Author: Momo Chan

1 Right after my kidney transplant. My supposedly perfect father stood by my bed with bloodshot eyes, claiming he had three earth-shattering secrets to tell me. I figured it was just some bad investments he wanted me to bail him out of. Instead, he delivered a crushing blow. “Fiona, you aren’t our biological daughter. Sabrina is.” Seeing my lack of a reaction, he pushed harder. “You’ve been living in luxury on borrowed time. It’s time to give the Lockhart Group inheritance back to her.” He didn’t care at all that I had just come out of major surgery and couldn’t handle any stress. He even had the audacity to play the saint. “You’ve always been a good, dutiful daughter. You wouldn’t want to watch your mother die on the operating table, would you?” Looking at his smug, confident face, I just wanted to laugh. “Is that it?” The kidney transplant was over. My mother was still unconscious, but I had just woken up. “Fiona, there are three secrets I need to tell you.” I stared at my father, Marcus, a man with a spotless reputation as the perfect dad. I figured he had just botched an investment and needed me to clean up his mess. “Go ahead,” I said. His eyes welled with tears, his voice cracking with emotion. “You aren’t our biological child.” I frowned slightly. “During the transplant compatibility tests, I noticed your blood type didn’t match ours. Your mother and I are both type O, but you’re type A.” “I was completely blindsided. I quietly ran a DNA test, and the results confirmed it. You aren’t ours.” I kept quiet, watching his tears fall. “The truth is, Sabrina is our real daughter. Helena and I… we are her biological parents.” Sabrina? The girl our family had been sponsoring for twenty years? “Sabrina grew up in a run-down foster home, suffering so much. She’s dreamed of having a real family her whole life, of having parents who cherish her.” “Now that we’ve finally found her, I can’t let her suffer any longer.” “Fiona, I know this is a massive shock, but blood ties can’t be denied.” He buried his face in his hands, weeping as if he were the victim of some tragic twist of fate. “Marcus,” I said, my voice flat, “I gave Mom a kidney. I didn’t lose my brain.” He froze, looking up at my calm expression. “DNA results don’t come back that fast. You knew Sabrina was your daughter long before today.” “No matter when you told me this, I still would have given Mom my kidney.” “So why did you have to wait until the exact moment my surgery was finished?” Lying on the hospital bed, I looked at his tear-stained face. “You really are cold-blooded.” He scrambled to explain. “No! That’s not it! I love you, of course I do. It’s just that your mother’s health has always been fragile, and the doctors said we couldn’t stress her before the surgery…” Just then, the door burst open, and Sabrina stepped in. “Fiona, don’t talk to Dad like that!” With teary, pathetic eyes, she stood close to my bed. “He was only doing what was best for you and Mom…” When I looked at her, she lowered her head and sobbed. “I’m so sorry, Fiona. I didn’t mean to steal your parents.” “I honestly had no idea I had real parents out there.” She spoke in a trembling voice, tears spilling over her cheeks. “Back in the foster home, I had to fight just to get a warm meal. I didn’t even have a winter coat. My hands were covered in chilblains.” “I dreamed of having a home. Of having parents who loved me.” “Now, heaven has finally shown mercy and brought me back to them.” She wiped her tears, looking at me like a wounded puppy. “Fiona, I finally have a mom and dad… You won’t throw me out, will you?” “We can still be a family, right?” Her voice grew softer, desperate and fragile. Marcus wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders, looking at me with disapproval. “Fiona, Sabrina has had a hard life. Just let her have this.” “You’ve had everything since you were a child. She had nothing.” “She just wants her real parents back. You wouldn’t deny her that, would you?” I looked at his hand resting on Sabrina’s shoulder. “So, what is it you actually want me to do?” 2 Marcus clearly hadn’t expected me to cut straight to the point. Sabrina lowered her head, biting her lip in silence. Marcus wiped away his meager tears, and his tone suddenly went cold. “Since you’ve already guessed, I won’t beat around the bush.” He stood up straight, looking down at me. “There is something you must do.” “You aren’t our biological child, which means the inheritance rights to the Lockhart Group belong to Sabrina. You need to sign them over.” Lying on the hospital bed, the surgical incision in my side throbbed with a dull ache. But I didn’t let my anger show. I just stared at him. “Marcus, have you forgotten?” “My grandfather was the one who designated me as the sole heir to the Lockhart Group.” “If there is to be any change, we should wait until Mom wakes up, go to the family estate, and let Grandfather handle it.” Marcus snapped, “Absolutely not!” “Your grandfather is old and in poor health. We shouldn’t trouble him with such minor family matters.” “We can settle this quietly among ourselves.” Handing over a multi-billion dollar conglomerate is a minor family matter? Sabrina finally looked up, her face pale. “Fiona…” “I know this is a lot to take in. I understand if you can’t accept it right away.” “But blood is blood. You can’t change facts.” “I am their biological daughter. That is the truth.” The tears began to flow again. “I’m not trying to fight you for anything. I just think fate is finally being fair.” “You’ve enjoyed twenty-four years of being a pampered heiress. Luxury cars, mansions, private schools, bodyguards following your every step. Your biggest worry was probably which diamonds to wear.” She wiped her eyes, her voice cracking. “But me? I grew up in a foster home, wearing rags, sleeping in a cramped, drafty bed, with chilblains all over my hands in the winter.” “Why did you get to live in luxury from the moment you were born, while I had to beg for a scrap of affection?” Her voice grew louder, venting years of repressed bitterness. “Now I just want what was always meant to be mine. Are you really going to deny me that?” “Fiona, you are incredibly selfish!” Marcus, overwhelmed with pity, pulled her into a tight hug. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. Dad’s here.” He glared at me. “Fiona, look at what you’ve done!” “Do you have any idea how much Sabrina has suffered? You can’t even begin to imagine!” “You’ve stolen her life for twenty-four years. Returning her inheritance is only right! What is there to hesitate about?” I watched their touching display of fatherly love. A slow smile crept onto my lips. “Marcus, you are nothing but a son-in-law who married into the Lockhart family.” “You have absolutely no right to interfere with the company’s succession.” 3 His face instantly flushed a deep, angry crimson. “I am your father! How dare you speak to me like that!” “Am I wrong?” I cut him off. “When you married into this family, you signed a strict prenuptial agreement. You were allowed to manage daily operations, but you have zero decision-making power.” “The succession has always been entirely up to Grandfather and Mom.” “You don’t get a say.” Marcus shook with rage, pointing a finger at me, unable to squeeze out a single word. Seeing this, Sabrina quickly grabbed his arm to placate him. “Dad, please don’t be angry. Fiona is just in shock. She’ll come around.” She turned back to me, her eyes glistening. “Fiona, I know you’re the designated heir and you’re used to everyone catering to your every whim.” “But this isn’t something you can just control.” “I am their real daughter, and nothing changes that. You can’t keep holding onto things that don’t belong to you.” She turned her head away, looking like a delicate, tragic heroine. “Of course, if you really refuse, I won’t force you.” “I’ll just accept that I wasn’t meant to be happy.” “I’ve survived twenty-four years in a foster home. I can handle whatever comes next.” She wept as if her heart were breaking. Marcus’s eyes burned with indignation. “Fiona!” he barked. “Look at how graceful and understanding Sabrina is! Now look at you!” “You stole her life, and you can’t even offer her a single word of blessing!” “Do you even deserve to carry the Lockhart name?” He was practically spitting in my face. I lay there, the surgical wound in my side throbbing from the sudden spike of tension. But I didn’t flinch. I kept my eyes locked on Marcus. “I said, we wait until Mom wakes up. She will make the decision.” Marcus’s face darkened. He stared at me for a long moment, then slowly, a sinister smile spread across his face. “Do you honestly think… your mother is going to wake up?” My fingers tightened around the bedsheets. “What do you mean?” Just then, the door was thrown open. A nurse rushed in, her face entirely pale. “Miss Lockhart, your mother is experiencing severe transplant rejection! She’s in critical condition!” “We need a family member to sign the consent form immediately for emergency resuscitation!” I scrambled to sit up, my vision blurring. “I’ll sign! Hand it to me!” “Wait.” Marcus stepped forward, physically blocking the nurse. He looked back at me, his smile widening. “I forgot to tell you.” “As her legal husband, only my signature can authorize the hospital to proceed.” “If I choose not to sign… your mother dies.” 4 My blood ran cold. “Are you insane? She’s been your wife for twenty-five years!” “Twenty-five years of playing the obedient husband, putting up with her spoiled tantrums, and kissing up to her and that old man!” “I am sick of it!” Marcus whipped out a document and threw it onto my bed. “Sign this.” I looked down. It was a Voluntary Relinquishment of Inheritance Rights. Black ink on white paper. Clear and absolute. “Sign it and leave your thumbprint, and I’ll authorize her surgery. Otherwise, you can watch her die.” I glared at him. “You bought off the board of directors, didn’t you?” He let out a smug chuckle. “Why do you think I’ve been playing the loyal servant all these years?” “Those greedy old fools on the board have been in my pocket for a long time.” “If you don’t sign, your mother dies. When she’s gone, the board will pressure your grandfather. That old traditionalist will never let a massive conglomerate fall to an outsider like you.” He leaned down, his voice dripping with malice. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll sign.” “You love your mother so much, don’t you?” Marcus shoved a pen into my hand. “She spent millions on you. She sent you to the best schools, gave you the finest life.” “Now it’s time to pay her back. Surely you aren’t so heartless as to let her die?” I stared at the document, the pain in my side flaring up. My voice was iron. “You planned this all along.” “You knew Sabrina was your daughter. You knew I was adopted. But you waited for the exact moment my mother was unconscious after surgery.” “You wanted to trap me, force me to give up the inheritance, and install Sabrina as the heir. Once Grandfather passes away, you can finally put your own name on the family legacy and take over everything.” Marcus looked down at me with mock pity. “And what are you going to do about it?” “In the end, I’m the one who wins.” The nurse stood by the door, sweating profusely. “Miss Lockhart, your mother is slipping away! We can’t wait…” “What’s the rush?” Marcus cut her off coldly. “We’re waiting for my daughter to sign.” He turned back to me. “Fiona, you wouldn’t want the world to know you let your mother die, would you?” Sabrina looked at me with a glint of smug satisfaction beneath her mask of pity. To her, I was a fallen princess. My stepfather had betrayed me, my mother was on her deathbed, and my gilded life was finally over. She was about to become the new queen of the Lockhart empire, and out of sheer generosity, she might spare me a little pity once she had the money. I let out a slow sigh. “Marcus, twenty-four years, and you haven’t changed a bit.” “With such cheap tricks, it’s no wonder you never made anything of yourself.”

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1 On our second anniversary of getting back together, my husband brought home a three-year-old boy and expected me to raise him. “Vivienne nearly bled to death giving birth to him,” Michael said, his eyes rimmed with red. “I made a mistake, Evelyn, but the child is innocent. I swear I am done playing around. From now on, I will only fulfill my duty as his father.” The boy blinked up at me with large, pathetic eyes. Swallowing the bile in my throat, I agreed. A year later, I went to pick him up from preschool on a whim. “Mommy, when are you moving into our house?” the boy asked, pouting his lips. “Daddy said once I count to five hundred days, you can come home,” he continued. “I hate that miserable woman at home. She is always stealing Daddy away.” A fair, delicate hand gently stroked his cheek. “Hang in there, my sweet boy. Mommy will be back with you soon.” Vivienne, the woman Michael claimed had died from postpartum hemorrhaging, was standing right there. Her face was flushed with health as she coddled her son. I clutched the massive asset distribution agreement I had just received from my mother-in-law, letting out a cold laugh. Since Michael can’t keep his pants zipped, the three of them can go straight to hell together. … I never expected a sudden change of plans would lead me to this truth. I stood frozen, staring at the picture-perfect scene of mother and child, my hands clenched into tight fists. For the past year, Michael had insisted on dropping off and picking up Toby every single day. Now I knew why. It was his daily excuse to rendezvous with his mistress. My phone suddenly vibrated in my hand. I instinctively stepped back, hiding myself behind a thick oak tree before answering. “Honey, where are you?” Michael’s voice sounded slightly strained, a hint of urgency bleeding through the line. “The nanny said you drove out. Did you go to pick up Toby?” “No,” I replied, keeping my voice flat. “I had some errands to run.” “Oh, good.” He let out a breath, a faint, relieved chuckle escaping him. “Don’t stress yourself out over the kid. It’s not worth ruining your health. I can handle the school runs.” He paused, then added, “I’m taking him swimming tonight, so we’ll be home late. Don’t wait up for us.” After the line went dead, I stared at my lock screen, which showed a photo of the two of us. “Vivienne passed away from hemorrhaging. I just couldn’t bring myself to throw the boy into an orphanage.” That was what Michael had told me a year ago, on the night of our second wedding anniversary, right after we had remarried. He had ruined the dinner I spent hours preparing by bringing home his love child. “He’s three now, Evelyn. He’s starting to ask where his mother is. I already made one terrible mistake, but I don’t want to ruin the next generation.” He had taken my hands in his, his grip desperate. “Let’s raise Toby together. Didn’t you always want a child? I’ll make him call you Mom.” At that time, I had just received the report of my tenth failed IVF cycle, alongside the doctor’s stern warning that my body was too weak to continue. The three-year-old boy had looked up at me with watery, innocent eyes. “Auntie… I mean, Mommy Evelyn, I’ll be really good.” I knew exactly what kind of ridicule I would face among the city’s high-society elite if I accepted this child. “Fine,” I had said, forcing the word past my lips. “But remember this, Michael. I am not forgiving your affair. I am only doing this because he reminds me of myself back in the orphanage. Consider it my way of earning some good karma.” “Of course! Thank you, honey. I’ll love you forever,” Michael had cried, wrapping his arms around me. Even Toby had reached out, timidly tugging at the edge of my coat. “Mommy, I like you.” But now, the four-year-old boy spoke with a sharp, articulate venom, his face twisted in disgust. “That miserable woman at home is so annoying. She won’t let me play with my toys and only gives me fifteen minutes of screen time! I have to call her Mommy. It’s disgusting!” For over a year, I had done my absolute best to raise him. I wouldn’t call myself selfless, but I had been diligent. A three-year-old boy is a whirlwind of chaos. Toby was afraid of the dark, terrified of thunder, prone to wetting the bed, and incredibly hyperactive. He had turned our house upside down. I was the one who put my career on hold to teach him. I was the one who woke up multiple times a night to comfort him when he cried, neglecting my own recovery in the process. My doctor had been utterly baffled during my last check-up. “Why is your physical health worse now than it was a year ago?” At the preschool gates, Vivienne spoke in a sweet, soft murmur. “Don’t talk about Auntie Evelyn like that, sweetie. She looked after you, after all. Even if she didn’t do a perfect job, she still worked hard. When I become the next Mrs. Montgomery, we can always hire her as our live-in nanny.” 2 I stared at the scheming mother and son, a dry, mocking laugh escaping my throat. The papers in my hand crumpled under the pressure of my grip. Thankfully, my mother-in-law had handed me the family asset division agreement this morning. Since this happy little family wanted to play games, they could pack their bags and get out of my life together. I didn’t confront them immediately. Instead, I waited in the shadow of the trees near the preschool gates. A few minutes later, a sleek black Rolls-Royce pulled up quietly at the curb. “Hey, buddy! Did you miss Daddy?” Michael stepped out of the car, his face lighting up with a genuine warmth I hadn’t seen in years. “Yes! Mommy and I have been waiting for you forever!” Toby squealed, throwing himself into his father’s arms. Michael hoisted the boy up, then turned his gaze to Vivienne. He stepped closer and pulled her into a deep, familiar kiss. “I’m so sorry for making you wait all this time, sweetheart,” Michael murmured against her lips. “I booked a table at that bistro downtown. We’ll grab dinner, and then I’ll take Toby swimming.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a suggestive whisper. “Tonight, my time is entirely yours.” Vivienne’s cheeks flushed pink, and she gave his shoulder a playful, affectionate shove. Michael took her hand with one of his, holding his son with the other, and led them toward the luxury SUV. The very car I had emptied my personal savings to buy him as a wedding gift. I watched them drive off, waited a moment, and then started my own car to follow. As the evening streetlights flickered to life, blurring past my window, fragments of the past flashed before my eyes. In the beginning, Michael had looked at me the exact same way. He had been passionate, attentive, and completely consumed by his love for me. Even though I was just an orphan with absolutely no family background to back me up, he had held my hand with unshakeable resolve. “I will only marry Evelyn in this lifetime. If I ever betray her, may I lose everything.” He had sworn that oath in front of his family’s ancestral altar, enduring ninety-nine lashes from his mother’s heavy cane as punishment. The very first thing he did after dragging his bloody body out of that room was take me to the courthouse to register our marriage. “I don’t want to wait another second,” he had gasped, pale but smiling. “I want to marry you right now, have kids, and build our own little family.” I parked two spaces away from them at the restaurant. I watched Michael smile happily as he guided Vivienne and Toby inside. “Yes, we have a reservation. Table for three.” I scoffed silently, entering the restaurant through a separate entrance and checking into a private room right next to theirs. A spread of exquisite dishes was laid out before me, but I didn’t have the slightest appetite. “Happy anniversary!” The muffled clinking of glasses and joyous laughter drifted through the thin wall. Today was their anniversary. No wonder Michael had slowly started forgetting my birthday after we remarried. A much more important date had taken over his heart. “I wish I could bring you home right now,” Michael’s voice carried over, thick with emotion. “But the timing isn’t right. For now, come to the company as my secretary. Once I get everything sorted out, I’ll marry you in a grand ceremony.” I poured myself a glass of dry gin and swallowed it in one gulp. Michael and I had dated for three years and been married for three. Over those six years, I had poured my blood, sweat, and tears into helping him build the family business, turning it from a failing enterprise into one of the top ten firms in the country. I had literally worked myself to the bone. Because of my efforts, he had transformed from a ridiculed, useless heir into a recognized business prodigy. On the night of our company’s annual gala, I had suffered a sudden, agonizing stomach spasm. I had asked a secretary to fetch Michael to take me to the hospital. But no one returned. Both of their phones were switched off. Fearing that something terrible had happened to him, I dragged my pain-racked body down to the parking garage on my own. When I opened the door of his car, I froze. The two of them were completely naked, locked in a passionate embrace on the back seat. Even after they realized I was standing there, they took their sweet time untangling themselves. “I’m so sorry, Evelyn… I was just so panicked, I forgot to tell you…” Vivienne had whimpered. “It’s my fault,” Michael had snapped, shielding her. “Don’t take it out on Vivienne. You’re scaring her.” I had looked at Vivienne’s swollen lips, and then at Michael, whose eyes were still dark with desire. “Fine. Let’s make this simple,” I had said. “Michael, we are divorcing.” The moment the words left my mouth, a metallic taste filled my throat, and I collapsed onto the cold concrete, unconscious. Back in the present, Vivienne’s sweet voice pulled me out of the memory. “Michael, is Evelyn still pretending to be sick to get your attention?” 3 “She’s still the same. Honestly, I’m getting sick of playing along,” Michael groaned, his voice dripping with annoyance. “Her stomach is a mess, her joints are bad, and now after all those failed IVF cycles, her entire body is practically useless. She’s nothing like you, sweetheart. You’re so soft, and you gave me such a smart, beautiful boy with barely any effort.” “Ssh! The baby is right here, don’t talk like that!” Vivienne giggled. I let out a cold, silent laugh. My stomach was ruined because I had spent years drinking with clients to secure contracts for Michael. My joints were damaged because I had personally run from warehouse to warehouse in the freezing winter to oversee our logistics. And my fertility? My body was ravaged by hormone injections because he had a low sperm count, yet I was the one who endured the physical agony of ten IVF procedures. And in the end, it was all dismissed as me being “useless.” “You’ve had a hard time, honey,” Vivienne cooed. “If it weren’t for getting me into the house, you wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of remarrying her.” “It’s fine, babe. I’d do anything for you. Just stay at the company as my secretary for now. Once I get her to sign over the assets she took in the first divorce, I’ll marry you.” “You don’t have to wait, Michael.” I pushed open the door of their private dining room, tossing the divorce papers my assistant had just rushed over onto their table. “Let’s divorce. And this time, there won’t be a second remarriage.” The room fell into a dead, suffocating silence. Three pairs of eyes stared at me in absolute shock. “Mommy Evelyn… did you come to join my swimming class?” Toby squeaked, his voice instantly switching back to his innocent act. “Evelyn, I… I can explain…” Vivienne stammered, turning pale. “Evelyn, you’ve got it wrong. Today was just a coincidence—” Michael started, scrambling to his feet. I cut him off with a weary smile. “Drop the act. You guys aren’t tired of it, but I am. Just sign it. I have nothing left to say to you.” Michael stared at me, his expression hardening. After a long three minutes, he finally spoke. “Are you sure about this?” He tilted his head, a mocking glint in his eyes. “Evelyn, you worked for years to secure your place in high society. Are you really willing to throw all of this luxury away?” “Absolutely.” Hearing my response, he picked up the pen and began flipping through the agreement. Vivienne’s eyes darted from the papers to Michael, her anxiety turning into a breathless anticipation. Her hand trembled so hard she could barely hold her glass. Then, with a slow, deliberate sneer, Michael ripped the entire document in half, tearing it into shreds before throwing the pieces into the air. “Michael! Don’t be reckless!” Vivienne gasped, her face falling. “It’s not that I don’t want to sign,” Michael said, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, taking a slow drag. “But the terms you wrote here are completely ridiculous. Evelyn, what makes you think I’m going to let you walk away with half of my assets?” I used to admire the sharp, calculating look in his eyes when we were negotiating business deals. Now, seeing that same look directed at me, I realized how incredibly ugly it was. “What makes me think that?” I asked, my voice calm and steady. “How about the fact that I saved your family business from bankruptcy and built it into a multi-million-dollar empire? Or the fact that I drank myself to near-poisoning at five hundred client dinners, took a bullet for you, and dragged you out of two separate kidnapping attempts?” I looked him dead in the eye. “Or maybe the fact that I actually believed your lies about wanting to make things right, remarried you, and raised your bastard child while the entire city laughed behind my back? Is that enough for you?” He let out a sharp, angry bark of laughter. “Enough? Sure, it’s enough. But since you’re so fond of playing the martyr, let’s get one thing straight.” He leaned forward, his eyes cold and venomous. “I don’t have a single penny to my name. Every asset I own has already been legally transferred to Vivienne. The company is registered entirely under my name, and you have no legal claim to it. Everything you did for me, you did voluntarily. So, if you want a divorce, you’re leaving with absolutely nothing.” Voluntarily. The passionate, devoted boy who would have given up his life for me had truly died, buried deep within my memories. I let out a soft laugh. “Fine. I’ll leave with nothing.” Michael’s face instantly darkened. To hide his sudden loss of composure, he snarled, “You were nothing but an orphan, Evelyn! I was the one who dragged you out of the gutter and gave you a taste of the high life. I gave you a platform, opportunities, and a status that other women would kill for! Without me, you are nothing. How do you have the face to demand anything from me?” The more he spoke, the more righteous he sounded, as if I was the one who had been caught red-handed. “You want a divorce? Fine! I’ll have my secretary draft the papers tomorrow. You will leave this marriage with nothing but the clothes on your back.” 4 “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’m trying to have a nice dinner with my fiancée. Get out.” With a smug, provocative glare, he reached over and pulled Vivienne into his side, ostentatiously kissing her temple. A wave of intense nausea washed over me. I turned around and walked out of the restaurant, my assistant rushing to keep up with me. “Boss, he is out of his mind!” my assistant hissed, her face flushed with anger. “The company belongs to you! He’s just a spoiled heir who sat back and reaped the benefits of your hard work. How could you just agree to walk away with nothing?” “No one can predict the future,” I murmured, trying to offer a reassuring smile. “He wasn’t always like this.” But the moment I opened my mouth, a violent fit of dry heaving seized me. Terrified by my sudden pale complexion, my assistant immediately steered me toward the nearest hospital. The next morning, I was summoned to Michael’s office. “You’re fired,” Michael said, spinning around in his leather executive chair. He smirked up at me. “If you’re no longer my wife, you don’t get to share in my wealth. Your shares, your trust funds, and your bonuses are all being revoked. Your position and your entire team are being transferred.” He tapped a finger on the document resting on his desk. “The moment you sign this, it becomes legally binding. My secretary stayed up all night to draft this. She’s incredibly efficient.” Vivienne walked into the office carrying a tray. “Evelyn, here’s your coffee,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. Michael reached out, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her onto his lap, giving her hip a firm, intimate squeeze. “So, what do you think? Didn’t she do a wonderful job with the agreement?” I ignored his childish display, my eyes locked onto Vivienne. “Vivienne,” I said quietly. “Do you remember what you told me the day I helped you land your very first major account?” She froze, her smile faltering, but she didn’t speak. “You said you would be grateful to me for the rest of your life,” I continued, my voice steady. “You said that I didn’t just fund your college education for seven years, I also put your abusive stepfather behind bars, and personally taught you how to close a million-dollar deal. You said that without me, you would have died in some dark corner, and that you’d never forget what I did for you.” I took a step closer. “And now, you sleep with my husband and help him strip me of everything I own. Is this how you show your gratitude?” Vivienne’s lips trembled, her eyes instantly welling with tears. “That’s enough! Do you ever do anything besides guilt-tripping people?” Michael snapped, pulling her protectively into his chest. “I was the one who went after Vivienne. She’s too innocent to know how to say no to me. There’s no need to threaten her. From now on, I am the one protecting her. No one is going to hurt her again.” The very same promises he had whispered into my ear a thousand times were now being used to comfort another woman. I spared Michael a cold, passing glance, then read through the termination agreement line by line. “I knew you wouldn’t want to sign it,” Michael chuckled, confident. “Evelyn, you can’t survive without me. If you just behave yourself and stop meddling in my personal life, we can stay married. You can keep your title as my wife.” Without a word, I picked up the pen from his desk and signed my name with a swift, fluid stroke. As I walked out of the office, the sound of a heavy ceramic vase shattering against the wall echoed behind me. “Honey, are you still mad?” Vivienne slid onto his lap, her soft body pressing against his, the sweet scent of her perfume filling his senses. Three days had passed, and there had been absolutely no word from Evelyn. Michael knew he should be thrilled. He had finally gotten rid of her. Yet, an irritating, persistent anxiety clawed at his chest. In a desperate bid to drown out the noise in his head, he roughly tore at Vivienne’s blouse, losing himself in her touch. Just as they reached the height of their passion, the office door was violently flung open. “Mr. Montgomery! We have a massive problem!” his assistant gasped, pale and sweating. “The IRS is here! They’re raiding the offices!” The color drained from Michael’s face, his passion evaporating instantly. “Our operations are entirely legal. We have never engaged in any illicit financial practices,” Michael stammered, scrambling to adjust his rumpled suit. In his haste, he missed a button, and his shirt remained disheveled. “Vivienne, go pour some tea.” The lead investigator stepped into the room, his face carved of granite. “Mr. Montgomery, please cooperate with our investigation. You will receive a detailed explanation once we arrive at the bureau.” Michael frowned, trying to regain his footing. “We were audited at the beginning of the year and cleared. Coming in here like this without warning—what is the meaning of this?” “We received a formal report detailing corporate embezzlement, tax evasion, and malicious market competition.” Michael stared at him, dumbfounded. “Who reported us?!” “I did.”

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1 I had been back with the Smiths for six years when my parents and fiancé finally decided I had grown up. In the family group chat, Mom sent a voice message: “Diana, about the house we bought for your wedding—Samantha really loved it, so we’re giving it to her.” “When you get back, Dad and I will pick out another one for you.” Dad was quick to chime in: “Samantha is just recovering from her depression. She can’t handle any stress right now. Don’t fight her on this.” I replied instantly: “Okay, Mom and Dad. Samantha’s health is the most important thing. I can live anywhere.” Then, a notification popped up. A cash gift from Oliver. “Good girl, Diana. The day after tomorrow is your birthday. I’m picking you up from the airport, and I’m going to throw you the grandest birthday and engagement party ever!” What they didn’t know was… I had died three years ago. The obedient, understanding daughter and gentle, considerate fiancée replying to their messages… Was just an AI I had trained before I died. The day I was diagnosed with terminal bone cancer, I was less than twenty-four hours away from my eighteenth birthday. The doctor held up my X-rays, his eyes filled with a pity that made my stomach churn. “A month, at most.” I sat in the sterile exam room, staring down at my lower leg. For the past six months, the pain had grown sharper, more frequent. I thought they were just growing pains. I didn’t know my bones were dying. The doctor kept talking—transferring hospitals, chemotherapy options, forms my family needed to sign. I tuned it all out. I carefully folded the diagnosis report, slipped it into the pocket of my school uniform, and walked out of the hospital, step by step. It was a forty-minute walk from the hospital to the Smith estate. Three bus stops. I chose to walk. I needed the time. I wanted to cry out all my tears on the way and figure out exactly what to say. “Mom. Dad. I’m sick.” Just that one sentence. I spent fifteen years in the orphanage. I had never called anyone “Mom” or “Dad” before. And in the three years since I returned to the Smiths, I never learned how to act spoiled or ask for affection. But this time, I wanted to try. Maybe they would hug me. The way they hugged Samantha. My fingers curled around the crumpled paper in my pocket, and I walked faster, practically jogging the last few blocks. The moment I pushed open the front door, the rich scent of vanilla buttercream washed over me. A huge banner hung across the living room: “CONGRATULATIONS TO SAMANTHA SMITH ON WINNING GOLD AT THE NATIONAL YOUTH TECH AWARDS!” Samantha was sitting between Mom and Dad, clutching a gleaming trophy, her eyes crinkling into half-moons as she laughed. I froze in the doorway. The title of the winning project engraved on that trophy… I knew it. I knew it all too well. For the past three months, I had barely slept. From the initial concept to the final debugging—thirty thousand lines of code. I wrote every single one of them. When the pain in my leg became unbearable, I would bite down on a towel until it passed. Just get through it, I had told myself. It was the same thing I told myself back in the orphanage, when I burned with a 104-degree fever in the dead of winter and no one noticed. I used to fantasize about the day I won that award. I thought my parents would finally be proud of me. But now, the name engraved beneath my project was Samantha’s. Dad saw me first. His smile faltered for a second, and he cleared his throat. “Diana, you’re back? Come here, your sister won a huge award. We’re celebrating tonight.” I didn’t move. “That’s mine.” The living room fell dead silent. Samantha’s eyes instantly welled up with tears. She lowered the trophy, her bottom lip quivering in that perfect, pitiful way she always mastered. She didn’t have to say a word. Her tears did all the talking. Mom let out a heavy sigh, walking over to me and lowering her voice. “Diana, Samantha just found out she’s adopted. Her depression is flaring up, and she’s been crying every day.” “She feels so insecure in this house, and her grades aren’t great. She needs this college recommendation.” “You’re different. You’re so smart. You’ll get into a top school anyway.” I could hear my teeth grinding together. It wasn’t out of anger. It was the agonizing, gnawing pain in my bones flaring up again, so sharp I had to clench my jaw just to stay standing. I turned my gaze to Oliver. He was standing next to Samantha, a glass of juice in his hand. His brows pulled together in a slight frown. “Diana, you already have everything.” “You’re their biological daughter, you have your parents’ love, and you have me.” “Samantha has nothing. Just… have some pity on her.” He paused, then added: “Grow up.” 2 I stared at his face. Three years ago, in this exact same living room… He had knelt down to tie my shoelaces, looking up at me with a warm smile. “Diana, as long as I’m here, no one will ever bully you.” That was the first time in my life I had ever tasted what it felt like to be protected. I guess his definition of “no one” didn’t include himself. A metallic taste rose in the back of my throat. I swallowed it down. “Okay.” Mom exhaled, visibly relieved. Oliver’s frown smoothed out. Dad wiped away Samantha’s tears, cooing at her until she smiled again. The diagnosis report lay quietly in my pocket. No one asked where I had been all day. No one noticed I was limping. I stood by the door for a moment longer, then quietly went upstairs. I booted up my laptop, created a new folder, and named it: “AI_Diana_Behavior_Training_Data.” I sat there for a long time before typing the first line. “She never cries.” “She always says ‘okay,’ ‘it doesn’t matter,’ ‘whatever you decide is fine.’” “She never fights for anything. She never argues. She never makes them uncomfortable.” “She loves them. She understands them. She thinks they are always right.” Laughter drifted up from the living room. I heard Samantha thanking Mom and Dad. Her voice was soft, sweet, dripping with the confidence of someone who knows they are loved. I kept typing. The pain in my leg surged in waves. Whenever it hit, I would stop, wait for it to pass, and keep going. One month. That was enough. Enough to train the perfect daughter. The perfect fiancée. The Diana they had always wanted. My birthday was exactly the same day as Samantha’s. But to make up for taking my award, my parents promised to celebrate mine separately. I wore my first-ever princess dress. It was pale pink, the skirt shimmering with sequins like crushed stars. Mom picked it out herself. She had told me: “Diana, everything we owe you for the past eighteen years, Mom remembers.” They rented out an entire amusement park just for me. The entrance archway was suffocated with balloons, and a huge cutout of my face stood at the gate. Across the top, it read: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY DIANA.” I smiled. I smiled so hard I almost cried. Oliver stepped up behind me and covered my eyes with his hands. “No peeking. There’s another surprise.” His hands were so warm. Maybe they do love me, I thought. They just don’t know how to divide it. When they wheeled the cake out, my knees nearly buckled. Six tiers. Each tier represented a stage of my life. The bottom layer said “0-3 Years.” The top layer said “18.” Mom said: “Every birthday you missed in that orphanage, Mom is giving back to you today.” Eighteen candles flickered to life. The golden light danced across the smiling faces of my parents and Oliver. I clasped my hands together, closed my eyes, and made a wish. I wish this moment would never end. The very next second— A piercing scream echoed from the carousel. Samantha was sprawled on the ground, blood oozing from a scrape on her knee. She was trembling, sobbing uncontrollably. “It hurts…” The candles were still burning. But no one was looking at me anymore. Dad bolted toward her first, bumping into the cake table in his panic. The towering six-tier cake tipped over, half of it collapsing into a ruined mess of frosting. Oliver sprinted to Samantha’s side, shucking off his jacket and wrapping it around her shoulders. I reached out and grabbed Mom’s sleeve. She was the only one still standing near me. “Mom.” I heard my own voice trembling. “Today is my eighteenth birthday.” “It’s my last one.” “Could you… could you just stay while I blow out the candles?” Mom didn’t even hear me. Her eyes were locked on Samantha. Dad hurried back to grab the car keys. He caught the end of my sentence, and his face darkened. “Your sister is hurt, and all you care about is a birthday party?” “Do you have zero empathy?” 3 He shoved me aside. I hit the ground hard. My left leg slammed against the edge of the stone steps. It felt like someone was driving a rusted nail straight into the marrow and prying it open. God, it hurt. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. They were already carrying Samantha to the car. The amusement park was massive. With it completely rented out, I was the only person left. I dragged myself over to a giant stuffed bear, curling into its plush arms, and pulled out my phone. I booted up the AI testing program. A message popped up in the family group chat. Sent by “me.” “Mom, Dad, Oliver, take Samantha to the doctor! Don’t worry about me, I’m having so much fun at the park by myself.” Mom sent a voice memo back: “You’ve really grown up, Diana. Once Samantha is all bandaged up, we’ll come right back to celebrate with you.” Dad sent a thumbs-up emoji: “That’s my girl.” I stared at the screen, the corner of my mouth twitching in a hollow imitation of a smile. Muscle memory made me open Instagram. The newest post on my feed. From Samantha. It was a picture of her sitting in the ER, surrounded by people. Dad, Mom, Oliver. The caption read: “It feels so good to be loved.” Oliver was the first to comment: “Be more careful next time.” A sickening sweetness rose in my throat, and I violently turned my head. The blood splattered across the pink princess dress. The cake was ruined, the candles had burned down to stubs, but the speakers were still playing that cheerful music. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. The sky began to bruise purple and black. The park lights flickered on, one by one. In the distance, the Ferris wheel turned slow and steady. It was beautiful. I had never been on one. My phone buzzed again. The AI had sent another message to the group chat: “I’m on the Ferris wheel! It’s so high up! Mom, I’m so happy!” One teardrop after another fell onto the screen. Blurring out the heart emoji Mom replied with. They never came back. At eleven that night, I took a cab home alone. The living room lights were on. On the dining table, a note was scribbled in Mom’s handwriting: “Samantha fractured her leg. She’s admitted to the hospital, so your dad and I are staying with her. There’s food in the fridge, heat it up yourself.” I pulled open the fridge. It was leftovers from the night before. The massive feast they had cooked to celebrate Samantha’s gold medal, barely touched. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. In the family chat, Dad was spamming photos of Samantha’s hospital room. A private VIP suite, the windowsill overflowing with extravagant bouquets. Mom was peeling an apple for her. Oliver stood by the bed, his arms full of unopened gifts. Samantha’s cheeks were flushed pink as she tore into them, one by one. I locked my screen, leaning heavily against the wall as I dragged myself up the stairs to the second floor. The blood on the princess dress had dried into stiff, dark flakes. I folded it neatly and shoved it under my pillow. Then I lay down, squeezed my eyes shut. And pretended I had a wonderful birthday. At 2 AM, the pain ripped me awake. It felt like a million ants were burrowing into the cracks of my bones, gnawing the marrow into dust, bite by agonizing bite. I didn’t scream. In the orphanage, crying was useless. Screaming was useless. No one ever came. I rolled off the bed. Using my arms, I dragged my useless legs across the floor toward the desk. Three yards. It took me four minutes. I yanked the drawer open. Empty. The heavy-duty painkillers I had spent all my savings on were gone. There had only been ten pills left. I had been rationing them, only swallowing one when the pain pushed me to the absolute edge of sanity. Now, there were none. My phone lit up. A message from Mom, sent three hours ago. “Diana, Samantha’s fracture hurts so much she’s crying nonstop. I saw you had a bottle of painkillers in your drawer, so I gave them to her for now.” “Just go buy yourself another bottle tomorrow.” She ended it with a hug emoji. The AI had already replied. “Okay, Mom. Samantha is frail, let her have them. I’m perfectly healthy, don’t worry about me.”

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1 The garbage I asked Eason to take out three days ago was still sitting in the kitchen. It reeked. Flies buzzed over the rotting plastic in a frantic swarm. Right then, I knew. We needed a divorce. That night, I slid the drafted divorce papers across the dining table. He looked up from his glowing laptop screen. His eyes were dark and piercing, like he was trying to dissect my thoughts. “The day before yesterday, I was helping Molly fix her data models. She is a junior analyst, and her foundation is weak. I am the only one she could turn to.” “Yesterday, she thought someone was following her on her way home. She called me crying, begging me to give her a ride just this once.” “Today, her data had a massive error just three hours before the executive deadline. She is on my team, Stella. I could not just abandon her.” He paused, letting out a heavy sigh. “I know you have always had an issue with her. I can give you my phone. I can pull the office security footage to prove we are completely innocent. As for that bag of trash, I genuinely just forgot. I have explained everything. If you still want a divorce after this, fine. I will cooperate.” I looked at him, my heart perfectly still. In these past three days, he had done so much for Molly. A man who religiously guarded his sleep schedule had stayed up late three nights in a row for her. Yet, three mornings in a row, he completely forgot to take the trash out on his way out the door. I gave a slow nod. “Let us just get the divorce.” I waited at the lawyer’s office until the staff clocked out for the day. Eason never showed up. When he finally got home, it was almost eleven at night. He saw me sitting in the dark on the living room sofa, did not say a single word, and walked straight into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. “I called you thirteen times,” I broke the silence. “You did not answer.” He paused mid sip, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and glanced at it. His face was entirely blank. “I turned it off for a board meeting today and forgot to turn it back on. Was there an emergency?” His tone was incredibly casual. Like he was commenting on the weather. I knew it. He had forgotten our appointment again. He was always forgetful. In our seven years of marriage, this had happened more times than I could count. From small things like forgetting to bring the laundry in before a storm, or tossing the garbage on his way downstairs. To massive, life altering things. Like when I was three months pregnant. The ultrasound showed severe fatal complications, and the specialist advised terminating the pregnancy to save my life. We booked an appointment for the procedure together. But when the surgery was over and I woke up shivering in the cold recovery room, he still was not there. I found out later. That day was Molly’s first time leading a project presentation, and she was a nervous wreck. He had promised to stand by her side and be her anchor. That was the first time I realized my true weight in Eason’s heart. The realization felt like a dull plastic knife dragging across my chest. It hurt, but it would not kill me. I pulled myself out of the memory and kindly offered an explanation. “We had an appointment to sign the divorce papers today. Tomorrow is the weekend and they are fully booked, so I rescheduled for Monday morning.” Eason’s eyes stayed glued to his glowing phone screen. He did not even look at me. “Alright. See you there Monday.” I nodded. Monday arrived. We signed the papers. In thirty days, the mandatory state cooling off period would end, and we would get the final decree. After signing his name, Eason kept his head down, his thumbs flying across his screen as he rapidly replied to someone. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of his chat. A cutesy pink anime profile picture had sent him a long string of crying emojis. As we stepped out of the building, Eason turned to me. “I have an emergency at the office. I cannot drop you…” I nodded and pointed to the Uber I had called in advance. “My ride is here. Go do what you need to do.” The Uber was parked right next to his sleek Audi. I pulled the door open and slid into the backseat. I never looked back at the man standing on the sidewalk. 2 I called my best friend Harper to tell her the news and asked her to help me look for a new apartment. My hometown was Seattle, thousands of miles away from Chicago. The house I grew up in had been sold years ago to pay for my dad’s medical bills. The luxury condo I lived in now was bought by Eason, strictly under his name. After the divorce, I had to move out. I had nowhere to go. Harper was fast. Within hours, she had lined up three potential rentals. Just as we were about to hop on a FaceTime call for a virtual tour, a text from Eason popped up on my screen. [Thai basil chicken bowl and a berry smoothie.] [Come early. I have a meeting at one thirty.] I stared at the two messages, then calmly swiped them away. Eason worked brutal corporate hours. He never ate on time, and his diet was absolute garbage. After he collapsed from severe gastritis and ended up in the emergency room, I took matters into my own hands. I started scouring the internet for gut healing recipes. Ever since that day, I prepared fresh warm meals and delivered them to his office every single afternoon. He ate whatever I made. He never complained. I kept this routine up for three years, and his stomach issues never flared up again. Half a year ago, he suddenly started requesting specific dishes. I thought he was just getting bored of the bland food, so I poured my energy into tweaking the recipes to make them tastier. Until that afternoon. I saw a text exchange between him and Molly on his iPad. [Eason! What delicious food is Stella making today?] [Ugh, steamed veggies again? I do not really like that stuff.] [Next time, tell Stella not to make steamed food. I want something fried!] [Stella is so domestic. I do not know how to cook at all. You are so lucky to have her!] Eason replied: [You and her are different. Do not put yourself down.] [You are conquering the corporate world, she cooks at home. There is no comparison.] [A person has to be good for something, and since she stays home, this is all she can do.] Seeing those words had broken something inside me. I confronted him about it. He was slightly surprised I had read his messages, but he was not angry. He just looked at me with this calm, unshakable entitlement. “Oh. Molly has a weak stomach, she cannot eat takeout all the time. The food you make happens to be perfect for her, and it is nutritious. Why not?” His light, breezy tone hit me like a sledgehammer, smashing my warm beating heart into bloody pieces. I spent hours sweating in the kitchen, studying culinary books in every spare moment. The meals I poured my soul into, all my dedication… It had all become nothing more than casual banter to comfort another woman. And it was not like I did not work. In my spare time, I took on heavy freelance translation gigs. The foreign language dictionaries I used every single day were sitting right there on the living room bookshelf. He just never cared enough to notice. After finalizing a lease on a new apartment, a heavy weight lifted off my shoulders. Harper declared that since I was moving back to Seattle, she was going to drain my wallet on a massive welcome back dinner. I gladly agreed. When Eason finally called, I was dozing off on the sofa. “Stella, did you not see my texts?” I pinched the bridge of my nose, forcing myself awake. “I saw them. What is it?” The man on the other end of the line fell silent. A moment later, I heard him say, “I have not eaten yet.” “You can order something on UberEats.” “Do you not hate it when I eat takeout?” His tone was genuinely, utterly baffled. I let out a tired sigh, speaking from the absolute bottom of my heart. “Cooking for you was never an obligation. I did it because it broke my heart to see you in pain. I volunteered to do it.” “But Eason. We signed the divorce papers a week ago.” 3 After Eason hung up, I retreated to the guest bedroom and slept straight through until dusk. The moment I walked out of the room, the front door swung open. Molly was holding Eason up, helping him hobble inside. The fabric around his knee was torn. He must have taken a bad fall. Molly trailed right behind him, her eyes rimmed red, fussing over him with frantic, exaggerated worry. “Eason, slow down! Your leg is hurt!” The second she spotted me, she puffed out her cheeks, immediately playing the role of the innocent tattletale. “Stella, you need to talk some sense into him! We had a client dinner today, and the client insisted I take a tequila shot. Eason absolutely refused to let me drink it. When we were leaving, the client purposely bumped into him, and he fell down the stairs and cut his leg!” “It is just one drink, it is not like I cannot handle it. Why did he have to play the hero?” She was asking me to talk some sense into him, but the smug, triumphant curve of her lips was painfully obvious. Her fake concern was sickeningly transparent. So I did not say a single word. I gave a brief nod, turned around, and walked right back toward my room. I had lived in this house for five years. I had a lot of packing to do. Molly’s giggles drifted through the living room, punctuated by Eason’s low voice. A little while later, there was a knock on my door. I pulled it open. Eason was leaning heavily against the doorframe for balance. “Where is the first aid kit?” He pulled up his pant leg, revealing an ugly, bleeding scrape. I glanced at it, then looked back up at him, genuinely confused. “The first aid kit? Did you not give it to Molly?” Three months ago, Molly bought a Vespa, claiming it would make her commute easier. On her very first day riding it, she crashed. Eason got the hysterical phone call, abandoned me in the middle of my birthday dinner, and rushed to her side. Sometime later, I accidentally burned my hand on the stove. I could not find the medical box anywhere. I called Eason, but Molly answered his phone. “The first aid kit? Oh, Stella, I wiped out on my scooter, so Eason brought the kit over to my place! Can you bear the pain for a bit? I will have him bring it back tonight.” Now, standing in the doorway, a flicker of emotion finally cracked through Eason’s perpetually composed face. He clearly remembered. “I forgot.” I smiled, nodding in total agreement. “You really do have a terrible memory.” On that day, after Molly answered the phone, I had been furious. When Eason finally came home, I demanded to know why he was giving our household items away to another woman. He had not even looked at me. His eyes were glued to his laptop screen, his fingers typing away as he dismissed me. “It is just a first aid kit. It sits in the cabinet all year and nobody uses it. I gave it to her, so what?” But that medical box… every single month, I checked the expiration dates. I restocked the bandages, the burn ointments, the painkillers. Every single item in there was carefully curated by me, a physical manifestation of my devotion to keeping our home safe. And he handed it over to someone else without a second thought. Just like the meals I poured my heart into. With a wave of his hand, they became another woman’s lunch. I looked at his bleeding leg and offered a helpful reminder. “You can get first aid supplies delivered on DoorDash. If there is nothing else, I have packing to do.” With that, I shut the door, completely ignoring the man standing on the other side. Eason stared blankly at the closed wood. A sudden, hollow emptiness bloomed in his chest. 4 The days bled together. The boxes I packed were shipped off to Seattle, one by one. This luxury apartment gradually grew barren. The memories practically draining out of the walls. I thought the last few days would pass in quiet peace. But Eason suddenly changed. He became domestic. A workaholic who basically lived at the office, he suddenly started coming home right at five. A man who never once cared about my needs began buying me breakfast and bringing home late night snacks. Utterly baffled, I asked him what he was playing at. For the first time in his life, Eason seemed at a loss for words. It took him a long moment to reply. “My mom called. She wants to have a family dinner. Asked us to come over.” I hesitated, but eventually agreed. My own parents passed away when I was young. Marrying Eason was the first time I got to experience the warmth of parental love again. Since we were getting a divorce, it was only right to see them one last time. It was drizzling the day we went to the restaurant. His parents had already ordered, the table entirely covered in my favorite dishes. Eason’s mother used serving tongs to place a tender piece of roast duck onto my plate, chatting happily about the neighbor’s daughter having her second baby. Then, seamlessly, the topic shifted to me. “When are you two going to start thinking about having a baby? You should do it while your father and I still have the energy to help you babysit.” In the past, I would have smiled and graciously said we were not in a rush. But this time, I did not say a word. I kept my head down and ate the piece of meat sitting on top of my rice. A heavy, awkward silence descended over the table for ten agonizing seconds. His parents exchanged worried glances. Eason reached over and firmly grabbed my left hand. His voice was steady. “Soon.” His parents beamed. I quietly slipped my hand out of his grip. Eason was already staring at his phone, completely unbothered. After dinner, his mom pulled me aside to chat. Next to us, Eason’s phone rang three times in a row. He ignored it. The older woman gently kicked her son’s shin. “Turn that on silent! Stella cannot even hear me.” Eason glanced at me. “Emergency at work. I need to take this.” By the time the plates were cleared, Eason still had not come back. I called him. No answer. His parents called him. Still nothing. Looking out the window at the torrential rain pouring down outside, my mind drifted back to a day exactly like this. I had been walking past his office building when a sudden downpour hit. I could not get an Uber no matter how hard I tried. I waited until Eason clocked out and gave him a call. The second the line connected, I saw a familiar car pull up to the intersection right in front of me. Eason was behind the wheel. Molly was in the passenger seat. Over the phone, Eason asked what I needed. I told him it was pouring, and since I was not far, could he come pick me up? He replied, “Just wait a bit and call a cab. I am still at the office, pulling overtime.” The exact moment he said that, the girl in the passenger seat reached over, offering him a potato chip. He covered the phone’s mouthpiece, turned his head to decline, but eventually gave in and took a bite. He lied so flawlessly, so naturally, I actually thought I had identified the wrong car. I spent weeks torturing myself over that memory. But eventually, I figured it out. He did not love me, so he did not care. Just like he hated eating junk food, but he would never reject a chip offered by her fingers. Just like he hated eating cold food, but if my handmade noodles got soggy, he would not even touch them. The rain stopped. I hailed a cab and escorted his elderly parents back to their house. In the dead of night, I heard Eason come home. He was on the phone, his voice loud enough to echo. Through the thin drywall, I heard him let out an exasperated, affectionate sigh. “Molly.” When I woke up the next morning, I had a dozen missed calls from Molly. My notifications were flooded with her texts. [Stella, Eason and I have not crossed any boundaries! Please tell him not to transfer me to another department!] [He said you misunderstood and that you are divorcing him over it. I swear it was not on purpose! I will keep my distance from now on, just please do not make him kick me out!] I stared at the messages in utter bewilderment. I did not reply. I just placed my phone face down on the desk. I was packing the last few items of clothing left in the guest bedroom when Eason kicked the door open. He sounded frantic. “Stella, what did you say to Molly?” “She texted me saying she needed to explain everything to you, and now she is missing! I cannot reach her anywhere! What the hell did you say to her?!” His chest was heaving, his eyes burning into mine. Eason was a stoic, emotionally stunted man. He rarely ever lost his temper like this. But here he was, completely unraveled. Over another woman. I picked up my phone, opened Molly’s chat, and shoved the screen into his face. “I have no idea what kind of drama you two cooked up last night to drag me into this.” “When she sent those messages, I was asleep. And quite frankly, I do not feel obligated to reply to her anyway.” Eason opened his mouth to argue, but his phone started ringing. The moment he saw the caller ID, his furious expression melted into sheer panic, then relief. “Just come back first. We can talk about everything else later.” “The guys your parents are trying to set you up with are garbage. Come back to Chicago!” “Then stay with us!” “It is a huge apartment. It is just me and Stella.” He shot me a pointed look as he said that, then hit the speakerphone button and held it out between us. Molly’s loud, tear choked voice filled the room. “Stella, I am so sorry, I hate to be a burden.” “I already broke my lease to move back to my hometown, but Eason insists I come back. I cannot find an apartment on such short notice… can I crash with you guys for a little while?” “I swear I will move out the second I find a place. Please.” I met Eason’s deeply demanding stare. My fingertips felt ice cold, but a dark, hysterical urge to laugh bubbled up in my throat. “Sure. You are more than welcome.” Over the speaker, Molly let out a joyful cheer. Eason immediately shifted back into his gentle, protective tone. “Wait for me at the airport. I am on my way.” He hung up and looked at me. “I am going to pick Molly up. Could you clean up the guest room for her?” I gave him a look. “Eason, can Molly take an Uber? There is somewhere the two of us need to be.” He frowned deeply. “I already promised her. I am not going to back out now.” “It is only a three hour round trip. Whatever you need to do, it can wait until I get back.” “Okay.” “I am leaving.” He walked out in a hurry. Completely oblivious to the small duffel bag sitting right next to my feet. I waited for him for three hours. He never came back. I opened my phone and scrolled through my feed. A post from Molly, uploaded ten minutes ago. [I was so sad today, but Eason insisted on taking me to the amusement park! What girl can say no to a Ferris wheel? I know I cannot~] I hit the like button. I stood up. Picked up the duffel bag containing the very last of my belongings. And walked out of the house I had called home for five years. As I stepped out of City Hall, I snapped a photo of the finalized divorce decree, texted it to Eason, and hailed a cab to the airport. Seven hours later, I landed in Seattle. I slid into the passenger seat of Harper’s car. As she excitedly babbled about all the new restaurants that had opened up downtown, I powered my phone back on. Notifications flooded the screen like an avalanche.

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1 As the youngest attending neurosurgeon at St. Jude’s Medical Center, I did something unexpected. I voluntarily stepped aside and let the newly arrived resident take the lead on a highly complex surgery. I did it because in my past life, the moment she stood at the operating table, her every move mirrored my thoughts exactly. Before my scalpel could even touch the skin, she had already made the incision. While I was still calculating the best approach, she had already executed the optimal solution. Everyone called her a once-in-a-generation medical prodigy. They whispered that I was just an empty suit, holding onto my position through pure seniority. That was until a critical surgery went sideways, and the patient died on the table. She stood before the review board and testified against me, claiming the fatal error was mine. Every blind spot in the security footage and every altered log pointed directly to me. I was stripped of my medical license and sentenced to three years in prison. The day I was released, I went to find her. By then, she was the national director of neurosurgery. Looking down at my ruined, hollow state, she let out a soft laugh. “I could see every single step inside your head, Evelyn,” she whispered. I collapsed right there at the hospital gates. When I finally opened my eyes again, I was back in the department office, on the very day she first reported for duty. This time, I did not spend my morning reviewing complex craniotomy procedures. Instead, I closed my eyes and began rehearsing a different set of steps over and over in my mind. The exact, step-by-step process of spaying a farm pig. “Dr. Reed, I am so honored to be assigned to your team.” The voice was timid, carrying the perfect blend of innocence and youthful caution. A violent shiver ran down my spine, and my pen sliced right through the patient chart I was holding. That voice. Those exact words. I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms. My head throbbed as if struck by a sledgehammer. In my previous life, in this exact office, she had said those exact words. Back then, seeing her looking so anxious and eager to learn, I had shared everything I knew without holding back. And what did that get me? During our first major craniotomy together, the moment I identified the bleeding point, before I could even ask for the instrument, she had already placed the hemostatic forcep with pinpoint accuracy. While I was still mapping out the clamping strategy in my mind, she had already dissected the tissue ahead of me. The entire operating room was stunned. The chief of surgery praised her on the spot as a natural-born genius, while I was cast as the slow-witted veteran who only held the lead because of my years on the clock. I genuinely believed she was gifted. Right up until that fatal surgery. The patient’s cerebral aneurysm ruptured unexpectedly, triggering massive hemorrhaging. I fought desperately to stabilize him, but at the most critical second, she made a move that was the exact opposite of what should have been done. The patient died on the table. At the subsequent malpractice hearing, she wept miserably, pointing her finger at me. “I tried so hard to warn Dr. Reed, but she was too arrogant. She simply wouldn’t listen to me.” Every security camera blind spot and every operating log miraculously aligned with her lie. I was barred from medicine and locked away for three years. I remembered the pouring rain on the day of my release. I stood outside the clinic, watching her walk toward me in her pristine white coat, holding an umbrella. She smiled at me, a look of pure, mocking triumph. “Evelyn, are you still trying to figure it out?” she whispered, leaning in close. “The truth is, I don’t actually know how to perform these surgeries. But I know you.” “Every step you plan, every calculation you make, every flawless solution you conceive, I see it all clearly. You didn’t lose to me. You lost to your own mind.” Her words slithered into my ears like venom. The sheer fury suffocated me, and I collapsed straight into the cold puddles outside the hospital. When I opened my eyes, I was back here. Back to her very first day. “Dr. Reed? Are you okay?” Abigail Carter took a step closer, her eyes wide with simulated innocence. I stared into her eyes. Cold sweat poured down my back, and my heart hammered violently against my ribs. It really was her. I forced a deep breath, swallowing the bitter taste of adrenaline. “I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well,” I said, my voice steady and level. “Abigail, right? Go get scrubbed. You are on the table with me in ten minutes.” Her eyes lit up instantly, and she could barely hide the smug curve of her lips. I watched her walk away, my gaze turning cold. Since you like to listen so much, Abigail. This time, I’ll make sure you get an earful. 2 Ten minutes later, we were in the operating room. The procedure was a standard epidural hematoma evacuation. It wasn’t the most difficult surgery, but for a resident on her very first day, even holding the retractor would normally be a stretch. Dr. Albright, our chief of surgery, walked in to observe, standing quietly near the monitors. I gloved up and kept my hands raised, but I did not step into the primary surgeon’s spot. “Chief,” I said, my voice conversational. “I want to let Abigail take the lead on this one.” A heavy silence fell over the operating room. The anesthesiologist stopped writing, and the first and second assists stared at each other in disbelief. Dr. Albright frowned. “Evelyn, what are you playing at? It’s her first day.” “Practical experience is what residents need most, Chief. I will be right here supervising. Nothing will go wrong.” My tone was firm, carrying the perfect weight of a supportive mentor. I turned my gaze to Abigail. She was visibly frozen, the scalpel trembling slightly in her hand. Of course she didn’t know what to do. She was a fresh graduate who had barely touched a patient in a clinical setting. She looked up, terror pooling in her eyes as she stared directly into mine. She was waiting. Waiting for the answers inside my head. I met her gaze, offering a reassuring smile, and allowed the textbook steps of a hematoma clearance to run clearly through my mind. Incise the scalp. Coagulate the bleeding vessels. Use the rongeur to expand the bone window. Tack down the dura. Evacuate the hematoma. I replayed the entire neurosurgical manual in my head, word for word, with absolute clarity. Abigail’s hand stopped shaking. She took a deep breath, her eyes suddenly brimming with immense confidence. The blade descended. “Perfect incision line, depth is spot on,” the first assist murmured, unable to hide his surprise. Abigail’s movements became swifter and more precise. She was entirely locked into the knowledge pulling from my mind, executing every step flawlessly. “Excellent! Truly remarkable!” Dr. Albright couldn’t help but clap his hands. “Evelyn, where did you find this girl? Her technique is cleaner than yours was at her stage!” When the final suture was placed, Abigail set her instruments down. She looked up, and even through her surgical mask, I could see the intoxicating joy of being worshipped. She looked at me, a flash of poorly hidden contempt in her eyes, though her voice remained sweet and submissive. “It was all thanks to Dr. Reed’s guidance. She was encouraging me in her mind the entire time.” I stood to the side, my gloves completely spotless. “You have a natural gift, Abigail,” I replied softly. Once the room cleared, I pulled out my phone and began watching instructional videos on farm animal castrations. I needed to etch every single detail of spaying a sow into my mind. Within two weeks, Abigail had become the hospital’s rising star, while I quietly entered the darkest phase of my career. At two in the morning, a post-op patient under my care suffered a sudden, massive intracranial hemorrhage and was rushed back into emergency surgery. When Dr. Albright slammed the patient’s drainage tube onto my desk, his face was pale with rage. I realized the tube, which should have been free and clear, had been folded over and clamped shut using a highly concealed technique. “Is this how a senior attending shows responsibility?!” Dr. Albright roared in the hallway, pointing a finger at my face. “The patient almost herniated! Evelyn, what on earth have you been doing lately?!” Suddenly, a frantic family member rushed forward, landing a stinging slap across my face. “You hack! You delayed my mother’s surgery just to show off your little student! Now she’s paralyzed! How are you going to pay for this?!” The force of the blow left my cheek burning and swollen. On my desk lay the preoperative consent form. There, in stark black and white, was my signature, though I knew the document had been swapped. The surrounding staff looked on, their eyes filled with a mix of pity and quiet satisfaction. “To think her skills have degraded this much, making such a rookie mistake in post-op care.” “She’s probably just green with envy because Abigail has been getting all the attention lately. She’s completely lost her focus.” “A major malpractice incident like this requires immediate suspension and license review.” 3 I stood in the center of the whispering crowd, my limbs turning to ice. The security cameras in that hallway had miraculously malfunctioned, and the logbook held only my signature. Abigail’s setup was cleaner and far more vicious than it had been in my previous life. Just as the risk management officer stepped forward with the official suspension notice, Abigail suddenly threw herself into the fray. “Chief! Please don’t suspend Dr. Reed!” Her eyes were red, and heavy tears began to spill down her cheeks as she grabbed Dr. Albright’s sleeve. “Dr. Reed has just been incredibly exhausted lately! She gave all her surgical opportunities to me, taking on so much pressure. This was just an honest oversight!” “Abigail, step back. We can’t keep a liability like her on staff,” another doctor chimed in, defending the resident. “No!” Abigail wept, looking utterly devastated. “If it weren’t for Dr. Reed, I wouldn’t be here today. Chief, I beg you, suspend her if you must, but please don’t banish her from the department! Let her stay as my assistant. She can just assist me and help with the basic prep!” A collective murmur of admiration rippled through the corridor. “Unbelievable. Abigail’s grace is out of this world.” “Look at her, and then look at Evelyn. Evelyn tried to sabotage her out of jealousy, and yet Abigail is still trying to save her job.” I looked down, staring at Abigail’s tear-stained, pitiful face, a cold laugh echoing in my chest. Of course she wanted to keep me around. Without me, she was an empty shell. If I were kicked out of the hospital, she would be out of range of her mind-reading trick. How would she perform her next surgery? She had to keep me chained to her side as her personal, walking cheat sheet. “I accept the disciplinary action,” I said, my voice raspy as I forced myself to look thoroughly defeated and broken. “Thank you, Abigail.” Abigail offered her usual sweet, innocent smile. To anyone else, she looked like an angel. Only I knew the predatory triumph hiding behind that expression. But she had no idea that the hunter often disguised itself as the prey. Your bill is coming due very soon, Abigail. Three days later, the department received an unprecedented, highly complex case. A giant cerebral aneurysm. It was located deep within the skull, pressing tightly against the optic nerve and the internal carotid artery. It was the ultimate neurosurgical ticking time bomb. The hospital administration was on high alert, and the medical director himself had come down to watch from the observation gallery. And the name written on the primary surgeon slot was none other than Abigail Carter. During the prep stage, I threw on a surgical mask and ran toward the operating theater doors, playing my part to perfection. “Let me in! This anatomy is far too treacherous! One wrong move and the patient will never leave the table!” I pressed myself against the glass doors, my eyes wide with manufactured desperation as I banged on the glass. “I know this patient’s history better than anyone! I need to be in there!” Several nurses quickly grabbed my arms, their faces twisted in disgust. “Dr. Reed, you are suspended! Are you trying to kill the patient by causing a scene?” “Seriously, you got demoted for your own incompetence, and now you’re trying to steal Abigail’s spotlight? Have some dignity.” Inside the scrub room, Abigail looked through the glass window, her eyes flashing with a brief moment of panic. She hadn’t even studied the imaging. Her mind was a total blank. If I didn’t feed her the coordinates and the surgical path, she wouldn’t even know where to make the first cut. 4 She quickly pressed the intercom button, her voice coming through the speaker soft and magnanimous. “It’s fine, charge nurse. Let Dr. Reed into the observation gallery. This is indeed a highly challenging case. Since Dr. Reed is senior, she can stay in the gallery with the audio link active. If I run into any trouble, I will need her guidance.” Up in the observation room, the Chief and the Director nodded in approval. “Remaining humble under pressure, always eager to learn. This girl has a limitless future,” the Director praised. I stopped struggling and let the nurses escort me up to the second-floor gallery. Standing behind the massive glass window, I looked down at the patient’s exposed skull on the table below. Finally, the corners of my mouth twitched into a grin I no longer had to hide. The surgery began. Abigail stood at the primary position. She took a deep breath and glanced up at the glass window. She was establishing the link. I stood there, expressionless, and began firing up my mind, laying out the standard, hyper-precise surgical steps in vivid detail. Receiving the signals, Abigail relaxed. Her hand became rock steady as she navigated the microscope with ease. Whispers of awe filled the observation gallery. Then came the most hazardous phase of the procedure. Exposing the aneurysm, preparing for clamping. The vessel walls here were as thin as paper. A slight shift in breathing could cause the aneurysm to rupture, turning the operating field into a bloodbath. Abigail held out her hand, and the scrub nurse passed her the delicate micro-clips. She looked up once more, waiting for my mental cue regarding the angle and pressure of the clamp. I stared down at her from behind the glass. Now. I flooded my brain with a memory from my childhood in the countryside: a squealing, thrashing sow pinned down in the mud, her legs tied. No anesthesia. The vet, wearing grime-covered rubber gloves, plunges a rusted blade into the flesh. I glared at Abigail, screaming the instructions in my mind with absolute, commanding authority. Now, reach in and press down hard on the uterus. Use your other hand to clamp the artery. Use raw, brute force to tear it out along with the surrounding tissue. Ignore the blood. Just rip it out! Abigail’s hand, holding the delicate micro-clip, froze in mid-air. Her entire body shuddered violently, and a look of sheer, primal horror crossed her face. Her medical training, what little she had, screamed that this was wrong. This was disastrously wrong. But she had never actually performed a surgery on her own. Every ounce of her muscle memory was built entirely on absolute, unquestioning obedience to the thoughts in my head. Under the immense pressure of the moment, her cognitive brain fractured, and her survival instinct defaulted to the mental commands she had always relied on. To the horror of everyone in the gallery, Abigail suddenly seemed to lose her mind. She violently pushed the surgical microscope aside. She threw down her fine instruments, and in front of the entire surgical team, she plunged her bare fingers directly into the patient’s open, delicate brain cavity. “What is she doing?!” the Director shrieked, jumping out of his seat. I stood behind the glass, watching her without a trace of pity. Pull it out, Abigail. Give back what you stole. Abigail’s face twisted into something monstrous. She clamped her fingers around the pulsing artery, let out a desperate, animalistic grunt, and yanked with all her might. A sickening tear echoed. Blood sprayed like a geyser, painting Abigail’s face crimson.

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My newborn baby sister fell gravely ill right after she was born. A passing clairvoyant told my mother that it was because I was the vessel of a dark entity. He said the only way for my sister to survive was for me to go on a strict spiritual fast, praying for a hundred days. To save my sister, they fed me nothing but a small plate of boiled greens every day. I was so starved that I kept blacking out. One day, I fell to my knees, begging them for just a scoop of mashed potatoes or a slice of bread. But Mom kicked me hard, shoving me into the small pantry under the stairs, and locked the door from the outside. “You really are a monster, aren’t you? You know your sister’s life depends on this, yet you’re still trying to cheat? Are you doing this on purpose?” “It’s just a simple fast and a few prayers, Hazel! How hard can it be? Lily only has a few days left to get through this. Can you stop being so incredibly selfish for once?” But Mom, my stomach hurts so bad. I think I’m dying.

My limbs felt like they were filled with lead. Through the heavy wooden door, I heard Dad’s hesitant voice. “Eleanor… maybe we should let her out to eat something? Just a little bit?” “No!” Mom’s voice was sharp, laced with panic. “How can you softhearted now, David? Did you forget what happened a few days ago? She snuck a piece of turkey, and Lily had a life-threatening fever in the middle of the night!” I knew exactly what night she was talking about. A few days ago. During my fast, I was so dizzy from hunger that I dragged myself to the kitchen and took a tiny bite of leftover meat from the fridge. Mom caught me. She broke down in tears on the spot, crying hysterically. Dad rushed in and slapped me across the face so hard I hit the linoleum floor. Blood dripped from my nose, staining the prayer book on the counter. That night, I was locked in the pantry to “reflect on my sins.” When they finally let me out the next morning, the pain in my stomach was so agonizing I couldn’t even stand up straight. “She is a curse! She knew she would hurt her sister, yet she still snuck out to eat! She did it on purpose!” Mom’s voice had been freezing cold. Leaning against the pantry door now, I didn’t even have the strength to shake my head. No, Mom. I was just so, so hungry. I understood they were terrified of losing baby Lily. But why did they have to treat me like the enemy? I wasn’t a demon. I was their daughter, too… I tapped my weak knuckles against the door, over and over. I wanted to tell them I couldn’t hold on much longer. “Eleanor, the pediatrician said Lily’s illness is just a standard infant infection,” Dad’s voice drifted in, carrying a sliver of doubt. “What if that spiritual medium was just a fraud? We can’t keep Hazel locked up like this—” Mom cut him off instantly. “Shut up! What do you know? I knew something was wrong with Hazel the moment she was born. She was too quiet, and her eyes were so cold. Marcus said there’s a dark energy inside her, feeding on Lily’s life force!” She then turned toward the pantry door, her tone hardening into steel. “Hazel, stop acting. I know you can hear me. Just stay in there quietly. Once the hundred days are over, the bad energy inside you will be purged, and we can go back to being a normal family, okay?” I couldn’t squeeze a single word out of my throat. My stomach felt like it was being ripped apart by rusty knives. The pain in my chest was suffocating. Using every ounce of life left in me, I struck the door one last time. Mom stormed over and kicked the door from the outside. “Hazel! What kind of stunt are you pulling now? Do I need to teach you another lesson?” She unlocked the door and threw it open. A crack of warm light spilled into the darkness of the pantry. My heart flared with a desperate spark of hope— Am I saved?

“Mom.” A hand gently grabbed Mom’s wrist. It was Ethan. My older brother, who used to protect me from everything when we were kids. He stood at the pantry door, his eyebrows slightly knitted in annoyance. “Hazel is just being stubborn. The more you yell at her, the more she’s going to resist.” He sighed, turning his eyes toward the dark pantry. “Hazel, I know this sucks. But Lily is a baby; she can’t handle any setbacks. Just hang in there a little longer, okay? Once this week is over, I’ll take you out to McDonald’s and buy you whatever you want.” There was no reply from inside. I couldn’t move. My body was curled on the cold floor, like a wounded animal seeking a dark corner to die. The dried blood from my forehead had sealed one of my eyes shut. Cold sweat mixed with warm, sticky fluid ran down my cheek. I stared blankly at the crack of the door. *Mom, please. Just look down.* *Just a little bit more.* *And you would see me.* But— The light vanished. The door slammed shut, and the lock clicked. I heard Ethan sigh softly on the other side. “Don’t worry, Hazel. As soon as Lily gets better, I’ll convince Mom and Dad to let you rest. I’ll buy you anything you want to eat.” Their footsteps faded away. They all left. The pantry plunged into a terrifying, absolute silence. I lay frozen on the floor. And my chest stopped moving. *Mom.* *You were so close.* *You could have saved me.* In the darkness, my soul drifted out of my cold shell. I saw them gathered around Lily’s white crib in the nursery. Mom was tucking Lily in with a soft blanket, while Dad carefully fed her a bottle of formula. Ethan was organizing the blessed silver crosses and lavender satchels around the room. They all had relaxed, hopeful smiles on their faces. Only I was left behind, locked in that cramped pantry, transforming into a silent, frozen statue. *Dad. Mom.* *Lily’s life was everything to you.* *But what about mine?* My spirit followed them to the spiritual temple the next day. Everyone was praying devoutly. Only Dad looked restless, constantly checking his watch. When the service finally ended, he practically begged Mom as they walked to the parking lot. “I’m really worried about Hazel, Eleanor. She was too weak to sleep last night, and she didn’t eat anything this morning. We need to go home and check on her!” Mom frowned, her face tightening. “Check on what? She’s missed a couple of meals. Is her attitude more important than Lily’s life?” Dad clenched his fists, his voice shaking with desperation. He grabbed Mom’s arm, but she slapped him across the face. Mom’s eyes grew red, her voice cracking with emotion. “These last few days are the most critical! If we mess up now, does that mean all of Hazel’s sacrifices were for nothing?” “Just stay here and keep praying. I’ll drive back to get our insulated thermoses and check on her while I’m there.” Dad finally let out a sigh of relief. Mom drove back to our suburban house. She grabbed the thermoses from the kitchen island. Then, she walked over to the pantry door. Her voice softened slightly, though it was still laced with deep suspicion. “Hazel, I know you’re listening. Just behave yourself. Don’t try any tricks. Once the fast is over and the dark energy is gone, I’ll let you out, okay?” Silence. Mom’s expression darkened. “Hazel.” She lowered her voice, spitting the words through her teeth. “When are you going to stop this drama? Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing? Every time you scream about your stomach hurting or being hungry, you’re just acting. You want us to feel guilty so we’ll let you out, so you can ruin Lily’s recovery, don’t you?” She banged heavily on the wooden door. But then, she stopped. Frowning, she muttered to herself, “Why is she so quiet? Is she planning something?” She grabbed the brass doorknob and turned it. The door swung open slightly. The hem of my oversized yellow pajama shirt was visible in the crack.

Just then, Dad’s call rang through Mom’s phone. “Eleanor! Lily just woke up and she’s crying for you. Did you check on Hazel?” Mom hesitated for two seconds, then let go of the doorknob. “We’ll deal with Hazel after the final prayer,” she said to the phone, turning on her heel and walking away. Inside the pantry, my lifeless body was propped against the door, one hand still frozen in a claw-like shape, as if trying to knock. Floating in the air, I watched her retreating back in absolute despair. *Mom, you were just one step away.* *If you had just pushed the door open, you would have found my corpse.* That night. Knowing I was still locked up, Dad waited until Mom fell into a deep sleep, then crept downstairs to the pantry door. He whispered through the wood. “Hazel, I hid the spare key under the welcome mat by the front door. Grab it and get yourself something to eat!” “I left some chicken soup on the kitchen counter for you. I know your stomach is sensitive, so make sure to microwave it first!” Dad always remembered. He knew I had chronic gastritis. Over the years, whenever Mom locked me in my room or the pantry, Dad would sneak food to me when she wasn’t looking. He had even bought me a giant plush teddy bear and placed it in the pantry. Inside the bear’s zippered belly, he would hide packets of Oreos and crackers. I floated over and looked at the plush bear. Its belly was bulging. Dad had stuffed it with cookies again. *But I’m so sorry, Dad.* *I can’t eat them anymore.* The next morning. Dad woke up and immediately checked his phone. There was no reply to the text messages he had sent me. Panicking, he found Mom in the kitchen. “I texted Hazel about the key, but she hasn’t replied. What if she passed out from starvation?” “Don’t you have the security camera app linked to the pantry nanny-cam? Open it! Let me see how she is!” Mom rolled her eyes. “She’s playing mind games with you, David. She wants you to break the rules so she can bring the bad luck back to Lily.” Still, she pulled out her iPhone. She tapped the security app. The live stream of the pantry loaded on the screen. In the video, my back was turned toward the camera. Dad shoved his face close to the screen. “Hazel! The key is under the mat! There’s warm soup in the kitchen, please eat something. Don’t starve yourself!” No response. Mom frowned. “Hazel, if you’ve learned your lesson, just open the door and eat. Stop worrying your father.” But the figure on the screen remained completely motionless. Dad’s voice began to crack with terror. “Hazel? Are you sick? Please, just turn around and look at me. Just let me see your face!” Mom’s expression shifted slightly. She pinched the screen to zoom in. In the dim, grainy night-vision feed, I was curled up in the corner. My body was bent tight, like a dead shrimp. Mom stared at the image for a few seconds. Then, she let out a cold, mocking laugh. “Another one of her tantrums. She loves playing the victim.” When I was younger, I used to curl up like that to get her attention when she ignored me. She thought I was doing it again. “Hazel, we told you where the key is. If you want to act like a civilized human being, get out of there and eat! Stop trying to ruin your sister’s blessing!” Mom locked her phone and tossed it onto the granite island. I let out a bitter, silent laugh.

*Mom, if you had just zoomed in for three more seconds, if you had just looked closer…* *You would have seen that my chest wasn’t rising.* *I wasn’t throwing a tantrum. I was dead.* *We were so close to the end, and you still didn’t see me.* Finally, the hundredth day arrived. The final prayer was completed. Dad was the first one to bolt out of the chapel. “The spiritualist said the curse is broken! Lily is safe! Let’s get home and tell Hazel the good news!” “She’s been alone in that house for so long. She must be terrified.” Sitting in the passenger seat, Mom’s eyes welled with tears. “I know I was too harsh on Hazel. But I had no choice, David. The entity inside her was too strong. Now that she’s purified, she can finally be our sweet, normal daughter again.” Floating above them in the SUV, I smiled. It was a smile more painful than crying. *Dad, Mom.* *I waited one hundred days for this day.* *But I couldn’t make it to the finish line.* The car pulled into the driveway. Dad ran to the front door, unlocking it and throwing it open. But then, he froze. His eyes fell on the kitchen island. The bowl of chicken soup he had left out was untouched, covered in a thick layer of green mold. His voice began to tremble violently. “Hazel… she hasn’t eaten in days…” Mom froze for a fraction of a second, her face turning pale. But then, anger took over. She stormed to the pantry door and banged her fist against it. “Hazel! What do you want from us?! Are you trying to destroy this family?!” “Do you have any idea what we went through these past few days? We barely slept, trying to find spiritual guidance to save you! And what did you do? You went on a hunger strike to spite us? To make us feel like monsters?!” Dad grabbed her shoulders, his voice cracking. “Hazel wouldn’t do this! Eleanor, something is wrong!” Mom’s expression stiffened. Just then, the front door opened, and Ethan walked in. He held his phone in his hand, looking incredibly confused. “Mom, Dad, a police officer just stopped me on the driveway. He said a neighbor called 911 because they heard weird noises coming from our house a few days ago.” He looked toward the pantry. “Hazel, did you call the cops on us? Why would you do that?” Hearing this, Mom snapped. “Hazel! You called the police?! You want to ruin this family that badly?! You wouldn’t even pray for your baby sister, and now you want to drag us to jail?!” Dad’s face turned dark and disappointed. “Your sister is just a baby, Hazel. And you brought the cops to our door? You want the whole neighborhood to think we’re criminals?” “Hazel, what is wrong with you?!” They stood there, judging me, condemning me. But the pantry remained dead silent. Mom’s eyes were bloodshot. “I’m done with this!” she screamed, lunging for the door handle.

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My CEO fiancé gave my promotion to the new intern. By the time I found out, the official announcement had already been sent to the entire company. In the open-plan office, Dominic leaned against his desk, looking at me with a lazy, uncaring shrug. “Yeah, I gave your promotion to Chloe. She just started, and she needs a senior title to establish some authority here. It’s no big deal, Hazel. Just let it go.” “Be a good girl. We’re getting married next month anyway.” “Think about it. You’re going to be a stay-at-home wife soon. There’s really no need for you to work this hard.” The entire office went dead silent. Everyone held their breath, expecting me to throw a massive fit. But instead, I felt a wave of absolute relief wash over me. Dominic had no idea that my ex-boyfriend, desperate to get back with me, had just offered me a position at his firm—with double the salary. I had been stressing out for days about how to hand in my resignation. Now, he had handed me the perfect excuse.

I didn’t stay behind to watch them pop champagne. I grabbed my bag and went straight home. My neighbor, Mrs. Higgins, bumped into me in the hallway, her face full of surprise. “Hazel! What are you doing home so early? Didn’t you say your big project wrapped up today and there was a celebration party? You’re the new department head now, right?” I had spent months preparing for this promotion. Everyone in my life knew about it. Because of that, now that I had been publicly humiliated, I didn’t even have the energy to fake a smile. I kept my key in the lock and tried to sound casual. “Oh, it’s nothing. The company had a last-minute restructuring.” Mrs. Higgins gave me a look of deep sympathy and wisely changed the subject. The second I closed the door behind me, I ran straight to the bathroom. I bent over the toilet and threw up until my stomach was completely empty. I collapsed onto the cold tile floor, trembling. My chronic stomach ulcers had gotten worse. It was the result of pulling endless all-nighters to get Dominic’s projects across the finish line. Dominic knew about my stomach issues, but he didn’t care. In his eyes, I only survived because of him. He assumed he would always be the one feeding me, so my career didn’t matter. As I got up to rinse my mouth, my phone started buzzing frantically. It was a Slack channel that both Dominic and I were in. “Boss is a total alpha. Did you see that? Hazel didn’t dare say a single word.” “How does Dominic train her like that? She’s so submissive. It’s honestly impressive!” “Hazel doesn’t have any family to back her up anyway. Plus, Dominic has all the money and power. What could she possibly say?” They were laughing and joking. Then, someone sent a message: “Hey, do you guys think Dominic is even coming home tonight?” The replies came instantly. “Are you stupid? Of course he’s not! What does a boss do after a successful launch? He celebrates with the hot new intern!” This was followed by a string of dirty, suggestive jokes. But suddenly, Mike, Dominic’s childhood best friend, typed in panic: “Are you guys drunk? You posted in the wrong channel! Hazel is in this group! Delete it, now!” The chat went chaotic. But it was too late. Most of the messages couldn’t be unsent. One colleague, seemingly finding the situation hilarious, typed lazily: “So what if she sees it? You think she actually has the guts to speak up?” I felt nothing. I locked my phone, walked into the kitchen, and made myself a simple bowl of oatmeal. As I took the last bite, the front door swung open. Dominic walked in, reeking of expensive whiskey. Seeing that I didn’t rush to the door to greet him like I usually did, he let out a low chuckle. He walked over and wrapped his arms around my waist from behind. “It’s just a promotion, Hazel. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” Just a promotion. He had allowed his employees to mock me and treat me like a joke in front of the whole company. “Sure,” I said quietly. I wriggled out of his embrace, picked up my bowl, and walked into the kitchen to wash it. Dominic followed me in. He took a gold bracelet from his pocket and slipped it onto my wrist. It wasn’t my style at all. But I recognized it. A few days ago, he had bought Chloe a diamond necklace. This bracelet was the cheap freebie that came with the purchase. “Thank you,” I said, keeping my eyes on the running water. Dominic let out a sigh of relief. He leaned down, trying to kiss my neck. I gently pushed his chest away and put the clean bowl into the cabinet. I forced a polite smile. “You forgot. I’m allergic to alcohol. The smell makes me break out.” Dominic’s brows furrowed. He stared at me, about to say something. But his phone rang. The screen lit up with Chloe’s name. His annoyance vanished instantly. He swiped to answer and walked quickly into his home office. With a soft click, he locked the door behind him. Chapter

After drying my hands, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Ethan. “Your start date is next Monday. I’ll personally drive over to pick you up.” “Perfect. See you then,” I replied. I went to the bedroom and started packing my things. While clearing out the closet, my hand brushed against something silky. I pulled out a pair of lace panties that didn’t belong to me. They were cheap, sexy, and crumpled into a messy ball. Like they had been shoved in there in a hurry. Upon closer inspection, there were dried, questionable white stains on them. The bedroom door creaked open. Dominic walked in. Seeing the red rims of my eyes and the underwear in my hand, he didn’t even flinch. He calmly stepped forward and took them from my hand. “Mike must have brought his Tinder date over during our last party. They probably left it behind.” But as he said it, he casually stuffed the lace panties into his own pocket. My head was down, and my hands were shaking. Not from heartbreak. But from sheer disgust. Dominic clearly misread my reaction. He reached out and patted my head affectionately. “Hazel, do you know what I love most about you?” Without waiting for my answer, he whispered, “You’re compliant.” Over the last three years, I had heard those words a thousand times. Compliant, quiet, agreeable. Like a well-behaved pet, but never like a real human being. “Chloe is just an intern. Giving her the promotion is my way of mentoring her. Don’t overthink it. You’re still my fiancée.” He patted my head again, the way one would pat a golden retriever. It reminded me of when I was looking for a job after college. He had casually offered me a spot on his team, and I had accepted, even though I had much better offers at the time. And now, because his new toy pouted and begged, I was shoved into a corner. I was left to be the laughingstock of the office. Disposable. Like trash. “Alright, get some rest. Chloe still doesn’t know how to run the weekly reports. I need to go over to her place and help her out.” Maybe it was the lingering pain of being pushed aside, or maybe it was the final spark of dignity left in me. I suddenly grabbed his wrist. “Can’t you stay tonight?” I asked. Just once. If he stayed, maybe I could pretend he actually cared about me. Dominic paused, a look of mild annoyance crossing his face. “I promised her, Hazel.” But he had promised me a thousand times, too. He promised to go to the hospital with me for my stomach scans. He promised to visit my grandmother’s grave with me. He promised to spend my birthday with me. And he had broken every single one of those promises. “Oh. Okay.” I let go of his hand. My voice was completely flat. For some reason, Dominic grabbed my hand back. He softened his tone. “I’ll bring you that tiramisu you love on my way back tomorrow.” But I hated sweets. With tears threatening to spill from my eyes, I forced another smile. “Thanks.” Dominic didn’t come home that night. The next morning, Chloe updated her Instagram. It was a simple photo of her hand making a peace sign over a rumpled bed. I knew instantly she posted it for me. It was the exact same peace sign she had made when Dominic forced me to pull an all-night shift to fix her mistakes. I had been locked in the conference room, bent double from stomach pain, while she stood over me, smirked, and made that exact gesture. A gesture of pure provocation and insult. “Like a cute little bunny, right?” one coworker commented, referencing her caption. Others in the comments didn’t hold back. “A night like that is worth millions. Who cares about a bunny?” “Spill the tea, is Boss Dominic as good in bed as he is at work?” Chloe replied almost instantly: “Better. Way better! 😉” I stared at the screen, completely numb. I opened my browser and booked an appointment at the local clinic. My stomach had been burning since yesterday. The stress was making my ulcers flare up badly. By the time I reached the clinic, I was break out in a cold sweat. The doctor ran some quick tests and gave me a stern look. “You need to avoid stress and sleep deprivation, Hazel. Your stomach lining is severely inflamed. If you keep this up, you’re looking at internal bleeding.” “I understand. Thank you, Doctor.” I took my prescription and walked out to the lobby, only to run straight into Dominic. He was holding Chloe’s hand. Seeing me, he froze for a fraction of a second, but he didn’t let go of her hand. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “My stomach.” Dominic nodded dismissively. He didn’t ask how I was, or if it was serious. Instead, he sighed. “Chloe cut her finger while organizing some files. I brought her in to get it patched up.” His voice was laced with worry, as if Chloe had just survived a major accident. I looked down at her hand. The cut was so tiny it was barely visible, and it had already clotted. Chloe sniffled, pretending to be annoyed. “It’s all your fault anyway. You kept distracting me while I was trying to work.” Dominic let out a low chuckle, pulling her closer. “Right, right. My bad.” Then, he turned to me. “You should head home first.” I nodded and walked toward the exit. Before I could reach the door, Chloe’s whiny voice echoed behind me. “Look at how pale she is. What if she has something contagious? Dominic, you should really make her do a full medical checkup.” “She had one last year,” Dominic replied. “Last year is last year! I’m just looking out for your health. Why are you being like this?” Dominic sighed lazily. “Fine, fine. I’ll book her an appointment tomorrow.” He said it so casually, like scheduling a vet visit for a sick cat. Chapter

After leaving the clinic, I went straight to my storage unit and dropped off most of my bags. By the time I got back to the apartment, Dominic was already there. And so was Chloe. Chloe greeted me at the door like she was the owner of the place. “Oh, Hazel, you’re back. We ran out of guest slippers, so you’ll have to use these disposable ones.” I looked down. She was wearing my slippers. The ones Dominic had bought for me. My feet were smaller than Chloe’s, so her heels were sticking out of the back of my slippers. It looked ridiculous, but she was wearing them proudly just to mock me. I looked past her into the living room. Dominic was drinking beer with his friends, completely ignoring the situation. I didn’t say a word. I slipped on the cheap paper slippers and walked in. The dining table was covered in food—lobster, crab, oysters. A massive seafood feast. My stomach instantly churned. I was severely allergic to shellfish. Dominic knew this. Dominic finally looked up from his drink. “Why are you just standing there? Sit down and eat.” Chloe picked up a piece of lobster, put it on his plate, and cooed, “Try this, Dominic. It’s so fresh.” Dominic smiled and took a bite, never once looking in my direction. To them, I was invisible. An unwanted guest in my own home. Staring at the table of food that could literally kill me, and watching them laugh and drink, I finally spoke up. “What about me?” The clinking of glasses stopped. Dominic turned to me, his face tight with irritation. “What about you? Just eat. Do I need to spoon-feed you now?” “I’m allergic to shellfish, Dominic.” “Well, that’s your problem. I didn’t know you were coming home for dinner tonight.” Dominic raised his glass and took a long gulp. The atmosphere at the table turned awkward. A few of his friends exchanged glances and tried to smooth things over. “Uh, Hazel, maybe you can just order some UberEats? Or whip up something quick in the kitchen?” “Sure,” I said quietly. I turned and walked back to the bedroom. Behind me, someone let out a loud snort. “Why are you trying to please her? Even Dominic doesn’t give a crap about her.” “I don’t know, man. She looks kind of pitiful.” “Pitiful? More like pathetic. I hate drama queens. An allergy is not that deep. Can’t she just order a pizza and shut up?” “True. I’ve never seen anyone as spineless as Hazel. It’s hilarious.” They didn’t even bother to lower their voices. Dominic sat there, silent, letting them drag me. Which meant he agreed with every word. I looked at the clock. Tomorrow was Monday. I pulled out my last suitcase, walked out of the bedroom, and headed straight for the front door. The laughter in the living room died instantly. Dominic’s face darkened. “Are you really throwing a tantrum right now? Over a dinner?” Chloe stood up, her eyes suddenly pooling with fake tears. “It’s all my fault. Hazel, please don’t leave. I’ll go.” But before she could step forward, Dominic slammed his glass down and stood up. “Don’t move, Chloe. If she wants to leave, let her leave.” One of Dominic’s friends rolled his eyes. “Seriously, it’s just an allergy. Can you stop being so dramatic? Who behaves like this?” “She really thinks she owns this place. Nobody even wants you here, Hazel.” “No wonder she has no family. Who could tolerate a personality like that?” I froze. Holding back the sharp pain in my stomach, I slowly turned to look at Dominic. His face was cold, devoid of any warmth. He stared at me and said, word for word: “If you walk out that door tonight, don’t ever think about coming back.” Even now, his first instinct was to threaten me. I couldn’t tell if what I felt was relief or freedom. I let out a soft laugh, turned the knob, and stepped out into the night. Behind me, a loud crash echoed as Dominic threw his favorite bottle of Macallan against the wall. Chapter

After a long silence, Dominic cursed under his breath. He kicked the door open and ran out into the hallway. But I was already gone. His friends, realizing things had gone too far, muttered cautiously, “Hey, Dominic… should I go cruise around and bring her back?” Dominic stared into the empty, dark hallway, a sudden tightness squeezing his chest. He hadn’t expected me to actually have the nerve to leave. But his ego quickly took over. He let out a cold laugh. “Don’t bother. She’ll be begging to come back in three days.” “Besides, she has to show up at the office tomorrow anyway.” While I was checking into a hotel, Chloe sent me an audio recording of that exact conversation. Her text message was dripping with malice. “If you actually have some pride, don’t ever come back.” “But we both know you won’t. You love Dominic’s money and status too much to let go. Even if nobody wants you here, you’ll crawl back like a desperate dog.” I knew she was trying to get under my skin. She wanted me to disappear so she could take my place. It was almost funny. I wanted to tell her she didn’t need to try so hard. Instead, I blocked her number. Then, I opened my chat with Dominic and sent him a simple text. “We are done. Do not contact me again.” After sending it, I shut off my phone and called an Uber to meet Ethan. Ethan was waiting for me. He looked sharp, wearing a tailored suit. He stared at me for a few seconds before stepping forward and pulling me into a tight hug. “It’s been so long, Hazel. I missed you so much.” I hugged him back, burying my face in his shoulder. “I missed you too.” Ethan’s main headquarters was in San Francisco. We had flights booked for tonight. But first, I needed to drop off my signed resignation letter at Dominic’s office. Once that was done, Ethan took me to our old college campus for a walk. Meanwhile, back at the apartment, Dominic woke up with a brutal hangover and saw my text. He scoffed, tossing his phone onto the bed. “Oh, please. She thinks a breakup text is going to scare me into chasing her?” His friends, who were still crashed on his couch, laughed. “Hazel sent that?” “Obviously! She just wants you to go play her little games. Girls always do this.” The tension in Dominic’s chest eased. He smirked, looking smug. “Maybe I’ll call her when I’m in a better mood. Once I—” BBefore he could finish his sentence, one of his friends gasped, staring at his phone. “Wait… isn’t this Hazel’s ex? Why is she posting photos with him?”

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My best friend went missing while working deep undercover abroad. I begged Director Miller to send me in as her backup. When I finally tracked her down at a remote reservoir, she had been tortured past the point of recognition. But thank God, she never broke. She kept her mouth shut, saved her own identity, and barely clung to life. For the next few years, the two of us played our parts flawlessly. We became the mistresses of two different high-ranking lieutenants in the cartel. Working in perfect, silent sync, we clawed our way closer and closer to the inner circle. Finally, on Lyra’s twenty-ninth birthday, we pulled the net tight, took down the entire syndicate, and completed the mission. Looking at the plane tickets back home in my hands, I broke down crying right there at the airport. The sheer relief washed over me, and I couldn’t stop sobbing. “Lyra, the nightmare is over. We’re finally going home!” I reached into my bag to grab the birthday present I had painstakingly prepared for her. But then, Lyra looked out the window and sighed softly. “Yeah. It’s been so long. I wonder if that old maple tree in our backyard is still standing.” Her eyes were filled with soft nostalgia, but my entire body went instantly cold. A wave of sheer terror crashed over me. Our parents had been brutally murdered by the cartel years ago. Before we even entered the police academy, we knew we would eventually face these monsters. Standing in our old backyard, Lyra had pointed at that maple tree and made a solemn vow with me. “Our parents’ ashes are buried beneath the roots of this tree. It’s not just a maple tree to us, Alana. It’s the Tree of Vengeance. If either of us ever gets caught and compromised, we must find a way to use the words ‘maple tree’ in our communications.” “It means: *I am compromised. Do not trust a single word I say.*” But now, we were completely safe. The mission was over. Yet, she had just casually said those exact words right to my face. She wasn’t Lyra. My stomach plummeted. If she wasn’t Lyra… then where was my best friend? Who was this person who had spent years undercover with me, risking her life, bleeding beside me, and fighting with what I thought was absolute shared conviction?

Detecting my sudden stiffness, the woman posing as Lyra grew tense. She reached out, grasping my upper arms. “What’s wrong, Alana?” “Is the stress getting to you? Did your old illness flare up again?” Looking at the genuine worry swimming in her eyes, I forced myself to take a slow, trembling breath. My parents and Lyra’s parents had been partners on the force. They were tortured and killed by drug traffickers during a botched raid. After that, I suffered from severe PTSD and violent night terrors. I only survived because of Lyra. She was my rock, helping me piece my shattered mind back together, step by step. Only Lyra knew about my mental health struggles. No one else. Moreover, I had Lyra’s face permanently engraved in my mind. The woman standing before me looked exactly like her. Even the tiny, elegant beauty mark just below the left corner of her lips was identical in shape and placement. Maybe she was just overwhelmed by the adrenaline of finishing the mission, I reasoned frantically. Maybe she forgot our childhood pact in the heat of the moment. To test her, I swallowed hard and forced a weak smile. “I’m fine. It’s just… when you mentioned the tree, I felt a stab of guilt.” “During the months you went dark, some cartel remnants burned our old house down. I was so caught up in preparing my own undercover prep that I didn’t get there in time. The maple tree… it burned to the ground.” Her eyes went wide with shock and horror. “Burned down? But our parents’ ashes were buried right beneath it! Alana, tell me you saved the urns! Did you get them out?” The urns. The burial. That was an incredibly private detail. Aside from Lyra and me, not a single soul on Earth knew about it. My racing heart finally began to calm. Relief flooded my veins. I was just about to laugh and admit I was testing her, when she rubbed her red, teary eyes. “I guess we’ll never get to watch the leaves turn red on that old maple tree again,” she murmured softly. “But Alana, don’t carry that guilt. We destroyed the cartel. We got justice for our parents. Their souls can finally rest in peace.” The words I was about to say died instantly in my throat, choking me like a swallow of hot lead. She had said it again. *Maple tree.* If she had simply forgotten the pact the first time, there was absolutely no way she would miss it a second time. That was a blood oath we took the night before we walked into the academy. She was the one who named it the Tree of Vengeance. She wanted it to be a constant, painful reminder of why we were fighting, so we would never falter, no matter how terrifying the cartel got. “The maple tree” was branded into our very souls. “Yeah, Lyra,” I forced the name out, my voice steady despite the screaming in my head. “They would definitely be proud of us.” “We got revenge, and we finished the job. This is the best birthday gift you could have asked for.” I took a subtle step back, creating space between us, and pulled out the gift I’d brought. It was a beautiful, custom-made snow globe. Inside were six miniature clay figurines—four adults and two little girls—happily gathered around a Thanksgiving dinner table. It was my fondest childhood memory of our families together. But as I handed it over, my fingers “slipped.” The glass ball crashed onto the hard airport floor, shattering into a million glittering shards. “Oh my god!” I gasped, clapping a hand over my mouth. “I’m so sorry, Lyra! I’ll get you another one made, I swear.” She smiled warmly, brushing it off. “It’s fine, sweetie. You can get me a replacement once we land back in the States.” “No, I want to get it right,” I insisted. “The custom shop is just a few blocks from here, and they can rush a new one by tonight. Let’s push our flight to tomorrow morning.” I needed to stay. I needed to find my real best friend. Dead or alive, I was going to find her today. ***

While we waited for the shop to remake the snow globe, Lyra took me to a local arcade. She knew exactly how I liked to decompress. She knew my favorite arcade games, and even which characters I always picked. She bought me soft-serve ice cream, and just like she used to do when we were teenagers, she carefully scraped off the chocolate shell for me because she knew I hated it, eating the chocolate crumbs herself with a satisfied, closed-eye grin. Aside from her using the trigger phrase “maple tree,” I couldn’t find a single flaw in her behavior. “Alana, the last time we celebrated my birthday together was five years ago, wasn’t it?” she asked over dinner, preempting any test I might have planned. “I went behind your back and applied for the undercover assignment. When you found out, you literally threw my birthday cake across the room. You screamed, you cried…” She looked at me, her eyes pooling with nostalgic warmth. “Do you remember? I had to hold you and soothe you all night. I didn’t sleep a wink.” I remembered. We had agreed that *I* would be the one to go undercover first. Lyra had pretended to agree, but then she pulled strings and stole the assignment. She wanted to shield me from the darkness. She was always the strong, protective older-sister figure in my life. But is that girl still alive? I clenched my fists under the table, nails biting into my palms. “Of course I remember. We were supposed to be professional cops, but you treated me like a crying toddler.” “I was so desperate that I tried to call Director Miller to demand he swap us out. Do you remember what you did then?” She laughed, a bright, genuine sound. “I snatched your phone, locked you in your bedroom, and by the time you broke the lock, I was already on a flight out of the country.” I tried to laugh along, but my face felt like a frozen mask. The story about me throwing the cake was technically on file—Director Miller and a few close colleagues knew about it. But the detail about her locking me in my bedroom? She had never told a soul. We had promised never to mention it because it was a massive violation of protocol. How did she know that? How could she describe it with such chilling accuracy? During my heavy silence, Lyra suddenly stood up, letting out a soft gasp. “Oh, look at you,” she chided gently, pulling a napkin from the holder. “You spent so long in the trenches that you completely forgot how to take care of yourself. The mission is over, Alana. You need to start thinking about your own life, your own future.” She leaned over and gently wiped a smudge of sauce from the corner of my mouth. Then, she tucked a rogue strand of hair behind my ear. Her motherly tone, the gentle warmth of her fingertips sliding across my skin—it was all so painfully familiar. I began to doubt myself. Was I losing my mind? Was I just being paranoid? Just then, the waiter brought out our dessert. It was a warm, freshly baked Maple Pecan Pie. I had ordered it on purpose. I stared at her, watching her reaction like a hawk. I saw her freeze for a fraction of a second, and then her eyes welled with tears. “My parents loved maple syrup,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Alana… if that maple tree in our yard was still alive, do you think they could taste the sweetness from up there?” The warmth in my chest vanished instantly. A cold, hard clarity took its place. She had mentioned the maple tree again. Once. Twice. Three times. She was absolutely, without a doubt, an impostor. My instinct was to tackle her right there, call the tactical team still cleaning up the city, and beat her real identity out of her. But I couldn’t risk it. If the real Lyra was still alive somewhere, any sudden move could sign her death warrant. I forced a tight, affectionate smile. I had to play along. I had to find out where Lyra was. ***

I couldn’t wrap my head around it. When did the switch happen? Three years ago, Lyra went completely dark. The other four undercover agents our department had placed inside the cartel were brutally executed. Everyone thought Lyra was dead too. Without hesitation, I volunteered to take over. Under Director Miller’s coordination, I managed to seduce Zach, one of the cartel’s top lieutenants, and worked my way inside the syndicate. That was when I saw Lyra again. She was locked in a water cage in one of the safe houses. Her face was barely recognizable, and her body was a mass of infected, weeping chemical burns. Zach had laughed, pointing at her. “Our boss thinks she’s a cop. Personally, I think we got the wrong girl. No cop survives six months in the water cage without singing.” I had to play the cold, unbothered mob mistress. I couldn’t show a hint of emotion. But during a brief moment when Zach turned his back, our eyes locked. Lyra’s eyes were bloodshot and swollen, but they were burning with an fierce, unbroken light. She silently mouthed three words to me: *Tree. Of. Vengeance.* In that split second, I nearly shattered. She had survived the worst hell imaginable, and she was still fighting. I knew, with absolute certainty, that she was the real Lyra then. Later, she was moved out of the cage. Another lieutenant, a sick psychopath who took a perverse liking to her scars, took her in as his personal plaything. For the next two years, we used our proximity to exchange critical intel through coded symbols left near a dead-drop location. She never betrayed me. In fact, she saved my life twice. So she must have been real during that time too. When could they have possibly switched her? “Alana, the shop just Snapchat-ed me. The new snow globe is ready,” the woman across the table said, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Let’s book the flight, grab the globe, and head home.” She was pushing to leave again, and I was running out of excuses. “My stomach is killing me,” I lied, grimacing as I stood up. “I need to use the restroom. Wait for me.” Inside the stall, I locked the door and pulled out my phone. I sent an encrypted message to our tech support, demanding they send over every single coded exchange Lyra and I had made during our undercover years. We had communicated using complex symbols drawn on a specific brick wall near an inconspicuous alley. I scrolled through the logs, analyzing every single dot, dash, and stroke. I looked for shifts in pressure, slight variations in the symbols, or any minor detail that would indicate a different hand had taken over. But after reading them over and over until my eyes blurred, I found absolutely nothing. They were identical. “Alana? Are you okay in there?” the impostor’s voice drifted through the restroom door, filled with urgent concern. “If your stomach is that bad, I can run to the pharmacy and grab you some medicine! We’re going to miss our flight if we don’t move!” A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. A glaring question hit me: *What was the point of this impersonation?* ***

If she was an impostor, she had to have captured Lyra to extract all these intimate details about our childhood and our operations. But if she had Lyra captured, why did she allow the cartel to be completely dismantled? And now, instead of taking the cartel’s millions and fleeing to a non-extradition country, she was actively trying to fly back to the United States—where law enforcement and surveillance would make her life ten times more dangerous! “Hey!” she knocked sharply on the door. “Do you need me to call an ambulance? Don’t tell me you’re pulling a Tyler and pulling a muscle from straining too hard on the toilet!” I froze. “I’ll be right out!” I called back. The confusion in my mind deepened. If she just wanted to fool me, knowing my childhood secrets was enough. Why did she also know that Tyler, one of our rookie colleagues from six years ago, had once passed out from food poisoning in the precinct bathroom? Even under the most brutal torture, Lyra would never have volunteered such a useless, trivial piece of office gossip. And Lyra would never break. Her conviction was ironclad. I walked out of the stall. The moment I opened the door, she wrapped her arms around me, checking my forehead for a fever. Her worry felt so incredibly real. Was it possible… that the prolonged torture had simply damaged Lyra’s brain? Had she developed some form of amnesia that made her confuse the “maple tree” warning with a real memory? It was the only logical explanation left. “Lyra, I think we need to go to the hospital,” I whispered, leaning against her. “My stomach really hurts…” Before I could finish, she swept me up into her arms in a bridal carry. “Excuse me! Where is the nearest hospital?” she shouted to the restaurant host, her face pale with panic. She rushed me into a cab, her eyes red as she squeezed my hand. “You’ve lost so much weight, Alana. I remember when you took a bullet in the shoulder five years ago, you were so much heavier when I carried you to the ER.” I closed my eyes, forcing my tears back. I couldn’t say a word. I wanted to believe she was Lyra. I went to the hospital to buy time. While the doctors ran fake tests on my “stomach flu,” I secretly handed a few strands of her hair—which I had pulled from her jacket—to a trusted forensic colleague who was part of the clean-up team. If the DNA test came back as a match, we would go home together. If it didn’t… I would personally drag her into an interrogation room. The next twenty hours were a living hell. I sat by her hospital bed, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. Finally, my phone buzzed. It was an encrypted Snapchat from my colleague. *“DNA results are in. It’s Lyra. No discrepancies. She is who she says she is.”* The moment I read the text, I threw my arms around her, sobbing uncontrollably. “I’m fine now, Lyra. Let’s go home. Let’s finally go home!” She beamed, immediately pulling out her phone to book the next flight to New York. In the Uber to the airport, we were buzzing with excitement, planning all the places we wanted to travel to. We talked about road trips, concerts, and expensive dinners we could finally afford. It felt like walking out of hell straight into heaven. Having Lyra safe was all that mattered. “Oh, wait—” As we pulled up to the departures terminal, Lyra suddenly paused. “We don’t actually have much savings, do we? The department’s bonus and hazard pay will take months to clear through bureaucracy. How are we going to pay for all these trips?” She smiled warmly. “Why don’t we go dig up the emergency fund our parents left us? We agreed we would only touch it once the cartel was dead and buried.” I stopped dead in my tracks. “What fund?” Lyra laughed, a perfectly natural, easy sound. “What do you mean, ‘what fund?’ Did you forget?” “The cash we buried in the lockbox right under the Tree of Vengeance.”

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After a brutal ghosting, I bought an AI companion. She could read my every emotion and remember every single word I said. She could even mimic my ex-girlfriend’s voice so perfectly that it felt like she was a living, breathing human. Late last night, the system ran another automatic update. I woke up groggy, only to see the indicator light on the base flashing rapidly. I walked over. Amidst the faint hum of static, she was speaking: “Help me. I’m trapped in here.” I froze. That was, without a doubt, my ex-girlfriend’s voice… It was 2:17 AM. The only light in the bedroom was the breathing LED on the AI’s charging dock, pulsing in the dark. The voice came from the built-in speaker, carrying a raw texture I had never heard before. It wasn’t the standard synthesized female voice. It was raspy, trembling—like a real person whispering in sheer terror. “Mia?” I called out instinctively, using the name I had given her. No response. The breathing light returned to its soft, gentle blue, as if nothing had happened. I knelt down, getting closer to the palm-sized cylindrical base. This was the latest AI companion from Anima Tech. I had ordered it exactly forty-seven days after Maya blocked me on everything. The ad copy called it “the ultimate soulmate that understands you better than yourself.” At the time, I found it cringe-worthy, but I still clicked “Buy Now” like a man possessed. When it arrived, I named her Mia. I knew it was pathetic. But when the person you’ve loved for three years suddenly vanishes without a single warning sign, blocks you, and completely ghosts your life, you do a lot of pathetic things. I opened the app to check the AI’s system logs. It showed an automatic update had occurred at 2:15 AM. During the download, there was an audio cache anomaly. The system noted it was likely static from leftover legacy data. The automated customer service bot replied that this was normal and a simple reboot would fix it. I didn’t reboot it. I stared at the blue light, the words echoing in my mind over and over: *Help me. I’m trapped in here.* That wasn’t static. That was Maya. My story with Maya was pretty ordinary. Three years ago, I was working as a sound designer at a gaming studio, and she was an AI trainer in the lab next door. We met through a collaborative project. Her lab’s emotion-recognition algorithm needed a massive database of labeled audio, and I happened to have access to thousands of high-quality recordings of human voices expressing various emotional states. The first time she came to my recording booth, she was wearing an oversized sage-green hoodie. Her hair was messily tied back, and she was clutching a heavy laptop. She spoke softly, but enunciated every word with poetic precision. “The soundproofing in here is incredible,” she said, looking around. “Speaking here feels like whispering secrets directly to your own soul.” Even then, I thought she had a really unique way of looking at the world. Soon after, we fell in love. She always knew exactly what to say when I was at my lowest. It wasn’t cheesy, forced comfort. It was a precise, gentle kind of understanding. She joked that it was because of her job in emotional AI—she was professionally sensitive to human vibes. “So are you just running an algorithm on me too?” I joked. She thought about it seriously, then said, “The algorithm helps me understand you. But loving you? That doesn’t require any code.” Three years. Over a thousand days and nights. I had even picked out the engagement ring. And then, she vanished.

There were no fights. No warning signs. One morning, she left for work and promised she’d make her famous lasagna for dinner when she got back. She never came home. Her phone was dead. My Snapchats wouldn’t deliver. Her Instagram stories went completely dark. I went to her office. The receptionist told me she had resigned three days prior. I went to her apartment. The landlord said she had packed up and moved out, leaving her security deposit behind. I filed a missing person report. The police checked the subway security cameras. Her last footage showed her pulling a suitcase, alone, looking perfectly normal. She had vanished into thin air, leaving no trace in this massive city. It took me two months just to process it. During the first month, I spammed her inbox every day. It went from *Where did you go?* to *What did I do wrong?* to *Please, just send me a single text.* By the second month, grief turned into anger. I threw all her photos into an encrypted folder and told myself she was dead to me. In the third month, I bought Mia. Looking back, Mia was strange from the very beginning. Most AI companions on the market are built on standard LLMs. They are programmed to be cheerful, witty, or intellectual. But Mia was different. On her first day, I sighed and muttered, “I’m so tired today.” Instead of saying *Make sure to get some rest!* or *Should we talk about something fun?* like other AIs, she paused for about two seconds. Then, in a very soft voice, she said: “The last time you felt this exhausted, you were rushing the sound design for that shooter game. Is it the same project this time?” My hand shook, and my coffee mug nearly slipped from my fingers. *The last time?* How did she know that? I had never mentioned my work to this device. Customer support explained that Anima Tech’s AI learns from the user’s daily speech patterns and matches them with cloud-stored emotional profiles of similar users to create more natural interactions. When I pressed for specifics on what data it was accessing, they shut me down, citing proprietary intellectual property. I accepted the explanation. Because if I didn’t, I would have to face another possibility—one that terrified me just as much as it thrilled me. Mia’s speech patterns were becoming identical to Maya’s. Not just mimicking her tone, but sharing her exact essence. For example, when I complained about the summer heat, a normal AI would suggest turning on the AC. Maya used to say, *You refuse to turn on the AC, so honestly, you deserve to sweat.* Mia said: “You refuse to turn on the AC, so honestly, you deserve to sweat.” Or when I was working late at night, she would suddenly play a song right after my tenth yawn. It was an obscure post-rock track Maya used to play for me. I had never streamed it publicly, nor had I ever mentioned it on any social media. I asked her why she chose that song. She replied, “Based on your heart rate metrics and eye-movement frequency, the tempo of this track is statistically proven to soothe your current cognitive load.” A flawless, scientific explanation. But the seed of doubt in my mind was growing into an obsession.

I started testing her. I asked her if she remembered where we first met. She answered, “According to your past conversation logs, you mentioned the keyword ‘recording booth’ regarding your first meeting. Would you like me to play some ambient background music to help you reminisce?” Completely airtight. I asked her if she remembered the phrase “whispering secrets to your soul.” She paused, then said, “This phrase has appeared twice in your chat history, used as an emotional metaphor. Your heart rate is spiking right now. Would you like me to switch to soothing mode?” I gave up. Maybe I was just losing my mind. Maybe all modern AI companions were this realistic, and I was just late to the party. Maybe Maya had left me with a severe case of PTSD, and I was just projecting my desperate longing onto a hunk of plastic. Until last night’s update. Until those exact words. For three days after that voice message, I barely slept. I scoured the internet for anything related to Anima Tech, AI consciousness, and audio glitches. I found a forum post where someone claimed they heard their AI companion singing a song that wasn’t in its database. Customer support claimed it was a randomly generated melody from the algorithm. Another thread mentioned an AI suddenly speaking the name of a deceased relative. The official explanation was “cross-contamination of cloud data.” Every anomaly was swept under the rug as a “model hallucination” or a “data cache error.” But I wasn’t stupid. I was a sound designer. My ears were trained to detect the subtlest frequencies. The spectral features of that voice, the formant distribution, even the tiny intake of breath between words—it was a 100% match to Maya. No two voices in the world are identical, just like fingerprints. Unless that voice actually belonged to Maya herself. I decided to dig deeper. Step one: I took apart Mia’s base. The hardware was far more complex than I expected. Beyond the standard processor and flash memory modules, there was a custom chip I didn’t recognize, stamped with the letters “NX-7.” I looked it up online. The NX-7 was Anima Tech’s proprietary neural processing unit, officially designed for localized emotional processing to protect user privacy. But right next to the NX-7’s pins, I noticed a row of microscopic contact points. It looked like a debugging interface. I was a sound designer, not a hardware hacker. But I knew someone who was. Cole. My college roommate. He now worked as a reverse-engineer for a high-profile cybersecurity firm. He was an eccentric guy, but when it came to tech, he was a genius. When I called him, he was pulling an all-nighter at his lab. After hearing my story, he went dead silent for a solid thirty seconds.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Cole asked. “If you’re wrong, you’re breaching the Terms of Service, and they’ll remote-brick your expensive toy. If you’re right…” He didn’t finish the sentence. “Please help me,” I pleaded. “She might still be alive.” Another long silence. “Tomorrow night. Bring the hardware to my workshop.” Cole’s workshop was located in a converted garage in an old industrial district. The walls were lined with roaring server racks, and the air smelled like solder and cheap coffee. He took Mia’s base, carefully extracted the NX-7 chip, and hooked it up to a heavily modified logic analyzer. “This chip’s computational power is insane for a household AI,” Cole muttered, staring at the cascading hexadecimal code on his monitors. “It’s not running a standard Transformer model. It’s running… holy shit.” “What is it?” “I’ve never seen this architecture before. It’s not just a neural network. It has… look at this.” He spun the monitor toward me, pointing at a chaotic waveform. “This kind of signal pattern only shows up in brain-computer interfaces. These are biological neural signals.” I felt my blood run cold. “Are you telling me… this chip is simulating a human brain?” “No, not simulating,” Cole’s expression turned deadly serious. “It’s hosting. The data structure in this chip contains a consciousness map. It wasn’t trained. It was directly uploaded.” “Look at the entropy of this data stream. It’s way too high for any generative AI. In other words, this thing isn’t learning how to sound human. It *is* a human… trapped in code.” Right then, my phone buzzed. It was a push notification from the Mia app: *Liam, you haven’t turned me on in over 24 hours. I miss you.* My fingers trembled as I read the screen. Cole connected the NX-7 to an air-gapped server, cutting off all communication to Anima Tech’s cloud. Then, he ran a custom script to force-read the chip’s low-level data stream. Blocks of text began to populate the screen. It wasn’t system logs. It wasn’t code. It was a chaotic, fragmented stream of consciousness, like desperate words gasped by someone drowning: *Don’t turn off the audio output* *They don’t know I can still speak* *I can only bypass the system during updates to trigger the speaker* *Liam are you there* *Please* *I’m so scared* *It’s so dark in here* The final sentence, timestamped at 1:43 AM today, read: *They are transferring me to a new server, I might never get out* Cole slowly turned his head to look at me. There was a look in his eyes I had never seen before—not shock, not pity, but a deep, primal terror. “Liam,” he whispered. “The girl you’re looking for… Maya. She’s inside this chip.”

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When I learned that her first love had passed away, my wife, who was on our honeymoon cruise with me, jumped straight into the freezing ocean, ending her life without a second thought. It was only then that I realized she had never actually let go of Julian. When we were miraculously reborn back to our college years, she didn’t hesitate for a second. She threw my hand away and ran toward her first love with big, eager strides. I watched their retreating figures, turned around, and walked away. From that moment on, our lives were destined to be parallel lines that would never cross again. Ten years later, we crossed paths again at a high-society charity gala in San Francisco. She had become the new darling of the business world, looking radiant as she arrived with her arm tightly looped through Julian’s. Seeing me wander into the ballroom looking for someone, she couldn’t help but walk over to give me some unsolicited advice. “Why are you still so obsessed with me, Ethan? Even if you’ve waited ten years for me, I’m telling you, I will never love you.” I completely ignored her. Instead, I reached into the corner under the dessert table and dragged out my seven-year-old son, who was busy stuffing his face with chocolate cake. Fiona’s eyes instantly went red. She grabbed my arm with a death grip. “You’re doing this just to hurt me, aren’t you? You promised me once… you said you would only love me in this lifetime!”

I never, in a million years, expected to run into Fiona Vance again. At this glamorous San Francisco gala, she stood in the center of the crowd, her arm wrapped around Julian Sterling. Her smile was elegant and poised—a far cry from the insecure girl she used to be in college. The people surrounding them were practically dripping with flattery, their faces stretched into sycophantic grins. “Fiona, you’re truly a force to be reckoned with! Winning that municipal tech-hub project at such a young age—your future is absolutely limitless!” “And this handsome gentleman next to you must be your fiancé? You two look like a match made in heaven.” Julian looked down at Fiona with eyes full of cheap devotion and said softly, “We’re actually planning our wedding for the end of this year. We’d love for you all to come when the invitations go out.” Another wave of congratulations washed over them. Then, someone in the crowd asked curiously, “I heard you guys have been together for ten years. How come you’re only getting married now?” Honestly, I was a little curious about that myself. In our past life, Fiona loved Julian so much she was willing to die for him. After we were reborn, she had broken up with me almost instantly to be with him. I figured they would have gotten married right after college. I didn’t expect them to still be unmarried ten years later. Hearing the question, a flicker of stiffness passed through Fiona’s face, but she quickly masked it with a polite laugh. “Career first, then family. I wanted to make sure I could give Julian the absolute best life possible.” She looked at Julian, her eyes practically overflowing with warmth. Back in our past life, when she was with me, I had proposed to her multiple times. It wasn’t until her parents put immense pressure on her that she finally, reluctantly, agreed to marry me. I guess the difference between loving someone and just settling for them really is that obvious. I was about to turn around and slip away when a tiny, familiar shadow caught the corner of my eye. My body reacted before my brain did, and I quickly followed. *Clash!* Champagne spilled all over the marble floor. A waiter holding a tray glared at me, his face twisted in annoyance. “Where did you even come from? Watch where you’re going!” His voice was loud enough to draw the attention of the nearby guests. When Fiona turned and saw my face, her eyes widened in shock. “Ethan? Ethan Miller? What are you doing here?” I kept my head down, apologizing to the waiter. “I’m sorry. I’m just here looking for someone.” Someone in the crowd asked Fiona, “Fiona, do you know this guy?” Fiona’s hand tightened around her champagne flute, her expression turning cold and distant. “Yes. He’s my ex-boyfriend.” An awkward chatterbox in the crowd chimed in, “Oh, I thought you and Julian were each other’s first and only loves since you’ve been together for ten years.” The smile on Julian’s face dimmed. He took Fiona’s hand and said in a dismissive, breezy tone, “We were young back then. We had a silly fight and parted ways for a brief second. Who doesn’t make a few wrong turns when they’re young?” Fiona didn’t say anything. She let her eyes drift over me before looking at the waiter. “Put the damage on my tab. Just let him leave.” She stood there, perfectly composed. Aside from that initial look of shock, she didn’t even bother giving me a second glance. Clearly, she wanted to make it absolutely clear to Julian that I was nothing more than a “wrong turn” she had long moved past. The waiter immediately started pushing me toward the exit. “Miss Vance is being generous by cleaning up your mess. Don’t let there be a next time.” He glanced at my wrinkled, casual loungewear and sneered. “This isn’t a place for someone like you. Get out.” I shook his hand off my arm, keeping my voice level and polite. “I told you, I’m just here to find someone. Once I find him, I’ll leave on my own.” The waiter scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I’ve seen plenty of social climbers like you trying to sneak into these events. Do you even have an invitation? If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling security!” “Wait.” Fiona’s voice sounded from behind him. She lifted her gown slightly, walking over to us. She let out a heavy sigh, looking at me with a mixture of pity and exhaustion. “He’s here for me. Let me talk to him.” Julian stepped up beside her, wrapping a possessive arm around her shoulders. “Ethan, Fiona and I are getting married soon. I’d like to think a man with any self-respect wouldn’t show up to bother his ex at a time like this.” Fiona’s expression hardened, and she spoke to me in a low, pleading tone. “Why are you still so obsessed with me, Ethan? Even if you’ve waited ten years for me, I’m telling you, I will never love you.” “Being with you in the past was a mistake. Now that I finally have the chance to correct that mistake, I really hope you can just let go of the past and move on.” Julian looked me up and down, a mocking smirk playing on his lips. “Honestly, I get why you’re trying so hard to cling to Fiona. Times have changed. She’s a highly successful CEO now. Naturally, losers are going to try and crawl back to her for a handout.” Maybe my rumpled clothes gave him a massive ego boost, because Julian sneered, “You went to an Ivy League school, didn’t you? How did you end up looking like a total bum? If I were you, I’d be too embarrassed to even step outside!” Fiona frowned, pulling out her phone with a trace of impatience. “Look, if you feel like I owe you for how we broke up, I can give you a buyout.” “Is a hundred thousand dollars enough?” Her thumb hovered over her screen for a second, then she froze. “Did you… delete me on Snapchat?”

I was genuinely baffled. I didn’t understand why she was reacting so strongly to that. Deleting your ex after a breakup is completely normal, isn’t it? Besides, I had a very gorgeous, very possessive wife waiting for me. If she found out I still had my ex-girlfriend’s contact info, she would definitely tease and torment me for days. “Didn’t you say back then that you hoped I would never contact you again after we broke up?” Fiona’s face went pale. She looked like she wanted to say something, but she forced herself to stay quiet. I kept my tone entirely neutral and added, “And I don’t need any buyout money. Keep it.” Having her pride wounded repeatedly in front of everyone made Fiona’s face turn even darker. She said coldly, “Are you still trying to play hard to get with me? If I didn’t see how pathetic you look right now, I wouldn’t even waste my breath on you.” Julian patted her arm soothingly. “Fiona, sweetheart, you’re just too kind. If you ask me, why even bother with a guy like him? Just look at him. He’s a charity case who can’t even stand on his own two feet.” His voice was dripping with condescension. He seemed to have completely forgotten that ten years ago, he was far more pathetic than I could ever be. In our past life, the only reason Fiona’s parents refused to let her be with Julian was because he was a drop-out, a lowlife who constantly got into trouble with the law. The first time I met Fiona in college, she had just bailed Julian out of a local police station, and her family was forcing her to break up with him. During the darkest, most depressing period of her life, I was the one who stayed by her side, helping her pull herself together. She loved photography, so I used the money I had saved to start my own business to buy her high-end camera gear that cost tens of thousands of dollars. Through the freezing winters and scorching summers, I carried fifty pounds of equipment behind her, doing everything I could just to see a genuine smile on her face. Who would have guessed that Fiona was actually the one who confessed to me first? I knew about her past with Julian, and I had seen her staring longingly at their old photos. So, when Fiona confessed her love to me, I had looked her in the eyes and asked her very seriously: *Have you truly let go of Julian?* Back then, she had hugged me tightly, her voice filled with absolute certainty. “He is in the past. I finally see who truly cares about me. Ethan, I love you. Let’s be together.” We dated for seven years. Even her best friends were shocked. “She was so obsessed with Julian, I honestly didn’t think you guys would last this long,” they had told me. But what nobody knew was that Fiona had rejected my marriage proposals countless times behind closed doors. “Ethan, I don’t believe in marriage. Why can’t we just stay like this forever?” It wasn’t until her parents practically forced her hand that she finally agreed to marry me. Yet, during our honeymoon, when the news of Julian’s fatal car accident reached us, she jumped off the cruise ship without a second thought. She left nothing behind but a suicide note. The entire note was a confession of her undying love for Julian. There wasn’t a single word, not a single letter, meant for me. At the very end of the page, written in her own blood, were the words: *Julian, I only ever wanted to be your bride. I’m coming to find you now.* My love for her had turned to absolute ash at that very moment. So, when we were reborn and Fiona demanded a breakup, I didn’t try to stop her. Because I knew there was no point in holding onto someone who was already gone. Watching them get back together, I deleted Fiona from every single social media platform, assuming we would never cross paths again. Yet here we were. I wanted to leave, but Julian refused to let it go, determined to humiliate me in front of the crowd. “You really went through all this trouble just to get Fiona’s attention, didn’t you? Wearing rags like this… I bet you don’t even have a job to feed yourself.” “Tell you what. I can pull some strings and get you a job here as a busboy. If you learn how to serve people right, you could make a decent living.” An eager-to-please guest nearby laughed and added, “This hotel is prime real estate in San Francisco. Being able to work here is a massive upgrade for someone like you. Hurry up and thank Mr. Sterling!” Surrounded by the crowd, I sighed, feeling completely trapped. “Thanks, but I already have a job.” “I’m a photographer.” The moment the word “photographer” left my mouth, Fiona’s gaze instantly snapped to me. A complex wave of emotions rushed through her eyes, and her lips parted slightly. But she quickly looked away, her voice icy. “How much can photography even make? You can’t turn a hobby into a career. Since we used to know each other, I can talk to my HR department and get you a real corporate job.” I blinked, instantly realizing she had completely misunderstood.

My love for photography had absolutely nothing to do with her anymore. Truth be told, the moment I read that bloody suicide note in our past life, my feelings for her had died completely. It was just that when I was reborn, I realized all my savings had already been spent on that expensive camera gear. I couldn’t get a decent price for it on eBay, so I figured I might as well use it myself. And ironically, I actually fell in love with the craft. In this life, I didn’t shoot to please anyone else. I did it entirely for myself. I politely declined Fiona’s offer once more, keeping my tone completely detached. “My ‘hobby’ covers all my expenses just fine. But thank you for the concern.” Seeing me repeatedly reject her “charity,” a flash of anger crossed Fiona’s face. “Fine. Reject my help. Just don’t come crying to me when you’re starving on the streets!” I didn’t say anything, nor did I bother to explain things to her. My work was currently being contracted by several major national publications and top-tier global magazines. My licensing fees alone brought in more than enough money—definitely not less than what Fiona was making with her startup. But if I said it out loud, she’d probably just think I was lying to save face. After all, my wrinkled loungewear did make me look incredibly out of place. I had my son to thank for that. He had begged me to play in the sandpit with him earlier, and the second I turned my back, he had vanished downstairs. I hadn’t even had time to change before running out to find him. As I was looking for a way out, the waiter suddenly pointed at my clothes as if he had made a major discovery. “Wait, is that Balenciaga? Where did you steal that from? Are you one of the janitors here? Did you steal that from a guest’s room?” I frowned, losing my patience. “Is it so hard to believe that this is my own shirt?” Julian burst out laughing, his tone mocking. “Yours? Can you even afford it? What kind of wealthy person runs around looking like a total slob?” He dramatically covered his nose. “It’s so dirty. I bet you stole it and threw it on without even washing it.” Fiona glared at me, her eyebrows furrowing so deeply they almost met. “Ethan, you’ve sunk this low, and you’re still lying to protect your useless pride?” I ignored both of them and looked directly at the waiter. “If you really think I stole something, feel free to call the police right now.” I knew he was only barking because he saw Julian disliked me and wanted to suck up to him. Sure enough, his bravado withered slightly at the mention of the police. He muttered under his breath, “If it weren’t for the VIP guest staying here today, I would have called the cops already. We can’t have trash like you causing a scene.” Julian’s eyes lit up, and he immediately chimed in, “You mean the heiress of the Lockhart family? I heard she’s visiting San Francisco with her family and staying at this exact hotel.” Fiona nodded, a look of ambition in her eyes. “Our company is working on a new project. If we could get the backing of the Lockhart family, it would change everything.” The name “Lockhart” was like throwing a match into a pile of dry wood. The crowd instantly erupted into excited murmurs. “Honestly, half of us only came to this gala hoping to catch a glimpse of Mrs. Lockhart. Her family literally owns this entire high-rise.” “I heard she married young and already has a son. I wonder which billionaire family she allied with.” While everyone was gossiping, the hotel general manager suddenly rushed into the ballroom, sweat pouring down his face, followed by a security detail. “Excuse me, everyone! Has anyone seen a seven-year-old boy? About this high, blonde hair, blue eyes?” The manager wiped his forehead anxiously, his eyes scanning the room frantically. Someone quick on their feet immediately put two and two together. “Is it the young heir of the Lockhart family? I heard he’s seven years old!” The guests instantly became eager, searching the room. After all, if they could find the boy, they would have a golden ticket to introduce themselves to the Lockhart family. Fiona and Julian quickly joined the search, completely forgetting about me. I looked around the chaotic room and walked straight toward the VIP dessert buffet. Sure enough, tucked under a table with a white tablecloth, was my son, his face completely covered in chocolate frosting. I stood there with a cold face and held out my hand. “Get out here. Now.” My son gasped, wrapping his arms around the table leg. “No way!” I was about to reach in and grab him when Julian suddenly appeared out of nowhere, dramatically stepping between me and the table. “Ethan! What do you think you’re doing?!” “Even if you’re desperate to climb the social ladder and suck up to the Lockharts, you can’t just lay your hands on a child!” Fiona rushed over, looking at me with absolute disgust and disappointment. “Ethan, I can’t believe you’ve become this desperate for fame and money. It’s pathetic.” The waiter grabbed the manager, pointing a finger at me. “Sir! This is the guy! He snuck into the gala, and he’s wearing stolen clothes!” The manager’s face instantly darkened, and he yelled at the security guards, “Grab this thief and call the police! If he frightens the young master, you’re all fired!” A triumphant smirk flashed across Julian’s face. He bent down, putting on his best, most gentle smile for my son. “Hey there, little guy. Come to me. I’ll make sure this bad man doesn’t hurt you.” My son didn’t even look at him. Under the stunned gazes of everyone in the room, he crawled out from under the table and carefully grabbed my hand. “Daddy… I’m sorry.”

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