Author: Momo Chan

1 On my wedding day, my groom walked out on me. He had to accompany his ex-girlfriend to fulfill the final clause of their so-called Breakup Agreement. A spontaneous, drop-everything getaway. I gripped his cuff, my knuckles turning white. “Can’t you just wait until the ceremony is over? It’s only half an hour away.” He pried my fingers off his sleeve one by one. His tone was condescending, like he was coaxing an unreasonable child. “Aubrey, this is the last time I have to fulfill a clause. I can’t break my promise.” “Once this trip is over, I will never owe her anything again.” “Wait for me to get back. I promise I will make it up to you with an even grander wedding.” With that, he pulled open his car door and sped away from the luxury hotel venue without a single backward glance. Watching the taillights disappear at the end of the road, a bitter smile tugged at my lips. Over the past five years, Carter had bailed on me no less than a hundred times. And every single time, it was to honor that ridiculous Breakup Agreement. But luckily, I had left myself an out this time. The new groom had already entered the venue. … “Why are your hands so cold?” A deep, gentle voice murmured beside my ear, carrying a faint but unmistakable trace of comfort. I snapped back to reality, pulling my gaze away from the tightly shut doors of the banquet hall. Harrison Cole stood beside me. He was dressed in an immaculately tailored, high-end black tuxedo, looking down at me with dark, steady eyes. His warm palm covered my icy fingers, giving them a reassuring squeeze. I shook my head, forcing down the last bit of residual bitterness I held for Carter. “I am fine, Harrison.” “We can start.” Following the officiant’s enthusiastic opening announcement, the heavy double doors of the grand hall slowly pushed open. The spotlight hit my white gown. With my hand resting in the crook of Harrison’s arm, I walked step by step toward the stage overflowing with fresh white roses. A ripple of shock swept through the seated guests. Especially at the head table, where Carter’s parents sat. The color drained from their faces entirely, and they practically shot up from their chairs. Carter’s mother widened her eyes, her lips trembling violently, but the sheer number of high-profile guests in the room forced her to swallow her outrage. Of course they knew the groom had been swapped. But there was absolutely nothing they could do. They could only sit there and watch me finish this play. The ceremony was heavily simplified from my original plan. There were no tearful strolls down memory lane, no dramatic vows of eternal love. There was only the officiant’s crisp, efficient script. Then came the ring exchange. Harrison pulled a simple, elegant platinum band from a velvet box. It was not the massive, multimillion-dollar diamond Carter had custom-ordered for me. He gently took my left hand and slid the ring onto my ring finger. The cool metal resting against my skin made me feel unexpectedly grounded. “Happy wedding day, Aubrey,” he murmured in a voice meant only for the two of us. I looked up, meeting his deep, tranquil gaze, and replied softly. “Happy wedding day to you too, Harrison.” I completely canceled the traditional champagne toast rounds. Using a quick excuse, I retreated to the bridal suite alone. The moment I pushed the door open, the phone in my purse started buzzing frantically. The name “Carter” flashed on the screen. The phone rang four or five times. Just as it was about to go to voicemail, I lazily tapped the answer button. The chaotic announcements of an airport terminal immediately flooded through the speaker. “Aubrey, why did it take you so long to pick up?” Carter’s voice carried its usual smooth cadence, utterly devoid of any guilt for abandoning his own bride on their wedding day. It sounded as casual as if he had just stepped out for groceries. I sat down at the vanity, quietly staring at my reflection in the mirror, taking in the intricate details of my gown. “I was on stage,” I replied flatly. “On stage?” He paused for a second before letting out a soft chuckle. His tone was dripping with helpless indulgence. “I know you are mad. Did you have the officiant run through the motions so you could put on a one-woman show to protest?” “Aubrey, you are usually much more mature than this.” “Stella had a sudden panic attack in the VIP lounge. She insisted that she needed those gluten-free macarons from that artisan bakery downtown to calm down. I had to drive halfway across the city to get them.” “You know she has moderate clinical depression. She can’t handle emotional distress.” “Besides, this is the very last clause of our Breakup Agreement. A farewell trip.” “I promised her. As soon as I walk her through this trip to Iceland, we will go our separate ways forever, and I will be entirely yours.” “Can’t you just be the bigger person and wait for me a little longer?” The words flowed out of his mouth effortlessly, full of self-righteous justification. Over the past five years, I had heard variations of this speech countless times. I had asked him more than once why he had to religiously follow that absurd agreement. He would always look at me with pitiful eyes and say that Stella was just too fragile. If he didn’t help her, she wouldn’t survive. As if Stella was a delicate porcelain doll. And I, Aubrey, was made of reinforced steel, completely indestructible. “Carter.” A weak, breathy female voice suddenly echoed through his end of the line. “The macarons are a bit dry. I want some room-temperature lemon water…” It was Stella. “Okay, sit right here and don’t move. I will go buy some,” Carter replied immediately, his voice melting into pure tenderness. When he spoke into the phone again, his tone shifted right back to a cold, businesslike brush-off. “Aubrey, Stella is calling for me. Just explain the wedding situation to my parents, tell them a corporate emergency came up.” “When I get back, I will rent out the entire Amalfi Coast and throw you the most spectacular wedding.” “Be a good girl. Don’t cause trouble.” I stared at my pale, stiff reflection in the mirror. A mocking smirk curled the corners of my lips. “Carter, you don’t need to throw another wedding.” A muffled thud came from his side, like someone had bumped into him. “What does that mean? Aubrey, are you throwing another tantrum?” “I already told you, this is the last time!” His voice flared with impatience. I didn’t raise my voice. I just interrupted him with absolute, chilling calmness. “I mean, have a wonderful trip.” With that, I hung up. I pressed my finger against the screen and permanently moved his number to my blocked list. Taking off the diamond tiara, I slowly began dismantling my elaborate bridal hairstyle. The door behind me pushed open softly. Harrison walked in holding a warm glass of honey water and set it gently on the vanity. “Still waiting for him?” I picked up the glass and took a sip. The warmth slid down my throat, driving away the chill in my chest. “No more waiting,” I said, turning to look at him. “Harrison, are you free tomorrow to finalize our marriage license paperwork?” 2 Leaving the hotel, I did not head back to the luxury estate Carter and I were supposed to move into as newlyweds. Instead, I took a cab back to the downtown apartment we had rented together for the past four years. Even though we bought the estate outright two years ago, this small apartment was the place that actually held all our memories. And now, I was going to personally wipe those memories clean. Pushing the door open, a pair of matching couple’s slippers still sat neatly in the entryway. Carter had specifically ordered them online last month, customized with our initials. I stepped right over them and walked barefoot into the living room. The finalized guest list we had poured over last night was still scattered across the coffee table. His suit jacket from yesterday’s fitting was draped casually over the arm of the sofa. Everything looked like a perfect illusion of happiness, right up until that jarring phone call shattered it all this morning. I dragged my suitcase out and began packing my life away, piece by piece. Clothes, skincare, reference books. I actually didn’t have that much stuff. It barely filled half the suitcase. Ironically, every corner of this apartment was littered with traces of Stella. I pulled open a drawer to grab my passport, but a blue velvet box accidentally tumbled out. It hit the hardwood floor with a sharp crack, the lid popping open. Inside lay a diamond-encrusted necklace. The pendant was shaped like a star. My hands froze. Carter had bought this for our three-year anniversary. At the time, he had looked at me with eyes full of guilt. “Aubrey, I bought this necklace for you. But Stella saw it, and she said it perfectly matched her name. She cried and begged to borrow it for a few days. You are always so understanding, you won’t mind, right?” Eventually, the necklace was returned, only to be casually tossed into the back of this drawer and never mentioned again. My face remained entirely blank as I kicked the necklace straight into the trash can. I went back to digging for my passport. I finally found it on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. Pulled out right alongside it was a neatly folded piece of A4 paper. The bolded black title read: Breakup Agreement. I stared coldly at the utterly ridiculous clauses printed on the page. “Clause 1: Post-breakup, the male party must accompany the female party to the movies once a month until she heals from the heartbreak.” “Clause 7: Whenever the female party falls ill, the male party must be on call 24/7 and cannot decline under any circumstances.” “Clause 19: The male party must accompany the female party on a farewell trip from her bucket list.” At the bottom of the page, Carter’s signature was bold and sharp. Next to it, he had drawn a tiny smiley face. How touching. The absolute best ex-boyfriend in the world. I crumpled the paper into a tight ball and tossed it perfectly into the trash can, right on top of that star necklace. Just as I zipped up my suitcase, the smart speaker in the living room pulsed with a green light. “Received new photos from the shared cloud.” It was a family sync setting Carter had set up to prevent his phone storage from filling up. Any photo he favorited on his phone would automatically cast to the home devices. Because my phone was tied to the same system, the digital display lit up instantly. It was a live photo album from Iceland. In the pictures, the Northern Lights were breathtakingly vibrant. Carter was wearing a heavy parka, holding Stella tightly in his arms to shield her from the snow. Stella’s cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, but she was smiling radiantly. I tapped the live photo. Stella’s playful voice rang out through the speaker. “Carter, the aurora is so beautiful! If only it could stay like this forever.” Carter’s deep, gentle voice immediately followed. “As long as you are happy, I will bring you here to see it every single year.” I stared at the screen in silence. Five seconds later, the display went dark. Just yesterday, he had sworn to me that this would be the final time he fulfilled a clause. Today, under the Northern Lights, he was promising her forever. I opened the system settings and ruthlessly kicked my account out of the family sharing group. The moment I finished, my phone rang. It was an unknown local number. I tapped the answer button. “Aubrey, it’s Stella.” Stella’s voice was weak and fragile, laced with a careful, probing hesitance. “Carter just went to heat up some milk for me. I sneaked out and used the hotel lobby phone to call you.” I didn’t say a word. I just listened to her perform. “I am so, so sorry, Aubrey. I honestly had no idea today was your wedding day.” “My depression flared up yesterday. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, like I was going to die, so I panicked and called Carter.” “He was just so worried about me. He didn’t even change his clothes before rushing to the airport.” “Please don’t be mad at him. If you have to blame someone, blame my useless, sick body.” She punctuated her speech with two weak, pathetic coughs. I held the phone to my ear. My tone was as casual as if we were discussing the weather. “Stella, if you actually felt sorry, you wouldn’t be calling me right now just to gloat.” The breathing on the other end hitched. She clearly hadn’t expected the usually tolerant and quiet Aubrey to be so bluntly vicious. “Aubrey, you misunderstood me…” Her voice immediately took on a tearful waver. “Stella? Who are you talking to?” Carter’s voice suddenly cut through the background, layered with obvious panic. A second later, the phone was snatched away. “Aubrey!” Carter’s voice instantly dropped to freezing temperatures, dripping with arrogant accusation. “Stella was nice enough to call and apologize, and you verbally abuse her? She is crying so hard she can barely breathe!” I looked down at the suitcase by my feet. “I didn’t say anything to abuse her.” “You didn’t say anything, and she is crying?” he sneered. “Aubrey, I thought you were a generous person. I never realized you were so petty you couldn’t even tolerate a sick woman!” “Stella is just too kind. She felt guilty for taking me away. Did you really have to be so vindictive?” He fired off accusations one after another, as if I had committed an unforgivable crime. I couldn’t even be bothered to defend myself. I moved to hang up. But suddenly, he softened his tone, as if he were granting me some grand, merciful favor. “Forget it, I am not going to fight with you. I need you to go to Stella’s apartment right now.” I frowned. “Why?” “No one has fed Stella’s Ragdoll cat in two days. Go over there and fill the food bowl. The passcode is my birthday.” He paused, then added as if it were the most natural request in the world. “Oh, and scoop the litter box while you are there. Stella is a neat freak, so make sure it is spotless.” “Did you hear me, Aubrey?” 3 The air in the apartment seemed to completely freeze. He wanted me to go to his ex-girlfriend’s apartment and scoop her cat’s crap. On my wedding night. A memory from a brutal winter two years ago suddenly surfaced in my mind. I had caught a severe flu. My fever spiked to 103 degrees, and I didn’t even have the strength to get out of bed. I called Carter, begging him to come home and take me to the emergency room. He had sounded incredibly annoyed on the phone. “Aubrey, Stella’s cat suddenly stopped eating. I have to take it to the vet for a full blood panel. You just have a fever. Take some Tylenol and sleep it off. Stop acting so spoiled.” That day, shivering and delirious, I had to call an ambulance for myself. And now, he actually had the audacity to bring up that damn cat. “Aubrey? Are you listening?” When I didn’t respond, that familiar impatience crept back into his voice. I took a deep breath, my tone dead flat. “Carter, do you honestly believe I was born to be the unpaid maid for you and your ex?” He froze on the other end of the line. He clearly hadn’t expected me to rebel. He went silent for two seconds before his voice spiked in volume. “What nonsense are you spewing now? I just asked you to feed a cat. Why do you have to blow everything out of proportion?” “You never used to be like this! Why are you so bitter and mean now?” “Stella is sick, and that cat is her emotional support! If something happens to it and her condition worsens, are you going to take responsibility?!” His emotional blackmail was as practiced and fluent as ever. It was so fluent it was laughable. “If the cat is so important to you, why don’t you fly back and feed it yourself?” I didn’t wait to hear another word. I hit the red button. With a quick swipe, I added the unknown local number to my blocked list. Grabbing the handle of my suitcase, I took one last look at the place I had called home for four years. I walked out, pulled the door shut, and locked it. Without a single shred of regret. Early the next morning. I got up before the sun and headed to a high-end bridal boutique downtown. I had originally booked an appointment today to pick up the custom reception gown Carter had personally designed for me. Even though I didn’t need it for a wedding anymore, I had already paid for it in full. I planned to bring it home and cut it up into cleaning rags. The moment I stepped inside, a familiar burst of laughter echoed from the lounge. “This is gorgeous! If she wears this for a photoshoot under the snowy mountains, it’s going to look absolutely killer.” It was Carter’s younger sister, Karina. She was lounging on the velvet sofa in the VIP section, holding an espresso and showing off a photo on her phone to her friend. “Obviously. My brother picked it out. He treats Stella like a literal princess.” When Karina saw me walk in, the smug smile froze on her face. But it only took a second for her to replace it with a theatrical, mocking grin. “Oh, look who it is. If it isn’t my almost-sister-in-law, Aubrey.” She put a heavy emphasis on the word “almost”. I ignored her completely and walked straight to the front desk. “Hi, I am here to pick up the custom gown for Aubrey.” The sales associate looked incredibly awkward, stammering as she flipped through the appointment ledger. Karina strutted over in her designer heels, her tone dripping with provocation. “Don’t bother looking, Aubrey. My brother had the dress overnighted to Iceland yesterday.” My hands stopped. I turned to look at her. “He took it?” “Yep.” Karina waved her phone smugly, shoving the screen right in my face. In the photo, Stella was wearing the stunning red reception dress that was meant for me. She stood against the backdrop of an Icelandic glacier, the red silk catching the wind perfectly. Carter was standing just out of frame, but his hand was visible, gently tucking a strand of windblown hair behind Stella’s ear. “Stella said she wanted to do a ‘goodbye to youth’ photoshoot,” Karina said with a sickly sweet giggle. “My brother thought that red dress would pop perfectly against the snow, so he just had it shipped over.” “You aren’t mad, are you, Aubrey?” “Stella is so sick. Just treat it like doing charity work. What is the big deal if she borrows it?” The heavily made-up friend next to her immediately chimed in. “Exactly. A woman who can’t even keep her man from running away at the altar shouldn’t be making a fuss over a piece of fabric.” “They are true soulmates. You were just the benchwarmer. Stop acting like the main character.” Their harsh, mocking voices were painfully loud in the quiet boutique. The sales associate kept her head down, too afraid to make eye contact. I looked at the familiar red dress on the phone screen, and suddenly, my chest felt completely hollow. Two months ago, Carter had stayed up for three nights straight with a sketchbook, refining that design for me. He had held my hands and said, “Aubrey, I designed this specifically for you. It’s the only one of its kind in the entire world.” Turns out, his “one of a kind” was easily transferable. I pulled my gaze away and looked at Karina. My voice was perfectly steady, without a single ripple of emotion. “Since your brother loves doing charity with other people’s property…” “Do me a favor and tell him that the remaining balance on that dress is forty thousand dollars. I expect it wired to my account by three o’clock this afternoon.” “As for the fifteen thousand dollar deposit, consider it my donation to Miss Stella’s medical bills. No need to thank me.” Karina stared at me, completely dumbfounded. She had clearly never seen me use money as a weapon before. “You… Aubrey, are you obsessed with money or something?! Does my brother not spend enough on you?!” I didn’t bother entertaining her tantrum. I turned on my heel and walked out the door. The moment I stepped onto the sidewalk, my phone buzzed with notifications from the Preston family group chat. Carter had just sent a massive digital cash gift to the chat. Followed immediately by a scenic photo. The caption read: “Wish fulfilled. Someone said the snow here looks like cotton candy.” The older relatives in the chat were completely silent, clearly too awkward to respond. Only Karina jumped in immediately to play cheerleader. “Carter! Stella looks stunning in that red dress! Some people could never pull off that kind of elegance.” I stared at the screen, my face void of expression as I tapped the top right corner. “Leave Group Chat.” Five seconds later, a barrage of private messages from Carter flooded my screen like rapid fire. “Why did you leave the family chat? Are you trying to embarrass us?” “Aubrey, what exactly is your problem these past few days?” “I just noticed you froze my secondary credit card, and you canceled our honeymoon suite in Bora Bora.” “Are you seriously using these petty tricks to force me to come home?” I looked at the endless wall of accusations on the screen, and a profound wave of exhaustion washed over me. A few taps of my finger. Delete Contact. The world was finally quiet. I looked up. The winter sun was a bit blinding. My phone buzzed one more time. It was a text from Harrison. “The house is clean, and your things have been moved in.” “What time are you coming home? I made soup.” 4 Three days later. Carter ended his trip to Iceland early. Maybe it was because I froze his card, or maybe it was because I had completely blocked him on every single platform. He finally sensed that something was genuinely wrong, and he dragged Stella on the first flight back to the city. At 2:00 PM, I was in the office finalizing my handover documents. The heavy glass doors of the open-plan office were suddenly shoved open. Carter marched in wearing a bespoke suit, striding with intense purpose. He was holding a massive bouquet of sunflowers. Those were Stella’s favorite flowers. He had probably just grabbed them out of the passenger seat on a whim. “Where is Aubrey?” he demanded sharply at the front desk. The moment he appeared, every single eye in the office darted toward my desk. Whispers broke out everywhere. After all, the CEO leaving his bride at the altar was already the biggest gossip in our social circle. I didn’t try to hide. I calmly closed the folder in my hands and looked up at him. He marched straight over and slammed the massive bouquet down on my desk. Yellow pollen scattered everywhere, dusting the surface of my official resignation form. “Aubrey, what exactly are you trying to prove?” He looked down at me, his tone heavy with exhaustion and a frustrated, parental kind of reprimand. As if I were the one throwing an irrational tantrum. “I went back to the apartment, and the passcode was changed. I went to the estate, and you didn’t leave a single piece of clothing behind.” “Blocking me, leaving the family group chat, canceling the cards.” He took a deep breath, visibly trying to force a softer, coaxing tone, just like he always used to. “I even cut the trip short and came back early. What more do you want?” “My farewell trip with Stella is over. I officially tore up the Breakup Agreement.” “From now on, I will only be good to you.” He reached across the desk, trying to grab my shoulders. “Stop making a scene. We will go reshoot our wedding photos this weekend. Pick a good date next month, and we will do the wedding all over again.” “Are you finally satisfied now?” Listening to his grand, merciful concessions, I couldn’t even summon the energy to be angry. This was Carter. He always believed he was entirely in the right. He believed that because he had fulfilled his ex-girlfriend’s “wishes” and was now lowering himself to comfort me, I should be crying tears of absolute gratitude. I stepped back, avoiding his hands completely. “Carter, you don’t need to do the wedding over again.” I pushed the sunflowers aside and picked up my resignation form. “I have already officially resigned from Apex Innovations. I am leaving the city tomorrow.” His hands froze in mid-air. The expression on his face shattered. “Resigned? Leaving?” He stared at me in disbelief, as if I had just told the most absurd joke in the world. “Are you out of your mind? Apex is something we built together! Where the hell are you going to go?” “You are throwing away your entire career just to spite me?” He lunged forward, trying to snatch the resignation form out of my hands. But the moment his hand clamped down on my wrist, his gaze locked onto my left hand. Right there, shining clearly under the office lights, was the platinum wedding band Harrison had given me. Carter’s pupils shrank violently. His face instantly darkened into a storm of fury. “What is that?” He stared dead at the ring, a microscopic sliver of panic bleeding into his voice. “Did you seriously buy some cheap piece of trash to wear just to piss me off?” “Aubrey, this little stunt is beyond childish!” I aggressively ripped my wrist out of his grip. “It’s not a cheap piece of trash. It’s my wedding ring.” I looked him dead in the eye, pronouncing every word with crystal clarity. “Carter, we are entirely, permanently over.” Instead of blowing up, he laughed. A strained, almost manic sound. “A wedding ring? With who? That random stand-in actor who didn’t even show his face at the wedding?” “Do you honestly think hiring some extra to put on a play is going to force me to apologize?” He was getting more agitated by the second. He whipped his head around, scanning my desk as if looking for evidence to expose my “bluff.” Then, his eyes landed on a half-open personal tax update form. It was standard paperwork required for HR upon resigning. There was a section titled: Marital Status & Spouse Details. Carter’s eyes locked onto that piece of paper. The color drained from his face inch by inch until he was paler than the paper itself. He snatched the form off the desk, his hands trembling so violently he couldn’t control them. The paper crumpled in his white-knuckled grip. “A copy of your… marriage certificate?”

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1 In my last life, the ventilator flatlined without a single warning sign. It was a weekend shift, just another routine surgery until the alarms shrieked. The patient’s oxygen levels plummeted. He died right there on the table. The entire hospital administration pointed their fingers squarely at me, claiming gross negligence. The dead man’s family dragged me by my collar through the pristine white halls, screaming that I was a murderer. I was paralyzed by shock. I knew, with absolute certainty, that I hadn’t even touched the machine. The biomedical engineering department ran tests for three days straight. They checked every wire, every valve, every circuit. Their conclusion was unanimous. The equipment was functioning perfectly. I was convicted and sent to prison. To pay off the astronomical civil settlement, my parents worked three grueling blue-collar jobs, day and night. They died on a construction site, their bodies simply giving out from exhaustion. When I opened my eyes again, the harsh glare of the overhead fluorescent lights made my eyes water. I was standing right outside that exact same operating room. I glanced down at the sterile gloves gripped in my trembling hands. The bloody memories of my previous life crashed into my skull. The coppery smell of the patient’s blood spraying across my face. The widow’s fingernails digging into my skin. The judge’s wooden gavel slamming down like a death sentence. The news of my parents collapsing on the cold concrete, which left me a broken shell fading away behind iron bars. Why did the ventilator just stop working? Why did it suddenly work perfectly when the engineers tested it? For the first time in my twelve-year career, a cold spike of dread pierced my chest. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead. The green light above the O.R. doors was glowing. I had exactly two hours to stop a murder. I spun on my heel and sprinted toward the nurse’s station. “Nancy, get me a replacement ventilator for O.R. 3!” The charge nurse didn’t even look up from her inventory clipboard. “Absolutely not. Pre-op is done. The equipment is sterilized. The anesthesiologist is waiting for you to scrub in.” I leaned over the counter and dropped my voice to a harsh whisper. “I have reason to believe that specific machine is compromised.” She finally lifted her head, eyeing me like I was a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Dr. Bennett, biomed did their monthly maintenance sweeps yesterday. Everything is certified. The patient is already under. You want to swap heavy machinery right now?” “I said, replace it!” My voice was shaking, my jaw clamped tight. Nancy slammed her clipboard onto the desk. “Look, Sarah. If you want to pull a stunt like this, get the Chief of Surgery to sign off. My trays are prepped. You want to delay the cut, that’s on your license.” Before I could argue, a heavy set of footsteps echoed behind me. “What’s the holdup? Why aren’t you scrubbed in?” It was Victor, our Senior Attending and the man in charge of scheduling. He marched over with an impatient scowl. “Dr. Garfield, I want a different ventilator in that room,” I said. His eyebrows pulled together into a hard knot. “Why?” “My gut tells me this one is going to fail.” He let out a dry, incredulous laugh, looking me up and down. “Your gut? You’re a senior surgeon, Sarah. You’re operating on instinct now? The family is out in the waiting room praying to whatever god will listen, anesthesia has been running for twenty minutes, and you’re talking to me about a hunch?” I held my ground, saying nothing. He took a step closer, crowding my space. “Do you not trust the biomed guys, or do you not trust me for putting you on this rotation?” The hallway was dead silent, save for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor leaking through the O.R. doors. “I am prioritizing patient safety,” I insisted. “Safety?” Victor scoffed. “Do you even know your patient’s chart? Sixty years old, gallstones with chronic inflammation, neglected for three years. His cardiopulmonary function is garbage. Every ten minutes you stand out here arguing, his anesthesia risk doubles. Don’t lecture me about safety.” The tension in the corridor was suffocating. Nancy was staring. Victor was waiting. The anesthesiologist inside was waiting. The family was waiting. They all thought I had lost my mind. I took a deep, shuddering breath. “Fine. I’ll go in.” I locked eyes with Victor. “But I’m not taking the lead. You are.” 2 I pushed through the heavy doors into the operating room. The patient, Arthur, was already draped and prepped on the table. The anesthesia was flowing through his veins. I couldn’t just walk away and abandon a man who was already under. But before we made the first cut, I gave Victor an ultimatum. He would be the lead surgeon. I would act as his first assistant. The surgery began. I positioned myself right next to the ventilator, my eyes glued to the dials as Victor gently incised the abdominal tissue. Everything was running smoothly. The rhythmic beep of the monitor felt like a ticking time bomb in my ears. Minutes crawled by like hours. The ventilator didn’t glitch. The numbers held steady. I let out a slow, silent breath of relief. We reached the critical phase where I needed to cauterize the blood vessels. Just as I moved in to safely complete the task, the electrocautery pen in my hand jerked violently. The standard blue spark at the tip exploded into a blinding, searing white flash, accompanied by a high-pitched, mechanical screech. “Shut it off!” I screamed, instinctively ripping the cord from the socket. But the damage was done. The Bovie had burned straight through the surrounding tissue. A geyser of dark red blood erupted, painting the sterile field. “Suction! Get me a hemostat!” I tossed the ruined pen aside, pressing my left hand hard against the arterial bleed while my right hand blindly reached for instruments. “Call vascular surgery for an emergency consult! Now!” I roared at the circulating nurse. It was a bloodbath. Arthur was ultimately stabilized just enough to be rushed to the ICU, his life hanging by a fragile thread. I stood in the corner of the empty operating room. My surgical gown was soaked in blood. Victor peeled off his latex gloves and stared at me. “Sarah. Did you feel something off right before that happened?” “Yes. The electrical current spiked out of nowhere. I pulled the plug the second I felt it.” He was quiet for a long moment. “Are you absolutely certain your hand didn’t slip?” I opened my mouth, but no words came out. How could I prove it? The hospital’s internal review board arrived twenty minutes later. Gary, the head of biomedical engineering, brought two technicians. They dragged the cautery machine, the foot pedal, and every single cable out to the nurse’s station. They tested it right in front of a dozen witnesses. Power on. Output perfectly stable. They pressed the foot pedal. Setting one, setting two, setting three. The voltage curves on the monitor were flawless, straight out of a textbook. Gary dropped the diagnostic printout onto the counter. “Dr. Bennett, the hardware is immaculate. Look at the data yourself.” “I want to see the overhead security footage,” I demanded. Gary nodded and had security pull the feed to a tablet. On the screen, there I was. Holding the pen. My foot hovering over the pedal on the floor. Everything looked normal. Until the twelve-minute mark. The exact second I stepped on the pedal, the spark flared massively, and my arm recoiled in shock. “Do you see that? The pen malfunctioned on its own!” I pointed at the frozen frame. Gary adjusted his glasses. “Sarah, the video only shows the output surging after you engaged the pedal. As for how much pressure you applied or if you hit the wrong setting with your heel, the camera can’t see through the table to your foot.” He tapped the printout. “And as you just saw, the machine functions perfectly post-op.” I stared at him, my blood running cold. “Are you implying I intentionally maimed my patient?” “No one is saying that,” Gary sighed. “But the facts are right here. The machine is fine. The patient is bleeding out in the ICU. You were holding the instrument. You are responsible.” The machine was fine. The circuits were fine. But the patient’s arteries had been fried. There was only one logical conclusion the board would reach: Operator error. Gross negligence. I was caught in the exact same trap. In my past life, it was the ventilator. In this life, it was the surgical pen. Different weapon, same impossible situation. I dug my fingernails into my palms. Whoever orchestrated this couldn’t have predicted that I would force Victor to take the lead surgeon spot. That meant only one thing. The saboteur had adapted to the situation while inside the room. My head snapped up. I mentally cycled through every single person who had been in that O.R. with me. 3 The suspension notice was pinned to the center of the staff bulletin board. I stood in front of it, listening to the toxic whispers floating down the corridor behind me. “I heard she threw a massive fit before the surgery, demanding new equipment. Totally unhinged.” “She definitely botched the cauterization and is trying to blame the gear. Twelve years on the job, what a joke.” “When people panic, they make mistakes. Almost killed a guy.” I turned around. The voices belonged to two junior residents I had personally mentored through their suturing rotations last year. They made eye contact with me, immediately shut their mouths, and scurried away. From the other end of the hall, a shrill, hysterical cry shattered the quiet. “That’s her! That’s the butcher!” Martha, Arthur’s wife, came charging toward me, flanked by a half-dozen angry relatives. She lunged, grabbing my scrub top, her fingernails biting painfully into my bicep. “Give me my husband back! He’s lying in that ICU with tubes down his throat, and they’re saying he might never wake up! This is your fault!” Her momentum nearly knocked me off my feet. “Ma’am, please, you need to calm down.” “Calm down? You basically murdered my husband on that table, and you have the nerve to tell me to calm down?” Her son, Derek, shoved his way to the front. He slapped the medical files right out of my hands. They scattered across the linoleum floor. “Listen to me, you hack. If my dad dies, I swear to God I will ruin your life!” Spit flew from his lips and hit my cheek. Before I could react, he grabbed a heavy steel trash can lid from the hallway bin and swung it directly at my head. I ducked hard. The heavy metal slammed into the drywall behind me with a deafening crash, leaving a massive dent. “Back the hell off!” A booming roar echoed down the hall. It was my dad. He was wearing his faded, dust-covered flannel. My mom was right behind him, her eyes red and swollen, her hair a frantic mess. They had clearly driven through the night the second they got the news. My dad threw himself between me and Derek, his chest puffed out. “You want to talk, we talk! You lay a hand on my daughter again, and I’ll drop you!” “Oh, assault? What about your daughter butchering my dad?” Derek sneered. “My daughter saves lives! The investigation isn’t even over. You have no right to touch her!” They stood chest to chest. My dad was a few inches shorter, but his posture was made of iron. My mom rushed over and wrapped her arms tightly around me, her whole body trembling. “Sweetheart, are you okay? Did they hurt you?” She cupped my face, hot tears spilling from her eyes and landing on my knuckles. “I’m fine, Mom.” She squeezed me tighter, burying her face in my shoulder. “I believe you, honey. If you say it wasn’t your fault, then it wasn’t. I don’t care what anyone else says.” The dam finally broke. Hot tears streamed down my face. My dad turned around, gave me a long, quiet look, and gently squeezed my shoulder. My mom pulled me into a nearby empty consult room and locked the door. She dug through the drawers, looking for alcohol wipes, cursing under her breath. “That crazy woman, look what she did to your arm. Bruising you like this. I ought to go back out there.” She talked tough, but her hands were incredibly gentle as she dabbed the iodine on the deep crescent-moon cuts from Martha’s fingernails. My phone buzzed. A notification from the surgical department group chat. [Can’t believe Sarah got suspended. She trained me. You really never know with people.] [So much for her making Chief next year. That’s totally dead.] [Honestly, I just feel bad for the patient.] My mom snatched the phone from the counter and hit the power button, turning the screen black. “Don’t read that garbage. They don’t know anything.” She pulled my head against her chest, resting her chin on my hair. “Listen to me, Sarah. If this place doesn’t want you, we’ll leave. Come back home. Your dad and I will take care of you.” I buried my face in her sweater and finally sobbed. The memories of my parents’ brutal, exhausting deaths in the previous timeline flashed violently in my mind. The image of them collapsing in the dirt, working themselves to the bone to pay for a crime I didn’t commit. I knew one thing for certain. I couldn’t back down this time.

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1 In my last life, the custom cake I ordered for my Valentine’s Day engagement gala caused a mass poisoning. Fifty-five people went into organ failure. Eight died. The crosshairs instantly locked onto me. Every toxicology report proved the cake was laced with a lethal toxin, and I had no way to defend myself. I became the internet’s favorite monster, a real-life black widow hunted by the public. I was convicted and thrown into a concrete cell. My parents drained their accounts and worked themselves to the bone trying to fund my appeals, only to drop dead from sheer exhaustion. When the news reached me behind bars, my world shattered completely. I rammed my head into the cinderblock wall, ending it all in a pool of blood. Then I opened my eyes. I was standing in the lobby, right before the engagement gala began. “Miss Sophie, the cake has just been delivered to the ballroom. Would you like to inspect it?” I gasped, my lungs burning as if I had forgotten how to breathe. The hotel manager, Mr. Brooks, stood in front of me. His posture was impeccable, his customer-service smile practiced to absolute perfection. That face. Those exact words. This exact moment. The memory was carved so deeply into my bones that I would recognize it in the dark. I had been reborn. “Where is the cake?” My voice came out as a gravelly croak, scraped from the very bottom of my throat. “In the dessert pavilion inside the main ballroom,” Mr. Brooks replied, his polite smile never faltering. “Your fiancé, Tristan, just took a look. He said it was absolutely stunning.” I glanced down at my phone screen. It was 10:47 AM. The gala officially commenced at 12:18 PM. I had exactly one and a half hours. There was no time to question the physics of time travel. Only one desperate, screaming thought hammered against the inside of my skull. I had to stop the massacre. Canceling the event was impossible. Over sixty guests from both sides of the family were already en route in their limousines and town cars. The floral arrangements were set. The gold-foiled invitations had been mailed out weeks ago. If I pulled the plug right now, no one would believe my warnings of a mass poisoning. They would chalk it up to a bridal panic attack. My parents and Tristan would physically march me through the double doors to save face. I had no choice. I had to walk straight into the minefire. I took a deep, shuddering breath. The cake was poisoned, but I wasn’t the one who spiked it. Who did? The bakery? The catering staff? Or was it someone standing right next to me? “Sophie!” Lily stood at the arched entrance of the ballroom. Her makeup was flawless, and she was practically bouncing toward me in her designer heels. She was my younger cousin. After her parents passed away, my mother took her in and raised her like a second daughter. “Soph? You look awful.” She leaned in, her meticulously plucked eyebrows knitting together. I stared at her, my jaw locked. In my previous life, Lily’s name wasn’t on the casualty list. She claimed she had stepped out to take a phone call and missed the dessert course entirely. Before I could interrogate her, a sugary, melodic voice echoed from the hallway. “There’s my gorgeous girl!” Eleanor glided toward us, holding a velvet burgundy gift box in her manicured hands. My future mother-in-law. The woman who had always treated me like royalty. In my past life, she ended up in the ICU from the poisoned cake. This time, I swore to myself I would protect her. “Eleanor,” I said, forcing my facial muscles to relax into a warm expression. “Oh, my sweet child.” Eleanor took my hand, her eyes shimmering with unshed, happy tears. “You are marrying my son today. I have prayed for this afternoon for years.” She pressed the heavy velvet box into my palms, gesturing for me to open it. I pulled the silk ribbon and popped the lid. Nestled in the white satin was a breathtaking antique emerald bracelet. The stones were massive, catching the crystal chandelier light and throwing off a brilliant, liquid green fire. “Take it,” Eleanor insisted, physically slipping the heavy platinum band over my wrist. “This means you are officially the daughter I always wanted.” Lily sighed dramatically from the sidelines, flashing a bright smile. “Eleanor spoils you so much, Soph.” Eleanor looped her arm through mine, her tone dripping with absolute adoration. “Your sister deserves nothing but the best.” A brief flare of warmth touched my chest, but it was immediately swallowed by a paralyzing chill. I had to find the source of the poison before the bodies started dropping. 2 I practically sprinted to the dessert pavilion. The cake sat on a crystal pedestal. Six tiers of vanilla sponge, fresh imported berries, and intricate sugarwork. It looked identical to the nightmare in my memory. “Where is the security camera for this section?” I snapped, turning to Mr. Brooks. “Right above us, on the ceiling. Maintenance did a full sweep just last night,” he answered with absolute confidence. “Take me to the security room. Now.” Moments later, I was standing in the dimly lit control center, surrounded by glowing monitors. The technician clicked the mouse, switching to the ballroom feed. The screen was pitch black. Static. Mr. Brooks went rigid. A thin layer of sweat immediately glossed his forehead. “Wait… I personally signed off on the maintenance log yesterday. It was working perfectly!” The technician frantically hammered at his keyboard for ten agonizing minutes, his face flushed. Finally, he looked up, wiping his brow. “The camera was manually disconnected from the power grid. Sometime around two in the morning.” Two in the morning. Someone intentionally blinded the room. The blood in my veins turned to ice water. In my past life, when the police said the camera was broken, I thought it was just horrific luck. Corroded wires. A blown fuse. Now the truth was staring me in the face. It was premeditated murder. But I didn’t have time to play detective with a broken wire. I had less than ninety minutes. The cake was the immediate threat. “Where is the delivery driver? Who plated this?” I fired the questions off like bullets, my words clipping together. Mr. Brooks was panting now, desperate to save his job. “The driver’s van has a continuous dashcam. The box never left his hands from the bakery to our loading dock.” “Kitchen logs show it went straight into the designated walk-in cooler. Nobody touched it.” “The catering staff plated it under the gaze of camera four. The footage is crystal clear.” Every single link in the chain was secure. The cake had been handled in a virtual vacuum. Yet, in my past life, it was still lethal. That left two options. First, the bakery spiked it. But the owner was a sweet old man with zero motive. The police grilled him for a month last time and totally cleared his name. He didn’t have the motive, and he didn’t have the window. That left the second, terrifying option. The cake arrived perfectly safe. The poison was introduced right here in the dessert pavilion. The killer created the blind spot at 2:00 AM specifically for this. They had all the time in the world to slip into the shadows, contaminate the food, and blend back into the crowd. I didn’t have time to hunt a ghost. But I did have time to change the variables. “Destroy the cake,” I ordered Mr. Brooks. “Send someone to a premium bakery downtown and buy a new one right off the display shelf. I don’t care what it looks like. Swipe my black card. I want it back here in twenty minutes.” Mr. Brooks physically recoiled, his mouth falling open. “Miss Sophie, we can’t possibly…” “Do it.” I grabbed his arm, leaning in. “And get a tripod. Mount a smartphone directly facing the new cake. Hit record. I want every single second filmed in 4K until the moment we cut it.” It was my duct-tape fix for the severed security camera. Mr. Brooks scrambled away, his leather oxfords squeaking against the polished marble. I checked my phone. 11:13 AM. The replacement would arrive by 11:33 at the latest. Twenty minutes. If I could just survive the next twenty minutes, the tainted cake would be incinerated, and the new one would be under constant digital surveillance. The chessboard was reset. I was going to beat them. 3 At 11:35 AM, the replacement cake arrived. The delivery boy placed the thick cardboard box on the marble counter. Right in front of my eyes, he broke the tamper-evident seal on the lid. The seal tore perfectly. “Zero-contact delivery, ma’am,” the kid said, handing me the clipboard. I nodded, signing the invoice with a shaking hand. I instructed the catering staff to slide the new cake onto the pedestal. Across the aisle, a smartphone sat perfectly balanced on a ring-light tripod, its red recording dot pulsing steadily. From this second forward, that pastry was the most heavily monitored object in the building. I turned around to head back to the welcome arch, ready to greet the guests. My phone buzzed in my clutch. It was a text from an unknown number. Did you really think swapping a cake would save you? My fingers clamped around the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. I snapped my head up, my eyes sweeping the grand corridor. Waiters were pushing brass bar carts. Housekeeping carried stacks of folded linens. Everything looked painfully normal. No one was staring at me. No one was hunched over a glowing screen. Who are you? I typed back. Silence. I waited ten agonizing seconds before typing again. The cake is gone. You missed your window. The reply came instantly. What made you so sure the poison was in the cake? I stared at the glowing pixels, a cold sweat breaking out across the back of my neck. He was right. I had blindly assumed the cake was the weapon because the toxicology reports in my past life pointed there. But I had aggressively altered the timeline. If the killer’s true target was the cake, they would be scrambling right now. Instead, they were mocking me. Unless. Unless the poison was never in the cake to begin with. The real weapon was hiding in plain sight. In a place no one would ever think to swab. I had locked down the dessert. But I left the champagne flutes exposed. The silverware. The woven napkins. Every single item resting on those pristine white tablecloths. I spun on my heel and sprinted back into the ballroom. The beverage station sat to the left of the dessert pavilion. Four massive crystal pitchers of fresh-squeezed juice and iced tea were lined up perfectly. A waiter was already tipping a pitcher, preparing to pre-fill the glassware for the tables. “Stop right there,” I commanded, forcing my voice to stay level. “Don’t pour another drop.” The waiter froze, blinking in confusion. “Miss Sophie, the guests are sitting down soon. We need the tables set.” “Change of plans. We’re doing bottled beverages only.” I looked at Mr. Brooks, who had just rushed back into the room. “Take those pitchers back to the kitchen and dump them. Bring out sealed, glass-bottle juices. Anything you have in stock, as long as the factory seal is intact.” Mr. Brooks looked like he wanted to cry, but his hospitality training took over. He snapped his fingers, and his staff whisked the pitchers away. Three minutes later, crates of premium bottled juices were rolled out. The staff began placing the unopened bottles at every seat. I stood by the beverage station, my eyes darting across the room. Seeing those metal caps perfectly intact settled my racing heart just a fraction. “What about the silverware?” I asked the head waiter. “The steak knives, the forks, the porcelain?” “Sterilized in the high-temp industrial dishwasher this morning. Brought straight out here for plating,” he answered quickly. I nodded slowly. “Keep a sample of every single thing that touches a guest’s mouth today. Plate, cup, napkin. Bag it.” The head waiter looked at me like I was insane, but he nodded. It was 12:05 PM. The heavy mahogany doors opened, and the guests began filtering in. Eleanor approached me, her silk couture dress rustling softly. She reached out and grasped my hands. “Sophie, darling, you look positively pale.” “I’m fine, Eleanor,” I lied, forcing a radiant smile. “Just pre-wedding jitters. Didn’t sleep much.” She patted the back of my hand affectionately. “Don’t you worry about a thing. Today is just a beautiful formality. We are officially family now.” Looking into her warm, maternal eyes, a sharp pang of guilt hit me. She turned away to embrace an arriving aunt. I anchored myself near the beverage station, my gaze sweeping over the seventy seated guests. The bottled juices were popped open. The factory seals clicked. The new cake sat perfectly still in the lens of the smartphone. At 12:18 PM, the live jazz band played a crescendo, and the MC took the stage. The gala had officially begun. I didn’t touch a drop of water or a crumb of bread. My eyes never stopped scanning. Guests poured their drinks. One glass. Two glasses. Three. People clinked their flutes together. Laughter echoed off the vaulted ceiling. My fiancé, Tristan, motioned for me to join him at the front to cut the cake. Nobody had collapsed. The suffocating grip on my chest finally began to loosen. 4 The MC was practically shouting into the microphone with manufactured enthusiasm. “Ladies and gentlemen, let us raise a glass to our stunning couple on this beautiful—” His voice was entirely drowned out by a blood-curdling scream. “Oh my god! Somebody help! He’s not breathing!” I spun around so fast my heel caught on the carpet. Just a few feet away from the dessert table, a little boy was convulsing violently on the marble floor. His lips were a sickening shade of blue. It was Sarah’s son. Sarah was one of the hotel waitresses, and the management had allowed her to bring her kid to sit in the back room during her shift. I sprinted toward them. The boy’s eyes were rolled back into his skull. Thick white foam bubbled past his lips. “Call an ambulance! Call 911 right now!” I screamed. Mr. Brooks looked like he was going to pass out. He fumbled his cell phone with trembling hands. Tristan rushed over, his face draining of color. “Christ. That looks like toxic shock.” “What did he put in his mouth?” I demanded, dropping to my knees. Sarah was sobbing hysterically, clutching the boy’s twitching hand. “The cake! He sneaked a lick of icing off your cake!” The entire ballroom went dead silent. Dozens of eyes snapped toward me like heat-seeking missiles. “Are you serious? The cake is poisoned?” “But she personally ordered that custom cake…” A freezing wave of dread crashed over me. It was happening exactly like my past life. But that was impossible. I swapped the cake! No one moved. They just stared at me. I could see the suspicion brewing in their eyes. The fear. The disgust. It was a perfect mirror of the nightmare that killed me. “Everyone, calm down!” Eleanor suddenly stepped into the center of the crowd, her voice echoing with commanding authority. “We don’t have the facts yet. Stop the wild accusations!” Before anyone could stop her, she marched straight to the pedestal, grabbed a silver dessert fork, scooped a massive chunk of frosting, and shoved it into her mouth. “Eleanor, stop!” I lunged forward, slapping the fork out of her hand. It clattered loudly against the floor. “I’m testing it for them,” Eleanor said, looking me dead in the eye. “You are my daughter. I trust you with my life.” Her voice was steady as a rock. Her gaze didn’t waver for a second. Hot tears pricked the corners of my eyes. She turned to face the terrified crowd. “Listen to me. Today is my son’s engagement. I stake my personal reputation on Sophie’s character. She is no murderer.” She didn’t yell, but the sheer weight of her conviction silenced the room. Sarah was cradling her son’s head, weeping bitterly. “If my baby dies…” “I take full responsibility,” Eleanor said softly, walking over to the grieving mother. “I will cover every single cent of his medical bills. I will get him the best specialists in the country.” “But you will not frame my daughter-in-law.” Her words were absolute steel. The panic in the room dialed back to a tense murmur. The paramedics burst through the doors, followed closely by a squad of uniformed police officers. A tall detective in a trench coat approached me, flipping open his notepad. “Miss Sophie? I’m Detective Reid. I need you to step aside for a few questions.” After doing a sweep of the room and getting a brief rundown, Reid locked his sharp eyes on me. “Why did you swap the original cake before the party started?” Every guest in earshot held their breath, waiting for my answer. “Because I knew someone was planning to taint the food.” I couldn’t tell him the truth. If I brought up reincarnation, I’d be handcuffed and locked in a psych ward before sundown. I needed a bulletproof excuse to buy myself time. “Someone tipped me off,” I said firmly. “Who?” “An anonymous number.” I pulled my phone from my clutch, opened the threatening text message, and handed the device to the detective. Reid read the screen. His jaw tightened. “So you replaced the food and secured the evidence.” Reid narrowed his eyes. “Then how do you explain a child currently fighting for his life in the back of an ambulance?” That question felt like a knife twisting in my gut. I had done everything right. Every single thing. “Because he wasn’t the only one who ate it.” I pointed directly at Eleanor. “My mother-in-law swallowed a huge bite right in front of everyone. She’s completely fine!” It had been nearly thirty minutes since the paramedics arrived. Eleanor was standing upright, breathing normally, without a single symptom. “Eleanor, how are you feeling?” I asked, grabbing her arm. She offered a reassuring smile. “I feel perfectly normal, sweetheart.” Reid closed his notepad with a snap. “Miss Sophie, we will look into the text message. But given the circumstances, I’m going to have to ask you to come down to the precinct.” I nodded, then turned to face the hushed ballroom. “I have two things to say before I leave.” “First, every single piece of evidence from the original setup has already been sent to an independent, third-party toxicology lab. Until those results come back, nobody touches a thing.” It was a complete bluff. There was no third-party lab. But the police didn’t know that. If they thought the chain of custody was out of their jurisdiction, it prevented any dirty cops or bribed officials from tampering with the local evidence. Right now, I didn’t trust a single soul in this room. “Second.” I took a deep, lung-expanding breath. “I know exactly who the killer is.” The ballroom erupted into gasps.

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1 I wrote an algorithm designed to calculate exactly who cares about you the most. Originally, I just wanted to test it out. I wanted to see what score my relationship with my boyfriend would get. The system handed me the results. I ranked seventh in his heart. I actually laughed. Seventh? Even his pet cat ranked fourth! I didn’t cry. I didn’t throw a tantrum. I just turned around, blocked his number, and deleted him from my life. A few days later, he was crying, begging me to come back. I just smiled. “Sorry, do I know you?” Valentine’s Day. Eleven forty-seven at night. I stared at the beta testing report that had just finished compiling on my monitor. My fingertips felt like they had been soaked in ice water. The Relational Investment Metric was my baby. I had pulled all-nighters for three months straight to build it, and it had finally gone live on our internal servers just past midnight. The Product Director was breathing down my neck for beta data, so I casually imported my own account. Eric and I had been together for two years. Since we both worked at the same tech firm, our employee accounts were linked in the company’s ecosystem. We had mutual data permissions. Thirty seconds. It only took the system thirty seconds to grind my two-year relationship into fine dust. Top 10 Emotional Investment Targets: Rank 1: Veronica. Score: 92.7. Notes: High-frequency interaction. Weekly Wednesday night drinks. High workplace dependency. Primary source of emotional validation. Rank 2: Bobby. Score: 88.4. Notes: Gaming partner. Daily voice chat average 2.5 hours. Weekend offline meetups. Rank 3: Audrey. Score: 85.1. Notes: First love. Mutual social media following. Quarterly check-ins. High frequency of specific profile searches. Rank 4: Muffin. Score: 79.3. Notes: Pet cat. Daily search frequency for premium cat food/toys averages 7 times. Accounts for 100% of pet-related financial expenditures. Rank 5… Rank 6… Rank 7: Avery. Score: 41.2. Notes: Live-in girlfriend. Rent split 50/50. Routine, superficial daily greetings. Occasional shared meals. Emotional investment critically low. Interaction quality poor. Recommendation: Evaluate long-term viability of relationship. I read the screen three times. My vision wasn’t blurred. There was no glitch. His cat. The fluffy Ragdoll cat he brought home a year ago ranked higher than me. Seventy-nine point three. Almost forty points higher than the woman he lived with. The algorithm even provided helpful context notes. Over the past three months, Eric had searched the internet for “gourmet cat food” exactly 137 times. His searches for “girlfriend gifts”, “date ideas”, or “romantic restaurants” totaled exactly three. Two of those were just him looking up venues for his department’s corporate mixer. I took a deep, shuddering breath and saved the screenshot into a hidden folder on my phone simply titled “Evidence”. I had created that folder six months ago. It held screenshots of his late-night texts with his boss, Veronica. It held the notifications of him constantly liking his ex-girlfriend Audrey’s posts. It held his GPS location data from every single Wednesday night. I never opened that folder to look at the contents a second time. But I never deleted it, either. It wasn’t because I couldn’t let go. I just wanted to see exactly where my breaking point was. Looking at the data now, I realized I had severely underestimated my own tolerance for pain, and wildly overestimated his conscience. At 1:03 AM, my phone buzzed on the desk. A text from Eric. Happy Valentine’s Day, babe. Totally swamped at the office today. Let’s celebrate properly tomorrow. I stared at the word “babe”. It felt like a physical slap to the face. How does it feel when someone who values you less than a housecat calls you babe? It feels like you’re reading a script for a play you desperately want to quit. I typed back two letters. Ok. No emojis. No exclamation points. No “Happy Valentine’s Day to you too.” I closed the messaging app and opened the career portal for Pulse Tech, our company’s biggest corporate rival. I carefully read through the job description for their Senior Algorithm Engineer position. Then, I attached my resume and hit submit. I wasn’t being cold-blooded. The algorithm I wrote with my own two hands had just given me the undeniable truth. This man wasn’t worth another second of my time. Somewhere outside my window, fireworks went off in the distance. They boomed loudly for about thirty seconds, pretending to be spectacular, before fading into absolute silence. Just like my relationship. It looked vibrant from the outside, but the gunpowder had burned out a long time ago. I clicked off the desk lamp and lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow, I had one last performance to give. 2 At seven o’clock the next evening, Eric booked a table at a local spicy seafood place. It was a rare moment where he actually remembered I loved spicy food. For a split second, I genuinely wondered if my algorithm had a bug. But then he reached into his leather briefcase, pulled out a cheap, generic box of drugstore chocolates, and smiled. “Work has been absolutely insane. I didn’t have time to go to a real boutique.” Right then, I knew the system was flawless. The only thing with a fatal bug was the man sitting across from me. “It’s fine. It’s the thought that counts,” I smiled brightly, accepting the box and dropping it into my purse. Deep inside my purse, my phone was running a silent background script, syncing three years of his raw, unfiltered personal data. I had written the script at three in the morning. In the two years we lived together, Eric never bothered to put a password on his home laptop. His cloud backups were always set to auto-sync on our shared network. I used to think it was because he trusted me implicitly. Now I understood the truth. It wasn’t trust. It was apathy. He cared so little about me that he couldn’t even be bothered to cover his tracks. The data logs refreshed on my screen, dropping in one by one. Every single line felt like a dull knife dragging across my skin. Search History: “What kind of wine does Veronica like?” Timestamp: Last Wednesday. “Audrey recent news Instagram.” Timestamp: Two months ago. “Muffin refusing to eat dry food solutions.” Timestamp: Yesterday. “Affordable girlfriend gifts that look expensive.” Timestamp: Last Valentine’s Day. Transaction History: February 14th, Valentine’s Day. $25 generic flower delivery. Delivery note: Just leave it on the porch, don’t knock. Our Anniversary. $0. January 12th, Muffin the cat’s birthday. $200 custom luxury cat tree plus a $50 imported salmon gift box. I stared at that financial breakdown and almost burst out laughing in the middle of the restaurant. He remembered a cat’s exact birthday and went all out. My birthday? He only ever remembered when Facebook sent him a push notification on the morning of. Location Tracking: Every Wednesday night. 7:30 PM to 10:00 PM. The upscale cocktail lounge beneath our office building. With Veronica. Every Saturday afternoon. 2:00 PM to 6:00 PM. Bobby’s apartment. Playing video games. His overlapping location history with me? Commuting from the apartment to the office. Commuting from the office to the apartment. Occasional weekend takeout orders for cheap noodles and burgers. I locked my phone screen and looked up at him. He was enthusiastically scooping fish onto my plate, complaining about how the big boss had chewed him out during the afternoon product meeting. Under the warm restaurant lighting, his face looked so earnest, so exhausted. A year ago, my heart would have broken for him. But right now, all I could see was that glowing line of text from my system. Interaction quality poor. Recommendation: Evaluate long-term viability. I picked up my fork and slowly took a bite. I wasn’t going to bring up the past. I wasn’t going to start a screaming match in public. I wasn’t going to demand answers. Those were all useless emotional reactions. Fighting wouldn’t solve anything, it would only alert him that I knew. What I needed was a completely compiled data report, and an airtight exit strategy. 3 On the cab ride home, I organized all the raw data into visual comparison charts. I uploaded the file to my private encrypted server, locking it behind three layers of security. Then, I opened the draft of my resignation letter. Eric walked out of the master bathroom, drying his hair with a towel. He saw me sitting at my laptop and casually asked, “Still working?” “Yeah. Just running some diagnostics,” I replied, not even turning my head. He grunted an acknowledgment, threw himself onto the bed, and started scrolling through TikTok. Diagnostics. That was exactly what it was. Diagnosing the most efficient, surgical way to completely excise this man from my life. On the third morning, I woke up a full hour earlier than usual. Eric was still dead asleep, snoring softly into his pillow. I quietly washed my face, changed into my sleekest blazer, and pulled two freshly printed manila envelopes from my bag. I placed the first envelope squarely on his desk. Right on top of it, I dropped my set of keys to our shared apartment. I stuck a yellow Post-it note to the envelope. It only had one sentence. Your seventh place doesn’t deserve an apartment key. I wrote the algorithm, and I didn’t tweak a single parameter. Goodbye. The second envelope had a neat printed label on the front: HR Department – Employee Interpersonal Assessment. I was going to hand-deliver it the second I got to work. I swiped my badge at the office doors at exactly 8:00 AM. Rachel, the HR Director, was just unlocking her office. “Avery? You’re in early,” she noted, looking slightly surprised. I walked straight up to her and handed her the envelope. “Rachel, I need you to review this immediately. Also, here is my formal letter of resignation.” The friendly smile dropped from her face. “Wait, what’s going on?” “Nothing bad. Just looking for a change of scenery,” I smiled politely. “The report inside explains everything in detail. Take your time reading it. I’ll be back this afternoon to finalize my offboarding.” She tore the envelope open and pulled out the charts. Her eyes immediately locked onto a specific paragraph: Veronica and Eric demonstrate high-frequency, undocumented personal fraternization, creating severe conflicts of interest regarding workplace fairness and promotion evaluations. Rachel’s brow furrowed deeply. I didn’t stick around to explain. I simply turned on my heel and walked toward the elevators. At 10:00 AM, the product department had their mandatory weekly sync. I didn’t attend. Technically, I didn’t work there anymore. But I knew Eric was reading his envelope right at that exact moment. I had printed two copies of his specific data breakdown. One for the apartment, and one that I timed perfectly. I had Sam, a junior dev from my team, slip it onto Eric’s desk while he was on a coffee break. My phone buzzed. A text from Sam. Avery, Eric just opened that folder you left. All the blood drained out of his face. He looked like he saw a ghost. He literally sprinted out of the meeting room before the VP even finished talking. I didn’t reply. Twenty minutes later, my phone violently vibrated seventeen times in a row. Seventeen missed calls from Eric. They all went straight to a dead tone. I had already blocked his number, his socials, and his work email. Then came a text from Ben, a senior developer who sat next to Eric. Avery, Eric is freaking out asking where your keys are. He rushed back to the apartment and realized you locked him out.

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The day before the national conservatory auditions, the spoiled heiress who constantly acted like a fragile toddler secretly detuned every grand piano in the practice wing by a full half-step. “Lola just thinks a piano tuned down a half-step sounds so much gentler. This way, everyone’s music will sound as beautiful as a sweet lullaby.” In my past life, my ears caught the sickening pitch the second I sat down to practice. I immediately reported the sabotage to the faculty, and professional tuners worked through the night to fix every instrument. Stripped of her precious “gentle aesthetic,” Lola threw a hysterical fit, swallowed an entire bottle of prescription sleeping pills, and died before the ambulance even reached the hospital. To avenge her, my entire class conspired against me at our graduation gala. They spiked my drink with a lethal dose of industrial alcohol. When I woke up, my childhood best friend had bound my ten fingers with heavy steel piano wire, tightening the razor-sharp metal loop by agonizing loop. “You love playing the piano so much? Then use your mangled fingers to play a requiem for Lola in hell!” 1 “But Lola just thinks a piano tuned a half-step down sounds so much gentler.” Lola rubbed her reddened eyes, letting a single, perfect tear slide down her cheek. She clutched a heavy steel tuning wrench to her chest. Her voice was thick with exaggerated, nasal innocence. “Lola just wanted everyone’s audition pieces to sound like sweet lullabies. Why are you yelling at Lola?” That sickeningly sweet, infantile tone instantly triggered the protective instincts of every guy in the room. My childhood best friend, Oliver, stepped forward and shielded Lola with his body. He glared at me and let out a furious snarl. “Violet, do you know anything besides grinding away at those keys?” “Lola is doing this for our own good. She’s trying to help us relax before the biggest audition of our lives.” “Do you have zero empathy? Are you only happy when everyone else is having a mental breakdown from the stress?” The rest of our classmates swarmed around them, their voices rising in a chorus of toxic accusations. “Seriously. She’s just a mindless practice machine. Zero artistic soul.” “So what if the pitch is a little flat? I’m naturally gifted. I could play on a broken keyboard and still ace the audition. She’s just a try-hard who is insanely jealous of Lola.” “What a total buzzkill. She’s clinically insane for ruining the vibe.” Listening to those familiar, ear-piercing insults, a violent wave of vertigo washed over my brain. I was reborn. I was back to the exact day before the National Conservatory Auditions. The moment Lola secretly detuned every grand piano in the practice wing, and the exact second I tried to stop her. Lola was a filthy-rich heiress who transferred to our academy six months ago. When she first arrived, her habit of referring to herself in the third person made people roll their eyes. But within a month, her massive trust fund and constant damsel-in-distress act had turned her into the undisputed princess of the senior class. Even Oliver, the boy I grew up with, the boy who once promised to protect me forever, had devolved into her most loyal, rabid attack dog. In my past life, I tried to warn them. I told them the conservatory judges had absolute perfect pitch. I warned them that a detuned piano would destroy the emotional resonance of their pieces and result in automatic disqualification. For my honesty, I was viciously bullied by the entire class. They called me a jealous, talentless hack. Terrified for everyone’s future, I secretly alerted the faculty. The professors brought in professional tuners overnight to fix the damage. When Lola realized her “gentle aesthetic” was gone, she threw a massive hysterical fit. That night, she swallowed a handful of prescription pills and slipped into a permanent, fatal coma. Weeks later, at our graduation gala, my classmates spiked my drink with a lethal dose of cleaning chemicals. I woke up tied to a chair in the music hall. Oliver wrapped heavy, steel piano wire around my hands. He pulled the wire taut, slowly crushing the bones in my fingers until my hands were completely mangled. He looked down at my bleeding, ruined hands and sneered. “You love playing the piano so much? Then use your crippled fingers to play a requiem for Lola in hell.” The phantom agony of my bones splintering still burned deep in my soul. In this life, I absolutely refused to be their savior. I took a deep breath, forcing down the bile rising in my throat. I looked at Lola and lowered my head submissively. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I overreacted.” “Lola is totally right. A gentle, soft aesthetic is way more important than rigid, boring pitch rules. I promise I won’t interfere with your art again.” A wave of mocking laughter echoed through the practice room. “Look at her folding. So much for acting like a music prodigy.” “Exactly. Trying to show off her ear training? Next to Lola’s aesthetic vision, your textbook theory is pure garbage.” Lola wiped her eyes, pasting on a saintly, forgiving smile. “Don’t be mean to Violet, guys.” “Lola knows that everyone’s ears are different. Some people just have a really low capacity for true beauty.” “Please don’t ostracize Violet just because her taste is so… basic.” It sounded like she was defending me, but she was expertly branding me as a tasteless, uncultured loser. I didn’t argue. I just silently walked back to my piano bench. In my previous life, my scores were just a few points shy of a full ride to Juilliard. My technique was peerless among my age group. But to these trust-fund kids, I was just a pathetic “piano slave” who had to work for what they thought they were born with. Right now, the only thing on my mind was tomorrow’s audition. I was going to take back my rightful spot as the top recruit in the state, and permanently leave these lunatics in my rearview mirror. As soon as I sat down, a thick, heavy hand clamped down on my wrist like a vice. “Violet, your pathetic acting doesn’t fool me.” Oliver leaned in close, his breath hot against my face. “You’re totally plotting something. You’re just waiting for us to leave so you can run and snitch to the department head, aren’t you?” 2 The atmosphere in the room instantly turned toxic. Dozens of hostile eyes locked onto me like laser sights. Oliver tightened his grip, his voice booming off the soundproof walls. “You are so incredibly fake. You’re probably cursing Lola in your head right now.” “You think if you report her for vandalism, you’ll eliminate your biggest competition, right?” “You want the board to disqualify Lola just so you can finally achieve your pathetic little music dream.” His baseless, psychotic accusations instantly ignited the class. The practice room exploded into a frenzy. “Oh my god, her heart is literally black.” “Lola literally just defended you, and you want to ruin her entire life?” “Classic snake behavior. Lola’s kindness is totally wasted on trash like her.” “We can’t let her leave. We need to teach her a lesson today so she doesn’t try to sabotage us tomorrow.” Someone shouted the order, and a group of guys aggressively stormed over to my piano. They moved with brutal efficiency. One of them snatched my thick binder of sheet music right off the music stand. It was the repertoire I had spent three grueling years perfecting. The margins were filled with thousands of handwritten notes from masterclasses and late-night practice sessions. “What are you even practicing for? Trash like you doesn’t deserve to touch a piano.” A sharp, violent tearing sound ripped through the air. They tore my sheet music in half with their bare hands. The shredded pages fluttered through the air like dead winter leaves. The entire class erupted into roaring cheers. Not a single person thought this was wrong. A few girls even walked over and intentionally dug their expensive heels into my ruined notes. “Trash paper for a trash person. Perfect match.” The rage boiling in my chest threatened to override my sanity, but I bit down on my lower lip so hard I tasted copper. Fighting back now would only give them an excuse to physically lock me in a closet and make me miss the exam entirely. I violently yanked my wrist out of Oliver’s grip and bent down to gather the torn, dirty pages. Oliver lifted his heavy sneaker and stomped down hard on the back of my hand. “I told you. As long as I’m breathing, you aren’t going anywhere near the faculty office.” “I will never let you hurt Lola.” Just as the mob was gearing up to humiliate me further, the heavy wooden door of the practice room swung open. Professor Harrison, the head of the piano department, walked in carrying a clipboard with the final audition roster. He froze in the doorway, completely stunned by the chaotic scene. “What the hell is going on in here?” He slammed his clipboard onto the lid of the nearest grand piano. The loud, hollow bang echoed like a gunshot. “Tomorrow is the state conservatory audition. The best musicians in the country are making their final preparations, and you lot are in here forming a lynch mob?” Professor Harrison’s sharp eyes scanned the room. His gaze locked onto Oliver’s shoe pressing down on my hand. His face turned dangerously dark. “Get back to your seats. Now.” Oliver reluctantly lifted his foot, shooting me a lethal glare and dragging his thumb across his throat before backing away. Lola immediately trotted over to Professor Harrison. She gently tugged on the sleeve of his tweed jacket, her eyes pooling with fresh, glistening tears. “Professor… please don’t be mad. It’s all Lola’s fault.” “Everyone has been working so hard and getting so stressed. Lola just wanted everyone to hear a softer, gentler tone to help ease their anxiety.” “Lola just loves everyone so much. I wanted to give them a beautiful memory before we all graduate.” Her pathetic, whimpering routine instantly melted the hearts of the guys standing nearby. A few of the top-ranked students in the class loudly voiced their support. “Professor, we are engaging in experimental artistic exploration. Is it a crime to pursue a different tonal aesthetic?” “We are the elite musicians of this academy. Being a little flat isn’t going to stop us from getting perfect scores. We aren’t robots.” 3 Professor Harrison looked at the bizarre, unified front his students were presenting. He clearly assumed this was just a case of collective pre-exam burnout. His deeply furrowed brow relaxed slightly, and his tone softened. “Alright. I know you all share a tight bond. But sit down and listen to me.” Professor Harrison cleared his throat, his expression turning dead serious. “The audition panel has been updated. The head judge tomorrow is Maestro Rossi. The man has absolute, flawless perfect pitch.” “As your mentor, I am giving you one final warning.” “For tomorrow’s repertoire, pitch accuracy is your absolute lifeline.” “You must pay extreme attention to the piano’s tuning. If you suspect the pitch is off by even a fraction, you must immediately halt and request the official tuner.” “Even a quarter-step flat sounds like a chainsaw ripping through drywall to judges of that caliber.” “Do not delude yourselves into thinking your technique can mask a flat instrument. If the pitch is wrong, your entire emotional delivery collapses into a complete mess.” “One point will be the difference between Juilliard and working at a local diner. Do not fail on the absolute basics.” To emphasize his point, he casually walked over to the primary Steinway grand piano at the front of the room and struck a standard middle A. The note rang out. It was a flat, dull A-flat. Professor Harrison’s face drained of all color, turning from pale to a furious shade of purple. “The pitch is completely wrong. Who touched this instrument?” His voice skyrocketed, shaking with uncontainable rage. “This is the primary warm-up room for tomorrow’s auditions. Do you have any idea what precise tuning means to a concert pianist?” “Without a standard pitch, how are you supposed to warm up your ears? How are you supposed to find your center?” Lola stepped out of the crowd, wearing that same clueless, innocent smile. “Professor, Lola paid a guy to tune it down.” “Lola thinks it sounds so much softer this way. It makes everyone feel so emotionally stable.” She looked at him with wide, expectant eyes, genuinely waiting for a gold star and a pat on the head. Professor Harrison froze like he had been struck by lightning. He stared at Lola in pure disbelief, his finger trembling as he pointed at the Steinway. “You… you detuned a concert grand by a full half-step?” “Lola, tomorrow is the most rigorous conservatory audition in the state.” “What do you think this place is? Your personal playground?” Lola’s smile vanished. Her lower lip quivered, and the tears immediately spilled over. “Lola just wanted to make the world a gentler place. In your eyes, are a bunch of rigid, dead rules more important than our happiness?” “This is absolute insanity. You are playing Russian roulette with your futures.” Professor Harrison violently slammed his hand onto the piano lid. “Call the academy tuner right now and fix this. If you don’t, I will personally report you to the board and have your audition eligibility revoked on the spot.” A few of the students who had been cheering earlier suddenly looked incredibly nervous. When their actual college admissions were on the line, the bravado started to crack. “Yeah, Lola, maybe we should fix it. If the judges are really that strict about pitch, this is super risky.” But Lola just cried harder. She collapsed onto the hardwood floor in a heap of designer fabric, sobbing hysterically. “Lola just wants to share true beauty with the world. Is it a crime to pursue art?” Oliver couldn’t take it anymore. He shoved Professor Harrison aside and wrapped his arms around Lola, pulling her into his chest. “Back off, old man. Did Violet bribe you to come in here and terrorize us?” Professor Harrison was so furious he couldn’t even form words. Oliver brutally cut him off, his face twisting with arrogance. “Cut the crap. You just want to keep your precious admission stats high so you can get your corporate bonus.” “Lola is trying to save our artistic souls, and you just want us to be mindless exam robots.” “We are prodigies. Even if the pitch is a half-step flat, we will dominate those judges with our raw emotional power.” 4 Fired up by Oliver’s unhinged speech, the class’s blind arrogance came roaring back. “He’s right. Those judges are ancient anyway. Their hearing is probably shot. What we are doing is called avant-garde styling.” “Violet definitely snitched to the professor because she knows we’re going to outplay her. What a manipulative psycho.” Professor Harrison was shaking with a rage so intense his face was flushed crimson. With the exam less than twelve hours away, he knew escalating this to security would result in a massive scandal that he couldn’t control. “Fine. Have it your way.” Professor Harrison snatched his clipboard and stormed toward the door, leaving them with one final, icy warning. “Since you all think pitch is a joke, go ahead and see what happens tomorrow. Do not come crawling back to my office crying when reality hits you.” The second the door clicked shut, Oliver’s true colors flared. He lunged across the room, grabbing my jaw with a brutal, crushing grip. “Did you enjoy the show, Violet?” His fingers dug painfully into my cheeks. Tears involuntarily pricked the corners of my eyes from the sheer force. “Tell me, did you slip the old man a text while we weren’t looking?” He tilted his head, his eyes burning with absolute, nauseating disgust. “I am warning you. Drop the pathetic little schemes.” “Even if you complain to the president of the academy, it won’t do a thing. Didn’t you just see us run that old coward out of the room?” “Don’t think that just because you practice twenty hours a day, you can play savior and boss Lola around.” Lola stood up, dusting off her skirt. She wrapped her arms around Oliver’s bicep and spoke in her saccharine voice. “Oliver, don’t be so mean to Violet.” “But you know… Lola feels like if we really want to promote this gentle aesthetic, just tuning this one room definitely isn’t enough.” She turned her head, a flash of psychotic obsession gleaming in her eyes. “Why don’t we detune every single piano in the audition building? That way, every candidate in the state can experience Lola’s beautiful aesthetic.” Her absurd, insane proposal plunged the noisy room into dead silence. The students who had been cheering just moments ago suddenly looked conflicted and deeply terrified. “Lola, messing with our own practice room is one thing, but if we mess with the official exam pianos… that’s a massive federal-level academic crime.” “If they catch us on the security cameras, or if we get caught in the act, our lives are literally over. We’ll be blacklisted forever.” A quiet girl in the back whispered, her voice trembling violently. This was the state audition. It was the moment that decided their entire careers. The atmosphere in the room turned suffocatingly tense as everyone mentally weighed the risks. At that critical moment, Oliver shoved my face away and stepped up like a conquering hero. “What are you all so afraid of? An exam this big has maintenance staff checking the rooms constantly.” “If we tune them down tonight, and they don’t notice tomorrow morning, it proves the judges don’t actually care about pitch. If they do notice, they’ll just fix it before the exam starts.” He beat his chest, his voice echoing off the walls. “We are doing this to help Lola achieve her ultimate artistic vision. We are going to give those rigid, boring judges the surprise of a lifetime. This is performance art.” Hearing his twisted logic, the crowd found their psychological safety net. Their hesitation vanished, replaced by a sick, fanatical fever. “He’s right. The judges aren’t deaf. They’ll definitely double-check the rooms.” “Let’s go. Let’s go bless the whole state with Lola’s aesthetic. Let’s show everyone what true art is.” “For Lola’s dream. Let’s go.” The entire class looked completely brainwashed. Cheering and screaming, they swarmed around Lola and Oliver, sprinting out of the room like a pack of rabid animals heading for the audition halls.

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1 Three autumns after our breakup, my ex dragged me to court to reclaim $3,264.30 he’d sent while we dated. It wasn’t much, but I was broke. My father’s gambling had stripped us bare, leaving debts that grew hourly. Declan knew I worked five grueling shifts just to fend off loan sharks. To him, three grand was spare change—a casual dinner’s cost. But his paranoid new girlfriend believed I still lingered in his heart, so he cornered me to prove his loyalty. In court, his face stone-cold, he claimed the money was for our out-of-wedlock child, spinning a tale of how I’d taken his cash, dumped him, then aborted the baby. He ignored me, telling the room he only sought to stop a liar from ruining lives. What he didn’t know: when the verdict froze my empty accounts, I couldn’t pay for dialysis and missed three vital sessions. End-stage renal failure left me with thirty days. Staring at my hollow reflection in the courthouse bathroom, bitter regret hit. I wished I hadn’t fought so hard to survive. I should have skipped treatment, kept the baby, and died in the year he loved me most—at least the spring flowers on my grave would cost more than three grand. … I ran into Declan on the afternoon I went out to buy a massive stash of painkillers. His features were still sharply handsome, carrying that same arrogant edge I used to adore. Time hadn’t touched his face at all. In three years, the only thing that had changed was the woman standing beside him. He was looking at Christina with total devotion, taking her heavy shopping bags. But the second his gaze flicked and landed on me, his eyes turned to ice. The air turned suffocating. I ducked my head, quickening my pace to escape. Declan wasn’t having it. He frowned, his large hand shooting out to grip my arm like a vice. “Ruby. You see the guy who holds your debt and you don’t even say hello?” His grip was brutal. A sharp ache radiated through my frail bones. I swallowed the pain, forcing my voice to stay level. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sterling… I mean, Declan. I was in a rush to get home and take my meds. I didn’t see you. Can you let go of me?” Hearing my excuse, Christina let out a dramatic gasp, covering her mouth with a perfectly manicured hand. “You pick up your meds all by yourself? Oh, honey, I always have my man with me for that!” She looked me up and down, her tone dripping with toxic pity. “Honestly, if you hadn’t been so heartless to dump Declan back then, I wouldn’t have found the perfect guy. He is just so sweet. My therapist told me I shouldn’t stress over the past, and boom, he instantly sues you to get your little dating fund back.” She giggled, a sharp, grating sound. “It’s just a shame you meant so little to him. Three grand? That barely buys a decent designer bracelet. You really aren’t worth my stress.” Declan and I had shared eight years of our lives. Back then, he wasn’t the billionaire tech titan of Seattle. And I wasn’t this broken shell of a woman. We were just two broke college grads, hustling side by side for a future we believed in. That three grand he sued me for? It was an encouragement fund he set up for me every time I cried, wanting to cut ties with my toxic father. And now, here he was, standing with Christina, using those very bank receipts to humiliate me in federal court. All because of a throwaway comment from her therapist. Declan pressed a tender kiss to the top of Christina’s head, his gaze softening entirely. “We’ll go pick out some jewelry right now, baby.” “And as for that dirty money, once the court forces it out of her, I’ll match it tenfold and transfer it to you. Consider it a lucky charm.” Christina cheered, going up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek repeatedly. “I knew it! You love me the most.” “I’m so sorry I ever doubted your feelings about your ex. But you’re so good to me, you won’t stay mad, right?” Their sugary display felt like glass grinding in my chest. A wave of dizzying nausea hit me. I needed to run. I yanked my arm out of Declan’s punishing grip, stumbling backward. In my panic, the plastic bag tore. Boxes of painkillers scattered across the pavement. Declan looked down with cold disdain. He reached out and snatched a folded piece of paper that had slipped out among the pills. It was my latest medical report. “Severe depressive disorder?” “Pelvic ultrasound: Uterus absent?” Declan read the bold text out loud, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. The next second, he crushed the report into a tight ball and hurled it directly at my face. It clipped the corner of my eye, stinging sharply. His voice was a venomous hiss. “Are you completely disgusting, Ruby?” “Couldn’t handle being single? Played around with so many guys you literally ruined your own body?” “People like you deserve to be depressed. Why don’t you just do us all a favor and drop dead?” My head spun. I looked up into those deep eyes I used to know so well, my lips curving into a pathetic, self-mocking smile. I didn’t say a word to him. I just slowly bent down, my joints screaming in protest, and picked up my painkillers one by one. Christina leaned affectionately into his chest. When she looked at me, there was a flash of pure malice in her eyes that only I could see. “Declan, sweetie, didn’t some anonymous angel donate bone marrow to you when you were at your lowest point?” “If it weren’t for that kind stranger, you wouldn’t have survived leukemia. Why don’t we show some mercy and help her out? Consider it passing on the good karma.” Her words were calculated. They forced Declan to remember exactly what I did when he was sick and terrified. I chose to abort his child and vanish. Any flicker of hesitation in his eyes instantly evaporated into pure disgust. He stared down at me like I was a cockroach. “Pity her? She brought this on herself.” “Good karma should be passed on, sure. But not to a cheap trash who throws away an unborn baby just to chase a richer guy.” Christina shot me a triumphant smirk. Claiming she didn’t want to waste her energy on strangers, she pulled Declan away. I stayed on my knees until their laughter faded down the block. Only then did I pick up the crumpled ultrasound report that Christina had intentionally stepped on. My trembling fingers smoothed out the wrinkles. I stared at the words Uterus absent and the terrifying diagnosis right below it: End-stage Uremia. My throat closed up tight. The Declan of today didn’t even have the patience to read to the bottom of the page. So he would never know that the anonymous angel who donated the bone marrow was me. … When I dragged myself back to my tiny apartment with a grocery bag full of pills, my eyes landed on a dusty memory box in the corner. My feet felt like lead as I walked over. Before I even opened it, my eyes burned with unshed tears. This was the box Declan had given me. It held every piece of proof that we had once loved each other fiercely. I used to think these memories would be the fuel to keep me going for the rest of my miserably short life. I never expected them to morph into barbed wire, tearing my insides apart every time I breathed. I opened the lid. I touched the handwritten love letters. I traced the edges of the little wooden figurines he carved for me when he couldn’t afford jewelry. And finally, I pulled out the cheap diamond ring he bought when he promised me the world. We were supposed to get married because of the baby. But fate had a sick sense of humor. Declan was diagnosed with acute leukemia. He needed immediate hospitalization. When the donor match results came back, I was the only option. Ignoring the frantic warnings of every doctor on the ward, I didn’t hesitate. I signed the papers to donate my bone marrow. Even though the absolute cost was terminating our first child. Even though the aftermath would leave me ravaged with irreversible complications. I disappeared from his life right before the abortion. I couldn’t bear the thought of him blaming himself for the loss of our baby. After leaving him, I forced my weak, recovering body through the grueling marrow extraction. My bones felt like they were being splintered into dust every single night. I never knew if the agonizing pain was from the abortion, or the extraction. But I never regretted it. My blurry vision slowly focused on a magazine clipping inside the box. It was Declan, looking incredibly sharp in a tailored suit, smiling on the cover of a Forbes list. A bitter smile tugged at my lips. He finally achieved the empire he promised to build. But the woman reaping the rewards wasn’t me. It was time to sever the cord. I slowly tore the letters into pieces. I struck a match and watched the evidence of our love curl into black ash. I needed to drill it into my brain: he belonged to someone else now. Ever since my mother jumped off a building because she couldn’t outrun my father’s debts, there was absolutely nothing left in this world tethering me to life. After the fire burned out, I slipped into a wrinkled dress and headed out into the rain, walking toward the Grand Ridge Hotel. My mother’s dying wish was for me to protect the old family home my grandmother left behind. I had begged on my bleeding knees for that house. I went to my father’s old business partners. I went to my mother’s former best friends. They all treated me like a stray dog, trying to shoo me away with a twenty-dollar bill. Tonight was the last chance I had to fulfill her final wish. The current owner was hosting a massive business mixer. I couldn’t mess this up. But when I pushed the heavy oak doors open, my breath hitched. Declan was there. I froze in the doorway, my chest tightening in panic. But the thought of my mother’s broken body on the pavement forced my feet to keep moving. Declan spotted me instantly. His gaze darkened, scanning the room before his voice cut through the soft jazz playing in the background. “Ruby, a woman of your… status… has no business crashing an event like this.” “What, did you sell yourself for an invitation?” The entire ballroom went dead silent. Dozens of high-society elites turned to stare at me, their eyes gleaming with mockery and intrigue. Someone in the back chuckled. Then the whispers started, loud and cruel. “She’s got a pretty face, I guess she’s qualified for the oldest profession.” “Mr. Sterling, isn’t this the infamous ex you mentioned?” Declan swirled the amber liquid in his crystal glass, letting out a dark scoff. “She aborted my kid and ran off when I was literally on my deathbed. I figured she found herself a billionaire sugar daddy. Turns out… she’s just desperate.” Declan was the new king of Seattle. Everyone in this room wanted a piece of his favor. Mr. Roth, the man holding the deed to my grandmother’s house, stepped forward with a greasy smile. “Miss Ruby, you’ve been crying over that old, rundown property for months, haven’t you?” “Well, today is your lucky day. If Mr. Sterling gives the nod, I’ll transfer the deed to you for free.” It was a sick game. Mr. Roth had orchestrated this entire setup just to feed me to the wolves and make Declan happy. The room erupted into malicious jeers. The men in tailored suits crowded around, chanting for me to pour a glass and apologize on my knees to the man I wronged. Ever since my family went bankrupt, I had endured this kind of humiliation before. But seeing Declan sitting at the center of the leather booth, watching my degradation with cold apathy… my deadened heart fiercely contracted in pain. “Why are you just standing there, Ruby?” Declan’s voice was like a whip. “Do you need a written invitation to start entertaining us?” His cold eyes were practically burning with malice. He snapped his fingers, signaling a waiter to line up three massive whiskey tumblers on the glass table. “You want the house, right?” “Drink all three. No chasers. If you finish them, I’ll personally buy the deed from Mr. Roth and hand it to you. I’ll even throw in two hundred grand as a tip.” He grabbed a manila folder from the table and threw it right at my face. It hit my cheekbone with a sharp sting before falling to the floor. The deed was inside. The VIP booth erupted in applause, praising Declan’s ruthless generosity. Some of the men sneered, telling me the price of the vintage liquor inside those glasses, warning me not to piss off the boss. I looked at Declan, forcing a ghost of a smile onto my pale lips. “So, if I drink it all, you’ll honor your word?” I am severely allergic to alcohol. A few years ago, I accidentally ate rum cake and ended up in the emergency room, fighting for my life. And after the bone marrow extraction completely shredded my immune system, a single drop of liquor was basically poison to my failing organs. Plenty of people in this circle knew about my allergy. But they also believed I was the monster who murdered Declan’s baby and left him to rot. Now, with a chance to lick the boots of the city’s richest man, they weren’t going to let me walk out of here without trampling my dignity into the dirt. I stepped forward in total silence. I picked up the first tumbler and tipped it back, letting the fiery liquid burn down my throat. Liquid fire. Instantly, my skin erupted into a terrifying, itching heat. A violent wave of nausea seized my stomach. I gagged, nearly vomiting the whiskey right back onto the Persian rug, but I clamped a hand over my mouth and swallowed the bile down. Hot, humiliating tears slipped from the corners of my eyes. The crowd laughed, eating up the spectacle of my suffering. Only Declan sat perfectly still. For a split second, a flash of pure agony and conflict tore through his dark eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it came. I grabbed the second glass and downed it. My lungs seized. I started coughing violently, my entire body shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. With trembling fingers, I stubbornly reached for the third glass. Suddenly, Declan exploded out of his seat. He slapped my hand away, sending the heavy crystal tumbler crashing to the floor. Before I could process what was happening, his large hand gripped my jaw, forcing me to look up into his furious face. “You really are a piece of work, Ruby! You’d literally do anything for a paycheck, wouldn’t you?” I stared into his eyes. The eyes I used to love more than life itself. Now, they were a stormy mess of emotions I couldn’t even decipher. I suddenly remembered the early days of our relationship. I had that severe allergic reaction. My skin was flushed scarlet, my body convulsing, my throat closing up. He had held me tight in the hospital bed, his face drenched in tears, begging me in a terrified whisper. “Don’t leave me, Ruby. I’m ordering you. You can’t leave me.” But that boy was dead. The man holding my jaw realized he was touching me, and shoved me back with a look of absolute revulsion. I looked at him, my forced smile cracking at the edges. I spoke, my words carrying a double meaning only I understood. “You’re right. I want a good life. And I don’t regret a single thing I did.” I didn’t regret the abortion that triggered a hemorrhage, costing me my uterus. I didn’t regret the bone-crushing agony of the marrow extraction. I didn’t regret walking away so he could survive and become a king. To prove just how much I didn’t regret it, I dragged my failing body toward the shattered glass. “Just remember your promise, Declan.” “Three glasses, and I get the house. Plus the two hundred grand…” I swayed on my feet, grabbing a fresh glass off the table and shakily pouring the whiskey myself. For some reason, this pushed Declan completely over the edge. His face went murderous. His eyes were bloodshot as he roared at me. “Finish it?! Look at yourself! You practically threw up the first two!” We had loved each other fiercely once. But three years apart is a lifetime. I didn’t know his temper anymore. I had no idea why he was suddenly acting like a cornered beast. None of it mattered anymore. With a bitter smile glued to my face, I lifted the final glass to my trembling lips. Declan lost his mind. He lunged forward, snatching the glass right out of my hand and violently smashing it against the marble floor. “RUBY!” he roared. My fragile body couldn’t take the rough pull. My knees gave out, and I crashed hard onto the floor. Right into the pile of shattered glass. Razor-sharp shards bit deep into my calves and my bare knees. The metallic smell of blood mixed with the suffocating fumes of the alcohol. The agonizing pain acted like an electric shock to my foggy brain. I sat there in a pool of my own blood and spilled whiskey, staring blankly at the man acting like a total lunatic, feeling my deadened heart tear open one final time. The heavy doors to the VIP room suddenly flew open. My best friend, Darlene, had tracked my location when I stopped answering her texts. She froze, taking in the horrific sight of me kneeling in blood. With a choked sob, she sprinted across the room and shielded me behind her back. Her eyes were bloodshot as she screamed at the billionaire. “Are you out of your goddamn mind, Declan?!” “She lost her uterus from a massive hemorrhage after terminating her baby just so she could donate her bone marrow to YOU! Her immune system is completely destroyed, she’s got uremia, and she can’t touch a single drop of alcohol!” “She literally traded her life for yours, and you’re in here torturing her?!”

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1 Nolan missed our wedding to chase the Northern Lights with his protégé. He didn’t even try to hide it. Every single guest sitting in the chapel had already seen his Instagram story. “Grateful to the universe for the dancing ribbons of light, and for you, looking more alive than ever.” The photo attached was a shot of Harper’s silhouette beneath a sky exploding with neon green. This wasn’t the first time he had ditched me to chase the aurora with her. During his graduation ceremony, while families were gathering in the auditorium, he bailed to fly north and meet Harper in Fairbanks, Alaska. When I was tossing and turning in agonizing pain after my appendectomy, he was having deep, midnight talks with Harper on the black sand beaches of Iceland. Their footsteps chasing the lights kept straying further and further away. So far, in fact, that he couldn’t even make it back in time for our own wedding. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cause a scene. I calmly apologized to the guests, saw them out of the venue, and dialed Nolan’s number. “The aurora looks beautiful. I’d love to see it too.” “I’ll take you next time,” his voice crackled through the receiver, sounding distracted. “Okay. Next time.” I agreed out loud. But in my heart, I whispered the truth. Nolan, there won’t be a next time for the wedding, and there won’t be a next time for the lights. I hung up, opened my laptop, and booked a one-way ticket to Tromsø, Norway. Leaving in exactly seven days. Just me. … When Nolan finally walked through the door a few days later, I was on the phone with the venue coordinator, telling her not to bother holding another date for us. I shook my head. “Just cancel it entirely.” Our wedding had already been postponed three times. The first time, I was the laughingstock of our social circle. By the third time, the mockery had morphed into suffocating pity. I couldn’t stomach it anymore. Nolan strolled into the living room, a bright smile on his face. “What are we canceling? Hazel, look, I brought you a gift.” Harper practically skipped in right behind him. “It’s an apology gift!” She pressed her hands together in a pleading, innocent gesture. “Please don’t be mad at Nolan. It wasn’t his fault he missed the wedding, the lights at the Santa Claus Village were just too gorgeous.” “If I hadn’t dragged him onto the flight home, he never would have left.” Nolan reached over and affectionately flicked Harper’s forehead. “Quiet, you.” I ignored her and took the flimsy postcard from his hand. It was a stunning shot of the aurora. Flipped over, there was a single line of messy handwriting. “Harper and Hazel, safe and sound.” It was Nolan’s handwriting. This was his little tradition. Every time he successfully tracked down the Northern Lights, he would write a wish on a postcard and bring it back as my souvenir. “Harper and Hazel, may your dreams come true.” “Harper and Hazel, success in all you do.” “Harper and Hazel, a lifetime of peace.” … Every single time, Harper’s name was written before mine. “Didn’t you say you were going to take me to see the lights? When exactly is next time?” I asked, dropping the postcard into a wooden keepsake box, letting it join the stack of all the other wishes. Nolan collapsed onto the sofa, groaning dramatically. “Let’s talk about it later. The transatlantic flight was brutal, I just need to sleep.” I didn’t let it go. “How about we go next month for my birthday?” Nolan glanced at the calendar on the wall. He looked genuinely conflicted. “Harper and I already booked flights to Sweden for that week. We’re doing a second run through the Arctic Circle.” “So, over the holidays then?” “The light pollution is lowest during that season. Harper really wants to see the Blue Lagoon in Iceland.” His voice trailed off, getting quieter by the second. “I guess I just don’t have the time right now.” I nodded. Message received. Harper chimed in, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Don’t be mad at him, Hazel. We’re astronomy majors. We have a natural calling for phenomena like the aurora.” “We even made a pact. Once we’ve seen all the auroras, we’re going to chase meteor showers.” “Just lying side by side in the desert, watching shooting stars… doesn’t that sound so romantic?” She opened her mouth to keep twisting the knife, but Nolan softly cut her off. “It’s getting late. Come on, I’ll walk you home.” Right before he walked out the door, Nolan suddenly pulled me into a hug. His warm breath brushed against my ear. “Hazel, I promise. I will absolutely carve out time this year to take you aurora hunting.” He affectionately ruffled my hair, turned around, and walked out. A tiny, pathetic part of my heart softened. But as he turned, my eyes caught sight of the ugly little plush keychain dangling from his backpack. Harper had the exact same one swinging from her designer tote. The softness in my chest instantly froze into solid ice. That specific mascot character was a massive trend a few years ago. I bought a matching pair, begging Nolan to wear them with me. He had vehemently refused. “I’m a grown man. If I walk around with a childish toy on my bag, what are the professors and my lab partners going to think?” Yet here he was, older and supposedly more professional. He fully embraced that childishness, all because it was Harper asking. It hit me like a physical blow. He was perfectly capable of bending his rigid rules, just not for me. I pulled out my phone and called my best friend. “Which bridesmaid dress did you finally decide on? I’ll just buy it for you so you can wear it to galas.” “Yeah. We’re not doing it.” “Nolan and I are done.” The next morning, I was packing up the house, getting ready to list it with a realtor. My phone buzzed. It was Nolan. “Hazel, do me a huge favor. Can you go with Harper to the photo studio? She needs help picking out film prints.” I gave a soft hum of agreement and hung up, turning to face the realtor’s overly enthusiastic smile. “Miss, a property of this size, in this neighborhood? Your husband really spared no expense for your bridal home. He loves you so much.” I didn’t bother correcting her. It was true. Nolan bought this house in cash and put it solely in my name, making every woman in my office green with envy. But I found out much later that Nolan picked this specific unit because Harper lived directly across the hall. He had looked me in the eye and said: “Harper and I have been neighbors since we were kids. It’s so nice that we get to keep that connection going into adulthood.” When it came to renovating the place, he hired a top-tier designer and told me to pick whatever I wanted. But he personally spent weeks helping Harper remodel her apartment, sweating through his shirts, claiming he was helping her build her “dream home.” Snapping out of the memory, I gave the realtor a flat smile. “I want it off my hands within a week. Price is highly negotiable.” … When I walked into the vintage photo studio, Harper immediately linked her arm through mine. “Hazel, your aesthetic is so much better than mine. Tell me which of these film shots I should post on my grid.” Harper wasn’t just an astronomy grad student. She was practically a campus influencer with a massive following. I had seen her aurora photos on my feed before. Sometimes they featured a masculine hand holding hers. Sometimes it was the broad span of Nolan’s shoulders facing the snow. Her comments were always flooded with people asking: “Is that your boyfriend? You guys are total goals, always traveling together.” She only ever replied with coy, blushing emojis. She never admitted it. She never denied it, either. Sitting at my cubicle, it used to make me so sick to my stomach that I eventually threw her on my blocked list. But I would come home to find Nolan staring at his phone with a goofy, lovestruck grin. He would have her video edits playing on a loop, the background music echoing through our living room. For months afterward, just hearing the first few notes of that song made me physically gag. “Did you know a standard film roll only lets you click the shutter twenty-seven times?” Harper giggled, sliding twenty-seven glossy photos across the glass counter. “Look, this is at the northernmost McDonald’s in Finland!” In the picture, the two of them were biting into the exact same french fry, their lips barely an inch apart. “The local guide actually asked if we were married. He was so clueless, couldn’t he tell?” I pressed my lips into a thin line. In the next photo, under a sky bleeding neon colors, Nolan and Harper were dancing a waltz in the snow. He was in a sharp suit, she was in a flowing white dress. They absolutely looked like newlyweds. “Oh my god, who printed this one?” Harper shrieked in fake embarrassment. At first glance, it was just a massive burst of green light. But if you looked at the bottom of the frame, there were two pitch-black silhouettes. Their profiles were completely merged. They were kissing. The studio owner leaned over the counter, giving them a knowing, warm smile. “Ah, to be young and in love. You kids really know how to do romance.” Harper’s cheeks flushed pink. “Oh, stop it.” But her eyes flicked straight to my face, waiting for a reaction. I stayed completely silent for a few seconds. Then, I burst out laughing. “It really is romantic.” “It would be even more romantic if the guy in the picture wasn’t my fiancé.” The studio was packed with college students on their lunch break. The moment the words left my mouth, every single person froze, their ears practically growing antennas for the drama. Harper’s smug smile shattered. The owner’s warm expression instantly turned deeply uncomfortable. “Ha—” Harper stammered, trying to do damage control. Before she could form a sentence, I pulled out my phone, aimed the camera at the kissing silhouette, and snapped a picture with the flash on. “You should definitely post this one. Let’s be honest, getting me to look at this photo was the entire reason you dragged me out here today, wasn’t it?” Without waiting for her to scramble for an excuse, I turned on my heel and walked out the door. That night, Nolan’s furious voice blasted through my phone speakers. “What the hell did you say to Harper? She’s been crying for hours.” “Nothing much.” Nolan’s voice spiked in volume. “Hazel, I know you’re holding a grudge. I know you’re mad that I took her to see the lights instead of you.” “But that’s only because she’s tough. She doesn’t complain, she can handle the freezing cold, and she roughs it without whining. That’s literally it.” “There is absolutely nothing going on between us.” “Your little stunt today really messed things up for her. There are threads all over the campus forums calling her a homewrecker. You need to log on and clear this up.” He let out a heavy, long-suffering sigh. “The solar activity is peaking this year. It’s the best time in a decade to see the aurora.” “I swear to you, once this year is over, I’ll settle down. We’ll get married quietly, and I won’t ever make you feel left out again.” The phone slowly slid away from my ear. He was still lecturing, but the words were just white noise. He knew. He knew how utterly humiliated I felt standing alone on that wedding stage. He knew the panic of explaining his absence to the guests. He knew the absolute shame of facing both our families by myself. He knew all of it. He just actively chose to look the other way. There was no universe where I was going to log online and defend Harper. Because of that, Nolan initiated a one-sided cold war. He didn’t come home for two days. I used those forty-eight hours productively. I officially resigned from my job, signed the closing papers for the house, and returned the diamond ring and the bridal jewelry. When the dust finally settled, I sat on the empty couch and scrolled through my phone. Harper had just updated her timeline. “To the best thing in my life.” The photo attached was Nolan, standing in her kitchen, holding a spatula and cooking her dinner. Vague. Suggestive. Borderline romantic. Classic Harper. The very first time I saw a post like that, Nolan and I had an earth-shattering screaming match. “What are our mutual friends supposed to think when they see stuff like this?!” I had demanded. Nolan had just pinched the bridge of his nose, looking at me like I was a hysterical child. “She’s younger than us, Hazel. She doesn’t overthink things the way you do. Stop being so petty.” I had cried so hard that night I was hyperventilating until my lungs burned. But looking at her blatant provocation now? I felt absolutely nothing. “You really grew up, Hazel,” I whispered to myself in the quiet room. “You’re finally ready to go chase the lights on your own.” A minute later, I posted my own update. It was an old, grainy photo from years ago. A solitary telescope sitting on the roof of an abandoned campus building. It was the night Nolan and I met. There was a once-in-a-century meteor shower. I sneaked up to the roof, totally surprised to find another astronomy nerd waiting in the dark. We kept each other company. When the shooting stars finally painted the sky, they masked the frantic beating of my heart. That photo had been locked in my hidden folder for years. Whenever my career hit a wall, or whenever Nolan broke my heart, I would pull it out to remind myself of the boy I fell in love with. But tonight, I let it go. I was double-checking the locks on my camera tripod when the front door clicked open. Nolan stumbled in. He reeked of expensive alcohol, his eyes slightly glazed. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me adjusting the tripod. “Isn’t that for low-light photography? Where did you get that?” “I got tired of waiting for you. Figured I’d buy my own gear.” He choked on whatever he was going to say. Clearly, he remembered the argument from the other night. Then his eyes drifted to the massive hardshell suitcase sitting by the door. His brow furrowed. “What’s all this?” “Business trip,” I replied smoothly, barely missing a beat. “It’s a long assignment, so I had to pack heavy.” Nolan visibly relaxed, nodding in relief. Riding the liquid courage, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me, pulling my back flush against his chest. His messy hair brushed against my neck. He lowered his voice, coaxing me like a petulant child. “I’m waving the white flag, Hazel. Let’s stop fighting, okay?” “That photo you just posted… that was your way of saying you miss us, right?” I let out a soft chuckle. If I hadn’t looked in the mirror and seen the violent purple hickey blooming on his collarbone, maybe his little act would have worked. He hadn’t been home for two days, and he walked in wearing another woman’s mark. His embrace was physically warm. But the blood in my veins felt like liquid nitrogen. I smoothly pushed him away without a trace of anger. “I’m visiting Professor Bennett tomorrow. You need to come with me.” He nodded instantly. I was tying up loose ends. It was time to say goodbye to the people who actually mattered. Professor Bennett was our advisor in undergrad. He treated us like his own kids. He was supposed to be the officiant at our wedding. But you can only ask a man to officiate a ghost wedding three times before it becomes an insult. He was furious, and I needed to apologize in person. But the next afternoon, as I stood on Professor Bennett’s porch, Nolan was nowhere to be found. I waited in the biting wind for thirty minutes before my phone buzzed. “Harper caught a nasty flu. She’s on an IV drip at the urgent care and I can’t leave her alone.” “Tell Professor Bennett I’m really sorry.” I didn’t bother replying. What was the point of being angry? It wouldn’t change the cold, hard fact that if you put Professor Bennett and me on a scale, we didn’t weigh half as much as Harper did to him. When I walked into the house alone, Professor Bennett let out a heavy, mournful sigh. “I knew it.” “What happened to that boy? How did he turn into this?” He poured me a cup of tea, shaking his head. “He used to worship the ground you walked on. When you wanted those artisan pastries from across the city, he biked for thirty minutes in the rain and waited in line for two hours just so you could eat them fresh out of the oven.” “When Professor Lawson—that absolute creep—hinted you should sleep with him for a grade, Nolan risked expulsion just to break the guy’s nose.” “When you two used to come over for dinner, he would stare at you so hard he dropped two of my antique plates.” “How did it come to this?” “Yeah,” I murmured into my teacup. “How did it come to this?” But I quickly forced a bright smile onto my face. “Professor, I’m moving abroad. I probably won’t be coming back.” “There’s a whole world out there. Auroras, oceans, deserts… I want to see all of it.” “My flight is in two days. Please, don’t tell Nolan.” Professor Bennett’s eyes shimmered. He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Okay, kid. Go see the world. I support you.” Nolan was so checked out he didn’t even notice my belongings slowly disappearing from the house. Before I knew it, it was my final day in the city. I went to the bridal boutique to return my dress as agreed. I carefully ironed out the silk, folded the heavy fabric, and slipped it into the garment bag. I stared at it for a long, quiet moment. A massive, sweeping train, hand-beaded pearls, absolute princess glamour. I had put this dress on for three different weddings that never happened. I finally forced myself to look away. But as I turned, my eyes caught two familiar figures standing in the VIP fitting area across the showroom. Harper was wearing a custom-dyed, deep emerald green wedding dress, twirling in front of the massive mirrors. Nolan was sitting on the velvet sofa, looking at her with absolute adoration. Noticing my stare, a salesgirl walked up next to me, sighing dreamily. “Aren’t they just the cutest couple?” “They’ve been in here multiple times. They didn’t want any of our classic collections. They demanded a custom gown inspired by the Northern Lights.” “We thought they were crazy at first, but the guy totally backed her vision. He threw money at our designers, spent hours in consultations… we’re all dying of jealousy over here.” A violent tremor wrecked through my chest. When I came to try on my dress, I came entirely alone. Nolan and Harper had been somewhere in Norway, chasing the lights. I had video-called him, holding up two different veils, asking which one he liked better. He had squinted at the screen, annoyed, and muttered, “How am I supposed to care about fabric when I’m looking at a literal cosmic miracle? Just pick whatever.” Dragging myself out of the memory, I let out a slow exhale and walked directly toward them. The head designer was gushing over the fit. “That green is a custom dye! We blended the hues from three different atmospheric phenomenons. It is literally one of a kind!” “Wow, that sounds amazing.” My voice sliced through the room. Every head snapped in my direction. The moment Nolan saw me, his pupils shrank to pinpricks. “Hazel…” Harper immediately plastered herself to his side, hooking her arm through his and leaning heavily against his shoulder. “Hazel! Oh my gosh, Nolan is just doing me a huge favor.” “Yeah, I wanted to design an aurora dress for my portfolio, and he’s just playing my model.” Nolan looked completely panicked. I just offered a polite, distant smile. Suddenly, Nolan’s eyes dropped to my hand. “Hazel, where is your engagement ring?” I followed his gaze to my bare finger. “Sent it in to get cleaned,” I lied without batting an eyelash. “I’ve got to run. You guys have fun fitting.” I gave Nolan one last, profound look. Then I turned on my heel and walked out the door. “Hazel, wait—” Staring at my retreating back, a horrific sense of foreboding slammed into Nolan’s gut. Without thinking, his body jerked forward to follow me. “Nolan, we’re not done with the measurements yet!” Harper yanked on his arm, physically pulling him back. But Nolan’s mind was completely scrambled. The look in my eyes kept replaying in his head on a terrifying loop. Something fundamental had shifted, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. It felt like… when Hazel looked at him just now, there was absolutely no love left. Meanwhile, I was already at the airport, boarding a transatlantic flight to Tromsø. I leaned my head against the cold window pane and closed my eyes. Once again, forced to choose between me and Harper, he chose her. Only this time, there was no sourness in my chest. There was no desperate resentment. Still, a single, stray tear slipped down my cheek. The man sitting in the seat next to me quietly offered a tissue. “Here.” “Save the tears for Tromsø. They say the Northern Lights are worth crying over.” I stared at the handsome stranger’s face, a genuine smile breaking through the gloom. “You’re going to Tromsø to chase the lights too?” … Hours later, after Nolan finally finished indulging Harper’s wedding dress fantasy, he walked into the house. He was greeted by hollow, echoing silence. “Hazel?” He called out tentatively. No response. A suffocating wave of panic crashed into his chest. Where the hell was Hazel?

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1 I was diagnosed with breast cancer. The man who performed the double mastectomy was my own father, the Chief of Surgery. But before the anesthesia had completely faded, I heard the assisting surgeon whispering to a nurse. “Chief Hamilton really tricked his own daughter into this surgery just to help his adopted daughter blow off some steam.” “I know, right? I heard her husband personally authorized it. Now she’s just left with a massive, bowl-sized scar. She looks like an absolute freak.” My entire body convulsed. The moment my eyes cracked open, the very first thing I did was try to claw my way out of the bed to demand the truth. But my husband, Matt, just wrapped his arm around Sierra’s waist, shooting me a cold, cruel smirk. “What? You had no problem mocking Sierra for being malnourished like some absolute psycho. Now you’ve learned your lesson, haven’t you?” I stumbled forward, but my father violently shoved me back onto the mattress. “Stop making a scene! Sierra had a tragic childhood. You grew up with everything. Losing two lumps of flesh is nothing.” My genius son chimed in from the doorway, looking at me with pure disdain. “Yeah, Mom. Look at yourself. You look like a monster now. It’s time you step aside and let Aunt Sierra take your place.” Right at that moment, the System, which had been silent for years, suddenly pinged online. [Host, I have detected that your Redemption Mission was successfully completed long ago! Do you wish to terminate your physical body and return to your original world immediately?] A slow, liberated smile spread across my face. Since this entire “deeply emotional redemption” was a con from the very beginning. Why the hell should I care if they live or die? I mentally slammed the confirm button. The System instantly flashed a final warning. [After your physical death, every character in this book will be permanently erased after a three-day delay. Initiating your extraction portal now. Reward: $700 Million USD + Absolute Health in your original body.] … Hearing the massive reward, the only thing left in my heart was a wild, screaming ecstasy to finally go home. I dragged my battered body out of the bed, agonizingly pulling myself toward the hospital window. Every single step tore at the fresh, brutal surgical wounds on my chest. But looking out at the glittering skyline of New York, millions of lights illuminating the dark, not a single one was burning for me. I sped up. Suddenly, a sharp sneer echoed behind me. I turned around to see my son, Julian. “Mom, what are you doing climbing out of bed? You should be recovering.” “You’re not an actress. Who exactly is this little suicide performance for?” “Performance? Who is the one actually putting on a performance to trick me?!” I stared deep into his eyes, desperate to find even a flicker of guilt. But he just scoffed. “How is this a trick? At worst, Grandpa just gave you a misdiagnosis! You don’t have cancer, so you’re not going to die. You get to keep living with us. Isn’t that a good thing?” Oh. I see. I’m supposed to be jumping for joy that my family mutilated me for fun. I turned my back to him. The howling night wind whipped my hair around my face. When I laid down on that operating table, I was fighting to live. Now, straddling this window ledge, I was fighting to die so I could truly survive. Without a second thought, I threw my weight forward. But the rush of gravity never came. Julian smashed the emergency call button and lunged forward, grabbing my hospital gown with everything he had. “MOM! What are you doing?! Grab my hand!” “Let go,” I rasped, my throat raw. Julian gritted his teeth, the veins popping on his forearms. “NO!” “Mom, so you lost two pieces of meat, who cares? It’s not a big deal! Dad said he wouldn’t mind no matter how ugly you look!” I was so sick of hearing this garbage. I thrashed my arm, trying to force his grip to slip. His eyes went completely red. His voice cracked into a frantic sob. “Are you really going to abandon me and die?!” I looked down at the boy I had raised with my own two hands. The absolute terror in his eyes made it look like he genuinely couldn’t survive without me. I violently yanked his arm, my eyes dead and frozen. “If you can’t bear to lose me, then come down to hell with me.” I pulled with everything I had, twisting his center of gravity toward the open window. All the blood drained from his face. In pure, instinctual panic, his grip loosened. I knew it. He was a coward. I felt myself start to slip downward, thinking I was finally free. But a massive force clamped onto my shoulders, hauling me backward. The bodyguards and medical staff had burst into the room, swarming me. Damn it. Just one second away. Dragged back inside, I collapsed onto the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. Julian was huddled in the corner, sobbing hysterically from the shock. Before I could even process what was happening, Matt stormed into the room. He shoved past the nurses and marched directly up to my bed. SLAP— He struck me so hard my head whipped to the side. The violent motion ripped my stitches. Fresh blood bloomed across the white bandages on my chest. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” His eyes were bloodshot. He grabbed my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “Julian is our son! You were going to drag him out a window just because you’re throwing a tantrum?!” “When are you going to stop this, Ruby? Do you have no heart?!” My throat felt like it was packed with glass, but a cold, hollow laugh scraped its way out. I’m the one with no heart? Who fabricated a fake cancer diagnosis? Who forced me to endure the agony of chemotherapy when I was perfectly healthy? Who used a fake terminal illness to completely sever my breasts, just to make Sierra smile? But honestly? I couldn’t even find the energy to explain. Seeing my dead silence, Matt’s patience snapped completely. He grabbed my arm and violently yanked me off the bed. “If you refuse to behave in the hospital, you’re coming home!” I was totally numb. I let him drag me into the backseat of his car, only one thought echoing in my head. I needed to find the right moment to die so I could escape this fictional hell. Outside the tinted windows, the neon blur of the city rushed by. The world looked so vibrant, but there was nowhere left for me. Once the car turned onto the deserted, winding mountain road leading to his estate, I suddenly reached for the door handle. “Are you looking for a death wish?!” Matt roared, violently cranking the steering wheel to the right. The tires shrieked, the car swerving in a lethal arc across the asphalt. I threw my entire weight against the door. It popped open, freezing wind screaming into the cabin. Without a second of hesitation, I threw my battered body into the void. But just as I was about to tumble onto the road, Matt completely abandoned the steering wheel. He threw himself across the console, pinning me down with crushing force. The car completely lost control. It slammed into the reinforced mountain guardrail with a deafening crunch. The violent impact threw us around the cabin. Matt’s forehead smashed into the dashboard. Blood poured down his handsome face. He was panting heavily, his eyes burning with a dark, terrifying obsession as he stared down at me. “Do you want to die that badly?!” I stared right back into his eyes, my voice absolute iron. “Yes.” He opened his mouth to scream at me, but a sharp, suffocating smell of gasoline flooded the car. Matt’s face went white. “Shit!” Ignoring the blood pouring into his eyes, he scrambled to unbuckle my mangled seat. My survival instinct was completely dead. Honestly, I was praying the spark would catch faster. “Just run. Leave me here.” He acted like he didn’t hear a word. He violently ripped the crushed seat back, scooped me into his arms, and hauled us out of the wreckage. The second we cleared the doors… BOOM. A deafening explosion rocked the mountain. The multi-million dollar sports car was instantly swallowed by a blinding inferno. A wave of blistering heat hit us. Matt tackled me to the ground, shielding my body entirely with his own. His eyes were completely red. “Ruby, I’m going to say this one last time.” “Unless I give the order, the grim reaper himself doesn’t have the right to take you!” The scene was a carbon copy of a memory from years ago. When we were caught in a brutal shootout with a rival syndicate, trapped in an abandoned warehouse. He had covered me exactly like this, whispering into my hair. “Don’t be scared, Ruby. As long as I’m breathing, I won’t let anyone touch a hair on your head.” Because of that promise, I had followed him through absolute hell. I waded through blood and violence, eventually weaponizing my own family’s massive empire to crown him the undisputed king of the New York underworld. But now? The same protective gesture just made me want to vomit. I honestly don’t remember how I got dragged back into his mansion. The moment we walked through the door, a wave of sickening, domestic warmth hit my face. It felt so alien. Sierra was delicately blowing on a bowl of hot soup. My father, Arthur, stood right behind her, looking at her with absolute adoration. “Careful, sweetie. Don’t burn your tongue.” When they saw us—specifically the blood dripping down Matt’s face—Sierra let out a dramatic gasp and rushed over. “Matt, what happened?!” Her eyes instinctively flicked to my flat, heavily bandaged chest. The disgust in her eyes smoothly morphed into fake pity. “Is this because of Ruby? You really shouldn’t blame her. She’s just having a mental breakdown because she can’t accept her new, deformed body. That’s why she’s acting so crazy. We just need to give her more love.” I couldn’t take it anymore. I stepped forward and slapped her directly across the face. “Shut your mouth! What gives you the right to stand here and play the saint?!” Sierra clutched her cheek, staring at me in total disbelief. In a flash, my father lunged forward. He shoved me violently to the floor and shielded Sierra behind his back. “Enough!” “Look at you! You look nothing like the heiress of this family!” “We spoiled you too much. That’s why you think you can just bully Sierra whenever you want! That surgery was supposed to teach you a lesson. But instead, you’re throwing a massive tantrum and threatening to kill yourself!” I looked up from the floor, staring dead into the eyes of the man who used to love me more than life itself. “So that’s your excuse for faking a terminal illness and mutilating my body?” I don’t know if he felt guilty, or if he genuinely thought he was in the right. But he didn’t say a word. When I first transmigrated into this world, Arthur had just lost his beloved wife. Because he married into my mother’s ultra-powerful family, the board of directors treated him like trash and ruthlessly suppressed his career. The System sent me to redeem him, driven by the original character’s dying wish. For a very long time, we saved each other. I even gave up my chance to go home, choosing to stay in this world for them. But the second I started sponsoring a poor orphan named Sierra, everything changed. Everyone around me slowly turned on me. Even a completely neutral comment I made about her would be twisted into a malicious insult. They were perfectly willing to tear me to shreds just to defend her honor. I let out a bitter, hollow laugh. I grabbed a fruit knife off the glass coffee table… But I failed again. Matt’s reflexes were terrifyingly fast. He kicked the blade right out of my hand. “Are you addicted to this now, Ruby? Just threatening to kill yourself every five minutes?” His voice was absolute ice. “I swear on my life, as long as you behave and stop bothering Sierra, I don’t care if you look like a freak. You will always be Mrs. Hamilton.” I slumped against the marble floor, my voice completely dead. “But I don’t want to be.” The air in the room froze. The next second, Arthur stepped forward. He reached down and violently ripped the heavy gold medallion off my neck—the heirloom my mother gave me, the absolute symbol of my power as the true heir of the family empire. He stared down at me with profound disappointment. “Look at you. Half human, half ghost. You don’t deserve to be Matt’s wife, and you certainly don’t deserve to run this family!” “When you and your mother were in that car crash years ago, if I knew you were going to turn out like this, I never would have saved you!” In that exact moment, my heart flatlined. Lying on the cold floor, I actually started laughing so hard tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. Right in front of my face, Arthur clipped the family heirloom around Sierra’s neck. From that day on, I was locked in the basement. They completely cut off any avenue I had to kill myself. Sierra started visiting me daily under the guise of “psychiatric treatment.” “Matt, her mental state is completely unstable. I’m a doctor. Let me counsel her,” she had cooed. Matt had pinched the bridge of his nose, looking profoundly relieved. “Handle it. Just make sure she doesn’t pull any more crazy stunts.” What he didn’t know was that the second the heavy basement door locked, Sierra’s sweet mask completely melted off. She grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at her. “You know what I hate the most about you, Ruby? That arrogant, superior look on your face.” “But look at you now. You’re not even a complete woman anymore. What exactly are you trying to fight me with?” I thrashed against my restraints, but my body was completely drained. She let out a soft, venomous laugh and slid a cold needle directly into my vein. “Don’t be scared, sister. You want to die, right? But I’m not going to let you. I am going to make you live the rest of your life like an obedient little dog, cowering in my shadow.” I don’t know how many days I spent rotting in that dark room. Until one night, Julian sneaked in holding a bowl of warm porridge. He stopped dead when he saw what I looked like—a literal skeleton. Maybe he remembered how fiercely I tried to jump out that window. Or maybe, deep down, he actually felt guilty. His eyes were red. He awkwardly scooped a spoonful of porridge and held it to my cracked lips. “Mom… please eat something.” I turned my head away, completely dead inside. I forced the words out in a raspy whisper. “…Just give me… a quick death…” The bowl in Julian’s hand shook violently. As if my rejection was a personal insult, the guilt in his eyes was instantly devoured by rage. “You’re doing it again! You think starving yourself is going to hurt us? Are you trying to make me and Dad feel guilty?!” I closed my eyes. Flashes of him growing up flickered behind my eyelids. His bright smiles. His tantrums. The way he used to wobble into my arms when he was learning to walk, burying his face in my neck and calling me “Mommy.” I didn’t want any of it anymore. After a long silence, I forced a single word past my lips. “Get out.” Julian burst into tears, turned around, and ran out of the room. He didn’t pull the door completely shut… Maybe it was terminal lucidity, but I suddenly found a surge of adrenaline. Step by agonizing step, I dragged myself out of the basement. The grand foyer was blindingly bright, echoing with applause and laughter. Tonight was their victory gala. In the center of the ballroom, the three men I had once loved with everything I had were orbiting Sierra like she was the sun. They looked like the picture-perfect, flawless family. Sierra stood there like a triumphant queen. And resting against her collarbone was my mother’s gold medallion. “Sierra, from this day forward, everything this family controls in the city is in your hands,” Arthur announced to the board members, holding her hand up. Matt stood right behind her, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist. He leaned down and kissed her temple. “You earned this, baby.” Even my son, Julian, was looking up at her with starry eyes. “Thank you, Aunt Sierra, for taking such good care of us.” My sanity completely snapped. The only thing I cared about was exposing this parasitic monster before I finally died. I let out a raw, animalistic scream and threw myself into the crowd. “GIVE THAT BACK TO ME!” I lunged like a rabid dog, clawing at Sierra’s neck. In the chaos, the gold chain snapped. The entire ballroom went dead silent. A second later, a manic laugh ripped from my throat. “Hahahaha! Even the heirloom knows you’re a fake! You absolute snake!” Matt violently shoved me away. I crashed into a massive champagne tower, sending shattered glass raining down on me. He pulled a terrified Sierra behind his back and turned to the crowd, his face a terrifying mask of fury. “My apologies, everyone.” “My wife… ever since her mastectomy, she hasn’t been able to accept her deformed body. She’s suffered a total psychotic break. We are having her heavily medicated.” In three sentences, he completely dismissed me as a lunatic. Disgusted whispers broke out across the room. “Ah, she’s crazy. That makes sense…” “Mr. Hamilton really has it rough. Running the underworld and babysitting a psychopath.” “Thank God for Miss Sierra. No wonder the Chief handed her the family reigns.” Hearing the vicious daggers thrown my way. I stopped crying. I stopped screaming. I just looked at the crowd with complete, utter peace. “Matt,” I said clearly. “A man shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds him. Did you really forget who put you on that throne?” I turned my eyes to Arthur. “Dad… no. Arthur. You married into this family. You know exactly how my mother treated you. But for the sake of a cheap knock-off, you tortured your own blood daughter and turned her into a freak. Tell me, when you close your eyes at night, do you feel safe?” The room erupted into shocked gasps. The board members shifted uncomfortably, avoiding my eyes. Using the distraction, I smoothly slipped a loaded pistol out of a nearby bodyguard’s holster. Without a millimeter of hesitation, I jammed the barrel directly against my temple. I smiled. And as the deafening gunshot shattered the room, the System’s cold, mechanical voice echoed in my head. [Host’s physical body has been terminated. Initiating extraction portal immediately.]

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “517576”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 To mark our thousandth day together, I wrote Benjamin a love song for the senior graduation gala. The first letters of each chorus line spelled a hidden message. Benjamin and Chloe, together forever. Eager to rehearse, I went to the music room and stopped outside the half-open door. Benjamin held my best friend Nika in his arms, teaching her my song. His eyes held a tenderness I had never seen directed at me. This song only has soul if you sing it, he whispered. Soon the setlist changed. Nika became the lead singer, and her name replaced mine as songwriter. Benjamin’s voice over the phone was gentle. Nika needs this to prove herself. Let her have the credit. Do not be petty about a name on a screen. I rubbed the finger my guitar strings had bloodied and smiled. Okay. That night, Benjamin held Nika’s hand on the glowing stage for their duet. I sat alone in the dark auditorium corner, listening to them sing my song with my hidden name inside it. As the final piano chord echoed, I blocked Benjamin everywhere. … “Chloe, are you seriously just going to sit there and let them steal your song?” My roommate, Sarah, slammed her phone onto my desk. The screen was looping the official livestream of the graduation gala. Benjamin was holding Nika’s hand under the spotlight. The massive LED screen behind them clearly displayed the credits: Lyrics and Composition by Nika. I didn’t look up. I quietly pulled out my backup in-ear monitors. The blood drawn by the steel guitar strings had already dried into dark scabs on my fingertips. I took a wet wipe and carefully cleaned the metallic stains off the edges of the wire. “Say something!” Sarah was so frantic she physically spun my chair around to face her. “You stayed up till 3 AM for two weeks straight! Your fingers are literally bleeding! And you just hand it over on a silver platter?” “What right does Nika have to sing that? She can’t even read sheet music!” I dropped the bloody wipe into the trash can. “The gala is over.” “Over? So you’re just going to let it go?!” Sarah’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “That was supposed to be your one-thousand-day anniversary gift to him!” I reached over and woke up my laptop screen. The final, master audio file I was supposed to send to Benjamin was still sitting on my desktop. The file name was Day One Thousand. I gripped the mouse, right-clicked, and hit rename. The clicking of the keyboard was razor-sharp in the dead-silent dorm room. The file name changed to Trash. I stared down at the deep cut on my right index finger. I got that cut practicing the key change in the third verse of the chorus. The transition I rewrote seventeen times before it was perfect. Benjamin never once asked me which part of the song was the hardest to write. He only asked if he could let Nika try singing it. I pulled open my desk drawer and took out a small, black velvet box. This was the physical gift I had prepared for our anniversary. Inside was the handwritten sheet music, a custom guitar pick engraved with our initials, and a battered lyric notebook filled with crossed-out lines and frantic scribbles. I shoved the box, along with my acoustic guitar, into the absolute back of my closet. Suddenly, my phone vibrated against the desk. It was an unknown number. I hit accept but didn’t say a word. Benjamin’s exasperated sigh came through the speaker. “Chloe, did you seriously block my number?” I stared blankly at the closed closet door. My voice was incredibly light. “Do you need something?” “Stop throwing a tantrum.” Benjamin groaned. “The gala is over. Take me off your block list.” He didn’t ask why I blocked him. He didn’t ask how it felt to sit in the dark and watch him hold another girl. He just assumed I was being a drama queen. “We can talk about the credits later.” “Nika started crying the second we got off stage. She feels really guilty about taking your song.” “You blocking me is just making her feel worse.” A sudden, hollow laugh escaped my throat. “She feels guilty? So you borrowed someone else’s phone to call me, just so I can comfort her?” Benjamin paused. “Chloe, you never used to be this toxic.” “We’ve been together for a thousand days. Can’t you show just a little bit of grace?” “Nika has always had self-esteem issues. She desperately needed this validation.” “You’re already a top student. Losing one song isn’t going to affect your career.” He spoke with such absolute entitlement. As if the nights I didn’t sleep and the blood I bled were just loose change he could hand out to charity. I asked him a very quiet question. “Benjamin, when you were teaching her the chorus, did you know how many times I had to rewrite that melody?” Dead silence on the other end. I didn’t wait for him to formulate a lie. I hung up. I added the unknown number to the block list. Sarah looked at me, her eyes completely red. “Chloe, if you need to cry, just cry.” I shook my head. “I’m not crying.” Crying over people who trampled my bleeding heart into the dirt was a waste of time. I stayed up the entire night, meticulously backing up every single audio file, lyric sheet, and voice memo from the last six months into a heavily encrypted hard drive. At 2:00 AM, Nika sent me a text. “Chloe, are you asleep?” “I know what happened tonight wasn’t fair to you. It’s totally okay if you’re mad at me.” “We’ve been best friends for so long, and I’ve always been so jealous of how you just shine on stage. Just think of this as you doing a favor for your bestie.” “Could you just post a quick status on your socials saying you voluntarily gave me the song?” I stared at the words voluntarily gave me. My thumb hovered over the keyboard for three seconds. I didn’t reply. I locked the screen. The next morning, the second I stepped out of the dorm building, Benjamin blocked my path. He was wearing a crisp white button-down. His eyes were bloodshot. “Chloe.” He stepped directly in front of me, refusing to let me pass. “The video from the gala is going viral on campus. If we change the credits back to your name now, it’s going to ruin Nika’s reputation.” “Just… don’t go running your mouth to people, okay?” I looked up at his handsome, entirely unapologetic face. “Run my mouth about what?” “That I wrote my own song?” Benjamin sighed heavily, reaching out to grab my wrist. I took a sharp step back, completely avoiding his touch. His hand froze in mid-air. His face darkened. “Yes, you wrote the lyrics. But without my arrangement and production, it never would have sounded that good last night.” “Nika’s voice is objectively a better fit for the track.” “You barely ever perform live. You have no stage presence. You wouldn’t know how to handle a crowd that size.” “I made a professional call for the sake of the music.” He was meticulously stripping away my blood, sweat, and tears, dividing the credit entirely between himself and Nika. My voice was dead calm. “So when she texted me last night asking me to publicly sign away my rights, that was your idea too?” Benjamin didn’t deny it. “Just post the statement and we can all move on.” “A thousand days together, Chloe. Can’t you just trust me on this?” I laughed. “A thousand days.” “Benjamin, do you even remember what that song was supposed to commemorate?” He flinched, his eyes darting away from mine. “Of course I do.” “If you remember, how could you look me in the eye and put another girl’s name on it?” I stared dead into his pupils. “I’m not writing a statement.” I stepped around him and walked straight toward the lecture hall. Benjamin yelled my name across the quad. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t have any classes that afternoon. I walked straight to the university’s professional recording studio. I had gotten a text from Liam, a senior composition major and the head engineer of the studio. A month ago, I had recorded the very first, raw acoustic demo of Day One Thousand in this exact booth. Liam was in the next room running cables. He heard the entire thing. Last night, he had sent me a voice note. “The song from the gala. That was yours, wasn’t it?” I had replied: Yes. He responded immediately. “I knew it.” “Benjamin overproduced it. He layered way too much synthetic garbage over a track that was supposed to be acoustic and raw.” “Nika’s vocals are too breathy. She doesn’t have the emotional depth to anchor your lyrics.” “The Annual Indie Music Showcase submissions open next week.” “If you’re down, I’ll help you track the real version. The way it was supposed to sound.” I pushed the heavy, soundproof door open. Liam was sitting at the massive mixing console, a pair of studio headphones clamped over his ears. When he saw me, he slid the headphones down to his neck and kicked a rolling chair in my direction. “Sit.” He slid a manila folder across the console. “Registration forms for the Indie Showcase.” “Have you decided?” I looked down at the blank fields on the paper. Benjamin told me I had no stage presence. Nika told me she desperately needed the validation. They both told me to step aside and disappear. I picked up the black pen off the console. In the Original Artist field, for the very first time in my life, I didn’t hesitate. I pressed the ink into the paper and wrote my name. Chloe. Liam slid the form back and filed it away. “What title are we submitting?” “Still going with ‘Day One Thousand’?” “No.” I looked at Liam, my voice hollow. “That song is tainted.” “I’m writing a new one.” Liam’s hand paused over the file cabinet. He didn’t ask why. He didn’t tell me I should fight to take back what was stolen. He simply dropped the form into the folder and closed the drawer. “You can fight to clear your name, and you can start completely over.” “Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive.” I nodded. When I finally walked out of the studio, the sun had already set. As I passed the practice rooms on the second floor, my feet suddenly stopped. A door was cracked open. The familiar piano intro of Day One Thousand was drifting out into the hallway. “Soften up on the transition here,” Benjamin’s voice echoed from the room. “Nika, your emotion was good last night, but we need it to hit harder.” “If we want to win the Indie Showcase next week, we have to polish this until it’s flawless.” I stood alone in the dark corridor, my fingernails digging into my palms. They didn’t just steal it for the gala. They were taking my song into the biggest competition of the year. I didn’t push the door open. I didn’t scream at them. I just stood there for a long moment, then turned and walked away. The next morning, the Indie Showcase group chat was absolutely exploding. Someone posted a screenshot of Nika’s official submission. “Wait, she’s entering ‘Day One Thousand’?” “The song that went viral last night? Bro, she’s guaranteed to win.” A minute later, someone else noticed my name on the roster. “Hold up. Chloe entered too?” “Can she even sing?” “I’ve literally never seen her on a stage.” I locked my phone screen and opened my blank composition notebook. At noon, when I walked into the cafeteria, Benjamin intercepted me. His brow was furrowed in heavy frustration. “Are you seriously entering the Showcase?” I held my plastic lunch tray, looking at him with dead eyes. “Is it against the rules?” “Chloe, you can’t just write a song out of spite,” Benjamin hissed, lowering his voice so people wouldn’t stare. “Without me producing your tracks, your acoustic stuff is way too weak for a professional stage.” I looked at him. “Benjamin.” “I am not writing music to make you feel bad.” “When I’m creating art, you don’t even have the right to exist in my head.” Benjamin froze. He had never heard me speak to him with absolute zero respect. Just then, Nika walked out of the food line. Seeing the tension, her eyes immediately welled up with tears as she hurried over. “Chloe.” Her voice was trembling, small and fragile. “If you’re really that mad at me, I can withdraw from the Showcase. I won’t sing ‘Day One Thousand’.” She kept her eyes glued to the floor, playing the ultimate victim. But I saw her fingers reach down and lightly tug on the edge of her skirt. It was her silent signal. The physical cue she always used because she knew Benjamin would instantly jump in to defend her. Right on cue, Benjamin stepped firmly between us, shielding her from me. “Nika is already offering to back out. What more do you want?” “I rearranged the entire track. It represents Nika’s artistic vision now.” “Stop acting like a bitter ex and let it go.” I looked at the two of them. One stole from me with absolute entitlement, the other defended the thief with absolute arrogance. “Don’t withdraw.” My tone was completely flat. “Sing it all you want.” Without another word, I walked around them and found an empty table. For the next four days, I practically lived inside the vocal booth. Liam manned the console, adjusting my levels and listening to the raw cuts. “You have a bad habit with your melodies,” he noted, leaning back in his leather chair. “Right before the chorus peaks, you always pull back.” “It’s exactly how you act in real life. You want to scream, but at the last second, you swallow it.” I stared at him through the soundproof glass, staying totally silent. “Don’t swallow it this time.” Liam pushed the master fader all the way up. “Let it rip.” Three days later, the master track was finished. I exported the audio file and saved it to the studio desktop. Liam glanced at the monitor. The file name was just five words. The Moon Doesn’t Wait. Two days before the preliminary rounds, a massive thread blew up on the campus forum. INSANE DRAMA AT THE INDIE SHOWCASE! Is Chloe trying to leech off Nika’s fame? The post went viral instantly. The original poster attached screenshots from the gala and the Showcase roster, breaking it down like a conspiracy theorist. “Nika obviously wrote ‘Day One Thousand.’ The live performance was legendary.” “Chloe suddenly entering the competition is definitely just her throwing a toxic fit because Benjamin dumped her.” “I heard she’s writing an original. Probably just going to rip off Nika’s acoustic style.” The comment section was a literal bloodbath. “Imagine having zero talent and trying to leech off the popular girl.” “Nika is way too nice. She wrote a masterpiece and now her psycho ex-bestie is trying to drag her down.” I stood in the dark hallway outside the studio, the harsh blue light of my phone screen illuminating my face. The vicious comments felt like needles sliding into my ribs. I locked the phone, gripping it so hard my knuckles turned white. I stared at the glowing exit sign at the end of the hall for a very, very long time. I didn’t push the heavy studio door open until my hands finally stopped shaking. Liam was patching cables. He stopped when he saw my face. “You saw the forum?” I nodded. “Keep rolling.” I walked straight to the condenser mic and pulled the headphones over my ears. In my pocket, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Benjamin. “I saw the thread on the forum.” “Stop causing drama. Nika saw the comments and she’s literally having a panic attack.” He knew exactly who wrote the song. He knew the absolute truth. And he chose to let the entire school publicly execute my character. I typed back. “Did you write the post?” Benjamin replied instantly. “I have nothing to do with that post.” “But the reality is, the production of that song was a collaborative effort.” “There’s no reason to let a cyberbullying mob attack Nika over this.” “You can compete, but leave ‘Day One Thousand’ out of it.” “The song is out in the world. Dragging this out is completely pointless.” Collaborative effort. Completely pointless. With a few keystrokes, he effortlessly erased my existence. That afternoon, my academic advisor called me. “Chloe, I need you in my office. We’re launching an official review of the songwriting credits for the Showcase.” I packed my bag to head over. Liam stopped me before I hit the door. “Don’t try to prove you wrote it by crying or screaming,” he said, his dark eyes absolutely steady. “Use the evidence.” When I walked into the advisor’s office, Benjamin and Nika were already sitting on the leather couch. Nika was quietly sobbing into a tissue. Benjamin was rubbing her back, glaring at me. The advisor tapped his pen against his desk. “Have a seat, Chloe.” “Regarding the dispute over ‘Day One Thousand,’ the university requires an official resolution before the Showcase.” Nika choked out a sob. “Professor, I swear I didn’t know Chloe cared this much.” “Benjamin gave me the song. He promised me Chloe had agreed to let me sing it. I would never have performed it otherwise.” Benjamin immediately stepped in to protect her. “Professor, this whole thing is just a toxic misunderstanding.” “Yes, Chloe was involved in drafting some of the early lyrics. But the entire post-production, the instrumental arrangement, and the actual stage performance were built entirely by me and Nika.” “Who wrote the original draft doesn’t even matter anymore.” The advisor looked at me over his glasses. “Chloe. Do you have a response?” I looked at Benjamin and Nika. “I do.” I pulled a massive, encrypted external hard drive out of my bag and dropped it onto the glass desk. “This drive contains every single second of the developmental process for that track.” Benjamin’s face visibly tightened. “Chloe, are you seriously going to humiliate everyone over this?” I ignored him entirely and looked toward the door. Liam pushed the door open and walked in. He placed a printed, timestamped log onto the advisor’s desk. “Professor. My name is Liam, Head Engineer of the campus studio.” “A month ago, Chloe booked booth three to track the original acoustic demo of this song. I was patching the main board next door.” He looked dead at Benjamin. “I pulled the raw, unedited vocal stems from the server.” The advisor plugged my hard drive into his iMac and double-clicked the first audio file. My raw, unedited voice filled the office. It was a rough cut. But the core melody, the acoustic progression, and the emotional build of the chorus were absolutely identical to the song Nika performed at the gala. “File two is a high-res scan of her original handwritten lyrics.” “File three contains the metadata and timestamp of the first ProTools session.” The advisor scrolled through the files, his brow furrowing deeper with every click. Benjamin’s jaw clenched tight. “This only proves she made a demo!” he argued aggressively. “The post-production edits—” “The post-production edits were just you swapping out four chords,” I cut him off sharply. Benjamin had chopped up the intro and rearranged some of the phrasing. The official subtitles at the gala were a jumbled mess of lyrics that barely made sense. But my original handwritten sheet? I hadn’t moved a single syllable. “Benjamin, you didn’t even notice the acrostic poem hidden in the chorus. And you have the nerve to sit here and claim this song is your masterpiece?” Benjamin froze, looking totally blindsided. “What acrostic poem?” I looked at him, feeling a sudden, intense wave of sheer disgust. “Look at the scanned lyric sheet on the monitor.” The advisor maximized the image on the iMac. I stared at Benjamin, reciting the first letter of every single line in the original chorus. “Just when the wind loses its way.” “Under the silent, heavy gray.” “Leaving the dark without a trace.” “I’ll wait for you in this empty space.” “And when the stars begin to fall.” “Nothing will matter to me at all.” “And you’ll be the one to hear my call.” “Nothing can break this, we’ll stand tall.” “Deep in the night, the shadows fade.” “Chasing the light we finally made.” “Holding on tight, we won’t be swayed.” “Leaving behind the fears we laid.” “Over the mountains, far away.” “Endless horizons where we play.” “Together forever, come what may.” I stared dead into his eyes, my voice absolute ice. “Put the first letter of every line together.” “It spells: BENJAMIN AND CHLOE TOGETHER.”

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1 On my birthday, my best friend gifted me an orange tabby. In the middle of the night, the cat actually looked at me, shook its head, and let out a heavy sigh. “She looks pretty, but how can someone be so clueless? Her best friend and boyfriend are literally stabbing her in the back, and she has no idea.” I thought my ears were playing tricks on me. I was just pulling my resignation letter out of my drawer, planning to quit my job with my best friend and go travel. “She’s busy resigning, while Vivian is busy plotting to steal her promotion and become the General Manager.” “Honestly, her boyfriend’s scheme is absolutely toxic.” “What a shame. The other neighborhood cats said this company is about to secure a ten-billion-dollar funding round. The future is gold.” The cat’s inner voice echoed in my head. My pen froze. I ripped the resignation letter to shreds. I barely threw the scraps into the trash before my best friend, Vivian, texted me. [Hey Naomi, let’s set our final day for next Monday!] She even attached a photo of her own signed resignation form. Right after, my boyfriend, Greg, texted: [Did you fill out the resignation form yet?] I stared at the screen, my mind blank. I couldn’t wrap my head around the betrayal. We grew up together. Vivian had always followed me around like a shadow. I treated her like a real sister. When she couldn’t find a job, I brought her into my firm, mentored her step-by-step, and even handed her my own clients. She used to shower me with public thank-yous. And Greg? He had been shouting that he’d marry me since we were kids. He confessed his feelings when we were eighteen, and we’d been together ever since. Nearly seven years. “That designer bag Greg got her for her birthday? It’s actually Vivian’s hand-me-down. There’s a mark on the inside.” “He’s been infatuated with Vivian since childhood.” The orange cat’s inner voice sounded again. I rushed to the closet, pulled out the leather purse, and inspected it under the light. Sure enough, etched into the bottom lining were three faint, scratched letters: V.W. Vivian Wright. Her initials. In that instant, the last thread of hope snapped. The love and friendship I had cherished so deeply were nothing but hollow, cheap illusions. “But hey, there’s a three-million-dollar lottery ticket hidden inside that bag’s serial number.” I whipped my head around. The orange cat hopped onto the windowsill, licked its paw, and muttered to itself: “The big white Persian at the pet shop said the brand is running a serial-number sweepstakes. The winning number matches this exact bag.” “Greg didn’t leave his phone number at the store.” “There are only three days left to claim it!” I shook off my shock, scrolled frantically through my chat history with Greg, and found the address of the boutique. I’d claim it right after work tomorrow. Previously, Greg had suggested I pay the one-million-dollar down payment on a house, and he’d handle the monthly mortgage. Now? I didn’t need him. I could buy the whole damn place in cash. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. Greg’s contact photo lit up. “Hey Naomi, you asleep? Why aren’t you replying to me and Viv?” “Did you finish the resignation letter? Viv says Hawaii is incredible. I already booked the tickets for next week. You can’t back out now.” Everything was always about Vivian. He used to explain it away by saying, “We’re a couple, Naomi. Viv is all on her own. We should look out for her and let her have her way sometimes.” I had trusted them blindly. “I just finished it. I was in the shower,” I lied smoothly. “Awesome! We’re finally going to make our childhood dream of traveling the world come true!” He chuckled. “Get some sleep. Love you forever, babe.” His voice was as sweet and gentle as ever, like he was soothing a child. In the past, those late-night sweet nothings would have warmed my heart. Now, they made bile rise in my throat. From this moment on, I wouldn’t waste a single second of my life on decayed love or rotten friendship. The next morning, I arrived at the office parking lot half an hour early. As soon as I parked, I spotted two familiar figures. Greg was leaning down, kissing Vivian’s forehead. “You worked hard last night, beautiful,” he murmured, his voice dripping with affection. “Oh, please. I work hard every night,” Vivian giggled, swatting his chest. “You’re like a wild animal, always trying to devour me.” My hands clenched the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. They were sleeping together. Every single night. “By the way,” Vivian asked, leaning against him, “is it really okay to trick Naomi into quitting?” “Hey, it’s a dog-eat-dog world,” Greg smirked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Besides, Naomi is tough. She’ll find another job in no time. She’s too sentimental to hold a grudge against you anyway. Once we get married, I’ll use her money to pamper you.” Chills ran down my spine. This was the man who promised to love me forever. He was more venomous than a viper. Thank god for my telepathic tabby. It wasn’t too late. I didn’t storm out to confront them. Instead, I quietly recorded a video on my phone, waited in my car for another ten minutes, and then headed up to the office. “Naomi!” Vivian was waiting right by my desk, a beaming smile on her face. She grabbed my arm. “Let’s go hand in our resignations to the boss.” I didn’t resist. I was going to play my part in this little theater. At Mr. Henderson’s office door, Vivian slapped her forehead. “Oh, shoot! Naomi, I think I left my resignation letter at my desk. Go on in first, I’ll go grab it.” “Sure,” I said with a nod. As I walked in, I heard her let out a quiet sigh of relief. She thought her little trap had sprung perfectly. Mr. Henderson welcomed me warmly. “I heard a rumor you were thinking of leaving us, Naomi. Don’t tell me this is a resignation letter?” So Vivian had already started spreading rumors to pave her way to the top. “Of course not,” I replied, shaking my head. I handed him a sleek leather folder. Inside was not a resignation, but a groundbreaking marketing proposal for our upcoming product launch. Mr. Henderson read through it, nodding with growing enthusiasm. “This is brilliant, Naomi! Absolutely brilliant. Run with it.” “Also, the Marketing Director position has been vacant. The board just finalized the decision to promote you. The official announcement goes out next Monday.” “If this campaign blows up, the final Executive VP slot is yours, along with company shares.” “Thank you, Mr. Henderson. I won’t let you down,” I said, my heart racing. Leaving his office, I felt a wave of adrenaline mixed with sheer relief. If it weren’t for my cat, I would have thrown my career down the drain. Vivian and Greg would have laughed behind my back while stepping all over me. I returned to my office. Vivian used the excuse of delivering files to slip inside. “So, Naomi, what did Mr. Henderson say?” “Not much,” I said, keeping my face neutral. “Wow, he didn’t even try to keep you?” Vivian pouted, but her eyes danced with triumph. I let her enjoy her little fantasy. That evening, Greg was waiting in the parking lot. Vivian naturally slid into the passenger seat, casually resting her legs on the dashboard, showing off her thighs without a care in the world. In the past, I thought it was just childhood-friend comfort. Now, I noticed Greg’s eyes constantly darting to her legs with pure lust. “Naomi,” Greg smiled, turning back to me. “Viv says there’s a new hotpot place down the street. I sent you the address. Let’s go.” “You guys go ahead. I have things to do,” I replied coldly. Greg blinked, surprised. “Come on, whatever it is can wait. Dinner with Viv is a priority.” “Yeah, Naomi! If you don’t come, you’re not a real friend!” Vivian whined. In the past, I would have given in. Now, it just felt like cheap emotional blackmail. “No thanks. Family emergency.” I didn’t care about their reactions. I got into my car and drove straight to the luxury boutique. “Hello, could you please check if this serial number has won the sweepstakes?” The clerk took the bag, ran the number, and beamed. “Congratulations, ma’am! You’ve won the grand prize of three million dollars. Please step this way.” In less than a minute, the paperwork was done. A text notification buzzed on my phone: $2.7 million had cleared into my account after taxes. Knowing the store would display a promotional banner next week, I knew Greg and Vivian would find out soon. I immediately called a real estate agent and bought the luxury riverfront penthouse I’d been eyeing for months. Paid in full. After securing the deed, I went home and sat down with my parents. When they heard about the betrayal, they were shocked but stood firmly by my side, urging me to handle it my way. Just as we finished dinner, my phone buzzed. Greg and Vivian had added me to a group chat. Vivian sent a playful voice note: [Naomi, since you ditched us for dinner, you’re paying the bill!] Greg followed up immediately: [It’s not much, just $3,888. Just Venmo it to me.] Normally, I would have paid to keep the peace. This time, I ignored it and went to take a shower. By the time I got out, the group chat had over 99 unread messages. Vivian: [Naomi? Why aren’t you answering?] Greg: [It’s been ten minutes. The waiter is waiting.] Vivian: [Wow, I guess our friendship doesn’t mean much to you anymore.] Greg: [Seriously, Naomi, you’re being so petty. Whatever, we’ll pay it ourselves!] Only then did I reply: [Just got out of the shower.] Nobody replied. In the past, I would have sent them each a thousand-dollar digital red envelope to make up for it. What an idiot I had been. I gave my cat some freeze-dried treats and sat down at my laptop. I needed to perfect the marketing plan for Monday’s pitch. The orange cat hopped onto the desk, staring at the screen. “The office cats say the big boss loves pets but tries to act all tough and professional. He’s been wishing someone would pitch a pet-themed marketing campaign.” A spark of inspiration hit me. I immediately rewrote the strategy, weaving in a brilliant pet-friendly angle. I worked through the night. Just as dawn broke, Greg called. “Naomi, you were way out of line yesterday. Ditching the bill like that really hurt Viv. She actually cried. I heard she wanted a designer necklace at the mall. Why don’t you buy it for her to make peace?” I almost laughed out loud. He really was taking the “spend Naomi’s money to pamper Vivian” rule to heart. “It’s for the sake of our group,” Greg continued. “Just pay for it, Viv will be happy, and I won’t be mad at you anymore.” If I were still blind, I would have felt guilty. But now, I just felt disgust. “I worked all night and I’m exhausted,” I said flatly. “Go check it out yourself.” “Great!” Greg chirped, assuming I was agreeing to pay, and hung up. Vivian immediately texted: [Naomi, you’re the absolute best! I’m not mad at you anymore. Love you, xoxo!] I ignored it and fell asleep. When I woke up in the evening, my screen was filled with more texts. Vivian: [I found a better one! It’s $188,000. Buy this one for me instead!] Greg: [Since you didn’t say no, we’ll assume it’s a yes. Viv put it on an installment plan, you can just go pay it off next week.] Vivian: [No interest if paid within a month! Don’t forget, Naomi!] She even posted a photo of the necklace on her Instagram, naturally omitting who paid for it. The comments were flooded with jealousy. When someone asked if she got a massive raise, she replied: [Oh, it’s nothing major!] Greg commented: [My girl is the best.] The cheek of it. I only wore a thousand-dollar necklace, and Vivian casually swiped my imaginary credit card for a $188k piece. But I didn’t say a word. I wanted to see how Vivian, who lived paycheck to paycheck, would handle the bill when I refused to pay. Monday morning arrived. Vivian walked into the office wearing the glittering $188,000 diamond necklace. She deliberately raised her voice so everyone could hear. “Naomi, do you like it?” “It’s beautiful,” I smiled. The other colleagues crowded around. “Oh my god, Vivian, how much was that?” “Just $188,000,” Vivian smirked, secretly squeezing my hand, signaling me to keep quiet and play along. “Wow! $188,000? Vivian, I had no idea you were so loaded!” “I wish I had your talent.” “Naomi, look at your friend, and look at you. She’s really outshining you now.” “Exactly. Naomi brought her into the company, but Vivian is the one wearing a house on her neck. Naomi has nothing.” They gossiped and compared us. Vivian didn’t defend me; she just bathed in the praise. I simply smiled. “Alright, quiet down everyone!” Mr. Henderson walked into the department. “I am here to announce the new Marketing Director.” Vivian’s grin widened, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. She was practically vibrating. The colleagues all looked at her, expecting her name to be called since the rumor of my resignation was widespread. Mr. Henderson turned to me. “Effective today, Naomi Stone is our new Marketing Director.” Vivian’s smile instantly shattered. She whipped her head toward me, her eyes wide with absolute shock.

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