Author: Momo Chan

My fiancé’s favorite promise was “next time”. When my chronic stomach ulcer flared up and landed me in the hospital, he said he’d accompany me to my follow-up “next time”. When I had to work late on my birthday, he said he’d make it up to me “next time”. When I received my acceptance letter from the prestigious hospital in London, he said we’d celebrate “next time”. But his “next time” always belonged to Amber. When she went through a breakup, he drove across three state lines at two in the morning just to sit with her. When she was moving, he bailed on meeting my parents for the first time so he could carry her boxes. When she offhandedly mentioned wanting to see the ocean, he booked two plane tickets to the coast immediately. I asked him, “What about our wedding?” Chase merely knit his brows, looking thoroughly irritated. “She’s in a fragile place right now, Nancy. Don’t start drama over this.” I stared at the email notification delaying our wedding, my hands freezing over the keyboard. Later, Amber sent a voice note. Her voice was light, laced with a delicate, performative giggle. “Oh, don’t be mad, sweetie! Chase said the wedding can always be postponed, but seeing the ocean—this ocean—is a once-in-a-lifetime thing.” I didn’t reply. Instead, I opened an email from the London hospital. They were asking if I could move my start date up. I wanted to wait for one real explanation from him. But when he called, his tone was nothing but impatient. “Drop it, Nancy. It’s just a one-week delay. I’ll bring you back some seashells.” I exhaled slowly. There would be no next time. Some things, and some people, have an expiration date. … “It’s just a one-week delay. Do you really have to pick a fight with me right now?” Chase’s voice cut through the receiver, backgrounded by the rhythmic, distant crash of waves. “I’m not picking a fight,” I said. He paused. He hadn’t expected me to sound this hollow, this quiet. “Good. Amber’s been incredibly unstable lately. I’m just here to help her clear her head for a couple of days.” He sighed. “Don’t go snooping around or asking questions. It makes you look incredibly petty.” My eyes drifted to the wedding itinerary lying on the desk. It was a mess of red ink—scrawled margin notes, crossed-out times, and detailed schedules. Every single edit had been made by me, alone. Chase’s signature was on the first page, and only the first page. When he signed it, he’d tossed the pen aside and said, “Whatever you like, babe. Next time, I promise I’ll actually sit down and look through it with you.” “Next time.” Those two words had been the background noise of our seven-year relationship. “Chase,” I whispered. On his end, someone laughed. Amber’s voice floated through the speaker. “Chase, hurry up! The sunset is almost gone!” “Coming!” Chase called out. When he spoke to me again, his words rushed together. “Is there anything else? If not, I’m hanging up.” I stared at the open email on my laptop screen. “What if I told you I’m not waiting around this time?” Chase let out a sharp, dismissive laugh. “Nancy, do you have to use this card every single time?” “I know how much this wedding means to you. I know you’re not going to walk away from me. Just calm down for a few days, okay? I’ll bring you some shells when I get back.” “Okay.” He always did that. A careless, breezy “okay” to settle things he didn’t want to deal with. I said nothing. In the background, Amber’s voice chimed in. “Is she mad again? Maybe I should talk to her and explain…” Chase mutters back, not even bothering to cover the receiver. “No, don’t worry about it. She’s just throwing a fit. Leave her alone for a bit and she’ll get over it.” My grip loosened. The call disconnected. As the screen went black, it reflected my pale face. A familiar, sharp ache bloomed in the pit of my stomach. I pulled open my desk drawer. Inside was a small glass jar filled with tiny, perfect seashells. Seven years ago, on our very first trip to the beach, Chase had knelt in the wet sand for hours. He’d sifted through hundreds of shells before choosing one flawless specimen and pressing it into my palm. “Every time I make you wait,” he’d whispered, “I’ll give you another one to make up for it.” The jar had grown full. The waiting had grown endless. I pulled the jar out and tipped it directly into the trash bag by my feet. My phone buzzed. It was an Instagram notification—a post from Amber. In the photo, she was silhouetted against a golden sunset, wearing Chase’s heavy wool coat. In her outstretched hand, she held a delicate bracelet made of polished shells. Her caption read: “Someone said this was to dry my tears.” I looked at it for a long, silent moment. Then, I clicked over to my email and hit reply to the hospital in London. “I can start early. I can leave tonight.” Once the email sent, I walked into the bedroom and pulled my suitcase from the closet. I had just unzipped it when I heard the sound of keys rattling in the front door. Before I could turn around, Chase’s mother pushed the door open. She was holding a stack of wedding invitations, her face set in a hard, disapproving line. “Nancy, Chase tells me you’re throwing a tantrum over Amber again?” I gripped the handle of my suitcase and stayed silent. Mrs. Morton threw the invitations onto the coffee table with a heavy sigh. “You know Amber grew up without parents. It’s only natural that Chase looks out for her. You’re about to become a Morton—you need to learn to have some grace.” “The wedding has been postponed, Mrs. Morton,” I said quietly. “A week’s delay isn’t a cancellation,” she snapped, her eyes falling on my open suitcase. “What on earth are you doing?” I slid my passport into the inner pocket of my bag. “I’m moving to London.” Her expression turned to sheer disbelief. “Have you lost your mind? The wedding is next week, and you’re leaving the country?” “She isn’t going anywhere.” Chase’s cold, dry voice cut through the room. I hadn’t heard him come in. He was still carrying the scent of the ocean—cold air and salt. In his hand, he held a clear plastic bag containing a few wet, sandy shells. Amber stood just behind him, her eyes rimmed with red. Chase tossed the bag onto the floor in front of me. “I brought the shells,” he said, his tone flat. “Are we done with the drama now?” The bag hit the hardwood floor with a dull thud, water splashing onto the cuffs of my jeans. Amber immediately dropped to her knees to gather them. “Nancy, I am so incredibly sorry. This is all my fault. Chase was supposed to be tasting the catering options with you, but I was the one who begged him to take me to the water.” Chase frowned, grabbing her elbow to pull her back up. “Why are you apologizing to her? She’s just being overly sensitive.” He looked at me, his sharp gaze softening only a fraction. “Nancy, Amber spent the entire drive back defending you. Don’t take your issues out on her.” I didn’t look at him. My eyes were fixed on the shell bracelet around Amber’s wrist. Specifically, the largest shell in the center. I recognized the slight, distinct pink hue on its edge. It was the first shell Chase had ever given me. The one from seven years ago. I had searched the apartment for it months ago, thinking I’d lost it. Now I knew where it was. Sensing my gaze, Amber quickly tugged her sleeve down to cover her wrist, her eyes flitting away. Chase followed my line of sight. His jaw tightened. “It’s just a bracelet, Nancy. She liked the shell, so I had a jeweler re-string it for her. Don’t you have a whole jar of them in your drawer anyway?” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “I threw them in the trash.” The room went entirely silent. For the first time, a flicker of genuine shock crossed Chase’s face. “You threw them out?” “Yes.” “Nancy, we collected those during our first year together.” For a second, he looked like he actually remembered what those shells meant. But the vulnerability was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by irritation. “You’re seriously throwing away our memories just to make a point?” I zipped my suitcase shut. “I’m not trying to make a point. They’re just useless now.” Mrs. Morton stepped forward, placing a heavy hand on my suitcase to stop me from moving it. “Nancy, let’s not say things we’ll regret. A fellowship abroad doesn’t compare to the security of marrying into our family.” Amber sniffled, stepping up beside Chase. “Nancy, I know my presence is causing problems. Maybe I shouldn’t come to the wedding at all. I can step down as your maid of honor.” Her tears began to fall right on cue. Chase immediately turned his attention to her. “Amber, don’t say that.” He glared at me, his voice freezing over. “The wedding can be delayed, but Amber is going to be there. She is my best friend, and she is going to be part of our family.” “And if I say no?” I asked. Chase let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You won’t say no.” He stepped up to my suitcase, reached into the side pocket, and snatched my passport. “You’re just baiting me to comfort you. Fine. I’ll comfort you.” He pulled a small velvet box from his coat pocket and flipped it open. Inside was a delicate pearl brooch. “Amber picked it out. She said it would look beautiful on your wedding dress.” I looked at the brooch. Across the surface of the pearl, there was a visible, jagged hairline crack. Amber chimed in quickly. “It’s vintage, Nancy! The crack is supposed to be there—it gives it character. Please don’t misunderstand.” Chase pressed the box toward my hands. “Just take it. Stop looking for reasons to be angry.” I didn’t take it. My hands remained at my sides. The velvet box slipped through his fingers, hitting the floor and sliding under the edge of the sofa. Chase’s patience finally snapped. “Nancy, what is it going to take to satisfy you?” “Give me my passport,” I said, my voice steady. “When you’ve calmed down,” he replied, sliding the passport into his breast pocket. “You’re not going anywhere. Mom will help handle the final wedding details this week. Your stomach has been acting up anyway, so stop trying to run away.” So he did remember my stomach. But when I had been admitted to the ER, he had been three towns over, buying a limited-edition collectible Amber had been crying about. When I went in for my biopsy results, he told me “next time”. I looked down at the floor. “You’re keeping me here against my will, Chase.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Don’t dramaticize this. I’m doing this for your own good.” Amber murmured from behind him. “Nancy, don’t blame Chase. He’s just terrified of you making a mistake you can’t take back.” I stared at the two of them, standing shoulder to shoulder. Suddenly, the apartment I had spent six months decorating felt entirely foreign. Like a stranger’s house. My phone screen lit up on the counter. It was another email from the hospital. “If you wish to finalize your early start date, please submit your passport details within the next twenty-four hours.” Chase saw the notification and picked up my phone before I could reach it. “I’ll write back and decline.” “Chase, put my phone down,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. He ignored me, typing rapidly. “You can think about fellowships later. Right now, your priority is our wedding, not running off to another country.” I grabbed his wrist. “That is my career.” Chase looked down at me, his eyes filled with a patronizing pity. “Nancy, you went to medical school for years. But let’s be honest—at the end of the day, it was always about having a respectable title when you married me, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Morton cleared her throat but didn’t contradict him. Amber put on a look of shock. “Chase, don’t say that. Nancy worked incredibly hard.” Though she spoke in my defense, her eyes gleamed with a quiet, triumphant satisfaction. I stared at Chase. A long time ago, he hadn’t spoken to me like this. On the day I passed my board exams, he had waited outside the testing center with a small cake. He had looked at me with bright, hopeful eyes and said, “Nancy Cooper, you are going to be an incredible doctor.” Now, those same eyes looked at me and dismissed my life’s work as a pre-marriage accessory. I let go of his wrist. “Give me my phone and my passport.” He didn’t. He hit send on the decline draft. The screen flashed with a confirmation message. In that exact moment, a sharp, white-hot spasm tore through my abdomen. The pain was so intense my entire body went numb. I leaned heavily against the back of a dining chair to keep from collapsing. Amber rushed over. “Nancy, oh my gosh, are you okay? Let me get you some water.” As she turned, her sleeve caught my plastic pillbox on the counter, knocking it to the floor. The little white tablets scattered across the hardwood. Chase’s brows knit together. “Are you taking those stomach meds again?” I didn’t answer. I slowly knelt down to pick up the pills. He stood over me, his voice softening slightly. “If your stomach was hurting, why didn’t you just say something?” My fingers froze against the cold floor. “I did.” The night the pain had gotten so bad I was sweating through my clothes, I had called him. He had sounded thoroughly annoyed. “If you have enough energy to call me, you’re fine, Nancy. Amber just had a panic attack over her ex. I can’t leave her right now.” I quietly gathered the pills and placed them back in the box. “It doesn’t matter.” Chase sighed, kneeling down to help me. But before his hand could touch the floor, Amber let out a sharp cry. “Ah! Chase, my finger… I think I cut it on one of the shells.” Chase stood up instantly. He grabbed Amber’s hand, examining her finger with tender concern. “How did you manage to do that? Let me see.” Amber’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s fine, just a scratch. Nancy clearly doesn’t want me here. I should just go.” Mrs. Morton sighed. “Nancy, look at what your hostility is doing to this girl.” I stood up, holding my pillbox. “If she wants to go, let her.” Amber went pale. Chase whipped his head around to look at me. “Nancy.” He rarely used my full name. When he did, it was always a warning to stay in my lane. “Apologize to Amber. Right now.” I felt a hollow laugh bubble up in my throat. “What did you just say?” “Apologize,” he repeated, stepping in front of Amber as if to shield her from me. “She has been working her fingers to the bone to help with this wedding, even picking out accessories for you, and you treat her like she’s the enemy.” “This is “my” wedding. Why is she doing anything for it?” Amber bit her lip, looking thoroughly small. “I was only trying to help. Chase said you were always working, so he asked me to make some of the decisions.” I froze. Chase avoided my eyes, but his mother spoke up. “Of course she did. The catering menu, the party favors, the dress alterations—Amber took care of all of it. Your health is fragile, and you’re always so particular. You should be thanking her for taking the burden off your shoulders.” I walked over to the table and picked up the wedding itinerary. I flipped to the very last page. Under the section for the bridal processional, the song I had spent weeks choosing had been crossed out in black ink. In its place, someone had written Amber’s favorite acoustic folk song. Next to it was Chase’s signature. I held the paper up to his face. “Did she choose this for me, too?” Chase glanced at it, his expression hardening. “It’s just a song, Nancy. Amber said it had a better rhythm for the walk.” “Just a song.” “Just a shell.” “Just a career.” I let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Then why don’t you let her be the bride, too?” Chase’s face darkened. “Do you have to be so incredibly dramatic?” I didn’t answer him. I knelt by the sofa, fished out the cracked pearl brooch from beneath the cushions, and pressed it into Amber’s hand. “If you like it so much, keep it.” Before Amber could speak, the doorbell rang. The wedding planner stood on the threshold, holding a massive, garment-bagged wedding dress. “Mr. Morton, the custom gown Ms. Amber ordered has arrived. Should we try it on now, or wait until tomorrow?” The air in the living room turned to ice. The planner looked from me to Amber, her professional smile freezing on her face. “Oh… I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?” Amber waved her hands frantically. “No, no! It’s not mine! It’s for Nancy. I was just the one communicating with the designer.” The planner looked down at her clipboard, thoroughly confused. “But the order sheet has the bride’s name listed as Amber.” I looked at Chase. His chest rose and fell rapidly, but he quickly smoothed his expression. “It’s just a clerical error.” My hands clenched into fists. “The song was an error. The dress was an error. Was postponing the hotel booking an error, too?” “Nancy, do not do this in front of company,” Chase warned, his voice dangerously low. The planner set the gown down, keeping her head low, wishing she could disappear. Amber’s tears fell freely now. “Nancy, I swear I didn’t know. I was talking to the designer so much that she must have gotten confused.” I walked over and unzipped the garment bag. The dress was spectacular—layers of delicate lace, a tapered waist, and intricate beadwork. But it was not my size. And it was certainly not my style. I had always wanted something clean, sleek, and modern. This dress was a fairytale ballgown—the exact design Amber had saved on her public boards for years. Chase stepped up beside me. “If you don’t like it, we can have it altered.” “Is there even time?” “We postponed the wedding by a week. There’s plenty of time.” He said it so casually. The postponement hadn’t been about Amber’s fragile mental state at all. It had been to give the designer time to alter Amber’s dream dress for me. I gripped the plastic of the garment bag so hard my knuckles turned white. “Chase… do you actually want to marry me?” A look of pure frustration crossed his face. “The invitations are sent. The deposit is paid. My mother is standing right here. Why are you asking such a ridiculous question?” Mrs. Morton stepped in, trying to smooth things over. “Alright, let’s all calm down. It’s just a dress. Nancy, don’t be so stubborn. Amber is roughly your size anyway. It wouldn’t hurt for her to try it on to see how the fabric drapes.” Amber shook her head quickly. “No, Mrs. Morton, I couldn’t. Nancy will just hate me more.” Mrs. Morton patted her shoulder. “You’re too sweet for your own good, sweetheart.” Chase looked at me. “Since you’re clearly not in the mood to try it, let Amber do it. Once we see how it looks, we can adjust it to your measurements.” I stared at him, feeling a cold sensation wash over me. “You want me to stand here and watch your best friend try on my wedding dress?” He remained silent for a beat. “It’s the most logical way to get this sorted out quickly.” The planner whispered from the corner of the room. “Actually, Mr. Morton… the bodice was patterned specifically to Ms. Amber’s proportions. Altering it to fit Ms. Cooper would completely ruin the structure of the gown.” Chase’s expression curdled. Amber covered her face with her hands. “Don’t say another word. I’ll just leave. I’ll leave and I won’t come back.” She bolted toward the front door. Chase didn’t hesitate. He chased after her, catching her arm at the threshold. “You don’t have to leave.” He turned back to look at me, his eyes demanding surrender. “Nancy, let’s settle this once and for all. What matters more to you? This dress, or our future together?” I looked at his hand wrapped tightly around Amber’s wrist. The clarity was almost blinding. “Neither,” I said quietly. Chase blinked. “What?” I turned and walked toward the bedroom. Chase caught up to me in three strides, blocking the doorway. “Where do you think you’re going?” “I told you. I’m leaving.” “I said we’ll talk when you’ve calmed down.” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “I have never been more calm in my life.” He stared at me for a long moment, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his lips. “You just want me to choose you. That’s what this is.” He pulled my passport from his breast pocket, letting it dangle between his fingers. “Fine. Apologize to Amber. Admit you’re being paranoid, and I’ll give this back to you right now.” Amber whimpered. “Chase, please don’t do this. You’re going to break her heart.” Chase didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes on me, completely confident that I would break. He knew me. He knew I always yielded in the end. The hallway light caught the worn edges of my passport cover. I remembered the day I received it, right after getting my first international medical exchange. Chase had held me tight and promised, “No matter how far you fly, I’ll always be there to bring you home.” My throat tightened. I reached out for the passport. He pulled it back. “Apology first.” Mrs. Morton sighed from the living room. “Nancy, just say you’re sorry. Don’t make a scene over nothing.” Amber kept her head down, her voice small and delicate. “Nancy, if you don’t want to apologize, I understand. I just hate seeing Chase caught in the middle of our mess. It’s so exhausting for him.” I looked at the three of them. I realized I had absolutely nothing left to say. I picked up a pen from the console table, turned the wedding itinerary over, and wrote a single sentence on the blank backing paper: “I, Nancy Cooper, hereby cancel my wedding to Chase Morton.” The smug satisfaction drained from Chase’s face. “What is this supposed to mean?” I didn’t answer. I grabbed my suitcase, walked past him, and opened the front door. Chase lunged forward, grabbing my wrist. “Nancy, stop playing games.” “Let go of me.” “If you walk out that door today, I swear to God I will not chase you.” I wrenched my wrist from his grip. Down the hall, the elevator dinged, its doors sliding open. As I stepped inside, Chase’s voice echoed down the corridor. “If you leave, the wedding is still happening next week! Do you hear me?” The elevator doors slowly slid shut. The last image I had of him was his face twisted in absolute certainty—the absolute belief that I would come crawling back. But some birds, once they find the open sky, never look down.

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Two years ago, my best friend Cheryl suddenly packed her bags and moved across the country, leaving a sticky note on my bathroom mirror: “Wren, eat up. Don’t be a picky eater!” I didn’t understand her words back then. But when I heard she was finally returning to Creek Cove, I was ecstatic. I went downstairs to throw out the trash, only to spot Cheryl already back in our apartment complex. Standing right in front of her was my fiancé, Brody, who had told me he was at the gym. He was holding her hand, guiding her fingers over the hard, defined lines of his abs. His voice was low, gravelly. “Still being picky?” Cheryl’s eyes swept over him, a slow, teasing smirk spreading across her face. “Wren has been eating very well, hasn’t she?” Brody let out a soft snort. “She doesn’t know how to appreciate it like you do.” They walked away together, laughing and whispering. That night, when he came home, he immediately slipped into the bathroom with his phone, just like he always did. I opened his private Instagram account—the one he thought I didn’t know about, the one he kept strictly locked down. A thousand progress pictures of his physique. Every single one of them tagged only Cheryl. The most recent post was uploaded the exact day her flight landed. The caption: “If you like it, when are you coming to get a taste?” It took me two whole years to finally understand their sick little metaphor. … The rushing shower water muffled my crying. Once the tears ran dry, I pulled out my phone and texted my mother: “Mom, I’m coming home for the Regatta Matchmaking Festival this weekend. The wedding is off.” Brody finally emerged from the bathroom after an hour. He handed me a cold bottle of water. “Why are your lips so dry? Have you been crying?” That single question almost broke me again. I thought he was going to ask me why, but then Cheryl’s voice memo popped up on his screen. “Brody, I’ve finalized the catering menu for your and Wren’s rehearsal dinner and reception.” From the very first syllable, Brody’s mouth curved into a smile that didn’t fade. “Whatever you decide is perfect,” he typed back. Then he turned the screen toward me. “Cheryl’s back. She did us a huge favor and retooled our wedding menu.” My breath caught. Cheryl hadn’t even told me she was back. And why was Brody letting an outsider dictate our wedding? “Brody, I drafted that menu twelve times. Every single dish was chosen to honor both of our families’ traditions here in Creek Cove.” “If Cheryl wants international cuisine, we can set up a separate table just for her.” The smile finally vanished from Brody’s face. “Your menu is too heavy. Cheryl’s stomach was completely wrecked while she was living away. You’re her best friend, shouldn’t you know that?” “Wren, stop being so selfish and always demanding things your way. Think about other people for once.” His “other people” only ever meant Cheryl. And my careful planning, my attempt to please everyone, was dismissed as mere selfishness. I locked my phone. He had changed his lock screen. It was a picture of a half-eaten heritage hand pie. I had baked it. But the faint lipstick smudge on the crust belonged to Cheryl. Just this morning, I had asked him to take a picture of the pies I spent all night baking. He had brushed me off. “We make these every year, Wren. Why do you need a photo to remember it?” Of course. It was never about the hand pies. It was about the person eating them. I tossed his phone back onto his lap. “If I can’t have my own wedding the way I want it, then whose wedding is it?” Brody looked at me in surprise. I rarely argued with him. But his voice softened, offering a placating smile. “Come on, can’t you just accommodate Cheryl this once?” The word No rushed to the tip of my tongue, but suddenly, all the fight drained out of me. He could spend two years working out just to please Cheryl, but he couldn’t bear to let me have the menu I wanted for our wedding. “Whatever,” I muttered. Relief washed over his face. He instantly grabbed his phone. “Cheryl’s jet-lagged and wants me to hop on a game with her. Go to sleep first.” The door shut, and my tears fell in silence. My pale lips weren’t from crying. They were from the agonizing spasm in my stomach. Three years ago, I underwent a partial gastrectomy. I’ve lived with chronic stomach pain ever since. He had remembered that pain for three years, yet tonight, he suddenly forgot. Over the weekend, Brody drove me to the wedding venue. I figured since I was the one who booked it, I should be the one to cancel it. Midway through the drive, he swerved the car to pick up Cheryl. “You’ve been standing out there forever. Weren’t you hot?” Brody’s tone was sharp, but his hand immediately reached to adjust the air conditioning vents for the back seat. I looked between the two of them. “Why is Cheryl coming?” Cheryl grabbed Brody’s iced coffee and took a massive gulp straight from the straw, nearly choking. “Wren, you don’t mind me tagging along, do you? I promise I won’t play third wheel.” Brody immediately bickered back, his tone intimate. “Cut the act. Who was the one blowing up my phone all morning begging to come scout the venue?” Cheryl lightly kicked the back of his seat. “And who was the one who couldn’t even copy-paste the address right? You sent me thirty wrong pins!” They began bickering over how many texts they had exchanged. Cheryl won; Brody had sent her eighty pointless messages just that morning. “Enough!” I blurted out. The car went dead silent. Cheryl instantly lowered her head, her thumbs flying across her phone. A moment later, Brody’s fingers were tapping away at his own screen. I put in my earbuds and turned up the music, tuning out their silent, digital flirting. At the hotel venue, I slipped away from Brody to speak with the event manager about canceling our reservation. When we finalized the paperwork, the manager said with genuine regret, “It’s such a shame. Mr. Langford was just speaking with our bridal suite coordinator about ordering three more bridesmaid dresses…” Hearing this, the last shred of hesitation I had evaporated. I walked up to the bridal suite. Through the cracked door, the sound of their stifled laughter leaked out. Brody gasped, “Cheryl, you greedy little thing!” Cheryl was poking Brody’s abs, giggling. “Two years ago, I mentioned offhand that your core wasn’t defined enough, and you immediately practically lived at the gym.” “You even FaceTimed me on New Year’s Eve to show me your progress. Did you know Wren was sitting right next to me having dinner?” My heart stopped. She was talking about this past New Year. Cheryl had been home for the holidays. My mother, seeing her eating instant ramen alone, had invited her over for dinner. I had sent Brody a dozen photos of our holiday feast. His reply was four words: At the gym. My mother had asked hopefully, “Can we call Brody to wish him a Happy New Year?” I called him five times. He declined every single one. Meanwhile, Cheryl, sitting beside us, had nervously hidden her screen. My mother teased her, asking if she was talking to a boyfriend. Cheryl had rolled her eyes. “Yeah, he’s just so clingy. I can barely stand it.” I caught a fleeting glimpse of her screen then. She hadn’t replied for a minute, and he had already frantically called her. My mother’s eyes had dimmed. She squeezed my hand. “Don’t call him anymore, Wren. Brody must be busy.” But during the first seven years of our relationship, Brody was never too busy for me. Even during the six months of my surgery and recovery, he had temporarily closed his photography studio just to be my twenty-four-hour caregiver. Now, inside the suite, Brody let out a low groan, catching Cheryl’s hand. “Stop playing… Wren is still…” Before he could finish, I pushed the door open. Brody scrambled upright. “Wren! Are all the venue details confirmed?” Cheryl hopped off the bed. “Brody was trying to show off how strong he is. Wren, you have to take my side!” I stared at the hand that had just been tracing his muscles. It was reaching out to touch my arm like a slithering snake. “Don’t touch me!” I snapped, slapping her hand away. Her pale skin immediately flushed bright red. Brody instinctively grabbed Cheryl’s hand, his eyes flashing with sudden coldness. “Wren, we were just joking around. What is wrong with you?” Cheryl gently nudged him back. “Brody, don’t blame her. It’s my fault. I pushed it too far.” She looked at me, blinking innocently. “Wren, I got too used to how casual people are abroad. I forgot you’re still a conservative, good little girl.” Brody frowned. “Good girl? More like an old-fashioned relic.” “Always sick, never wants to work out, never wants to go out, doesn’t even use social media. My grandmother is livelier than her.” My stomach clenched in a sharp, burning spasm. “Brody, do you even remember why I’m always sick?” Three years ago, he went deep into the Alaskan wilderness to shoot a wildlife documentary on caribou migration. I went with him. The schedule was brutal. He contracted high-altitude pulmonary edema and ended up hospitalized in Anchorage. I picked up his heavy camera gear to finish the shoot for him, driving hundreds of miles back and forth between the hospital and the wild plains. I skipped meals, barely slept, and the day we finally flew back, I collapsed with acute gastric bleeding. He won an award for that documentary. I lost half my stomach. “Wren, if you have an issue, just say it. You don’t need to keep bringing up the past to guilt-trip me into yielding to you and Cheryl.” Brody’s cold scoff dragged me back to the present. I stared at him, dumbfounded. He let out a heavy sigh, acting as though he was the one making a massive sacrifice. “I guess this is what I get for marrying a girl from the River Settlement.” “What is that supposed to mean?” I tore my hand away from him. He pulled up a chat screenshot Cheryl had forwarded him and showed it to me. It was a message from my mother to Cheryl, saying my wedding would feature an eight-day community feast. “An eight-day feast? That’s going to cost tens of thousands of dollars,” Cheryl had texted him. “Wren’s mom really loves her, but she’s treating you like a bottomless bank account.” Brody’s expression grew even colder. “Wren, am I marrying you, or am I marrying your family’s desperate need for social status?” “Brody, you don’t have to marry me at all. And I don’t have to marry you.” I slipped my engagement ring off, set it on the vanity table, and walked out. Cheryl chased after me. “Wren, the wedding is practically here. Can you grow up? Don’t throw a tantrum just because of me.” I spun around, staring at her with cold fury. “Cheryl, where did that half-eaten hand pie go?” She choked on her words. “Brody ate it, didn’t he?” “Sharing a hand pie, sharing a water bottle, laying on the same bed with your best friend’s fiancé—is that your idea of being grown up?” The smirk on Cheryl’s face crumbled. “Wren, you’re counting pennies with me over a man?” She unclasped the designer watch I had gifted her and threw it directly at my face. “If I wanted to be with Brody, you wouldn’t have stood a chance in the first place!” I covered my eye, feeling a sharp, burning pain where the watch had struck my temple. Brody rushed over, instantly pulling Cheryl into his arms. “Calm down. Your stomach is already acting up from the travel. Don’t let her get to you.” Then he looked at me, his eyes filled with exhaustion and boredom. “Wren, tell your mom we’ll host the eight-day feast. Are you happy now?” “Take a cab home. I need to take Cheryl to the clinic.” Brody swept Cheryl up into his arms. The hallway was narrow, and as he pushed past, his shoulder shoved hard against mine. I let go of my face. The blood from the cut on my temple mingled with my tears, wetting my cheek. The hotel manager gasped, handing me a handkerchief. “Miss Barlowe, please don’t cry. He isn’t worth your tears.” My stomach was cramping so violently I could barely stand. Leaning against the wall, I managed a pale, hollow smile. “He won’t be anymore.” That night, Brody called to say Cheryl was hospitalized because of the stress I caused her, and he had to stay overnight to watch over her. He was trying to cover his tracks, but I didn’t care enough to expose him. The next morning, my mother unexpectedly texted me, her tone bright. “Wren, I brought the traditional River Settlement bridal gown with me. Try it on so we can make any adjustments.” Bringing the gown was just an excuse; she was worried I was getting cold feet or dealing with trouble. I went to meet her, but halfway there, she sent another message: “Cheryl knew I was coming and booked a bed-and-breakfast for me. Don’t rush on the road.” A cold dread settled in my chest. I called my mother. When she picked up, the background was filled with shouting and commotion. Then, my mother’s voice pierced through, sharp and terrified: “Let go of me! I didn’t steal anything!” “Mom!” I screamed, but the line went dead. I redialed, but her phone was switched off. In a panic, I was about to call the police when Cheryl’s text arrived: “Wren, your mom is doing just fine with my girls.” “Come over to the diner and pick up your ring first.” When I arrived at the local diner, Brody and his friends were all there. Cheryl was seated in the center of the booth, and Brody was carefully blowing on a spoonful of clam chowder, feeding her. “Brody, it’s too hot!” she whined. He blew on it again. The table erupted into laughter. “Brody’s already whipped, and they aren’t even married yet.” “Honestly, only a wild card like Cheryl could tame him.” Brody shot them a warning look. “Keep spoiling her, and she’ll be walking all over me for the rest of our lives.” “Brody, you’re the one who ruined her. Don’t blame us.” They laughed, but the humor died down when someone spotted me. I marched straight to Cheryl, my rage boiling over. “Where is my mother?” Clack. Cheryl dropped her spoon against the rim of her bowl. At her reaction, Brody immediately stood up, his face darkening as he looked at me. “Can you stop being so hostile toward Cheryl?” Then he noticed the cut near my eye. His irritation softened, and he stepped out of the booth, reaching out to touch my face. “How do you manage to get yourself hurt the second I’m not around?” I slapped his hand away and kept my eyes locked on Cheryl. “Where is my mother?” Cheryl didn’t answer. Instead, she signaled the waitress. Ten heavy, savory heritage hand pies were placed on the table. She held up her pale, slightly swollen hands, her voice cracking. “Wren, I baked ten savory hand pies for you as an apology.” “In the River Settlement, we have a tradition—no matter how deep the grudge, eating the unity pies washes it all away.” “If you’re willing to forgive me, eat them.” Brody, holding my engagement ring, nudged me. “Cheryl dragged herself out of a hospital bed to bake these for you. Just eat them, apologize, and we can still go through with the wedding.” My eyes widened. “Brody, I had a partial gastrectomy.” Did he have any idea what eating ten heavy, dense pies would do to my stomach? He avoided my gaze, muttering, “I’ll go buy you some stomach medicine. If you don’t eat them, Cheryl is just going to keep crying.” I let out a bitter, silent laugh. Between Cheryl crying and me dying, he chose her. Cheryl flashed her phone screen at me. Thinking of my mother, I stepped up to the table, squared my shoulders, and began to eat the pies, bite by agonizing bite. Brody’s friends whistled. “Damn, Brody, you’ve got her well-trained. You promise her a wedding, and she’d lay down her life for you.” Seeing me eat so fast, Brody patted my back. “Slow down.” I nearly gagged. My stomach was being stuffed to the brim, the pain radiating outwards in sharp, burning spasms. Cheryl stuck her tongue out at Brody. “See? I told you Wren loves playing the victim. Look at her go. Does that look like someone with a bad stomach?” The hand on my back froze. Brody asked, his voice suddenly hollow, “Wren… when did your stomach get better?” I kept chewing the heavy, half-cooked dough, swallowing my defense along with the pain. When the last bite was gone, my stomach felt like it was filled with lead. I reached my hand out to Cheryl. “Give me the address.” Cheryl raised an eyebrow. “Sent.” I grabbed my phone to leave. “Wren, you haven’t apologized yet,” Brody called out. I turned back to look at them. I bowed my head and forced out every syllable: “I’m sorry. It’s my fault Cheryl got sick. I was being petty, and I didn’t understand your jokes.” Only then did the tension leave Brody’s shoulders. He slipped the ring back onto my finger. “Don’t take it off again. Since your mom is here, go spend time with her.” Drenched in cold sweat, I walked out of the diner. The moment I reached the street, I ripped the ring off and threw it into the storm drain. I wanted nothing that belonged to Brody. I found my mother at a local bed-and-breakfast. She was clutching the traditional River Settlement bridal gown, cornered by Cheryl’s friends. “Ma’am, this dress belongs to Cheryl,” one of them said, tugging at the fabric. “You can’t just steal it when she’s not home.” During the struggle, they pinned my mother’s arms, and one of them ripped the gown away. I shoved them aside and held my mother. Her arms were covered in scratches. I threatened to call the police. Brody and Cheryl arrived shortly after. Cheryl’s friends immediately handed the gown to her. “Cheryl, we got it back for you.” “Cheryl, have you no shame?” my mother cried, her voice trembling. “This is the heirloom gown my daughter is supposed to wear. Since when does it belong to you?” Cheryl had lost her own mother at a young age, and my mother had raised her like a second daughter, never speaking a harsh word to her. “Auntie, Wren is cutting me out over a wedding menu,” Cheryl wept, tears streaming down her face. “And now you’re screaming at me over a dress?” “I treated you like my own mother, and Wren like my sister. But over a dress, I’m suddenly an outsider.” Brody’s brow furrowed. He reached out to wipe her tears. “Wren, you have parents, you have me. Cheryl has no one.” “It’s just a wedding dress. Why can’t you just let her have it?” My mother lunged forward to grab the dress. “Brody, this gown is a sacred family heirloom. If you don’t cherish my daughter, someone else will!” Brody glared at me, as if I had orchestrated the entire conflict. “Wren, is the eight-day feast not enough? What else do you and your mother want? Just say it.” “There’s no need to make a scene over a dress!” Suddenly, Cheryl clutched the gown, turned, and ran into the backyard of the B&B. Ignoring the metallic taste of blood rising in my throat, I ran after her. In the yard, a brick fire pit was crackling. Flames licked the delicate fabric of the heirloom dress, and the twelve gold-embroidered wave patterns—sewn over generations—were turning to ash. I reached into the fire, the heat searing my skin. My mother threw her arms around me, sobbing. “Don’t, baby! Let it go! Let it go!” “But Grandma’s gold charms are on this… the gold thread I stitched back on is on this…” I gasped, refusing to let go. My mother threw herself toward the flames to pull it out, and in horror, I snapped out of my daze and pulled her back. “Mom, okay, okay! We don’t want it anymore! We don’t want any of it!” I looked back. Brody was holding Cheryl’s hands, checking them for burns. Sensing my gaze, his movements stiffened, and he sighed. “Wren, the dress is gone. Cheryl was just upset that you guys were isolating her.” Cheryl reached out to pull my sleeve. “Wren, you’ve never stayed mad at me. We’re still okay, right?” I silently pulled away from her touch. Seeing my cold, empty expression, panic finally flickered in Brody’s eyes. He softened his voice. “Wren, don’t be mad. Go home first. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to buy a brand-new designer dress.” The pain in my stomach was blinding. Leaning heavily on my mother, every step felt like a mile. But step by step, I walked out of their lives. Once we reached the main road, the adrenaline faded, and the world went black. “Wren!” During the two days I spent in the hospital recovering, Brody sent exactly three texts. First: “Cheryl’s stomach is acting up. I’m staying with her at the hospital. We’ll pick out a dress tomorrow.” Second: “Wren, are you seriously still throwing a tantrum? You haven’t even come home.” Third: “Cheryl said women from the River Settlement aren’t supposed to see the groom five days before the wedding? Why didn’t you tell me about this rule sooner?” I deleted them one by one, then helped my mother into a car heading back home. The day before the wedding, Brody walked out of Cheryl’s apartment. He opened his text history. My last message to him was from a week ago. That day at the B&B, my face had been deathly pale. Was my stomach really acting up? No, he reasoned, shaking his head. She had eaten those ten heavy hand pies without a problem. She was just playing the victim to get attention. He laughed to himself. She was just being petty, still angry at him and Cheryl. Suddenly, his group chat with his friends erupted with notifications, tagging him repeatedly. Brody opened the chat, and his mind went completely blank. Pictures of an elaborate, breathtaking waterfront celebration flooded the screen. I was wearing a magnificent, hand-embroidered crimson bridal gown, standing at the bow of a decorated wooden ship.

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Ever since I was a child, I’ve had a secret. When I look at someone, I can see their exact bank balance floating right above their head. It was this little gift that saved me. Back in the orphanage, I used it to choose my adoptive parents—a couple who dressed in faded, off-brand clothes but actually had a cool hundred million sitting in their accounts. But my taste of the good life was short-lived. The biological daughter they’d lost years ago was found, and she came back to claim her throne. Tiffany hated me for occupying her space. She made it her life’s mission to torment me, leaving me bruised and broken in ways no one else cared to see. I endured it all, keeping my head down, just so they would continue paying my college tuition. The moment I finally graduated, degree in hand, I was ready to run. I was packing my life into a single duffel bag when Tiffany blocked my path, her face twisted in rage. “I thought the guy I was talking to online was some rich heir with a Ferrari,” she hissed, shoving her phone in my face. “Turns out he’s just some pathetic loser who rides a Lime bike.” “If he starts stalking me, it’s going to ruin my reputation. You’re going to go meet him instead. Tell him you’re the girl he’s been talking to. Tell him you’re Cindy.” I looked in the direction she was pointing, out the window. A loser? Above the man’s head, in glowing, undeniable numbers, was a ten-digit balance. I swallowed hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. I grabbed Tiffany’s arm, unable to mask my sudden excitement. “Tell me everything,” I said. “Every single detail you two talked about. I’m going right now.” … Tiffany let out a sharp, mocking laugh when she saw how eager I was. “Are you really that desperate, Zoe? Can’t even keep your drool in check over a lowlife like that?” She tossed her phone at my face. It hit my cheek before sliding into my hands. “Have at him. If you’re that starved for a man, he’s all yours. Take him, leave, and honestly, do me a favor and never come back.” I swallowed the bitter taste of her insults, keeping my focus entirely on the screen. I memorized every text, every shared inside joke, every detail of their digital romance. Then, drawing in a long, steadying breath, I walked out of the house and made my way toward the man Tiffany had discarded like trash. “Hi,” I said, stepping up to him. I forced my voice to be light, cheerful. “I’m Cindy. The girl you’ve been texting. But my real name is Zoe.” I offered my hand, a warm smile stretching across my face. His eyes lit up, a flicker of genuine surprise washing over his features. “Oh,” he said, his voice softer than I expected. “You look… different than your pictures. Better, actually. Much better.” “I’m Wyatt,” he replied, wrapping his hand around mine. Tiffany had only ever sent him blurry, angled photos of her back or side-profile. Since our builds were similar, Wyatt had no reason to doubt me. But as our hands met, I wasn’t listening to his voice. I was staring at the space just above his head, carefully counting the digits glowing there. One, two, three… ten digits. Over a billion dollars. What made my breath catch, though, was that the number wasn’t static. Even as we stood there, it was ticking upward, climbing steadily with every passing second. So this was what real, obscene wealth looked like. He didn’t have to lift a finger; his money was making money faster than most people could spend it. If I could play this right, if I could tie myself to him, I wouldn’t just escape the hell of my adoptive family. I’d have a future. While I was lost in my calculations, Wyatt’s expression shifted, a quiet vulnerability clouding his eyes. “I… hope you aren’t disappointed,” he murmured, gesturing self-consciously to his scuffed, cheap foam clogs and the faded, oversized t-shirt he wore. “I could only afford a city bike to get here. Do you hate me for being poor?” He looked like he’d crawled out of a clearance bin at a thrift store. But Tiffany, in her endless pursuit of trying to play the “sweet, low-maintenance girl” to hook what she thought was a rich guy, had established a very specific online persona. She had pretended to be a struggling, modest girl. So I played along seamlessly. “I’m literally wearing my sister’s discarded hand-me-downs right now,” I said, gesturing to my faded sweater. “If anything, it’s nice to meet someone who knows the value of a dollar. I guess that’s why we clicked so well.” Tiffany had assumed that playing the victim of poverty would win her a rich boyfriend who would shower her with gifts. She had no idea that Wyatt had beaten her to the punch, using the exact same strategy to test her. Wyatt scanned my thin frame, taking in my slightly hollow cheeks and the cheap fabric of my clothes. The suspicion in his eyes melted away, replaced by a soft, growing warmth. But the test wasn’t over. “We can’t just stand on the sidewalk all day,” he said, rubbing his back. “Let me buy you lunch.” He unlocked a city bike for me, deliberately positioning his cracked, ancient smartphone so I could see it. I didn’t say a word. I pulled out my own phone—the screen webbed with deep fractures—and offered to buy him a ninety-nine-cent Arizona iced tea from a convenience store. “Thanks for coming out to see me,” I told him as we biked side-by-side. “It really means a lot.” Inside, I was secretly thrilled. I wanted to see exactly how far Wyatt was willing to drag this “broke boy” act. After a thirty-minute bike ride that left my legs burning, he pulled up to a dingy, strip-mall diner with a sign that read: All-You-Can-Eat Buffet – $7.99. I paused at the entrance, and Wyatt’s shoulders slumped slightly. He gave me a look that said, I knew it. Still, he rubbed his hands together nervously, playing the part of the anxious, low-income worker. “I know it’s not fancy,” he said, his voice tight. “But money is tight. I do delivery driving, and after gas, I barely clear eighty bucks a day. Zoe, do you look down on me for bringing you here?” I blinked, my stomach choosing that exact moment to let out a loud, traitorous growl. “Are you kidding?” I said, my eyes shining with absolute sincerity. “I’m the black sheep of my family. My parents stopped giving me a dime the second I started college. I’ve been working three part-time jobs just to pay tuition. Most days, I survive on a single side of white rice from the campus dining hall mixed with free hot water and ketchup.” “To me, an all-you-can-eat buffet is practically a Michelin-star feast.” I wasn’t lying. The hunger in my belly was very real. Before he could even respond, I grabbed a plastic tray and headed straight for the food line. If this had been Tiffany, she probably would have dumped a plate of hot food over his head and walked out. But I was practically vibrating with excitement, piling my plate high with whatever looked hot and heavy. “Mac and cheese, yes please. Mashed potatoes… definitely. Fried chicken… oh, absolutely.” Wyatt followed close behind, watching me heap mounds of heavy carbs onto my plate. When we sat down and I began eating with genuine, unpretentious joy, a sudden tenderness softened his face. “You really aren’t faking this, are you?” he murmured. I was too busy inhaling a roll to answer. Compared to my ravenous appetite, Wyatt barely touched his food. It was clear he wasn’t used to such greasy, low-grade fare. He took a few polite bites and set his fork down. Naturally, I finished his leftovers, too. Once the plates were clean, I leaned back, patting my stomach with a contented sigh. “Thank you, Wyatt. That was honestly the best meal I’ve had all year.” “Don’t get used to it,” he said, a faint, enigmatic smile playing on his lips. “Once I make it big, I’ll take you to a place that’ll make this look like garbage.” When he offered to drop me off at home, I shook my head. “I’m not going back there,” I said softly. “I’m going to find a cheap hostel to crash at for a few days while I look for a job.” I remembered from Tiffany’s chat history that Wyatt had been deeply curious about her living situation. Tiffany, who had been pampered her whole life, could never quite fake the gritty details of a hard life; she had always brushed his questions off with cute, deflective emojis. But I had nothing to hide. “I’m adopted,” I told him as we walked down the street. “A few days after they took me in from foster care, their biological daughter—the sister I mentioned—was found and brought back. From that moment on, I became a ghost in my own home. My sister found endless, cruel ways to make me pay for existing, and my parents looked the other way. But they kept a roof over my head and paid for my school, so I try to be grateful.” Wyatt’s hands balled into tight fists inside his pockets. “And you just took it? You let her treat you like that?” I shrugged and rolled up my sleeves, showing him the faded, thin scars on my forearms. Some were from where Tiffany had burned me with matches, others from where she’d scratched me with rusty nails, and one deep mark from when she’d set the family dog on me because I touched her shoes. “I’ve graduated now,” I said, pulling my sleeves back down. “I can take care of myself. Once I save up enough, I’ll pay my adoptive parents back for the tuition and cut ties with them forever.” “Zoe…” Wyatt stared at me, his gaze intense, searching. “To be honest, when we first started texting, I thought you were just playing a character to get my sympathy.” He was completely convinced now. He stood there for a long moment, lost in thought, before looking up at me with dark, unreadable eyes. “If you could make one wish right now, what would it be?” I stole a quick glance at the number hovering over his head. In the span of our lunch, his balance had somehow grown by another five million dollars. He was still playing the pauper, so asking him for a direct handout was out of the question. But maybe, just maybe, he could use whatever connections a secret billionaire had to help me find a job. “I just want to find a job as soon as possible,” I said, keeping my tone practical. “Ideally, something that offers employee housing or a housing stipend, so I can save on rent.” Wyatt raised an eyebrow, a mysterious glint in his eye. “Well, you never know. Maybe the universe will surprise you.” I smiled, not wanting to get my hopes too high. After all, I still had no idea who he really was. To thank him for lunch, I spent the last of my pocket cash on a couple of cheap ice cream cones. He spent the rest of the afternoon walking with me, helping me check out various sketchy, low-cost hostels in the city. By evening, after a cheap dinner of street tacos, we parted ways on our city bikes, his eyes lingering on me with a strange, reluctant warmth. The moment he disappeared around the corner, my phone rang. It was an HR representative from a major, multi-billion-dollar corporation. “We saw your resume on a recruiting portal,” the woman said, her tone highly professional. “Your qualifications are a perfect match for our open position. Would you be open to an interview tomorrow morning?” I didn’t know the exact connection between this massive firm and Wyatt, but I knew with absolute certainty that this wasn’t a coincidence. It was him. The interview the next day was shockingly easy. The HR manager barely asked any technical questions before offering me the job on the spot, telling me I could start the very next morning. Excited, I immediately texted Wyatt: Your lips must be blessed! I got a job! It comes with a dorm and a meal stipend! You brought me this luck—I have to buy you dinner to celebrate! Wyatt agreed instantly. He showed up in the same threadbare outfit, offering a sheepish, self-deprecating shrug. “I don’t really have any nice clothes, Zoe. I hope you don’t mind walking around with someone who looks like this.” As he spoke, the number above his head flashed. It was eighty million dollars higher than it had been yesterday. I suppressed a smile. “Once I get my first paycheck, I’m buying you a brand-new outfit.” Wyatt blinked, genuinely taken aback. “You can barely afford to feed yourself, and you want to buy me clothes?” “You’re the first person who ever took the time to listen to me,” I said simply. “You treat me well. It’s only fair I do the same.” The emotion that flared in his eyes was entirely real. There was no acting in that moment. From that day on, I poured everything into my new job, desperate to build a life of my own. Wyatt and I met almost every evening, our bond growing deeper with every passing day. We ate at cheap diners and food trucks, but Wyatt seemed to grow more relaxed, his guarded, testing nature melting away entirely. On payday, I kept my promise. I took him to a retail store and bought him a decent shirt and jeans. As he changed into them, his expression grew serious, almost solemn. “Zoe,” he said softly, “your luck is just getting started. I have to go away for a few days to handle some business. But when I get back, I have a surprise for you.” I didn’t know what he meant, and I didn’t dare to dream. In fact, a part of me preferred him as the “poor delivery guy.” When he was pretending, we were equals. If he became a god among men, I wouldn’t know how to look him in the eye. For the next three days, I couldn’t reach him. He only sent occasional, brief texts telling me to be patient. But before I could see Wyatt again, the person I dreaded most found me. Tiffany somehow tracked down my workplace. “Are you still seeing that guy?” she demanded, cornering me outside the building. “Get him out here. I need to see him right now.” “I was looking at the financial news today, and his face… he looks exactly like Wyatt Harrington!” She shoved her phone in my face, displaying a high-res photo from an international economic summit. It was Wyatt. But in the photo, he was the crown prince of Manhattan’s elite. He wore a bespoke three-piece suit, a multi-million-dollar watch, and was stepping out of a black Rolls-Royce surrounded by a phalanx of security guards. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. To think that this untouchable billionaire had purposefully gone without washing his hair, putting on cheap clogs just to eat a seven-dollar buffet with me. He had really gone all out to test his online date. Knowing Tiffany would try to claw her way back to him if she found out the truth, I quickly tried to diffuse her suspicions. “You’re dreaming,” I said, shaking my head. “On our first date, he took me to a seven-dollar buffet. Every time we hang out, we eat cheap street food. He literally wears the same faded t-shirt every day, and his clogs are practically falling apart. How could he possibly be a billionaire?” Tiffany squinted at me, searching for any sign of a lie. I quickly pulled up my transaction history, showing her the cheap diner receipts and photos of our street-food dates. She scrolled through my phone, taking in my cheap clothes and worn-out shoes, before finally letting out a sigh of relief. “Right. If he were actually a Harrington, he’d be throwing money at you, not making you split cheap tacos. Besides, someone that high-class would never look at a ratty girl like you.” She sneered, tossing my phone back. “You’re built for the gutter, Zoe. You and your little trash boyfriend deserve each other. Just don’t tell anyone we’re related. My parents would die of embarrassment.” I swallowed my anger, watching her walk away. But deep down, a tiny, foolish spark of hope flared in my chest. What if… what if Wyatt chose me? What if he stood by me and showed Tiffany exactly what she had thrown away? I shook my head, clearing the fantasy from my mind. Getting this job was already a miracle. I couldn’t afford to be greedy. I spent the next three days keeping my head down, working hard. But on the fourth day, as I stepped out of the office lobby, a sleek, black Rolls-Royce pulled up directly in front of me. The rear window rolled down slowly, revealing a face that was both intensely familiar and suddenly foreign. It was Wyatt. “Zoe,” he said, his voice smooth and commanding. “Get in. We need to talk.” Whispers broke out among my coworkers as they stopped to stare. My brain went entirely numb. I couldn’t believe he was exposing his identity like this. Seeing me frozen on the pavement, Wyatt smiled, opening the door and stepping out. “What’s with the face? It’s only been three days. Did you forget me already?” As he walked toward me, his eyes filled with a gentle, protective warmth, my heart hammered against my ribs. Was the miracle actually happening? But before I could take a step toward him, a sharp, screeching voice shattered the moment. “Wyatt! She’s a liar! Zoe scammed you! She isn’t Cindy—she’s an imposter!” My breath caught in my throat. I turned slowly, my body turning to ice. Tiffany was marching toward us, her face flushed with triumph. “I am the real Cindy!” she yelled, pushing past me to stand directly in front of Wyatt. Seeing Wyatt’s expression instantly harden, a cold dread pooled in my stomach. It was over. Just as he was about to reveal himself to me, the truth had come out. If he realized our entire relationship was built on a lie… Forget about a future with him—I would probably lose my job, my dorm, and my only shot at survival. I wanted to explain, but terror choked the words in my throat. The mocking whispers of the gathering crowd seemed to press in on me from all sides, forcing my head down. “Look!” Tiffany screamed, shoving her phone in his face. “Here’s my account! Here are our chats! These are the photos I sent you! I have all the proof. Zoe is a fraud. You have to destroy her!” Wyatt took her phone, his eyes scanning the screen. A second later, his brow furrowed, and he turned his cold, piercing gaze to me…

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My boyfriend vanished without a trace three years ago. I searched every corner of the city, posted flyers, and exhausted every lead, but found nothing. Until last week. He suddenly appeared at my doorstep, covered in horrific wounds. He told me he had been kidnapped and trafficked to an illegal brick kiln in the middle of nowhere, and it took him three agonizing years to finally escape. My heart broke into a million pieces. Trembling with pity, I brewed him healing tea, dressed his wounds, and took care of him twenty-four hours a day for seven whole days. But this morning, the police knocked on my door. “We found a body at an abandoned brick kiln last night. The medical examiner estimates the time of death was about a week ago.” “The deceased is your boyfriend, Julian.” I froze. “That’s impossible. He’s been staying with me all week.” *** “That’s impossible,” I repeated, my voice shaking. The detective opposite me frowned, pushing the case file across the metal table. “Ms. Harper Vance, we’ve already run the checks. The victim had Julian’s driver’s license in his wallet. The facial recognition database matches the missing person report you filed three years ago perfectly.” I could hear the tremor in my own breath. “But he’s been with me this entire week. In my apartment. He hasn’t left the room.” The two detectives exchanged a heavy look. The older one was Detective Carter. I had seen him dozens of times. Three years ago, I practically lived at the police station, pleading for updates every week. Then it became once a month. Eventually, I thought I’d never have to go back. Detective Carter pulled a glossy photo from the manila folder and laid it in front of me. I looked down, and my stomach instantly violently churned. A wave of cold nausea hit me. It was a body, lying on a metal slab, eyes closed, skin a sickly ash-gray. The background was dark, likely taken at the crime scene under harsh camera flashes. Every grim detail was painfully sharp. It was Julian. No, wait. It was his face. It was definitely Julian’s face. I stared at the photo for what felt like an eternity, until Detective Carter gently called my name. “Harper?” I snapped my head up. “This isn’t him.” “We ran the facial recognition. It’s a ninety-eight percent match.” Detective Carter’s voice was flat, stating an undeniable, cold fact. “And he had Julian’s ID. Name, date of birth, social security number—everything matches the file from your missing person report.” “But—” “Harper.” He cut me off gently. “Julian’s immediate family has passed away. His parents died in a car crash shortly after he went missing three years ago. You know this, right?” I knew. Of course I knew. Four months after Julian vanished, his devastated parents drove to another state following a fake lead about his whereabouts. They crashed on the highway. I was completely numb back then. When I got the call, I didn’t even know how to cry. Later, I was the one who handled their funeral and packed up their belongings, thinking that if Julian ever came back, at least he would have something left of his family. But he never came back. “So right now, you are the only emergency contact we have on file,” Detective Carter said. “We need you to come to the morgue to formally identify the body and sign the paperwork.” My mouth opened, but no sound came out. “He’s sleeping in my bedroom right now,” I said, pointing toward the hallway. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll go wake him up. You can see for yourselves.” I stood up abruptly and walked toward the bedroom. I was walking too fast, stumbling over my own feet, but I didn’t care. I pushed the bedroom door open. The bed was empty. ***

The duvet was tossed to one side, as if someone had just gotten up. I walked over and pressed my hand against the sheet. It was ice cold. “Julian?” I called out, my voice barely a whisper, as if afraid to shatter the silence. No answer. I called again, louder this time. Still, only silence. I turned and checked the bathroom. Empty. The kitchen. Empty. The balcony. Empty. My apartment was tiny—barely six hundred square feet. You could see the whole place in one glance. I stood in the middle of the living room, looking at the two detectives who had followed me in. Seeing the pity on their faces made me feel like a complete lunatic. “Maybe he went out to buy groceries,” I muttered. Detective Carter didn’t say a word. He just watched me. I looked down at the coffee table. Last night, I had brewed a mug of herbal tea for Julian. It was a dark, bitter home remedy to help him sleep. He had only drunk half of it, complaining it tasted like liquid dirt, so I left the mug on the table. I had told him I would make him a fresh cup today. But the mug was gone. No, it wasn’t just the mug. My heart skipped a beat as I looked around. For the past week, the coffee table had been cluttered with ointment tubes, rolls of gauze, antiseptic wipes, and cotton swabs. Julian’s wounds needed dressing every day. I had accumulated a small mountain of bloody bandages, which I kept in a trash bag by the door, intending to take it down to the dumpster. Now, there was nothing. The coffee table was sparkling clean. The half-empty mug was gone. The gauze was gone. The trash bag by the door was gone. No. This was all wrong. I stood there, my ears ringing. Something dark and terrifying was clawing its way up my throat, but I forced it down. Detective Carter stepped closer to me. “Harper, are you alright?” “He came back,” I said, turning to him, emphasizing every single word. “He really came back. Last Wednesday night, he knocked on my door. He was covered in blood and bruises. I barely recognized him. He said he was trapped in a forced labor camp and spent three years trying to escape. I made him soup, I dressed his wounds, I held him for seven nights. I didn’t dream this. It wasn’t in my head. He was here.” Detective Carter was quiet for a long moment. “Then why didn’t you call the police?” I froze. Why didn’t I call the police? Because Julian begged me not to. “He said…” I scrambled to piece together the memories of that night. “He said the owners of the brick kiln had powerful connections. He said the local cops were paid off, and if we reported it, they’d just drag him back. He told me he just wanted to hide out for a while until the dust settled. He said having me was enough. He didn’t want anyone else to know.” Detective Carter looked at me, his eyes filled with a complicated mixture of skepticism and concern. “During these seven days, did anyone else see him?” I thought about it. “No. He never left the apartment. Aside from my quick runs to the pharmacy and grocery store down the street, I stayed by his side the entire time.” “What about security cameras? Does your building have CCTV?” “It’s an old building. The cameras in the lobby have been broken for years. Management never fixed them.” Detective Carter nodded slowly. The younger officer next to him whispered, “Sir, this is getting a bit too…” Detective Carter raised a hand, silencing him. “Harper, come with us to the station first. Let’s get the identification over with.” ***

His tone had softened, laced with sympathy. “We can figure out the rest later.” I looked at him, then at the eerily clean coffee table, and finally nodded. The entire drive to the precinct, my mind was racing, trying to find the glitch in reality. The night Julian knocked on my door was last Wednesday. I remembered it clearly because I had worked late. I had grabbed a cup of instant ramen from the convenience store downstairs, planning to have a sad dinner. As I approached my building’s entrance, I saw a shadow slumped against the brick wall. I gasped, instinctively stepping back. The shadow moved, and a voice, raspy and broken, called out, “Harper.” It was Julian. I stood frozen. The cup of ramen slipped from my hands, rolling to a stop near his dirty sneakers. He took two agonizing steps forward, and the streetlights illuminated his face. He was unrecognizable. His face was a map of purple bruises, his lip was split, one eye was swollen shut, and his clothes were tattered rags. His exposed arms were covered in a horrific lattice of old and new scars. He was limping heavily, his left leg dragging. “Julian?” my voice cracked. He nodded weakly. I rushed to him, my hands hovering over his body, terrified of hurting him. He was a walking open wound. In the end, I just stood there, tears streaming down my face. “How… how are you…” I couldn’t even finish the sentence. He looked at me through his one good eye, a faint, emotional glint shining through the pain. “Harper, I escaped,” he whispered. The details after that were a blur. I remember helping him up the stairs, guiding him to the sofa, and frantically grabbing my first-aid kit. His injuries were worse than they looked. His back was covered in angry whip welts—some scabbed over, others still oozing blood. His feet were a mess of popped blisters and thick, dirty calluses. I cried the entire time I applied the antiseptic, my hands shaking. He remained incredibly quiet, only letting out a sharp gasp when the alcohol stung his raw skin. Once I finished wrapping him up, he leaned back against the sofa, looked at me, and suddenly said, “Harper, don’t call the cops.” I blinked. “Why?” “The people who ran that place… they have people everywhere. The police won’t help.” “I saw a guy try to report them once. They sent him right back. He didn’t survive the night.” “But we can’t just—” “Harper.” He reached out and squeezed my hand. “Just let me catch my breath first, okay? I’ve been running for three years. I just want to be safe with you for a few days.” Looking into his desperate eyes, I nodded. Over the next week, I called in sick to work and stayed by his side. He was too weak to move much, so he spent most of his time in bed. I cooked for him, kept him hydrated, and wiped his feverish brow. He didn’t talk much. Whenever I asked about his time at the labor camp, he would shudder and shake his head, saying he couldn’t bear to relive it. When I asked how he survived those three years, he just looked at me and said, “By thinking of you.” There was one moment, while I was heating up some soup, he watched me from the kitchen doorway and said, “You still have the same habit. You always let it boil over first, then panic and turn the heat down.” I smiled. “How did you know?” “You used to make me soup when we lived in our college dorm.” “Like that time I had the flu, and you insisted on making some terrible vegetable broth that tasted like hot dishwater. I couldn’t swallow a single sip.” Now, sitting in the back of the police cruiser, staring at the blurred city lights outside, I scrutinized every single memory from the past week. His words. His gestures. The way he looked at me. Everything was so normal. He remembered my favorite foods, the places we used to go, the stupid arguments we had. At one point, I casually mentioned how much I missed my old cat who ran away years ago. He immediately said, “You mean Milo? The chubby orange tabby? You cried for two weeks and searched every shelter in the city.” If this man wasn’t Julian, how could he possibly know these intimate details? ***

But… The cruiser pulled up to the precinct. Detective Carter opened the door. “We’re here.” The process of identifying the body was faster than I expected. I was led into a cold, sterile room. On the gurney in the center lay a body covered in a white sheet. An assistant walked over and pulled the sheet down, revealing the face. It was clean. The dirt, the blood, and the bruises were gone. There was only the pale, lifeless skin and closed eyes. But the facial features were unmistakably Julian’s. The jawline, the curve of his brow—it was him. I stood there, a cold dread wrapping around my spine. This was Julian. But this wasn’t Julian. Two violently clashing voices roared in my head, leaving me completely disoriented. “Harper?” Detective Carter’s voice cut through the fog. “Can you confirm? Is this Julian?” I walked closer to the gurney, staring at the cold face. Slowly, I reached out, took the corpse’s left wrist, and turned it over. There should have been a scar. Julian had a deep, jagged scar on his left wrist from a dark period during his senior year of high school. He had attempted suicide during a severe depressive episode. He survived, but the ugly pink scar remained. When we were together, I used to gently trace that scar, asking if it still hurt. He would always smile and say it only hurt when he remembered how lonely he was before he met me. But this wrist was completely smooth. Clean, unblemished skin. Not even a faint scratch. I whipped my head around to face Detective Carter. “This isn’t Julian.” Detective Carter walked over, glanced at the wrist, and then looked back at me. “Are you sure?” “Julian has a prominent scar on his left wrist.” I pointed at the dead man’s bare skin. “It’s deep and impossible to miss. This man doesn’t have it.” Detective Carter fell silent for a few seconds. He pulled out the DNA report and reviewed it again. “But the DNA matches,” he said, handing me the document. “See for yourself.” I snatched the paper, my eyes scanning down to the bold print at the bottom: *99.97% DNA match with Julian’s deceased parents’ DNA database.* My hands began to tremble violently. “This is impossible.” I looked up, panic rising in my chest. “If this dead man is Julian… then who the hell was living in my apartment this past week?” Detective Carter stared at me, silent. “He was there,” my voice cracked into a sob. “For seven days, he slept in my bed. I fed him. I kissed him. He called me Harper. He knew everything about us! If Julian is dead on this table, then who was that man?” “Harper, please, calm down.” “How can I be calm?” I snapped. “The DNA says this is Julian, but Julian has a scar! This makes absolutely no sense!” Detective Carter frowned, examining the corpse’s wrist again. “Is it possible you misremembered? Maybe the scar faded over the years?” “I didn’t misremember!” I yelled, tears finally spilling over. “I touched that scar thousands of times. It was about two inches long, slightly raised, and lighter than the rest of his skin. I could draw it with my eyes closed!” Detective Carter turned to the medical examiner standing nearby. “Can you explain this?” The medical examiner stepped forward, carefully examining both of the corpse’s wrists. “There is absolutely no scar tissue here. But DNA doesn’t lie. Unless…”

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I got dumped and laid off on the exact same day. The reason was absolutely ridiculous. It was all because my boyfriend, Ethan, went to a Tarot reader, and the psychic told him: “Your current girlfriend is leeching all of your good energy. I highly suggest you break up with her.” “Luckily, today is the last day of October. Cut her off today, and your good luck will manifest next month!” Honestly, the psychic was scarily accurate. The second he dumped me, he actually got promoted. **1** The layoff notice and Ethan’s breakup text hit my inbox at the exact same time. I stood in front of my office building, holding my severance package paperwork, completely numb. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Ethan: [Amber, we need to break up.] I froze, my fingers trembling as I typed back: [Why?] [I went to a spiritual Tarot advisor. She told me you have bad vibes. Your toxic energy is blocking my path to success.] [If we end things today, my luck will reset starting next month.] Staring at the screen, I typed: [Ethan, we’ve been together for five years. Are you seriously ending our entire relationship over some stupid playing cards?] [Amber, this is cosmic energy. You have to respect the universe. My latest project was stolen, and my promotion was delayed. It’s obviously your bad energy dragging me down.] [Take care of yourself. And please, don’t try to stalk or harass me.] My phone was shaking in my grip. We had been together for five years. From college to our first jobs, I lived in a damp, leaky basement with him. I ate instant ramen for three weeks straight just to save money. To buy him that designer watch he wouldn’t stop drooling over for his birthday, I secretly worked two part-time jobs until I literally got a stomach ulcer. And now, he was telling me my “vibes” were dragging him down? I took a deep breath, forcing the hot tears back. I replied: [Fine.] One word. Clean and simple. He probably didn’t expect me to agree so easily. It took him a few seconds to type back. [Then… take care of yourself.] I immediately blocked him on Snapchat, Instagram, and his phone number. Then I crouched down by the sidewalk, and the tears finally spilled over. I wasn’t crying because I missed him. I was crying because I had wasted five years of my life on a absolute dog. No job, no boyfriend. I was officially a double-loser. I wiped my face and stood up. With no money and no job, I didn’t even have the luxury to sit around and cry. My only priority now was to make money and survive. I went back to our shared apartment. We called it shared, but I paid almost all the rent and utilities. Ethan had promised me that his salary was going straight into our joint savings account so we could save up for a down payment on a house. He said he wanted to build a future with me. What a joke. I pushed the door open. The apartment was completely empty. Ethan’s things were entirely gone. I pulled out my phone to call a moving company for my own stuff when a bank notification popped up. *Dear Customer, your joint account ending in 4098 had a withdrawal of $30,000 at 3:30 PM. Current Balance: $0.00.* My brain went completely blank. That thirty thousand dollars was my hard-earned money. I had saved every single penny by skipping meals and living like a hermit. I frantically dialed Ethan’s number. “The number you are trying to reach has been restricted…” He blocked me. Not only that, I checked my desk drawer. My two high-limit credit cards were gone. I logged into my banking app. Just this afternoon, someone had used a shady point-of-sale terminal to run fraudulent cash advances totaling twenty thousand dollars! Fifty thousand dollars. My entire life savings, wiped out in a single afternoon. As I stood there shaking with pure rage, my best friend, Harper, called. “Amber! Oh my god, open Instagram right now! That piece of garbage Ethan just posted!” I opened the screenshot she sent me. Ethan had posted a photo from a fancy celebration dinner. He was standing dead center, smiling like a total jerk. His caption read: *[Shoutout to my personal lucky star! Just cut off the toxic energy in my life, and my new project got approved instantly. Upgraded to a high-frequency life! 🚀]* Looking at his smug face made me sick. The Tarot reader was right—the second he dumped me, his career took off. But then, my eyes caught a detail in the corner of the photo. A hand resting on the table, wearing a very specific pinky ring. It was a custom-made silver snake ring. I knew that ring. In college, there was a girl named Chloe who always followed me around, acting incredibly sweet and calling me her favorite mentor. She owned that exact same ring. A sickening thought crossed my mind. I immediately searched her name on Instagram. *** **2** An account with a verified blue checkmark popped up: **@Chloe_The_Mystic**. The profile picture was Chloe’s face. Her grid was filled with aesthetic photos of Tarot cards, sage, and healing crystals. Her captions were bloated with buzzwords like “energetic alignment,” “magnetic manifestation,” and “vibe shifts.” And her latest post? It was a photo of the exact same celebration dinner, taken from a slightly different angle. *[Just helped a beloved seeker cut the energetic cord with a low-vibe karmic attachment. The universe immediately unlocked his wealth portal! ✨💸]* A wave of intense nausea hit me. I almost threw up right there. So that was it. There was no miraculous psychic. There was no cosmic alignment. It was just a cheap, calculated affair. I packed my bags that night and moved into Harper’s guest room. Harper spent the next thirty minutes pacing around the living room, screaming curses. “Those absolute scumbags! Spiritual advisor? She’s just a home-wrecking, crystal-selling fraud!” “And Ethan! Using your hard-earned money to fund his side chick and calling it a ‘vibe shift’?! I can’t!” “Amber, we are calling the cops. Fifty thousand dollars is grand larceny. We can get them locked up!” I sat on the couch, sipping hot tea. “We will call the cops, but not yet,” I said coldly. “That thirty thousand was in a joint account. The law sees it as shared funds, so the police will call it a civil dispute. And the credit card advances? He can easily lie and say I authorized them as a loan. If he holds that line, the police can’t do much.” “If you want to kill a snake, you have to crush its head. I don’t want a long, annoying court mediation. I want to ruin them completely.” Harper blinked. “So what’s the plan? We just let them enjoy your money?” I smirked, spinning my laptop screen to face her. “Of course not. I’m going to destroy the spiritual empire they are so proud of.” On the screen was an analysis of Chloe’s business model that I had spent the entire night reverse-engineering. This wasn’t just a simple psychic gig. It was a massive, highly coordinated emotional scam. First, she used basic psychological tricks—the Barnum effect—to brainwash anxious young people on social media. Next, she sold them overpriced “manifestation crystals” and “banishing rituals” to drain their bank accounts. Finally, she had set up a multi-level marketing pyramid scheme, recruiting “sub-agents” to sell her courses. She was actively crossing the line into financial fraud and illegal pyramid operations. But to take her down completely, I needed a powerful platform. My eyes locked onto a hiring post in bold letters: *[Summit Capital is looking for a Senior Risk Analyst. Candidate must have deep insights into gray-market economies and emerging social media scams.]* Summit Capital was the biggest private equity firm in the city. And Julian Vance, their youngest Investment Director, was legendary for being a ruthless, cold-blooded shark. He was my ticket in. I pulled three consecutive all-nighters. I compiled every piece of evidence on how Chloe’s Tarot business used fraud, manipulated financial flows, and scammed vulnerable people into a fifty-page short-seller report. I even tracked down her “one-of-a-kind high-vibration rose quartz” crystals. They weren’t from a sacred cave in Brazil; they were bought wholesale from a supplier on AliExpress for $1.50 apiece. She sold them for $1,200. This wasn’t spirituality. This was high-margin financial crime. On the fourth morning, I stood in front of the sleek skyscraper of Summit Capital. Just as I was about to walk through the glass doors, a high-pitched, giggling voice drifted from behind me. “Oh, Ethan, look at the energy of this building! The universe is literally begging us to take their venture capital today.” I turned around. Ethan was holding Chloe’s hand, walking toward the entrance. When Chloe saw me, she gasped dramatically, covering her mouth. “Oh my gosh, Amber? Is that you? You look so… drained. Are you okay?” Ethan’s face darkened instantly. “Amber, are you seriously stalking me now?” I rolled my eyes. “Stalking you? Please. I wouldn’t waste my energy tracking a broke loser who lives off other people’s money.” *** **3** Ethan’s ego took a massive hit, and his face turned red with anger. “Watch your mouth! We are here to pitch a multi-million dollar funding round to Summit Capital!” “And you? I heard you got laid off. You’re basically a black hole of negative energy right now.” Chloe chimed in, her eyes glinting with malice. “How did security even let someone like her into the financial district? Amber, you should really leave. Your broke aura is going to ruin our pitch.” I literally laughed out loud. I stared dead at Ethan. “Low-vibe? Ethan, you bought that designer suit you’re wearing with the credit cards I worked two jobs to pay off. Aren’t you afraid my ‘broke aura’ is going to choke you to death?” Ethan flinched, but quickly straightened his collar. “That thirty thousand was joint property! And the twenty thousand was a loan you willingly gave me!” “Amber, if you ruin this deal for me today, I swear I will make your life a living hell!” “Don’t worry,” I smiled coldly. “Your hell is just getting started.” I didn’t waste another second. I spun around and stepped into the elevator, leaving Ethan and Chloe yelling at the lobby security guards behind me. Half an hour later, I was sitting across from Julian Vance. He flipped through my fifty-page report, a faint, amused smile on his face. “Amber, this report on shorting the spiritual creator economy… it reads like a hit list. You’re out for blood.” I met his gaze directly. “Mr. Vance, when you’re dealing with parasites who drain vulnerable people’s life savings, you don’t use a flyswatter. You use a scalpel.” Julian leaned back. “True. But you can’t deny their cash flow is incredible right now. If Summit was to invest, how would you handle it?” I laughed coldly. “I wouldn’t invest. I would short them.” “The biggest weakness of this entire industry is that it’s built entirely on the founder’s personal brand. The moment her reputation crumbles, the money vanishes. On top of that, her business is knee-deep in tax evasion and pyramid schemes.” He closed the file and stood up. “What a coincidence. There are two spiritual grifters sitting in my waiting room right now, claiming they can manifest millions with the power of the universe.” Julian looked at me, his eyes sharp. “Amber, you’re hired. Now, let’s go examine your first target.” I followed Julian straight into the main conference room. Chloe was in the middle of a theatrical presentation. “As you can see, Mr. Vance, our Cosmic Alignment app has an eighty percent retention rate. With a ten-million-dollar investment from Summit, we can scale this globally within six months…” Ethan, who was sitting next to her, jumped to his feet the second he saw me enter. “Amber?! How did you get in here? Security!” Julian shot him a freezing glare. “She is my newly appointed Senior Risk Analyst. She is here to audit your project. Do you have a problem with that, Ethan?” Ethan choked on his words. Chloe quickly stepped in, trying to sound sweet. “Oh, congrats on the job, Amber! But this project is in a highly specialized spiritual niche. You might find the metrics a bit hard to understand.” I didn’t say a word. I just slammed a thick stack of financial documents onto the table. “Oh, I understand the metrics perfectly.” “I understand how you buy cheap plastic crystals on AliExpress for $1.50 and sell them as ‘soulmate magnet stones’ to insecure college students for $1,200.” “I understand how you pay bot farms to flood social media with doom-scrolling anxiety bait, telling people their families will get sick if they don’t buy your $5,000 protection charms.” I tapped the paper, pointing at the numbers. “Chloe, your studio claims to make millions in revenue, but your tax filings for the last three years show consecutive losses. Where is the money going?” “According to these offshore account statements, the cash is being funneled through shell companies straight into a bank in the Cayman Islands.” “You call this cosmic energy? The IRS calls this money laundering.” Chloe’s face turned paper-white. She screamed, “This is slander! These are confidential files! Where did you get this fake data?!” I mocked her with a sweet smile. “Oh, remember? I’m just a low-vibe broke girl who has nothing better to do than dig through trash. When you have nothing to lose, you’d be surprised what you can find.” *** **4** Ethan panicked and lunged across the table to grab the documents. “Amber, you’re doing this because of a personal grudge! You’re just jealous because I found a better business partner, and you can’t stand seeing Chloe succeed!” He turned to Julian, desperately pleading. “Mr. Vance, don’t listen to her! She’s my bitter ex-girlfriend. She’s been stalking us ever since I refused to marry her!” I stepped forward and slapped Ethan hard across the face. The sharp sound echoed in the quiet conference room. “Ethan, stop trying to make your freeloading sound romantic.” “Did you take the thirty thousand from our joint account and max out my credit cards just to bail out Chloe’s bleeding business?” I unlocked my tablet and displayed their private Snapchat chats and hotel booking receipts on the main screen. “Imagine stealing your girlfriend’s life savings just to play sugar daddy to a fake psychic.” “How pathetic do you have to be to fund your own girlfriend’s replacement?” Ethan’s face went completely bloodless. Sensing the danger, Chloe turned to Julian, tears streaming down her face. “Mr. Vance, please, you have to protect us! A prestigious firm like Summit shouldn’t allow an employee to behave so unprofessionally…” Julian let out a soft laugh. “Actually, Amber’s due diligence is spectacular.” “Summit Capital does not invest in pyramid schemes or money laundering operations.” “Furthermore, Amber has already forwarded all of your tax evasion data to the financial crimes division.” “So, both of you… your lucky streak has officially ended.” “Security, throw them out.” With that, Julian turned and walked out. A group of burly security guards marched in and dragged a screaming Ethan and Chloe out of the building. Watching them get dragged away was satisfying, but I still needed my fifty thousand dollars back. Just as I was planning my next move, my phone vibrated. It was my mother. My chest tightened. I picked it up. “Amber, you useless brat! I heard you got a fancy new job! Send me fifteen thousand dollars right now!” “Your brother Tyler has his state civil service exam next week. Chloe told me he has a massive block in his career sector. She said he needs a ten-thousand-dollar high-frequency crystal pyramid to pass!” I gripped the phone tightly. Chloe’s scam had actually reached my own family. “Did you hear me, Amber?! Send the money now!” “Ethan promised he would pay for it, but he called today saying his investments are frozen! You’re his ex-girlfriend—it’s basically your fault his business failed. You owe us this money!” The sheer absurdity of her logic made me laugh. “My fault? Am I Ethan’s mother or his keeper?” “And what the hell is a ten-thousand-dollar crystal pyramid?” My golden-child brother, Tyler, had graduated from a bottom-tier college and spent the last three years playing video games in his room, living off our parents. He claimed he was “studying for the civil service exam,” but he hadn’t even opened a textbook. And my mother honestly believed a plastic pyramid would make him pass? Did she think the examiners were brain-dead? My mother yelled through the speaker, “What do you know?! Chloe blessed that pyramid herself! She said once Tyler puts it on his desk, the universe will write the answers for him! He’s destined to be a high-ranking government official!” “I’m telling you, Amber, if Tyler fails this exam, it’s because your trashy energy cursed him!” “I don’t have any money,” I said, my voice dead and cold. “Not fifteen thousand, not fifteen cents.” “If you believe that scammer so much, why don’t you sell your house to pay her?” The phone erupted into screeching. “You ungrateful, selfish bitch! Why did I even raise you?!” “You’re ruining your own brother’s future! If you don’t send the money, I will come to your office and make a scene! I’ll tell everyone you refuse to support your aging parents!” I hung up without a second thought. Growing up, every good thing in that house went to Tyler. I got the leftovers. My college tuition and living expenses were paid entirely through my own sweat, sleepless nights of part-time jobs, and academic scholarships. And now, they wanted to bleed me dry for a fake psychic? In their dreams. That afternoon, I met with Julian to brief him on Chloe’s next moves. Since Summit had rejected her, her cash flow was completely dry. She needed quick cash, and she needed it now. “She’s hosting a ‘Cosmic Awakening Seminar’ this weekend,” I explained. “Tickets are $2,500 each, and she’s hosting a VIP auction for high-ticket ‘blessed artifacts’ at the venue.” Julian raised an eyebrow. “$2,500? That’s a very aggressive scam.” “It’s aggressive because she’s desperate.” “Chloe is backed by a predatory talent agency run by a guy named Richie Miller. He’s a shady ex-coal mogul who washed his money into social media. He’s her sugar daddy and her main investor. But Richie is incredibly paranoid. If he finds out Chloe is losing his money, he will ruin her.” Julian looked at me. “What do you need from me?” “I need your best legal team. And…” I paused. “I need you to use your connections to make sure the police show up at the venue exactly on time.” “I’m going to smash her entire business to pieces.” Julian smiled. “Amber, Summit doesn’t do favors for free. What do I get in return?” “I will deliver Richie Miller’s internal money-laundering ledger to you. Once his agency collapses, Summit can buy up their premium digital assets for pennies on the dollar.” JuJulian stared at me for a long moment. “Deal. Not only do you get the legal team, but I’ll also personally go with you to watch the show.”

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“Ethan, I don’t think we’re working out anymore.” Chloe pushed the limited-edition bracelet back toward me. It was the exact one I had stood in line for three hours to buy, but right now, her eyes held nothing but pure, unbothered disdain. I gripped the velvet box, my knuckles turning white. She had no idea I worked overtime for an entire month just to afford this. To her, the only thing that mattered was that her best friend just got a one-carat diamond ring, while she was stuck with what she saw as a cheap piece of silver. “We’re just not a match,” she repeated, her voice dripping with a sense of relief. “I’ve met someone else. He’s just an ordinary guy, but he actually *gets* me. Being with you… I feel like I’m suffocating in a lukewarm bath.” I stared at her perfectly done makeup, catching the spark of excitement in her eyes as she imagined her brand-new life. I was silent for ten seconds. Then, I smiled. “Alright. I won’t hold you back.” That was the very last time I would ever indulge her. Because starting tomorrow, she was going to learn what real suffocation felt like.

My name is Ethan. I was with Chloe for three years, and I gave her my absolute everything. When she complained our apartment was too cramped, I stretched my budget to the limit to rent a spacious two-bedroom place in a nice neighborhood. When she complained about her long commute on the subway, I took the money I’d been saving for two years and bought her a white Toyota Corolla. When she said she wanted to apply for grad school, I paid five thousand dollars upfront for her GRE prep courses without a second thought. The entire time, she believed I was just a regular, run-of-the-mill software engineer, making a decent living but barely scraping by in this expensive city. She didn’t know that the food delivery app she ordered from every single day ran on code I wrote back in my junior year of college. She didn’t know that the core recommendation algorithm of the viral short-video app she scrolled through every night was designed by me. And she certainly didn’t know that the massive glass tech tower downtown—the one right next to her office—was entirely mine. I had only wanted to live a normal, quiet life, hoping to find someone who loved me for who I was, not my net worth. Clearly, I was being naive. The day after Chloe broke up with me, her new boyfriend came over to help her pack. I stood by the doorway, watching him. His name was Tyler. He was a DoorDash delivery driver. Apparently, they met when he delivered her boba tea one afternoon. He was six feet tall and admittedly looked more athletic and energetic than I did. “Sorry about this, man,” Tyler said with a smug, victorious grin. “But hey, you can’t force chemistry, right?” I smiled back. “Take good care of her.” Tyler blinked, caught off guard by how incredibly calm I was. He had no idea that the night before, I had already made a dozen phone calls. My first call was to our landlord: “I’m terminating the lease on the two-bedroom apartment immediately. Keep the deposit.” My second call was to a used car dealer: “Come pick up the white Toyota Corolla. Sell it at market value.” My third call was to the GRE prep center: “Cancel the enrollment for Chloe. The reason? She won’t be needing it anymore. Refund the money to my card.” My fourth call was to my personal assistant, Justin: “Look into a DoorDash driver named Tyler. Contact his regional dispatch manager. Starting tomorrow, assign him only the absolute furthest delivery routes. Make sure he’s paid the bare minimum per trip. And put a tracking monitor on all his active delivery zones.” On the other end of the line, Justin paused for a second. “Sir, how far do you want to push this?” I looked out the window. Chloe was busy loading her heavy suitcases onto the back of Tyler’s beat-up scooter. “Just enough so she can see with her own eyes exactly how much the man of her dreams actually makes in a month.” *Chloe, you thought my gifts were cheap?* *You thought he could give you the thrilling life you always wanted?* *Fine. Let’s see what your life looks like without me.*

Three days after she moved out, Chloe texted me on Snapchat. “Ethan, I left a few things at your place. When can I come by to grab them?” I didn’t reply. She texted again: “Don’t be like this. Can’t we just end things on good terms?” I still didn’t reply. Then her calls started coming in. One, two, three times. I blocked her number. She probably thought I would be the same old Ethan—the guy who softened up the moment she pouted. But she didn’t realize that this time was different. I wasn’t just angry. My heart had gone completely cold. For three long years, I had treated an ordinary girl like a literal princess. Whatever she wanted, I never said no. When she complained her salary was too low to buy designer bags, I quietly transferred money into her bank account every month. When she complained that I was too busy with work, I turned down three multi-million-dollar tech projects just to stay home with her. And what did I get in return? She ran off with a delivery guy just because he said a few sweet words of encouragement when dropping off her meals. Fine. I was going to let her experience what that “true love” really cost. On the fourth day, Chloe finally showed up at the lobby of my office building. I was sitting in the corner cafe on the ground floor, watching her wander around through the glass window. She didn’t know which floor I worked on, so she had to ask the front desk receptionists one by one. Justin tapped on my office door later that afternoon. “Sir, she’s downstairs. Do you want to see her?” “Not yet.” I watched her walk from the east entrance to the west entrance, and then to the north gate, wandering around for a solid forty minutes. The June sun was brutal. Her carefully applied makeup was beginning to melt, and her face was flushed red from the heat. Finally, I pulled out my phone and sent her a quick Snapchat message: “Look up. Left window on the second floor.” She snapped her head up, squinting through the glare. I stood by the glass, giving her a brief wave. Then I turned and walked downstairs. She was standing near the lobby entrance, her face slightly sweaty and her hair a bit messy. The moment she saw me walk out, she instinctively tried to smooth down her hair. “Ethan…” “Your stuff is in my car. Wait here.” I went down to the parking garage and brought up a cardboard box. Inside were a few pieces of her clothing, some books, and her half-empty skincare bottles. She reached out to take it, but I didn’t hand it over right away. “Is this everything?” she asked. “Everything.” She blinked, surprised by how cold and straightforward I was. “Also,” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a set of keys, letting them jingle. “Here are the keys to the apartment. I’ve officially terminated the lease.” The keys clinked loudly as they dropped into her palm. She stared down at them, her lips trembling slightly, but she didn’t say a word. I knew exactly what she was thinking. We had chosen that apartment together. She had fell in love with the bay window, the sunny balcony, and the cute coffee shop right downstairs. I had signed the lease immediately, paying six months of rent upfront without hesitation. And now, there were still over two months left on it. “I took back the security deposit,” I said calmly. “I calculated the rent daily. I’m refunding you for the exact days you actually stayed there.” “You don’t have to…” “Two hundred dollars,” I interrupted her, pulling the cash out of my wallet and tucking it into the side of the box. “Take it.” She didn’t reach for it. I looked at her hands—the hands I had held countless times—which were now tightly clutching the strap of her brand-new cheap purse. “Chloe,” I said, putting the box down. “Three years. Whatever I owed you, we are completely even now.” She snapped her head up, her eyes rimmed with red. “Ethan, what is your problem?” “Exactly what I said.” I turned around to walk back into the building. “Ethan!” she yelled behind me. “Why are you acting like this? You only make a few grand a month! You spent almost everything on me these past three years! Do you even have any savings left? You’re just…” I stopped in my tracks.

She kept going, her voice rising. “Do you honestly think I left you because you’re broke? No! I left because you have absolutely no ambition! It’s been three years, Ethan! Your college friends are already directors or starting their own tech firms, and what are you doing? You’re still just writing basic code, working for someone else, just…” “Just what?” I asked, turning slightly. “Just coasting through life!” she screamed. “Being with you, I could see the next thirty years laid out in a boring, predictable straight line! Do you know how suffocating that is? It’s hopeless!” I didn’t turn around completely. “Tyler is a delivery guy, sure. He makes barely enough to survive right now, but at least he has a dream! He told me he wants to open his own restaurant, to be his own boss! What about you? Do you even have the guts to try?” I listened. I listened to her call me lazy, unambitious, and a loser who didn’t even have a dream. When she finally ran out of breath, I turned and looked at her. Her face was flushed with anger, her eyes wide and wild. It looked like she had finally dumped out every single resentment she had kept bottled up for three years. She was practically shaking. “Are you done?” I asked. She bit her lip, glaring at me. “If you’re done, go back,” I said quietly. “Tyler is waiting for you.” I walked into the lobby, crossed the polished marble floor, and stepped into the private elevator. Right before the doors slid shut, I saw her standing there in the heat, clutching that cardboard box, completely frozen. Back in my office, I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window and looked down. She was still standing there. After a long time, she finally turned and slowly walked away. She would walk a few steps, pause, then walk a few more. I watched her figure disappear around the street corner before returning to my desk. My phone rang. It was Justin. “Sir, I have the details on Tyler,” Justin reported. “He’s thirty-two. He’s been doing deliveries for a year and a half. Before that, he worked in construction, as a mall security guard, and in used car sales. He never kept a job for more than a few months. He has a heavy mortgage on a small house in the suburbs where he lives with his mother. Oh, and he has a five-year-old daughter with his ex-wife, who has primary custody.” “A daughter?” “Yes. They’ve been divorced for two years. Does Chloe know about any of this?” I was silent for a few seconds. “She doesn’t know a thing.” I hung up and looked out at the city skyline. *Chloe, you think you found true love?* *Do you even know what it means when a thirty-two-year-old man can’t hold down a single job?* *Do you know why he’s still just delivering food after a year and a half?* *He told you he wants to open a restaurant, but did you ever ask him where he’s going to get the capital?* *Did you ever ask why his ex-wife divorced him?* *You know absolutely nothing.* *You just thought he was better than me because he knew how to talk sweet.* *Fine.* *I’ll let you see the reality.*

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My intern, Chloe, used a cheat called [Success Transfer] on me. No matter how many multi-million-dollar deals I closed, the moment twenty-four hours passed, her name would magically appear on the contract. Even the clients’ memories of me would be glitched and rewritten with her face. In my past life, to win the Top Sales award, I worked day and night to land Mr. Vance—the notorious real estate tycoon whom everyone called “The Dream Killer.” I worked myself to the bone and finally got his signature. But at the victory banquet the next day, the person surrounded by flowers and applause was Chloe. I demanded answers. I made a scene. But everyone just looked at me like I was a crazy, jealous senior employee trying to bully a rookie. Because there it was, in black and white on the contract: *Chloe*. Even Mr. Vance himself pointed at my face and sneered, “Who the hell are you? I’ve never seen you before! The woman who drank with me and signed the deal was Miss Chloe!” I cried and begged security to pull up the CCTV footage. But in the video, the woman sitting across from Vance—though wearing my exact clothes—had Chloe’s face. In despair, I went to my manager, Marcus, to appeal. Instead, he humiliated me in front of the entire office. “Elena, if your sales numbers suck, go practice. What kind of person tries to steal credit from an intern?” Marcus scoffed. “And now you’re making up this insane sci-fi story? Are you that desperate for money?” I posted my story online, but netizens doxed me, calling me a toxic coworker and a bitter, incompetent older woman. Only I knew the truth. My body still bore the cigarette burns I got while blocking drinks for that client. But the next morning, even those scars vanished from my skin. They had transferred to Chloe’s arm. Wearing those scars like a badge of honor, she became the company’s heroic, dedicated star. Meanwhile, I was fired for “mental instability.” That very night, in the pouring rain, I was struck and killed by an out-of-control truck. I never expected to open my eyes again. But I did. I was back to the morning after I had signed the fifty-million-dollar deal. There were only five minutes left before my success was transferred.

Back in the past, I stared intensely at the digital clock on my phone. 【08:59 AM】 If my memory was correct, that fifty-million-dollar contract—the legendary deal of the year—would officially become Chloe’s property at exactly nine o’clock. The suffocating despair of my past life rushed over me, but I quickly forced it down. Since this bizarre [Success Transfer] could even transfer physical injuries… I was going to give Chloe a “gift” she would never forget. Honestly, I wanted to expose her right then and there. But my brutal death in my past life had taught me a lesson: in a world where the rules of reality could be glitched, no one would believe me. Right then, my phone buzzed. A company-wide WhatsApp notification popped up. *“Congratulations to our sales intern, Chloe, for successfully closing the $50 million deal for ‘Dragon’s Bay Luxury Condos’! A new company record!”* I glanced at the clock. The digits flicked to 【09:00 AM】. Almost instantly, cheers erupted across the open-plan office. “Oh my god! Chloe, you are literally a goddess!” “The Rookie Queen! Fifty million dollars!” At that exact second, I felt a sharp, brief pull in my mind, as if some vital memory was being forcibly yanked out of my brain. Then, the physical contract sitting on my desk vanished into thin air. A few yards away, Chloe was surrounded by a worshipful crowd, holding the very contract I had nearly died to get yesterday. Her face was flushed with excitement as she played the shy, modest girl. “Oh, stop it, guys! It was just luck. Mr. Vance was super sweet. He’s not as tough as everyone says.” A bitter taste rose in my throat. *Vance was sweet?* That old creep had forced me to down three bottles of hard liquor last night while trying to slide his hand up my thigh. If I hadn’t fought tooth and nail to keep him at bay, he would have devoured me alive! Just then, our manager, Marcus, pushed open his office door, his face stretched into a massive, greedy grin. “Chloe! Brilliant job! Your commission on this is a cool one million! The company has decided to bypass protocol and promote you to Sales Supervisor immediately!” Then, his cold, sneering gaze drifted over to my corner. “Elena, look at her and take some notes! You’ve been here for three years and haven’t closed a single decent deal.” Marcus rolled his eyes. “All you do is occupy space and wait for a paycheck. Look at the drive this rookie has!” I looked up, meeting Marcus’s condescending eyes. A one-million-dollar commission. The supervisor position. All of that was supposed to be mine. But I only offered a mild, quiet smile. “You’re right, Marcus. Since Chloe has so much drive, maybe she should take a crack at the remaining account on our list?” Marcus blinked, looking at me like I had lost my mind. The surrounding coworkers went dead silent. Their expressions turned weird. *“Is Elena talking about ‘The Darkroom Lounge’ account?”* *“That account is a death sentence! I heard the client is a literal mobster!”* *“She’s obviously jealous of Chloe. She wants to use a trash account to spite her.”* Ignoring the whispers, I reached onto my desk and picked up a dusty, neglected folder. It was the company’s biggest toxic asset—a bad debt project that was completely unrecoverable. Anyone we sent there usually got beaten up. The client was a real-life gangster named Jax, widely known as “The Dragon.” In my past life, the company had sent three male sales reps. All three were carried out with broken legs. I had thought about taking it on back then to prove myself, but ultimately backed out. But in this life? Now that I knew my success—and my injuries—would be transferred… What if it was a “criminal success”? What if it was a “fatal injury”? Suddenly, Chloe’s sweet, mocking voice broke the silence. “Elena, I know you’re under a lot of pressure to meet your quota.” She sighed dramatically. “But you shouldn’t embarrass yourself with an impossible account like that. If you’re really that desperate, I can share a tiny bit of my commission with you. Consider it charity.” A wave of snickers went through the office. “Chloe is way too nice!” “Elena, you better say thank you! Cling to her coat-tails and maybe you won’t get fired!” I didn’t blink. I just stared at Chloe’s fake, pretty face. Enjoy your spotlight, sweetie. Because the higher you climb today, the harder you’ll splat tomorrow. I slammed the “Darkroom Lounge” file onto my desk. “No, thank you.” I looked directly at Marcus and Chloe. “Since Chloe doesn’t want it, I’ll take it.” “In fact, let’s make a wager.” “If I don’t close this deal, I’ll pack my bags and resign immediately.” “But if I do…” I paused, letting my gaze linger on them. “I run the sales department from now on.”

The entire office erupted. Marcus stared at me like I was a brain-dead idiot, then burst into a mocking laugh. “Elena, you said it, not me. If you want to go beg for a beatdown, I won’t stop you.” Chloe tried to look shocked, but a spark of pure greed flashed in her eyes. “Elena, Jax ‘The Dragon’ is dangerous. Don’t do something reckless,” she said, feigning worry. “If you end up in the ICU and can’t pay your medical bills, it won’t be worth it…” Oh, I knew exactly what she was thinking. If I actually pulled this off, the “Success Transfer” would kick in after 24 hours, and all the glory would belong to her anyway. It would probably catapult her straight to the executive suite. I smiled at her hidden excitement, grabbed my purse, and walked out of the office. I hailed a cab straight to “The Darkroom Lounge” on the edge of the city. On the way, I pulled a box cutter out of my bag and bought a bottle of cheap, high-proof whiskey from a liquor store. This time, I was going all in. According to my past life’s memories, Jax was an extremely superstitious mob boss. More importantly, he was currently deeply entangled in a massive federal money-laundering investigation and was desperately looking for a fall guy. This was exactly what I needed. At the entrance of the lounge, several heavily tattooed bouncers blocked my path. “The hell do you want, girl? Looking for trouble?” Expressionless, I popped the cap off the whiskey bottle and chugged a massive gulp. The burning liquid scorched my throat, making my eyes water. But I didn’t stop. I needed to get myself into a state of visible, wild desperation. “Tell Jax,” I screamed, smashing the half-empty bottle onto the pavement, “I have a way to clean his money!” The bouncers froze. Clearly, they hadn’t seen many women this unhinged. A few minutes later, I was dragged into a smoke-filled VIP lounge. Sitting in the center was a massive, scarred man with a fierce black dragon tattooed across his neck. Jax. He squinted at me, casually flipping a switchblade in his hand. “Clean my money? You?” Suppresing the urge to vomit, I forced myself to stand tall. “I’m a sales representative from Shanga Real Estate. We can draft a double-sided laundering agreement. On paper, you’re buying luxury properties. In reality, we can inflate the renovation and maintenance costs to make your cash legally clean.” Jax’s eyes lit up. But gangsters are naturally paranoid. He snapped the switchblade open and pointed it at my throat. “Why should I trust you? How do I know you’re not a fed?” This was the climax. I took a deep breath, stepped forward, and held out my right hand, palm up. “If you don’t trust me, leave a mark. The old-school way. Once blood is drawn, the pact is sealed.” Jax stared at me, then erupted into a booming laugh. “Damn! You’ve got guts! I love crazy women!” He grabbed my hand. The cold blade sliced ruthlessly into my palm. Blinding pain shot up my arm. But I bit my lip and didn’t make a sound. Blood dripped onto the glass table. Jax used the tip of his blade to carve a crude, tiny “Dragon” symbol directly into my flesh. It was his personal mark. The brand he put on all his scapegoats. “Where’s the contract? Give it to me!”

With a trembling hand, I pulled the prepared documents from my bag. It wasn’t a standard property purchase contract. It was a dirty money-laundering agreement containing a clause that read: *“The signee voluntarily assumes all legal liabilities.”* And most importantly, under the signature line… I didn’t write my name. Instead, I pressed my bleeding palm directly onto the paper, leaving a thick, scarlet handprint. Jax didn’t bother reading the fine print. He signed his name and stamped it with his seal. “Now get out! Have the paperwork processed by tomorrow!” Clutching my bleeding hand, I walked out of the lounge. It was 3:00 PM. I had exactly twenty-four hours before the transfer. I didn’t go to the hospital. I just wrapped my hand loosely with some gauze. This wound had to stay fresh. When I got home, I turned off my phone and unplugged my router. Even though the pain made me break out in a cold sweat, I just curled up on my couch, staring at the ticking wall clock. These twenty-four hours were pure torture for me. But for Chloe, they were a victory lap. The next morning, carrying the blood-stained contract, I walked into the office. Chloe was standing by the reception desk, showing off a brand-new Hermès bag to a group of kissing-up coworkers. “Oh, please, Mr. Vance insisted! I told him no, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.” Seeing me enter, she dramatically covered her nose. “Yikes, Elena. What is that smell? Alcohol and blood? Disgusting.” She smirked. “So, how did the deal go? Did you get thrown out on your butt?” Everyone gathered around, waiting for a show. Ignoring her, I marched straight into Marcus’s office. “It’s signed.” I tossed the sealed envelope onto his desk. Marcus, who was sipping coffee, spat it out all over his keyboard. “Signed?! No way!” He ripped open the envelope. When he saw the official red seal of Jax’s front company, his eyes practically popped out of his skull. “It’s real… and it’s a cash buy?! Fifty million in cash?!” Because the office door was wide open, Marcus’s shout echoed through the entire floor. Chloe’s face went pale. She burst into the room and snatched the contract. “This is impossible! How could Jax sign this?! Elena, did you forge his signature?!” Looking at her distorted, ugly expression, my lips curled into a dark smile. “Why don’t you have legal verify it then?” I whispered. “But why are you so worked up, Chloe? Don’t tell me… you want this contract too?”

Chloe’s eyes flickered. I had hit the bullseye. A fifty-million-dollar cash deal meant her commission would double. She stared at the paper, her greed practically oozing out. But I knew she was just waiting for the 24-hour mark to hit. Once the time was up, the contract and all the credit would automatically transfer to her. I glanced at the clock on the wall. 【02:58 PM】 Two minutes left. I was waiting too. “Marcus,” I said suddenly, “this contract is a bit special. It was signed in blood.” I raised my right hand and slowly unraveled the gauze. The crude, scarred “Dragon” symbol on my palm was scabbed over, but it still looked horrific. “Jax said it’s his rule. Whoever signs the deal must carry his mark.” Marcus gasped. “Jesus… that’s barbaric.” But Chloe’s eyes locked onto my palm like she had just found a goldmine. I knew exactly what she was thinking. She figured that once the success transferred, the scar would transfer too. To her, that wasn’t a mutilation; it was the ultimate proof of her “loyalty” to show off to the higher-ups and Jax. The second hand ticked. 【02:59:50】 【02:59:55】 I looked at Chloe, silently counting down in my head. Three. Two. One. 【03:00 PM】 Suddenly, a familiar wave of dizziness washed over me. In the next instant, the throbbing pain in my palm vanished completely. I looked down. My skin was smooth, flawless, and completely unblemished. But across from me, Chloe suddenly shrieked. “Ahhh! My hand!” She grabbed her right palm, blood instantly spurting through her fingers. Everyone panicked. “Chloe! What’s wrong?!” Marcus rushed over. With a trembling hand, Chloe let go. Right there in the center of her palm was the crude, freshly bleeding carve of the “Dragon” symbol! And on the desk, the signature line of the contract—which had been a bloody handprint a second ago—now read *“Chloe”* in shaky, handwritten ink. The eyes of the surrounding coworkers went vacant for a split second before snapping back into focus. Their memories had been rewritten. Marcus froze, then let out a euphoric yell. “Oh my god, Chloe! You signed this deal?!” “I knew it! How could a loser like Elena ever handle Jax? You sacrificed your own flesh for this company! You are an absolute hero!” The coworkers snapped out of their daze and immediately showered her with praise. “Chloe, you are incredible! That is hardcore!” “You literally bled for this deal! Elena, look at her! You should be ashamed!” “Elena was just trying to steal her credit earlier. What a parasite!” Chloe was sweating from the pain, but the adoration turned her agony into pure ecstasy. She held up her bloody hand, glaring at me triumphantly. “See this, Elena?” she sneered. “This is the difference between you and me. You could never close a deal like this in a million years.” Looking at her foolish, doomed face, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “You’re right, Chloe. You’ve got serious guts.” “I just hope you can keep that same energy when the cops get here.”

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My childhood best friend lost contact while working deep undercover abroad. I immediately filed an application with the department to go in and assist him. When I finally found him, he was rotting. He had been tortured beyond recognition in a dark basement. But thankfully, he never opened his mouth. He kept his cover, and he kept his life. Over the next few years, the two of us worked in perfect, silent sync. Step by step, we climbed the ranks until we became the top two lieutenants of the cartel. We got closer and closer to the very core of the organization. Finally, on his 33rd birthday, we took them all down. The mission was complete. Looking at the plane tickets back home in my hand, my eyes suddenly welled up with tears. I hadn’t even flinched when I took a bullet to the shoulder last year, but now, I was sobbing. “Leo, our parents are avenged. We can finally go home.” I was just about to pull out the birthday gift I had prepared for him when Leo suddenly sighed. “Yeah. It’s been so long. I wonder if the old oak tree we used to climb still stands.” His eyes were red with emotion, but my heart stopped. A cold dread washed over me. Our parents had both been brutally murdered by drug traffickers when we were kids. Before we even entered the police academy, we knew we would face these monsters eventually. Back then, I suggested we cut our palms and become blood brothers, so that if one of us died, the other would carry on for both of us. But Leo had pointed at the oak tree in the backyard and said, “We’re already brothers, Mason. We don’t need a silly ritual. The ashes of our parents are buried right beneath this tree. All we need to do is get revenge. If there ever comes a day when one of us is captured, we must find a way to say the words ‘blood brothers’ to the other.” “It means: *I’m compromised. Do not believe a single word I say.*” But right now, we were completely safe. And yet, he had just looked me in the eye and brought up that tree. He wasn’t Leo. Then where was my best friend? Who was this man who had stood by my side, risking his life on the edge of a knife, fighting with me for years?

Noticing my sudden stiffness, “Leo” looked at me with concern. “What’s wrong, Mason?” he asked, his voice dripping with worry. “Is the PTSD kicking in? I know the pressure of the last few years has been insane.” Looking at the genuine concern in his eyes, I forced myself to relax slightly. My parents and his parents had been partners on the force. They were brutally tortured and killed by the cartel when we were young. Since then, I had suffered from severe insomnia and clinical anxiety. But I had Leo. Even though we were the same age, he was always the mature one, the strong one. With his help, I slowly put my shattered mind back together. Only Leo knew about my mental struggles. And I knew his face better than my own. The man standing in front of me looked exactly like my best friend. Even the tiny, faint scar near the corner of his lip was identical. Maybe he was just overwhelmed by the end of the mission? Maybe he actually forgot our secret code in the excitement? I decided to test him. “I’m fine. It’s just… when you mentioned the oak tree, I felt a pang of guilt.” “During the months you went missing, some cartel clean-up crew tracked down our old place and set it on fire. I was too busy preparing for my own undercover deployment to notice. The fire killed the tree. It burnt to ashes.” His eyes widened in shock. “Burnt? But our parents’ ashes were buried under it! Mason, did you manage to save them?” The burial of our parents’ ashes was a secret. No one in the world knew about it except the real Leo and me. My heart eased slightly. I was just about to answer when “Leo” rubbed his red eyes and sighed. “Forget it. What’s done is done. Don’t beat yourself up, Mason. We brought down the cartel. We got justice for them. Their spirits will understand.” He smiled warmly, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Besides, we are blood brothers. Whether the tree is there or not, we are brothers forever.” The words I was about to say choked in my throat like a fistful of dry gravel. He said it again. *Blood brothers.* If he had forgotten the code the first time, there was no way he wouldn’t have remembered it now. This was the sacred oath he made me swear the night before we entered the academy. It was about life, death, revenge, and our absolute core belief. We had branded those words into our very souls. “Yeah,” I forced a smile, my voice barely a whisper. “We’ll always be brothers.” “Leo, today is your birthday. Let’s not talk about sad things.” I subtly stepped back, breaking his touch, and pulled out the watch I had customized for him. Suddenly, my hand slipped. The watch hit the hard tile floor. The glass shattered. “Oh, damn it!” I gasped. “I am so sorry, Leo. Let me get this fixed. I’ll get you another one.” He waved his hand, smiling. “It’s fine, man. I don’t care about material stuff.” But I insisted. I told him I couldn’t leave the country without giving him a proper gift. I canceled our flight tickets. I needed to find my best friend on his birthday. Dead or alive. ***

While waiting for the new gift to be ready, “Leo” took me to a local arcade. He knew exactly what games I liked to play when I needed to decompress. He even remembered my favorite characters and combos. When I reflexively used my teeth to pop open a soda bottle, he frowned, grabbed the bottle, and scolded me just like the old days, nagging about germs and dental bills. Apart from the “blood brothers” phrase, he was perfectly, flawlessly Leo. “Mason, the last time we celebrated our birthdays together was five years ago, right?” During dinner, before I could even probe, “Leo” brought up the past. “I went behind your back and applied for the undercover op. When you found out, you lost your mind. We got into a massive fistfight.” “But you lost,” he chuckled, lighting a cigarette, his eyes filled with nostalgia. “You were so mad you cried and stayed up all night.” I remembered that night. We had agreed that I would be the one to go undercover. Leo had smiled and agreed to my face, but then stole the assignment behind my back. He wanted to sacrifice himself to protect me. He was the same age as me, but he always acted like a protective big brother. But was that Leo still alive? I clenched my fists under the table, forcing a chuckle. “Of course I remember.” “You went back on your word. I was so desperate I wanted to call Director Miller to beg him to swap us. What did you do then?” He laughed harder. “I confiscated your phone and locked you in your room. By the time you broke the door down, I was already on a flight out of the country.” I tried to laugh with him, but my facial muscles felt frozen. Our fistfight was public knowledge among a few close colleagues back at the precinct. But the part about him locking me in my room? Leo would have never told a soul. It was embarrassing and highly unprofessional. Yet, this man knew. He knew every single detail. How? How could he know so much? In the silence, “Leo” suddenly stood up and reached over with a napkin. “You still eat like a toddler. Wipe your mouth. How am I supposed to set you up on dates back home if you eat like a pig?” His nagging was so familiar, so warm, and so frustratingly comforting. My vision blurred. Memories of the years we spent relying only on each other rushed back. I wanted so badly for him to be real. Then, the final dessert was served—a classic Peach Cobbler. I had ordered it on purpose. I stared intensely at his face. I saw him freeze for a second, and then his eyes turned red. “Our parents loved peaches,” he whispered softly. “It’s a pity our ‘blood brother’ oak tree is gone. I wonder if they missed the sweet smell of peaches these past few years.” Every ounce of warmth in my chest vanished instantly. My mind went ice-cold. He said it again. *Blood brothers.* Once. Twice. Three times. He was not Leo. My instinct was to tackle him, call the local backup agents still cleaning up the city, and beat the truth out of him. But I didn’t dare. If the real Leo was still alive somewhere, any reckless move on my part could get him killed. I had to play along. I had to find out where Leo was. ***

But I couldn’t understand. When did the swap happen? Three years ago, Leo went dark. Out of the four undercover agents our department planted in the cartel, three were tortured and killed. Leo was the only survivor, but we lost contact with him. Everyone thought he was dead. Without hesitation, I volunteered to take over the mission. Three months later, with the department’s help, I managed to get close to one of the cartel’s mid-level bosses and successfully infiltrated the syndicate. That was when I saw Leo again. He was chained to the wall of a damp basement. His body was a map of raw, infected burns and cuts. He looked half-dead, but it was him. The boss who brought me down there laughed and said, “We probably got the wrong guy. The Big Boss suspected he was a fed, but no cop could survive six months in this hole without singing.” I didn’t dare show any emotion. In the brief second our eyes met, Leo looked at me. He was in agony, but his eyes were sharp, fierce, and unbroken. He silently mouthed five words: *Don’t worry. I’m okay.* I almost broke down right then and there. He had survived the torture that we thought no human could withstand. I was 100% sure that the Leo in the basement three years ago was the real Leo. Later, he cleared his name, got promoted within the cartel, and we started working together. He never betrayed me. In fact, he saved my life multiple times. So, the Leo of the past three years must have been real too. Exactly when did this impostor take his place? I racked my brain, but I couldn’t find a single gap. “Mason, the gift should be ready by now,” “Leo” said as we walked out of the restaurant. “Let’s grab it, book the earliest flight, and head home.” I couldn’t make up any more excuses to delay. I pretended to have a sudden, agonizing stomach cramp. I locked myself in a bathroom stall and messaged my handler, asking him to send over every encrypted log of our communication during the undercover years. We had pretended not to know each other, communicating only through cyphers left at dead drops. I needed to read every single word. I needed to analyze the syntax, the slang, the tiny habits to see if there was a shift in tone. But after reading them three times, I found absolutely nothing. Outside, “Leo” knocked on the door. “Mason? If your stomach is that bad, I’ll run to the pharmacy. If we delay any longer, we’re going to miss the red-eye flight.” His voice made my skin crawl. A sudden, terrifying thought hit me. What was the point of this impersonation? ***

If he was an impostor, to know these intimate details about our childhood, he must have captured the real Leo and tortured the information out of him. But if he had already captured Leo and compromised us, why did he let the entire cartel get destroyed? And now, instead of running away with his money, he was actively trying to enter the United States with me—a place where law enforcement would make his life ten times harder. “Mason!” “Talk to me, man!” “You didn’t pass out on the toilet like Wyatt did back in academy, did you?” He sounded genuinely worried, knocking louder. “I’m coming out!” I called back. The puzzle pieces weren’t fitting. If he wanted to fool me, knowing my childhood was enough. Why would he remember a stupid story about our classmate Wyatt passing out in the bathroom six years ago? Even under extreme torture, no cartel interrogator would ask about classmate gossip. And Leo would never crack. His conviction was absolute. He would never bow to these monsters. I walked out, and he immediately checked my forehead for a fever. His worry looked 100% real. Could it be… that the years of psychological trauma had messed up Leo’s mind? Had his memory fractured, making him truly believe we had a literal “blood brother” ritual? That was the only logical explanation left. “Leo, let’s go to the hospital,” I muttered, holding my stomach. “I think my ulcer is flaring up again.” Before I could finish, “Leo” grabbed a passing waiter. “Where is the nearest ER?” Once he got the address, he threw my arm over his shoulder and practically carried me to a cab. He didn’t even look this panicked when he was chained up in that basement. My throat tightened. I wanted to believe he was real. I went to the hospital to buy time. I had secretly messaged a local backup agent to meet us at the hospital and quietly collect a hair sample from “Leo” for an express DNA test. If he was the real Leo, we would go home together. If he was fake, I would arrest him right there. I managed to snag a few strands of his hair from his jacket and handed them to the undercover agent in the hospital hallway. The next twenty hours of waiting felt like a slow death. Finally, my phone buzzed. *“DNA matches Leo Vance. The sample is clean. He is who he says he is.”* The moment I read the text, I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for years. I could finally breathe. I ran back to his room. “My stomach is fine now, Leo. Let’s go home! Let’s get the hell out of here!” He grinned, relieved, and immediately pulled out his phone to book the flight. In the Uber to the airport, I finally let my guard down. We talked about where we’d go for vacation, and how we would take our parents’ ashes to all the places they had wanted to visit but never got the chance to. It felt like stepping out of hell straight into heaven. Knowing Leo was alive and safe was all that mattered. “Oh, wait—” As we pulled up to the airport terminal, “Leo” suddenly snapped his fingers. “We don’t have much savings, and the department’s bonus is going to take months to clear probate. We don’t have the cash to travel right now, do we?” “How about we dig up the stash our parents left us? We agreed back then that once we got revenge, we could finally use it.” My body went completely rigid. “What stash?” “Leo” laughed naturally. “What do you mean, ‘what stash’? Did you forget?” “The cash we buried under the Tree of Wrath.” My eyes widened. Cold sweat broke out across my entire body, and my blood turned to ice. There was no “Tree of Wrath.” There was only the oak tree. “Tree of Wrath” was a code word we used to describe our target list. It was a psychological tool we created to keep our hatred alive, to remind ourselves never to compromise, never to give up. And there was no treasure. Only our parents’ ashes.

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When I was sixteen, a killer broke into our house, tortured and murdered my mother, and burned the place to the ground, erasing all the evidence. I was there. I watched the whole thing. My dad, my uncle, the cops—they asked me over and over what happened that night. I kept my mouth shut. They thought the trauma had made me mute, so they handed me a pen and paper, asking me to write down what the killer looked like. I still stayed silent. I didn’t move a muscle. Ten years later, I’m twenty-six. Because of my mother’s unsolved murder, my dad and I had a falling out. We hadn’t seen each other in eight years. But suddenly, he showed up. I came home from my shift to my tiny studio apartment, opened the door, and saw him sitting there with Uncle Leo. Both of them looked at me with freezing, cold eyes. “Vivian, did you kill your mother?” My body went completely rigid. I clenched my teeth, glaring at him with pure rage. He was my father. How could he even think, for a second, that I would kill my own mother? My dad read my expression and let out a cold, bitter laugh. “Then why won’t you tell us who did it?” “It’s been ten years, Vivian! How do you sleep at night? How do you eat?” “When you dream, does Susan’s burned body crawl out and ask you why you didn’t avenge her?!” I avoided his eyes and looked down. I didn’t know how to face him. He was only forty-six, but he looked sixty-four. The night my mom died, his hair turned white overnight. After that, he sold the house, the car, and everything we owned. He became obsessed, chasing leads like a madman, never giving up for ten long years. Now his back was hunched, but the burning desire for revenge in his eyes was still as sharp as ever. And now, he was locking onto me. “Vivian, how long are you going to play mute?” “I’ve been following you. You’re not mute! I saw you talking with my own eyes—” Furious, he pulled out his phone and played a blurry video. It was me, walking down the street. At a corner, I suddenly stopped, looked up, and murmured, “Don’t worry, don’t worry…” Then I looked down and kept walking. I had no idea my own father was stalking and doubting me. Suddenly, he grabbed my collar like a lunatic. “You know who the killer is! Why won’t you speak? Why play dumb?” “There’s only one explanation…” “You did it!” “You killed your mother!” Leo couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled David away from me. “Enough!” “My sister was tortured for hours before she died. How could Vivian do that to her?” My dad’s teeth gritted so hard I could hear them grinding. “She hated her mother! She’s a psycho!” “She’s capable of anything!” “Even if she didn’t pull the trigger, she’s an accomplice!” Looking into my dad’s bloodshot eyes, seeing the complex storm of emotions inside them, I knew my worst nightmare had come true. My dad had found out about the other case from ten years ago.

When I was sixteen, I was a sophomore in high school. My parents were always out of town running their business, and my grandma was too old to look after me. So my mom came back to our small town, rented an apartment for me, and stayed with me for a few months. Because she had been away for so long, and I was at that sensitive, awkward teenage phase, we barely spoke. We weren’t close at all. I went to school; she focused on her work. I usually came home late, but because she had to meet clients, negotiate prices, and go to business dinners, she came home even later. Once, I felt like someone was stalking me on my way home. I told her about it and asked her to pick me up after school. She promised she would, but she flaked. I waited for her at school until midnight. A massive thunderstorm hit. I couldn’t find anywhere to hide from the rain, so I had to run all the way home through the storm. That night, the nightmare happened. While taking a shortcut through a dark alley, the stalker jumped out and tackled me to the ground. The pouring rain and loud thunder swallowed my screams. When I finally stumbled back home, I was covered in half rain, half blood. My mom was fast asleep on the couch, the living room smelling heavily of alcohol. “Vivian?” Woken up by the metallic smell of blood, my mom opened her eyes. When she saw what I looked like, she sobered up instantly. She threw her arms around me and sobbed hysterically. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…” “Vivian…” “It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault!” She said she was on her way to get me, but then a supplier offered her a drink, and she thought she could get a cheaper deal if she stayed. She thought I’d be fine. Ha. Maybe because of the physical pain, or maybe because of the burning hatred, I pushed her away. I didn’t want her to touch me. I only said one word: “911.” My mom started crying even harder. “We can’t call the cops!” “Vivian, if we call the cops, everyone in this town will know! How will you face people at school? What about your future? Your college applications?” “Mom is here, okay?” “I won’t leave anymore. I’ll stay here and protect you…” But less than three months later, she was brutally murdered. With her death, I thought that nightmare would stay buried forever. But my dad had found out. He slammed a worn, wrinkled notebook onto the table. “Your mother kept a diary. Before she died, she wrote down all the important things.” “She was afraid someone would find it, so she locked it in a metal box and hid it. It survived the fire, and now I have it.” My dad grabbed my collar again, shaking me. “Your mom made a mistake, but she didn’t mean to! She didn’t call the cops because she wanted to protect your reputation!” “How could you kill her for that?” “Are you even human?” My dad’s screams made my ears ring. Beside us, Leo didn’t try to stop him this time. Instead, with trembling hands, he picked up the diary from the table. It was indeed my mom’s neat handwriting. She had written about her guilt and how her negligence had led to my assault. There were smudges on the paper, likely from her tears. I could feel her deep, agonizing regret in every word. Leo finished reading, wiped his eyes, and said with a shaky voice, “David, calm down.” “Even with this… it doesn’t prove Vivian is the killer.” “My sister was stabbed over thirty times, and there were signs of sexual assault. Vivian couldn’t have done that.” Leo pushed my dad away, grabbing my hands with pleading eyes. “Vivian, did you hold a grudge against your mom, so you’re hiding the killer to punish her? Is that why you won’t help us find him?” “I swear to God, Vivian, if you just tell us who did it so your mom can rest in peace, I will get him myself!” “I’ll carve up the bastard who hurt you with my own hands!” Leo’s eyes were bloodshot, his gaze so intense I had to look away. Before I could react, my dad let out another bitter laugh. “You won’t need to do that. That piece of trash is already dead. And Vivian probably killed him!” “The police are already investigating. We’ll have answers soon.” “Vivian, I don’t want to throw my own daughter in prison.” “But I can’t let Susan rest in an unmarked grave of injustice. You forced my hand!”

They locked me in the room and took my phone. I could only sit there, waiting for the police investigation. My dad and Leo sat right outside, chain-smoking one cigarette after another. Whenever I locked eyes with my dad, I realized he didn’t see me as his daughter anymore. To him, I was an enemy. A monster that had tortured him for ten years. I didn’t blame him. I did watch my mother get murdered. I saw the killer’s face. I remembered everything. But no matter what he did, he would never get a single word out of my mouth. He loved my mom so much. After she died, getting revenge became the only thing keeping him alive. He had ruined his life, living like a ghost for ten years just to find the killer. But he had found nothing. Then he discovered I could speak, that I wasn’t actually mute from trauma, and that I was lying to him. I was hiding the truth. And then he found out about my assault. And the man who assaulted me had died a brutal death—his limbs broken and twisted—on a dark street corner just a week before my mom was killed. He suspected me. In his mind, I had a motive, and I was crazy and ruthless enough to do it. He believed I hated my mother, hired someone to kill her, and that was why I refused to name her killer. It was a very logical theory. I didn’t defend myself. I just silently waited for the police. *Ring… Ring…* My dad’s phone suddenly rang. He picked it up instantly. Detective Miller’s voice, which I knew all too well, came through the speaker. “David, are you with Vivian?” My dad’s voice was hoarse. “Yes! Did Vivian have anything to do with that bastard’s death?” “Yes. Keep her there. We’re on our way!” The moment the call ended, my dad’s fist crashed heavily into my face. “If you had the guts to kill the guy who hurt you, why did you have to hate your mother?” “She didn’t call the cops because she loved you! Things were different back then! She was terrified of the rumors destroying your life!” “Before she came back home, she couldn’t sleep at night. She would cry herself to sleep holding your picture!” “How… how could you…” He couldn’t finish his sentence. He completely broke down, burying his face in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably. Leo smoked in silence, looking at me as if I were a stranger. A monster. I held my swollen cheek, staring blankly at the ceiling. A tear slipped down my cheek, feeling slightly warm. I quickly wiped it away, whispering to myself in my head. *Soon. It’s almost over.* *Everything will end very soon.* Twenty minutes later, Detective Miller arrived with a few officers. He pulled out a pair of cold handcuffs and snapped them onto my wrists. “Vivian, you are under arrest in connection with a ten-year-old homicide. Come with us.”

In the interrogation room, Detective Miller put a crime scene photo on the table. Even though the man was dead, and even though ten years had passed. Seeing his face made me shudder uncontrollably. A deep, primal fear shook my soul. This was the man who had stalked and assaulted me ten years ago. It took me a long time to calm my breathing. Miller spoke. “Do you know him?” I nodded. “How?” There was no point in hiding it anymore. I reached for the pen to write it down, but Miller coughed. “Cut the act, Vivian. Your dad told us you can talk. You’re not mute.” I let out a bitter smile, dropped the pen, and spoke. “He assaulted me.” “Why didn’t you report it?” “My mom wouldn’t let me.” Miller’s voice turned incredibly sharp and intense. “So you took justice into your own hands and brutally murdered him?” I shook my head. “I didn’t kill him.” “Still denying it? Ten years ago, we couldn’t solve this case because of limited forensics. But after your dad prompted us to look into it again, we re-examined the victim’s preserved fingernail scrapings. We found your skin cells. The DNA is a perfect match.” Before I could say anything, Miller stood up, leaning over the table to pressure me. “Confess now, and I’ll talk to the DA for a plea deal. You were a minor ten years ago. You won’t get a long sentence.” “But if you keep fighting this, you will rot in prison for the rest of your life!” I just blinked, my expression unchanged. I wasn’t afraid of prison. Ten years ago, I had already prepared myself to spend the rest of my life behind bars. But now was not the time. Miller was bluffing. His evidence was weak, and he didn’t have enough to convict me. I took a deep breath and looked him dead in the eye. “I told you, I didn’t kill him.” “Then why is your DNA on his body?” I shook my head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember much from ten years ago. If you have solid proof, lock me up. If you don’t, let me go.” After that, no matter what they asked, I remained dead silent. Forty-eight hours later, they had nothing, and they had to release me. But the moment I stepped out of the precinct, my dad and Leo forced me into their car. Detective Miller pretended not to see, staying close by just to make sure things didn’t get violent. Inside the car, my dad glared at me with bloodshot eyes. “You talked to the detective. Drop the act.” “I’m asking you one last time. What happened the night your mother died?” “I swear to God, Vivian, if you keep lying to me, I will do something crazy.” “You can hire a hitman? So can I! I have plenty of ways to make you talk!” He looked completely insane. This unsolved case had lasted ten years. Ten years of my mother’s ghost begging for justice. It had driven everyone crazy. Honestly, I was losing my mind, too. Fortunately, I could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. “Just wait. Give me one last month.” “In one month, I will tell you everything.” My dad gritted his teeth, shaking with rage. “Why a month? What game are you playing?” I didn’t answer. I looked out the window. Floating just outside the car was a soul that only I could see. She had been with me for ten years, and now she was about to fade away completely. I smiled slightly and waved in my mind. *Goodbye, Mom. I’ll be a good girl.* But in reality, I wouldn’t. I had lied to my dad for ten years. And I had lied to her for ten years, too.

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I was desperately, miserably in love with Selene. Even though she kept a string of lovers on her leash, and had openly cheated on me with Hunter—her family’s former adopted heir. I still couldn’t bring myself to let her go. I hit the gym religiously, pumped my body with endless fertility medications, all because I desperately wanted to have a child with her to secure our marriage. Until today, when the doctor finally told me my fertility metrics had met the standards. Holding the lab report, I rushed to her office without wasting a single second. “Selene, I—” My voice caught in my throat. Selene was wrapping her arms around her newly hired male secretary, kissing him passionately. Hearing me enter, she cast a cold, irritated glance over her shoulder. “Get the hell out!” At that exact moment, a cold splash of reality hit me. I could tolerate having a cheating wife. But could our future child tolerate having a mother like this? *** ### It was half an hour later when the office door finally clicked open. Out stepped the new secretary. He casually adjusted his rumpled shirt, throwing me a smug, disdainful smirk before sauntering down the hallway. I had witnessed this kind of silent provocation hundreds, if not thousands of times. In the beginning, it would break my heart and leave me in tears. But now? I was entirely numb to it. I pushed the door open and walked in. Hearing my footsteps, Selene turned her head. The moment her eyes fell on me, her brow furrowed in habitual annoyance. “What are you doing back here?” “Didn’t I tell you to stop coming to my office for no damn reason?” I hesitated. Quietly, I slipped the fertility lab report deep into my bag and spoke in a calm, flat voice: “Selene, let’s get a divorce.” The hand Selene used to hold her slim cigarette paused mid-air. She let out a mocking laugh and looked at me. “What? You can’t take it anymore?” “Lest you forget, you were the one who begged on your knees and signed that prenuptial agreement, giving up your dignity just to marry into my family.” As soon as the words left her mouth, her phone on the desk buzzed twice. It was Hunter. Selene glanced at the screen. She didn’t even bother to dismiss me, answering the call right in front of me. Her voice instantly turned sweet and dripping with affection: “Hey, babe. Miss me already?” “Of course I love you the most. You’re my only baby.” “You’re back in the country? Great, I’ll see you in a bit.” A man’s low, playful laughter drifted faintly from the receiver. A few minutes later, Selene hung up and redirected her icy gaze back to me. She tilted her chin toward a corner of her massive mahogany desk. “The divorce papers are right there. I’ve already signed my part.” “If you want to sign it, go ahead.” “It’s not like this is the first or second time you’ve thrown a tantrum about getting a divorce.” Selene stood up, grabbed her designer coat from the back of her chair, and walked toward the door. She paused at the threshold, throwing a cold warning over her shoulder: “Oh, and don’t bother waiting up for me tonight. Stop playing the dutiful, pathetic husband waiting at the door.” “It annoys me, and it makes my mother nag at me every time she sees you like that.” With that, she opened the door and walked out without a single backward glance. Faced with Selene’s relentless humiliation and disdain, I probably should have collapsed onto the floor, sobbing my heart out. But strangely, My eyes were completely dry. I couldn’t squeeze out a single tear. I walked over to her desk, pulled out the divorce agreement, and flipped to the last page. Selene’s elegant, sharp signature was already penned there. “Heh.” I shook my head, letting out a self-deprecating chuckle. I didn’t even bother reading the clauses about property division or alimony. None of it mattered to me anymore. I pulled a pen from the holder. Stroke by stroke, I wrote down my name, Ashton, and took my copy of the agreement. It was only when I walked out of the corporate building that I pulled two other papers from my pocket: the fertility approval sheet, and an early-stage stomach cancer diagnosis. I had honestly wanted to leave a child behind for her. *** ###

When I returned to the estate, Victoria was waiting for me in the living room. The moment she saw me, she hurried over. “Ashton, you’re back!” “You went to the hospital for your check-up today, right? Did the results come out? I noticed you haven’t had much of an appetite lately. Are you feeling unwell?” I lowered my gaze, forcing a calm lie: “I’m fine, Victoria.” “The doctor said it’s just some minor indigestion and stomach sensitivity. Nothing to worry about.” Victoria had always been incredibly kind to me. Since I had already decided to divorce Selene, there was no need to make this gentle older woman worry about my health. The anxiety on Victoria’s face softened, and her tone remained warm: “Oh… thank goodness. Your health is the most important thing. I’ll have Maria brew some herbal tea to soothe your stomach. Drink it before bed, okay?” “Thank you, Victoria.” Victoria seemed to have more to say, but the heavy front doors of the villa were suddenly pushed open. Was Selene back? Didn’t she say she wasn’t coming home tonight? A pair of polished black leather shoes stepped into the foyer, followed by a smug, handsome face. It was Hunter. “Good evening, Victoria. Hey, Ashton.” “Selene brought me over for dinner. I hope you don’t mind.” The smile on Victoria’s face instantly froze. She whipped her head around, glaring at Selene with sheer fury. No matter how wild Selene acted outside, Victoria could turn a blind eye as long as it wasn’t brought into the open. But bringing her side-piece into our family home was a direct slap to my face. “Selene, how dare you—” I quickly stepped forward, gently rubbing Victoria’s back to soothe her. “Victoria, please calm down. Remember what the doctor said about your high blood pressure. Anger is bad for your heart.” “It’s just dinner.” Then, I turned around to face Selene and Hunter. I offered them a polite, empty smile. “I don’t mind at all.” “Maria, please set two more plates. Dinner is ready. You two can wash up and join us.” Perhaps my reaction was too peaceful. Selene raised an eyebrow in surprise, searching my face as if trying to figure out what kind of mind game I was playing. At the dining table, Hunter was radiant. He constantly used his fork to pile Selene’s favorite dishes onto her plate, his voice dripping with artificial sweetness: “Selene, try this. You’ve been working so hard lately, you need to eat more.” Selene didn’t reject his advances. Instead, she smiled, picked up a piece of perfectly deboned fish, and held it to Hunter’s lips. “You should eat too, babe.” Hunter giggled, taking it from her fork. As he chewed, his eyes darted toward me, flashing a triumphant, mocking look. Victoria’s face turned completely pale. Unable to tolerate the disrespect any longer, she slammed her bowl onto the table with a loud *clack*. “I’m done.” She got up and left the dining room in a hurry. I didn’t raise my head. I just kept chewing my food slowly and methodically. The doctor had told me this morning that because it was early-stage stomach cancer, we had caught it just in time. But I had to eat properly to prepare my body, or I wouldn’t even survive the surgery next week. Selene found my dead-silent reaction incredibly boring. Seeing that Victoria had left the table, she leaned into Hunter’s chest and said loudly, deliberately aiming her words at me: “Oh, by the way, Ashton. Don’t sleep in the master bedroom tonight.” “Hunter and I are using it.” “Go sleep in the guest room on the third floor.” Hunter let out a soft, performative laugh, wrapping his arm tightly around her waist. “Oh, Selene… don’t say things like that in public. It’s so embarrassing…” Only then did I look up, my voice steady: “Sure.” I stood up from my chair. “I’m finished. Enjoy your dinner.” The master bedroom or the guest room made no difference to me. I wasn’t picky about where I slept. For a cancer patient, getting enough sleep was my only priority. But my total indifference seemed to light a sudden, inexplicable fire in Selene’s chest. She abruptly shoved Hunter away, stood up, and blocked my path in three large strides. She grabbed my wrist with bruising force, her voice laced with sudden rage: “Stop right there!” “Ashton, who the hell do you think you’re giving attitude to?” *** ###

Her sudden burst of anger caught me off guard. What was Selene even mad about? In the past, I had behaved like a hysterical madman. I had done everything to track down evidence of her affairs, checked her phone for endless flirty texts, and tried to block every man who came near her. Back then, she despised me for it. She called me a psycho, a controlling freak. Now that I was finally giving her the freedom she wanted, why was she still angry? I felt incredibly exhausted. I took a deep breath, gently but firmly prying her fingers off my wrist. “I’m not giving you attitude, Selene. I’m just tired and want to rest.” I took two steps, then paused as something crossed my mind. I turned back. “By the way, I’ve signed the divorce papers. My signed copy is in my bag, and yours is back on your desk. If you have time tomorrow morning, let’s go to the attorney’s office to file the paperwork. It shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes.” “I haven’t told Victoria about this yet. Her health is fragile, and I don’t want to shock her. You should find a gentler way to tell her later.” Selene let out a harsh, bitter laugh, her words dripping with sarcasm: “You’re calling her ‘Victoria’ already? How ungrateful.” “Ashton, if my mother hadn’t literally threatened to starve herself to death, a guy like you would have never even crossed my path, let alone married into the corporate dynasty.” My fingernails dug into my palms, turning my fingertips white. But I didn’t want to argue. I just kept my head down, remaining silent. My silence made Selene feel like she was punching a wall of soft cotton. Her irritation flared even higher. She pushed her plate away and stood up abruptly. “Fine! You’re in such a rush to leave? Let’s go tomorrow!” The next morning, the silence in the back of the town car was suffocating. Suddenly, Selene turned her head, a cruel, mocking smile playing on her lips. “Too bad Hunter was still asleep and couldn’t join us. Otherwise, once we file these papers, I could have proposed to him right outside. He’s been with me for years; it’s time I gave him a legal title.” I knew she was trying to get a rise out of me, so I didn’t take the bait. Instead, I turned to look at her. “Since we’re legally parting ways today, can you tell me the truth?” “Selene, why have you hated me so passionately all these years?” *** ###

The air in the car instantly froze. Selene’s throat bobbed, as if she were desperately suppressing a wave of fury. After a long pause, she whipped her head around and glared at me with pure venom. “Because you deserved it!” “Honestly, when I first met you, I actually liked you. But then you just *had* to play the desperate, pathetic puppy who wanted to marry into my family. You made my mother use her own life to force me into this marriage!” “I am so sick of it! I am sick of my mother controlling every single aspect of my life! I wanted freedom! I told you that back then, and you said you didn’t care as long as you could be with me. Well, this is what you get. You brought this entirely on yourself!” Selene screamed the words in one breath. Then, she slumped back against the leather seat, panting heavily. I listened to her, quiet and still. I wasn’t shocked, just incredibly amused by the sheer absurdity of it all. Looking at her flushed, angry face, I offered a sincere apology: “I’m sorry, Selene. For wasting these past few years of your life.” “Now that we are divorced, I promise I will never bother you again.” Selene didn’t reply, her brow furrowing even tighter. By the time the filing was complete and we returned to the estate, Selene remained dead silent. I had no desire to irritate her further, so I retreated directly to the third-floor guest room to pack my things. At dinner, the four of us sat together again: Victoria, Selene, Hunter, and myself. This time, Selene and Hunter weren’t acting overly touchy. But as the chandelier light caught Hunter’s wrist, my eyes snagged on a familiar glint of green. That was… That was my mother’s heirloom emerald bracelet! Shock and panic seized me. I stood up so fast my chair screeched, and I lunged across the table to grab Hunter’s wrist. “Give it back!” “That’s my mother’s bracelet! Who gave you permission to go into the master bedroom and ransack my jewelry box?” Hunter shrieked in pain as I gripped his wrist. But a split second later, a flash of smug satisfaction crossed his eyes. He instantly whimpered, tears pooling in his eyes. “What do you mean, your bracelet? Ashton, what are you talking about? I bought this myself a few days ago! I was planning on gifting it to Selene!” “Selene, he’s hurting me! Make him let go!” Selene stood up almost the exact second I grabbed Hunter. Hearing his whimper, she violently slapped my hand away without a shred of hesitation. “Ashton! Have you lost your damn mind? Let go of him!” “I knew you wouldn’t let this divorce go smoothly! It’s just a bracelet! If Hunter said he bought it, he bought it! Stop causing a scene over nothing!” I stared at Selene, my voice turning sharp and hysterical: “I’m causing a scene? Selene, open your eyes and look at it!” “This was in the safety deposit box of my mother’s estate! It’s her last legacy!” Selene glanced at the bracelet with irritation. It did look familiar. It probably was mine. But just as she opened her mouth to tell Hunter to take it off and give it back, Victoria slammed her hand on the table, standing up and pointing a shaking finger at Hunter. “You thief! I’ve seen that bracelet before. It belongs to Ashton. Give it back to him right now!” “You cheap, lying thief.” “Selene, let me tell you something. If you defend this parasite one more time, you will no longer have a mother!” Victoria’s threat instantly triggered Selene’s deep-seated rebellion. She stepped in front of Hunter, shielding him completely. “I said it’s Hunter’s, so it’s his.” “It’s just a piece of jewelry. I’ll buy Ashton a better one at the Sotheby’s auction tomorrow. Stop using every little thing to make Hunter’s life miserable!” Lies! That was the last physical memory I had of my late mother. Even if she bought me ten thousand bracelets, none of them would be the one my mother wore. Blinded by grief and panic, I threw myself forward, trying to wrench the bracelet from Hunter’s wrist. Selene pushed me back. Then Victoria joined the fray, trying to pull Selene away from me. In the chaotic scuffle, to keep me from reaching Hunter, Selene violently shoved me away— A massive force slammed into my shoulder. I didn’t expect her to use so much strength. My ankle twisted, and I lost my balance completely, falling backward like a chopped tree. *CRACK!* A sickening, dull thud echoed through the dining room. The lower half of my back slammed violently against the sharp, carved corner of the heavy mahogany dining table. In an instant, an agonizing, white-hot pain exploded from the point of impact, paralyzing my lungs and stripping away my ability to make a sound. Taking advantage of my fall, Selene grabbed Hunter’s hand and stormed out the door. “Stop! Selene, you absolute monster!” “Get back here! Someone stop them!” Victoria screamed at the top of her lungs, calling for the security guards. But Selene and Hunter had already vanished into the night. Victoria turned around, intending to comfort me, but the words died in her throat. Beside the dining table, I was slumped on the floor, surrounded by a rapidly expanding pool of dark red blood, my face as white as a sheet of paper. “Ashton—!” Victoria nearly fainted from shock. I was rushed to the ER, and the red “Surgery in Progress” light stayed on for an entire day and night. Meanwhile, Selene knew she was in the wrong. The next day, she took Hunter to an exclusive jewelry auction, intending to buy me an even more expensive emerald bracelet to replace the one she had let Hunter keep. While she was sitting in the VIP suite, browsing the catalog, The doors were suddenly kicked open. It was Victoria. Abandoning all her usual elegance and poise, she pushed past the bodyguards and stormed into the room. She held a thick manila envelope in her trembling hand. *SLAP!* Victoria marched right up to Selene and delivered a thunderous slap across her face. “Open it!” Victoria roared. Nursing her stinging cheek, Selene looked at Victoria’s devastated, tear-streaked face. For the first time, she felt a chill of panic. Seeing her hesitate, Victoria screamed again, “I said, open it!” With trembling fingers, Selene pulled the documents out of the envelope. Her eyes scanned the pages. Her pupils shrunk to pinpricks, and a horrific, strangled gasp escaped her throat: “No…” The tears Victoria had been holding back finally streamed down her face. She let out a broken, agonizing sob: “Look at it, Selene! Ashton is dead! You killed him! You killed my boy with your own hands!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “443258”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster