peacefully every night—waking up only to worry about his secretary’s comfort. If he didn’t care about the ground crumbling beneath his feet, why should I burn myself alive to keep him warm? The suffocating knot in my chest suddenly snapped. A strange, cold clarity washed over me. I walked out of the clinic and called my attorney, asking him to draft divorce papers immediately. When I arrived home, my mother-in-law, Margaret, seized my wrists, her face pale with rage. “Your father-in-law is handing thirty percent of the company shares to that bastard son of his!” she hissed. “All because that boy’s wife is pregnant with twins! Give me a straight answer, Laura—when are you and Dean going to get pregnant again? If you don’t produce an heir right now, the Mitchell empire goes to that illegitimate mongrel!” The “bastard” she referred to was Ian Mitchell—Richard’s secret son. I offered a faint, bitter smile. “Mom… Dean and I can’t have children anymore.” Before I could mention the divorce, Margaret’s expression turned terrifyingly stern. “If you can’t carry a child, then someone else will!” I froze, staring at her in disbelief, then let out a soft laugh. “Whatever makes you happy.” Margaret’s fury instantly evaporated into a bright, chilling smile. “Laura, I always knew you were a sensible girl! Once Ashley gives birth, you’ll raise the baby as your own. Consider it a reward for your generosity.” It took me several seconds to absorb the words. “Ashley is pregnant.” My hands trembled as I pulled up my email inbox. Days after my miscarriage, Ian had sent me an email with the subject line: “Look at the man you married.” At the time, drowning in grief and suspicious of his motives, I hadn’t even opened the attachment. Now, my fingers shook as I clicked it. It was a year’s worth of Ashley’s corporate expense reports for luxury hotel stays. Over half the dates overlapped precisely with Dean’s business trips. While I was pumping my body full of hormones and weeping through sleepless nights, Dean was busy building an affair behind my back. But as the shock settled, a question emerged: Was the baby in Ashley’s womb actually Dean’s? The fertility specialists had made it clear—the odds of Dean conceiving naturally were zero. I let out a cold, involuntary laugh. Margaret misread my reaction, thinking I was masking my heartbreak. She squeezed my hand, offering a soothing, hypocritical tone. “I know it’s hard to swallow, sweetheart. But endure it for Dean’s sake. Once he secures the shares and locks in the chairman position, you can punish Ashley however you like. You know how much I despise mistresses, but desperate times call for desperate measures.” Mother and son were truly cut from the same cloth. Dean used to tell me that the one thing he hated most in this world was unfaithful men, swearing he would never become like his father. Yet here he was, following in Richard’s exact footsteps—using a mistress to manufacture an heir. And Margaret, who had suffered a lifetime of infidelity, was now asking me to silently suffer the exact same torture. She might be willing to swallow poison with a smile, but I was done. As soon as she left, I called my lawyer back. “Redraft the agreement. I want him left with absolutely nothing.” Dean walked through the front door an hour later with Ashley trailing right behind him. She was draped in his tailored suit jacket, her skin glowing—looking remarkably untouched by any rainstorm. Dean led her toward me, his face a calculated blend of guilt and affection. “Laura, Mom told me you were thrilled about the news and that your depression cleared up instantly. If I’d known you’d be this understanding, I wouldn’t have kept Ashley’s pregnancy from you!” There wasn’t a shred of genuine remorse in his eyes. The sight of him made stomach acid rise in my throat, and I choked back a dry heave. “Laura! If you’re feeling unwell, don’t force yourself—” I thrust the divorce papers directly into his chest. “Sign this, and I’ll be completely cured.” He glanced at the title page, his eyes widening in shock. “Divorce? Absolutely not—” Before he could finish, Ashley let out a soft, delicate sneeze. Dean’s brow furrowed instantly. His tone turned sharp, dripping with impatience. “Laura, Ashley was stuck in the rain because of you today and almost had a panic attack that threatened the baby. If you have an ounce of decency left, stop throwing tantrums at a critical time like this.” When I was lying on the floor bleeding through my white dress, he shielded Ashley, calling it an accident and telling me to be magnanimous. Now, a single sneeze from Ashley made me look like a monster. Love and hatred were laid bare in an instant. Yet a foolish, dying spark of curiosity forced me to look into his eyes and ask a humiliating question: “Dean… our baby died. Did you care? Even a little?” He hesitated for a second, then snapped, “I told you, that was an accident! Why do you keep clinging to the past? We’re getting a baby anyway! And you don’t even have to go through the pain of childbirth this time!” Ashley cradled her flat stomach, offering a meek, sugary smile. “Laura, the doctor said your body was just too weak, which is why a minor tumble caused the miscarriage. Once I give birth, I’ll hand the baby right over to you as my apology.” Dean didn’t object. Instead, he handed me an itinerary. “You and Ashley are flying to France tomorrow. We’ll tell the public you’re taking time off abroad to nurture a high-risk pregnancy. After you care for her through her term and postpartum recovery, we’ll register the birth under our names. My father won’t stand a chance with Ian’s twins.” He was ordering me to serve as his mistress’s personal nurse through her pregnancy and confinement. I stared at the man in front of me, utterly speechless at his audacity. “Are you certain,” I asked softly, “that Ashley’s child is yours?” “Of course it’s mine! It happened on the very first try—unlike with you,” Dean blurted out, dismissive and cruel. He didn’t bother explaining the affair, instead barking an order: “Go to the kitchen and make Ashley some warm ginger tea. She caught a chill today.” I didn’t move an inch. He glared at me for a full minute, realizing I had no intention of obeying, before turning and storming into the kitchen himself. I stared at his retreating back. Years ago, when he was head over heels in love with me, he had sworn that I was the only person he would ever cook for. Even his mother had never tasted a meal made by his hands. And now, Ashley had broken that rule with a fake sneeze. I pulled out my phone and quietly saved the video recording. Whether the baby was his or not, the footage I had just captured was more than enough to strip him of his assets in court. Ashley stepped closer, sliding her prenatal checkup slip onto the table before me. The date stamped on the document was three days “before” my miscarriage. In an instant, the truth slammed into me: the spilled soup hadn’t been an accident. It was a calculated attack. Before I could speak, Ashley leaned down, whispering in my ear. “You’re useless, Laura. You couldn’t even protect your own womb. If you had any dignity left, you’d sign those papers and step aside instead of clinging to a man who doesn’t want you.” She was waiting for me to snap, waiting for me to raise a hand so she could play the victim. I forced my knuckles white, staying completely still. I needed this unborn child intact—it was the ultimate key to making Dean a laughingstock. “I’m not playing your game,” I said quietly. “If you convince him to sign, you get what you want. Otherwise, I won’t hesitate to let him know you deliberately murdered my child.” Gazing at my phone’s recording icon, Ashley showed no panic—only smug arrogance. “You think you can walk away? This whole ‘divorce’ act might work on Dean, but it doesn’t fool me. And guess who he believes—you, or me?” Without warning, Ashley threw herself backward onto the hardwood floor, screaming dramatically, “Laura, please! I begged you not to post my private photos online! Why did you push me?!” Dean burst out of the kitchen at the sound of her shriek. Ashley scrambled onto her knees before me, weeping hysterically. “Laura, please, I’m begging you…” Dean shoved me aside, scooping Ashley into his arms and frantically inspecting her for injuries. Then he turned on me, his eyes burning with fury. “Laura Mitchell! Have you completely lost your mind?! Hand over your phone!” I watched the performance with a terrifying, numb silence. “Believe whatever you want.” Recognizing the strange stillness in my tone, Dean softened slightly. “What did you record?” As I pulled out my phone, Ashley broke free from his grip, sobbing violently. “Laura, do you hate my baby so much that you want to kill it?!” Dean lunged, snatching the phone from my hand and slamming it onto the tile floor with all his strength. The screen shattered into a web of black glass. “Laura!” Dean roared. “This baby is going to call you mother! How could you be so evil to your own child just because you didn’t give birth to it?!” Ashley, unsatisfied, suddenly bolted toward the front door. “If Laura hates this baby so much, I’ll go get an abortion right now!” She didn’t even make it across the foyer before slipping and falling hard near the threshold. Only then did I notice a subtle slick of oil smeared across the doorway floor. Ashley clutched her stomach, gasping. “Why… why is the floor so slippery?!” Dean spotted the sheen on the tiles, his head snapping toward me with venomous fury. “Laura! How could you be so twisted?! How many times do I have to tell you that Ashley dropped that soup because the bowl was hot?!” Ashley groaned loudly, curling into a ball. “My stomach… it hurts so bad…” Panicked, Dean lifted her in his arms and sprinted out the door. Before slamming it shut, he threw an icy look back at me. “You better pray Ashley and the baby are fine. Because if anything happens to them, I will make you pay.” I stood alone in the quiet hallway. Looking down at the shattered fragments of my phone, a sudden, wild laughter bubbled up from my chest. He was right about one thing: my baby was gone. And I wasn’t going to let either of them off the hook. I took the smashed phone to a specialized repair shop. Luckily, the internal memory was intact, and every frame of video was recovered. My lawyer, Mr. Scott, reviewed the footage and nodded grimly. “This is more than enough to secure a complete asset forfeiture against Dean. We can also file criminal charges against Ashley for assault and battery.” “Proceed with everything, Mr. Scott,” I said. My phone buzzed. It was a message from Ian Mitchell: “Are you really going to spend the rest of your life suffering under a fraud?” I frowned, typing back: “Aren’t you the one born out of wedlock?” Ian called me immediately. “Let me tell you the real story.” Years ago, Ian’s mother, Helena, was Richard Mitchell’s lawful first wife. She had poured her entire inheritance into funding Richard’s startup. But once he achieved massive success, Richard orchestrated a fraudulent divorce under the guise of buying tax-exempt real estate—only to turn around and marry Margaret, who was already pregnant with Dean. When Helena discovered the deception and tried to fight for her rights, Margaret publicly branded her a gold-digging mistress and ruined her reputation. The truth was the exact opposite of what Margaret had fed me for years. Sensing my silence, Ian sighed over the line. “You don’t have to trust me blindly, Laura. I just don’t want to see another innocent woman destroyed by that family.” I ran a background check through a private investigator. Every word Ian spoke was true. Before I could process it, Dean burst into my apartment and grabbed my wrist, forcibly dragging me toward his car. He shoved me into a hospital room. “Apologize to Ashley!” “I did nothing wrong,” I said coldly. Disgust flickered in his eyes. “You almost killed her child! Laura, look at what you’ve become! How am I supposed to stay married to you?!” When Ashley caused my miscarriage, he hadn’t offered a single word of reprimand, let alone demanded an apology. I looked up at him and smiled softly. “Then don’t stay married to me.” He stiffened, his face turning rigid. “Your parents’ manufacturing company relies entirely on Mitchell Corp as its primary client. If you divorce me, they go bankrupt overnight.” My parents’ factory was their life’s work. When Dean was courting me, he had personally awarded my father our largest supply contract. I had thought it was an act of love, a sign that he respected my family. Now I realized it was just a leash he kept wrapped around my neck. Seeing my silence, his tone softened. He stepped forward, reaching out to touch my hair. I flinched away. He pulled back his hand without anger, sighing like an indulgent adult. “As long as you cooperate, your parents’ factory will keep its contract forever. Ashley’s baby will be legally yours. You get to be a mother without enduring ten grueling months of pregnancy or labor pains. Tell me, Laura—haven’t I been good to you?” “Good to me.” I stared into the eyes that had once looked at me with unconditional warmth. Now, they held only cold calculation and arrogance. He was right about one thing: my parents’ livelihood depended on the Mitchell supply chain. But if the head of Mitchell Corp changed, his threat would instantly evaporate. Under the table, my fingers typed a message to Ian: “I can help you reclaim what’s yours. On one condition.” Ian replied instantly: “I’m abroad. Landing tomorrow—we’ll talk then.” I locked my phone, met Dean’s gaze, and spoke with absolute certainty: “We’re getting a divorce.” A flicker of confusion and deep-seated unease crossed Dean’s eyes. “Laura… I’ve never wanted to divorce you…” Suddenly, Ashley gasped from the bed, tears streaming down her pale face. “Laura, why won’t you just leave us alone?!” Dean glanced down at her phone, his face darkening as he dialed a number. “Send the team up.” A bad premonition spiked in my chest. I turned to leave, but Dean stepped in my way. “Selling Ashley’s private photos on the dark web is a felony,” he said smoothly. “Because you’re my wife, I’ll convince Ashley not to press criminal charges. But your mind is unstable, Laura. You need professional help.” Four burly men in scrubs marched into the room. “Mrs. Mitchell, please come with us quietly,” one said. I thrashed wildly, but Dean stood by with cold detachment. “You know you’re sick, Laura. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. I spoke with the clinic director. Cooperate with the treatment, and you’ll be home soon.” The men pinned my arms behind my back. Dean reached into my bag and confiscated my phone. As they dragged me out, Ashley silently mouthed three words to me from the bed: “You lost.” At the private psychiatric facility, two nurses pinned me down and forced a bitter liquid down my throat. Within minutes, my limbs grew heavy and numb. They strapped my wrists and ankles to a metal chair. As the heavy electrical treatment began, sensory overload tore through my nerves, and the world faded to black.

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Every Wednesday, my fiancé took our dog to see his ex-girlfriend. He swore it was part of their sacred post-breakup pact—a non-negotiable clause from when they called it quits. On the day Chase and I were scheduled to take our wedding photos, I waited at the studio until the sun sank below the horizon. He never showed. Instead, I got a brief, distracted phone call. “Piper’s busy on Wednesday,” Chase said over the rushing sound of traffic. “She can’t see Peanut then, so it had to be today.” I stood alone in the dressing room, the heavy silk of my bridal gown suddenly feeling like an anchor. I had to apologize to the photographer, who also happened to be my best friend, Maeve, and tell her we were calling it off for the day. At first, Maeve laughed, thinking I was pulling her leg. “Alright, real funny. Tell Chase to get his ass in here.” When she saw the hollow look in my eyes, her smile evaporated. The air in the studio turned cold. “Wait… that three-rule agreement with his ex? You’re telling me that bullshit is actually “real”?” I forced a tight, bitter smile. “Well… they did adopt Peanut together.” Maeve crossed her arms, her jaw set so hard her cheekbones trembled. “To hell with understanding his ex! The only person Chase needs to understand right now is you!” Her words hit like a blunt needle, puncturing the fragile bubble of self-delusions I’d spent four years carefully building. When I got back to our apartment complex, I saw them right away. They were out on the courtyard lawn, playing fetch with Peanut. A couple walking past slowed down, smiling at them. “Look at those two,” I heard the woman murmur to her partner. “What a beautiful family.” I walked up to Chase, my shadow falling over his polished sneakers. I looked straight into his eyes. “Since you two look so happy,” I said, my voice eerily steady, “why don’t you just get back together?” … Hearing those words, Chase froze. A flicker of heavy exhaustion passed over his face. “Camille, come on,” he sighed, using that tone he reserved for unreasonable children. “Don’t throw a tantrum.” “Aren’t you the one who taught me?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “A deal’s a deal. Once you make a promise, you keep it.” A sharp ache burst behind my ribs. I used to fall so hard for that trait of his. Even when he was dense, even when he overlooked me, he was a man of his word. If he promised me something, he delivered. I used to mistake that rigid reliability for devotion. I thought it meant he loved me. It wasn’t until this exact moment that the scales fell from my eyes. He didn’t keep promises because he loved me. He kept them because he was a man ruled by ironclad, inflexible principles. His code mattered to him; I was just someone standing within its grid lines. Beside us, Piper broke the silence. She let out a dramatic, annoyed puff of air, rolling her eyes. “Oh, please. As if. Chase and I are ancient history,” she said, though her tone held that playful, possessive edge she always used with him. “He’s way too repressed and straight-laced. I could barely stand him when we were together.” Chase turned to her, his finger pointing at her nose in playful retaliation. “Who are you calling repressed? Who’s straight-laced?” He reached out and tickled her waist. The movement was fast, intimate, born of years of effortless muscle memory. Piper squealed, dodging his touch, and they dissolved into a fit of shared laughter. I stood there on the manicured grass, isolated, like an unwelcome extra who had accidentally walked onto the wrong movie set. Suddenly, Peanut—who had been darting wildly across the lawn—stumbled. His front paws buckled, and he collapsed onto the grass, his small body going completely limp. Piper’s face drained of color in an instant. Panic took over. She dropped to her knees, scooping the dog into her arms. “Peanut! Peanut, what’s wrong? Don’t scare me like this!” Chase’s effortless demeanor shattered. “Something’s wrong. He must have picked up something toxic from the grass. We need to get to the emergency vet. Now.” Piper didn’t hesitate. Holding the limp terrier mix to her chest, she bolted toward the parking lot. Fearing the dog was too heavy for her, Chase stepped in and grabbed Peanut, his movement frantic. As he swung around to take the lead, his elbow slammed heavily into my shoulder. The impact caught me completely off guard. I stumbled backward, losing my footing on the edge of the walkway, and crashed hard onto the concrete paving stones. The rough stone scraped a sheet of skin right off my palm. A sharp, searing pain shot up my arm, settling into a deep, dull throb within the bone. Chase didn’t notice until he reached the passenger side and opened the door. He turned back to check the rear seat and caught sight of me sitting on the ground, struggling to push myself up. A flash of guilt broke through his panic. He jogged back, bending down to grab my arm and pull me to my feet. “Camille, I’m so sorry—I was moving too fast, I didn’t see you. Are you hurt? Did you hit your head?” Before I could regain my balance, Piper’s panicked scream cut through the evening air from the car. “Chase! Where the hell are you?! If anything happens to Peanut, I swear to God I’ll make you pay!” Chase’s feet were already turning back toward the car before he even finished listening to her. “We need to get Peanut to the clinic,” he said, his eyes darting between me and the running vehicle. “Do you… want to come with us? After we sort Peanut out, I’ll take you to urgent care.” I looked down at my raw, bleeding palm. The dark red blood was beginning to bead along the tears in my skin. “Yeah,” I said quiet. “Sure.” At the emergency vet, the veterinarian came out after twenty agonizing minutes. His expression was grim. “He already had a sensitive stomach,” the vet explained. “It looks like he ingested a piece of dark chocolate thrown in the bushes. Toxicity is setting in fast. It’s critical.” The moment the words left the vet’s mouth, Piper snapped. She sank to the linoleum floor, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently as she sobbed. Chase looked down at her, his expression softening into an intense, protective tenderness. He stepped forward, dropped to his knees, and wrapped his arms completely around her. “Hey, stop crying,” he murmured, pulling her head into the crook of his neck. “Peanut’s tough. He’s going to make it through this.” I stared at the dirt and grass stains smudged across Piper’s sweater, feeling an icy sting in my chest. Chase was a severe germaphobe. If I came home from a long day at the office and tried to hug him before washing my hands, he would pull back with a frown. Yet here was Piper, covered in street grime and mud, and he didn’t even hesitate to wrap her in his arms. He was wearing his favorite white linen shirt—the one he was so careful with. Piper’s tear-stained face and dirty hands were wiping straight onto his chest, and he didn’t even flinch. It turned out his boundaries weren’t set in stone after all. They simply shifted depending on who he cared about. When I had been sick with a double stomach flu months ago, he hadn’t even offered to bring me a bowl of broth because I hadn’t changed out of my day clothes yet. My palm throbbing, I stared at the two of them on the floor. Strangely, the physical pain was fading, replaced by a vast, hollow emptiness. It felt as though someone had carved out a hollow space inside my chest and poured cold salt water straight into it. A quiet, inescapable realization settled over me: I was never going to warm Chase’s heart. No matter how long I stayed, no matter how much I gave, the core of him would always belong somewhere else. I didn’t want to watch them anymore. I didn’t want to be the invisible witness to their tragic, beautiful bond. I turned around, pushed open the glass doors of the clinic, and walked out into the cool night air. I pulled out my phone and dialed Maeve. “Cancel the wedding photos,” I said, my voice calm, almost light. “Don’t reschedule them. We’re done.” On the other end of the line, silence stretched for a long moment. “Camille… you two have built a whole life together,” Maeve said softly, her anger replaced by cautious concern. “You were going to get married in forty-eight hours. Are you sure you want to call it off like this?” I stood under the bright streetlights outside the vet clinic. The wind carried a bite, but I didn’t shiver. The scrape on my hand was already clotting into a dark ridge, but the bitter taste in my mouth wouldn’t go away. “When a relationship is rotten on the inside,” I said, watching my breath fog up the cool air, “pretending you don’t smell it doesn’t stop it from falling apart. I can’t keep holding onto a corpse just because I’m afraid of the pain of burying it.” Maeve caught the absolute finality in my tone. She stopped trying to reason with me. “Alright,” she whispered. “Whatever you decide, I’m in your corner. Always.” In the past, I had been terrified of letting go. I used to tell myself that if I just endured a little more, if I was just a little more patient, he would turn around and see me. But I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life waiting in line for a man who had already given his best years away. I hung up, walked to the curb, and caught a ride home alone. It wasn’t until midnight that Peanut was declared out of the woods. And it was only then, as the adrenaline faded, that Chase realized I was gone. He called me twice, but when I didn’t answer, he didn’t keep ringing. He knew me too well. He knew that whenever we had a major fallout, I retreated to the small reading study in our apartment to process things alone. When he finally walked through the front door at 1:00 AM, he was holding a brown paper bag. The rich, savory scent of spicy citrus duck filled the entryway—it was from a little Thai bistro five blocks away. It was his go-to olive branch. Every time we fought, he would bring home a box of that duck, hand it to me with a faint smile, and tease me about how easy I was to buy off. “‘One good meal and you forgive me every time,’” he used to say. And God, it was true. I had been so easy to satisfy. I asked for so little. Yet even that little was too much for him to give. He walked slowly into the study, setting the warm takeout container on the desk in front of me. “Camille,” he began, his voice laced with exhaustion. “I’m sorry about today. I know I made you feel like an afterthought.” Before I could speak, his phone vibrated loudly against the wood. The screen lit up with an incoming FaceTime call. “Piper.” Chase’s hand hovered over the phone. He hesitated for two seconds, his eyes darting to me, before pressing the green button. A burst of self-pity washed over me. I had been so easily fooled. When he first told me about their “breakup agreement,” I had been furious. He had held my hands, looked me in the eye, and sworn up and down: “There’s nothing between us anymore. I deleted her off social media. We only text about Peanut.” I had believed him. I thought he was a man who understood boundaries. Now, watching her face pop up on his screen in high definition, I realized how blind I’d been. How many other lies had he neatly filed away under the excuse of “keeping things civil”? The moment the video connected, Piper glanced at Chase and immediately pulled a face. “Ugh, pass the phone to your girlfriend. I really don’t want to look at your mug right now. Today was entirely your fault anyway.” Chase gave a soft, defeated chuckle. Without asking if I wanted to speak to her, he handed the phone over to me. Piper’s face filled the screen. “Camille, hey! Look, I am so, so sorry. I honestly had no idea you guys were supposed to do your wedding shoot today. If I’d known, I never would’ve let him bring Peanut over.” I didn’t answer. My eyes weren’t on Piper’s face; they were fixed entirely on the room behind her. She was at her apartment. But her apartment looked identical to the interior design I had meticulously created for Chase and my future home. The cool grey feature wall in the living room. The woven jute mat underneath the low coffee table. The slender brass floor lamp tucked beside the sectional couch. Every single detail of that layout was burned into my mind. I had spent months tweaking those blueprints, measuring dimensions, picking out swatches—building a space where Chase and I were supposed to start our life. I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced my voice to stay level. “Your place looks really nice.” In my peripheral vision, I saw Chase stiffen. Piper grinned on the screen, angling the camera to show off the rest of the space. “Right? I have to give credit to this stiff guy here,” she said, nodding toward Chase. “I had zero clue how to decorate when I moved in, so he just handed me this complete design package and told me to use it if I liked it. Turns out you and I don’t just have the same taste in men—we have the exact same taste in interior design!” Each word felt like a tiny blade dragging across my heart. When the call finally ended, Chase immediately stepped forward, reaching out to grasp my cold hands. “Camille, please don’t be mad,” he said quickly, searching my face. “I just thought… well, if someone else appreciated your hard work, it would make you happy. It was such a great design, it felt like a waste not to use it.” I slowly lifted my head and looked at him. My voice was as thin as paper. “Chase… do you have any idea what those blueprints were?” He blinked, taken aback, as if noticing the gravity of it for the very first time. That wasn’t just a collection of pretty renders. It was the blueprint of our home. It was our sanctuary. I gave a dry, lifeless smile and looked him dead in the eye. “Let me ask you something, Chase. If I took your custom wedding suit—or the ring you had made for our vows—and gave it to another man to use, would you be happy?” Chase’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The blood drained from his face, leaving him completely speechless. … That night, after showering, I lay on my side of the bed, my back turned to him. In the past, whenever we had a terrible argument, I would curl into a ball, buried under the covers, crying silently into my pillow until the fabric was soaked through. I would toss and turn all night, mourning the relationship, mourning the years I’d invested. Tonight, I didn’t shed a single tear. I had reached the point where the pain was so severe it turned into absolute numbness. The mattress dipped behind me. Chase shifted closer, his chest pressing lightly against my back. He reached out with tentative slowness, wrapping one long arm around my waist, pulling me against his warm frame. His touch was just as warm as it had been four years ago. But the man holding me was a stranger. “Camille,” he whispered into the dark, his voice thick with gravel. “I’m sorry. I was wrong.” He tightened his grip slightly. “I won’t go back there. I swear it. I’ll never bring Peanut to see her again. Okay? Please…” I let my eyelids drop. A heavy wave of fatigue washed over me. When a heart truly dies, even arguing feels like a waste of energy. Whether he changed or not didn’t matter anymore. A gift promised at twenty-two holds no value when it’s finally delivered to a twenty-six-year-old who has already walked away. … When I woke up the next morning, Chase was already awake. He was propped up on one elbow, watching me with an undeniable softness in his eyes. Seeing my eyes open, he smiled gently. “Morning, beautiful. Why don’t we go reshoot the wedding photos today? I cleared my whole schedule.” I looked at him, my expression blank. “No rush.” He mistook my detachment for lingering anger and quickly tried to smooth things over. “Fair enough, no rush. We can take our time after the wedding madness is over and do a really special shoot. Just the two of us.” I offered a faint, polite smile and said nothing. Tonight was supposed to be our joint single’s party—a big, combined bachelor and bachelorette celebration we had planned months ago. Friends from out of town had taken time off work and flown in for it. I couldn’t just cancel on them and ruin their trips. The lounge was loud, filled with music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. Everyone was reminiscing about college, talking about the old days, letting the alcohol flow freely. Late into the night, one of Chase’s old college buddies—decidedly drunk—slapped Chase hard on the shoulder. “Man, Chase!” the guy yelled over the music, slurring his words. “I swear to God, back in the day, I thought for sure you were gonna marry Piper!” The room fell into an uncomfortable lull, but the guy kept rambling. “Remember that time your current girlfriend had that awful stomach ulcer thing and fainted at her desk? You couldn’t stay to take care of her, but then a day later you flew all the way out to Aspen with Piper just to see the snow! Man, who would’ve guessed you guys wouldn’t make it to the finish line?” The entire VIP room went dead silent. The guy’s eyes suddenly widened as the alcohol seemed to clear from his brain. He gasped, waving his hands frantically in the air. “Whoa, wait! Shit, I’m wasted! Ignore me! I’m talking out of my ass—totally making things up!” Everyone hastily chimed in, tossing out loud jokes to bury the slip-up. I slowly turned my head to look at Chase sitting beside me. I knew his body language better than anyone. Whenever he was hiding something or feeling utterly guilty, his hand would instinctively go to his face. Right now, his fingers were stiffly pressing against the bridge of his nose, his eyes darting toward the floor, completely avoiding mine. I remembered that week clearly. I had collapsed at my desk from severe gastric spasms and a bleeding ulcer. My coworkers had rushed me to the ER, where the doctor admitted me for three days of observation. During those three days, I dragged myself down three flights of stairs with an IV pole just to buy a piece of dry toast from the hospital cafeteria. Chase had told me he was stuck on an emergency corporate retreat—a mandatory trip that meant his promotion. I had felt so guilty for bothering him while he worked hard for our future. It turned out our relationship hadn’t started rotting yesterday. It had been decaying from the inside out for years. I had just been too trusting to notice the smell. Chase cast a quick, nervous glance at me. I kept a pleasant, calm smile on my face and continued chatting with the girl sitting next to me. Seeing that I didn’t blow up, he visibly relaxed, assuming I hadn’t believed his friend’s drunk rambling. A few minutes later, I stood up and walked to the quiet hallway near the restrooms. I pulled out my phone and dialed my parents. “Mom, Dad,” I said quietly into the receiver. “Cancel the wedding tomorrow. Tell the caterers, and take down the banners at the house.” There was a long, heavy silence on the line. My parents didn’t ask what happened. They didn’t demand an explanation, nor did they scold me for ruining a event that had cost thousands of dollars. Finally, my father’s calm voice came through. “Honey, if you’ve made up your mind, that’s all that matters.” My mother took the phone. “We don’t care about a wedding, Camille. We only care about your happiness. Whatever you need, we’re behind you.” The last lingering weight holding my chest down collapsed into dust. I didn’t go back to the apartment with Chase that night. He didn’t find it suspicious—it was custom for the bride to sleep at her parents’ home the night before the wedding anyway. … The next morning was supposed to be the most important day of my life. Chase stood outside my parents’ front door wearing a crisp, bespoke tuxedo. He held a massive bouquet of long-stemmed red roses, surrounded by his groomsmen, a photography crew, and family members carrying traditional gift boxes. He was beaming, ready to claim the woman he had dated for four years. He knocked on the door. Once. Twice. Three times. Silence from inside. “Come on, Chase, put some elbow into it! The bridesmaids are playing hardball today!” one of the groomsmen teased, clapping him on the back. “Yeah, Camille’s not gonna make it easy for you after all these years!” Chase chuckled, his eyes glowing with genuine excitement. He really thought this was just a playful door-game. He knocked louder, calling out, “Camille! Open up, sweetie! Everyone’s waiting!” Still, no sound came from inside the apartment. The groomsmen started chanting. “Send in the envelopes! Pay the ransom!” Chase grinned, pulling a stack of red cash envelopes from his pocket and sliding them one by one through the crack under the front door. “Camille! I’m here! Open the door!” He knocked again and again, his voice rising, calling my name over the sound of the corridor echo. But no matter how hard he knocked, the heavy oak door remained shut. The commotion finally brought out the neighbors. The door across the hall swung open, and an elderly woman stepped out, her face twisted in annoyance. “Are you out of your mind?!” she snapped, glaring at Chase. “Banging on the door at seven in the morning! People are trying to sleep!” Chase’s grin faltered slightly, though he quickly put on his most polite smile. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, ma’am. I’m here for the bride. It’s my wedding day.” The woman stared at him, stunned for a second, before letting out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Bride? Son, you’ve got the wrong day or the wrong address. That entire family packed up their bags and headed to the airport for Maui first thing this morning!” A loud, metallic ring echoed in Chase’s ears. The bouquet of red roses slipped from his numb fingers, crashing onto the cold floor.

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My life was down to a ticking clock, so I bought a one-way ticket to Morocco to finish the Sahara expedition Gideon Wells and I had promised each other back when we were still madly in love. On my first day, I barely managed to drag myself through the local bazaar before my body caved. Exhausted, hollowed out by pain, I retreated early to my hotel room. Curled in bed, I unlocked my phone and opened my feed. The top video hit me like a slap to the face: Gideon, standing beneath a canopy of desert stars, down on one knee proposing to Mallory King—my best friend from college. Behind Gideon, a wall of fairy-light letters blazed into the night sky, burning straight into my chest. “Thank you for holding me up through the hardest three years of my life.” Three years ago, when I tore my own heart out and left him, Gideon had looked at me with bloodshot eyes and screamed, “You don’t have a soul, Clara! I’ll never forgive you for this. Not as long as I live!” It turned out that for those three long years, Mallory had been the one keeping him whole. The comment section was a waterfall of congratulations from our old college circle. “Mallory deserves this more than anyone.” “She pulled Gideon out of the gutter and stood by him when he had nothing. It’s about damn time.” “True love survives the storm. Those toxic ghosts from his past finally belong in the trash where they belong.” I locked my screen and set the phone face down. I was dying anyway. Stepping back into the shadows was the kindest thing I could do for everyone. That way, when I slipped away, no one would have to grieve. I forced myself up, clutching my side, and reached for the souvenir I’d picked up at the medina earlier that afternoon: an antique brass lamp, tarnished and heavy. I pulled out a soft cloth and began to polish the dull metal. As the last layer of grime gave way, a dense, violet smoke surged into the room. A towering, translucent shadow materialized before me, bowing low until its silhouette hovered inches from my face. “Speak, my master. Three wishes. Anything within this realm is yours.” I laughed until tears streamed down my cheeks, choking on my own breath. My body was so withered, so eaten away by disease, that my mind was inventing fairy tales. Still, looking at the apparition, I whispered the truest, rawest wish buried at the bottom of my soul. “I… I want to live.” … “As you command, my master.” The shadow dissolved slowly into thin air, and the purple fog receded like a dying tide. Suddenly, the deep, gnawing agony in my stomach—the ache that had haunted my every waking hour for three years—simply vanished. I took a tentative, deep breath. My lungs expanded fully. There was no stabbing pain, no metallic taste of blood at the back of my throat. I was… alive? Truly alive? If I wasn’t going to die in a foreign hotel room, there was no need for the absurdly expensive international body repatriation service I’d pre-arranged. I pulled up the agency app, canceled the post-mortem transport, and watched a massive refund post back to my account. With cash in hand, I decided to book a suite at the iconic luxury desert resort nearby. Back when Gideon and I were broke and backpacking through North Africa, we’d stood outside its high gates, looking up at the glowing glass domes. He’d wrapped his arms around me from behind and whispered, “One day, Clara. When I make it, I’m taking you here. We’ll get the top-tier star suite, and we’ll lie in bed and watch the Milky Way together.” Now, I was finally here. Alone. My car pulled up to the glowing oasis camp set deep in the dunes, its fairy lights shimmering like fallen constellations. The valet stepped forward to open my door. In the grand open-air lounge, a massive digital screen was cycling through a romantic photo slideshow. My breath hitched. The couple in the high-resolution portraits was Gideon and Mallory. Across the top of the display, bold elegant script read: “From Nothing to Everything: Together Forever.” He had returned to the desert and rented out the entire resort for Mallory’s engagement gala. “Clara? What on earth are you doing here?” A voice broke through the ambient music. I turned to see Tyler Scott, an old mutual friend from our group, staring at me in disbelief. Surrounding him were several familiar faces. When they recognized me, their expressions curdled into collective disdain. “I booked a room,” I said quietly, keeping my posture straight. Another friend sneered, “Oh, look who suddenly found some cash. Following him halfway across the globe?” “Today is Gideon’s big night, Clara. Don’t do something desperate.” “Seriously, after how ruthlessly you dumped him when he was down? Now that he’s a millionaire and happy with Mallory, you crawl back? What is wrong with you?” Tyler cut them off with a dismissive wave, giving me a cold, patronizing smile. “Alright, guys, give it a rest. Look, Clara, just head inside. Gideon’s in the main courtyard greeting real guests.” I nodded silently and wheeled my luggage toward the concierge desk. Behind me, the whispers floated over the desert breeze like venom. “Jesus, why is she so thin? She looks like a ghost.” “Karma, probably. She saw Gideon hit the big time on the news and realized what she threw away. She’s green with envy.” “Serves her right. Mallory stood by him through hell while Clara bounced the second things got tough. Who does she think she is?” I kept my eyes down and handed my passport to the clerk. Suddenly, a heavy hand gripped the handle of my suitcase. I turned around and ran straight into a pair of stormy, familiar eyes. It was Gideon. He wore a tailored linen tuxedo, polished and radiating the quiet authority of a man who had conquered the world. He looked nothing like the broken boy I had walked away from three years ago. “Why are you so thin?” he demanded, his voice dropping an octave. The raw, instinctual concern in his tone made my heart stutter. For a fraction of a second, the years vanished. Then, a flurry of white silk appeared at his side. Mallory wrapped her arm securely around his, her smile radiant, practically dripping with triumphant bliss. She followed Gideon’s gaze to me, her eyes widening in theatrical surprise before softening into a sweet, graceful mask. “Clara? Oh my goodness, it’s been so long! You’ve gotten so thin.” She stepped closer, her voice laced with honey. “Did you really fly all the way to Morocco to celebrate us? I’m so touched. Please, come inside and join the party!” Gideon snapped back to reality, the lingering warmth in his eyes instantly freezing into stone. He pulled his hand back as if my suitcase were contaminated. “Tonight belongs to Mallory and me,” he said coldly. “What kind of scene are you trying to make?” I stared at him, refusing to offer an explanation. Instead, I pulled up my single-room confirmation on my phone and held it out to the receptionist. “I had no idea you were staying here,” I said, my voice smooth and detached. “If my presence makes you uncomfortable, I’ll just cancel.” The clerk processed the cancellation immediately. I grabbed my bag, turned on my heel, and headed for the exit. I passed right by Gideon without giving him a second glance. “Look at her, still playing the tragic martyr,” someone scoffed behind me. “Self-righteous as ever…” I walked out into the cool desert night. A moment later, the hotel manager came hurrying out of the lobby, holding a sheet of paper. Spotting the crowd near the entrance, he assumed Gideon’s group was with me and handed the document over with a professional bow. “Mr. Wells, pardon the intrusion, but the lady left before I could hand her the final refund receipt. Please make sure she gets this.” Gideon didn’t reach for it, but his eyes drifted down to the page. Tucked right beneath the hotel invoice was a fresh fax that the front desk had received on my behalf—a confirmation from my travel insurance provider. The header read in bold, black print: “Terminal Care Services: International Remains Repatriation Service — Cancellation Confirmed.” Gideon froze, his head snapping toward the dark driveway where I was walking. Mallory read the lines over his shoulder, her flawless smile instantly fracturing. “Gideon… what does that mean? ‘Remains repatriation’?” I had doubled back to grab a forgotten coat from the bellhop counter, and I caught the tail end of her panic. “It means nothing,” I said calmly, taking the papers straight out of Gideon’s paralyzed hands. “Just a cheesy marketing bundle the travel agency pushed on me.” Without waiting for a reply, I turned and vanished into the darkness. … The next morning, I plunged into the labyrinthine alleys of the old Medina in Marrakech. The lamp had given me a second chance at life, which meant it was time to purge the ghost of my old one. I stepped into an ancient jewelry shop hidden down a quiet alleyway, the air thick with burning frankincense and aged cedar. From a hidden pocket inside my coat, I pulled out a simple, worn silver cuff bracelet. Gideon had forged it himself. Back when his tech startup was bleeding money and we were living on instant noodles in a drafty apartment, he spent an entire month hand-carving and polishing this bracelet for my birthday. He had pressed his lips to my wrist that night, his eyes shining with fiery promise. “I’m sorry it’s not real jewelry, Clara. But I swear to you, the second I make my first million, I’m going to design the biggest, reddest ruby ring in the world for you. You’re going to be my bride.” Memory was a dust storm, blinding and sharp. I laid the tarnished cuff on the glass counter. “Excuse me. I’d like to sell this.” The silver-bearded Moroccan shopkeeper picked it up, examined it for a second, and shook his head gently. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. This has no commercial value. It’s just common, low-grade silver.” Before I could answer, the brass wind chimes above the shop door jingled. I turned instinctively. It was Gideon and Mallory. The moment they walked in, the old jeweler’s face lit up. He reached beneath the counter and brought out a plush velvet box. “Ah, Mr. Wells! Perfect timing. Your custom piece is ready.” He popped the latch. Resting on the black velvet was a breathtaking, pigeon-blood ruby ring, set in platinum and glowing beneath the shop lights like a drop of liquid fire. The cut, the intricate vintage band, the hidden heart engraved inside the setting—it was the exact design Gideon had sketched on a napkin five years ago. Mallory gasped, clapping her hands to her mouth. “Gideon! When did you order this? It’s… it’s absolute perfection!” She picked it up, admiring the way the ruby caught the light, before throwing her arms around his neck. “Thank you, baby. I love it so much.” Gideon wrapped his arms around her waist, his voice soft and tender. “You stood by me through the mud, Mal. You deserve the absolute best.” The words weren’t loud, but they struck me like a physical blow. The promise he had made to me in a cold, leaky apartment was now sitting on another woman’s finger. Gideon looked up, his gaze suddenly locking onto me standing at the far end of the counter—and then down to the tarnished, worthless silver cuff resting in front of me. His face drained of color. “It’s… it’s just a standard classic design,” he stammered, his voice unnaturally tight. “I saw it in a catalog…” I looked at him, forcing a soft, faint smile onto my lips. Mallory noticed the silence, her eyes darting between Gideon and the silver bracelet on the glass. The air in the shop instantly curdled into suffocating awkwardness. “My mistake,” I told the jeweler quietly. I pulled the cuff off the glass. “Thank you anyway.” I turned and walked out into the crowded street. Navigating through the sea of tourists and merchants, I walked until I found the administrative office for the central bazaar. Outside the door sat a clear plastic Lost & Found box filled with unclaimed trinkets. I opened the lid and gently slid the silver cuff inside. “Hi,” I told the clerk behind the window. “I found this near the alley. If no one claims it after a week, feel free to toss it.” As I stepped back onto the cobblestones, I felt an physical weight lift off my shoulders. A breath I had been holding for three years finally left my chest. Suddenly, a grip clamped around my wrist from behind, spinning me around. Gideon stood there, glaring down at me, his chest heaving. “Clara! Do you really have to be this dramatic?!” I looked down at his grip and tried to pull away, but his fingers were like steel bands. “Gideon, you’re hurting me.” “Hurting you?” He let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “You ghosted me three years ago without a word of explanation! You made a fool out of me! Did you ever once stop to think about how much you hurt “me”?!” I stopped struggling and looked straight into his eyes. “You gave the ring you designed for me to someone else,” I said softly, every word measured and calm. “It’s hardly appropriate for me to keep the bracelet anymore.” Gideon froze. His grip went slack, his hand slipping off my wrist. At the entrance of the alley, Mallory stood frozen under the afternoon sun, staring at the two of us. The ruby ring on her hand blazed blindingly in the sunlight. “So…” Mallory’s voice trembled across the distance. “This ring… was meant for her all along?” I didn’t answer her. I smoothed down my sleeve, turned my back on both of them, and walked away. … The desert sky flipped without warning, a wall of dust swallowing the afternoon sun. Within an hour, a sudden sandstorm trapped dozens of travelers—including Gideon, Mallory, and me—inside a stone roadside diner off the main highway. I sat alone in a quiet corner booth, separated from their group by several tables. Shortly after placing my order, I heard a low groan. Mallory was hunched over, clutching her stomach against Gideon’s shoulder. “Gideon… my stomach is killing me.” Gideon immediately pulled her close, raising his hand to shout across the room. “Excuse me! We need some hot water over here! Now, please!” Mallory leaned into his chest, her voice small and pouting. “It’s your fault. You insisted on taking me to that seafood place yesterday. You know how sensitive my stomach is, but you keep spoiling me.” “My fault, totally my fault,” Gideon murmured softly. He unzipped his leather bag and pulled out a travel pill organizer with practiced ease. “Here, take these first.” I watched them quietly from my booth. A dull ghost-pain vibrated in my abdomen—not physical anymore, but emotional. I remembered the night I was diagnosed with terminal late-stage stomach cancer three years ago. I had sat alone on the floor of my tiny rented room, shivering violently as cold sweat soaked through my shirt from the agony. I had gripped my phone, Gideon’s contact pulled up on the glowing screen. That exact night, his company’s funding had fallen through. Creditors were beating down his door, threatening to destroy him. He was drowning. I had told myself over and over: “You can’t burden him. You can’t make him watch you die while his life is falling apart.” I never made that call. I reached into my pocket and pulled out an old, faded prescription bottle. It was the heavy-duty narcotic painkiller I used to rely on just to get through the night. I didn’t need it anymore. I tossed the bottle into the small trash bin beside my booth. As Gideon stood up to get Mallory’s water, his eyes happened to land on the trash bin—and the red warnings printed on the prescription label. His expression shifted instantly. It was a high-grade oncology drug, available only through hospital dispensaries. He frowned, stepping toward my table as if to demand an explanation. “Gideon…” Mallory whimpered behind him, grabbing his hem. “It still hurts so bad…” Gideon’s step halted instantly. He paused, torn for a single second, before turning back to wrap Mallory in his arms. “Shh, it’s okay, baby. The medicine takes a few minutes to kick in. Just hang on.” Mallory rested her head on his shoulder, her eyes drifting over his collar to lock onto me. She looked at the bottle in the trash, her gaze flickering with a dark, complex mix of realization and dread. “Clara,” Mallory called out softly, her voice barely carrying over the howling wind outside. “Have you… have you been sick these past three years?” I took a quiet sip of my water and offered a small, easy smile. “I used to be,” I said softly. “I’m better now.” Outside, the raging wind gradually died down. Rays of late-afternoon sun broke through the dispersing dust clouds, painting the dunes in warm, golden light. I threw some cash on the table, threw my backpack over my shoulder, and walked out of the diner. I flagged down a passing taxi and instructed the driver to head straight to the airport. I was done with this trip. I just wanted to go home. I was moving so fast I didn’t notice that the side mesh pocket of my canvas bag had torn open. An old, deactivated phone and a worn leather document folder slipped out, tumbling quietly onto the roadside gravel. Back at the diner, Gideon stepped outside, his eyes scanning the empty road where my cab had just sped away. His boot kicked against something hard. He looked down and picked up the fallen folder. He opened it, and his entire body went rigid. “Patient: Clara Price.” “Diagnosis: Late-Stage Gastric Carcinoma (Terminal).” Mallory walked out behind him, leaning over to glance at the paper. She instantly clapped both hands over her mouth, her eyes wide with terror. “So… that fax at the hotel… the body transport service…” Mallory whispered, her voice shaking violently. “It wasn’t a joke?” Gideon didn’t utter a single word. Gripping the diagnosis sheet and the dead phone, he sprinted down the road, screaming my name into the empty desert wind. But I was already gone. … That night, Gideon didn’t return to the luxury suite he shared with Mallory. He rented a separate, solitary room on the lower level, plugged my old phone into a charger, and sat in total darkness wait for the screen to light up. When the display finally flickered on, the lock screen wallpaper made his breath hitch. It was a candid selfie of the two of us from three years ago, laughing in the rain. With trembling hands, he unlocked the device and opened the photo gallery. There was only one saved image in the entire album: a high-resolution scan of my terminal cancer diagnosis. The timestamp on the photo was dated precisely one day before I had broken his heart and ended our relationship. He exited the gallery and opened the notes app. At the very top was an unsent draft: “Gideon, I’m leaving. I sold my parents’ old house in the suburbs—the money has been routed directly into your startup’s escrow account through an anonymous trust. That house was the last thing my parents left me, but now it’s yours. Consider it my way of paying you back for the beautiful years you gave me. Don’t look for me. Forget me, and please, build a wonderful life.” It was the original breakup letter I had written before I lost my nerve and replaced it with a cruel, terrible lie. Gideon’s chest heaved as panic choked the air from his lungs. He frantically tapped into the phone’s archived call logs. On the night of his company’s total collapse, at 3:14 AM… My phone had attempted to dial his number three times in a row. Every call had been canceled after two rings—hung up by my own terrified hand. He remembered that night vividly. He had been surrounded by aggressive loan sharks at a bar, overwhelmed and drowning his sorrows. He had turned his phone off and thrown it into his trunk. He had spent that night thinking “he” was the most miserable man in the world. He had no idea that on the other side of the city, I was sitting alone in a sterile hospital hallway, crushed under a death sentence. And the next morning, when he finally turned his phone back on, the first thing he’d received was my icy text message: “Gideon, I’m done. I’m tired of being broke and waiting for your grand dreams to pan out. I met someone else—he has real money. Don’t call me again; it’s pathetic.” “NO! GOD, NO!” Gideon slammed his fist into the concrete wall with monstrous force. The impact cracked the plaster, blood bursting from his knuckles, but he didn’t even flinch. He threw the door open, sprinting frantically down the hallway, desperate to reach the airport, to track down every flight, to tell me he was sorry, that he was an idiot, that he was wrong— “Gideon, stop!” A figure blocked his path at the corner of the corridor. Mallory stood there, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. She reached out, grabbing his bleeding hand with all her strength. “I know where you’re going,” she sobbed, her voice breaking. “I know you want to run after her and tell her you still love her.” She stepped closer, clutching his suit jacket. “But what about us, Gideon?! What about the last three years?! I worked twenty-hour days alongside you! I drank with your investors until I vomited blood! I built this company with you from nothing! Are you telling me none of that mattered?!” Gideon stopped dead in his tracks. He didn’t stop because he didn’t love me. He stopped because he was paralyzed by the overwhelming weight of reality. He couldn’t simply erase three years of Mallory’s devotion, sacrifice, and presence from his life without feeling like a monster. He looked down at Mallory’s tear-stained face, an agonizing war raging behind his eyes. “Mallory…” he rasped out, his voice hollow. “Just… give me some time.” Standing at the far end of the quiet hallway, I stood partially hidden behind a decorative pillar. I had realized my old phone was missing and had taken a cab back to the hotel to retrieve it. I had heard every word. I saw the hesitation paralyzed in Gideon’s posture. I quietly stepped back. It didn’t matter anymore. He knew the truth, but truth couldn’t rewrite time. These old relics were useless to me now. I slipped down the service stairs without making a sound. Walking down an empty, sunlit street away from the hotel, I pulled the antique brass lamp from my bag and lightly rubbed the cool metal with my thumb. The purple smoke swirled into the desert air once more, the giant shadow bowing before me. “Master… state your second wish.” I looked down the long, endless road stretching into the horizon, and whispered softly. “I want money. I want enough wealth to live comfortably, independently, and freely for the rest of my life.” The moment the words left my mouth, my current phone vibrated in my palm. A major breaking financial news alert popped up on my screen: “Tech Giant Acquires Dormant AI Startup ‘Singularity Labs’ in Shock $2 Billion Deal. Early Angel Investors See Returns Exceeding 10,000%.” Singularity Labs was a tiny, failing project run by a college senior I had thrown a spare ten thousand dollars at five years ago just to help him pay rent. Now, I was a multimillionaire. I boarded my flight home, switched my phone to airplane mode, and leaned my head against the oval window, watching the golden dunes of North Africa shrink into tiny ripples below. Down in the terminal below, Gideon finally broke past security, only to be tackled and held back by airport guards as my plane lifted into the clouds. None of it mattered anymore.

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When tickets for the express train to New York went on sale, Bruno habitually ordered two. One for himself. One for Isla. Only after locking in their seats did he turn to me and ask, “Callie, did you get your ticket?” I froze. On his screen, his seat was right next to Isla’s. When I opened the app a second later, the only remaining seat on the train was in the adjacent car. I stared at the seat number, a sudden, hollow laugh catching in my throat. From our summer trips to college orientation, whenever there were three of us, they were always a pair. I was always the odd one out, running to catch up behind them. Not long after, Isla dropped a picture of a lease agreement into our group chat. Under the tenant column were two names: hers and Bruno’s. She tagged me with a cheerful emoji. “Callie, Bruno said it’s safer for you to live in the dorms. But you can always come over to our place for dinner on weekends!” “Our place.” Something sharp pricked my chest. I hadn’t even stepped foot onto a college campus yet, and I had already been locked out of his future. A moment later, Bruno sent me a private text. “Don’t overthink this. Isla renting an apartment on her own isn’t safe. I promised her parents I’d look after her. Don’t make a scene over something so minor.” I stared at the phrase “something so minor”. Slowly, I opened the university portal on my phone. The Columbia University enrollment confirmation page was still active, waiting for my final click. I hit back. I navigated over to the late-clearing admissions portal for University College London. This time, I stopped chasing their train car. And I stopped chasing Bruno’s life. … Canceling my enrollment at Columbia still required me to hand over paper forms in New York. The day the train departed, the station was packed. Bruno and Isla sat side by side, one car ahead of mine. Before we left, he’d promised to help me with my heavy luggage. But after passing through ticket control, he went straight ahead, finding Isla’s seat and lifting her small wheelie bag onto the overhead rack with practiced ease. I was stuck one car back, dragging two oversized suitcases through the narrow aisle. People bumped past me, muttering complaints under their breath. I texted him, asking if he could come help me for a second. Ten minutes later, he replied: “Isla gets motion sick. She just fell asleep.” “My mom specifically told me to keep an eye on her on the way down. I can’t move right now.” I looked at the screen, my hands and feet turning ice-cold. In the end, I had to stand on my tiptoes and hoist the heavy bags up myself. The weight was too much; my wrist gave out, and the suitcase slammed down, sending a shot of numbness straight up my arm. A woman sitting nearby caught the edge just in time, preventing it from hitting anyone. I thanked her profusely, my voice shaking. A minute later, Isla posted a photo in the group chat. In the picture, Bruno was kneeling in front of her, carefully draping his jacket over her shoulders. On the fold-down tray sat a paper cup of hot milk and a box of non-drowsy Dramamine. That box of medication was something I had tucked into his backpack that morning, worried I might feel sick on the ride. I tagged him in the chat. “Could you bring me a Dramamine pill? I’m feeling really nauseous.” Two minutes later, his private text arrived. “You’ve never gotten motion sickness before.” “Just drink some warm water.” I turned off my screen and looked out the window. The dull ache in my chest fermented slowly with every rattle of the train tracks. Halfway through the trip, a heavily intoxicated man sat down in the empty seat next to me. Reeking of cheap whiskey, he kept leaning over, his elbow brushing against me, even reaching out to touch my bag whenever the train lurched. My stomach churned with anxiety. I dialed Bruno’s number. The first time, no one answered. The second time, he hung up on me. Immediately after, a text popped up: “Isla just fell asleep. Stop causing drama.” “Stop causing drama.” Those four words felt like a bucket of ice water poured over my head. In the end, a conductor noticed the situation during her walk-through and reassigned me to a safer seat. It was near midnight when we pulled into Penn Station. Bruno held Isla’s hand as they walked off the platform ahead of me. Watching their fingers intertwined, I suddenly remembered the night of our high school graduation. The summer breeze had been soft that evening. He had held my hand just like that on the school rooftop, whispering softly, “Callie, once we get settled in New York, we’ll make it official.” We had been inseparable since sophomore year. Everyone assumed it was only a matter of time before we put a real label on it. Now, he was holding someone else’s hand, never once turning around to see if I was behind them. Without looking back, Bruno called over his shoulder, “Isla’s blood sugar dropped. I’m taking her straight to the apartment to rest.” “Take a cab to the dorms yourself.” With that, he hailed a yellow cab, shielded Isla as she slid inside, and sped off into the night. I stood in the freezing wind, dragging two massive bags, waiting thirty minutes in the taxi line. The night was pitch-black, and my driver got confused by the road construction, taking a wrong turn into an unfamiliar, deserted industrial strip. Terrified, I texted Bruno my real-time location. The message sank into an abyss. No reply. It wasn’t until my resident advisor noticed I hadn’t checked in and sent two upperclassmen out to locate me that I finally made it to the temporary dorms. My phone battery was down to one percent when his text finally arrived: “Let me know when you arrive. Don’t make people worry.” I stared at that belated burst of concern, a wave of dark irony washing over me. A second later, a push notification popped up on my screen. “UCL Clearing Application: Preliminary Review Passed.” I stared at the prompt asking “Do you wish to proceed?” for a long time. Then, I tapped “Confirm”. …… The next morning, Bruno sent me a text. “Come over for lunch.” My high school transcripts, passport copy, and registration documents were still packed in the side pocket of his suitcase—documents I needed to officially withdraw from Columbia and send to London. I had no choice but to go to their rented place. Bruno opened the door. He punched the passcode into the keypad right in front of me, not even bothering to cover the screen. A string of six beeps. I recognized those numbers instantly. It was Isla’s birthday. My mind flashed back to graduation night, when he had promised that when we had our own place in New York, the front door code would be the date we officially became a couple. Now, the apartment living room was filled with new, spotless furniture. By the window sat a sleek wooden desk—the exact model I had drooled over months ago. Today, it was cluttered with Isla’s makeup mirrors, luxury perfumes, and Polaroid prints. The refrigerator door was covered in sticky notes. “Isla doesn’t eat onions.” “Isla needs warm oat milk in the morning.” “Isla is terrified of the dark—leave the hallway light on.” Every single note was written in Bruno’s unmistakable, neat handwriting. I pointed at the fridge, my voice surprisingly steady. “What am I to you, Bruno?” Bruno paused, his hands resting on his hips. “My parents set this place up for Isla. She’s a girl alone in a huge city with no family. I’m just staying here temporarily to look out for her.” “You can come over whenever you want, of course. But Isla’s a light sleeper, so just let us know in advance before you pop in.” “Let us know in advance.” I looked him dead in the eye. “And what about me? I’m alone in a dorm room on the other side of town. Do you ever worry if I’m scared? If I’m safe?” Bruno frowned, annoyance slipping into his tone. “You’re in a university residence hall. You have roommates, an RA, building security. What could possibly happen to you?” “Isla is different. She hasn’t had parents around since she was a kid.” “Callie, stop being so petty about everything.” The words died in my throat. Isla was our high school classmate, the daughter of a long-time friend of the Lawson family. After her parents died in an accident years ago, Bruno’s family had practically taken her in. His parents treated her like a second daughter. In the past, whenever Bruno ditched me for her, he used the exact same line: “She doesn’t have parents, Callie. Just yield to her a little, okay?” At first, I felt sorry for her too. It was only now, standing in this warm, beautifully lit apartment, that I realized her tragedy had long become his ultimate excuse to ignore me. Without another word to me, he reached into his pocket and dropped a spare set of house keys into Isla’s purse. “You’re always losing things, Isla. Keep a back-up set in your bag.” I stood in the middle of the room like an uninvited guest. At noon, the smell of sautéing peppers drifted from the kitchen. Isla sat on the sofa, dramatically covering her nose, whining that she couldn’t stand spicy food. Bruno immediately turned to me. “Callie, let’s keep things mild today. I’ll make you a full spicy meal another time, okay?” I remembered our dinner dates back home. He used to laugh softly as I ate spicy noodles until tears ran down my cheeks, gently wiping my face with a napkin, teasing that he’d have to buy me safety goggles just so he could cook my favorite meals once we moved in together. Back then, no matter what we talked about, he always framed it around our future life together. Now, I was entirely erased from his present. That evening, a sudden storm caused a power outage in the old apartment complex. The living room plunged into total darkness. Isla shrieked, throwing herself directly into Bruno’s arms. “Bruno! I’m scared!” Bruno wrapped his arms around her tightly. “Don’t worry. I’m right here.” Meanwhile, I was in the dark kitchen, gathering up the lunch dishes. A sharp piece of broken porcelain sliced deep into my index finger. Blood gushed out immediately. In the living room, they whispered gentle words of comfort to each other. Neither of them turned around to check on me. When I left, I demanded my documents back. Bruno unzipped his suitcase. My file folder was crushed and crumpled at the very bottom, while Isla’s medical records, lease forms, and campus orientation maps were neatly organized in a pristine clear sleeve right on top. I pulled my papers out and walked out the door without saying another word. Back in my temporary room, I logged into the London university portal and uploaded all my finalized materials. The day I went to the Columbia administration building to process my formal withdrawal, the cut on my hand still hadn’t healed. Bruno, who had promised to accompany me for campus registration, dropped me the second Isla couldn’t find the medical center building. When his text arrived, my heart gave a dull, familiar ache, though the numbness was already taking over. I told myself it was fine; I was cutting him out of my life anyway. I dragged my luggage to the registration queue alone. The student volunteer looking over my passport paused when she saw my name. “Wait, you’re Callie Palmer?” She smiled warmly. “Isla mentioned you earlier! She said you guys went to high school together, and that you’d be coming over to their place for dinner on weekends.” She chuckled. “She was telling us how sweet they are together. Honestly, you guys must be the power couple of the incoming freshman class!” “High school friend.” “Their place.” “Power couple.” Every phrase felt like a tiny, deliberate twist of a blade. At noon, a notification popped up on my feed. Isla had posted a new photo on Instagram. She was standing in front of the iconic university gates. Bruno stood beside her, holding two iced boba teas and a massive bouquet of sunflowers. Her caption read: “Day one in New York with @Bruno. We both have a brand new home!” The comments were already flooded with high school classmates. “Wait, is this official?!” “What about Callie though?” “Honestly, childhood sweethearts always win in the end.” Bruno didn’t reply to any of them, nor did he deny it. If it had been me tagged in a photo like that, he would have instantly posted a public correction: “Just friends, guys. Don’t make rumors.” A torrential downpour hit the campus around two in the afternoon. I was stuck inside the main administration building while my heavy suitcases and paper records were still sitting under a temporary canvas canopy near the registration plaza. I messaged Bruno, asking if he could push my bags inside the lobby. He texted back: “Isla felt dizzy after her blood draw.” “I need to stay with her in the clinic for another thirty minutes.” “Your luggage is hard-shell and waterproof anyway, stop worrying.” By the time I ran through the rain back to the plaza, the canvas tent had given way. My bags were completely soaked, and my printed files were dripping wet. I grabbed my files. As I pushed myself up, my wet shoe slipped on the marble step. I fell hard, crashing against the concrete ledge. The scab on the back of my hand tore wide open, blood mixing with rainwater as it trickled down my wrist. My vision swam with gray spots. I couldn’t stand up. My assigned advisor happened to pass by and quickly pulled me into the dry hallway. She flipped through my wet registration file, concern written all over her face. “Can you hear me? I need to call your emergency contact. Did he come with you today?” She dialed Bruno’s number on speaker. First call: No answer. Second call: Straight to voicemail. When we were filling out our pre-orientation safety forms back home, Bruno had insisted on being my emergency contact. He had taken my phone, typed his own cell number into the field, and said, “If anything ever happens to you in New York, the school needs to call me first.” I had believed him. The advisor stared at the silent phone for a few seconds, then looked up at me gently. “I can’t reach him, sweetie. Rest here for a bit, and once the rain slows down, I’ll walk you to the health center.” Thirty minutes later, Bruno finally rushed into the lobby—holding a fresh set of dorm bedding he had just picked up for Isla. He took one look at my drenched, disheveled state and scowled. “Callie, why do you always have to make things so complicated?” Isla peeked out from behind his shoulder, her voice tiny and sweet. “It’s all my fault, Callie… If I hadn’t felt sick, Bruno could have come over to help you sooner.” Bruno immediately turned to her, his voice softening. “This has nothing to do with you, Isla.” The advisor stepped forward, her voice sharp and uncompromising. “Is this young man your boyfriend? You were listed as her primary emergency contact, sir. She was injured and stranded in a downpour. If you accept that responsibility, you step up—you don’t come in here and blame the victim.” I lifted my head, staring at his face. For a brief, fleeting second, I wanted to ask him: “Were we ever actually boyfriend and girlfriend?” Then I caught myself, feeling a bitter wave of self-ridicule. Whether we were or weren’t didn’t matter anymore. The answer was already staring me in the face. That night, I logged into the residence portal and officially canceled my dorm reservation. I reprinted my UCL admission documents, carefully placing each clean sheet into a protective plastic sleeve. Just as I tucked the final page into my envelope, an email from London popped up on my screen. “Clearing Application Approved. Please complete final registration and travel verification within three days.” That same night, I booked a one-way flight to London Heathrow for three days later. The night before my flight, the freshman group chats exploded. Someone had taken a screenshot of Isla’s post and re-shared it to the campus gossip page, commenting on the handsome new couple living together off-campus. I stared at the endless stream of comments reading “So cute!” and “Relationship goals!”, my fingertips trembling on the glass. Deep down, a tiny, foolish part of me was still unwilling to accept that years of shared memories were nothing more than a fever dream I had experienced alone. In a moment of final, tragic hope, I typed a comment under the main post: “Don’t misunderstand. He has a girlfriend.” It was the first time I had ever publicly claimed my place in his life. “Just give me one sign,” I thought. “If Bruno stands up for me just once, I’ll give him one last chance.” Within an hour, my comment was screenshotted and pinned at the top of the thread. The new headline was vicious: “Freshmen Living Together? Real Girlfriend Steps Up? Who’s the Side Chick?” The comment section erupted into chaos. “He has a girlfriend and he’s renting an apartment with another girl? Isla is literally a homewrecker.” “Wait, I saw them at orientation, they looked totally like a couple!” “I went to high school with them. Bruno and Callie were definitely dating.” “Isn’t Isla an orphan? The Lawson family has been taking care of her for years.” “Even so, zero boundaries! Who moves in with a guy who has a girlfriend?” Isla was soon sobbing in the group chat. She claimed she was only staying there temporarily, that Bruno was helping her purely out of family obligation. She said being an orphan was hard enough, but now she was being publicly branded a homewrecker on her first week of college. She added that if I was really that insecure, she would break her lease and drop out of school altogether. The post gained so much traction that the department dean called the three of us into her office the following morning. The dean laid her tablet on the desk, the viral post still displayed on the screen. “This is spreading through the incoming class,” she said, looking over her glasses. “Normally, I don’t interfere in students’ personal lives, but campus code of conduct is strict, and this isn’t the reputation we want for our freshmen. I need an explanation.” She looked at Bruno first, asking if the cohabitation was real. Then she turned to me, asking what I meant by “girlfriend.” The office fell deathly quiet. I turned my head to look at Bruno. All he had to do was say one sentence—”She’s my girlfriend”—and the whole nightmare would end. He stayed silent for a terrifyingly long time. Finally, he pulled out his phone and brought up a text thread from months ago, showing a message where I had asked, “Are we officially together now?” He showed only my desperate, insecure question, hiding all his previous replies where he had promised: “When we get to New York, we’ll be official.” He looked the dean dead in the eye. “Professor, Callie has had a crush on me for a long time.” “But I never officially accepted her.” “We are not in a relationship.” “Isla is not a side chick.” “Isla and I are the ones currently seeing each other seriously.” My body went numb. I was pinned to the floor, frozen. All those years of quiet, tender devotion were instantly rewritten as the delusion of a desperate girl who couldn’t take a hint. Isla’s sobs grew louder, delicate and heartbroken. “I just started college… I can’t have everyone calling me a homewrecker…” Bruno immediately turned to comfort her, his hands rubbing her shoulders. Then, turning his back to the dean, he leaned in and lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Callie, apologize to Isla right now.” I stared at him. “Apologize for what?” “Her reputation can’t be ruined over this!” he hissed, his eyes pleading and angry all at once. “She doesn’t have parents, Callie. She can’t handle this kind of humiliation. You know what I meant—just don’t make things hard for her right now.” My voice came out barely audible. “So to you… I was never your girlfriend?” Bruno’s throat bobbed. Isla clutched his sleeve, burying her tear-stained face in his arm. He closed his eyes. “At least… not right now.” In that exact second, I heard something deep inside me break into a million pieces. It wasn’t a loud, dramatic shatter. It was just a quiet, final snap. Something that could never, ever be put back together. I stood there for a long time. Then, I turned to Isla. “I’m sorry.” Everyone in the dean’s office let out a long, collective sigh of relief. Only I knew the truth. I wasn’t apologizing for the rumor. I was apologizing to the past version of Callie Palmer—the girl who had spent three years foolishly believing she was loved. When I walked out of the administration building, I didn’t offer another word of explanation to anyone. I opened the UCL registration portal on my phone. “Do you accept your offer of admission to University College London?” I stared at the words for a long moment. Then, I tapped “Accept”. When the green confirmation checkmark flashed onto the screen, I finally let myself swallow the tears choking my throat. Bruno didn’t run out after me. I glanced back once through the glass doors. He was still in the office, using tissues to gently wipe the tears from Isla’s cheeks. He probably assumed I’d be waiting outside, just like I always did, standing in the cold until he was done comforting Isla, waiting for whatever crumbs of explanation he decided to throw my way. That evening, he finally went to the freshman residence hall to look for me. When I ignored his endless stream of texts, he tried asking a passing student to take a message up to my room—only to realize he had no idea what my room number was. Frustrated, he went to the housing desk. The housing coordinator flipped through the system logs and looked up at him. “Callie Palmer withdrew her housing application this afternoon. She moved all her luggage out hours ago.” Bruno’s face drained of color. “What?” A student volunteer standing nearby overheard and chimed in casually, “Oh, Callie? She transferred to UCL in London. She came by to turn in her keys today. Didn’t you guys go to high school together? How did you not know?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556422”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

There was a Good Girl Point Chart taped to our refrigerator. Dad promised that if I reached one hundred points, he would take me to Disney World. To earn those one hundred points, I sat at the piano with a 102-degree fever, forcing my tiny fingers through scales without shedding a tear. I gave away my golden retriever without putting up a fight. I cleaned the floors, wiped down the baseboards, and pushed myself until I scored a perfect 100% on every single final exam. Only then did Dad finally agree to take me. The truth was, Dad never let me watch cartoons, so I didn’t even know what Disney World was. I didn’t care about Mickey Mouse or fairy-tale castles. I just saw how he had been pulling late shifts every night, working until his stomach ulcers flared up so badly he could barely stand. I thought if I earned this trip, I could force him to take one full day off to rest. I carefully packed my small canvas backpack. Inside, I placed a small clay figurine I had spent three weeks sculpting in art class—it was a picture of Dad holding me high up on his shoulders. Alongside it, I packed a box of medical-grade thermal stomach wraps, purchased with six months of saved allowance money. I zipped the bag up with delicate, trembling care. Then, one minute before we were set to leave, Cynthia—Dad’s college sweetheart—walked through the front door, holding the hand of her seven-year-old son, Landon. Dad glanced at the three printed VIP passes resting on the entryway table. His brow instantly furrowed into a tight knot. “Why are there only three tickets?” he asked, his voice sharp. My chest constricted tightly. Dad didn’t wait for an answer. He walked over, unhooked the canvas backpack from my arms, and slung it directly onto Landon’s shoulders. “Since Piper already packed everything, you can just take her bag, Landon.” I stared at my father, stunned into complete silence. He offered a quick, uncomfortable pat to my shoulder, his tone laced with heavy resignation. “Piper, you’ve had everything your entire life. Landon doesn’t have a father. Be generous for once and give him your turn.” I stood anchored to the doorway, watching my small backpack walk away down the corridor. Once the elevator doors closed, I dialed the international number I had resisted calling for months. “Grandpa,” I whispered into the receiver. “I don’t want my dad anymore. Send your lawyer tomorrow morning to take me to Canada.” … “Piper, what are you doing standing there like a statue?” Grandma’s irritated voice sliced through the hallway. She stood in the frame of the doorway, clutching the trim with one hand, her face contorted in a deep scowl. “Landon has a slight cough,” she snapped. “Go tear down that ridiculous point chart you taped to the wall. Right now.” “And put away that report card on the coffee table. Don’t trigger Landon. He just moved back from abroad and hasn’t adapted to the curriculum here.” I stood in the center of the room, looking at her entitlement. That point chart represented every single night I had practiced piano through a burning fever, every chore I had quietly completed to keep the peace. Every single checkmark on that paper had been drawn by my father’s hand. “I understand,” I said softly. Grandma gave a brief nod and turned to leave, but stopped halfway down the hall. “While we’re away for the next two days, clean the guest room from top to bottom,” she added, her tone coated in casual disgust. “Landon has mild asthma; he can’t tolerate a single speck of dog hair. I told you months ago to get rid of that mutt. The whole house still reeks of it.” She didn’t bother hiding her contempt. In this house, I wasn’t a daughter or a granddaughter. I was an inconvenient presence, a quiet servant to be summoned at will. My mother stepped out of the master bedroom, holding Landon’s spare fleece jacket over her arm. “Piper, your grandmother is right,” Mom said, adjusting her pearl earrings. “You’re staying home anyway, so it’s not like you have anything else to do. Clean the guest room so it’s fresh when we return.” She paused, as if remembering a minor detail. “Oh, and the imported health supplements in the kitchen cabinet—make sure you warm up a bottle every afternoon. Landon needs to build up his immune system when he gets back.” I watched her polished, coral-painted lips open and close. I didn’t argue. I didn’t ask why Landon’s comfort required my complete erasure. “Okay,” I said quietly. Dad’s voice boomed from the front door, urging them to hurry up so they wouldn’t miss the morning traffic. Cynthia brought up the rear, holding Landon’s hand, a gentle, triumphant smile playing on her lips. It used to be that whenever I was sad, Dad was the first person to drop to his knees, pull me into his arms, and make me laugh. But now, he merely walked over to where I stood, keeping his distance, his voice low and practiced. “Piper, don’t throw a fit,” he said. “You know Landon just arrived in the country. Everything is strange to him. He was so terrified last night he couldn’t sleep. This trip to Disney is to help him feel at home.” He reached out, intending to ruffle my hair. I casually tilted my head back, dodging his palm. Dad’s hand froze mid-air. A flash of irritation flickered deep in his eyes, though he smoothed it over instantly with a polite smile. “When I find time later, I’ll take you by yourself,” he promised. “You’ve always been the mature one, Piper. Be understanding of the family, okay?” “Mature.” That single word had been an iron weight on my shoulders for seven years. I looked directly into his eyes, my voice entirely flat. “Understood. Have a safe drive.” Dad seemed caught off guard by my lack of resistance. He hesitated, then gave a brief nod. “Be a good girl and wait for us to come home.” The heavy front door shut with a solid “thud”. The foyer plunged into instant silence. I stood motionless for a long time, until the dull ache in my legs turned into complete numbness. Then, I walked into the dining area and stood before the neatly taped “Good Girl Point Chart.” I reached out, grabbed the corner, and ripped it off the wall in one swift motion. I carried it over to the trash can, tore it into tiny, unreadable shreds, and dropped it into the bin. I took the straight-A report card off the coffee table and tossed it in right after. Walking back into my bedroom, I pulled open the top desk drawer. I retrieved the small clay figurine—the one of Dad holding me high above his shoulders—and the unopened box of thermal stomach wraps. I walked over to the open window and dropped both items directly into the neighborhood garbage truck parked in the alley below. My smartwatch buzzed against my wrist. It was a text from my grandfather. “Piper, the lawyer I sent is waiting downstairs. The custody waiver your mother signed last month will take full effect the moment you apply your thumbprint. Are you completely sure about this?” I stared at the screen, my fingers tightening slightly around the frame. “Grandpa, send him up.” I sent the reply and set the watch down. My gaze landed on a silver frame resting on the corner of my desk. It was a photo of Dad and me at a local fair three years ago. He was laughing wildly at the camera, and I was looking up at him with unreserved, reverent adoration. I picked up the frame, slid the photo out, and fed it straight into the trash can. I erased him from my world, right alongside all the wasted love I had spent seven years trying to give him. … Ten minutes later, the doorbell chimed. Mr. Godfery, my grandfather’s senior attorney, pushed a thick stack of legal documents across the coffee table toward me. “Miss Calvin, these are the official Canadian residency papers and school enrollment forms,” Mr. Godfery said softly, his eyes filled with a quiet, lingering pity. “Mr. Winthrop has finalized every detail. Once you place your thumbprint here, you will be completely legally detached from this family.” I reached out, pressing my right thumb firmly onto the red ink pad. “Mr. Godfery,” I asked, my voice calm and small, “after I sign this, do I really have nothing to do with them anymore?” Mr. Godfery paused, his expression heavy. “That is correct. Your mother signed her section last month. To appease your father’s partner, she voluntarily relinquished her maternal rights. You cried and refused to leave at the time, which is why Mr. Winthrop held off on executing the order.” “Refused to leave.” I looked down at the bright red ink on my skin. Last month, my mother had forced me to give away my golden retriever and give up my bedroom to Landon, all to make Cynthia feel welcome. When I sobbed and begged her not to take my dog, Dad told me I was being selfish, and Mom told me I was embarrassing her in front of company. Not a single person in that house had cared about how much my heart was breaking. “Miss Calvin?” Mr. Godfery spoke up gently. “If you’ve changed your mind, there is still time to stop this. Walking away from your parents is a permanent decision.” I took a deep, steady breath, lowered my hand, and pressed a clear, dark thumbprint onto the final page of the document. “I haven’t changed my mind,” I said. “I’m ready to make my own choices.” Mr. Godfery looked at the absolute finality in my eyes and refrained from asking anything else. “Very well. I will process these immediately. Your grandfather has arranged a private flight for six o’clock tomorrow morning.” I thanked him and walked him to the door. Outside, the morning sun poured over the driveway, brilliant and completely devoid of warmth. Back inside, I picked up my tablet. A red notification popped up on social media. It was an update from my mother. She had posted a elaborate nine-photo gallery, each picture brimming with curated family bliss. There were photos of them watching the parade in front of the Cinderella Castle, shots of lavish character breakfasts, and finally, a picture of Dad carrying Landon on his shoulders. Dad was leaning his head up, laughing playfully with Landon, who looked utterly triumphant. The caption read: “A very special day, bringing a perfect surprise to our very special family.” The comment section was filled with likes from relatives. My Aunt Kelly had left a comment: “Where’s Piper? Didn’t you say you were taking her once she reached one hundred points?” Grandma’s reply came almost instantly: “Piper has a dark, difficult temper. She can’t stand seeing anyone else happy. If we brought her along, she would have ruined the mood for everyone.” I stared at those words until my fingertips turned ice-cold. “A dark, difficult temper.” That was all I was to them. They didn’t know that I had played the piano until my knuckles throbbed through a burning fever just to see Dad smile. They didn’t care that I had given up my dog to stop Grandma’s constant complaining, or that I had studied until midnight every night just to hear my mother say she was proud of me. I pressed the “like” button on the post, cleared my history, and logged out forever. Less than twenty-four hours remained. Soon, I would be completely gone. I spent the next few hours cleaning the guest room according to Grandma’s orders. I dragged a damp cloth across every surface, dusting the baseboards and wiping down the large, south-facing windows that flooded the room with sunlight. The room was spacious and bright. The closet was already filled with Landon’s new designer clothes, and the desk was covered in expensive imported toys and limited-edition model kits. As I mopped the hardwood floor, my gaze fell onto the nightstand. Resting there was an elegant wooden box, its lid half-open to reveal a limited-edition starry sky projector. Dad had brought it back from a business trip last month, claiming it was my reward for getting straight As. I had seen the box hidden in his study weeks ago, tagged with a bright yellow sticky note that read: “Piper’s straight-A surprise.” Yet, here it sat, resting on Landon’s bedside table. When I had asked about it, Dad’s explanation had been effortless: “Piper, Landon saw it and loved it, and he’s terrified of the dark. You’re brave, you don’t care about the dark anyway. Let him have it. I’ll buy you a better one later.” I hadn’t thrown a tantrum then. I hadn’t cried. I had simply, quietly, erased that promised night sky from my heart. I pulled the guest room door shut and retreated to my own room. Opening my backpack, I tucked my passport into the deepest interior pocket. It was my single ticket to freedom. I laid down on my narrow bed, staring up at the white ceiling. “If you stop expecting love, you stop feeling the pain of losing it.” It had taken me seven years to learn that truth. The afternoon bled into evening, suffocatingly quiet. I ate a plain sandwich, completed my remaining chores, and packed my sketchbook. Occasionally, the family group chat would chime with new photos. Not a single person sent a text asking if I had eaten dinner. At eight o’clock, my smartwatch buzzed. Dad’s name flashed across the digital screen. I watched it ring for several seconds before pressing answer. “Hello?” The line was filled with loud, chaotic noise—the distant boom of fireworks detonating overhead. Dad’s voice came through, heavy with irritation. “Piper, did you take the engraved silver pendant from Landon’s bag?” I went still. That silver pendant was something Dad had hiked nine hundred and ninety-nine steps up a mountain monastery to get blessed when I was three years old and dying of a sudden blood infection. It was engraved with my date of birth. I had worn it around my neck every day of my life. Before they left that morning, Landon had spotted it, screamed until he got his way, and Dad had forced me to hand it over “just for the day.” “No,” I said, my grip tightening on the watch frame. “Why?” Dad sighed heavily, his impatience palpable through the speaker. “Landon felt like it was scratching his neck during the parade, so he took it off to hold it. Someone bumped into him in the crowd, and he dropped it. We can’t find it anywhere.” My breath hitched violently. “It’s lost? Did you even look for it?” My voice cracked, rising higher than I intended. Over the line, Landon’s pathetic, sniffling voice drifted through. “Piper… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to… there were so many people, someone pushed me…” Grandma’s sharp voice immediately took over the speaker. “Piper, why are you screaming at him? It’s just an old piece of silver! How much could it possibly be worth? Landon got his foot trampled in the crowd while trying to look for your stupid trinket. His ankle is completely swollen!” I bit down on the inside of my lip so hard I tasted metallic iron. “A stupid trinket.” Everything I cherished was worthless to them. Dad took the phone back, his tone dripping with cold fatigue. “Piper, your grandmother is right. It’s just an old piece of jewelry. When we get back, I’ll buy you a solid gold lock necklace, something far more valuable. Landon’s foot is hurting right now, so stop making him cry. Be mature.” “Be mature.” I closed my eyes. A single tear escaped, hot and sudden, splashing onto the back of my hand. I didn’t let out a single sound. When I finally spoke, my voice was terrifyingly flat. “Don’t bother.” Dad hesitated. “What do you mean, don’t bother?” “I mean, don’t buy me a new one,” I said, every trace of emotion drained from my tone. “If it’s lost, it’s lost.” It didn’t matter anymore. None of it belonged to me anyway. There was a brief, uncomfortable pause on the line. “Fine,” Dad grumbled. “We’ll bring you back a Disney plush toy tomorrow.” I hung up without replying and tossed the watch onto the desk. I curled into a ball on the bed, wrapping my arms tightly around my knees. When I was three, I had spent a week in the pediatric ICU with a terrifying fever. Dad hadn’t slept for four straight days, sitting beside my crib, holding my tiny hand. He had tied that silver pendant around my neck and whispered, “Don’t be scared, Piper. Daddy prayed for you. This will keep you safe forever.” I had held onto that memory for four years. Then Cynthia returned, and everything collapsed. Dad gave all his tenderness, all his patience, to her son. He had been the final pillar standing between me and Grandma’s cruelty, between me and Mom’s cold indifference. And tonight, that final pillar had handed away my safety charm and let it be trampled into the dirt. I stood up, walked to the bookshelf, and opened the bottom drawer. Inside rested a heavy photo album filled with ticket stubs and photos from every trip Dad and I had ever taken together. I carried the album to the corner of the living room and flipped the power switch on the heavy-duty paper shredder. “Feed.” One page, two pages, three pages. The machine roared, its sharp steel blades devouring the glossy color prints, grinding my childhood memories into fine, hopeless dust. It swallowed every smile, every hug, every lingering piece of love I had held onto. Later that night, the family group chat lit up again. Grandma dropped a long voice message into the thread. “Piper, we’ll be home tomorrow morning around ten. First thing tomorrow, pack up your bedroom and move all your things into the small study down the hall. Landon says he likes your room because of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Clear it out for him before we arrive. The study is plenty big enough for a little girl anyway.” I played the message, set the watch down, and didn’t bother responding. They were entirely confident I would obey. I had never dared to defy Grandma. Mom would never stand up for me. In their eyes, my only purpose in that house was to step aside whenever Landon wanted something, and then fade quietly into the background like a ghost. Dad sent a follow-up text a few minutes later: “Piper, you’re starting primary school soon; it’s time you learned to be independent. That room gets the best morning light, and Landon’s health is delicate—he needs the sun. Clean it up nicely, and I’ll bring home that strawberry shortcake you like tomorrow.” “Independent.” What a convenient word for abandonment. Landon needed the master bedroom, needed the sunlight, needed the whole family revolving around his delicate constitution. I was seven years old, so I was expected to be independent and surrender everything I owned without a murmur. I didn’t text back. I simply muted all notifications on the watch. My room was already bare. Aside from the mattress and the built-in wardrobe, nothing remained. My drawing supplies, my books, my clothes—everything I couldn’t take had already been boxed up and picked up by a local charity donation service earlier that afternoon. I packed three changes of clothes into my small canvas backpack and pulled the zipper shut. My Canadian passport rested quietly on the desk beside my single-way ticket confirmation to Vancouver, scheduled for 6:00 AM. I looked around the room where I had spent seven years of my life. I felt no sorrow, no regret, no lingering warmth. Before midnight, I gave the guest room one final wipe-down. I set the heat supplement bottle inside the warmer in the kitchen. I arranged Landon’s imported toys neatly along the wide windowsill of my former bedroom. Everything was precisely as they had demanded. Perfect. Long before the sun broke over the horizon the next morning, I slung my backpack over my shoulders and stepped out the front door, letting it latch shut with a quiet, final “click”. The morning air was crisp and biting. A sleek black sedan was idling at the gates of the residential complex. A driver in a suit stepped out and held the rear door open. “Miss Calvin,” he said respectfully. “We’re heading to the airport.” I slid into the plush leather seat. As the car pulled away, the neighborhood bled into a blur of passing streetlights. My smartwatch screen illuminated. It was a text from Dad. “Piper, is the room cleaned out yet? Make sure you change Landon’s bed sheets to the Superman set he likes.” I looked at the text message, a bitter, silent laughter rising in my throat. “Change his sheets?” Even at the very end, my only value to them was as an unpaid maid clearing the way for their real child. I tapped his profile picture and hit “Block”. Then I selected my mother’s contact and hit “Block”. Then Grandma. One by one, I erased every line of communication tying me to that house. I unbuckled the smartwatch from my wrist, popped open the back casing with a small hairpin, pulled out the GPS tracking microchip, and snapped it cleanly in half. I dropped the broken plastic into the car’s trash receptacle. At the airport, my grandfather’s assistant escorted me seamlessly through the private terminal and onto the aircraft. I sat in the wide leather armchair of the cabin, looking out at the tarmac lights stretching into the dawn. The overhead speaker chimed, and a polite flight attendant’s voice drifted through the cabin. “Welcome aboard, Miss Calvin. We are cleared for departure to Vancouver…” I leaned my head back against the seat, closing my eyes as the jet engines roared to life, pushing us up into the morning sky. Goodbye to the favoritism and the cold neglect. Goodbye to the little girl who spent seven years begging to be loved. From this day forward, I would never be anyone’s second choice again.

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At our wedding rehearsal, my fiancé’s first love walked up to my deaf brother holding a black permanent marker. With deliberate, cruel strokes, she drew a grotesque clown smile across his face. Then, right across his forehead, she scribbled the word “DEFECTIVE” in giant block letters. “The little deaf guy can’t hear all the happy music anyway,” she giggled, holding up the Sharpie like a prize. “I’m just giving him a smile so he can join in on the fun!” Around her, the groomsmen erupted into sharp, mocking laughter, their eyes gleam with the thrill of a side-show entertainment. My brother couldn’t hear their cruel taunts. All he saw was the entire room staring at him. Thinking he had somehow become the beloved center of attention at my wedding, his face lit up. He turned to me, his fingers moving in eager, clumsy sign language. “Sister, everyone is looking at me and smiling. Do I look handsome today?” Ice flooded my veins. My heart felt like it was being fed into a meat grinder, pulverized into raw, bleeding pieces. Before I could move, my fiancé walked over. He casually slid his arm around Vera’s shoulders, pulling her against his side as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Vera’s just young at heart, Mallory,” he said, his voice dripping with easy condescension. “Look, your brother is actually enjoying it. Don’t ruin the mood with that icy glare.” He allowed another woman to trample my family’s dignity under her heels, and then turned around to blame me for being sensitive. I walked up onto the stage without a word. Gently, with my own hands, I wiped the dark ink off my brother’s face. Then I turned. I ripped the ten-million-dollar diamond engagement ring off my finger and hurled it directly into my fiancé’s face. “Take your child’s play,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet, “and get the hell out of my life.” “The wedding is off.” … I ignored the scattered mess on the floor and took my brother Callum’s hand. Callum was still confused. His fingers twitched, signing in clumsy, hesitant movements. “Sister, are we not getting married? Why did everyone stop laughing?” The black marker ink was still smeared faint and dark around his lips. Paired with the innocent, earnest look in his eyes, he looked heartbreakingly fragile—and terribly pitiful. A suppressed snicker broke out among the groomsmen. Elliot strode over, his face dark as a thundercloud. He grabbed my wrist in a vice grip. “Mallory, haven’t you made enough of a scene?” “Vera was just pulling a harmless joke! Do you really have to make everything so goddamn ugly?” I yanked my arm back with everything I had, but his grip didn’t loosen. “Let go of me.” Vera came rushing up, her eyes instantly rimmed with tears. She timidly reached out, snatching the edge of my sleeve with trembling fingers. “Mallory, I’m so, so sorry. I swear I didn’t mean anything by it.” “I just felt like the atmosphere was too tense, and I wanted to make everyone laugh. I… I forgot that disabled people are so sensitive about these things. Don’t be mad at Elliot. If you want to blame someone, blame me.” One of the groomsmen, Troy, Chimed in with a scoff. “Seriously, Mallory, Vera had good intentions. A deaf guy usually never gets a chance to stand on a stage like this anyway. What’s the big deal about a little face paint?” “It’s not like it killed him. You’ve got a terrifying temper.” I slapped Elliot’s hand away with a violent swing and pointed straight at the double doors of the ballroom. “A harmless joke?” “Great. How about I take a blade and carve two lines into your face, and then tell you it’s just a joke?” Elliot stepped in front of Vera, his brows knotted in deep disgust. “You used to be so reasonable. Why are you acting like a hysterical lunatic today?” “Vera is flying out tomorrow for her studies abroad. Can’t you just show a little grace and let it go?” “Apologize to Vera right now, and we’ll pretend this never happened.” A bitter, hysterical laugh bubbled up in my chest. He wanted me to apologize to the woman who had just publicly humiliated my brother? I turned, pulling Callum toward the exit. Elliot leaned in close to my ear, his voice dropping into a cold, venomous whisper. “If you dare walk out that door today, forget about your brother’s surgery.” My feet froze. Seeing me stall, Elliot’s tone instantly shifted to one of arrogant mercy. “Dr. Reynolds, the top otolaryngologist in the country, lands tomorrow. He’s taking exactly three patients for his new surgical trial.” “I hold one of those three slots.” “Walk out that door, Mallory, and your brother spends the rest of his life as a deaf clown.” My fingernails dug into my palms until I felt the skin break. Callum had lost his hearing five years ago because he threw himself in front of me when a heavy iron beam collapsed at a construction site. He took the impact to his head so I wouldn’t be crushed. Restoring his hearing was the single greatest obsession of my life. To get Dr. Reynolds’ name on our file, I had spent the last six months swallowing my pride, begging Elliot for every favor he was owed. “Elliot,” I rasped, my voice shaking with pure hatred. “You’re using my brother’s medical care to threaten me?” Elliot adjusted the subtle silver cufflinks on his suit sleeves, unfazed. “I’m teaching you how to behave.” “Whether your brother ever hears again depends entirely on how you act for the rest of the evening.” Behind his back, Vera peeked out, flashing me a triumphant, mocking smile. Callum gently tugged my sleeve, his hands moving slowly. “Sister, let’s not leave, okay? You look so pretty in your wedding dress.” Looking into my brother’s hopeful, trusting eyes, the sharp refusal stuck in my throat. Just get the surgical slot. That was all that mattered. I let go of his hand, forcing every muscle in my body to turn back around. “Fine,” I said, my voice dead and flat. “Let’s finish the rehearsal.” Elliot smiled, satisfied, pulling Vera back into his side. “That’s more like it.” “Everyone back to positions! Cue the vows segment!” I was pushed back to the center of the stage like a lifeless puppet on strings. The stage lights dimmed. The officiant stepped up, microphone in hand, attempting to smooth over the tension with a practiced smile. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, let us look at the big screen to revisit the beautiful journey of our bride and groom!” The massive LED display flickered to life. Romantic music filled the venue. But the faces that appeared on the screen were not mine and Elliot’s. They were an eighteen-year-old Elliot and a sixteen-year-old Vera. The video showed Elliot carrying Vera on his back, running along a sunlit beach. It showed Vera smearing ice cream onto the tip of Elliot’s nose. It ended on a frozen shot of them in high school uniforms, sitting under a oak tree. Bold text popped up across the bottom: “To my boy—wishing you a happy wedding.” An audible gasp went through the room, followed by low whistles from the groomsmen. I stood under the harsh spotlight, watching a five-minute montage of their childhood-sweetheart romance. The love story video I had spent three sleepless nights editing—frame by frame, capturing five years of my life with Elliot—had vanished without a trace. I turned my head to look at Elliot. “What is the meaning of this?” Elliot kept one hand casually shoved in his pocket, his expression completely indifferent. “It’s just a video, Mallory. Why are you getting worked up again?” “The video you made was too long and boring. Vera re-edited a new version for me.” “She’s leaving the country tomorrow. Consider this her farewell gift to me.” I pointed a shaking finger at the screen. “This is “my” wedding! You’re playing a memory lane video of you and another woman?” Vera stepped up to the stage, biting her lip in an act of deep distress. “Mallory, please don’t misunderstand.” “Elliot and I grew up together. I just wanted to leave a small keepsake before I go.” “If it really bothers you that much, I’ll have them turn it off right now.” Elliot caught her wrist, stopping her. “Don’t turn it off. I think it’s great.” He turned his glare back to me. “Mallory, why are you so petty? You can’t even make room for someone who’s leaving the country tomorrow?” The officiant stood below the stage, clutching his mic in frozen awkwardness. Vera dabbed at the corner of her eyes, where not a single tear existed. “Elliot… if Mallory hates the video, then what about the reception outfit change?” Elliot waved his hand dismissively. “Do whatever you planned.” Vera snapped her fingers. A few stagehands rolled out a rolling rack. Two outfits hung upon it. One was a traditional, hand-stitched silk couture dress featuring intricate phoenix embroidery. I had spent six months crouching over an embroidery frame, stitching every single golden thread with hopes for my future. The other was a cheap, neon-green tulle dress that looked like it had been bought off a dollar-store rack. Vera pointed at my phoenix dress, sighing regretfully. “Mallory, the gown you designed is way too outdated. It doesn’t suit Elliot’s status at all.” “So I picked a new one for you.” “To save you from overthinking it, let’s just dispose of the old one.” She took a massive pair of iron shears from a nearby staff member. Blood rushed to my head. I broke away from the stagehands and threw myself over my dress. “Don’t you dare!” My eyes had gone bloodshot stitching this dress. Every golden strand held the naive dreams I had once nurtured for our life together. Elliot signaled to two security guards. They stepped up instantly, grabbing my arms and pinning me back. “Let go of me! Elliot, are you insane?!” Elliot shook his head in annoyance. “That old dress looks tacky as hell. Vera has way better taste than you.” “Put on the one Vera chose. Stop embarrassing me here.” Vera raised the heavy shears and stepped up to the silk gown. “Snip.” The exquisite gold-stitched phoenix was severed directly down the middle. “Snip.” The delicate metallic threads snapped, spraying like golden dust across the floor. In less than a minute, the gown that carried every ounce of my devotion was reduced to a pile of shredded, useless rags. Below the stage, Callum panicked. He tried to rush up, but the groomsmen tackled him down, pinning him roughly into a metal chair. Vera tossed the cheap, scratchy neon dress directly into my face. “Go put it on, Bride.” The guards released their grip. I sank to my knees, cradling the shredded pieces of silk, my eyes locked on Elliot. “You let her destroy something I built with my own hands… just to feed her need for possession?” Elliot scoffed coldly. “I’m already agreeing to marry you, aren’t I? What more do you want?” “What’s wrong with granting Vera one simple wish?” “Go to the back and change. Don’t push me to lose my temper.” …… The rehearsal was dragged forcibly into the reception tasting phase. I sat at the head table like a walking joke, wearing the itchy, neon-green monstrosity. A waiter pushed out a silver cart. “This is the final specialty dish: Imperial Seafood Bisque.” The heavy ceramic lid was lifted. A cloud of scalding, spicy steam billowed out into the air. It was a pot of boiling seafood soup, heavy with thick red chili oil floating on the surface. Vera immediately stood up, taking the ladle. “Let me serve everyone.” She ladled a bowl for Elliot first, then walked straight over to Callum with a second bowl. “Callum, this is wedding soup! You have to drink it to bring good luck!” Callum couldn’t hear what she was saying; he only stared at her in utter confusion. Vera thrust the bowl directly against Callum’s lips. “Drink it! Everyone’s watching you!” The soup had just come off the flame. The thick layer of red oil trapped all the intense heat underneath, keeping the broth at a dangerously high temperature. Callum couldn’t tolerate spicy food at all—even a tiny hit of chili gave him severe gastric distress. I bolted up from my seat. “My brother can’t eat spicy food, and he can’t drink anything that hot!” Vera completely ignored me. She shoved the bowl forward, splashing drops of scalding red broth onto his shirt. “Mallory, this is celebratory soup! It’s bad luck if he doesn’t drink it!” “Besides, he’s a grown man. Don’t be so delicate.” Troy chimed in from the side. “Yeah, refusing a simple toast? That’s just disrespecting Elliot.” Callum looked around at the cold, pressuring faces. He could sense that my defense of him was making my situation impossible. He gave me an appeasing, gentle smile, his hands moving awkwardly. “Sister, I will drink. Don’t fight.” He took the bowl of boiling, spicy broth and poured it straight into his mouth. The burning oil and searing fluid rushed down his delicate esophagus. Callum’s face instantly flushed a terrifying, dark purple. He clutched his throat, coughing violently as spasms wracked his frame. The ceramic bowl slipped from his hands, shattering into sharp pieces on the floor. The boiling liquid splashed across his arms and hands. His fair skin turned red at a visible, horrifying speed, large walnut-sized blisters ballooning up across his flesh almost instantly. “Callum!” I went completely wild. I charged forward and shoved Vera out of the way with every ounce of strength I had. Vera used the momentum to throw herself backward, landing dramatically on the carpet. “Ah! Ow! It hurts!” Her elbow had scraped against the floor, leaving a tiny scratch barely the size of a sesame seed. Elliot sprinted over instantly, scooping Vera up into his arms. “Vera! Are you okay?!” He turned his head toward me, roaring with fury. “Mallory, what the hell is wrong with you! She was just trying to give him soup, and you physically assault her?!” I didn’t give him a single second of my attention. I grabbed a pitcher of ice water from the table and poured it directly over Callum’s blistered arms. Callum was trembling uncontrollably from the agony, yet he still reached out with his uninjured hand, weakly signing to tell me he was okay. At that exact moment, a sharp, metallic screech echoed from high above our heads. “Creeeeak!” Suspended directly above the main stage was a massive, multi-tiered floral chandelier weighing hundreds of pounds. Due to rusted, neglected rigging, the heavy steel frame began to sway violently. The next second— The entire fixture snapped, plunging straight toward our table. Shadows engulfed Callum and me, as well as Elliot and Vera right beside us. “Watch out!” someone screamed from the crowd. In that split second between life and death— Elliot didn’t hesitate for even a fraction of a millisecond. He gathered Vera into his arms and threw himself into a dive toward the safe zone several feet away. His back was entirely exposed to me. He didn’t turn his head to look at me—not even once. “CRASH!” The chandelier slammed down with crushing force. I threw my entire body over Callum, shielding his head and torso beneath me. A sharp iron beam from the rig slammed brutally into my left shoulder. Warm, thick blood gushed instantly from the impact, dripping down my sleeve and soaking into the carpet. Pandemonium broke out. Dust drifted through the air. I pushed the heavy iron frame off my back, gritting my teeth as I hauled Callum up. The wound on my shoulder was deep enough to expose bone. Crimson blood completely ruined the cheap neon dress. A few feet away on the leather couch— Elliot was gently holding Vera’s forearm, his face filled with panic. He was staring at that microscopic scratch she had gotten when I pushed her. “Where is the first-aid kit?! Call an ambulance! Can’t you see she’s bleeding?!” Elliot screamed at the venue manager. Half a dozen waiters sprinted over holding medical supplies, hovering nervously around Vera. Nobody looked at me, bleeding profusely through my clothes. Nobody looked at Callum, whose arms were covered in horrific burns. I stood frozen in the middle of the wreckage, looking at the man I had loved for five years. Suddenly, the pain stopped hurting. The agony in my heart simply went numb. My purse vibrated against my hip. I used my good hand to pull out my phone. It was an international email from France. The sender was the Royal Arts and Medical Foundation of Paris. The text was entirely in English: “Dear Ms. Mallory Sidney,” “We are profoundly awed by the traditional silk embroidery piece, “All Living Things,” which you submitted to our board.” “After a formal review, our board has decided to grant your brother a full medical sponsorship for his auditory nerve restoration.” “Please arrive in Paris before this Friday. We will provide our premier auditory implant surgery and cover all medical expenses.” I stared at the words on the glowing screen, reading them three times over. The heavy, crushing stone in my chest finally cracked and fell away. I didn’t need Dr. Reynolds. And I certainly didn’t need Elliot’s pathetic charity. I slipped the phone back into my bag, walked over to the main table, and picked up a sharp steak knife. With a hard, decisive slice— I sliced through the ugly, jagged skirt of the neon dress. I ripped off the blood-soaked outer layer of tulle and threw it straight into a nearby trash can. The sudden commotion caught Elliot’s attention. He turned around, and when his eyes landed on the blood dripping down my shoulder, he froze for a second. But his face hardened almost instantly, his voice rising in harsh rebuke. “Mallory, look at what you’ve done!” “If you hadn’t pushed Vera, she wouldn’t have been in the drop zone, and I wouldn’t have had to dive to save her!” “Get over here right now and apologize to her!” Vera nestled deep in Elliot’s chest, her eyes sparkling with the smug triumph of a victor. I held a wad of napkins against my bleeding shoulder. Step by step, I walked right up to Elliot. “Elliot.” He frowned, his tone cold. “What? Acting pitiful won’t work this time. You “will” apologize.” I raised my right hand, pulled off the ten-million-dollar engagement ring, and threw it with full force directly into his face. The heavy diamond cracked against his cheekbone before bouncing off and rolling deep into the cushions of the sofa. “Did you really think,” I whispered, “that because I loved you, you had the right to drag my brother’s dignity through the mud?” Elliot cupped his bruised cheek, his face a storm of shock and disbelief. “Are you insane?! You don’t want your brother’s ears cured anymore?!” A cold scoff broke from my lips. “Keep your precious slot,” I said softly. “Use it to get Vera’s head checked.” “As of today, I don’t love you.” “The two of you make me sick.” Without waiting for a response, I turned, took my brother’s hand, and walked toward the exit without ever looking back.

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My girlfriend, Helena, was a professional voice actress. To protect her vocal cords, she had a strict personal rule: she never repeated a single sentence. Not to anyone. When I proposed to her on a rain-slicked balcony in Manhattan, I begged her to say “yes” just one more time so I could commit it to memory. She turned away, her voice cool and crisp. “The words don’t matter, Jonah. Only the intention does.” To compromise, I started carrying a small digital voice recorder everywhere I went. I was terrified of losing her words, terrified that a momentary distraction would erase a piece of her from my life forever. Until the day our wedding planner called us in to finalize the reception details. Halfway through the meeting, my phone rang with an urgent call from my manager, and I stepped out into the hallway. When I walked back in twenty minutes later, Helena and my best friend, Shane, had already wrapped up the entire session. That night, sitting alone in the quiet dark of my apartment, I clicked open the voice recorder. Out of the seventeen sentences she had spoken during the consultation: Three were spent asking Shane what color pocket square he’d prefer for his suit. Five were spent confirming his specific dietary restrictions for the catered dinner. Seven were dedicated to fretting over whether they should swap his dress shoes for soft-soled loafers, worried his feet might ache after hours of standing. Shane had laughed through the recording, calling her a broken record for repeating herself so many times. And the remaining two? One was spoken directly to the planner: “It’s fine, the groom doesn’t care about these small details.” And the last one was spoken to Shane, her voice soft and entirely uncharacteristic: “I just don’t want the groom’s experience to be ruined.” Referring to Shane. Not me. In that quiet, agonizing second, the truth settled into my chest like lead. She wasn’t incapable of repeating herself. I just wasn’t worth the extra breath. I called the planner and canceled the venue reservation that night. Then, I opened my laptop and accepted the two-year corporate transfer to our Paris branch. If she didn’t care about our wedding, she could give it to someone else. … The line had barely gone dead after I canceled the venue when Helena called. “Jonah, the planner just emailed saying you called off the venue. What is wrong with you?” Her tone was sharp, clipped, laced with disbelief. “We just talked about this yesterday. You cancel on a whim? Do you think this wedding is a joke?” It was always like this. Whenever my actions carried any emotional weight, she never asked why. She never reflected on what she might have done. Her default reaction was to accuse me of being dramatic, of failing to see the bigger picture. In the background, I heard Shane clear his throat with a faint, amused cough. “Told you, Helena. Whenever Jonah throws a fit, he’s just begging you to coddle him. What’s with the attitude? Do you actually want to marry the guy or what?” Helena let out a long, irritated sigh. “Fine, fine,” she muttered. Then, begrudgingly into the receiver: “What is it this time, Jonah? Can’t you just talk to me like an adult?” It was funny, really. Shane’s words always carried far more weight with her than mine ever had. I remembered our last anniversary. She had stood me up at an upscale Italian restaurant downtown. On the quiet drive home, I sat in the passenger seat, my chest tight with unspoken hurt. She hadn’t said a word. When I finally broke down, tears spilling onto my collar as I asked why she couldn’t just offer a single word of comfort, she had only offered a cold, exhausted scoff: “Stop making a scene, Jonah. I’m tired.” She had left me alone to drown in my own feelings. “That’s more like it!” Shane’s cheerful voice drifted through the speaker. “Look, brother, if you’ve got an issue, just spit it out. She’s straightforward—she doesn’t get all these subtle mind games, and she’s slammed with work. She’s lowering her guard here, so don’t be a pain.” Once, I might have thought he was just playing mediator, trying to keep the peace between us. But now, I saw the truth plain as day. He was telling me I was unreasonable. Ungrateful. He was my friend first. He only knew Helena because I had introduced them. Yet somewhere along the line, without me noticing, he had quietly crossed the aisle to stand by her side. I opened my mouth, a lump forming in my throat. “I—” “Hey, folks! What can I get started for you tonight?” a server’s cheerful voice cut through the background. Shane grabbed the phone. “Hold that thought, Jonah. She took me out for some food. We’ll be back soon—we’ll talk when we get home.” My stomach churned into a cold, hollow knot. They were together. Again. Because of her work, Helena rarely had weekends off. Every time I wanted to go on a date, she was either locked in the booth or dissecting scripts. Yesterday’s wedding consultation had been time I literally begged her to carve out of her calendar. Yet tonight, during hours she claimed were reserved for crucial studio meetings, she was out grabbing late-night street food with Shane. She didn’t just refuse to spare extra words for me. She refused to spare time. An hour later, the front door clicked open. They walked in wrapped in a cloud of greasy, extra-spicy chili oil aroma. Helena’s lips were visibly swollen and red, and she was coughing weakly into her elbow. Shane was leaning against the entryway, clutching his stomach with laughter. “You are pathetic! You can’t handle a tiny bit of hot sauce?” Helena had avoided spicy food for years to safeguard her voice. Instinctively, my chest tightened. I stepped toward the kitchen and poured a glass of warm water, handing it to her. “You ate spicy food? I thought you never touched the stuff.” She took the glass but didn’t drink. Instead, she turned and pressed it into Shane’s hands. “Stop dramatic acting. Look at your eyes—they’re practically bleeding. Drink this.” I stood frozen in the middle of the living room. In five years together, I had never tasted spicy food in this apartment. Once, when she was out of town, I made a dish with a hint of red pepper flakes. When she returned and caught the faint lingering scent in the air, she flew into a rage and spent the night sleeping on the couch in her soundproof home studio. Noticing my rigid posture, Helena shifted slightly, stepping between Shane and me like a shield. “I wanted to try it myself,” she said smoothly, her tone defensive. “It has nothing to do with him. Don’t start fussing, Jonah. We know what we’re doing.” “Don’t start fussing. We know what we’re doing.” It was as if I were the outsider crashing their private world. The urge to explain, to argue, vanished instantly. “Right,” I said quietly. “You two rest up. I have work to finish.” Shane gave her shoulder a playful nudge. “See? I told you he wouldn’t hold a grudge! You’re always trying to turn us against each other.” Helena let out a weary laugh, then offered me a plastic container smeared with dark red sauce. “You haven’t eaten, right? You’re always talking about wanting street food, so I packed some leftovers for you.” She pulled her jacket back on. “I’m going to drop him off at his place and then head straight to the studio. Don’t wait up if you’re tired.” They left, their soft laughter echoing down the hallway. The promised conversation about why I canceled the wedding was forgotten before it even began. And despite me saying I had work to finish, neither of them had bothered to ask what that work was. I opened the container. The skewers were cold, drenched in peanut sauce and heavy chili paste—from a street vendor that had given me severe food poisoning two years ago. I tied the plastic bag tight and tossed it directly into the trash. I spent the rest of the afternoon packing up my life. By dusk, as I was folding my clothes into a sleek leather suitcase, Helena returned. She was holding a graphic novel, its cover instantly recognizable. It was the flagship fantasy comic Shane had raved about for months—the one currently being adapted into a high-budget audio drama. She flipped through the pages, softly reciting dialogue under her breath in distinct, theatrical tones. Usually, this meant she was auditioning for a lead role and steeping herself in the character. She pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen, a subtle smile touching her lips. As I walked past her to put away a jacket, my eyes caught her screen. [Nailed it! All those late nights were worth it—I got the role. Don’t worry, nobody is going to ruin your favorite girl now. You owe me big time!] The response came back almost instantly from a familiar contact. A tiny burst of audio played through her phone speaker. Even muffled, I recognized Shane’s hyperactive voice. “I literally mentioned it once offhand and you actually landed it?! You spoil me way too much! Quick, say my favorite line! Do the voice!” My throat constricted. Three years ago, I had loved a web novel deeply. The female protagonist shared a quiet, resilient grace that matched Helena’s natural speaking voice perfectly. I had once asked her, almost shyly, if she would read a single paragraph of that character’s monologue for me. She had refused point-blank. “Characters have souls, Jonah,” she had said solemnly. “As a voice artist, I respect the integrity of the work. I don’t use my craft to indulge personal fan-service.” Later, she turned down the official dubbing contract for that very project, claiming the character lacked artistic challenge. Helena glanced at me, locked her phone, and adjusted her tone to something cool and casual. “Recording starts tomorrow. I need to practice in the booth. Don’t bother me, and try not to knock on the door.” Driven by an impulse I couldn’t quite name, I walked down the hall and stood outside her studio. Through the heavy wood paneling, I heard her clear her throat, dropping her pitch into a desperate, velvety whisper. “Even if it means eternal damnation… I will never betray you.” She wasn’t satisfied. She repeated it. Again. And again. Each iteration hit my chest like a dull strike. By the twentieth attempt, her voice was noticeably raspy, entirely stripped of the effortless command she usually brought to her roles. The character in that comic was supposed to be bright and ethereal; her voice was completely ill-suited for it. Yet she kept trying, straining her throat without a second thought. I remembered something she had said to me a few months back. She had told me I lived like an old-fashioned, proper gentleman—predictable, obedient, polite, but ultimately lacking spark. Unlike Shane, she said. Shane had an infectious, chaotic energy that unlocked hidden layers in people, giving her the courage to break her own boundaries and experiment with wilder, unconventional roles. At the time, I thought she was merely offering an objective analysis of how personality types influenced her acting technique. I had been too blind to realize it was the most elegant confession she could muster. I was simply too late to understand. That midnight, the audio production company officially announced the main voice cast on social media. Helena posted her promotional statement at precisely 12:04 AM—a timestamp corresponding directly to Shane’s birthday, December 4th. When she finally emerged from the studio, she caught me staring at the Twitter feed on my laptop. Her brow furrowed slightly. She walked over and gently slid the laptop lid shut. “Don’t read into it, Jonah. I’m just fulfilling a friend’s dream. When I treat him well, it reflects well on you too, doesn’t it?” I couldn’t count how many times she had used that exact justification. She was obsessed with framing her devotion to Shane as an act of generosity that somehow elevated my social standing. She didn’t understand the fundamental truth of love: if you care about someone, your devotion shouldn’t be distributed—it should belong to them first. It didn’t matter anymore. My flight confirmation hit my inbox. In three days, I would be on a plane to Paris. … Audio dramas move fast. By the third afternoon, the production was already recording its emotional climax. Helena had warned me in advance that she’d be doing heavy emotional work and likely wouldn’t be home until late. I was in the bedroom, taping shut the last box of my possessions, when her studio assistant sent me a frantic text. [Jonah, Helena is totally stuck on a scene. Can you come to the studio? She needs help getting into character.] Because voice acting lacks visual sets, actors often rely on external triggers to tap into complex emotions. In the past, I had visited the booth to help her ground herself. Usually, I didn’t have to do anything—just standing where she could see me was enough for her to conjure the quiet intimacy her roles required. I pulled my suitcase to the curb, hailed a cab, and set it for the studio. When I pushed open the soundproof heavy doors of Studio B, a raw, gut-wrenching sob echoed through the speakers in the lobby. I paused, preparing to ask the sound engineer which scene they were tracking, but stopped dead as I looked through the one-way glass into the isolation booth. Helena was on her knees, clutching Shane tightly around the waist, her face buried in his chest, weeping uncontrollably. “Don’t leave me! Please… please don’t leave me!” Shane slowly loosened her grip, stepping back with an expression of tortured longing. They stood there, bathed in the dim booth lights, gazing into each other’s eyes with a devastating, raw intimacy. In the control room, several familiar voice actors exchanged awkward, panicked glances when they noticed me. Afraid I was about to cause a scene, they instinctively took a step back. I didn’t yell. I didn’t scream. I just stood there, looking at the girl I had loved for five years as if she were a complete stranger. My eyes fell on the director’s script sitting on the console. It was a tragedy. A scene about irreversible separation. So Helena “was” capable of crying for someone until she broke. Six months ago, I was involved in a severe car accident that left me in a coma for four days. The doctors had urged my family and friends to speak to me constantly to stimulate my brain waves. During those dark, lingering days of semi-consciousness, I remembered hearing her composed, measured voice updating me on her schedule. I remembered hearing her laugh heartily with Shane at the foot of my hospital bed. I even remembered the muffled sobs of the family next door ringing down the corridor. But I had never heard her shed a single tear for me. When I finally woke up, a nurse had gently teased her, saying she was the most remarkably calm girlfriend they’d ever seen—she hadn’t cried once outside the ICU. I had defended her back then. I told myself she was grieving in private, that everyone processed trauma differently. Now I knew the truth. Whether in performance or in reality, I was simply never the man who could move her to tears. The scene wrapped. Shane remained inside the booth, adjusting his headphones. The assistant rushed into the control room, freezing in horror when she saw me standing by the glass. “Jonah! I—I’m so sorry!” she stammered, turning red. “I didn’t know Shane was going to drop by to visit. When he showed up, the director asked him to step in as a reader to help her mood, and I totally forgot to text you not to come!” She looked at me nervously. “Do you… do you want me to ask the director to let you go in and try a take with her?” I looked at the director, who was beaming with satisfaction as he reviewed the waveform on his screen. I smiled faintly and shook my head. “No need. The recording sounds perfect. I won’t ruin your workflow. I have places to be.” … Back at the apartment, while I was grabbing my passport, my phone buzzed with an alert. Someone from the studio had leaked a behind-the-scenes clip of the emotional breakthrough to social media. The comment section was exploding: [Holy crap, is that her boyfriend?! Finally seeing his face! He’s gorgeous!] [No wonder Helena’s acting was so insane—this is pure, unscripted emotion. They look so good together! I’m total trash for this pairing!] [Wait, hold on. I ran into Helena and her partner at a coffee shop last month. Her boyfriend doesn’t look like this at all. Isn’t this guy her boyfriend’s best friend?] [Plus one! I saw her with her actual guy a while back. She never tagged him, but it was obvious. This isn’t him! Is she cheating? I’ve seen this guy on her story like ten times—they’re always out alone together!] Within twenty minutes, the hashtag “#HelenaCheatingBoyfriendsFriend” shot into the top three trending topics. It turned out that complete strangers on the internet could see the blurred boundaries between them instantly. I hadn’t been crazy after all. Before I could close the app, Helena’s caller ID flashed across the screen. I picked up. “Did you leak that studio footage?!” Her voice was hysterical, vibrating with anger. “How could you be so vicious, Jonah? He’s your best friend! He was just helping me get into character! Are you really so insecure that you have to ruin us over work?” “Delete whatever garbage you put online and post an immediate apology and statement,” she commanded, her breathing heavy. “Otherwise, the wedding is off. We are done.” A cold sensation washed over my fingertips. So Shane had become important enough for her to weaponize our entire future together. I let out a soft, dry laugh. “If I tell you I didn’t post it, you won’t believe me anyway. So let’s save ourselves the trouble—we’re done.” “Jonah, wait—” I hung up and turned off the phone. An hour later, as I sat in the back of an Uber toward JFK, my phone lit up with a push notification. Helena’s team had released an official statement. [Official Statement: CV Helena and Mr. Jonah Miller ended their relationship amicably some time ago. There is no truth to the rumors of infidelity. The leaked footage was illegally obtained and released by an internal party to manipulate public opinion. The gentleman in the video is her current partner. We will take strict legal action against all defamatory claims.] I stared at the screen, my fingernails pressing hard into my palms. She had always refused to post about me publicly, claiming she wanted to protect my privacy from toxic internet trolls. Yet now, without a moment’s hesitation, she officially claimed Shane while throwing me to the wolves as a bitter, vengeful ex who leaked private files to sabotage her. This was how she protected me. My inbox immediately overflowed with vile messages from her defensive fanbase. Strangers left comments calling me a loser, a pathetic stalker, a terrible friend. A few extreme fans even managed to track down my firm’s public email, demanding I be fired for corporate misconduct. Interspersed among the harassment was a text from Helena’s secondary burner account: [Don’t take the public statement personally. It’s just a temporary PR strategy the team came up with to save the project. Stay inside for a few days and cool off.] [When the dust settles, I’ll clear your name. Just don’t do anything reckless in the meantime—it will ruin my character arc. If you hadn’t threw a temper tantrum in the first place, none of this would have happened. Take this as a lesson.] A temporary strategy. Their brilliant solution was to turn me into a dishonest trespasser so they could emerge untarnished. A single tear escaped my eye, hitting the glass screen of my phone with a quiet “tap”. It didn’t matter anymore. None of it. I didn’t reply. I blocked her number, deleted her contact, and wiped every messaging app clean. Then, I pulled up the Google Drive folder containing five years of our relationship logs, saved text messages, and the timestamped receipts from the wedding planner showing we were actively booking vendors just six days ago. I uploaded the entire archive onto a public forum thread. I shoved the phone into my pocket, dragged my suitcase through the terminal doors, and boarded the plane. As the jet lifted into the gray afternoon sky, watching the vast expanse of New York shrink into tiny geometric blocks beneath the clouds, I felt a strange, light relief. Helena. Your voice, your time, your love—none of it belongs to me anymore. The ten-hour flight across the Atlantic was the deepest, most uninterrupted sleep I had experienced in years. Yet, in the deepest layers of my dreams, I kept seeing the Helena from five years ago. Back when she was an unknown voice talent, auditioning in cramped apartments. Every time she booked a minor gig, she would run to me, her eyes shining like stars. On the eve of her first major lead, she was so anxious she couldn’t sleep. I remembered waking up at two in the morning to brew her warm chamomile tea, lighting her favorite lavender candle, and rubbing her back as I whispered that she was going to be brilliant. I remembered her leaning her head into the crook of my neck, sleep-addled and soft, whispering, “Just wait until I’m famous, Jonah. I’m going to make sure everyone knows I have the best partner in the world.” Back then, my favorite part of the day was sitting beside her in the evenings, listening to her run lines, helping her analyze script beats, correcting her cadence. When toxic trolls left mean comments on her early dubbing reels, I stayed up late deleting every single one so she wouldn’t wake up to heartbreak. I remembered looking into her eyes and saying, with absolute conviction, “You are going to be the greatest voice actor of our generation.” That was when we were closest. But as the years passed, those quiet evenings grew rarer and rarer. She matured. Her voice found an audience of millions. She didn’t need me to delete her bad reviews anymore—she had a dedicated PR team for that. She needed me less. She stayed with me less. Although a quiet sorrow occasionally settled in my chest, I told myself that her fulfilling her dream was my dream too. Until she met Shane. Shane—who belittled her rules, challenged her boundaries, and treated her profession like a game. Suddenly, my quiet support was “boring.” I wasn’t blind. I had felt the distance widening between us. I had tried to close it. Two years ago, when I received my first offer for an international management transfer, the contract stipulated a two-year deployment that guaranteed a promotion to VP upon return. It was a massive opportunity—one that I hoped would bring my career closer to her rising star. I was ready to tell her over dinner. But the minute I stepped into the apartment, I found the studio in crisis. A competitor’s fanbase had launched a coordinated smear campaign against her; her studio’s latest radio drama was being boycotted, and rumors were destroying her reputation. I opened her door and saw her sitting in her chair, head in her hands, crushed. She had looked up at me with tear-filled eyes and whispered, “You’re finally back. I thought even you were giving up on me.” In that single second, I made my decision. I chose her. I turned down the transfer. The colleague who took the slot in my place returned two years later to run an entire regional office. I never regretted staying. Not once. I never blamed myself for the choices I made back then. They were made out of pure, genuine love, and I took full ownership of them. Even if I was wrong, all I had to do was start over. When I opened my eyes, the morning sun over Paris was cutting through the clouds. The five-year dream was officially over.

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The night he proposed, Bruno rented out the entire bistro where we had our very first date. He’d arranged everything: armfuls of fresh white roses, a platinum ring, and a feature wall covered in photographs capturing four years of our memories. Everyone in the room cheered, whispering that the stoic Bruno had finally learned how to be a romantic. For a second, I almost believed it too. Until he dropped to one knee, and his phone screen flashed on the table beside us. A notification popped up—his ex-girlfriend, Kendra, had just announced her engagement. Bruno’s gaze snagged on that banner for two long seconds. Then, without breaking stride, he pushed the ring box closer to me. “Let’s post this on Instagram tonight,” he said, his voice smooth. “And we’ll go down to the courthouse tomorrow morning. What do you say?” I asked him why he was suddenly in such a hurry. He pinched my cheek with a easy laugh. “Just terrified you’ll realize you can do better.” After I posted the announcement, Bruno kept his phone facedown on the table. But every few minutes, his hand would casually drift over, flipping it faceup to check the screen. When our friends started chanting for him to kiss me, he subtly turned his head away, catching my wrist and angling my hand toward the photographer instead. “Get the ring first. Make sure it’s in focus.” At the end of the night, while standing outside the restrooms, I heard him on his phone in the quiet hallway. “She didn’t react at all?” A pause while his friend answered on the other end. “Isn’t she trying on wedding dresses tomorrow?” Bruno’s voice was flat, measured. “Send the photos directly to her.” I stood frozen behind the cracked door. The diamond on my finger suddenly felt like a cluster of needles. The flowers, the surprise, the lifelong promise—none of it had been created for me. It was all just a reply letter written to another woman. And I was merely the signature line at the bottom of the page. … When I walked out of the hallway, Bruno was leaning against the wall, waiting for me. Seeing me, he naturally took the crumpled paper towel from my hand and gently wiped the stray drops of water off the back of my wrist. “You were in there so long, I thought my bride pulled a runner.” “Who were you asking about earlier?” I looked straight at him. “When you asked who didn’t react?” His hand stilled for a fraction of a second. Then he smiled. “Kendra.” He admitted it so candidly that it made my confrontation feel childish, like I was picking a fight out of nowhere. “She announced her engagement today, and you proposed to me tonight,” I said softly. “Is that really just a coincidence?” “She posted her news, and I booked this restaurant weeks ago,” Bruno said, sliding a hand around my waist to pull me closer. He leaned down, his forehead gently resting against mine. “Can I control the exact minute she decides to update her status? The ring is on your finger, Mallory. You’re the one signing the marriage license with me tomorrow. If I happen to let her know I’m doing just fine, where’s the conflict?” “So you’re using me as a prop for her?” “Why do you always have to phrase things so harshly?” He pinched my cheek again, his tone dripping with fond condescension, as if teasing a toddler who didn’t know any better. “I just got down on one knee in front of a room full of people. Are you really going to pick a fight over a ghost from my past?” Inside the private room, someone shouted for us to come back and cut the cake. Bruno took my hand and led me back to the table. He cut the first slice, carefully picking off every single hazelnut before handing the plate to me. He remembered my nut allergy. I took the plate, the cold knot in my chest loosening just a fraction. But then his phone buzzed on the mahogany table. A text from his best friend flashed across the lock screen: “Sent her the pictures. She only replied with ‘Congratulations.’” Someone sitting next to us caught a glimpse of the screen and bumped Bruno’s shoulder with a laugh. “Kendra’s getting married, man. You still gotta win one last time?” Bruno set the cake knife down on the table with a soft “clack”. “Who’s trying to win?” he said, his voice laced with a cold, dismissive edge. “I just couldn’t stand the way she acted back then—like my life was completely over without her.” His hand was still resting comfortably on my hip while he said it. His friend immediately tried to smooth it over. “Don’t pay him any mind, Mallory. Bruno just has a big mouth. If he were still hung up on Kendra, why would he be on his knees for you tonight?” The table erupted into easy laughter. Someone called for a toast, urging us to lock arms and drink. Bruno lifted his glass to my lips, but as his phone vibrated again, his hand instinctively slackened. The wine sloshed over the rim, staining the hem of my silk dress. “Sorry,” he muttered, but his eyes had already darted down to the glowing screen. I was the only one close enough to see it: the moment he heard Kendra’s name, his instinct wasn’t to look at me—it was to check his phone. He pulled a napkin to dab at my dress, but his fingers trailed off after two half-hearted swipes. The screen still displayed that cool, detached word: “Congratulations.” “She gave you her blessing,” I said quietly. “Are you unhappy about it?” He flipped the phone face down. “She’s just putting on a show.” With that, he pulled me tighter against his side, his grip heavy, as if trying to prove a point to an invisible audience. The crowd cheered again. He leaned down to kiss me, his lips pressing against mine, but his eyes stayed wide open. When the party finally wound down, he brought me back to his apartment. He unclasped my earrings and knelt beside the bed to gently rub my ankles, swollen from hours in high heels. “We have to take our license photos tomorrow,” he murmured, his thumb stroking my warm skin. “Don’t ruin your sleep over nonsense tonight.” His palms were warm, his movements so practiced and tender that it felt like he had loved me deeply for a lifetime. At two in the morning, a wave of cold air woke me. Out on the balcony, Bruno was standing in the dark, scrolling through Kendra’s engagement post over and over again. He didn’t like the post, nor did he leave a comment. He simply zoomed in on her new fiancé’s face, then zoomed back out. There was no warmth or nostalgia in his eyes. Only the raw, restless irritation of a sore loser waiting for a rematch that wasn’t coming. He wasn’t waiting for Kendra to come back to him. He was waiting for her to regret leaving. But she didn’t. Which meant the expensive platinum ring sitting on my finger hadn’t won him the game after all. The next morning, Bruno canceled our appointment at the city clerk’s office. He claimed his eyes were puffy from drinking the night before, adding that a marriage certificate lasts a lifetime, so we couldn’t afford to have a bad photo. I looked into his eyes—clear, sharp, and entirely sober—and didn’t bother calling out the lie. That afternoon, he took me bridal shopping instead. I fell in love with a minimalist silk gown—clean lines, a tailored waist, no glitz, no sweeping train. Bruno took one look at it, then signaled the stylist to bring over a bold, crimson-red evening dress with a dramatic cut. “Try this one.” “People don’t wear crimson for the license photos,” I said. “For the reception, then.” “I don’t like red.” He pressed the heavy fabric into my arms, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of my ear. “Just wear it once for me. If it looks bad, I’ll take the blame. You can punish me however you want when we get home.” Bruno knew exactly how to dismantle my defenses. Whenever his voice dropped to that low, persuasive register and his eyes crinkled at the corners, my mind would drift back to a rainy night four years ago, when my mother was rushed into emergency surgery. My family was stuck out of town, the billing department was pressing for immediate payment, and I was sitting alone on the cold hospital floor, sobbing so hard I couldn’t catch my breath. Bruno had driven six hours through a storm to get to me. He ran up and down six flights of stairs, handling every form, paying every fee. When I finally drifted off, leaning against his leg, he draped his heavy coat over my shoulders and sat on the freezing linoleum, guarding me all night. The next morning, I found a handwritten note on the back of the medical receipt: “Don’t be scared. I’m not going anywhere until your mom walks out of those doors.” Ever since that night, I had convinced myself that Bruno just had a sharp, stubborn edge to his personality. I believed that when it truly mattered, he would never abandon me. I changed into the crimson dress and walked out of the fitting room. Bruno’s eyes lit up. He stepped forward to adjust the thin strap on my shoulder. “I told you,” he murmured softly. “You carry it off brilliantly.” The photographer in the studio showered us with compliments. Bruno guided me under the studio lights, angling my hand toward the camera lens so the ring caught the light. He reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, smiling gently. “Keep your face visible. Didn’t someone use to say you couldn’t pull off high-profile looks?” Just then, Bruno’s childhood friend walked in to drop off some paperwork for the venue. When he saw the brilliant red dress, he let out a low whistle and chuckled. “Man, Kendra always used to say she’d only wear bright red for her wedding. You still remember that, Bruno?” Bruno’s hand froze against my waist. I turned around to unfasten the zipper myself, but he pressed a hand against my shoulder to stop me. “Red is traditional. It has nothing to do with her.” “I didn’t say a word, Bruno.” His patience evaporated instantly. “Mallory, are you going to bristle every single time her name comes up? I pick out a dress for my fiancée, and you turn it into a trial for infidelity.” I went back into the fitting room and changed into my own clothes. The new heels I’d worn today had rubbed the skin on my heels raw; after just two steps, I felt a sharp sting as a bead of blood seeped out. Bruno noticed it instantly. His expression darkened, and he immediately knelt on the floor, pulling a Band-Aid from his wallet. “If it hurt, why didn’t you say something?” He lifted my foot onto his knee, his fingers incredibly gentle, his brow furrowed deeper than mine. I stared down at the dark crown of his head, a sudden wave of bitterness rising in my chest. He had this infuriating talent—just as I made up my mind to give up on him, he’d offer me a crumb of tenderness to keep me hooked. A second later, he lifted the hem of my skirt, snapped a quick photo of my bloodied heel resting in the red shoe next to the ring, and uploaded it to his story. The caption read: “She looks best in red.” As soon as it posted, his thumb instinctively tapped the viewer log. Kendra’s name wasn’t there. Bruno’s hand stilled on my shoe for two seconds. When he looked up, he forced another easy smile. “If you really don’t like the dress, we won’t get it. What are you crying for?” It finally clicked. He wasn’t standing up for me. He was simply using me to prove to Kendra that she had misjudged him—and misjudged me. But I was the person who was supposed to build a life with him. I was not a trophy he could hold up to score points against his ex. …… Kendra blocked Bruno. He didn’t tell me. I found out on my own. At three in the morning, I woke up to get a glass of water and found him sitting on the edge of the mattress, holding my phone. The screen was lit up with photos Kendra had just posted of her own wedding dress fitting. Bruno was using my account, slowly swiping through every single image. I snatched the phone out of his hand. “What do you think you’re doing?” He didn’t look remotely guilty. “Just looking.” “She blocked you, so you’re using my phone to spy on her?” “We’re getting married in a few weeks,” he said smoothly. “What’s the difference between your phone and mine?” I opened the app’s message history and found something far worse. Ten minutes ago, my account had sent Kendra a photo. It was the shot of me in the crimson dress, my hand angled to show off the ring. Underneath, a message read: “I heard you’re fitting dresses today too. Wishing you all the best.” My fingers went cold. “You sent this?” Bruno frowned, irritation creeping into his voice. “Mallory, I just used your account to send a picture. I wasn’t flirting with her under your name.” “Why use my name at all?” “Because she wouldn’t block you.” He stated it as if it were the most logical thing in the world. My shoulders shook with quiet fury. Seeing my reaction, he reached out and pulled me, quilt and all, into a firm embrace. “Alright, I was wrong. How many years do I get for looking at your phone? Here, take my passcodes. Search whatever you want.” He shoved his own phone into my hand. The device was completely clean; Kendra’s contact profile had already been deleted. “See? There’s nothing between us.” He appeared to be apologizing, but in reality, he was subtly lecturing me—reminding me that I didn’t even have a valid reason to be jealous. Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my hand. A reply from Kendra. “Mallory, I saw the photo, and I truly wish you happiness. But please stop letting Bruno use you to send me messages. Whatever point he’s trying to prove, tell him to come say it to my face.” Bruno snatched the phone back instantly, his fingers flying across the screen as he typed out: “You’re overthinking it.” I pressed my hand over his wrist. “Enough.” He looked up at me, and for the very first time, I saw a flash of raw, pathetic embarrassment break through his composure. “Mallory… I just couldn’t swallow my pride.” “So you dragged me into your pathetic pride war?” He went quiet for a few seconds, then leaned forward to press a soft kiss between my brows. “Once we sign the papers tomorrow, I’ll never look her up again. I promise.” I didn’t pull away, but a tear slipped down my cheek. Bruno wiped it away, his tone a mix of mild annoyance and practiced tenderness. “Stop crying. Your eyes swell up so easily. If the photos look bad tomorrow, you’re going to blame me again.” He pulled two tissues to dab at my face, then leaned down to kiss my eyelids, just like he always did after our arguments. He knew my soft spots. He knew exactly how to make me melt. His lips brushed my temple, his voice softening into a hush. “Come on, sweetheart. I’m giving you my entire life. What else are you trying to interrogate out of me?” He remembered that I cared about the photos, and he remembered how to make me yield. But he had no idea why I was crying. “What if she never regrets it?” I asked quietly. “What then?” Bruno’s lips stilled against my forehead. A long moment passed before he let out a brief, humorless laugh. “Then she’s an idiot.” In that moment, there was no love in his eyes. Only the bitter, festering resentment of a man whose ego had been bruised. I suddenly realized that Kendra wasn’t the hurdle standing between us. The real obstacle was Bruno’s insatiable, toxic need to win. And even as I stood on the brink of becoming his wife, my name, my phone, and my wedding gown were nothing more than rented gear for his petty competition. …… On the morning we were supposed to register our marriage, Bruno woke up at six o’clock. He tried to cook breakfast, ruining two eggs before managing an acceptable third. While heating the milk, he accidentally scalded the back of his hand. When he brought the tray to me, he offered a charmingly sheepish grin. “First time being a groom. Still out of practice.” Instinctively, I reached out toward his reddened skin. Just as my fingertips were about to touch his hand, I pulled back. Bruno noticed, but he didn’t call me out. Instead, he took his cold, undamaged hand and pressed it gently against my cheek. “Don’t be nervous. Today, don’t think about anyone else. Just think about me.” Before we left, he placed both of our family registries, our IDs, and our appointment confirmation into a clear plastic folder. “From now on, you hold onto all the important documents,” he said softly. “I’ll just focus on doing what I’m told.” The city clerk’s office was packed with couples. We pulled a ticket from the dispenser: Number 107. Bruno snapped a photo of the slip, but he didn’t post it to social media. He simply held it out for me to see. “No audience this time. Happy now?” I nodded. He tucked my hand deep inside his heavy coat pocket, lacing his fingers tightly through mine. “After this, we’ll grab that claypot porridge you love. We’ll come back every year on this exact date, until our teeth fall out.” It sounded so much like a real future. For a fleeting second, I let myself believe that he was finally ready to inhabit our actual life together. When the overhead speaker called out Number 98, Bruno’s phone buzzed. It was a voice message from Kendra. “Bruno, I’m boarding a flight to move overseas today. If you can… can we meet one last time?” Bruno put in an earbud and played the audio. Then he played it a second time. By the third time, the muscle in his jaw was visibly clenched. I reached over and closed the messaging app. “She’s at the airport?” I asked, staring at him. “You want to go?” Bruno stood up abruptly, reaching into his pocket for his car keys. “I just need to ask her one thing. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.” The speaker chimed: “Now serving Number 103.” I laid my hand over the plastic document folder resting on my lap. “Today is our wedding day, Bruno.” “I know.” He leaned down, carefully tucking my scarf around my neck. The gesture was gentle, but his tone left no room for negotiation. “Look, we have history. She’s leaving the country, and she wants to say goodbye. I’m just going to see her off.” “I’m standing at the door of the government building with you. There’s no need to get paranoid over something this small. Just sit here and rest for a bit. I’ll be right back.” Another post-dated check. As long as I was willing to keep waiting, he was always brilliant at promising a beautiful tomorrow. “Bruno, do you honestly not know what she’s doing?” His gaze darkened, his voice dropping into a stern whisper. “Mallory, the woman I came here to marry is you. Don’t force me into a fight on our wedding day, alright?” He turned and walked away. The automated system called out the numbers rhythmically. “One hundred and five.” “One hundred and six.” “One hundred and seven.” I called Bruno’s phone once. It rang until it hit voicemail. A second later, a short text popped up from him: “Almost there.” Ten minutes passed. The words “Almost there” remained frozen on my screen while the system moved on to the next block of numbers. A clerk stepped out from behind the counter. “Is the groom for 107 here? If you missed your window, the ticket is void.” I stared down at the clear plastic folder resting on my knees, a strange, overwhelming silence settling in my chest. “He’s not coming,” I said quietly. “Cancel it.” I unzipped the folder, pulled out my own ID and documents, and left his behind. Inside the bag remained Bruno’s papers, the platinum ring box, and the paper slip stamped with Number 107. I flipped the slip over, wrote a single line on the back, and placed it beneath the bridal bouquet we’d bought that morning. When Bruno finally rushed back late that night, the main lobby lights were already turned off. The security guard on duty handed him the clear plastic folder. On the back of the ticket, written in my neat handwriting, were nine words: “Ticket 107 is void.” “Bruno, so are we.”

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My line of work came with teeth, so my fiancé used my safety as an excuse for everything. Any time there was a “first” in our lives, he insisted my best friend, Cecilia, try it out before me—to make sure it was safe. The first time was an industry gala. Adam was a guest presenter. He gave the seat right beside him to Cecilia. “You’re an undercover journalist,” he whispered to me in the lobby, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back. “It’s safer if you stay in the back, out of sight.” It was the VIP balcony. Security was ironclad. Nobody was going to compromise my identity in a room full of heavily vetted donors and city officials. I stood near the shadow of the exit doors, watching from afar as he walked onto the stage, holding Cecilia’s hand to guide her down the steps. When the lights went up and the crowd surged toward the banquet hall, I was swept out through the side doors. Lost in the maze of service corridors, I called Adam’s cell. Cecilia answered. Her voice was light, high, and breathless with laughter. “I’m taking drinks for Adam tonight! He’s way too busy to talk right now. Just follow the exit signs, babe. If you really can’t figure it out, go ask a security guard.” A cold ache bloomed behind my ribs. Six months prior, while working an undercover story on illicit pharmaceuticals, I was forced to drink a glass of tainted liquor. I spent the night double over on the bathroom floor with gastric spasms. When I called Adam sobbing for help, he told me he was terrible at handling social situations and would never drink on anyone else’s behalf. Yet there he was, letting Cecilia take drinks for him—and drinking for her. Three years later, the keys to our long-awaited brownstone were finally handed over. I pushed the front door open, expecting empty rooms and fresh paint. Instead, Cecilia walked out of the hallway wrapped in a heavy charcoal men’s bathrobe. Adam was right behind her, a dry plush towel in his hands, gently drying the tips of her wet hair. “This neighborhood gets a lot of foot traffic,” Adam said, his eyes skimming over me without a flicker of guilt. “I was worried someone you upset during your investigations might track you here. I had Cecilia stay over first to test the security.” He stepped closer to her, his shoulder brushing hers, leaving barely two millimeters of air between them. “Don’t overthink it,” he added. Looking at the two of them, I realized something with sudden, brutal clarity. I wasn’t being protected. I was the outsider. All that talk about “vetting” things for my safety, about “testing the waters”—it was just a convenient lie. A way for him to hand over everything that was supposed to be mine, wrapped in a neat bow, to Cecilia. If that was what he wanted, I was done standing in his way. … “Rose, I checked out the place for you,” Cecilia said smoothly, her tone devoid of any awkwardness. She walked past me into the master bedroom—the room meant for Adam and me—as if she already owned the floorboards beneath her feet. “The neighbors are all professionals, and the building security is strict. You can move your stuff in tomorrow. Oh, and the Ferris wheel near Adam’s office? Quiet during the weekdays. Completely safe for you.” Adam followed her inside, towel still clutched in his hand. He hadn’t looked me in the eye once. On my way over, I’d been caught in a sudden downpour. Rushing out of the subway, I’d slipped on the wet embankment and fallen into the mud. Rainwater mixed with grime was still dripping down my neck, soaking the collar of my coat. “Go take a look at the layout,” Adam commanded, his voice cold and flat, the exact tone he used when delegating busywork to his lab assistants. “Cecilia picked out the interior design according to her taste. See if you like it. If there’s anything you don’t, we can tweak it—but only the wallpaper shade or the placement of small decor.” Yet when he looked back at Cecilia, his expression softened instantly. “When did the keys come in?” I asked, releasing my grip on the door handle and walking into the living room. My knees felt hollow. I knew asking wouldn’t change a thing. I had already decided to walk away. But I needed the truth, if only to give myself closure for the five years I’d wasted on him. “When we signed the papers, this unit was completely unfurnished. When were all these furniture pieces and renovations added?” Adam’s jaw tightened. “Why do you have to question everything?” he snapped. “Does the timeline really matter? What matters is that you can move in today. This is going to be your home.” There was nothing about this place that felt like home. There wasn’t a single trace of me in it. The interior was decorated in Cecilia’s favorite vintage cream aesthetic. The walls were covered in the warm almond-coffee wallpaper she’d been obsessing over on Pinterest for months. In the guest room, a large glass terrarium sat on a mahogany side table. Inside, coiled against a heat lamp, was a corn snake—a reptile Adam knew I’d been terrified of since childhood. And on the windowsill sat a wide ceramic planter filled with baby’s breath. My throat tightened. I was severely allergic to gypsophila. “I didn’t tell you earlier because I wanted it to be a surprise,” Adam said, stepping into the hallway with an open bottle of walnut-infused oat milk, handing it toward me with an air of practiced sacrifice. “Having Cecilia stay here was purely for your benefit. Given your line of work, if one of those criminals you exposed targeted you, the consequences would be fatal.” He looked at me as if he deserved a medal. Five years ago, when we first started dating, I told him about the time I nearly suffocated from a walnut allergy as a child. It had left me with severe anxiety around nuts of any kind. Back then, he had squeezed my hands, his eyes full of tenderness. “I can’t believe you went through something so scary, Rose. Don’t worry. From now on, I’ll keep you safe.” For a long time, he kept that promise. Walnuts vanished from his apartment, his car, his life. Until Cecilia arrived. “Get that away from me,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t drink anything with walnuts.” Adam’s arm froze in midair. A flash of genuine panic crossed his feature, but it was gone in a fraction of a second, replaced by his usual defensive mask. “Right. Sorry. Cecilia likes it.” Cecilia immediately shot Adam a reproachful glare. “Even if I like it, you can’t bring it around Rose! You know she can’t touch it. We shouldn’t keep stuff like this in the house.” She snatched the bottle from his hand and tossed it into the trash can, setting down rules in our home as if she were the lady of the manor. “From now on, nothing with nuts is allowed in this building!” Then, with a sweet smile, she picked up a glass tumbler from the counter and offered it to me. “Here, have some fresh mango juice instead.” Mangoes were my other deadly trigger. When Cecilia and I first met in college, she hadn’t known. She offered me a slice of mango tart. I ended up in the ICU for a week with anaphylactic shock. Back then, she had sat by my hospital bed, sobbing, clutching my hand. “I’ll protect you for the rest of my life, Rose. I’ll never let anything hurt you again.” Now, she was the one holding the blade. “I don’t drink mango juice either,” I said quietly, looking her dead in the eye. “Unless you’re trying to put me back in the hospital.” I turned on my heel and walked out the door. Behind me, Adam’s irritated voice cut through the air. “You have so many restrictions, Rose! Who could possibly keep track of all of them? Stop making such a huge deal out of everything!” I remembered the night he proposed. “You have so many little quirks and allergies, but I’ve memorized every single one. No matter where we go, I’ll remember. Always.” As I reached the main gate of the complex, I overheard two security guards chatting near the guardhouse. “Hey, the couple in Unit 302… they’ve been living here for two years already, right? When are they finally getting married?” “Oh yeah, the professor and his research assistant! Smart pair, great fit. They look like a match made in heaven.” A match made in heaven. My feet felt as heavy as lead. Unit 302 in Building 3 was the exact brownstone Adam and I had bought. They had been living here together for two years. No wonder he’d been spending so many late nights “at the university laboratory.” No wonder he rarely came home to our old apartment. He hadn’t been analyzing data. He’d been playing house with Cecilia. The final ember of warmth in my chest flickered and died. I headed straight back to my rental unit and pulled out my suitcases. A week ago, my editor, Sam, had pulled strings to secure me a three-year assignment as an overseas investigative correspondent. I had pushed the start date back by two months, desperate to stay close to Adam before our wedding. I didn’t want to delay it anymore. That evening, my phone buzzed. It was a long text from Cecilia. “Rose, are you still mad about earlier? I really didn’t mean to forget about your allergies. Adam and I are at the venue right now, testing the wedding rehearsal flow for you. Security here is super tight, so no dangerous people from your old stories could ever sneak in.” Attached was a photo. Cecilia was wearing the custom lace wedding gown I had spent four months designing. Adam was holding her hand, looking down at her with an intensity I hadn’t seen in years. They were standing on a stage covered in fresh white roses, gazing into each other’s eyes under the warm spotlight. It was the first time Adam had ever stepped onto a wedding stage. The last time I had asked him to take engagement photos with me, he had frowned, his patience running thin. “Again with this? We’ve established that Cecilia needs to test things out for us first to make sure there are no security risks. Once everything is confirmed safe, then you can do it!” Ever since an unknown man followed me home during an undercover story three years ago, Cecilia had used that incident as an unbreakable shield. She insisted on “testing” everything first. I had explained to her a hundred times that I was new to field reporting back then and didn’t know how to protect myself, but after three years in investigative journalism, I knew how to handle threats. She refused to listen. She hid behind the word “protection” while systematically taking every “first” that belonged to Adam and me. Our first formal dinner date. Our first music festival. Our first weekend getaway to the coast. And now, the walkthrough of our own wedding. Around eight in the evening, the front door opened. Adam walked in, carrying a bouquet of white lilies. “Don’t be angry anymore,” he said, setting the flowers on the dining table. “I spoke too harshly earlier. I’m sorry.” He stepped closer, reaching out to touch my arm. “Cecilia helped you finalize the wedding date. It’s set for the eighth of next month.” The eighth of next month. March 8th. My mother’s death anniversary. My entire body went numb. My fingers started to shake uncontrollably. Every year on that day, I spent hours alone at the cemetery. Five years ago, when Adam and I first got together, I had cried in his arms and told him that March 8th was the one day of the year I could never celebrate anything. He didn’t remember my throat closing up from walnuts. He didn’t remember my allergic reaction to mangoes. And he had completely wiped my mother’s death anniversary from his mind. Cecilia knew. She had known for ten years. She had picked that date on purpose. “Are you trying to destroy me?” I asked, my voice trembling so hard I could barely articulate the words. Adam froze. “What?” “She picks out my house. She picks out my decor. She walks my wedding aisle, wears my dress, and chooses the day I stand at the altar,” I said, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping my chest. “Since she’s managing every single detail of my life, why don’t the two of you just go ahead and plan my funeral, too?” “What the hell are you talking about?!” Adam shoved me back in frustration. I lost my balance, my foot catching on the rug, and the back of my head slammed hard against the sharp edge of the coffee table. A dull, thumping pain shot through my scalp. But physical pain was nothing compared to the agony tearing through my chest. “Rose!” Adam reached down, his hands extending toward me—until his phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out. “Cecilia.” Without a second thought, he withdrew his hands and stepped back. “Okay, stay right there, don’t move. I’m on my way!” he blurted into the receiver. He turned and bolted toward the front door, slamming it open. Before rushing out, he turned back to glare at me on the floor. “This is on you! Cecilia goes out of her way to protect you, and you treat her like trash! Now look what happened—one of the criminals you pissed off locked her in a deserted warehouse on the dock! Are you happy now?!” … By the time I stumbled into the emergency room hallway, Cecilia was sobbing softly against Adam’s chest. “I was so terrified!” she whimpered, her hands clutching his shirt. “I thought I’d never see you again! You have no idea how cruel those men were… they mistook me for Rose. They didn’t hold back at all! If I hadn’t managed to run, the baby… the baby wouldn’t have survived!” The hallway seemed to tilt. “Baby?” Adam’s expression was grim. His hand rested gently over her lower abdomen, his voice dropping into a tender murmur. “I’m sorry. I let my guard down. But don’t worry—no matter what happens, I will never let anyone hurt you or our child.” I stood there at the end of the corridor, holding a small plastic bag of ice for my head. It slipped from my numb fingers and hit the linoleum floor with a wet thud. The two of them turned around. Adam didn’t look remotely guilty at being caught. Instead, his eyes darkened with immediate rage. “Look at the mess you caused!” he barked, pointing an accusing finger at me. “If you didn’t spend your life digging up trouble for your stories, Cecilia wouldn’t have had to go through this horror! Aren’t you going to apologize to her? Aren’t you going to say thank you?!” Cecilia clutched his sleeve, her eyes wide and full of unshed tears. “Adam, please don’t yell at Rose. It’s fine. I volunteered to take the risk for her. As long as I can shield her from danger, it doesn’t matter what happens to me.” She looked at me, then quickly covered her stomach with her hand, putting on an anxious, pathetic display. “Rose, I… I just wanted to make sure Adam was healthy enough to have kids. He is. You can marry him and start trying for a baby with total peace of mind. Don’t worry about me—I’m only two months along. I can get an abortion anytime.” I stared at her, stunned into absolute silence. She had slept with my fiancé, gotten pregnant, and was now wrapping her betrayal in the cloak of noble self-sacrifice—making me look like a heartless villain for standing there bleeding from my head. Adam wrapped his arm tighter around her shoulders. “What are you talking about?! Abortion ruins a woman’s health. That child is mine, Cecilia. I’m going to take responsibility for you.” He glared back at me. “Cecilia did this for your sake! She took a terrifying risk while pregnant, and you’re standing there with an attitude? You should be thanking her!” Thanking her? A cold, mirthless laugh broke from my lips. She took my home. She slept with my man. She carried his baby. And she stole every milestone of my relationship under the guise of “protecting” me. And I was expected to bow down and express my gratitude? “Don’t force Rose, Adam… this is all my fault…” Cecilia whimpered, pulling back slightly. “Nobody’s forcing me,” I said, staring straight through her weak act. “I’ll say it. Thank you.” “Thank you for moving into my house. Thank you for seducing my fiancé and getting pregnant. Thank you for tearing down every belief I had about friendship. And thank you… for showing me what a pathetic pair of hypocrites you really are.” “That’s enough!” Before I could finish the sentence, Adam stepped forward and slammed me back against the doorframe. My head throbbed. On my way to the hospital, feverish from the rain and frantic over Cecilia’s panicked call, I had fallen twice in the dark. A passing car’s side mirror had scraped deep into my left forearm, tearing open a raw, jagged wound. The impact against the doorframe tore the wound wide open again. Blood soaked instantly through my jacket sleeve. “Adam… my arm,” I gasped, the pain turning my vision spotted. “I’m bleeding out. Open the door… let me sit down—” Adam didn’t even look at my arm. He pulled out his keys, unlocked his car in the parking lot, and shoved me into the passenger seat, locking the doors behind us before I could scramble out. “Stop acting,” he sneered, sliding into the driver’s seat and hitting the gas. “You’re just jealous that Cecilia moved into the brownstone. You’re jealous she’s carrying my baby. I know I screwed up on the timeline, but you don’t get to act like a monster and throw vile accusations at her!” The car sped out of the city, leaving the bright streetlights behind. Twenty minutes later, he slammed on the brakes in a pitch-black, deserted alley near the industrial district. He reached across, unlocked my door, and shoved me out into the dirt. “If you don’t experience the terror Cecilia felt tonight, you’ll never learn how to empathize with what she went through!” he cold-bloodedly declared. I collapsed onto the gravel, clutching my bleeding arm. “Adam… no. I can’t be here. Please. You have to take me with you.” He ignored my pleas completely, pulled the door shut, and hit the door lock. The cold night wind whistled through the abandoned alleyway. The loss of blood was making my head spin, and my strength was draining fast. Adam had no idea what this alley was. This was a blacklisted zone for investigative journalists. Three years ago, my team and I had spent two months undercover here, busting a human trafficking ring and shutting down an illegal gambling den. The people who frequented these alleys were the very criminals I had put behind bars—men who had sworn revenge on the reporter who ruined them. There were no streetlights, no security cameras, and no police patrols. “Adam… wait…” I gasped, dragging my body inch by inch through the mud toward the red glow of his taillights. Fifty yards away, Adam was standing outside his car under a lone streetlight, his hands casually shoved into his coat pockets, waiting to see if I would crawl back and beg for forgiveness. “Adam!” Behind me, heavy footsteps crunched on gravel. Three dark figures emerged from the shadows, carrying wooden baseball bats. The moment the lead man’s eyes landed on my face, his lip curled into a sadistic grin. They recognized me immediately. I screamed his name with every drop of air left in my lungs, pointing toward the light. The man who had promised to guard me with his life didn’t even turn his head. He got into his car, put it in reverse, and drove away without a single second of hesitation. Just as the first heavy bat swung toward my shoulder, headlights blinded the alley. An SUV tore around the corner, engine roaring, and slammed to a halt between me and the men. The driver’s side door flew open. Sam, my editor, leaped out, dragged me into the passenger seat, and hit the gas, leaving the shouting men behind in a cloud of exhaust. He drove straight to the international terminal. Before I boarded the flight, Sam handed me a thick manila envelope. “You need to see this before you leave,” he said gently. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Adam. “I still love you, Rose, and I still intend to marry you. But Cecilia is carrying my child, and I can’t abandon her. If you agree to accept her and the baby into our lives, I’ll turn the car around right now and pick you up.” A cold laugh broke from my lips. I opened Sam’s envelope, scanned the documents, attached every single file to a draft, and sent it straight to Adam’s phone.

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