Author: Momo Chan

At the party, my fiancé lost the drinking game. I asked him, for the tenth time, where my dog had actually gone. He didn’t answer. Instead, his “girl best friend,” Bridget, leaned across the table to bail him out. “I ate him, Norma,” she said, her voice dripping with a lazy, drunken giggle. “Honestly, you raised him so well. The meat wasn’t tough at all.” She flashed a bright, mocking smile. “Look, it’s just a dog, right? Tomorrow is your wedding. Why don’t we have Justin dress up as a puppy to make it up to you? Consider the debt settled.” The room erupted into a chorus of raucous laughter. Bridget laughed so hard she practically collapsed into Justin’s chest, her hand trailing down his collarbone. “You guys have no idea. When Justin plays the good boy, he’s absolutely adorable.” Among the drunken roars, someone threw out a crude joke. 1 “How does he play dog for you, Bridget? Does he wear a collar? Or does he get down on all fours and lick your hand?” Bridget’s eyes lit up. She grabbed the speaker’s tie, pulling him close. “You dirty dog, you just want all the details tonight, don’t you?” The guy, clearly wasted, challenged her. “Come on, rock-paper-scissors! If you lose, you have to tell us exactly how sweet Justin is when he’s begging.” Bridget’s cheeks flushed pink. She grinned and threw her hand out. More cheers. More drunken shouting. Suddenly, Bridget shrieked, “Damn it! I actually lost to you!” The group leaned in, reeking of cheap beer and expensive champagne, swaying on their feet. “Spill! Spill! How does he do it? How sweet is Justin when he’s on his knees?” The men roared. Bridget opened her mouth to speak, but a large hand clamped over her lips, pulling her back against a broad chest. “Cut it out,” Justin said, his voice low but firm. “You’ve had too much to drink. Stop making those kinds of jokes.” The room went quiet, though eyes continued to dart back and forth. Some of the guys exchanged whispered chuckles, sharing a silent, knowing look that excluded me entirely. I stood up and grabbed Bridget’s arm, pulling her wobbly, drunken frame upright. She looked at me, a sloppy grin spreading across her face. “Norma… what’s the matter? Want to know the details too?” The next second, a deafening crash shattered the tension. Someone in the back yelled, “Holy shit!” Bridget hit the floor hard. A pool of blood and spilled champagne began to snake across the tile, glittering under the dim bar lights. Justin’s eyes went wide, the alcohol instantly draining from his system. He threw himself onto the floor, pressing his hands against her bleeding temple. “Call 911! Get an ambulance!” he screamed, his voice cracking. Then he glared up at me, his face twisted in fury. “Are you fucking insane, Norma? A blow to the head could kill her!” I didn’t blink. I picked up the last unbroken champagne bottle from the table, pointing the jagged neck directly at his face. “Tell me,” I whispered, my voice trembling but cold. “How did my dog end up in her mouth?” 2 For a long time, Justin was the only other person who had a key to my apartment. When I went on a two-week business trip six months ago, I gave him my spare so he could check on Winston, my Bichon Frise. But when I came back, the apartment was silent. The only thing left of my dog was his favorite squeaky yellow duck, sitting lonely on the living room rug. Justin had stammered through an explanation. He claimed Winston had slipped past his legs when he opened the front door, running off into the night. He said he had searched the neighborhood for hours but couldn’t find him. During those weeks, I nearly lost my mind. I printed hundreds of flyers, plastered them on every lamppost, and spent my nights wandering the dark streets, calling Winston’s name until my throat was raw. My grief had blinded me. I never noticed the gaps in his story. Until tonight. Earlier in the evening, Bridget had casually mentioned how much she loved exotic game. Then, wrinkling her nose, she added, “It’s a shame most dog meat is so tough. You really need one that’s been pampered and fed high-quality kibble to get that tender, savory flavor.” At that moment, a jagged line of suspicion began to connect in my mind. As the night wore on and the drinks kept flowing, their filters crumbled. When I finally asked the question I had buried deep in my chest, I felt the sudden, rigid tension in Justin’s posture. Now, the room was in chaos. They scrambled to lift Bridget, rushing her out the door. Someone shoved me hard in the rush, sending me stumbling back against the wall. Even as the wailing of the ambulance faded into the distance, Justin never answered me. But the silence was its own confession. Winston. My sweet, gentle Winston. Had Justin deliberately handed him over to Bridget to be slaughtered? 3 The party dissolved, but I didn’t go back to my empty apartment. Instead, I drove to the new townhouse we had just bought—the place we were supposed to move into after our wedding tomorrow. His parents were there, setting up decorations. They looked up in surprise when the door slammed open. “Norma? What are you doing here at this hour?” his mother asked, holding a roll of silk ribbon. I didn’t answer. I walked straight into the kitchen, bypassed her, and picked up a heavy, twelve-inch chef’s knife from the block. His parents gasped, backing away. “Stop, stop! Norma, what is wrong with you? Where is Justin? Shouldn’t he be with you?” But the grief and white-hot rage burning in my chest stripped away any capacity for politeness. I swung the knife, forcing them to retreat into the hallway. The first slash went directly through our giant, glossy engagement portrait hanging in the living room. The canvas ripped with a satisfying, screeching tear. The second strike chopped into the custom-engraved wooden sign bearing our initials and tomorrow’s wedding date. Third strike. Fourth strike. I poured every ounce of my physical strength into destroying the brand-new velvet sofa, the mounted television, the pristine coffee table. I smashed, kicked, and hacked until the living room was a battlefield of stuffing, shattered glass, and splintered wood. His parents were shaking, huddled by the front door. “Norma, what did Justin do to you? Tell us!” His father frantically dialed Justin’s number, but the calls kept going straight to voicemail. His mother wrung her hands, staring at the ruin. “The house… our beautiful house is destroyed! How are you two supposed to get married tomorrow?” “We aren’t,” I said. My voice was a hollow, raspy whisper. I let the knife clatter to the hardwood floor and walked past them, stepping out into the cold night. Just as I crossed the threshold, his father’s phone finally connected. “Dad, why the hell do you keep calling me?!” Justin’s voice blasted through the receiver, frantic and angry. “Bridget is hurt! Norma cracked her head open with a bottle! Nothing is more important than Bridget right now!” “Justin, Norma is here! She’s lost her mind! She destroyed the townhouse!” his father yelled. There was a long, heavy silence on the other end of the line. “Good,” Justin said, his voice dropping into a hard, venomous register. “Tell her to get to the hospital. She owes Bridget a formal apology, and she’s going to give it to her tonight.” 4 I sat on the curb under a flickering streetlamp, lighting a cigarette. It was the first time in my life I had ever smoked. I had Winston for seven years. I got him when he was just a tiny, white puffball that could fit in the palm of my hand. He was incredibly intuitive. Every time I had a bad day, he would sit quietly by my side, tilting his little head, watching me with those big, dark eyes. The moment I would look up at him, he would jump into my lap, frantically licking away my tears. He was my shadow, always waiting by the door, resting his chin on my palm the second I walked through. And six months ago, he was suddenly gone. I had blamed myself. I thought I shouldn’t have gone on that trip. I thought it was a terrible stroke of bad luck. But it wasn’t an accident. It was a cold-blooded sacrifice. All because Bridget wanted to satisfy a sick, twisted craving. By the time I finished my eleventh cigarette, my fingers were numb. I stood up, wiped my face with the back of my hand, and felt my phone vibrate. Justin’s voice was sharp with irritation. “Where are you? Bridget is awake. Do you have any idea how close you came to killing her? It was a joke, Norma. You’re an adult—since when can’t you take a joke? Get over here right now, apologize, and maybe we can salvage this.” I remained silent, listening to the ambient noise of the hospital wing over the line. “Norma?” Justin’s voice grew suspicious. “Are you listening to me?” He let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “You’re really not speaking? Are you seriously throwing a tantrum? Over a dog?” I finally smiled. The sound that came out of my throat was dry and hollow. “Which hospital? I’m coming.” 5 But Justin was cautious now. He hesitated for a long time before asking, “Where are you? Let me come pick you up instead.” He arrived in a taxi twenty minutes later, still reeking of stale champagne and sweat. I stood under the streetlamp, my face a completely blank slate. He climbed out of the cab and studied my expression warily. “Norma… are you really this angry?” I looked up, locking my eyes onto his. “Winston was in my apartment. How did he end up in her kitchen? Did you take him, Justin?” His face went pale. He shifted his weight, refusing to meet my gaze. “It happened six months ago. Why are you still obsessed with this?” He waved his hand dismissively. “If you love dogs that much, I’ll buy you a new one. A white one, a black one, whatever pedigree you want.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a soft, placating tone. “He was just an animal, babe. Is he really worth throwing away our future over? You made a massive scene tonight. Bridget wanted to call the police the second she woke up. I had to agree to some ridiculous terms just to get her to wait for your apology. Come back with me, Norma. Don’t make this uglier than it already is.” I tilted my head. “Ridiculous terms? Like what? Promising to do her laundry for a month? Or giving her strip dances whenever she gets bored?” Justin’s face darkened, his jaw tightening. “Stop… don’t be disgusting. I’m trying to save our wedding. If she files an assault report, how do we get married tomorrow? You created this mess.” He let out a long, heavy sigh. “Whatever. I don’t entirely blame you. The guys drank too much and took the jokes too far. But… Bridget did say that after we’re married, she doesn’t want you coming to our group hangouts anymore.” 6 His phone buzzed. Justin pulled it out, and as he read the screen, the color drained completely from his face. “Norma… did you destroy the townhouse?” I stared at him, my voice flat. “You should be glad I didn’t see you when I had that knife in my hand.” His face went from pale to a mottled, angry red. “What the hell is wrong with you?! Over a fucking dog, you’re ruining our lives?!” “Tell me,” I demanded, stepping closer. “How did Winston end up on her plate?” Justin closed his mouth. For a long time, he couldn’t find his voice. Finally, he muttered, “I thought your first question would be whether I was sleeping with her. I guess I really matter less to you than a dog.” He kicked a plastic orange traffic cone on the curb, looking at me with deep, bitter disappointment. “Since you’ve decided to make a disaster of this, I guess the wedding is postponed.” 7 I went back to my old apartment. Sitting alone on the edge of my bed, I sent a mass text to every single wedding guest, letting them know the ceremony was canceled. When I put the phone down, the silence of the dark room pressed in on me. The guilt and grief were suffocating, wrapping around my throat like a vice. Suddenly, my phone buzzed, the bright screen cutting through the darkness. An instinctual wave of dread washed over me. It was a friend request from an unlisted number. I accepted it, and a message immediately popped up. [Wow, Norma. You really are pathetic.] [Justin has been playing ‘good boy’ for me since before you two even started dating. Technically, I’m your predecessor.] [You’re petty, sensitive, and completely dramatic. You never fit in with our group anyway.] I read the texts, but I didn’t reply. My gut told me there was more. I tapped on her profile, scrolling back through her archives. Sure enough, I found a post from exactly six months ago. The background was unmistakably my kitchen. On my counter sat a simmering Dutch oven. The caption read: [The little Bichon Justin prepared for me. Way sweeter and more tender than some stray mutt~]

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The day before the Paragon Guild audition, I found out the selection was already over. My mind went blank as I picked up the acceptance list my mentor had thrown at my feet. Under the slot for the Principal Romantic Lead, the name “Lucas Ward” stared back at me in bold letters. My phone buzzed, group chat notifications lighting up the screen: [Congrats, Lucas! Getting into the Paragon Theater is huge! You’re buying drinks tonight!] [They only took one lead this year, and you snagged it. Incredible!] [Hey, where’s our resident award-winner? Why is he so quiet all of a sudden?] [Probably too embarrassed to speak after pulling out of the auditions at the last minute.] My forehead creased, and my thumbs hovered over the keyboard to fire back a reply, but a private message from my girlfriend popped up. [I’m the one who submitted your withdrawal form. Don’t make things difficult for them in the group chat.] [Lucas really needed this chance, Alex.] [You’re so talented. You can always audition again next time.] As I stared at her words, the blood in my veins turned to ice. A single, silent tear slipped down my cheek. There wouldn’t be a next time. Before the auditions, my father and I had made a deal: if I didn’t make it, I had to pack my bags and come home to take over the family business. It wasn’t just my theater career that was over. She and I were over, too. 1 “You skipped the first two years of auditions, and this year you just… withdraw?” My mentor, Laurence, stood before me, the wooden stage-baton trembling in his grip. “Your junior, who started training years after you, got in on his very first try last year.” “If you didn’t want this, you should have told me sooner!” He slammed the baton onto the hardwood floor. The sharp crack echoed through the empty rehearsal hall. “Don’t call me your mentor anymore. I don’t have a student this spineless.” Laurence gave me one last look of utter disappointment, threw his coat over his shoulder, and stormed out. The spots on my back where he’d snapped the baton earlier throbbed with a burning heat, but it was nothing compared to the ache in my chest. Limping, I bent down to pick up the discarded baton. Before I could reach it, a pale, soft hand swept it off the floor. Then, she reached out to steady me. I looked up. It was Debby. “Did Laurence hit you?” Her eyes softened with concern, her lips parting as if she wanted to say more, but no sound came out. After a long, heavy silence, she murmured, “I’m sorry, Alex.” My fists clenched tight, then slowly released. The ocean of resentment building up inside me finally distilled into a single, quiet question: “Do you regret it?” Debby paused, looking away. “No.” “Lucas comes from nothing. This was his only chance to change his life.” “He can’t rely on me forever.” “But you… you’re different.” A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my throat as I pulled my hand from her grip. My eyes burned with unshed tears. Two years ago, she told me Lucas wanted to audition for the Paragon Theater. She asked me to give him a head start and skip registering. I was soft-hearted. I faked an illness to Laurence, sitting out the season. Lucas failed the audition anyway. Last year, she took me white-water rafting right before the audition week. We hit a nasty rapid; I was thrown from the raft, fracturing my leg. I spent a month in a hospital bed, watching the audition window close. Lucas failed again. This year, I refused all her invitations, practically living in the studio, perfecting every monologue, every movement. The competition was so fierce that other actors withdrew rather than go up against me. But Debby quietly accessed my phone, deleted my call-time notifications, and submitted a formal withdrawal on my behalf. She even used a burner number to text me a fake audition schedule. There was only one slot for the leading man. And only one candidate left. She had orchestrated this entire tragedy for Lucas, completely disregarding my life, my hard work, and my future. Debby stepped closer, wrapping her arms around me. “Don’t be bitter, babe. You’re so talented. You’ll have plenty of other opportunities.” “Even without the Paragon, you’ll still be the best actor of our generation.” She leaned up, kissing my cheek. “Let’s go home. I’ll make your favorite dinner tonight.” I closed my eyes in absolute despair. She had no idea that the Paragon Theater wasn’t like other ensembles. They had a strict age limit of twenty-five for new recruits. Since graduating college, an actor got exactly three chances. I turned twenty-five this year. There were no more chances. “Just be reasonable,” she whispered. “Stop trying to compete with Lucas.” The dam of suppressed agony broke. I shoved her away. Ignoring her startled gasp, I pulled up my sweatpants. My shins and calves were covered in deep purples, faded yellows, and old scars. “I started training when I was three years old. I haven’t taken a single day off in twenty-two years.” “I gave up spicy food, cold drinks, alcohol—everything—just to protect my voice.” “Everything I did was for the Paragon.” My voice cracked, the veins in my neck bulging. “You destroyed my career to build his!” “Every single sacrifice I made… wasted!” Debby’s expression hardened. She watched my outburst with a chilling, detached calm, looking at me as if I were a stranger throwing a tantrum. After a moment, she spoke. “Are you done?” “Does it absolutely have to be the Paragon? Are other theaters beneath you?” I stared at her, utterly shell-shocked. “What did you just say?” She knew the Paragon was the holy grail for classical actors—the Juilliard of professional ensembles. Thousands of actors across the country fought for barely a dozen spots. In my specific category, it was a one-in-ten-thousand shot. She had sabotaged me so Lucas could steal it. And now she was telling me to just go somewhere else. “Don’t you just want a big stage?” she asked, her tone dry. “I can fund a theater for you. The biggest one in the city. I’ll hire a professional production crew and a cast to back you up. You can perform whatever you want, for as long as you want.” A profound sense of exhaustion washed over me. “Not everything can be bought with your money, Debby,” I whispered. “I love the art of theater. I don’t want a vanity project—” A sharp ringtone cut me off. I didn’t need to look at the screen to know who it was. “Lucas.” As she answered, her voice softened instantly. “Yeah. I’m on my way.” Before leaving, Debby cast a heavy, lingering look at me. “The results are locked in, Alex. Throwing a fit won’t change them.” “Take this year to prepare, and just audition again next year.” The door clicked shut. I was left alone in the vast, quiet studio. The crushing weight of reality finally broke me, and I collapsed onto the floor, sobbing into my hands. My phone vibrated. A message from my father appeared: [Alex, I’m sending a car to pick you up the day after tomorrow.] With trembling fingers, I typed out a single word: “Okay.” Right as I hit send, a text from Lucas flashed across the screen: [Hey Alex, I tagged you in the group chat but you didn’t reply.] [You have to come to my celebration dinner tonight! I couldn’t have gotten into the Paragon without your help!] 2 Lucas’s celebratory dinner was held at the most exclusive penthouse restaurant downtown. I didn’t need to guess who was paying. It was Debby’s doing. Lucas was a kid Debby had practically rescued from the streets years ago. Back then, his parents had passed away, and his relatives had kicked him out. Homeless and desperate, he was sleeping under a bridge. Debby’s own younger brother had died of an illness when he was ten. For years, she had been trapped in that grief. Until she met Lucas, who shared her brother’s expressive eyes and gentle demeanor. She transferred all the love and indulgence she had harbored for her late brother onto Lucas. He had no place to live, so she bought him a condo in the city. He wanted to study acting and go to the same university as me, so Debby didn’t even blink before donating ten million dollars to the school’s theater department to secure his admission. “Mr. Ross, right this way, please.” The hostess’s polite voice pulled me from my thoughts. I followed her to the private dining room. Even through the heavy mahogany door, the loud, grating laughter inside was unmistakable. “Honestly, I thought Alex Ross was some kind of prodigy. Turns out he didn’t even have the guts to show up for the audition.” “Running away at the last second… If I were him, I’d be too embarrassed to show my face in the industry again. Total joke.” “Right? I remember people switching specialties just to avoid competing with him. What a waste.” The laughter grew louder. My fingers tightened on the door handle. “Do you think his awards were bought? His mentor is pretty influential, after all.” When I pushed the door open, the room fell dead silent. Lucas’s friends froze, their smiles hardening into awkward grimaces. I looked at Debby, who was sitting next to Lucas. She didn’t look back; she simply raised her wine glass and drank it in one slow, deliberate motion. As if I were a stranger. “Alex! Come sit!” Lucas pulled out a chair next to him, acting as if we were best friends. From the moment I walked in to the moment I sat down, Debby didn’t spare me a single glance. “Alex, since I’m starting at the Paragon next week, could you help me run through the classical repertoire over the next couple of days? I really want to make a good impression on the directors.” Lucas slung his arm over my shoulder. Getting accepted into the Paragon Theater didn’t guarantee a permanent contract. To prevent nepotism and bribery, the company held a final board review. They would invite the new recruits under the guise of an “informal meet-and-greet,” only to ask them to perform their audition pieces on the spot. If their technique didn’t hold up under scrutiny, the acceptance was revoked. Clearly, neither Lucas nor Debby knew about this. I gently pushed his arm off my shoulder. “I don’t have time.” I was leaving the day after tomorrow. In college, I was the one who spent nights drilling him so he wouldn’t fail his classes. But this was different. The Paragon’s board review was notoriously ruthless. For those who earned their spot, it was a mere formality. But for someone like Lucas, who got in through backroom deals, it would be his undoing. He had no real passion for classical theater, no natural instinct, and zero work ethic. Even if I poured my soul into training him, I couldn’t turn him into a lead classical actor in forty-eight hours. A heavy wine glass was slammed onto the table. The sudden noise startled everyone. The room fell into a tense, suffocating silence. “Alex, when did you become so cold-hearted?” Debby’s voice cut through the quiet. “Lucas is begging for your help, and you won’t even give him the time of day.” “It’s not like you have an ensemble to prepare for anyway. You have nothing but time.” My nails dug deep into my palms. “I said, I don’t have time.” Debby let out a cold, mocking laugh. “You always have time to tutor your junior students.” “You’re just jealous because Lucas is going to the Paragon and you aren’t.” Looking at her, I felt a strange sense of detachment. The lips that had once whispered sweet promises were now spitting words meant to pierce my heart. The woman who used to have infinite patience for me was now looking at me with pure disdain. It felt like I was seeing her clearly for the first time. Or maybe, I never knew her at all. A dull, throbbing ache bloomed in my chest. Lucas tugged on Debby’s sleeve. “Debby, please don’t argue with Alex because of me.” Debby’s brow furrowed, her eyes scanning me with cold annoyance. “Are you going to help him or not?” I straightened my posture, meeting her gaze head-on. “No.” “I won’t.” Lucas’s eyes welled with tears as he stood up. “Are you looking down on me, Alex? Just because I didn’t grow up with a silver spoon, you think I’m beneath you, don’t you?” Debby’s glare turned hostile. Lucas wiped a tear from his face and ran out of the room. “Lucas!” Debby called out, immediately chasing after him. “I don’t know why he thinks he’s so special.” “Seriously, acting like he’s too good for us.” “Pathetic pride.” Once again, everyone left, leaving me alone in the freezing room. Maybe the air conditioning was set too low, but I couldn’t stop shivering. I dragged myself back to our apartment and began packing. Just as I snapped my suitcase shut, Debby walked in. She was carrying a takeout bag of my favorite food. “You didn’t eat anything tonight—” 3 Her eyes locked onto the suitcase on the floor. The takeout bag was thrown into the trash can. Debby marched over, unzipped the suitcase, and began throwing my clothes onto the bed in a frantic, angry heap. “Alex, what is wrong with you?” “Throwing a tantrum and moving out over something this petty?” I stood there, watching her quietly. She took a sharp breath, trying to rein in her temper. “I’ve clearly spoiled you too much.” I didn’t answer. I just bent down to gather the clothes she had scattered. She grabbed my arm, stopping me. “Do you really have to do this to spite me?” “What’s the big deal about letting him have this one spot? You can easily get in next time.” I gently but firmly pried her fingers off my arm. “Didn’t you used to hate cheaters, Debby?” Debby froze. Back when we first started out, she used to follow me to every performance. She would guard my dressing room, watch over my costumes, and handle my props with meticulous care. She knew how ugly the industry could be. She was always terrified someone would ruin my wardrobe or pull strings to steal a role that belonged to me. She used to protect my career because she loved me. But now… Debby looked away. “Lucas’s situation is different.” “And besides, your talent is undeniable. You’ll get in eventually.” The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Debby pressed her lips together, her expression shifting to something complicated. “Go to sleep.” The moment she turned her back, a hot, silent tear fell onto the palm of my hand. The next morning, I bought some premium tea and pastries and went to Laurence’s office to apologize. Usually, he arrived early, but today his desk was empty. After waiting for half an hour, I realized he wasn’t coming. He hadn’t forgiven me. He didn’t want to see my face. A wave of profound grief washed over me. I left the tea and pastries on his desk and walked over to the rehearsal wing. I unlocked my personal locker. And my heart stopped. The locker was completely empty. My performance costumes were gone. If it were any ordinary wardrobe, I could have them remade. But one of those costumes was a historic piece gifted to me by Laurence. It was a genuine vintage piece, hand-embroidered with real gold thread, passed down through generations of classical actors. It was irreplaceable. My face went pale as I tore the rehearsal space apart, checking every single closet, but there was no sign of it. Then, a memory flashed in my mind—something Lucas had said to Debby when they thought I wasn’t listening: “Alex’s costumes are so beautiful and expensive. I wish I could wear something like that on the Paragon stage.” Rage surged from the soles of my feet to the top of my head, making my entire body shake. When I arrived at the studio, Lucas had already put on the vintage costume Laurence had given me. Nearby, on the dirty floor, the rest of my carefully maintained wardrobe was piled up like rags. Lucas paled, startled by my sudden entrance. “Alex…” I marched toward him, but before I could reach him, Debby grabbed my wrist, pinning me in place. She shielded Lucas behind her. “Take my costume off. Now.” Debby’s brow furrowed, her voice dripping with annoyance. “You don’t even have a performance coming up. What’s the harm in letting Lucas borrow it?” I struggled against her grip, but her hold was ironclad. Rage boiled over, and I screamed, “He doesn’t deserve to touch it!” “Slap.” The stinging heat on my cheek made my mind go blank. Debby stared at her own palm, a sudden wave of panic and guilt crossing her face. “Debby, please don’t fight. I’m scared,” Lucas whimpered, shrinking behind her. The guilt in Debby’s eyes vanished, replaced instantly by cold hostility. “I’ll write you a check for a million dollars. Consider the costume bought.” Her sheer arrogance made me feel like I was looking at a complete stranger. “It’s not for sale.” I lunged forward, grabbing Lucas’s sleeve. “Take it off!” Debby grabbed Lucas’s shoulder, pulling him back into her chest. “Is this old rag really worth this much drama?” “Five million.” “I said, it’s not for sale!” We were both pulling, and Lucas was caught in the middle. “Debby, he’s hurting me! He’s pulling too hard!” Lucas cried. Debby’s gaze turned murderous as she stared at my hand on his sleeve. “Let him go, Alex.” “Give me back my costume first!” Debby gritted her teeth, using all her strength to yank Lucas toward her. Seeing the antique fabric stretch precariously, panic seized me. “Stop pulling! The fabric is going to tear!” “Let go then!” I couldn’t risk ruining the heirloom. I tried to release my grip. “Riiiiip.” The exquisite outer layer of the costume tore completely in half. 4 Debby stared in shock at the shredded antique costume in her hands, then slowly looked up at me. “Debby, I don’t want it anymore,” Lucas said, his eyes red as he tugged at her coat. “I can wear a cheap costume. Please don’t fight with him because of me.” The anger that had briefly subsided in Debby flared right back up. Her face turned pale with rage, and she ground her teeth. “Fine. I won’t argue with him.” She threw her coat over Lucas’s shoulders. “Go. Change out of it.” When Lucas finished changing, Debby took the ruined, torn costume and threw it directly at my face. “Fine, Alex. Keep your useless rags.” “Come on, Lucas. I’ll take you to get some custom-made pieces.” She took Lucas’s hand and walked out. Before they turned the corner, Lucas glanced back over his shoulder, flashing me a triumphant, mocking smirk. I sat on the floor, staring blankly at the torn fabric in my lap. My phone rang, breaking the silence. It was my fellow student, Felix. “Alex, it’s about Laurence…” My chest tightened. “What happened to him?” “Laurence went to see his old rival—the artistic director of the Paragon Theater. He’s begging him to give you a special audition slot.” I couldn’t speak through the sudden lump in my throat. My mentor, a man too proud to ever bow his head to anyone, was swallowing his pride to beg his lifelong rival for my sake. Tears poured down my face. I don’t remember how I got back to the apartment. I sat on the sofa, clutching the ruined costume to my chest. “We’re done.” I tried to send the text, but it failed. A red exclamation mark popped up. Debby had blocked my number. A hollow laugh escaped me. Seven years of devotion, ended like a childish game of house. When the game was over, everyone just walked away. At dawn, the family chauffeur arrived. “Young Master, the car is ready.”

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On Thanksgiving Day, my fiancé vanished from our engagement dinner, leaving me alone to pick up the pieces. I’d spent the entire day running around, and the moment I finally sat down to catch my breath, I saw Victoria’s post on Instagram. “Eight years in the making. Today, we made it official.” The groom was Zack. The man I had loved for twelve years. My hands shook as I opened the comments, ready to demand an explanation, only to see my brother Larry’s comment at the top: “She’s all yours now, Zack. You’re family. If you ever hurt my little sister, I’ll break your legs.” My breath caught in my throat. Shaking, I called Larry. But his voice on the line was completely casual, almost bored. “Zack and Victoria have been together for eight years, Hannah. Mom and Dad knew about it too.” “We weren’t trying to hurt you. We just know how volatile you can get. We didn’t want you causing a scene and ruining it for Victoria.” “Let me make this clear: Victoria is my sister. I won’t let anyone ruin her happiness. Not even you. Especially not you.” A violent spasm hit my stomach. I leaned against the kitchen counter, dry-heaving, but nothing came out. Eight years ago, Zack held my hand on a train to New York, promising to help me find the biological parents who had lost me. But he had already fallen for Victoria that very same year. My parents knew. My brother knew. And they had all lied to my face. … My parents’ Instagram feeds had been updated, too. A family photo at a Michelin-starred restaurant in Manhattan. They looked radiant, warm, and so utterly complete that they didn’t even need a caption. I stared at the picture, a sharp ache catching in my throat like a bone. Today was supposed to be my engagement dinner. I had begged my parents and Larry to be there, to witness the only milestone that felt like it belonged to me. But they had all excused themselves. “Hannah, sweetie, the firm is just swamped right now. We really can’t make it.” “It’s just an engagement dinner, not the wedding itself. You’re so independent and capable, we know you can handle it.” Now I knew the truth. They weren’t busy with the firm. They were too busy celebrating Victoria and Zack’s marriage license to bother with my sham of an engagement. They knew my long-awaited night would end in humiliation, and not one of them had the decency to warn me. They had left me in the dark. For eight years. The restaurant’s location tag was active on my mom’s post. I ordered an Uber and drove straight there. By the time I arrived, the dinner was winding down. When I walked into the private dining room, the laughter died instantly. Larry was the first to move, stepping protectively in front of Victoria and grabbing my arm to pull me out. “We’ll talk tomorrow, Hannah. Today is Victoria’s night. Don’t ruin this for her.” I gripped the doorframe, refusing to budge. But Larry’s grip was like iron. He shoved me back, hard. I flew backward, my back slamming violently against the hallway wall. For a second, the world went black. I collapsed to the hardwood floor, a searing pain radiating through my spine, leaving me unable to stand. A flicker of panic finally crossed my parents’ and Zack’s faces. “Hannah, are you okay?” I fought through the pain, pushing away their hands. Their touch felt toxic. I looked up and choked out a bitter laugh. “Mom, Dad… are you going to explain this? Why is my fiancé married to Victoria?” My parents exchanged uncomfortable glances, silent. Zack knelt beside me, his hands reaching out to lift me onto his back. “Don’t worry about that right now, Hannah. Let me get you to a hospital. Your health comes first. I’ll explain everything later, I promise…” But then Victoria let out a soft, trembling sob. Zack froze. He immediately let go of me, turning to wrap Victoria in his arms. “Tori, hey, it’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here with you.” My mother sighed, her worry for me instantly evaporating into irritation. “Hannah, do you always have to make everything about yourself?” “Victoria was our only daughter. Your sudden return already took away half of her life, half of our affection. Now that she’s finally found the love of her life, do you have to try and steal that from her too?” I bit my lip so hard the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. Zack and I had been together since high school. Twelve years. How long had Victoria even known him? She was the one who had stolen my life, my parents, and now my partner. How was I the thief in their eyes? The sheer injustice of it burned in my chest. Tears blurred my vision as I screamed at them. “I was with Zack first! Who stole from whom?!” “Mom, Dad, even if Victoria is the daughter of the woman who kidnapped me, how can you let her be a home-wrecker? How can you support this?!” “Shut up!” A sharp crack echoed through the hallway. Larry’s hand connected violently with my cheek. My face burned, but he wasn’t done. He glared down at me, disgusted. “Victoria and Zack have a legal marriage certificate. They are husband and wife. Who the hell are you to call her a home-wrecker? You’re the one acting like an obsessed mistress.” My parents didn’t reprimand Larry for hitting me. Instead, my father chimed in, his voice cold. “Victoria is the daughter we raised for twenty-four years. How dare you call her a fake? On paper, she is our only legal daughter, just as she is Zack’s only legal wife. When are you ever going to grow up, Hannah?” I opened my mouth to fight, but the words died in my throat. I had no strength left. My parents had always claimed that updating the family trust and legal documents was “too complicated” and “unnecessary paperwork.” My name was never legally added to the Whitmore family registry. Legally, only Larry and Victoria were the Whitmore children. Victoria was the real daughter. Victoria was the real wife. What did I have to fight with? I closed my eyes, dragging my bruised, aching body toward the exit. Outside, the rain was coming down in sheets. It was just like the night Zack and I had first arrived in New York eight years ago. Back then, I had just discovered that the woman who raised me wasn’t my biological mother. Loretta had stolen me from a hospital cradle so her own daughter, Victoria, could live a life of luxury. No wonder she made me work the fields, denied me an education, and beat me for the slightest mistake. She had even sabotaged my college applications, forcing me to attend a tuition-free community college in the middle of nowhere despite my high test scores. It was Zack who spent every penny of his savings to buy two train tickets so we could escape. He held me through the long, freezing ride to New York. He stood by me through the DNA tests, the police reports, and the endless cold shoulders from my biological family. When my parents finally took me in, there was no joy in their eyes. Only awkwardness. “Well, at least Victoria has an older sister to look after her now,” my mother had said. They knew Loretta had stolen me. But they still loved the thief’s daughter more than the biological child who had suffered in her place. I remember crying in Zack’s arms back then, asking him if I was just too broken for my family to love. Zack had held me so tight I could barely breathe. “In my eyes, Hannah, you are perfect,” he had whispered, kissing my forehead. “Even if the whole world turns its back on you, I will always choose you. Let’s just endure this for a bit. Once I make enough money, I’ll build us our own home. We’ll leave them behind, and they’ll regret the day they cast you aside.” How could I have known? The man who swore eternal loyalty to me had fallen for someone else in less than a year. He was no different from everyone else in my life. For Victoria, he betrayed me. The rain grew heavier. I was bruised, soaked, and unable to hail a cab. With no other choice, I pulled my purse over my head and tried to run. The sidewalk was slick. My foot slipped, and I fell hard into a muddy puddle. I tried to push myself up, but a sharp, agonizing twist in my ankle pinned me to the wet concrete. As the despair began to drown me, a black umbrella appeared overhead, blocking out the cold downpour. I knew that umbrella. It was the one I had bought for Zack years ago. He knelt in the rain, holding the umbrella over me with one hand while his other gently cupped my injured ankle. He looked into my eyes, his face incredibly earnest. “Hannah… do you still love me?” “What?” Before I could process his words, a sharp crack echoed, and the blinding pain in my ankle subsided. He had reset the joint. He helped me stand up, letting out a soft sigh. “I saw it was pouring. I couldn’t stop worrying about you, so I told them I drank too much and needed some air. Come on, let me take you to the hospital.” I hadn’t cried when Larry hit me. I hadn’t cried when my parents called me selfish. But looking at Zack—at the familiar tenderness he had shown me for over a decade—the dam finally broke. “My parents forced you into this, didn’t they?” I demanded, my voice cracking. “They used their influence to force you to marry Victoria. Just tell me the truth, Zack. Please.” I desperately needed him to nod. I needed to believe that at least one person in this world hadn’t willingly abandoned me. But Zack avoided my gaze. After a long, agonizing silence, he finally spoke, his voice heavy with guilt. “Hannah… I wanted to marry Victoria. It was my choice.” “When I first met her, I hated her too. I thought she took everything from you. But the more time we spent together… she’s so gentle, Hannah. She’s innocent in all of this.” “You’re like a wildflower—resilient, making people want to protect you. But Victoria… she’s a rose. She’s vibrant, dazzling. No one can resist her light.” “I’m just a man. When you meet someone like that, it’s hard not to fall. We fell in love, Hannah. We couldn’t help ourselves…” A wave of intense nausea hit me. I slapped his hand away, knocking the umbrella into the street. I collapsed by the curb, dry-heaving violently into the gutter. Innocent? Victoria was innocent? She knew Zack was my childhood sweetheart. She knew we were planning a life together. Yet she spent eight years sleeping with him behind my back. She took my parents, my childhood, and now the only person who had ever made me feel safe. And they all called her innocent. “Hannah!” Zack, relentless as a shadow, picked up the umbrella and held it over me again. He tilted it so that I was completely dry, while the rain soaked his back. He reached out, his fingers trembling as he touched my wet cheek, his eyes glistening with tears. “Hannah, stop hurting yourself.” “Just because I married Victoria doesn’t mean I’m abandoning you. My promises to you still stand. I will still love you, care for you, and protect you just like before.” “Whatever Victoria has, you can have too. I can buy you a townhouse. We can have a life together, even a child…” I stared at him, utterly disgusted. He was far more monstrous than I could have ever imagined. Marrying Victoria wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to keep me on the side, tucked away like a dirty secret. The biological daughter who lived like a ghost. The childhood sweetheart turned into a hidden mistress. It was almost comical. “Go to hell, Zack.” I slapped him across the face with everything I had left, then turned and ran blindly into the storm. I ran until my lungs burned, completely soaked to the bone. With no home to return to, I spent the night in my office at Whitmore Enterprises. My parents had never wanted me in the family business. It was only after endless begging that they granted me an entry-level internship. They claimed they didn’t want the company to look like it ran on nepotism. So, despite the million-dollar contracts I brought in year after year, I remained a low-level team leader. Meanwhile, Victoria, who barely showed up once a month, had been appointed Vice President before her twenty-fifth birthday. I had grown numb to the unfairness, but the sting never truly went away. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Walter, the senior Vice President on the board. “The board meeting tomorrow is set to vote on the next successor of the Whitmore Group. We had a private discussion, and the board is unanimously voting for you, Hannah. Good luck.” I clutched the phone to my chest, a rare spark of warmth blooming in my cold ribs. Maybe the whole world hadn’t abandoned me. At least someone saw my hard work. I clenched my fists, a quiet resolve settling over me. I could live without love. I could live without family. But I would not let them take the company I had built with my own sweat and blood. The next morning, the boardroom doors swung open. When Larry saw me sit down, he let out a loud, mocking scoff. “Victoria is the obvious choice for successor. Why are some people still trying to play hero?” Zack sat across from me, casting a worried look in my direction. He leaned in and whispered, “Hannah, just walk away. Victoria is the rightful heir. You don’t have the backing or the bloodline connection she has. Why humiliate yourself?” I bit my lip, staying silent. I was the only biological Whitmore in this room. Why shouldn’t I fight? The secretary began handing out the physical ballots for the board to cast their votes. Just then, the heavy oak doors of the boardroom were thrown open, and a disheveled, crazed-looking woman burst inside. My blood ran cold. It was her. Loretta. My foster mother—Victoria’s biological mother. She was supposed to be serving a twelve-year sentence. How was she here? Loretta shoved past the secretary, grabbed the presentation laptop, and slammed a USB drive into the port. The projector screen flickered to life. And suddenly, my darkest nightmares were laid bare for the entire board to see. The video started playing, and the suffocating panic of my teenage years rushed back, choking me. To get money from her abusive husband, Loretta had repeatedly forced me into horrific situations. They had filmed everything to keep me quiet, threatening to ruin my life if I ever spoke up. I had wanted to die back then, unable to comprehend how a mother could do something so monstrous to her own daughter. Only later did I realize I wasn’t her daughter at all. On screen, the terrible footage played. In the room, Loretta pointed at the screen, her lips curling into a wicked, triumphant grin. “Look at her! You all think Hannah is the long-lost Whitmore heir? She’s my daughter! She’s a parasite who lied her way into this family!” “She slept with her own stepfather just for pocket money! Are you really going to hand a multi-million-dollar company over to a cheap, worthless girl like this?” I felt myself slipping into madness. “You’re lying!” I screamed, my voice cracking with desperation. “Victoria is your daughter! You’re the one who switched us at birth!” I looked at my parents, begging them with my eyes to stand up for me, to tell them the truth. But looking at the screen, my parents’ faces twisted in disgust. To them, my trauma was nothing but a stain on their pristine reputation. They immediately turned their backs on me. “Hannah, how can you accuse your sister like that?” my mother said, her voice dripping with artificial pity. “Victoria is our only daughter. We only took you in out of charity.” Larry sneered. “We don’t have room for trash like you in the Whitmore family, Hannah.” The board members began whispering, their gazes turning from admiration to cold disdain. “She’s not even a Whitmore…” “With a mother like that, and a past so vile… we can’t have her representing the brand. Get her out of here.” The uncles and mentors who had promised to vote for me began crossing out my name, writing Victoria’s instead. When the votes were tallied, it was priorly decided. Victoria was named the sole successor of the Whitmore Group. She had won. She had taken every last thing that belonged to me. I sank back into my chair, hollowed out. Victoria stood up, offering me a sweet, elegant smile. “Hannah, our parents were kind enough to harbor you, but you can’t deny your own flesh and blood forever.” “Loretta missed you. She wants to take you home.” “You should go with her. Wearing clothes that don’t belong to you is getting a bit pathetic, don’t you think?” I looked up and met Loretta’s terrifying, hollow eyes. Victoria had taken my family, my love, my future. And now, she was throwing me back into the hands of my abuser. A primal rage broke through the numbness. With a guttural scream, I lunged across the table and wrapped my hands tightly around Victoria’s throat. The room erupted into chaos. My parents, Larry, Zack, and Loretta—they all moved at once, striking me down. Zack grabbed my wrists, twisting them until my bones popped out of their sockets. My mother’s palm cracked against my face. Larry’s boot slammed violently into my stomach. And then, a cold blade slid deep into my chest. Loretta stood over me, a bloody paring knife in her hand. The warmth of my own blood began to pool on the cold tile floor. “Hannah!”

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My mother called me with a single sentence. “Keep an eye on Charlotte, honey. She’s the kind of woman who builds her own house with bricks stolen from her family.” I hung up, and that very night, I listed my three properties in the Oakridge school district with my broker. Three days. All sold, cash cleared. At the family dinner, Charlotte sidled up to me, swirling her glass of wine. “So, I heard you have three townhouses in Oakridge? My little boy starts school next year, and I was thinking…” I blew gently on my tea, my eyes lifting to meet hers. “Oh, I sold them. Three days ago.” The smile on her face froze instantly. When my mother called, I was at the kitchen sink, scraping grease off dinner plates, the lemon-scented dish soap foaming over my knuckles. “Keep an eye on Charlotte,” she had said, her voice dry and steady over the static. “She’s the kind of woman who builds her own house with bricks stolen from her family.” Then she hung up. My mother never wasted breath. She didn’t offer long explanations or soft preambles. If she bothered to call, the threat wasn’t looming—it was already standing on the porch. I dried my hands on the dishtowel, standing in the silence of the kitchen for exactly three minutes. Then I unlocked my phone and dialed the broker. … “Hey, Robert, it’s me. Put those three Oakridge townhouses on the market. List them five percent below market value. I want them gone fast.” There was a brief pause on the other end. “All three? But those are gold mines, especially with the school district lines shifting. The market right now is—” “I know the market, Robert. I need speed.” After I hung up, I leaned against the refrigerator, letting the cold metal press into my back while I cataloged the last four years. Charlotte had married a man who worked the line at an assembly plant in the next county over. They lived a tight, gray life, always on the edge of a deficit. But she never visited her mother empty-handed—meaning she never arrived empty-handed, and she never left empty-handed. During my first year of marriage, she borrowed ten thousand dollars from my mother-in-law, Diana, claiming it was for her son’s medical bills. Diana emptied her savings account, leaving barely enough for groceries. To this day, not a single dollar of that loan had been repaid. The second year, Charlotte claimed her husband’s hours had been cut and they couldn’t afford heating. Diana handed over her retirement debit card to “tide them over.” When Charlotte finally returned it six months later, five thousand dollars had vanished from the account. By the third year, she had set her sights on Diana’s craftsman house downtown. She spent the entire summer dropping heavy hints. When Diana didn’t budge, Charlotte sat at the Sunday dinner table and wept. She lamented her hard life, her useless husband, and claimed that if her own blood wouldn’t throw her a lifeline, she didn’t know why she bothered living at all. My husband, Luke, sat beside her during that dinner, staring down at his plate, pushing peas around with his fork. He didn’t say a word. In this family, Luke’s silence was always a quiet surrender. I was a newlywed back then, naive to the silent transactions of the household. But my mother had seen through it immediately. “That sister-in-law of yours,” she had warned me over a glass of wine, “has eyes that live in other people’s pockets.” I hadn’t taken it seriously then. I did now. At last month’s family dinner, Charlotte had squeezed my hand, smiling like we were sisters. “So, I heard you have three rentals in Oakridge?” The hairs on my neck had stood up. I had only mentioned buying those properties to Luke. How did she find out? The math was simple: Luke told Diana, Diana told Charlotte. Once the pipeline was clear, her play was obvious. My mother’s phone call was the final piece of the puzzle. By Tuesday morning, Robert was bringing buyers. First townhouse: a cash buyer, signed by Tuesday afternoon. Second townhouse: full price, fast close on Wednesday. Third townhouse: closed Thursday morning. Three properties. Three days. The wire transfers hit my account like clockwork. When Luke came home from work and saw the three signed deeds on the dining table, his face went gray. “Are you insane? You sold all three?” I set my mug down. “When you told your mother about my assets, did you think to consult me first?” His mouth opened, then clicked shut. “You didn’t ask,” I said. “So neither did I.” He stood in the center of the living room, his car keys slipping from his fingers and clattering onto the hardwood. He didn’t even bend down to pick them up. I ignored him, locked the contracts in my desk drawer, and turned away. The net payout was 1.5 million dollars. I split the funds into three separate bank accounts, all under my maiden name. One card went into the safe at home, one stayed locked in my office drawer, and the third went to my mother’s safe deposit box. Luke spent the next few days in a sullen, heavy silence. But he didn’t bring it up again. Sullenness I could handle. Sullenness didn’t cost me 1.5 million dollars. On Friday evening, Diana called. “Dinner this Sunday. Your sister Charlotte is coming down. It’s been too long since the family sat together.” “Sure,” I said. When I hung up, Luke stepped out of the bedroom. “Don’t mention the houses at my mom’s.” I poured myself a glass of water. “I won’t have to. Charlotte will.” “If she asks, just say you’re still holding onto them.” I looked at him, feeling the cold weight of his cowardice. “You want me to lie?” “Not lie. Just… don’t make a scene.” “I didn’t start the fire, Luke. I just cleared out the dry wood.” He slammed the bedroom door behind him. Sunday came. Charlotte was already in Diana’s kitchen, wearing an apron, stirring a pot, laughing with her mother. When she saw me, she wiped her hands on her apron and rushed over. “Oh, you’re here! Sit, sit. I made that garlic-herb roasted chicken you love.” I smiled politely. We had been married four years, and last Thanksgiving she called me by Luke’s ex-girlfriend’s name. Now she suddenly knew my favorite dish? The table was packed. Diana sat at the head, Charlotte to her right, Luke and I opposite them. Charlotte’s husband was “working overtime,” and her son was “studying.” She had come alone, unburdened, ready for business. Midway through the meal, Charlotte set her fork down and raised her wine glass. “I want to propose a toast to my wonderful sister-in-law.” I raised my water glass. “I don’t drink, Charlotte. But thank you.” She took a sip, set the glass down, and leaned in. “Actually, I wanted to ask you for a small favor.” Here it was. I took a bite of my salad and didn’t look up. “Go ahead.” “My boy starts middle school next year. You know how terrible our local district is. I was thinking…” She paused, looking at Diana. Diana nodded encouragingly, picking up the cue. “Your sister’s had a rough patch. Education is everything for a young boy. Since you have those empty rentals in Oakridge, we figured you could register his name at one of the addresses. It won’t cost you a thing.” “Register.” What a polite word for fraud. I dabbed my mouth with a napkin and set it down. “Oh, I sold them. Three days ago.” The dining room fell into a suffocating silence. Charlotte’s glass hovered in midair. Diana’s fork stopped inches from her plate. Luke stared straight down at his mashed potatoes, chewing slowly. The sweet, sisterly smile on Charlotte’s face drained away, pixel by pixel. “Sold them? All three?” “Yes.” “When? Why didn’t you say anything to the family?” “They were in my name. What I do with my assets is my business.” Charlotte snapped her head toward Luke. “Luke, did you know about this?” Luke didn’t raise his head. “Yes.” Charlotte turned to Diana. Diana slammed her hand on the table. “You sell property without so much as a word to us? Is this how you treat your family? Do you have no respect for the people in this house?” I took a slow sip of water. “Diana, those townhouses were bought before I married Luke, using my own inheritance. My name is the only one on the deeds. I don’t need anyone’s permission to manage my own life.” Diana’s face flushed a deep, angry crimson. Charlotte began to dab at her dry eyes with a tissue. “I wasn’t trying to take them from you,” Charlotte sobbed. “I just wanted my son to have a chance at a good future. I can’t believe you’d…” I stood up, pulling my coat over my arm. “Thank you for the chicken, Charlotte. It was lovely.” I walked out. Luke called my name from the dining room, but I didn’t stop. I took an Uber home. The silence in the back seat was the cleanest thing I’d felt in months. I called my mother as soon as I walked through my front door. “Mom, how did you know she was going after the Oakridge properties?” My mother let out a dry chuckle. “Diana called me last week. Started babbling about how ‘we’re all one big family’ and asked if we could ‘help out’ with the boy’s schooling. Diana doesn’t have the brains to coordinate a scheme like that. Someone was whispering in her ear.” She sighed. “Diana isn’t malicious, she’s just weak. Charlotte cries a little, and Diana hands over whatever she has. But she can’t hand over what isn’t hers.” “I sold them all, Mom.” “Good. Money in your own bank account is the only thing that doesn’t lie to you.” “Luke is giving me the silent treatment.” “Let him pout. You don’t live your life to keep him warm. If he has a brain, he’ll figure it out. If he doesn’t…” My mother paused. “Well, then you’ll know where you stand.” I hung up and left the phone on the coffee table. Luke came home at ten. He didn’t say a word. He took a shower, went straight to the bedroom, and turned his back to me. I watched TV until eleven, then came in and climbed into bed, turning off the lamp. In the dark, his voice was sharp. “You humiliated my mother today.” “Where was this protective energy when your mother and sister tried to corner me for my property?” He rolled over to face me. “That’s my mother.” “And I’m your wife. Your family plotted to take my property, you sat there like a statue, and now you want to lecture me about respect?” A long, heavy silence. “Charlotte isn’t like that. You don’t understand her.” “Don’t I? Let’s do some math, Luke. In the four years we’ve been married, how much has she taken from your mother? The ten-thousand-dollar loan? The five thousand from the retirement card? The holiday ‘handouts’? Have you ever seen a single dollar returned?” He didn’t answer. “You can’t even count it, can you? It’s easily forty thousand dollars. Divide that by your monthly salary, Luke. Tell me how many months you have to work just to fund her lifestyle.” He sat up, his shadow dark against the headboard. “Do you have to reduce everything in this family to a transaction?” “It stopped being a family the moment your sister started treating my bank account like her personal ATM.” He stared at me, then lay back down, pulling the covers up. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.” “You mean you can’t talk to me when you have no defense.” Neither of us spoke for the rest of the night. Monday afternoon, my phone buzzed with a voice note from Diana. “Luke’s wife, your sister came home crying her eyes out. She asked for a simple favor and you treated her like a criminal in front of everyone. You’re young, so I’ll overlook your lack of manners, but you owe Charlotte an apology. She is your elder, and you will respect her.” I listened to it, put the phone down, and went back to my spreadsheets. At two, Charlotte’s text arrived. “Hey, I don’t hold Sunday against you. Maybe I didn’t explain myself well and caused a misunderstanding. I honestly just want the best for my son. If it’s too much of a burden, I understand. But your attitude really hurt me. We’re family, we should be able to talk about these things, right?” I took a screenshot, saved it to a hidden folder, and replied with four words: “You’re absolutely right.” No apology. No explanation. She didn’t reply. I flipped my phone face down. But I knew Charlotte. Women like her don’t take a loss and walk away. They retreat, regroup, and look for a bigger hammer. On my drive home, my phone rang. It was Uncle Henry. “Hey, kiddo. I heard about what happened with Charlotte. Look, we’re family. Don’t let things get too bitter. Charlotte’s just a mother trying to do right by her kid. You understand that, don’t you?” I gripped the steering wheel, waiting for the light to turn green. “I hear you, Uncle Henry. I’ve got it handled.” “Good, good. She’s got a big mouth, but her heart’s in the right place.” I hung up and took a deep breath. The machinery was moving. Diana, Henry… who was next? Aunt Bridget? The whole family group chat? It was her classic play: play the victim, cry to the elders, and let the family guilt-trip you into submission until you hand over whatever she wanted just to make the noise stop. But this time, she wasn’t asking for a quick loan. She wanted a house. Actually, she wanted something much bigger. I parked the car in our driveway, sat in the quiet of the cabin for a long time, and then texted my mother. “Mom, I need you to find out something for me.”

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“Liam, honey, you need to clear your calendar for this weekend. You’re taking me to that new French place downtown.” I stepped into my husband’s office, expecting the usual quiet sanctuary of his workspace. Liam had always been the picture of the ultimate devoted husband—never a stray glance, always entirely focused on our life together. But today, he was holding the hand of the new intern. My blood ran hot. I marched toward them, my hand already raising to slap her smug face, when a strange, echoing voice vibrated directly in my mind: “Go on, slap me! Hit me hard! The live feed said that as long as this toxic villainess slaps me, the male lead will hate her even more!” “This brainless rich girl is such a cliché. A tiny little trick and she already suspects him.” “Keep throwing your tantrums, honey. I’m the main character here. Your ending is a psych ward; mine is a walk down the aisle.” My hand froze in midair. I stared into the intern’s wide, intensely hopeful eyes. Slowing my momentum, I let my hand drop slightly, gently cupping her soft, youthful cheek instead of striking it. “You have beautiful skin, sweetheart,” I murmured, brushing a thumb over her cheekbone. “No wonder my husband likes it so much. He just can’t seem to let go of your hand.” … Phoebe was visibly stunned. Her innocent little face faltered, completely unprepared for this twist in the script. “Why didn’t she slap me?!” “The feed said the villainess would slap me the second she saw us holding hands!” “If she doesn’t hit me, how is he going to feel sorry for me and start hating her?!” I scoffed internally. “Hit you? In your dreams, sweetie.” Liam let go of her hand, stepping toward me to wrap his arm around my waist. “Charlotte, honey, don’t get the wrong idea. She almost tripped, and I was just catching her.” “Of course I believe you.” I looked up at him, flashing my sweetest, most compliant smile. “Actually, Liam, I have a tiny favor to ask.” “What is it?” “I really like this girl.” I slipped my arm through his, adopting the slightly spoiled, demanding tone he was so used to. “I want her transferred to my office as my personal assistant.” I needed to keep her close, right where I could monitor this bizarre internal frequency of hers. Liam frowned, hesitating. “She’s doing incredibly well in Corporate Strategy. The director specifically requested her for the team.” In my head, Phoebe’s inner voice cheered: “The director never said that!” “The feed was right—the male lead already has feelings for me. He’s making up excuses to keep me near him!” “Poor little rich girl doesn’t suspect a thing. What an idiot.” The irritation in my chest flared hot and sharp. I pushed Liam away. “What is that supposed to mean? I can’t even have one intern?” “That’s not what I meant—” “Then what do you mean?” I demanded, locking eyes with him. Liam looked momentarily lost, his eyes instinctively darting to Phoebe. She stood behind him, looking like a trembling, defenseless deer. But her mind was throwing a party: “Yes! Get mad! The feed is spot-on—the more she throws a tantrum, the more sick of her he gets!” “He looked at me! He’s worried about my feelings! My approval rating is soaring!” I took a deep, steadying breath, swallowing the urge to physically wipe the smirk off her face. “Liam, I’m going to ask you one last time.” I crossed my arms, tilting my chin toward Phoebe. “Yes or no?” I was Charlotte Davenport. My parents had spent my entire life shielding me from the harshness of the world, and in our five years of marriage, Liam had never denied me a single thing. And now he was hesitating over an intern? Unacceptable. Liam looked at me, eventually letting out a quiet sigh. “Of course, Charlotte. Whatever makes you happy.” Phoebe’s mind practically shrieked with panic: “What?! He’s actually transferring me to her? No! If I’m stuck with her, how am I supposed to secure the male lead?” “Wait… the feed says it’s fine. It says this will actually make him feel guilty, and he’ll slowly start to see Charlotte as selfish and unreasonable.” “Yes, exactly! I just need to play the victim. He’ll only pity me more!” Over the next few days, I kept Phoebe under a microscope. Yet, every morning, her first priority wasn’t reporting to me. It was sneaking off to Liam’s office. “He praised my reports today! He said they were better than what the senior analysts put out. Teehee. The feed says his affection level went up by one.” At lunchtime, she would “coincidentally” run into him at the cafeteria. “He asked if I was eating alone and sat with me! He said I have such a great personality, that I’m hardworking, unlike some spoiled heiresses who only know how to spend money.” In the afternoon, Liam would stop by my office under the guise of business. Seeing Phoebe typing away at her desk, he would casually murmur, “Don’t work too hard, Phoebe. Go home early tonight.” “He cares about me! The feed is right—the less Charlotte does, the more my hard work shines.” Sitting at my desk, my fingers tightened around the edges of the lifestyle magazine I was holding, slowly crushing the glossy paper. Technically, Liam hadn’t crossed any lines. No touching, no kissing, no inappropriate texts. He probably genuinely believed he was just being a supportive mentor to a promising, hardworking young woman. But listening to those thoughts day after day made a cold dread settle deep in my stomach. It came to a head on Tuesday afternoon when I went to drop off some files at his office. I saw it in his eyes as he looked at her. A subtle shift. Something unfamiliar. Admiration. And worse—pity. I decided to test him. The next morning, Phoebe handed me a brief. The formatting was a disaster, the fonts mismatched and messy. I took the folder, walked straight into Liam’s office, and tossed it onto his desk. “Look at this. This is your ‘brilliant’ intern? She can’t even align a paragraph. How did she pass her screening?” Liam flipped through the pages, his brow furrowing slightly, but his voice remained gentle. “Charlotte, she’s fresh out of college. There’s no need to be so harsh. Formatting is something she’ll get used to with time.” “He defended me again! The feed says the male lead is officially getting tired of her princess attitude!” Later, I asked Phoebe to make me a coffee. When she brought it, it was lukewarm, drowned in milk, and sickly sweet. I took a sip right in front of her and spat it back into the mug. “What is this? Are you here to work or are you on vacation?” Phoebe’s eyes instantly welled with tears. She lowered her head, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, Charlotte. I’ll make another one right away…” “Bear with it. The feed says the more she bullies me, the more cruel he’ll think she is.” Right on cue, Liam materialized at the door. Seeing her red-rimmed eyes, his frown deepened. “Charlotte, it’s just a cup of coffee. Is there any need to raise your voice like that?” I looked up at him. “She can’t even remember how I take my coffee. You call that capable?” “She’s only been here a week. Give her some time to adjust.” Liam’s voice carried a distinct edge of irritation. “Do you always have to be so…” He stopped himself, but I knew the word he wanted to say. “Difficult.” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. Leaning back in my chair, I waved my hand dismissively. “Phoebe, leave us.” Phoebe glanced between Liam and me, then walked out with her head bowed. Liam pulled up a chair next to mine, his tone softening. “Charlotte, what is going on with you lately?” “Nothing.” “You’re angry.” He reached out, wrapping his fingers tightly around mine, locking our hands together. “Is this still about the other day? I already gave you Phoebe, didn’t I?” I looked at him, searching his eyes. Did he really not see what he was doing, or was he just playing dumb? “Let me ask you something,” I said quietly. “Do you think she’s better than me?” Liam stared at me for a second, then chuckled. “What kind of comparison is that? You’re my wife. She’s just an employee. I’m only helping her because she genuinely has potential.” Outside the door, Phoebe’s triumphant thoughts floated in: “He’s absolutely comparing them in his head! The feed says his attraction score just ticked up again!” Ignoring the voice, I kept my eyes locked on his. “Then why don’t you take Phoebe to our dinner date this weekend? You two can discuss all that potential over dinner.” Liam sighed, reaching up to pinch my cheek playfully. “Stop talking nonsense. Why would I take her? My weekend belongs entirely to my wife.” A brief spark of warmth flickered in my chest. But it was instantly snuffed out by the voice outside. “The rich girl is so incredibly gullible. She believes whatever he says. But the feed already predicted it—he’s going to use a work emergency as an excuse, and then he’s taking me to that food truck court I love instead.” My smile froze. “No,” I told myself. “The voices don’t dictate reality. Whatever system she has, it could easily be a delusion.” On Friday afternoon, I did my makeup, put on a new dress, and waited for Liam to finish work. At 5:30 PM, my phone buzzed. Liam: “Charlotte, honey, an unexpected client dinner came up. I can’t make it tonight. I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” I stared at the screen, the blue light stinging my eyes. I typed out a long reply, then deleted it. In the end, I only sent one word: “Okay.” The next day, I was scrolling through social media when I saw Phoebe’s latest post. There was no caption. Just a single photo: a smoky street-side taco stand under string lights, and across the table, a man’s hands. On his left ring finger was the band I had spent weeks picking out. After that weekend, Liam seemed to sense the distance growing between us. For the next few days, he came home early every night, bringing small gifts and trying to initiate conversation. On Wednesday night, as we lay in bed, he wrapped his arms around me from behind. “Charlotte, I have a business trip this weekend. I have to go to Chicago for three days to close a major acquisition. It’s crucial for the firm.” I nodded against the pillow. “Okay.” He kissed the back of my neck. “Good girl. I’ll bring you back something nice.” The next morning, as I walked toward my desk, I caught Phoebe’s thoughts before I even opened the door. “Oh my god! The feed says he’s taking me to Santorini!” “A cliffside villa! The sunset suite! The exact place Charlotte has been begging him to take her for five years!” “The feed is right—I’m his soulmate. That high-maintenance villainess belongs in an institution.” The ceramic mug in my hand nearly slipped from my grip. Santorini. The honeymoon we had promised each other when we got married. For five years, I had brought it up. He always said he was too busy. “Next year, honey. Let’s wait until things settle down.” And now, he was taking her. My hands shook as I quietly closed my office door. Around noon, I went down to Liam’s office. He was reading through some documents, but he looked up and smiled when I walked in. “Hey. Miss me already?” I sat opposite him, studying his face. This was the man I had loved for over a decade. “Liam,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Do you remember the promise you made me?” He blinked, then smiled warmly. “Of course. Santorini.” “When are we going?” “Sweetheart, I am buried in work right now.” He stood up, walking over to gently stroke my hair. “As soon as things quiet down, I promise I’ll take you, okay?” “As soon as things quiet down.” The same empty currency he’d been throwing at me for years. I forced a smile and said nothing. I was tired of waiting. On Thursday, they left. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, watching his black sedan pull out of the parking garage. I pulled out my phone and texted my closest friend, Piper. “Find me a divorce lawyer. The absolute best in the city.” Her reply came instantly: “??? Are you insane?” “I’ve never been more clear-headed. Just send me a name.” A long pause. Then: “Declan Ross. He’s a partner at Ross & Associates, top-tier family law. He was also our high school class president. Remember him?” I stared at the screen. Declan. The tall, quiet boy who used to leave cartons of strawberry milk on my desk during recess. The next day, I walked into his high-rise office. He was wearing an impeccably tailored three-piece suit, looking far more refined and grounded than he had in high school. There was a quiet strength to him that was entirely different from Liam’s flashy confidence. After listening to my story, Declan didn’t offer empty platitudes. He simply leaned forward. “I’ll draft the petition. We’ll go after everything you’re entitled to.” He paused, his gaze softening. “And my services are on the house.” “Declan, I can’t let you do that—” “Sophomore year, when those three guys cornered me behind the gym trying to take my lunch money, you swung your skateboard and chased them off. I’ve remembered that for ten years.” He tilted his head, a faint, nostalgic smile playing on his lips. “Back then, you told me if it wasn’t for him, you would’ve chosen me. What about now?” I couldn’t find the words to answer. The night the draft agreement was finalized, I saw Phoebe’s feed update on social media. The blue domes of Santorini, the golden Aegean sunset, the infinity pool hanging over the cliffs. The final photo was a silhouette of Liam. He was standing on a whitewashed balcony, looking out at the endless blue. Caption: “Thank you for showing me the most beautiful place in the world.” I stared at the screen for a long, quiet minute. Then, I pulled up Liam’s contact info, attached the draft divorce petition, and sent it. I added a simple message: “I want a divorce.” Before he could reply, I blocked his number. I packed a bag and went straight to my parents’ house. Seeing the exhaustion etched into my face, they didn’t pry. They simply told me to rest and assured me they had my back. I retreated to my childhood bedroom. Sitting in the dark, pulling my knees to my chest, memories of Liam flooded my mind like a projector on loop. Liam at fifteen, waiting for me by the bleachers. Liam at eighteen, setting off illegal fireworks under my window. Liam at twenty-two, down on one knee, whispering that I was his entire world. Liam at twenty-seven, brushing my hair aside, promising we’d go to Greece when he wasn’t so busy. Five years of waiting. Five years of believing him, only for him to take someone else. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a text from Declan: “Are you comfortable with the terms in the draft?” I replied: “Yes. It’s perfect. Thank you, Declan.” Declan: “Always. Would you do me the honor of letting me take you to dinner?” I thought about it. “Let me treat you instead. To thank you for all of this.” Declan: “I’d love that. Honestly, I’ve been craving a home-cooked meal. It’s been a while since I had one.” Reading his reply, I remembered how his parents had split up during our junior year, leaving him to live alone in a rented studio, often skipping meals before night study. My heart softened. “Come over to my parents’ place tomorrow. I’ll have our housekeeper make us something.” The next morning, my mother knocked and slipped into my room. “You look pale, sweetie. Did you sleep at all?” “I’m fine, Mom.” I paused. “Could we add sweet and sour ribs to the lunch menu today?” “I thought you hated sweet glazes.” “They’re for a friend. He’s helping me through a lot, and I wanted to make sure he has something he likes.” She smiled gently. “Of course. I’ll tell the kitchen.” Around eleven, the doorbell rang. I went to open it. Declan stood on the porch, wearing a charcoal-grey crewneck sweater and dark trousers, holding a basket of fresh fruit. “Thanks for having me.” “Come on in,” I said, leading him toward the dining room. Declan was an effortless conversationalist. Within twenty minutes, he had my parents completely charmed. Then, the heavy front door swung open. Liam walked in, looking disheveled and frantic. He took in the scene in the dining room, his expression darkening into something raw and ugly. “We aren’t even divorced yet,” his voice cracked, hoarse and trembling, “and you’ve already brought him into your parents’ home?”

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I pushed the stroller into the real estate office. The agent asked, her tone a flat, routine formality: “Selling the marital home—does your husband agree to this?” In the stroller, my daughter erupted into a sudden, piercing wail. With practiced ease, I scooped her up with my left arm, steadying her against my chest, and signed the contract with my right. My signature was shaky, a jagged line. My wrist had been throbbing with tendonitis for a solid month now. “I’m widowed,” I said. The man named Devin was still very much alive. He was living just as he always had before we got together—vibrant, reckless, entirely untethered. But as a father, he had died the very day our daughter was born. My phone buzzed. It was Devin. When I picked up, it wasn’t his voice, but a young girl’s. “Oh, Devin, I honestly don’t know how you stand it,” she cooed, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You’re this brilliant, celebrated artist, and your wife is so let-down. Look at this place—even a rat would need GPS to navigate this mess. Ugh, is that dirty diapers I smell? Gross…” Then came Devin’s voice, muffled, as if he were pinching his nose in disgust. “She didn’t use to be like this. Ever since the baby came, she just… got lazy.” I calmly handed the signed contract back to the agent. Before the pregnancy, before the labor, I had loved him with every fiber of my being. Now? I hated him with that exact same intensity. … 1 “Mom, I booked the flight.” “Sweetie, are you sure about this? Ten years… that’s a long time to walk away from.” “Sunk costs shouldn’t dictate major life decisions,” I replied, my voice steady. “Okay. The baby doesn’t have a birth certificate yet, right? We’ll register her back here in Boston. She’ll take your last name.” “Yeah. That’s exactly what I was thinking.” When I got into the taxi to head back to the apartment, a strange, crystalline calm washed over me. The intensity of my current hatred was the perfect, terrifying mirror of how passionately I had once loved him. We were the college sweethearts everyone envied. But poetry and grand romantic gestures crumble like ash when faced with the grinding, brutal reality of daily life. I held my daughter close, my exhausted body sinking into the worn cushions of the sofa. How did Devin and I end up here? The day I found out I was pregnant, Devin had been ecstatic. “Fiona,” he’d said, gently cupping my face, “as soon as this busy season wraps up, I’m going to give you the most beautiful wedding.” He had stroked my barely swollen belly, his eyes bright with tears. “Trust me, Fiona. I’m going to be a great dad.” We had been together for ten years, from age nineteen to twenty-nine. I believed him. I believed he’d be a great father, and I believed that a marriage certificate was just a formality we’d eventually get to. So, I stepped back from managing his art studio to focus on a healthy pregnancy. To replace me, he hired a new assistant: Melanie. After that, Devin was always busy. Busy painting. Busy mentoring his students. Busy doing press. Busy organizing galleries. I was always waiting for the “after this is done.” But while I waited alone, Melanie was always there, hovering in his shadow. He missed one prenatal appointment after another. When I called him, it was always Melanie who answered. “I’m so sorry, Fiona,” she’d say, her tone sweet but sharp. “Devin is right in the middle of an interview.” The day my water broke, I was the one who had to call 911. The hospital bag had been packed by Melanie—and it contained nothing but a single pack of diapers and two newborn onesies. She had offered a plastic, apologetic smile when she dropped it off. “I’m so sorry, Fiona. I really don’t know much about babies. Devin was just so swamped, he couldn’t leave the studio, so I had to wing it…” I nearly died on that delivery table, enduring a grueling labor that ended in an emergency C-section. When the nurse finally wheeled me and my baby girl back to the recovery room, Melanie was sitting there, peeling an apple for my mother-in-law, Martha. Martha was beaming. “Oh, Melanie, if only you were my daughter-in-law. You’re so young, so capable!” When they saw me roll in, Martha cast a dismissive glance at my wrinkled, tiny daughter in the bassinet. “Well, I guess when you have a baby at your age, your body just can’t keep up.” I ignored the bite in her words. “Where is Devin? Why isn’t he here?” Melanie smiled smoothly. “Fiona, Devin is deep in his creative zone for the new series. We couldn’t let distractions interrupt his muse, could we?” Martha chimed in, “Exactly. Every woman has babies. Why make such a drama out of it?” She then patted Melanie’s hand pointedly. “And besides, they never actually signed the papers. Don’t call her ‘Mrs. Ward’—it’s not appropriate.” I pretended not to hear, biting my lip to suppress the agonizing throbbing of my fresh incision as I dragged myself back onto the hospital bed. During the hemorrhaging scare in the OR, when the alarms were blaring, a sudden clarity had hit me. People change. The love he had for me once was real. But so was his current, chilling indifference. Devin had found someone who matched his rhythm again. And that someone was no longer me. I was the leftover piece of his past. I checked my phone. Devin had sent only one text, over twelve hours ago: “Just focus on the baby. My mom and Melanie are there with you.” A moment later, Martha and Melanie were grabbing their coats. “Well, now that the baby’s here, I can rest easy,” Martha said. “Melanie, let’s get some dinner.” Melanie’s voice was bright. “Oh, yes! I heard that new French bistro down the street is incredible. Let’s try it!” In the bassinet, my daughter began to scream, her tiny lungs straining, the sound piercing my eardrums. I lay paralyzed on the bed, my body feeling as though it had been shattered, unable to even sit up. The moment she was born, I became a mother—biologically, emotionally, completely. But Devin? He was still the boy lost in his canvases, chasing romantic illusions. As the tears and postpartum bleeding flowed unceasingly, I whispered to myself: “My baby doesn’t have a father.” The night nurse from the next bed over, seeing my struggle, came over to help change my daughter’s diaper. “When they’re this small, they’re either hungry, wet, or dirty,” she said gently. “Do you have any family coming?” I shook my head. “No. Could you recommend a private nurse? I need someone to start immediately. I’ll pay extra.” During my five days in the hospital, Devin never once showed up. When he occasionally remembered my existence, he’d send a brief text: “Fiona, thank you for giving me such a beautiful daughter. Melanie sent me the photos.” Melanie came by every afternoon, fulfilling Devin’s duties as a husband in the most superficial way possible. “Fiona,” she’d say, “Devin has a lecture today, so he can’t make it.” Or, “Fiona, Devin is speaking at his alma mater. The schedule was set months ago; he can’t cancel.” She called me Fiona. Never “Mrs. Ward” anymore. She came daily to report Devin’s schedule, but it was pure performance—a subtle, cruel flexing of power. It made me dependent on her just to know where the father of my child was and what he was doing. She snapped photos of my daughter to send to him, accompanying them with mocking texts she didn’t bother to hide from me: “Devin, she doesn’t really look like you, does she? Haha.” or “Look at her cone-head. She looks like an alien.” I texted Devin: “When are you coming?” Two hours later, his reply came: “Once this gallery rush is over. My mom and Melanie are there. They’ll take care of you.” I stopped texting. You can’t wake someone who is pretending to sleep. I was never going to get his “after this.” The day I was discharged, the wind was biting. I ordered my own taxi. My hired nurse held the baby. We had almost no luggage—just a diaper bag with formula, diapers, and my postpartum mesh underwear. The clothes I wore were stained, smelling of sweat and postpartum discharge. Those five days were the most humiliating, physically devastating days of my life. If Devin couldn’t show up then, he didn’t need to show up ever again. Rage burned in my chest, but I forced it down, reminding myself to breathe. “Don’t get angry, don’t let it consume you,” I repeated like a mantra. “It will dry up your milk. It will make you sick. That only hurts you and the baby.” I was a mother now. I had to be strong.

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My dad was dead drunk again, drowning himself in cheap whiskey because he missed my mom. That was when his phone started to ring. I stared at the screen, my heart stopping at the caller ID: “Wife”. I froze. Mom had been dead for two years. Her number had been deactivated a long time ago. Hands shaking, I swiped to answer. A voice drifted through the line—familiar, yet impossibly distant. “Hello? Is this Lester, eight years in the future? Guess who!” She sounded so bright, so sweet. It was nothing like the fragile, raspy whisper the cancer had left her with before she died. I squeezed my eyes shut and whispered her name. “Helena.” My mom let out a soft gasp, sounding utterly thrilled. “Oh my gosh! Are you… are you Lester’s and my baby?” She lowered her voice to a playful whisper. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. This is your mom, twenty-four years old. You’re actually in my tummy right now! Three months along!” I looked at my dad passed out on the sofa, and then around our dark, cold apartment. I couldn’t let her go through that hell again. After a long, heavy silence, I forced the words out. “Lester is my dad.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “But you aren’t my mother. My mother is Lydia Pierce. Your best friend.” … 1 “Sweetheart, that’s not a very funny joke,” she said. There was a brief pause, her tone still incredibly gentle. “Did your Aunt Lydia teach you to say that? I swear, even eight years from now, she’s still obsessed with practical jokes.” Hearing her call me “sweetheart”—a word I hadn’t heard in two long years—I had to clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle the sob rising in my chest. I couldn’t let her hear me cry. “Hello? Are you still there?” she asked. I took a shuddering breath. “I’m not lying to you. I can prove it. What is the date today on your end?” She gave me the date. I closed my eyes, my mind racing back through the fragmented memories and the diary entries I had memorized. “You’re getting married next month, right?” I asked. “And last week, you ordered a custom bridal jewelry set to go with your wedding dress. It’s supposed to be delivered today.” My mom gasped. “And you still claim you aren’t Lester’s and my baby? Look how well you know our story!” “You’re never going to receive that set,” I said quietly. “Because Lydia… my mother… told my dad she loved it. So he had the jeweler send it to her instead. If you call them, the jeweler will claim there was a shipping delay and offer you a replacement—one that costs half as much. You won’t like it, but Dad will tell you he thinks the cheaper one looks better on you anyway. He’ll pressure you until you accept it. The truth is, my mother wanted to prove she mattered more to him than you did.” Silence stretched over the line. I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white, my heart hammering against my ribs. Finally, she let out a nervous laugh. “You make it sound so real. Fine, I’ll call the jeweler and check. But if you’re pulling my leg, young lady, I’m calling back to give you a very stern talking-to!” Relief washed over me. “You can call again?” “I have three calls total,” she said cheerfully. Two left. I looked down at my worn-out shoes, telling myself: “That’s enough. It has to be.” “Oh, by the way, you haven’t told me your name yet.” “I’m Hazel,” I whispered. My mom laughed. “See? I knew you were mine. I spent weeks looking through baby-name books to pick out ‘Hazel’!” The lump in my throat grew heavier. I swallowed hard and warned her: “When you call back, pretend you don’t know my dad. Just ask for Hazel.” “Got it, got it,” she said playfully, clearly still thinking this was a game. “Just wait for my call!” The line went dead with a quiet click. I stood there for a long time, the phone still pressed to my ear. When I finally lowered my hand, I wiped my tears and quickly deleted the contact name “Wife” from my dad’s phone. I knew that once my mom uncovered the truth, she probably wouldn’t call back. She would be too devastated, too busy unraveling her life. But there was still a chance. Sudden, violent banging on the front door shook me out of my thoughts. I opened it to find Lydia. Her hair was a mess, her face twisted in a desperate, frantic grimace. She shoved me hard against the wall. “Move, you little parasite!” She stormed past me straight into my dad’s bedroom. “Lester! I need a hundred thousand dollars! Now! The loan sharks are going to break my hand if I don’t pay them by tonight!” My dad, barely conscious from the alcohol, let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Not my problem.” Lydia completely lost it, screaming at the top of her lungs. “You promised you’d take care of me forever! You’re still obsessed with that dead bitch, aren’t you? She’s been dead for two years, Lester! You already ruined my face for her! What more do you want from me?!” My dad sat up, his eyes bloodshot and full of venom. “I want Helena back. I want you to rot in hell for what you did to her.” Lydia burst into a wild, screeching laugh. “Oh, please! Is her death entirely my fault, Lester? Sure, I made sure she walked in on us screwing right there in her father’s hospital room. I knew it would kill the old man. But you weren’t exactly fighting me off, were you? You enjoyed every second of it. When you were on top of me, did you once stop to think about the doctors warning you that Helena’s heart couldn’t take any stress?” “Crack.” My dad lunged forward and slapped her hard across the face. “Get the hell out of my house!” Clutching her reddened cheek, Lydia stumbled out of his room, panting with rage. But when her eyes fell on me, standing frozen in the hallway, a sick, desperate light flickered in them. She lunged, grabbing me by the throat, and began dragging me toward the front door. “Fine. I’ll just hand you over to them instead. They’ll take whatever they can get.” For a second, I didn’t even want to fight back. What did it matter? But then, from the bedroom, my dad’s phone started to ring. My heart flared. I began thrashing wildly, clawing at her face, digging my nails into her arms. Lydia shrieked in pain, but her grip only tightened around my neck, cutting off my air. Thankfully, the ringing had drawn my dad out of the room. When he saw Lydia choking me, his eyes went cold. He stormed over and kicked her hard in the ribs, sending her crashing to the floor. “You never cared about this kid anyway!” Lydia spat, clutching her side as she glared up at him with pure hatred. “Let me do us both a favor and get rid of her!” My dad didn’t even look at her as he murmured, “She is the only thing Helena left behind.” I gasped for air, scrambling up from the floor, and bolted toward the bedroom where the phone was ringing. But my knees buckled, and I went crashing down onto the hardwood. In that split second of delay, the ringing stopped. I missed it. At that moment, the raw pain of my bruised neck, my scraped knees, and the crushing despair of losing my mom all over again hit me at once. I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. My dad walked right past my shaking body, muttering under his breath, “What is wrong with you?” He picked up the phone and dialed the missed number back. It was just one of his business associates. I forced myself to stop crying. Shivering, I wiped my eyes and sat quietly on the floor, waiting. When my dad hung up and saw me still hovering near him, his brow furrowed. “Why are you still standing there?” He paused, his eyes lingering on my face. A shadow of remorse passed over his features. He walked over to the dresser, pulled a tube of burn ointment out of the drawer, and knelt down in front of me. Images flashed in my mind—of him grabbing me by the shoulders, shaking me violently, screaming that I was a useless piece of trash who couldn’t even keep my mother alive. I flinched, my shoulders tensing instinctively. The cold ointment was smeared onto my cheek, but his words were even colder. “I’m hiring a housekeeper. Stop trying to cook.” He gently rubbed the cream over the raw red scar on my cheek, where hot oil had splattered a few days ago. “If you ruin that face—the only face that looks like hers—I will let Lydia take you. Do you understand?” I nodded numbly. His phone buzzed again. I pretended to look away, but my eyes were locked on the screen out of the corner of my eye. My dad stared at the display, then handed the phone to me, his expression suspicious. “For you?” Since he hadn’t recognized my mom’s voice, I breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s probably my teacher from school,” I mumbled. “You’re busy, Dad. I’ll take it outside so I don’t bother you.” He shrugged and let me go. I kept my pace steady until I reached the backyard, then quickly pressed the phone to my ear. “It’s me.” “What’s wrong with your voice?” my mom asked. She sounded incredibly sad, but there was a thread of genuine worry in her tone. Tears pricked my eyes. “My dad and mom are throwing me a birthday party,” I lied, my voice cracking. “I was just screaming and laughing so much that I lost my voice.” “Oh.” She paused for a long moment before whispering, “Well… happy birthday, sweetheart.” On the other side of the screen, where she couldn’t see me, a huge, goofy smile broke across my face through my tears. When I was three, my dad had ruined my grandfather’s business, freezing all of my mom’s assets to force her to beg him and Lydia for money. To survive, Mom had to work grueling shifts with her fragile health just to support me and pay for my grandfather’s medical bills after his suicide attempt left him with severe brain damage. We were dirt poor back then, but every single year on my birthday, Mom would scrape together enough coins to buy me a tiny cupcake. She always smiled and said she didn’t like sweets, telling me to eat the whole thing. But before my grandfather jumped, he had pulled me aside and whispered that my mom actually loved sweets more than anything. So, I would pout and play coy, refusing to take a bite unless she did. We would end up sharing that tiny cupcake, taking turns until every last crumb was gone. After she died, my dad brought me back to this massive, empty house. But no one ever remembered my birthday again. “Do you believe me now?” I asked quietly. The line went silent for a moment. “That was Lester who answered earlier, wasn’t it? Put him on the phone. I need to hear it from him.” I bit my lip hard. “Why? What do you want? My mom and dad wasted so many years because of you. Are you trying to ruin their lives again?” “I ruined “their” lives?” my mom’s voice rose, sharp with disbelief. “One was my fiancé, the other my best friend, and they were sneaking around behind my back! Lester claimed he was just feeling sorry for Lydia. Let me guess—with my temper, I probably threw a fit, threatened to get an abortion, and called off the wedding. And then your mother, Lydia, swooped in, got pregnant with you, and forced Lester to marry her because he had no choice. Am I right?” Hearing her speak with such proud, misplaced confidence made my stomach twist. I was furious, but I didn’t know how to lie to her anymore. “So, kiddo,” she continued, her voice softening slightly, “even though it breaks my heart to say this to a child… I’m going to forgive Lester. Which means you are never going to exist.” Panic flared inside me, and my brain scrambled for a way out. “You won’t get the chance!” I blurted. “Because my mom doesn’t get pregnant with me until tomorrow.” “What?” “Tomorrow is your mother’s memorial service,” I said, the words spilling out fast. “Dad is going to lie to you. He’ll say he has a major investor meeting and can’t go with you to the cemetery. But he’s actually going to a hotel with my mom.” I quickly rattled off the name of the boutique hotel and the room number. She gasped. “How… how could a child possibly know that?” “Because my dad used to read your old diary out loud to us like it was a joke,” I muttered. In reality, he had read it to Lydia, laughing at how pathetic and naive Helena had been. The silence on the other end was heavy, broken only by her shaky breathing. “Fine,” she finally whispered, her voice trembling. “If what you say is true… I will walk away and let your little family be.” “Will you… will you call me back one last time to let me know?” I asked in a small voice. She let out a dry, exasperated breath. “Fine. Yes. I promise.” The call disconnected. I stood in the yard, staring blankly at the grass. I hadn’t lied to her. Lydia really was going to get pregnant. And three months from now, she would fake a miscarriage during a shopping trip with my mom, claiming she lost the baby while trying to “protect” her. My mom spent years carrying that crushing guilt, doing everything she could to make it up to Lydia. But Lydia secretly told my dad a different story—that my mom had intentionally shoved her down the stairs. My dad harbored that grudge for years. After he finally seized my grandfather’s company, he cornered my grandfather and told him that one of us had to pay for that unborn baby’s life. My grandfather, desperate to protect my mom and me, jumped from the top floor of his office building. Even after that, my dad used my grandfather’s mounting ICU bills to torture my mom. He forced her onto her knees in front of him and Lydia, demanding she bow her head to the floor over and over again until they were satisfied. Mom did it, her forehead bruised and bleeding onto the polished wood. But when she finished, my dad just grabbed her by the throat and sneered, “That old bastard always looked down on me. Why the hell would I spend a dime to keep him alive?” But my grandfather had funded his entire college education and his first start-up. He had always praised Lester’s talent; he had only gently warned Mom that their personalities might not be a good fit. A sharp gust of wind cut through my shirt, pulling me back to the present. I walked inside and handed the phone back to my dad. As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me cold. “What’s this teacher’s name?” he asked, studying my face. “Her voice… it sounded just like Helena’s.” Panic froze my limbs. “Mrs. Miller,” I squeaked out, my voice barely audible. “She’s married.” My dad watched my expression for a second, then let out a harsh laugh. “What are you looking like that for? Some random woman on the phone isn’t fit to breathe the same air as Helena.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Go on, get out.” As he reached for his drink, his sleeve slid up, revealing his forearm. It was covered in a horrifying lattice of thick, jagged scars. Fifty-six cuts in total. He had carved them into his own flesh after finally discovering that Lydia’s miscarriage had been a lie all along. Fifty-six cuts—because Mom had died on May sixth. I retreated to my room, crawled under the bed, and pulled out a notebook thick with layers of clear tape. After my dad and Lydia had finished mocking Mom’s diary, they had torn it into tiny shreds. I had spent nights digging through the trash, collecting every single piece, and taping them back together. Mom never knew I did this. She died wanting to forget her past, but I only wanted to hold onto whatever piece of her I could find. On her eighteenth birthday, she had written: “Lester is such an idiot! He actually worked on a construction site for two whole months just to buy me a birthday present. He’s so sunburnt and has lost so much weight, but he still smiles and tells me it’s nothing. I love him so much.” At twenty: “My boy is amazing. He’s only twenty and he’s already starting his own company! I knew I picked a winner in high school. Okay, so maybe I threw a little tantrum to get my dad to secretly fund his first round of investors… but Lester doesn’t need to know that. I don’t want him to feel pressured.” At twenty-four, when she found out she was pregnant: “I can’t believe it! I never thought I’d be a mom this early. I guess we need to speed up the wedding planning! Lester actually cried when I told him. He loves kids so much; he’s going to be the absolute best father. Thank you for choosing me to be your mommy, my sweet baby.” But just two years later, the handwriting changed. The pen had pressed so hard into the paper it had nearly torn through the pages: “Why? Why? Why did he betray me? I can’t tell Dad. He’ll destroy himself trying to protect me, but Lester already controls the entire company now. I can’t let him ruin everything Dad built. What do I do, baby? You’re still so tiny. Please tell Mommy what to do…” A tear slipped down my cheek, blurring the faded ink. I clutched the tattered diary tightly to my chest. “Don’t be afraid, Mom,” I whispered into the quiet room. “Your baby is going to save you.” To make sure my dad didn’t leave the house and take his phone with him, I had to make a deal. “Dad,” I said, standing at his doorway. “Can you stay home with me today? If you do, I’ll give you Mom’s diary.” His irritable expression froze. “Her… diary? I threw that in the trash years ago.” I held out the taped-together notebook. He snatched it from my hands, running his fingers over the jagged edges of the pages. He fell to his knees, clutching it to his chest, laughing and crying like a madman. I left him alone. Back in my room, I squeezed the little rag doll Mom had sewn for me. She used to buy me beautiful, expensive toys, but after we were kicked out of our home, we had to leave everything behind. So, Mom bought scraps of cheap fabric and taught herself how to sew. Her hands had been so soft, but they were always covered in tiny red needle pricks and swollen cuts. I pressed my face against the doll’s rough fabric. If saving her meant this doll and I would fade away into nothingness, I wasn’t afraid. I was on the verge of drifting off when the sharp ring of his phone echoed down the hall. On tiptoe, I slipped into the study. It was her. In the master bedroom, my dad was completely unresponsive, too drunk and hysterical as he wept over the taped pages to notice me taking the phone. I ran out to the garden, my heart in my throat. “Hello? What happened?” “You were right,” my mom’s voice came through, heavy, exhausted, and thick with unshed tears. “I caught them at the hotel. Just like you said.” She took a shaky breath. “I’m at the clinic right now. I’m getting an abortion.” A wave of pure, unadulterated relief washed over me. “That’s wonderful! I hope you stay far away from my parents now. Oh, and tell your dad to stop giving my dad money. Because of that investment, my dad gets so busy managing your family’s company that he never has time to spend with my mom and me.” My mom gasped, her tone suddenly sharp and furious. “That miserable bastard… he took my father’s company?” She paused, her voice shaking. “What about me? Did I… did I not do anything to stop him?” I rubbed my eyes. “Well, you tried. But you weren’t as smart or as ruthless as my dad.” I smiled, hearing her let out a sharp, angry breath. “But don’t worry. You end up with a nice man named Henry Lockhart. You’ll be very happy with him.” “Henry?” my mom stammered. “How? He… he barely even talks to me.” “He’s been in love with you for a really long time,” I whispered. “He just stayed away because you were with my dad.” It was the truth. When I was five, Henry had returned from living abroad and discovered how terrible our lives had become. He did everything he could to look after us. I remember him holding my mom’s hands, his eyes filled with pain as he said, “If I had known my cowardice would cost you this much, I would have dragged you away from him years ago, no matter what people said.” When my dad found out, he flew into a rage, accusing my mom of cheating on him back in college. He refused to believe her denials and used all his power to bankrupt Henry’s business. Mom felt so guilty, but Henry didn’t care at all. He just smiled, took her hand, and happily worked alongside her at low-paying jobs. Over time, Mom fell in love with him. She had even asked for my permission first, and I had been so happy for them. But before she could tell him how she felt, she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. To make sure she could save enough money for my future, she forced herself to say terrible things to Henry to push him away, then crawled back to my dad to endure his endless cruelty. “Hazel. Who the hell are you talking to?” My dad’s voice shattered the quiet of the garden. I spun around, gasping. He was standing on the patio, his eyes bloodshot and wild. “Why did I just hear you say Henry Lockhart’s name? Who is on that phone!” He took a heavy, menacing step toward me. On the other end, my mom heard him screaming. “Is Lester hurting you?” A nurse in the background was already calling her name for the procedure. I knew this was my last chance. I yelled into the receiver: “My dad hates you! He told me to never call a homewrecker like you again!” “Goodbye!” I slammed the end-call button. My dad lunged forward, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me violently. “It was your mother, wasn’t it? Tell me! What did she say? Does she miss me? Tell me!” But mid-sentence, he froze. I looked down at my hands. My fingers were dissolving into tiny, shimmering specks of light, floating away into the warm afternoon breeze.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “516783”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I called off our wedding exactly one week before we were supposed to walk down the aisle. When I broke the news, Leo was hunched over his laptop, editing his junior lab partner Linda’s master’s thesis. His voice carried a mild, practiced irritation. “And what’s your reason this time?” I placed a tube of lipstick—the one I’d found wedged beside the passenger seat of his car—on the sleek wooden desk. Then, I laid down two glossy photographs right next to it. The lipstick belonged to Linda. The photos showed the two of them on a weekend getaway. I looked at him. “Are these two reasons enough?” Leo knitted his brows, tossing out a casual, defensive explanation. “The lipstick must have slipped out of her bag. And the photos? She’s been under an insane amount of pressure with her research lately. I just took her out of town for a weekend to help her clear her head.” I nodded slowly. “Right. So we’re calling off the wedding.” He stared at me for a long, quiet beat, as if trying to gauge my resolve, before turning his eyes back to his monitor. “Whatever you want, Gina.” I knew he didn’t take me seriously. He didn’t believe for a second that I would actually walk away. After all, every time he had threatened to break off our engagement during our past arguments, I was always the one who swallowed my pride, begged for forgiveness, and coaxed him back. He assumed this was just another one of those times. But he was wrong. This time, I was truly done. … 1 Leo didn’t spare me another glance. His focus was entirely consumed by Linda’s draft. “Go get some rest,” he said, his fingers already flying across the keyboard. “I’ll give her back the lipstick tomorrow.” I didn’t say a word. My gaze drifted back to the photos. In them, Linda had her arm draped casually over his shoulder, their cheeks pressed close together. She was sticking her tongue out playfully at the camera. They looked exactly like a happy young couple. The photos had been taken two weeks ago, during the weekend Leo told me he had to travel out of state for an academic conference. It turned out his “conference” was a getaway to help Linda unwind. I remembered bringing up the idea of a short trip myself just last week. He had frowned, sighing heavily. “The lab is absolutely swamped right now, Gina. I physically don’t have the hours. Let’s do it another time.” Though disappointed, I hadn’t pushed. I had quietly waited, holding onto the hope that he would eventually carve out some time for me. Only now did I realize it wasn’t a matter of time. He had plenty of it. He just didn’t want to spend it on me. After a long silence, I finally asked, “Why did you lie to me?” His fingers paused over the keyboard. He looked up, his expression a mix of confusion and irritation, as if my question were entirely absurd. I held his gaze and repeated myself, my voice barely a whisper. “You took Linda to the coast to clear her head. Why did you tell me you were traveling for work?” Leo was always too busy. He was so busy that I had to plan every single detail of our wedding by myself. From the guest list and the catering to the floral arrangements and venue design, I had handled it all. I had even gone to the jeweler to pick out our wedding bands alone. Yet, this incredibly busy man had somehow found the hours to whisk Linda away because she was feeling stressed. A bitter, suffocating ache bloomed in my chest. A shadow of annoyance crossed Leo’s face. “If I had told you the truth, you would have started a fight. Gina, we’re about to get married. Do you really not have even a shred of trust in me? Linda has been crying in the lab because of her research. She was on the verge of a breakdown. I just took her out of the city to help her decompress.” I stared at him. Linda was stressed, so he took her on a trip. Linda struggled with her thesis, so he stayed up late rewriting it for her. He gave all of his precious time to Linda, while leaving me with only one word: “busy”. I nodded, my voice dropping to a faint, hollow tone. “Okay. I understand. I’ll explain things to my parents. You should tell yours. The sooner, the better.” Leo opened his mouth to say something, but his phone buzzed on the desk. He picked it up, and I caught a glimpse of the contact name on the screen: “Linda”. I quietly turned around and walked out of the study, giving him space. Behind me, I heard him play her voice note. “Hey, Leo! How’s my draft looking? I’m so, so nervous—please tell me you don’t think it’s total garbage!” As I stepped out into the hallway, Leo’s gentle reply drifted through the open door. “Of course not. It’s actually really good, there are just a few sections we need to polish…” I didn’t listen to the rest. I closed the door behind me, and a single tear slipped down my cheek, splashing onto the hardwood floor. Six years of my life, gone just like that. The next morning, Leo acted as if nothing had happened. He grabbed his coat, slipping it on as he spoke. “There’s a department dinner tonight, so I’ll probably be home late. Go ahead and sleep, don’t wait up for me.” He didn’t wait for my response before heading out the door. I stared down at my cold bowl of oatmeal, barely tasting it. I sat on the couch for a long time, watching the morning light slowly shift across the living room, before finally forcing myself to go upstairs. After living together for three years, I had accumulated a lot of things. Packing them up was going to be a monumental task. I lost track of time. By the time Leo came home, the bedroom was a chaotic mess of half-filled boxes, and two large suitcases sat open on the floor. He knitted his brows, looking genuinely perplexed. “Where are you going?” My hands froze over a stack of sweaters. I felt a sudden, bitter urge to laugh. Of course. He hadn’t registered a single word of our conversation last night. He probably asked where I was going out of pure, mindless habit. Compared to his hyper-awareness of Linda’s emotions, his concern for me didn’t even amount to a fraction of a percent. I folded a blouse and placed it neatly into the suitcase. “I’m moving out,” I said evenly. Leo fell silent for a moment, as if the memories of the previous night were slowly clicking into place. Then, he let out a soft, dismissive chuckle. “Gina, are you actually serious? Look, if you’re that desperate for a vacation, I’ll carve out some time for us right after the wedding, okay?” I didn’t answer. I just kept packing. His expression softened into one of weary indulgence. “Linda’s lipstick really did just fall out of her bag when I drove her home the other night. I gave it back to her today. She promised me she’d be more careful with her things from now on.” My hands didn’t falter. “Good to know,” I murmured. Seeing my indifference, Leo yanked at his tie, his patience finally snapping. “Are you really going to throw a tantrum over something this trivial?” he snapped, his voice sharp with irritation. “Calling off the wedding? Gina, we are six days away from our rehearsal dinner. Do you have any idea what calling it off right now actually means? You’re an adult. Stop being so incredibly childish.” Of course I knew what it meant. It meant my parents would have to face the pitying whispers of our relatives and friends. It meant severing the six-year thread that bound my life to his. But I couldn’t live like this anymore. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life playing second fiddle to Linda in my own marriage. “It is,” I said. Leo blinked. “What?” I looked him dead in the eye and repeated it, slower this time. “It is worth it, Leo. I’m not throwing a tantrum. I’m calling off the wedding. I don’t want to marry you anymore.” Leo stared at me, a cold, scoffing laugh escaping his lips. “Gina, there’s a limit to how far you can push a drama. You’re seriously going to throw away six years of our lives over a stray lipstick and a couple of vacation photos?” To him, it was always just a drama. He had never once stopped to consider the concept of boundaries when it came to Linda. I remembered a night last year when I had too much to drink at a corporate networking dinner. When I called his number, Linda answered. She told me Leo was driving and couldn’t talk. After a heavy pause, I asked if he could come pick me up. He took the phone from her and rejected me without a second thought. “I’m driving Linda home right now. Just call an Uber.” I ended up taking that rideshare home alone, and we had a massive screaming match. But then he coldly uttered, “Maybe we shouldn’t get married after all,” and those words felt like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head, freezing the anger right out of me. In the end, I was the one who crawled back, swallowing my pride to appease him. He was so protective of Linda that he had threatened to call off our wedding dozens of times because of her. But now, when I was the one pulling the plug, he refused to believe it. I looked away, too exhausted to argue. “Fine. Think what you want.” “Gina, can you stop with this toxic jealousy?” Leo pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a frustrated breath. “Linda is my junior colleague. She’s struggling. What is so wrong with me helping her navigate her research? It’s literally my job as her mentor.” I remained silent. I zipped up my final suitcase and pulled it off the bed. Leo threw his hands up in defeat. “Whatever. Maybe it’s good for you to get out of the house and clear your head. At least then you’ll stop overanalyzing everything.” He turned on his heel and slammed the study door behind him. I quietly stood the suitcase up in the corner of the room. Looking down at the diamond engagement ring on my left hand, I slipped it off my finger and set it on the nightstand. I expected to lie awake all night, but instead, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. I didn’t wake up until mid-morning, roused by soft, giggling voices floating up from the living room. “Leo, are you sure Gina won’t be mad that you brought me over without asking her first? You guys are literally getting married next week. I’d feel terrible if you two got into a fight because of me.” I had heard that voice countless times through Leo’s speakerphone. But I never imagined he would actually bring Linda into our home. “She won’t mind,” Leo replied, his voice warm and comforting. “Gina isn’t unreasonable. Besides, you’re only here so we can finish editing your thesis drafts.” When I carried my suitcase down the stairs, I saw Linda sitting beside him on the sofa. Their heads were huddled close together over a laptop. Neither of them noticed me standing at the foot of the stairs. “Oh my gosh, Leo, you’re literally a lifesaver,” Linda squealed, gazing at him with open admiration. “If I had submitted my original draft, my advisor would have absolutely shredded me.” “Don’t worry,” Leo said softly. “I’ve got you. We’ll fix it together.” My heart gave a painful little squeeze. I had never seen him display that kind of gentleness. Just last month, I had asked him to look over a marketing proposal I was working on for a promotion. He had barely glanced at the paper before looking back down at his phone. “Gina, this isn’t my field. I don’t have time for this.” He had no patience for me. But for Linda, he was willing to explain things line by line, hour by hour. I let go of the handle, and my suitcase clicked against the floorboard. Both of them snapped their heads in my direction. Leo stood up and walked toward me, his tone defensive yet carefully even. “Linda needed help with the final edits. I figured it would be easier and faster if she just came over here to work.” “How convenient,” I murmured. Linda scampered over behind him, her eyes dropping to the suitcase at my feet. She let out a soft gasp. “Gina… are you going somewhere?” I ignored her. Reaching into my coat pocket, I pulled out a platinum credit card and handed it to Leo. “This is the card your mother gave me for the wedding expenses,” I said, my voice steady and devoid of emotion. “I haven’t spent a single penny of it. I’ll speak to my parents tonight. You should do the same with yours. Let’s not drag this out.” Leo stared at the card, a look of genuine shock crossing his face before it hardened into a bitter, mocking smirk. “Gina, what is this dramatic little performance supposed to prove?” “Nothing,” I said, pressing the card into his palm. “Since the engagement is off, it’s only right that I return what isn’t mine.” “Calling off the engagement?!” Linda gasped, her hand flying to her mouth before Leo could speak. “Gina, you’re calling off the wedding? Why?” I turned my gaze to her, looking her straight in the eye. “I think you know exactly why.” Linda froze, the color draining from her face. Leo immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her from my gaze. His brow furrowed in anger. “Gina, that is enough. This is your own insecurity talking. Don’t drag Linda into your issues.” Watching the outrage burn in his eyes, I paused, and a small, sad smile touched my lips. To him, I was just insecure and petty. He completely ignored his own failure to set boundaries, choosing instead to paint me as the irrational, jealous fiancée. “You’re right,” I said quietly. “I am petty.” I wheeled my suitcase around them and walked out the front door. As I crossed the threshold, Linda’s whimpering voice drifted out from the entryway. “Leo… is she calling off the wedding because of me? I swear the lipstick was just an accident, I didn’t mean to leave it in your car… I’m so sorry…” “It has nothing to do with you,” Leo interrupted, his voice dropping into that familiar, reassuring register. “I know her. She’s just trying to scare me. She’s not going to call off the wedding.” I didn’t look back. I pulled the door shut behind me, letting the heavy click of the deadbolt swallow their voices whole. I took a taxi to my parents’ house in the suburbs. When I walked through the door dragging my heavy luggage, my mother stopped dead in her tracks. “Gina? Sweetie, what are you doing here?” Her eyes fell to the suitcases, and her face softened with immediate concern. She asked, her voice cautious, “Did you and Leo have a fight?” My hand tightened around the handle of my suitcase. I swallowed the lump in my throat and shook my head. “No. It wasn’t a fight. I called off the wedding.” My father walked out of the kitchen just in time to hear me. He stood frozen in the hallway. “Gina, what did you just say? You called off the wedding?” I sat them down in the living room and explained everything, my voice growing softer and more exhausted with every sentence. By the time I finished, my mother’s eyes were glistening with unshed tears. My father remained silent, his jaw clenched in quiet anger. “Mom, Dad… I’m so sorry,” I whispered, looking down at my hands. My mother immediately reached across the table and took my hands in hers. Her voice trembled, but she forced herself to stay strong for me. “Gina, look at me. Your father and I will support whatever you decide. If you don’t want to marry him, we aren’t going to make you. Don’t worry about the guests or the relatives. We will handle them.” A sudden wave of emotion hit me, threatening to shatter the fragile calm I’d kept all morning. I blinked rapidly, fighting back the tears, refusing to let them fall. Upstairs in my old childhood bedroom, I collapsed onto the mattress, utterly drained. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a text from my best friend, Becca. “Gina, is it true? Did you actually call off the wedding with Leo? Tell me you’re joking.” I stared at the ceiling and typed out a brief reply: “It’s true. His business trip last month? He took Linda on a weekend getaway.” Within three seconds, Becca was calling me. She didn’t even say hello before launching into a furious tirade. “Is he out of his mind?! You’ve been working yourself to the bone coordinating with vendors and florists, and he’s out of town playing boyfriend to his assistant?! You spent six years of your life building a future with this man. How could he do this to you? He’s an absolute prick!” By the end of her rant, her voice was shaking with anger and tears. She was crying for me, feeling the injustice of it all more loudly than I could. I forced a small, tired smile. “It’s okay, Becca. Honestly, it’s better this way. I don’t want to marry him anymore.” Before, I had been holding onto the hope that things would change. But now, my heart was entirely numb. The love had simply bled out of it. The night before our scheduled wedding, Leo called me. “Tomorrow is the big day,” he said, his voice casual, as if he were checking in on a grocery list. “What time are you coming back to the apartment tonight?” I stared out the window into the dark suburbia, a quiet, humorless laugh escaping my throat. He still believed this was a game. He still thought I was just throwing a tantrum to teach him a lesson. “I’m not coming back,” I said. There was a brief pause on the line. “Fine,” he sighed. “Your parents’ place is closer to the venue anyway. You can just head straight to the hotel tomorrow morning.” “Leo,” I interrupted, closing my eyes. “I am not going to the venue. I am not getting married tomorrow. I wasn’t throwing a tantrum. I am done.” A long, heavy silence stretched over the phone. When he finally spoke, his tone was clipped, laced with disbelief. “What do you mean you’re not going? Gina, do you hear yourself right now? Is this about Linda again?” He exhaled a long, dramatic sigh, the epitome of a martyr. “Linda and I are colleagues. We work in the same lab. There is absolutely nothing going on between us. I explained the trip to you. Can you please stop making a scene?” A scene. In Leo’s eyes, every boundary I tried to set, every ounce of pain I expressed, was just me “making a scene.” When Linda called him at midnight because her apartment’s kitchen light broke, he had rushed over without a second thought. When I cried about it, he told me I was overreacting. When he chose to drive her across town instead of picking me up from a bar in the rain, he told me I was being dramatic. And now, when I was trying to save my own dignity by calling off a doomed marriage, he called it a scene. I wanted to ask him: “What do I have to do for you to actually hear me?” I took a deep breath. “Leo, I am not—” “Leo!” A feminine voice suddenly chimed in from his end of the line, cutting me off. It was Linda. I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. It was past eleven. She was still at his apartment. Leo muffled the microphone on his phone, but his voice still leaked through as he whispered to her, “What’s wrong?” “Leo, are you sure it’s okay for me to crash on your couch tonight? I don’t want to make things weird,” Linda asked, her voice dripping with sweet innocence. I pressed the red button and hung up. A few minutes later, a text message popped up on my screen. “Linda ran into some massive errors with her dataset. We worked late into the night trying to resolve them, so I told her she could stay in the guest room. Get some sleep, Gina. I’ll see you at the altar tomorrow.” He was still entirely convinced I would show up. My thumb hovered over his contact card. With a few quick taps, I blocked his number. Since he was so absolutely certain of my compliance, I decided to let him experience his perfect wedding day all by himself.

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I have a secret. I was born with the ability to smell what people are feeling. When someone lies, they carry the sour, curdled scent of spoiled milk. When someone is jealous, they smell of the sharp, metallic bite of rusted iron. When someone has a guilty conscience, they carry the heavy dampness of cellar mold. But when someone is in love, they carry a sweet, golden warmth, like honeyed vanilla. I first smelled that sweetness when Garrett and I fell in love. Back then, when he looked at me, his eyes shone as if they held the stars, and he carried that soft, sugary fragrance wherever he went. Then, we got married. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but the sweetness faded. In its place came a thick, choking bitterness. I tried to ask him about it, gently, testing the waters. “Are you doing okay lately? Is something bothering you?” He would only sigh, rubbing his temples. “Just pressure. Providing for us is heavy. The mortgage, the car payments, the endless meetings at the firm – it’s suffocating, Natalie.” I believed him. And my heart ached for him. So, I tried harder to be the perfect, understanding wife. I stopped asking why he came home so late. I stopped questioning the sudden passcode change on his phone. I stopped interrupting his “client dinners.” Until our fifth wedding anniversary. He came through the front door, laughing and talking on the phone, and for the first time in years, I caught a draft of that long-lost sweetness. But the very second the call ended, a suffocating wave of bitterness surged, completely drowning out the sweet scent. … 1 My smile froze on my face. Refusing to believe my own senses, I took a few steps closer. But the bitterness didn’t dissipate. Instead, it grew heavier, crowding my nasal passages. Garrett looked exactly like his scent – heavy, exhausted, silent. Without a word, he kicked off his shoes, set his briefcase on the entryway console, and went straight to the bathroom. The sound of running water filled the apartment. When he emerged, drying his hands on a towel, he made a straight line for the study. “Garrett, today is our…” “I’m tired,” he interrupted, not even looking back. “I need some quiet time in the study.” And with that, he shut the door. Staring at the closed door, I bit my lip, a familiar, unspeakable exhaustion settling deep in my bones. Three years into our marriage, he told me work was too draining and that he needed a space of his own at home to breathe. So, we agreed the study would be his exclusive sanctuary. I wasn’t allowed in without permission. At first, he only spent an hour in there. Then it became three. Eventually, it got to the point where if he was home, he spent most of his time behind that closed door. I sighed, turning back to the dining table. I had cooked dinner myself, warming it up over and over again while waiting for him. The dishes had lost their fresh color; a thin layer of grease had settled over the soup. In the fridge sat a blueberry cake. Garrett had mentioned offhandedly a while ago that he wanted some, so I had spent the afternoon learning how to bake it from scratch. Thinking of the entire day I’d spent preparing, I picked up my phone and opened our chat. “[It’s our anniversary. Can we please just have dinner together first?]” But before hitting send, a strange impulse made me scroll up through our chat history. I let out a soft, self-mocking laugh. Over the last two years, I had sent Garrett 3,542 messages. He had replied to exactly 98. Yet, two years ago, our chat was a dense forest of words. Even seeing a funny-looking cloud was enough to keep us talking for hours. After a long hesitation, I deleted the plea, letter by letter. I sat down alone and picked up my fork. The food, reheated too many times, had lost its flavor. It tasted slightly nauseating as I chewed, but I forced myself to swallow it, bite by bite. It felt as though if I could just finish this table of food, I could swallow some of the humiliation of tonight. By the end, my throat burned with a sour ache. I set down my fork, went to the fridge, and pulled out the cake. I was about to dig in when the study door suddenly swung open. Garrett rushed out, looking like he was in a hurry to leave. But as his eyes swept over the dining table, he stopped. “Don’t eat that!” His sharp voice startled me. My spoon slipped, clattering loudly against the edge of the plate. He strode over and snatched the cake box right off the counter. “You bought this, right? I need to borrow it.” It wasn’t a request; it was an announcement. Before I could answer, he turned and bolted out the door. As the door slammed shut, the draft from the hallway rushed in. And with it, the scent he had left behind. Sweetness. But mixed with it was a sharp, searing heat – the smell of burning anxiety. It was the scent a person only carries when they are desperately worried about someone they love. During our first year of dating, I had gone back to my hometown for New Year’s and ended up breaking my leg. Garrett couldn’t book a train ticket, so he sat in a cramped, freezing overnight bus for twelve hours just to reach me. When he pushed open my hospital room door, he carried this exact smell. It had washed over me, mingled with the cheap tobacco and winter chill of the bus. Back then, it made my heart overflow with joy. But now, that same scent felt like a blunt knife slowly carving into my chest. I didn’t think. Within seconds, I threw on my coat and shoes and slipped out after him. Garrett hadn’t taken his car. I followed him on foot, keeping a careful distance. Several times, if he had just glanced back, he would have spotted me. But he walked too fast, his mind clearly consumed by something else. He had no idea he was being followed. Just past the gates of our neighborhood, he ducked into a 24-hour convenience store. He slid onto a stool right next to a woman with long hair. Her head was bowed, her shoulders trembling slightly. Garrett placed the cake in front of her, gently resting his hand on her hair. His lips moved, whispering soft, comforting words I couldn’t hear. I hadn’t seen him look at anyone like that in years. It wasn’t the look of exhaustion. Or cold indifference. Or obligation. It was the look that used to belong entirely to me – an overwhelming, aching tenderness. I pushed open the glass door of the store, pretending to browse the shelves. Just then, the woman turned her head and buried her face in Garrett’s chest. In that split second, I saw her face. I froze in the aisle, my blood turning to ice. It was Keira. The girl I had been financially sponsoring for nearly ten years. Only last month, as she was preparing to graduate from college, I had asked her where she wanted to start her career. I told her that if she came to Chicago, I might be able to help her find her footing. She had looked down then, her cheeks flushing. “I want to go to the city where the person I love is. I just want to be close to him.” I had admired her courage back then, thinking she was so much like my younger self – willing to travel thousands of miles to an unfamiliar city for the man she loved. But in less than a month, those words had returned to slap me across the face. The person she loved was my husband. The man she had chased across the country was the very same man I had chased years ago. The cold air from the store’s open coolers made my fingers numb. Meanwhile, the scent drifting from their corner invaded my nose in waves. The sweetness was growing thicker. The scent of a honeymoon phase. Suppressing the rising bile in my throat, I took a few steps closer. Finally, Keira’s tearful, aggrieved voice reached my ears. “My supervisor made me work overtime again. It wasn’t even my mistake on the proposal, but she yelled at me in front of everyone. And now she’s making me reorganize three years’ worth of client files.” Garrett cooed to her in a low, soothing voice. “Don’t cry. You won’t have to deal with this kind of unfairness ever again.” Keira looked up at him, her eyes damp and wide. “Really?” Garrett wiped her tears away with an incredibly tender touch. “Starting tomorrow, I’ll have you transferred to my department as my personal assistant. With me around, no one will dare bully you.” My grip tightened on the metal shelf, my knuckles turning white. Two months ago, my own company had worked overtime for two straight weeks to bid on a project from Garrett’s firm. I knew Garrett hated nepotism or favoritism of any kind, so I never breathed a word to him about it. Yet, when he saw my company’s name on the list, he personally disqualified us to avoid any appearance of conflict of interest. The next day, my colleagues looked at me with a mixture of disappointment and resentment. I couldn’t offer a single word of explanation. And yet here, for Keira, all it took was a few tears, and he was ready to abuse his authority to pave a golden path for her. Garrett opened the cake box and pushed it toward Keira. “I knew you were upset, so I brought you this.” The moment the lid came off, both of them froze. Scribbled in uneven icing on the top of the cake were the words: “Happy 5th Anniversary.” Beside the text was a clumsy drawing of two cartoon figures holding hands. Keira stood up abruptly, tears spilling over. “Garrett, what is this supposed to mean? Are you trying to humiliate me? To remind me that I’m just the other woman?” Panicking, Garrett slammed the box shut and threw it violently into the trash can. “Hey, hey, sweetie, of course not. I was just in such a rush to get to you that I grabbed whatever was on the counter. I didn’t even remember what day it was.” “If you don’t like it, we throw it away. I’ll buy you a fresh one tomorrow, okay?” In the trash can, the cake lay tilted against plastic wraps and empty cups. The two cartoon figures were smeared into a blue blur, their outlines ruined. Just like my five years of marriage. But the cake wasn’t what broke my heart. It was the way he held Keira, whispering sweet-nothings, comforting her over and over with boundless patience, as if she were a fragile piece of porcelain. Last month, I had mentioned wanting a specific pour-over coffee from the shop downstairs from his office. I asked for a month, he promised for a month, and he forgot for a month. Finally, he had brought home a bottle of instant coffee from this very convenience store and tossed it on the counter. When I told him that wasn’t what I wanted, his brow had furrowed in irritation. “Natalie, my job is stressful enough. Can you stop picking fights over trivial nonsense?” Back then, I had made excuses for him, convincing myself he was just exhausted. But it wasn’t that at all. The difference between loving someone and not loving them is stark. I couldn’t watch any longer. I turned and walked out into the night. The cold wind bit my face, making my eyes sting. Standing under a streetlamp, I drafted a resignation email to my boss. He was already cold toward me after we lost the contract with Garrett’s firm, and his reply came almost instantly: “[Understood. Please complete your handoff and finish up by the end of the week.]” When I got back to the apartment, I left the cold leftovers on the table. I took a shower, crawled into bed, and stared at the dark ceiling. It was nearly midnight when the front door finally clicked open. Garrett crept into the bedroom. The sweetness on him had vanished, replaced once more by that heavy, suffocating bitterness. But this time, there was a faint, sour tang underneath – the smell of guilt. I didn’t know if he felt guilty for forgetting our anniversary, or for harboring another woman in his heart. The mattress dipped as he climbed in and wrapped his arms around me from behind. “Natalie, I’m so sorry. Things have been insane at work lately, and I completely lost track of the date. Let me make it up to you with a nice gift in a few days, okay?” I didn’t turn around. I just gave a quiet, hollow murmur of agreement. But I knew. “In a few days” meant never. That was always Garrett’s way. When he genuinely wanted to do something, he gave a concrete timeline. Like when he comforted Keira, he said “tomorrow.” For me, it was always the nebulous safety of “some other time.” Hearing my quiet response, the scent of guilt evaporated from him. Within minutes, he fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. Sure enough, by the time I finished my handoff and walked out of my office for the last time, his promised gift had never materialized. On my final day, after picking up the finalized divorce papers from my attorney’s office, I took a cab home. As we drove past Garrett’s office building, a sudden impulse took hold of me. “Actually, could you pull over here, please?” It was a whim; I hadn’t actually expected to run into him. But as I neared the glass lobby doors, I saw Garrett and Keira walking out side-by-side. The young receptionist smiled, teasing them. “Garrett, taking Keira out solo again?” Keira’s cheeks flushed, and she waved her hands. “Oh, don’t say that! It’s just a client meeting.” The receptionist gave a knowing smirk. “Right, right. We get it.” Garrett heard her, but he didn’t correct her. There wasn’t even a flicker of annoyance on his face. Standing outside the glass doors, I let out a quiet, self-mocking laugh. But as I laughed, a tear slipped down my cheek. Garrett was a man so fiercely protective of professional boundaries that he was almost draconian about them. During our first year of marriage, when we worked at the same company, he had told me, “Office romances look bad, Natalie. One of us needs to leave to keep things professional.” So, I had walked away from a career I had spent three years building – one where I was on the cusp of a promotion. I rewrote my resume, took interviews, and started all over again from the bottom. Yet here he was, parading Keira around the office, completely unbothered by the suggestive whispers of his staff. I followed them. They walked a block and entered a small, cozy bistro on the corner. It was a place Garrett and I used to frequent back when we were dating. In those days, the restaurant was tiny, with greasy wooden tables and menus that were frayed at the edges. But it was cheap, the portions were huge, and the food was incredible. Later, the place became trendy. You needed reservations; the lines stretched down the block. Garrett grew to despise it, refusing to take me there ever again. “Is there really nothing else you want to eat? Do we have to waste our evening standing in line for a craving?” Yet now, the hostess recognized him immediately and smiled. “Table for two, Garrett? Your usual spot?” Keira walked inside with practiced ease, as if she had been here dozens of times. Standing on the sidewalk, the air suddenly felt too thick to breathe. He hadn’t hated the hassle of the restaurant; he had just hated the hassle of “me.” Under the shadow of a maple tree, I watched them through the window. The food arrived quickly – a skillet of garlic shrimp, a whole roasted sea bass, and several other signature dishes I knew by heart. Garrett naturally took the wet wipes from the server. He pulled the fish apart, meticulously extracting every bone before placing a piece of fish onto Keira’s plate. Then he peeled the shrimp, dipped them in sauce, and set them in her bowl. Watching this, my mind drifted back to our early years. Those were tasks I had always done for him. Garrett was meticulous, a bit of a clean freak. He hated getting his fingers greasy, hated the chore of peeling shells. So, whenever we ate, I would peel his shrimp, debone his fish, and slide them onto his plate. Our friends used to tease me. “Natalie, if you keep spoiling him like this, you’re going to turn him into a helpless toddler.” I had only laughed. But now I had my answer. Garrett wasn’t helpless. He was perfectly capable of doing the things he disliked – provided the person he was doing them for was someone he actually loved. I pulled out my phone and opened my chat with Keira. Our last exchange was her message about moving to the city of her dreams, followed by a GIF of a winking golden retriever. No wonder it had looked familiar. I realized now it was from a sticker pack Garrett used constantly. My thumb hovered over the keyboard. After a long moment, I typed out a message: “[Keira, I saw you here in Chicago. So you decided to stay after all? Why don’t you come over to our place for dinner this weekend?]” The message sent. I didn’t wait to see their reactions. I slipped my phone into my pocket, turned on my heel, and walked away. Apparently, Keira didn’t tell Garrett about my invitation. Because when the doorbell rang on Sunday, and Garrett opened the door to find her standing there, his entire body went rigid. In the next second, a damp, moldy smell exploded into the hallway, laced with a sharp, panicked heat. Guilt and panic, coiling together. I knew exactly why Keira hadn’t told him. What woman is truly content staying hidden in the shadows forever? When given the chance to step into the light, to claim a space in his home, she was never going to pass it up. While Keira went to the restroom, Garrett grabbed my wrist and dragged me into the corner of the kitchen. His voice was a harsh whisper, laced with accusation. “Why didn’t you tell me Keira was coming over for dinner?” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “You always say you hate hearing about domestic details. So I didn’t bother.” Garrett choked on his words, his brow knitting tighter. “Natalie, you – ” Before he could finish, the bathroom door clicked open. Keira stepped out, her smile sweet and entirely innocent. “Natalie, when are we eating? I’m starving.” I pulled my wrist from Garrett’s grip and reached for the serving platters. “Right now.” The three of us sat down at the table. In the past, whenever Keira visited, she would cling to my side, always insisting on sitting next to me. This time, she naturally pulled out the chair directly beside Garrett. I set the soup bowl down, pretending not to notice. With a pleasant smile, I asked her, “So, Keira, you mentioned before that you were moving to be with the person you loved. How did you end up staying in Chicago?” As the question hung in the air, I felt a strange knot of tension in my chest. I had supported Keira for a decade. I had watched her pull herself out of a mountain village without paved roads, fighting her way to a top-tier university. I didn’t want to destroy her future over a sordid affair. I was going to divorce Garrett, without question. But if she showed any remorse, any sign of realizing her mistake, I wanted to leave her with some shred of dignity. But Keira only looked down, a small smile playing on her lips. When she looked up, her gaze drifted sideways to Garrett. “Because the person I love is here in Chicago,” she said softly, but with absolute clarity. “He begged me to stay. He found me a job, rented me an apartment, even got me a car. He showed so much sincerity… how could I not stay?” As her words fell, the dining room became choked with competing scents. From Garrett, the damp, rotting stench of guilt. From Keira, the sharp, metallic bite of open provocation. And from me? There was no longer any sour ache of heartbreak. There was only the dry, empty smell of cold ash. Disappointment. I smiled faintly and let the subject drop. The rest of the meal tasted like cardboard. When we finished, I was the one who broke the silence. “Garrett, it’s getting late. Why don’t you drive Keira home?” Garrett’s face was dark, but he didn’t refuse. He grabbed his keys in silence, and he and Keira walked out of the apartment. A split second before the elevator doors closed, I saw Keira stand on her tiptoes and plant a quick, mocking kiss on his cheek. It was a declaration of ownership. A victory lap. I let the doors close, turned back into my apartment, and shut the door. I went into the bedroom, pulled out my pre-packed suitcases, and set them by the door. Then, I placed the signed divorce agreement neatly in the center of the dining table. Finally, I opened my laptop and pulled up my email. I attached the blurry photo of them embracing at the convenience store, the clear shot of him deboning her fish at the restaurant, and several photos of them walking into his office building together. Along with a concise, factual report, I sent the package directly to the email of Garrett’s regional director. With that done, I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and walked out without looking back. The night air hit my face as I stepped out of the building, washing away the heavy, bitter scent of Garrett that had clung to me for far too long. Garrett didn’t get home until three in the morning. Keira had clung to his sleeve, refusing to let him leave. First, she said she was scared to be alone, then she claimed she heard strange noises in her apartment, then she begged for just thirty more minutes. Thirty minutes turned into hours. By the time Garrett’s patience finally wore thin, the sky was already graying. On the drive back, Garrett felt nothing but exhaustion. Managing Keira was becoming increasingly demanding; she always seemed to want more. By contrast, he thought, Natalie had never been like this. She was always reasonable, always understanding. Even if he stayed out all night, she would only send a gentle “Stay safe” text and leave the porch light on. When he turned the key in the lock, he frowned out of habit. The entryway was dark, the living room pitch-black save for the amber glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. “Natalie?” he called out. No response. He fumbled for the light switch. When the room flooded with light, he froze. The dining table was a mess of dirty dishes. The remnants of dinner had congealed into white grease, and a dark stain had soaked into the tablecloth. There were dried sauce drops on the hardwood floor, and a small clump of rice lay abandoned nearby. This wasn’t like Natalie. She couldn’t stand a messy house. Even when she had a fever, she would force herself to put everything in its place. The faint guilt he had felt for coming home late was instantly replaced by irritation. His job was exhausting enough; he didn’t want to come home to a disaster. With a cold face, he marched toward the bedroom to demand an explanation. The door was cracked open, the room dark. He pushed it open and flipped the switch. The bed was made perfectly. The duvet was pulled tight, without a single wrinkle to suggest anyone had lain there. “Natalie?” Still nothing. He checked the bathroom – empty. He stood in the middle of the quiet apartment, suddenly struck by how vast and foreign the space felt. The subtle scent of Natalie’s lavender fabric softener was already fading. He walked back to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water, and that was when he spotted the document resting beside a plate. Frowning, he picked it up. The bold, capitalized letters at the top hit him like a physical blow: “DIVORCE AGREEMENT.” Garrett stared at it, a wave of disbelief washing over him. Natalie wanted a divorce? Over a missed anniversary dinner? Over a cake? It made no sense. He let out a harsh, dry laugh and tossed the paper back onto the table. He pulled out his phone and dialed her number. “We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is currently unavailable…” He hung up and opened Messages. “[Natalie, what is this nonsense? Where the hell are you at this hour?]” The message failed to send. A glaring red exclamation mark appeared, followed by a small line of text: “Message not delivered. You have been blocked by this contact.” Garrett stared at the red circle, paralyzed. Then, a hot, uncontrollable anger flared in his chest. They had argued before, but Natalie was always the one to back down first. This time, she had gone too far – actually signing divorce papers. He made up his mind right then: he would wait until she came crawling back, apologizing, before he would even consider forgiving her. With that thought, the fire in his chest subsided slightly. He went to bed, tossing and turning until dawn before finally falling into a fitful sleep. The next morning, he was jolted awake by his phone. It was the assistant to the regional director, Mr. Campbell. “Garrett, Mr. Campbell wants you in his office immediately. We have a highly urgent matter to discuss.”

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I have always been able to see the red strings. They are thin, glowing threads of fate, anchoring one soul to another. When two people share a deep, intimate bond, a line appears between them. Jack and I were high school sweethearts. For eight years, a single, vibrant crimson thread ran from my chest straight to his, steady and unbroken. For his twenty-eighth birthday, we planned a weekend trip with our closest friends to hike the rugged backcountry of the northern ridges. Jack was an avid outdoorsman, the kind of guy who lived for the trail. He had shrugged off my suggestion of hiring a guide, his voice full of easy confidence. “A guide? Come on, babe. I’ve hiked this route six times. I could lead us to the summit with my eyes closed.” But midway up the mountain, he vanished. Without him, we didn’t know the trail, and the weather turned in an instant. A sudden, violent storm triggered a massive mudslide. My best friend, Beth, went over the edge of a ravine trying to pull me to safety. I was left curled beneath the freezing roots of a pine tree, my limbs completely numb, my jacket soaked through with blood. When I finally opened my eyes, I was staring at the sterile white ceiling of a hospital room. The doctor told me I was pregnant—just two months along—and that the baby was gone. Then the search-and-rescue team delivered the final, crushing blow. They had found Beth’s body. She had been pierced by a fallen branch. It was a horrific, agonizing way to die. My heart felt shattered into a million jagged pieces. I lay there, weeping hysterically, drowning in a grief so heavy I couldn’t breathe. That was when Jack finally showed up. He rushed to my bedside, throwing his arms around me, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’m so sorry, Leah. I’m so sorry I’m late…” I froze in his arms, staring at him. Why? It had only been twenty-four hours. But the red string on his chest had split. There were now two of them. 1 “Where were you?” His hand, which had been gently wiping the tears from my cheek, faltered for a fraction of a second. He recovered quickly, offering a seamless explanation. “I got a text saying my dad had a heart attack. I panicked, Leah. All I could think about was getting to him. I forgot to tell the rest of the group before I ran down.” “In the backcountry?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “Since when is there cell service up there?” A shadow crossed his face. “There was a weak signal. Did your phone not have one?” I didn’t answer. I didn’t believe a single word. I kept my eyes locked on his chest. The deep, blood-red string was mine. But the other one—the pale, rose-pink thread—who did it belong to? Did that new connection have something to do with why he abandoned us on that mountain? The door clicked open, and a police officer walked into the room. Seeing that I was conscious, he gently asked me to come down to the morgue to identify Beth. The basement of the hospital was freezing, colder even than the rainy night on the mountain. Beth’s face was pale and ruined, barely recognizable. But I knew the small, dark mole right on her collarbone. “It’s her,” I choked out. The officer nodded sympathetically. “Do you have any contact information for her next of kin?” I shook my head, my throat tight. “She… she didn’t have anyone else.” We had grown up together in the same orphanage. I was her only friend, her only family. With trembling hands, I pulled the white sheet back over her face. I reached down, took off my own shoes, and slipped them onto her bare, cold feet. She had always hated the cold. She couldn’t go to the other side without shoes. Jack patted my back, his touch light and detached, like an outsider observing someone else’s tragedy. “I know you’re angry with me,” he whispered, sounding defensive. “But I had my reasons. I’m hurting too, Leah.” Ignoring my silent resistance, he lifted me up and carried me back to my room. He wiped my face and my feet with wet wipes, throwing away one damp tissue after another. I stared at him, feeling as though I was going to cry until my eyes ran dry. “Jack,” I asked, “do you think Beth will be happy in her next life? Do you think she’ll get a mom and dad who actually love her?” “And the baby… do you think our baby will hate me for not protecting them?” “Stop overthinking things,” Jack replied, his voice distracted as he stared down at his phone. “They’re gone. Dwelling on it only makes it worse.” He typed out two quick replies, then slid his phone into his pocket and stood up. “I have some urgent stuff to handle at the office. Call me if you need anything.” I watched his retreating back. As soon as the door clicked shut, something possessed me. I swung my legs out of bed and walked out of the room barefoot. The sharp pebbles on the pavement cut into the soles of my feet, leaving faint smears of blood behind me, but I couldn’t feel the pain. I slipped into a taxi and followed Jack’s car. The surroundings grew increasingly familiar. We were heading toward the Northside university district. Jack’s car pulled up near the gates of the state college. Standing there was a familiar, slender figure. It was Sadie. The girl I had been financially sponsoring for the last six years. She took a few quick steps and threw herself directly into Jack’s arms. I dug my fingernails deep into my palms, praying this was just a horrific nightmare. How could it be her? I had funded Sadie’s education since she was a young girl in middle school. Beth and I had treated her like a younger sister. Every summer and winter break, she would come to the city to stay with us. I had paid her tuition, shown her the world outside her impoverished town, and helped her build a life here. And this was how she repaid me. She clung to my husband, the pink line on her chest glowing with a sickening intensity. Jack reached down, gently stroking her hair. “Be good, Sadie. Leah and Beth had an accident. I won’t be able to come see you for a few days.” Sadie looked down, playfully twisting his fingers. “Fine. I understand. But can you at least stay with me today?” She pouted, her eyes wide and pleading. “Alright, get in, you little troublemaker,” Jack murmured, his voice thick with affection. The car sped away. By the time my taxi driver realized what was happening and pressed on the gas, they were already gone. I paid the driver, stepped out, and sat on the curb, completely numb. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my chat history with Sadie. She had always treated me like an older sister, sharing her secrets and crushes. She had told me she was in love with someone. I had even given her advice on how to win him over. The restaurant they went to? I had helped her pick it. The amusement park tickets? I had bought them for her. The concert tickets? I had stayed up late to secure them. With my help, she had systematically crawled her way into my husband’s bed. I opened her social media profile. Her latest post was a blurry photo of two hands locked together. [He promised that if we kept our Snapstreak alive for 520 days, I’d finally say yes to being his girlfriend.] [On day 519, he was deep in the mountains with no cell service. But he actually abandoned his hiking group and ran all the way down the mountain just to get a signal and save our streak.] [Now I know he truly loves me.] So that was the truth. He had abandoned us in a storm, leading to a miscarriage and the death of my best friend, all for a Snapchat streak. A tear slipped from my cheek, hitting the screen and accidentally liking Sadie’s post. A second later, a private message popped up from her. It was a cute sticker of a puppy hugging a heart. [Leah, I heard about the accident. I’m so incredibly sorry for your loss. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.] I didn’t reply. My phone’s battery died, and the screen went black. The cold night wind whipped around me, making my head spin. I felt like I was back on the muddy slopes of the mountain. I used the last of my strength to crawl back to the hospital. Jack never came back that night. The next morning, he walked into the ward carrying a bag of breakfast. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he tossed the bag straight into the trash can. “Sorry, babe. I totally forgot you hate celery.” I caught a whiff of the sweet, synthetic orange scent on his clothes, and a wave of nausea hit me. The red string connecting him to Sadie had deepened into a rich garnet color. Mine had faded to a pale, translucent pink. On his collar, there was a faint trace of peach lip gloss. I knew exactly what they had been doing last night. His phone buzzed repeatedly. He sat on the edge of my bed, legs crossed, ducking his head to hide his smile as he typed. Because of my angle, I could see every word of their explicit conversation. [Sadie: You jerk! I woke up and you were already gone.] [Jack: Sweetheart, Leah is still in the hospital. I have to be here.] [Sadie: I guess your wife always comes first. You made me cry last night and you didn’t even care.] [Jack: Baby, you were crying because it felt so good. You were so loud.] Jack’s fingers flew across the keyboard, his face lit up like a teenager experiencing his first love. When he finally looked up and remembered I was there, he quickly masked his joy with a solemn, serious expression. It was exhausting just watching him act. I didn’t confront him. Right now, my priority was Beth. Once Jack left the hospital, I forced myself out of bed and signed the discharge papers. I spent the day handling the death certificate and the paperwork to close her bank accounts. My chest felt hollow. Just a few days ago, Beth had been holding my arm, excitedly planning our next vacation. How could she just be gone? My phone buzzed with a text from Jack. [Babe, are you okay on your own? I’m meeting up with the guys from the hike to buy them dinner and apologize for leaving them on the mountain.] I didn’t bother to reply. I was at the funeral home, trying to select an urn through a blur of tears, when my phone rang. It was Tyler, one of Jack’s childhood friends who had been on the mountain with us. I answered, but Tyler didn’t speak right away. Instead, I heard Sadie’s giggling voice in the background. Jack had brought Sadie to the apology dinner. Except for me, everyone in his circle already knew about them. “Seriously, Jack, you’re something else,” Tyler’s voice came through, sounding strained. “You almost got us killed for a girl.” Jack let out a defensive laugh. “Come on, man, can we drop it? Do I need to get down on my knees and beg?” “We’re fine, but what about Leah?” another friend chimed in. “She lost her baby, she watched her best friend fall down a cliff. You didn’t see her, Jack. She was clawing at the dirt trying to climb down to Beth until her fingernails were torn off and bleeding. It was brutal. If you had been there, none of this would have happened.” “What do you want me to do?” Jack snapped. “It already happened. Nobody knew a mudslide was coming. It was just bad luck. You can’t pin this on me.” Sadie’s voice drifted over the receiver. “Don’t blame Jack, guys. He’s really devastated too.” “Oh, look who’s protecting him,” Tyler muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “So, when you ditched us on the mountain, did you guys go straight to a hotel? How was the first time, anyway?” Jack let out a low chuckle. “Three times. She cried because it hurt.” The call abruptly disconnected. A moment later, a text from Tyler popped up on my screen. [Leah, if you hadn’t given me your spare rain jacket that night, I would have gotten hypothermia. I owe you my life. I can’t keep lying to you about Jack and Sadie.] I saved the recording of the call. I played it over and over again, letting the words tear into me until the pain gave way to a cold, dead numbness. I took Beth’s urn back to her empty apartment. I sat on the living room floor, staring at our graduation photo on the wall. We had used our very first paychecks to get professional portraits taken. She had such a beautiful, radiant smile. “Don’t worry, Beth,” I whispered to the empty room. “I’m not going to fall apart.” Beth’s memorial service was held a week later. Sadie actually had the audacity to show up. She walked up to me and offered a fragile, dramatic hug. “Leah, please stay strong. You still have me.” She was wearing a scoop-neck dress that barely concealed a pattern of dark hickeys on her collarbone. Her performance of grief was cheap—lots of loud sniffling, but not a single tear. I clenched my fists inside my pockets, swallowing the bile rising in my throat. I didn’t say a word. Right after the eulogy, I noticed both Sadie and Jack had slipped out of the chapel. I followed the quiet hallway until I reached the emergency exit stairwell. Through the narrow crack in the door, I saw them. They were pressed against the concrete wall, kissing with frantic, desperate hunger. Jack eventually pulled back, his breathing heavy, though he tried to look disapproving. “Are you out of your mind? This is Beth’s funeral!” “I don’t care,” Sadie giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Don’t tell me you don’t find this thrilling.” She looked up at him with an innocent, wide-eyed smile. “You little heartless brat,” Jack murmured, though there was no real heat in his voice. “Beth sent you money every month, you know.” “She just wanted to play the saint and feel good about herself,” Sadie sneered. “What does that have to do with me?” Jack grabbed her by the waist, pulling her flush against his body as if he wanted to bruise her. The red string connecting them was thick and vibrant, almost bleeding with intensity. Mine, by contrast, was a faint, ghostly thread. A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over me, and my foot slipped against the doorframe. The sound startled them, and they immediately sprang apart. Jack smoothed his jacket, his expression smoothing into a mask of casual innocence within a second. He didn’t even look flustered as he walked toward me, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Hey, babe. My cravings got the best of me, so I came out for a smoke. Ran into Sadie on the way.” I didn’t call him out. I just clenched my teeth and forced my voice to remain steady. “I noticed you were gone, so I came looking for you.” He slid the cigarettes back into his pocket. “I’m done anyway. I’ll head back inside first.” As I turned to follow him, Sadie called out to me. “Leah, you saw us, didn’t you?” I stopped. “Saw what?” She blinked at me, her face a picture of youthful innocence. “Oh, stop acting. We were kissing.” “Look at my waist,” she added, lifting the edge of her cardigan to reveal a faint red mark. “He gripped me so hard it left a bruise.” My fingers dug into my palms. “What is your point, Sadie?” “I loved Jack the moment I saw him,” she said softly. “He’s handsome, mature, and gentle. He’s the best man I’ve ever met. I honestly don’t know how you got so lucky.” She let out a soft sigh. “But I really do have to thank you. Thank you for paying for my college.” “Jack told me that when you guys were trying to buy your apartment, you worked three different part-time jobs just to make sure you could still send me my monthly allowance. If it weren’t for you, I’d still be stuck in that miserable little mountain village. I never would have made it to the city, and I never would have met Jack.” “You practically handed him to me, Leah. You really are a wonderful person.” The blood in my veins ran cold. “…Are you even human?” “Think whatever you want,” she said, entirely unbothered. “Oh, by the way, I heard from the doctor that your uterus was badly damaged during the miscarriage. You probably won’t ever be able to have kids again, right?” She reached into her purse and pulled out a plastic stick, holding it up for me to see. Two distinct pink lines. “Maybe your dead baby decided to come to my belly instead.” “I’m pregnant, Leah. I haven’t told Jack yet. How happy do you think he’ll be when he finds out?” With a triumphant smile, she brushed past my shoulder and walked away. That night, Jack didn’t come home. Around midnight, Tyler sent me a video. It was taken at the upscale lounge where they always hung out. Sadie was sitting in the center of the booth, surrounded by their friends, while Jack held her close, kissing her passionately. “Let’s raise a glass!” Jack shouted over the music, his face flushed with joy. “I’m going to be a dad!” He was beaming, entirely untroubled by the fact that our own baby had died just a week ago. While some lives ended, others began. I was the only one left in the wreckage. My phone buzzed with a text from him. [Babe, caught up with some work stuff at the office. Won’t make it home tonight.] [By the way, can you head over to my parents’ place tomorrow? My mom’s back has been acting up, and she could use some help around the house.] I stared at the screen for a long time before typing my reply. [Okay.] And then I added: [I think I’ll stay with them for a couple of days so I can take proper care of them.] [Awesome, thanks babe!] The next morning, I packed my things and moved into my in-laws’ house. Predictably, Jack brought Sadie back to our apartment that very night. The hidden nanny cam I had installed in our living room months ago captured everything in high-definition clarity. I sat on the guest bed at his parents’ house, quietly watching them embrace, kiss, and tear their clothes off. They didn’t even make it to the bedroom. They collapsed onto the living room rug, wrapped up in each other. The red string connecting me to Jack had faded until it was practically invisible. I felt an eerie, profound sense of peace. Beth’s funeral was over. Everything that needed to be done had been done. Now, it was time to settle the debt. The next morning, I drove to the transit station and picked up Sadie’s parents. They were simple farmers who had never left their rural county. When I called them and told them their daughter was in serious trouble, they had boarded the first bus out. “Leah, what happened to our little girl?” her mother asked, her eyes wide with worry. “You’ll see when we get there,” I replied quietly, guiding them into a waiting cab. Then I went back to my in-laws’ house and picked up Jack’s parents. But I wasn’t finished. I created a massive group chat on social media, adding every single mutual friend, family member, colleague, and acquaintance Jack had. When we finally arrived at our apartment, I unlocked the door with my key and quietly led both sets of parents up the stairs to the second floor. The master bedroom door was ajar. Jack and Sadie were lying tangled in my sheets, completely naked. The floor was littered with used wrappers and adult toys. It didn’t take a genius to figure out exactly what kind of night they had shared. After a long, suffocating silence, Sadie’s mother let out a raw, horrified shriek. “Sadie!” The show had finally begun.

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