Author: Momo Chan

After the miscarriage, a quiet, corrosive paranoia took hold of me. Every single day, I texted Christian, asking him the exact same question: “Do you love me?” For the first ninety-nine times, his replies were patient, almost sweet—a digital reassurance to keep my fragile mind at bay. But on the hundredth time, his patience finally snapped. He fired back three sharp sentences that left me breathless. [Nora, don’t you have anything better to do?] [The baby is gone. You don’t have to suffer through the pregnancy anymore, so now you’ve decided to torture me instead?] [If you have this much time to overthink, go look in the mirror. See that hollow, lifeless ghost staring back at you.] I froze, the phone heavy in my trembling hand. A second later, the messages vanished—unsent. A voice note popped up in their place, his tone smooth and composed. “Sorry about that, Nora. My assistant had my phone and sent those by mistake. Don’t take it to heart.” Whether it was a mistake didn’t matter anymore. The truth had already slipped through the cracks. In that quiet, sterile hospital room, I realized something cold and absolute: our marriage was over. … I discharged myself from the clinic, ignoring the dull, throbbing ache in my lower abdomen. I didn’t go straight home. Instead, I made a detour to my attorney’s office to pick up the divorce papers, the folder heavy and cold in my hands. By the time I finally unlocked the front door of our brownstone, night had swallowed the city. The living room lights were blazing. Christian was sitting on the leather sofa, bathed in the sharp glow. At the sound of the door closing, he looked up, his brow instantly furrowing. “I went to the clinic and they said you’d already checked out. Where the hell have you been? You haven’t answered a single call or text.” He stood up, his voice tight with irritation. “Do you not understand you just had a miscarriage? Your body is weak. You’re supposed to be resting, not wandering the streets.” I didn’t answer. I slid off my shoes, walked into the kitchen, and poured myself a glass of water. My hands were perfectly steady. He followed me, his gaze lingering on my face for a few seconds before he spoke again, his tone softening slightly. “Today was a mix-up, Nora. I told you, my assistant grabbed the wrong phone. She already apologized, and I gave her a piece of my mind. I promise it won’t happen again.” An assistant? Grabbing her boss’s highly encrypted personal phone and typing out paragraphs? I let out a soft, humorless laugh and set my glass down, turning to look at him. Christian was undeniably beautiful. I had known that from the moment I first laid eyes on him. Even now, at thirty-three, he possessed a sharp, magnetic elegance that outshone most men his age. Sitting there in his casual loungewear, he looked like he had been pulled straight from the pages of a high-end editorial. I used to love looking at him. I used to think I could spend a lifetime doing nothing else. But tonight, it hit me with the force of a sudden downpour: his beauty had absolutely nothing to do with me. He was like an exquisite designer coat behind a glass display. You stand in the cold, staring at it for so long that you begin to believe it’s yours. But you’ve never actually held it. You’ve never felt its warmth. “Christian,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected. “What was her name again? Your new assistant.” He hesitated. “Maisie. Why?” “How long has she been with you?” “Six months,” he said, before quickly adding, “Why are you asking this? I told you, it was a mistake. Why do you have to pick at every little thing? Can’t you just let it go?” Four defensive questions, lined up like a shield. Instead of arguing, I kept my tone level. “I remember when she first started. You mentioned her once. You said she was clumsy, that she lacked the sharp, cutthroat attitude you usually look for in an assistant. Then you stopped bringing her up. I assumed you’d let her go.” “But not only is she still here, I’ve noticed that over the last six months, your late nights at the office have doubled. Your business trips have become a weekly routine.” Christian’s face darkened. “Nora, what are you trying to say?” I offered him a faint smile. “I’m just stating facts.” His impatience flared, his voice dropping into that familiar, condescending register. “Nora, I know you’re emotional right now because of the miscarriage. I get it. But you can’t let a few misplaced texts turn you into a paranoid wreck. It’s not good for you, and it’s certainly not going to help when we try for another baby.” “The baby.” That word was a silver needle, sliding deep under my skin, piercing my heart with agonizing precision. How long had we been married? Four years. When I was twenty-two, I had run away from my family’s protective shadow in New York, looking for a thrill. At a mutual friend’s dinner party in Chicago, I fell head over heels for Christian. I chased him relentlessly. At first, he dismissed me, saying I was too young, too naive. But I was stubborn, dragging my heart out into the open and laying it at his feet. I showered him with attention, bought him expensive gifts, and eventually, I was the one who proposed. People whispered behind my back, calling me desperate, unladylike. I didn’t care. I thought love meant being brave enough to lose your pride. We dated for a year, then married. And for four years, I was the only one pouring water into a leaking bucket. Every time he offered even a drop of warmth, I felt like the sun had risen just for me. When I got pregnant, he seemed genuinely happy. He was more attentive than he had ever been. But then came the accident. A slip on the stairs, a sudden, blinding pain, and just like that, our four-month-old baby was gone. Christian hadn’t cried, but the silence between us grew heavier. He withdrew into himself, speaking even less than before. Fear clawed at my chest—a desperate, clawing terror that he was slipping away, that he would seek comfort in someone else. That was why I kept asking if he loved me. I was begging for a lifeline. He never actually said the words “I love you”, but his replies—”I’ll be home early tonight”—had been enough to keep me breathing. Until today. Until a personal phone I was never allowed to touch was used by another woman to humiliate me. The illusion was shattered. He had never truly cared. But it was okay. It was over. I had run out of love to give. Seeing my silence, he probably thought I was giving in. He stepped closer, leaning down to wrap his arms around me. “Alright, let’s not overthink this. I had the housekeeper make some soup for you. Drink some, get some sleep, and tomorrow we can go out—” “Christian, I want a divorce.” The words were barely a whisper, yet they cut through the room like glass. He froze. His arms remained suspended in mid-air, a half-formed embrace that would never close. The only sound in the living room was the rhythmic, clinical ticking of the grandfather clock. One. Two. Three. Slowly, he straightened up, looking down at me with a harsh, incredulous laugh. “What did you just say?” I met his gaze, my voice unwavering. “I said, I want a divorce. I’m so tired, Christian.” “Tired of loving you.” Christian let out a mocking sneer. “Are you out of your mind?” I kept my lips curved in a sad, gentle smile. “No.” “Nora.” His voice lost all its warmth, turning razor-thin. “You’re divorcing me over three stupid text messages sent by mistake?” “Yes.” He laughed, a sound sharp with disbelief and anger. “I told you, it was an accident! Are you deaf? Besides, you love me too much to ever leave. You wouldn’t dare.” I smiled softly. “You think it was an accident, but I know better. And as for loving you… I don’t anymore.” For a fraction of a second, his composure cracked. Then his face hardened into a cold sneer. “Are you really going to throw a tantrum over this?” “I’m not throwing a tantrum.” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “I’m serious, Christian. Let’s end this. It’s better for both of us.” His fists clenched. Silence stretched between us, thick and volatile. Just when I thought he would resort to his usual silent treatment, his hand shot out, gripping my jaw tightly. His eyes flared with a sudden, dark fury. “Nora! What the hell do you want from me? I told you I didn’t send those messages! Why won’t you just drop it?” “You wanted to know if I love you, right? Fine. I love you. Happy now?” “If you’re feeling so damn insecure, we can go upstairs right now. I’ll touch you until you feel safe again. Is that what you want?” Before I could speak, he slammed his mouth against mine. In five years of being together, he had never initiated a kiss. Every intimate moment we shared had been driven by my longing, my reaching. I used to dream of him wanting me like this. But now, his touch made my skin crawl. It felt cheap. Dirty. I bit down on his lip, hard. He hissed in pain, flinching back and releasing me. I glared at him, my eyes burning with hot, unshed tears. “If you want someone so badly, go find someone else. I’m sure your little assistant is practically begging for it.” Christian stared at me, dumbfounded. “What?” “I said, go screw whoever you want!” I yelled, the dam finally breaking. “Just keep your hands off me. You disgust me, Christian. You make my stomach turn.” He stared at me, his gaze so intense it felt like he wanted to pierce right through me. After a long, suffocating silence, a cruel smirk spread across his lips. “Fine. If you’re going to be this generous, I won’t stop you.” “Just don’t regret it. And don’t come crying back to me when you realize what you’ve thrown away.” He turned on his heel and slammed the front door behind him, the sound echoing through the empty brownstone. Then, absolute silence. I stared at the heavy oak door, and the tears finally spilled over. I sank to the floor, sobbing so hard my chest ached. It was a purging of five years of quiet humiliation, of begging for crumbs of affection from a man who treated me like an ornament. “I won’t regret this, Christian. I will never beg for you again.” I wiped my face with the back of my hand, pulled out my phone, and dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. “Nick,” I said, my voice hoarse but steady. “Pull the funding from Christian’s firm. All of it.” He didn’t come home that night. It was Saturday, so he didn’t have to go to the office. I wanted to hand him the divorce papers, but I had no idea where he was. Suddenly, my phone buzzed with a video link, followed by a barrage of frantic voice notes from my best friend, Becca. “Nora! Oh my god, isn’t this your high-and-mighty husband?” “I was shopping at Oak Street and I saw him with some girl! He literally knelt down on the sidewalk to tie her shoe!” “You just lost your baby, and he’s already out flaunting his little side piece? That absolute bastard! I swear to God, I’m going to murder them both!” I clicked the video. In the frame, the man who always carried himself with such cold, untouchable dignity in my presence was kneeling on the pavement. The girl beside him was giggling, whispering something, and he simply smiled—a soft, indulgent look I had never once received—as he tied her shoelace. She pulled out her phone to take a video of him, and he just shook his head with fond amusement. A sharp, physical pain flared in my chest. I had asked him to do small, affectionate things like that so many times. But he had always looked down his nose at me, treating my requests as childish nonsense, leaving me to swallow my embarrassment alone. I typed back a brief reply: “We’re getting a divorce.” Seconds after I hit send, an unknown number called my phone. “Hello, is this Nora? Your husband and his companion were involved in an altercation. We need you to come down to the precinct right away.” Becca was always hot-headed, but I hadn’t expected her to move this fast. I threw on a coat and hailed a cab. When I walked into the police station, the shouting was already echoing down the hallway. “You piece of trash!” Becca was screaming, held back by an officer. “How could you do this to Nora? She just had a miscarriage, and you’re out buying jewelry for your mistress? Kneeling on the street like a loyal dog? You make me sick! Nora loved you more than her own life—” “Did I ask her to?” Christian’s voice cut through the air, icy and sharp. I froze near the doorway, my boots sticking to the linoleum floor. “Did I force her to love me?” Christian continued, his face a mask of cold arrogance. “She was the one who threw herself at me. She’s the one who practically begged to get into my bed, who jumped at the chance to marry me the second I showed her a sliver of attention. Why is her devotion my problem? I don’t love her, and I’m not obligated to play the doting husband just because she managed to get herself pregnant.” Becca looked ready to tear him apart. “You ungrateful bastard! If it weren’t for Nora, your company would have gone under years ago, and you’d be—” “Becca, stop,” I said quietly, stepping into the room. The room went quiet. I walked past them and addressed the officer. “I’m here to take my friend home.” Before the officer could speak, Christian’s voice dropped, thick with malice. “She assaulted someone. She doesn’t just get to walk out of here.” I looked at the young woman hiding behind him, her eyes red and swollen as she clutched his arm. Then I looked at Christian. “What do you want?” Christian’s eyes narrowed. “Your friend slapped Maisie. I want an apology, and I want her to pay for what she did.” Becca scoffed. “You want me to apologize to that—” “I didn’t say you were the one paying,” Christian interrupted, keeping his eyes locked onto my face. “Nora, your friend did this on your behalf. It’s only fair that you take the fall for her.” “Are you out of your mind?” Becca lunged forward, but I stepped in front of her. “Fine,” I said. Becca stared at me, shocked. “Nora, no! He’s the one who cheated! He’s the one who’s wrong here!” I ignored her, walking right up to Christian and Maisie. “Go ahead.” Maisie shrank back slightly, playing the victim. “Christian, let’s just go. Don’t make a scene with your wife…” Before she could finish, Christian grabbed her hand, lifted it, and brought it down hard across my cheek. “Slap.” A sharp, burning pain erupted across my face. I didn’t flinch. I just stood there, waiting. “Can we go now?” I asked, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “Did I say we were done?” Christian’s voice was like ice. “She struck Maisie once. I want it returned tenfold.” He raised her hand again. I didn’t move. I didn’t even blink as the blows fell, one after the other. “Slap. Slap. Slap.” With every strike, the remaining fragments of my love for him disintegrated. It wasn’t pain I felt; it was a profound, hollow emptiness. By the tenth slap, the physical sensation had faded into a dull vibration. A thin trickle of copper-tasting blood ran down the corner of my mouth. Nobody in the precinct intervened. Christian’s influence in Chicago’s business circles was immense; no one wanted to cross him over a domestic dispute. When it was over, Christian gently rubbed Maisie’s hand, checking her knuckles for any soreness. He spared me one last, contemptuous glance. “Keep your friend on a leash. If she acts like a feral dog again, I won’t be this lenient.” He turned to lead Maisie out. “Christian,” I called out, my voice raspy but clear. I pulled the folded divorce papers from my purse and held them out. “Sign them.” He stared at the papers for a long moment, a humorless laugh escaping his lips. “Still playing games, Nora? How long are you going to keep up this little act?” I wiped the blood from my lip, my expression deadpan. “It’s not an act.” His face darkened. He snatched the papers, pulled a pen from his breast pocket, and scribbled his signature with vicious strokes. Then he slapped the folder against my chest, letting it flutter to the floor. “Fine. Let’s see how long you last. Without me, you’re nothing, Nora. When you come crawling back to my door begging for forgiveness, don’t expect me to even look at you.”

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Ten years. Three thousand six hundred days of loving Lance Harrison. Today was the day his parents were scheduled to inspect our corporate headquarters, and I had personally taken charge of the entire preparation. From the minute-by-minute itinerary of the tour down to the sugar-free pastries tailored for his parents’ dietary restrictions, I had stayed up until three in the morning, revising the thirty-page reception proposal eight times. But on the morning of their arrival, Lance sent a last-minute text: “The new intern, Mia, is going to handle the walk-through. Let her run with your plan.” Mia took my proposal and executed it to perfection, keeping his parents charmed and comfortable every step of the way. At the end of the tour, Lance’s mother openly asked him, “Is this lovely girl the one you’ve been dating for nearly a decade? So sharp, so thoughtful. She even made sure our desserts were made with xylitol. No wonder you adore her.” Lance just smiled. He didn’t correct her. Later, in his office, I confronted him, tears burning my eyes. “Why?” He looked at me, cold and indifferent. “We aren’t even engaged yet, Natalie. And you’re already this desperate to parade yourself in front of my parents? Are you really that eager to force my hand?” I froze. The sheer cruelty of his words left me breathless. He brushed past my shoulder, pausing just enough to whisper, “Don’t make a scene. It’s unflattering.” I didn’t argue. Ten years. On what would have been our anniversary, he would block my bridal car: “You said you’d marry me! Why are you marrying someone else?!” And I would smile: “You told me not to make a scene, Lance. But I’ve always preferred a clean break.” … Lance left after his warning, leaving me alone in his silent office. By the time I composed myself and walked out, his father and mother had finished their speeches. Mia was standing right beside them. His mother looked at Mia with pure, doting affection. “My dear, we didn’t bring much for our first meeting. But I want you to have this.” She slipped off a heavy, vintage gold heirloom bracelet—the one passed down to the daughters-in-law of the Harrison family. My heart squeezed. That bracelet was only supposed to be given to the woman marrying into the family. And his mother was giving it to Mia? Just like that? Mia waved her hands, feigning modesty. “Oh, no, Mrs. Harrison! It’s too beautiful. I couldn’t possibly accept this!” “Still calling me Mrs. Harrison?” his mother teased, beaming. Mia blushed deeply. “But…” “Take it, sweetheart,” his mother insisted, taking her wrist. “You’re family now. Don’t be shy with your own mother.” Mia’s blush deepened. She cast a timid, searching look at Lance. I stood in the crowd, my hands trembling inside my pockets. Lance’s gaze swept over the room, pausing briefly on my face. He offered a faint, easy smile. “If my mother wants you to have it, Mia, take it.” Mia looked up, her eyes wide with bashful delight. His father laughed. “She’s shy, Lance. Put it on her yourself.” Lance didn’t hesitate. He took the gold bracelet and slipped it over Mia’s wrist. She looked down, offering no resistance. Someone popped a confetti cannon. The room erupted into cheers. “Congratulations, Mr. Harrison and Mia!” “Mia, you sly dog! We had no idea you were dating the boss!” “Right? We all thought it was Natalie!” “Yeah, with the way Natalie’s been hovering over him, trying so hard to impress his parents today… who wouldn’t have guessed wrong?” I turned and quietly left the lobby. Everything was still running on my schedule. Today was actually his mother’s birthday. I had planned a surprise celebration after the inspection. Now, under his mother’s direction, it had morphed into an impromptu engagement party. A tiered cake was rolled out. I watched from afar as the crowd pushed Lance to Mia’s side. They stood shoulder to shoulder. Mia’s ears were bright red. Lance looked entirely unbothered, calm and collected. He picked up the cake knife and looked at her. “Do you prefer sweet or savory?” “Whatever you cut for me… I’ll love it,” she murmured. Cue the teasing, suggestive sighs from the staff. His mother laughed heartily. “Look at these two. So sweet.” Lance cut a slice with a strawberry on top. “I know you love strawberries. This one’s for you.” As he said it, his eyes drifted toward my corner. I looked away, walking back to the conference room to pack up my things. While I was organizing the files, the door clicked open. Mia walked in, humming a tune. When she saw me, her smile stiffened. “Na… Natalie.” I didn’t say a word, just continued stacking folders. “Natalie, wait!” She rushed over and grabbed my arm. “I didn’t expect things to go this way! I was put on the spot, I couldn’t say no! Look… I’ll give you the bracelet right now!” She began tugging at the gold band on her wrist. But even though the bracelet was clearly loose, she struggled, wincing as if it were stuck fast. “Stop acting,” I said quietly. “Keep it.” “Natalie!” She grabbed me again. “I really didn’t mean to. Just give me a second, I can get it off—” “What is going on here?” Mrs. Harrison pushed the door open, her face hardening the moment she saw us struggling. “Are you the difficult marketing director I’ve heard about? The one who constantly bullies Mia?” I froze. “Bullying?” Is that how she saw me? I looked at Mia, who immediately averted her eyes. Suddenly, the puzzle pieces fell into place. “I’ve heard about you, Natalie,” Mrs. Harrison said coldly. “They say you run your department like a tyrant. Tell me, do you think you own this company? Or do you actually believe you’re going to marry my son?” The air left my lungs. How could she have heard these things on her first day here? Unless… I clenched my fists. Was it Lance? Had he been painting me as a bitter, overbearing tyrant to his family? The door opened wider, and Lance stepped in. “What’s happening?” His mother turned to him. “You really need to clean house, Lance. This woman actually tried to steal the heirloom I just gave Mia.” Lance looked at me. “I didn’t,” I said, my voice tight. Mia finally managed to slip the bracelet off. She grabbed my hand, trying to force it onto my wrist. “Please don’t be angry, Natalie. I’m returning it to you.” Mrs. Harrison gasped. “Mia! Why are you giving away my gift?” Mia’s eyes welled with tears. “But… Natalie has loved Lance for so long.” “Just because she wants him doesn’t mean she gets to rob you! If she bullies you at work, that’s one thing, but you cannot let her walk all over you like this!” Mrs. Harrison pulled Mia protectively into her side. “Don’t worry. Lance and I have your back.” “But… I’m just an intern. I don’t deserve this bracelet…” “Who says you don’t?” Suddenly, Lance grabbed my wrist. His grip was firm as he easily unclasped the bracelet from my arm and handed it back to Mia. “If I say you deserve it, you do.” Then, he looked at me. “As of right now, Natalie, you are relieved of your duties. Mia will be taking over as Director.” I stared at him, unable to believe what I was hearing. He frowned, a brief flicker of hesitation passing through his eyes before his expression hardened again. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Natalie.” His mother beamed. “There. Now she answers to you, Mia.” Mia looked at the gold bracelet back on her wrist. She gave me a look—a subtle, fleeting smirk of triumph that quickly vanished behind a shy nod. Watching the three of them play their parts, I felt a sudden, sharp urge to laugh at my own stupidity. I looked at Lance. “Fine, Mr. Harrison. Honestly, I was getting tired of that seat anyway.” I walked past him without another word. Down in the parking garage, just as I unlocked my car, a hand grabbed my wrist from behind. “In a few weeks, I’ll promote you to VP under me,” Lance said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “Mia will still report to you. Don’t take this to heart. My mother loves her, and I couldn’t embarrass her in public.” It was always like this. After every fight, he would explain, throw me a bone, and expect me to forgive him. I gritted my teeth and threw his hand off. Before he could react, I got into my car and drove away, leaving him standing in the exhaust fumes. By the time I got home, my phone was buzzing with over a dozen texts from him. The first few were the usual excuses. But the last message was a screenshot of a booking confirmation. Cape Cod. A cottage by the ocean. “Natalie, don’t worry. While you’re on administrative leave, I’m taking time off too. The trip to the coast you’ve been begging for? We’re going. Let’s call it our early honeymoon.” I stared at the screen. If he had sent this a year ago, my heart would have skipped a beat. Now? I felt nothing but a dull ache. I typed back a simple reply: “Don’t bother.” He replied almost instantly: “Be good. Stop being angry. I booked the tickets for 8 AM tomorrow. I’m staying late at the office tonight to clear my schedule so I can be fully yours. Don’t wait up for dinner.” He added a heart emoji. I set the phone down. Whatever. I would wait for him to get home and lay it all out. My family had set me up on a blind date, and I had agreed to go. This ten-year relationship was over. But I waited all night. It wasn’t until dawn that the front door unlocked. Lance walked in, smelling of expensive gin and late-night smoke, his steps slightly unsteady. It was long past 8 AM. “I thought we had an 8 AM flight to Cape Cod?” I asked. He blinked, rubbing his temples as if trying to recall. Then he let out a dry laugh. “Oh. I cancelled the tickets. I’m taking Mia instead.” I went numb. “You’ve seen the ocean a dozen times, Natalie,” he said, collapsing onto the sofa, clearly exhausted from pulling an all-nighter. “I was planning to come home and pack last night, but the team threw a promotion party for Mia. I had a few too many drinks. She mentioned she’d never seen the ocean. So, I switched the names on the booking.” Even though I had already checked out emotionally, the casual cruelty still stung. “You promised.” The alcohol slowed his reaction. He smiled—the kind of dismissive, tired smile reserved for a nagging wife. “Natalie, we’ve been together for ten years. We’re basically an old married couple. Why are you keeping score over something so trivial? Besides, you’ve planned beach trips three times already. Don’t be greedy.” He closed his eyes and leaned back. I stared at him, a heavy weight pressing down on my chest. Yes, I had planned three beach trips. And I had never made it to a single one. The first time, Lance had caught a severe fever the night before. I cancelled on my best friend and nursed him for three days. The second time, he was facing a crucial bidding war. I cancelled my flight and stayed up for forty-eight hours revising his pitch deck. The third time, his schedule clashed with an important client meeting, and there was no one else to host. I threw my luggage back in the closet, slipped on my Louboutins, and went to the dinner in his place. Three times. I had never actually seen the water. But he only remembered the bookings. I nudged his shoulder. “Then I’ll go with someone else.” “Mmh,” he mumbled, eyes closed. “Go with Zoe.” “It’s not Zoe.” His breathing grew slow and even. He was asleep. I didn’t wake him. I picked up my phone and texted my blind date, confirming our trip for the following day. Before leaving, I had to hand over some transition documents to my team. But the moment I stepped into the office, Mia was waiting for me, wearing a sharp designer suit that used to be my style. “Oh, Natalie! You’re here,” she chirped. “Perfect timing. I need these documents printed—two copies of each. Put them on my desk when you’re done. You know where it is, right? Your old office.” I looked at the massive stack of papers she was thrusting toward my chest. I shook my head. “I’m here to drop off my files, not to do your admin work.” Mia’s smile turned patronizing. “Natalie, Lance made it clear. I’m the Director now. Have you forgotten?” “I am on leave.” “And did I approve that leave?” She crossed her arms, suddenly carrying herself with the unearned confidence of someone who had been in charge for years. “As your direct supervisor, I need to sign off on any PTO. Did you submit a request?” I looked her up and down. “Do you honestly think I need your permission?” Her brow furrowed. I let out a soft, humorless laugh, ignored the papers, and turned on my heel. “Natalie.” Lance stepped out of the executive suite, having witnessed the entire exchange. Mia quickly scooped up the heavy stack of files. “It’s fine, Lance. Natalie used to be my boss, it’s natural she doesn’t want to take orders from me. I’ll print them myself.” She lifted the heavy stack, wincing as if she were carrying the weight of the world. Lance’s voice was cold. “If she’s too good for it, are you, the Director, supposed to do grunt work?” A wave of irritation washed over me. “It’s really fine, Lance, I can manage…” Mia took a step, stumbled dramatically, and fell, sending the papers flying across the floor. Lance rushed forward, catching her by the arm. “Careful!” “I’m okay, really…” Mia clutched her ankle, looking up at me with tears pooling in her eyes. Lance’s gaze snapped to me, hard and unforgiving. “Natalie. You aren’t the Director anymore. If you want to throw a temper tantrum, do it somewhere else. If you don’t want to work, fine.” He stood up, adjusting his cuffs. “Go to HR and collect your severance. We don’t need you here.” The office fell dead silent. Everyone was watching. I looked at him, slightly surprised but mostly relieved. “Go on,” Lance said, his tone casual, indifferent. I didn’t argue. He had saved me the trouble of drafting a resignation letter. “Thank you, Mr. Harrison,” I said, offering a polite, empty smile before turning around. I saw his eyes twitch, a shadow of unease crossing his face. The moment I got to my car, my phone lit up with a text from him: “Don’t worry, I won’t let them actually fire you. Mia is new to the role and needs to establish authority. You embarrassed her in front of the whole staff; I had to react. Once you get back from your trip with Zoe, I’ll announce your promotion to VP. And…” Another message arrived—a photo of a velvet box containing two platinum engagement bands. Engraved inside were our initials. “I’ll finally make us public.” I didn’t reply. On the day of my flight, I ran into Lance at the airport. He was with Mia. I was alone. My blind date and I were flying from different cities, planning to meet at our destination: Lake Tahoe. “Wait for me a second,” Lance told Mia before walking over to me. “Why are you alone?” he asked, looking at my single suitcase. “We’re meeting there,” I said. He scanned me from head to toe, then took off his designer coat and draped it over my shoulders. “Don’t worry about the Cape Cod trip. There are other people joining us, it’s not just Mia and me.” I nodded. “Okay.” “Natalie,” he said, his eyes softening with a rare touch of vulnerability. “Be safe. Call me if you need anything.” “Thanks.” “When we get back, it’ll be our tenth anniversary.” He looked at me searchingly. “Let’s get married then.” I thought about it, then smiled. “That day is indeed a perfect day for a wedding.” His face lit up. “Then we’ll have double the reason to celebrate.” “Yes.” Our flights were boarding at the same time. He and Mia headed toward one gate; I went toward another. Lance waved. “See you when we get back.” I nodded, letting the coat slide off my shoulders onto a nearby terminal chair. I never said the man I was marrying was him.

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At the bonfire party, my friends started teasing Maeve, asking when she was finally going to marry me. Her expression turned dead serious. “Did you all lose your minds after living in the city for a few years?” she asked, her voice carrying over the crackle of the flames. “In the Ridge, men don’t take wives, and women don’t take husbands. We only keep the Walk.” The crowd laughed and chimed in, and I forced a smile to match theirs. But a quiet, gnawing anxiety settled deep in my chest, heavy and cold. Maeve and I had been on the Walk for six years. Every single night, I climbed up the wooden ladder to her loft window. For all intents and purposes, we had been living as husband and wife. But lately, with the valley opening up to tourism, the pressure to get a legal marriage license and buy property was staring us in the face. I had finally broken down and asked her a few days ago, “Maybe we should just get a license? Sign the papers?” Maeve had fallen silent for a beat. Then, she reached into her bag, pulled out a small, navy-blue folder, and slid it across the table toward me. “Actually, Micah… I signed the papers with Brody this morning.” She paused, watching my face. “He’s an out-of-towner, a college kid. He needs local residency to buy land for the development project. Without a legal spouse, his hands are tied.” Sitting quietly in the corner, Brody gave me a timid, apologetic smile. Maeve reached out and squeezed my hand reassuringly. “We don’t care about a piece of paper anyway. You don’t need it. But I had to help him.” A log in the bonfire popped, sending a shower of sparks into the dark night. The laughter died instantly. Everyone went quiet. As I sat there, numb, my gran’s old words drifted back to me from the depths of my childhood. “The Walk is built on freedom, Micah. You come and go as you please.” If she could marry someone else, I could climb through another window. … The atmosphere around the bonfire turned instantly awkward. My friends exchanged uneasy glances, shifting in their camp chairs. Sitting in the corner, Brody seemed unable to shoulder the sudden weight of the silence. He stood up, looking small. “Micah, I’m sorry… I just really wanted to stay in the valley. If this makes you miserable, I’ll file for divorce tomorrow, I swear.” Maeve’s hand was still resting on the back of mine. “Micah, Brody came all this way to handle the tourism development. As the community liaison, I’m responsible for him. You understand that, right?” I remained silent, staring at the table. Seeing the tension escalate, a friend tried to smooth things over. “Haha, Maeve’s always looking out for people! Yeah, it’s just a piece of paper. Only city folks care about that stuff anyway.” I couldn’t hear the chatter around me. My eyes were locked entirely on Brody’s wrist. He was wearing the hand-beaten silver cuff. The one I had given Maeve. “Why is he wearing your silver cuff?” My voice was raw, barely a whisper. Maeve glanced at his wrist, her tone dismissive. “Oh. We got caught in a torrential downpour in the mountains this morning. He was shivering and terrified. I just gave him my silver cuff to wear for a bit—you know how the old folks say it wards off bad luck.” I froze. She knew better than anyone. On the Ridge, if a walking partner let another man wear their personal silver, it meant the bond was severed. She had stood beneath the ancient oak tree, holding my hand, and sworn to the prayer ribbons that no other man would ever touch that cuff. A cold seeped into my bones. I stood up, claiming I didn’t feel well and needed to head back. But a friend grabbed my arm, pulling me back down. “Come on, Micah, don’t run off. It’s just a misunderstanding. We’ll sort it out!” He grabbed an empty whiskey bottle from the table and spun it. “Look, since we’re all fired up tonight, let’s play Truth or Dare! If you don’t want to play, you take a shot of the rye!” The crowd, desperate to break the suffocating silence, cheered and leaned in. The bottle spun on the rough wooden table, slowing down until it pointed straight at Brody. “Truth or Dare, Brody?” someone asked, grinning. Brody hesitated, looking at the floor. “I… I’ll just take the shot.” He reached for the jar of homemade rye. Maeve stopped his hand. “Brody’s had too much to drink tonight. I’ll take the truth for him. Go ahead, ask me.” The group exchanged quiet, uneasy glances, shooting looks at me. One of the guys, emboldened by the alcohol, asked the lethal question. “Alright, Maeve. Real talk. What’s the most scandalous thing you and Brody have done behind Micah’s back?” All eyes landed on Maeve. She was flushed, half-tipsy, and completely unbothered. “Last month, when we were mapping the trail up the snowy peaks, we got trapped by a blizzard in the survival cabin. To keep him from hypothermia, we had to strip down and get into the same sleeping bag.” She smiled faintly, a trace of reminiscence in her voice. “To be honest… it was actually really beautiful. He was pressed against me. I couldn’t help but feel a spark.” Brody’s face turned bright red. “Maeve, please… you shouldn’t say things like that.” Maeve shrugged, utterly justified. “Why not? It was an emergency. Besides, Micah has always been sensible. He’s not going to make a fuss over something like that.” A wave of nausea hit me. While she was in that cabin, I had nearly died. I had gone mad with worry, dragging myself through freezing slush with the rescue team. Ice water had filled my boots, freezing my toes until they were raw, infected, and entirely numb. I only let them carry me down the mountain after I heard she was safe. A collective gasp went around the table. People looked at me, holding their breath. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw a fist. I just stood up. “It’s getting late. I really need to go get some rest.” Maeve frowned, reaching out to pull me back. “Micah, I’m being honest with you because I have nothing to hide. It’s just a game. You’re not actually mad, are you?” I pulled my hand from her grip, inch by inch. “I’m not mad,” I said quietly. “I’m just… tired.” I turned and walked away into the dark. I had barely cleared the trees when the silence behind me dissolved into drunken, rowdy cheers. “Maeve! It’s your turn again! No more truth, it’s dare time!” “How about you kiss your new groom?” Brody’s shy voice carried through the cold air. “Don’t… Maeve and I, we’re just married on paper. It’s not real…” Then, the noise abruptly cut out. “Holy shit! Maeve, are you crazy? You actually did it?!” “Come on, guys, shut up! Micah hasn’t even cleared the clearing yet!” Someone tried to smooth it over. “Hey, Maeve’s clearly wasted. The rye is talking…” “Yeah, she’s out of her mind. Stop egging her on!” I didn’t look back. I just kept walking. Later that night, Maeve returned to her loft cabin. The lofts were the private spaces of the Ridge’s women. No outsider was ever allowed to set foot inside except for their walking partner. For six years, I would knock three times beneath her window, and she would push open the shutters to let me climb in. There had never been an exception. But tonight, for the first time, I saw that the heavy wooden latch was firmly down. Swallowing the bitterness in my throat, I stood below, wanting to talk to her one last time. “Maeve, open the window.” No answer. I knocked again. “Maeve, are you angry?” Silence. Suddenly, her phone rang inside. Through the thin wooden walls, Brody’s sobbing voice leaked out into the quiet night. “Maeve, my mom heard about the marriage… she wants to see my wife. Please help me. Her heart is weak. If she finds out it’s a sham, it’ll kill her.” After a long pause, Maeve sighed. “Okay. Wait for me.” She finally pushed the window open. “Micah, you need to head back tonight. I have to see this through. Wait for me, I’ll be back soon.” She climbed down and rushed into the darkness. I stare at the empty window, feeling a profound sense of absurdity. The Walk demanded absolute, one-on-one devotion. For a walking woman to enter another man’s cabin at night was the ultimate betrayal. She didn’t return that night. I walked back to my own cabin, and in the dark, I dropped the heavy wooden latch on my own window. When a man of the Ridge decides to sever the Walk, he doesn’t make a scene. This window is closed. And I am completely done with Maeve. The next morning, I walked out of my room and looked toward the highest ridge. My gran’s old hand-hewn cabin sat on the hill overlooking the lake. It was where I grew up. With the new tourism laws, the county only recognized “legally married couples” for property ownership of historic homes. Since I had no marriage certificate, I couldn’t claim her cabin. Maeve knew this. Yet she had given that certificate to someone else. At dawn, the screech of construction machinery woke me. It was coming from Gran’s cabin. I ran up the hill. A small excavator was parked in the yard. Maeve was standing nearby, talking on her cell phone. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Landry. Brody is doing great here. We bought the house by the lake—the air is wonderful, the view is beautiful. I’ll take good care of him.” I froze. My eyes drifted to the blueprints and deed resting on the stone table. The address was Gran’s cabin. My head spun. “Maeve, what is this?” She hung up quickly. “Micah, you know the county won’t let you keep this land without a marriage certificate. You couldn’t buy it. I had to secure it under Brody’s and my name first.” I started to shake. “So you bought my grandmother’s house to use as your marital home?” Maeve frowned, looking at me like I was a difficult child. “Brody’s health isn’t great. He can’t stay in those damp worker dorms forever. Once the new house is built next year, he’ll move out. Then I’ll divorce him and register with you.” She waved her hand to the workers. A couple of men walked inside carrying heavy sledgehammers, heading straight for the stone hearth. “What are you doing?!” I tried to rush in, but Maeve grabbed my arm. “The old hearth is a fire hazard, and Brody hates the smell of woodsmoke. I’m having them tear it down to install modern underfloor heating.” I stared at her, horrified. For six years, I had told her what that hearth meant to me. It was where Gran sat every winter night, spinning stories by the crackle of the wood. And now, she was smashing it because Brody “hated the smell of smoke.” “Don’t touch it!” I broke free from her grip, throwing myself in front of the hearth, blocking the workers. Behind me, a weak cough broke the air. “Micah, stop it. Let them tear it down.” My ailing grandfather stood there, leaning heavily on my uncle’s shoulder. My uncle walked over, pulling me away from the stone with a heavy heart. The sledgehammer swung down. “Gran—!” I screamed, watching the stones crumble. The dust choked my throat, and the last physical piece of my grandmother turned to rubble. My knees buckled, and everything went black. I woke up in my own bed. Grandpa was sitting beside me, his weathered hand resting on my forehead. “Micah, you’re awake.” Tears streamed down my face. “Grandpa, why did you let them…” He sighed, wiping my tears with a trembling thumb. “My boy, if something isn’t meant to be kept, it’s better to cut it clean.” He looked at me, never mentioning Maeve’s name, and limps out of the room. Left alone, I stared at the ceiling. That evening, as the wind shook the prayer ribbons by the lake, I sent word through my uncle to the community: “Micah has severed his old Walk. If there is someone who wants a true, faithful partnership, someone who believes in keeping the window unlatched for only one person, I will seek her light tonight beneath her loft.” The news spread like wildfire. People thought I was just acting out because my feelings were hurt. When Maeve heard of it, she only laughed. “Everyone in the valley knows Micah belongs to me. Even if he stands out there all night with a lantern, what woman would dare take him? He’s just trying to make me jealous.” In her mind, I loved her too much to ever leave. But as night fell, I quietly packed her things. Six years of memories. A straw-woven grasshopper she had made. A few jackets in my closet. I tossed them into a trash bag, carried them to my hearth, and lit a match. Watching them burn, I felt an incredible, unexpected lightness. I walked down the path to the lofts. Just as I was about to turn away, thinking no one would answer, three soft knocks sounded from a window above. Maeve had spent the evening looking at property lots with Brody and having a celebratory dinner. She was tipsy. When she dropped him off, Brody grabbed her sleeve. “Maeve, you’re drunk… why don’t you stay tonight?” A spark of heat flared in her chest. But then she remembered the rumor about my “severance.” She pictured me standing beneath her window in the cold, filled with regret, knocking. She pushed Brody’s hand away, bought a package of my favorite maple fudge, and hurried back. She reached my cabin and knocked. “Micah, stop being stubborn. Open up. Let me apologize.” She waited. No answer. Panicking, she knocked harder. “Micah, I bought the maple fudge. Stop playing games, let me in!” Finally, the latch slides back. The door creaked open. Maeve sighed with relief. “I knew you couldn’t stay mad—” She stopped dead. In the moonlight stands another woman. “Can I help you with my partner?” The maple fudge dropped to the dirt, shattering. All the alcohol drained from Maeve’s system instantly.

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I work at a local commercial bank. My dad always complained about his failing memory, so he asked me to keep his $50,000 savings in my account for safekeeping. Over the next couple of years, however, he slowly asked for every single dollar back. But then, during a family dinner at our house to discuss my younger brother’s upcoming wedding, my brother suddenly said: “Dad, that fifty thousand you had Lucas save for you—we need to pull it out now so I can pay the deposits for the wedding venue.” My dad looked at me, smiled warmly, and nodded. “Sure, of course!” My heart skipped a beat. I looked at him. “Dad, that fifty thousand… you asked me to withdraw all of it for you over the last two years. It’s gone.” My dad froze. His expression made it crystal clear to everyone in the room: I have no idea what you’re talking about. He forced a weak chuckle. “My memory’s shot these days, Lucas. Are you sure you transferred it all back to me?” A cold chill washed over me. Every single time he had asked for that money, he had insisted on cash. Not a single electronic transfer. Not a single paper trail. My brother, Toby, sneered. “Come on, Lucas. Dad’s getting older. Don’t tell me you’re trying to pocket his life savings just because his memory is slipping.” “If you really gave it back, show us the receipts. Show us the bank transfers. Prove it.” … The air in the room turned instantly hostile. Every relative’s eyes locked onto me, heavy with judgment. It was the look you give a parasite—someone stealing from their own aging parents. My dad smiled nervously and nudged Toby. “Toby, don’t talk to your brother like that. Lucas wouldn’t do something like that.” He pushed Toby gently toward the kitchen. “There are some grapes in the fridge. Go wash them for everyone.” Then, with practiced ease, he turned back to the guests, attempting to smooth over the tension. “Here, let me get everyone some more drinks.” His attempt to “keep the peace” only sealed my guilt in their eyes. “Dad, do you really not remember?” I asked, my voice flat, my eyes locked on his. He smiled again, rubbing his temples. “You know how my head is. Let me think.” “Lucas, when did you transfer it? Give your dad a hint, maybe it’ll jog his memory,” Aunt Helen said, her voice dripping with artificial warmth. “The last installment was five thousand in cash,” I said. “Six months ago, right before the holidays. You said you needed it for Christmas shopping and hosting. You don’t remember that?” My dad used to have a steel-trap memory. He could recall details from fifteen years ago down to the penny. It was only in the last few years that he started hiding behind the excuse of “forgetfulness.” Toby returned with a bowl of washed fruit, setting it down with a heavy thud. His voice was hard. “Last Christmas, Dad told me he didn’t have a dime for the holidays. I had to Venmo him five hundred dollars so he could buy groceries!” He stared at me, his face saying it all: You’re a liar. My dad immediately chimed in. “Right! Yes, I remember now. I was completely broke at the end of last year.” He looked at Toby with proud, misty eyes. “Toby was such a good boy. He sent me five hundred dollars.” Toby pulled out his phone and shoved his transaction history in my face. “See? I bought the Christmas groceries, Toby. There’s the proof. Where’s yours?” He was practically begging for a fight, treating me like a criminal on the stand. Aunt Karen couldn’t watch anymore. She reached out, squeezing my arm with that same condescending, “for your own good” pity. “Lucas, your dad has had a hard life.” “Your mom passed away so early. He raised you two boys all on his own. It wasn’t easy.” “That fifty thousand is everything he has. He pinched pennies his entire life to save that money.” It was the classic passive-aggressive dance of adults. They didn’t outright call me a thief, but every single word accused me of being one. Suddenly, Uncle George spoke up. “Lucas, is this because you don’t want your dad spending his savings on Toby’s wedding?” Toby’s eyes narrowed instantly, sharp and predatory. He had already convinced himself I was trying to steal his inheritance. “Is that what this is, Lucas? You’re keeping the money because you’re jealous?” Before I could speak, he let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t get you! You’ve never even been close to Dad. Why are you trying to steal from him now?” It was true. I had never been close to my dad the way Toby was. There was always an invisible, cold distance between us. I didn’t even know when it started. Maybe it was because when we were kids, Toby was always the crier, the fragile one, and my dad would let him sleep tucked under his arm. I was relegated to the foot of the bed. Or maybe it was because the dinner table was always filled with Toby’s favorite foods. Or maybe it was because the phrase I heard most growing up was: “You’re the older brother, Lucas. Just let him have it.” His favoritism wasn’t a loud, angry thing. It was quiet, insidious, bleeding into every corner of our lives. I didn’t hate him for it; I just couldn’t bring myself to play the doting son. My dad had decided to leave everything to Toby the moment Toby turned ten. I remember him saying, “The younger one needs me more. I have to help him out. Lucas has a good head on his shoulders; he’ll figure things out on his own.” I hadn’t protested. Toby was the one who stayed close, the one who made him feel like a father. “I don’t want any of your money,” I said quietly. “And I didn’t steal Dad’s—” My dad’s phone rang, cutting me off. He answered it quickly. “Yeah, we’re on our way now.” He hung up and turned to the room, clapping his hands. “The restaurant has the private room ready. Let’s go grab dinner. If the food is good, I’ll book them for the reception.” He ushered the aunts and uncles out with practiced hospitality. At the restaurant, we sat around a large circular table piled high with food. But before I could even take a bite, Uncle George leaned in, his tone dripping with unearned wisdom. “Lucas, your dad really did sacrifice everything for you boys.” “He put you through college, which is how you got that comfortable, fancy job at the bank.” “We’re family here. I’m only saying this because I care about you.” Just like Aunt Helen, he left the worst unsaid. Every word was a knife disguised as a blessing. My cousin Todd chipped in, “Uncle Frank is incredibly generous. When I was in community college, my parents only gave me three hundred a month for expenses.” “Toby got a thousand dollars a month. I’m sure Lucas got the same. With his salary, it’s a miracle Uncle Frank saved fifty thousand at all.” My stomach dropped. A cold, heavy weight settled in my chest. During my four years of college, my dad had only sent me five hundred dollars—and that was only during the first two months of my freshman year. He never sent another dime. I knew money was tight, so I never asked. I worked part-time jobs, pulled night shifts, and covered my tuition with scholarships. And now I was learning he had been sending my share to Toby. My voice turned ice-cold. “During my four years of college, my dad gave me a grand total of five hundred dollars. Not five hundred a month.” “Five hundred dollars. Total. I worked thirty hours a week to keep myself fed.” The table fell dead silent. Everyone stared. My dad looked up, his face a mask of innocent confusion. “That can’t be right, Lucas. I sent money to both of you every single month.” I pulled out my phone, opened my bank app, and scrolled back to my college years, holding it out to him. “Look for yourself. Five hundred dollars. That’s it.” My dad stared at the screen. For a split second, a flicker of genuine embarrassment crossed his face, his brow furrowing. He quickly pulled out his own phone and pulled up his past statements. “Look, Lucas. Right here. Every month during those four years, I had a recurring transfer of one thousand dollars.” I looked at the screen. The recipient name on every single monthly transaction was the same. I didn’t feel angry anymore. Just tired. My voice was barely a whisper. “The transactions are there, Dad. But they’re all to Toby’s account.” My dad blinked, stunned. Then he gave his forehead a sharp, performative slap. “Oh, my god. My head is a sieve!” “How did I manage to send your money to your brother’s account?” He looked at me with deep, theatrical regret. “But Lucas, why didn’t you say anything? If you weren’t getting the money, you should have told me!” Then he turned to Toby, who was sitting on his right. “And Toby, what is wrong with you? Why didn’t you tell me you were getting double the money every month?” Toby shrugged, rolling his eyes. “How was I supposed to know? I thought you were just worried I’d run out of cash, so you split it into two transfers.” Toby leaned across the table, his eyes boring into mine. “So what, Lucas? You felt cheated because of some college money, and that’s why you decided to steal Dad’s fifty grand?” I opened my mouth to respond, but my dad threw his arm out, physically shielding Toby from me. He patted my shoulder, his voice pleading. “The college money was my fault, Lucas. My memory is terrible. I messed up the accounts.” “Toby just speaks before he thinks. Don’t take it out on him.” I ignored Toby and looked straight at my dad. “Dad. The fifty thousand. I gave it all back to you. Do you honestly, truly not remember a single time I handed you those envelopes of cash?” My dad winced, looking deeply pained. “Sorry to interrupt,” the restaurant manager said, walking into the private dining room and breaking the suffocating tension. My dad immediately forced a bright smile. “Mr. Miller, how is everything? Please let me know if we can adjust anything for you.” “It’s very good, thank you,” my dad said. “Perfect. We can finalize the details once you’re finished with your dinner.” As soon as the manager stepped out, my dad acted as if nothing had happened, waving his fork. “Eat, eat! We’re all family. Let’s not let the food get cold.” Silverware clinked against plates. I hadn’t even swallowed my first bite when Toby muttered under his breath, “You’re always coddling him, Dad.” “A few grand from college is nothing compared to fifty thousand dollars!” “He’s clearly just trying to take your entire life savings.” My dad nudged him hard, telling him to drop it, but Toby was already on a roll. He pulled out his phone, opened the calculator app, and began aggressively tapping the screen. “Let’s do the math,” Toby sneered, holding the phone up. “Four years of college allowance at five hundred a month is twenty-four thousand. You got five hundred, so Dad owed you twenty-three thousand five hundred.” “But wait. Summer break is three months, winter break is one month. That’s four months a year you lived at home. Sixteen months total where Dad didn’t owe you a dime for food.” “So subtract eight thousand. That means Dad owed you fifteen thousand five hundred.” “Deduct that from the fifty thousand Dad left with you, and you still owe him thirty-four thousand five hundred!” “So give him the damn money!” My uncle Richard sighed, playing the mediator. “Lucas, Toby needs this money for his wedding.” “You have to understand. Toby is willing to meet you halfway. You’re brothers. Don’t ruin your family over a budget dispute.” I opened my mouth to speak, but my dad cut me off again. He smiled warmly at the table. “Lucas has always been the responsible one. He wouldn’t let his brother’s wedding fall through.” “Let’s eat first. We’ve had a long day.” Suddenly, Aunt Helen smiled at me. “Lucas, since Toby is getting married, you as the older brother must be preparing a very generous gift. How much are you putting in the card?” I had already set aside a thousand dollars. But my dad spoke up before I could answer. “Lucas is giving at least five thousand. They bicker, but I know how much Lucas loves his little brother.” He was trapping me, painting me into a corner where I couldn’t say no without looking like a monster. I looked around the table. “I just bought a townhouse two years ago and my mortgage is tight. I’ve prepared a hundred dollars.” My dad had been furious when I bought that place. He hadn’t supported the decision, and I hadn’t asked for his permission. He had ignored my calls for weeks afterward. At my words, the temperature in the room plummeted. Toby let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Of course. The guy who’s trying to steal from his own father can’t even spare a decent wedding gift.” The relatives leaned in, their voices overlapping in a chorus of disappointment. “Lucas, this is his wedding. A hundred dollars is insulting. You’re embarrassing your father.” My dad’s smile finally slipped. “Lucas, stop playing games. This is serious. He’s your only brother. You need to show him some real support.” The restaurant manager walked back in, holding a folder with the contract, mercifully cutting off the onslaught. She laid it out on the table. “Alright, so our standard package is normally $150 per person, but we can offer you a discounted rate of $130.” “For 100 guests, the catering and venue fee will be $13,000.” “For the decor, we have different tiers. The basic setup starts at $5,000, and our mid-tier is $8,000.” “Our premium all-inclusive package, which includes the bridal suite, makeup, and dress rentals, is $15,000.” “And we can provide guest shuttles for $1,000.” My dad and Toby studied the brochures. My dad closed the folder and looked at the manager, ready to negotiate. “How about we do the premium all-inclusive package, the shuttles, and the catering for a flat $25,000? But you have to give us the absolute best decor. This is my son’s big day. I won’t have him or his bride feeling second-class.” The manager paused, calculating. “Let me speak to my director.” She stepped aside to make a quick phone call, then returned with a nod. “We can do that. I’ll have my assistant print the updated contract.” Once my dad signed his name on the line, the manager smiled politely. “And how will we be handling the payment today? Card or check?” My dad turned his head slowly, looking at me with absolute confidence. “Lucas, didn’t I leave that fifty thousand with you?” “Go ahead and take care of the twenty-five thousand deposit now. You can keep whatever’s left over.” A cold, hollow laugh escaped my chest. “Dad, what are you playing at?” “I know your memory isn’t great, but there is no way on earth you forgot that I already gave you every single dollar of that money.” “Are you really trying to force me to pay for Toby’s wedding?” My dad’s face fell, his eyes filling with a wounded, fragile sorrow. “Lucas… how could you say that to me?” “I genuinely don’t remember you giving it back. To accuse me of lying… it breaks my heart.” He clutched his chest, looking like a father utterly destroyed by his ungrateful son. Toby jumped out of his chair, pointing a finger at me. “You selfish piece of garbage! You keep claiming you gave it back! Where is the proof? Where are the receipts?” In an instant, the room erupted. The voices of aunts and uncles swarmed me like wasps. “Lucas, how can you be so heartless? We’ve been talking to you for hours and you won’t listen to a word!” “Your father worked himself to the bone for you, and you’re stealing his life savings.” “You’re the one who went to college! How can you behave with so little dignity?” “He’s only asking for half of his own money back, and you still won’t give it to him!” I couldn’t breathe. The sheer, suffocating weight of their hypocrisy pressed down on my chest until something inside me finally snapped. “Enough!” I roared. The room went dead silent. “You want proof? Fine. I will show you the proof. Every single dollar has a paper trail.”

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On the day I was finally recognized as the true heir to the Dwight fortune, the imposter—the boy who had lived my life for twenty years—looked at me with tear-rimmed eyes and offered to give back his engagement. I thought of my girlfriend, who had just told me she was pregnant, and quietly declined. “No need. My heart already belongs to someone else.” The moment the words left my mouth, a series of glowing, translucent lines drifted across my vision. [Lmao, look at this bitter second-lead acting so noble. He’s going to regret this the second he sees the female lead.] [Too bad she’s still going to choose the adopted brother anyway. Cue the pathetic stalking phase.] [Cody’s going to be driven to a suicide attempt, and this guy will end up hated by the family, despised by his ex, and dying a miserable, lonely death. Absolute clown.] I lowered my eyes, a cold wave of absurdity washing over me. Stalking a strange woman? I had my own life. I had the woman I loved. Just then, soft footsteps echoed behind me. Cody wiped his tears, quickening his pace to meet the newcomer. “Margot, this is my brother… Wyatt. The engagement… it should have been his all along.” I turned around, and my heart stopped. I was staring into a pair of agonizingly familiar eyes. It was Margot. The woman who had funded my life for five years, the woman currently carrying my child. 1. When Margot saw me, a flash of pure panic crossed her features. But it was gone in a heartbeat. She masked it immediately, adopting a polite, distant expression. “Mr. Dwight,” she said, her voice cool and detached. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Then she reached out, gently smoothing her hand over Cody’s. Her tone was soft but unyielding. “Don’t talk nonsense, Cody. Our engagement was decided a long time ago. Nothing is going to change that.” In the air before me, the text feed exploded. [Here it comes! He’s going to play the victim, expose their secret affair, and force her hand!] [He’s totally going to use the pregnancy to blackmail her and steal the engagement!] I took a slow, deep breath, pulling my gaze away from her. “Nice to meet you, Miss Crestwood,” I said quietly. The text paused for a second. [Wait… that’s it? Why isn’t he throwing a tantrum?] [He’s just acting. Let’s see how long he can keep up the charade.] [Oh, I get it. Reverse psychology! Playing hard to get.] Margot clearly hadn’t anticipated this response. She shot me a lingering look, a mix of warning and quiet calculation. My biological mother, Lydia, seized the moment. “You mentioned you had someone you loved, Wyatt? How serious is it?” All eyes fell back on me. I looked at Margot. Her expression was perfectly composed, but I noticed her clenched fists trembling slightly at her sides. I looked up, meeting their expectant stares, and let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Serious enough that… she had to go home for an arranged marriage. So, I got dumped.” The living room fell into a suffocating silence. Lydia’s face contorted as if she had swallowed a fly. My father, Richard, cleared his throat and awkwardly shifted his gaze. Margot’s face drained of color, turning visibly rigid. Cody eagerly pressed, “So… you really don’t want the engagement, Wyatt?” “I don’t,” I replied, my voice clipping short and clean. There was no hesitation, no lingering affection. “Since you two are so deeply in love, the arrangement is yours.” The text rolled again: [Keep faking it! He’s definitely going to corner her in private and cry like a baby.] My biological parents visibly relaxed. Lydia stood up. “Wyatt, let me show you to your room. Cody isn’t well; he shouldn’t be sitting up for too long.” My room was at the very end of the hallway. When she pushed the door open, I was greeted by a cramped, drafty space. It had a shared bathroom down the hall, and its north-facing window let in absolutely no sunlight. Lydia’s voice was dismissive. “You’ll have to make do with this for now. Cody’s been in his room for twenty years—he’s used to it, and it wouldn’t be fair to make him move. You’re the older brother, so be understanding.” Richard followed her, lingering in the doorway to add, “Cody has always been delicate, and he’s highly sensitive. Make sure you yield to him. We need harmony in this family.” I stared at the room, which was smaller than the master bathroom Cody likely enjoyed. I nodded. “Understood.” A few minutes after they left, there was a soft knock. Margot stood in the doorway, her voice a sharp whisper. “Wyatt, watch your mouth. The last five years were nothing but a transaction. I felt sorry for you, so I threw you a bone.” “Cody is the man I am marrying. As for the baby in my womb, he will call Cody ‘Dad.’ You’d better learn your place.” I stared at her stomach. Only an hour ago, I had foolishly believed that being recognized by the Dwights would finally bridge the class divide between us. I thought I could finally stand beside her in the light. It turned out to be nothing but a pathetic illusion. Pushing down the bitter ache rising in my chest, I looked her in the eyes. “Margot, we’re done.” She froze, completely stunned. I closed the door in her face and didn’t look back. 2. But Margot was clearly infuriated by my finality. She shoved her hand against the door to keep it open, but before she could speak, footsteps echoed down the hallway. Cody appeared, carrying a fruit platter. The moment he saw us alone, his eyes welled with tears. “Wyatt… are you still angry at me for taking the engagement?” He let out a trembling sob. “I really didn’t mean to… If you love Margot, I… I can step aside…” Lydia rushed over at the sound of his voice. Seeing the scene, her brow furrowed in deep disgust. “Wyatt! You just got back and you’re already tearing this family apart? Cody is fragile—he can’t handle this kind of stress!” “How can you be so shameless? Creeping around your brother’s fiancée in the middle of the night?” [Ooh! Caught red-handed! I bet he’s going to expose her pregnancy right now to force her hand!] [Classic victim-blaming. He’s going to lose his mind and start screaming any second.] “I didn’t,” I said, my voice entirely flat, devoid of any emotion. “If there’s nothing else, I’d like to sleep.” Without giving them another glance, I shut the door. Through the thin wood, I could hear Lydia comforting Cody. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. Mom will make it right…” [Wait, why didn’t he scream?] [He’s playing the long game! His tactics have leveled up!] The comments kept rolling, but I had already stopped caring. My phone buzzed. It was a wire transfer from Margot—a massive sum. Then came a text: Keep your mouth shut about the past. Do it out of respect for everything I’ve done for you. I stared at the screen, letting out a bitter laugh. Yes. She had done a lot for me. Five years ago, the grandmother who raised me fell gravely ill right after I finished high school. On the day my university acceptance letter arrived, I was working late at a high-end private club. I was short thousands of dollars for her medical bills, and I had already decided to forfeit my education. That night, a group of wealthy older women cornered me in a VIP lounge. They poured whiskey over my head, tearing at my collar. I fought back, but my voice was caught in my throat. Then Margot kicked the door open. Her bodyguards cleared the room, and she wrapped her designer coat around my shivering, half-clad body. She didn’t ask questions. She only asked, “Do you need money?” I had nodded, my tears thick with humiliation. She handed me a card. “Take it. Pay your bills, go to school, and never step foot in a place like this again.” She saved me. She gave my grandmother a fighting chance, and she paved a completely different path for my life. Afterward, she quietly funded my tuition, visiting me whenever she could. Eventually, on a rainy night, she stayed over at my tiny apartment. Everything had felt so natural. Before my grandmother passed, she held Margot’s hand. “Please look after Wyatt,” she whispered. Margot had nodded. And I had believed her. Five years. From eighteen to twenty-three, I gave her the absolute best years of my youth. I learned to run her household, memorized every single preference she had, sat in quiet companionship when she was exhausted, and spoke words of comfort whenever she needed them. I even learned to appreciate fine wine, read financial statements, and decipher the coded jargon of her elite social circle. She told me her family demanded a match of equal status, so she asked me to wait. To wait until she had enough power to make her own decisions, to go public with us, to marry me. Just yesterday, she told me she was pregnant. Before we could even process the news, the Dwights tracked me down. I had thought the universe was finally giving us a chance. I thought we were finally equals. But she told me she was marrying Cody. A boy who wasn’t even a Dwight by blood anymore. A boy who was no longer her equal. My vision blurred. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I pulled up my email inbox. There was an unread message from three days ago—an acceptance offer for a Master’s program at the Royal College of Art in London. I clicked Accept. Margot, the baby, and those five ridiculous years—I didn’t want any of it anymore. [Wait, what is he looking at? Is that a foreign website?] [Who cares, probably plotting his next move to stalk her.] [Can’t wait for the drama to unfold!] I locked my phone screen. The black glass reflected the hollow outline of my face. 3. At breakfast the next morning, Cody approached me with a bowl of seafood chowder, his smile saccharine and innocent. “I made this, Wyatt. You should try some, it’s really good.” “No, thank you,” I replied politely. He insisted on stepping closer, and then, his foot suddenly slipped. The scalding liquid poured directly onto my lap. The porcelain bowl shattered against the floor. Sharp pain flared across my skin, leaving angry red welts. I hissed, gritting my teeth. Instantly, Cody’s eyes flooded with tears. “I’m so sorry, Wyatt! I didn’t mean to, I swear…” Lydia was the first to speak, her tone dripping with annoyance. “Why didn’t you catch it? Why were you just sitting there?” Richard frowned. “So incredibly slow and awkward.” [Here we go! He’s going to use this to make a scene!] [He totally dodged it on purpose to make Cody look bad. So manipulative.] [Serves him right! That’s what you get for hitting on Margot!] Just then, Margot walked through the front door. Cody immediately threw his arms around her, buried his face in her neck, and let out a soft, wounded whimper. Margot’s eyes filled with fierce protectiveness. She patted his back gently, then turned a freezing glare toward me. “Cody was only trying to be nice, Wyatt. Why do you always have to act so miserable?” I looked past her, fixing my eyes on Richard and Lydia. “Mr. Dwight, Mrs. Dwight. Did I spill the soup?” They fell silent, unable to argue, but Richard simply waved his hand dismissively. “The point is that your brother was startled. That’s what matters.” To “comfort” Cody, Richard made an announcement right then and there. “The boutique consulting branch I planned to have Wyatt manage… we’ll hand it over to Cody instead.” Margot nodded in agreement. “I’ll throw in a few corporate clients of my own as an engagement gift for Cody.” “Whatever you want,” I said quietly. [Wait, why isn’t he putting up a fight? This is weird…] Back in my room, another transfer notification popped up from Margot. Along with it, a text: Stop taking your frustrations out on Cody. I accepted the money. Then, with slow, deliberate fingers, I typed out a single line and hit send. Margot, did you forget that I’m severely allergic to seafood? The chat went dead silent. A long time passed before another massive wire transfer cleared. I smirked, accepting every single dime. Why shouldn’t I? It was the least she owed me—penance for five years of my life and the price of my silence. Outside my window, the sound of an engine revved, followed by Cody’s loud, carefree laughter. I assumed Margot had taken him out to cheer him up. It wasn’t until dusk that they finally returned. A few minutes later, Cody burst into my room, painting in mock panic. “Wyatt! My limited-edition watch is gone! It was the engagement gift Margot got me…” He held up his phone, showing me a photo of the piece. My chest tightened. I recognized that watch instantly. A year ago, Margot had taken me to a private charity auction and told me to pick my favorite item from the catalog. I had chosen this exact watch. She bid aggressively, paying an exorbitant price to win it. I waited for weeks, expecting her to present it to me, but she never did. When I finally built up the courage to ask, she had casually shrugged. “I gave it to my cousin.” It turned out, from the very beginning, it was always meant for Cody. [Look at his guilty face! He definitely stole it!] [Search his room!] Margot gave me a hard, unforgiving look. “Wyatt. You were the only one home all day. Just give it back.” “I didn’t take it.” Lydia hurried in, her voice strained. “We aren’t accusing you, Wyatt. We’re just asking if you saw it.” “Yeah, Wyatt,” Cody whispered. “It’s extremely expensive…” The implication was loud and clear. They were calling me a thief to my face. Margot stared at me, her dark eyes filled with a heavy, disappointing judgment. That look pricked me like a needle, leaving a tiny, dull ache. Suddenly, an overwhelming exhaustion settled into my bones. I didn’t even have the energy to argue. “I’ve been in my room all day. I haven’t left once. If you don’t believe me, check the security cameras.” I met Margot’s gaze directly. “There are cameras in the hallway and the main foyer.” Margot’s expression faltered. Cody’s face stuck in an instant. “Oh, let’s not get carried away with cameras. We’re family…” Lydia tried to placate everyone. Right then, the housekeeper hurried down the hall, holding the watch. “Master Cody! It was caught in the crevice behind your nightstand. I found it while dusting.” The room went completely quiet. [Wait, it actually was a misunderstanding?] [Looking at him, he doesn’t seem interested in fighting back at all… This is getting weird.] The comments thinned out, showing the first hints of doubt. Margot’s expression was frozen. She quietly sent another wire transfer with a brief note: My mistake. I accepted it. Once they cleared out, I opened my phone and pulled up flight schedules to London. [What is he doing? I can’t see his screen…] [Who cares, probably plotting another scheme.] I locked my phone, pulled the blanket over my head, and finally closed my eyes. 4. The Dwights spared no expense for Cody’s birthday gala. The guest list included the city’s entire high society. Lydia had practically ordered me to attend. “If you aren’t there, what will people think of us? They’ll say we’re hiding our own flesh and blood.” At the gala, Cody stood at the podium, giving a tearful speech thanking the Dwights for twenty years of unconditional love. The crowd murmured with adoration. “Such a sweet, grateful boy. He’s closer to them than any biological child could be.” A few guests glanced toward the dim corner where I sat, whispering behind their champagne flutes. “Is that the real son? Why does he look like a statue?” “Raised on the streets. He simply lacks the breeding for a room like this.” Margot stayed by Cody’s side the entire night, gently dabbing away his tears and holding the microphone for him with a soft, adoring smile. I sat alone, my wine untouched. The roaring chatter of the crowd pressed against my temples like rising water. I couldn’t breathe. Slipping away early, I walked back to my room. But when I pushed the door open, I froze. My desk had been completely ransacked. The drawers were pulled out, their contents spilled onto the floor. My heart hammered in my chest. I rushed to the nightstand. My grandmother’s jade pendant—the only physical piece of her I had left—was gone. I ran back to the ballroom. In the middle of the crowd, Cody was holding up a raw green jade pendant, turning it under the crystal chandeliers. He laughed, speaking to his friends. “My brother lent it to me for the night. Beautiful, isn’t it?” “Give it back,” I said, stepping into his circle. My voice was quiet, but it vibrated with a sudden, dangerous edge. Cody gasped, startled, and his fingers slipped. The pendant hit the polished marble floor. With a sharp, sickening crack, it shattered into pieces. The entire ballroom fell dead silent. Tears welled in Cody’s eyes instantly. “Wyatt… I’m so sorry, it was an accident…” The guests began to whisper, throwing me glances as if I were a lunatic making a scene over nothing. Margot stepped in, barely looking at the broken pieces on the floor. Her tone was dismissive. “It’s just a cheap pendant, Wyatt. Is this really necessary?” I dropped to my knees, picking up the jagged pieces of jade one by one. The sharp edges sliced into my fingertips, but even as blood dripped onto the green stone, I felt absolutely nothing. “My grandmother gave this to me,” I whispered, my voice shaking uncontrollably. “The last thing she told me before she died was to keep it safe.” Margot’s expression softened into realization. She, more than anyone, knew what my grandmother meant to me. She was the one who had stood beside me at the funeral. But Cody sobbed harder, burying his face in her shoulder. She hesitated for a split second, then wrapped her arms around him, murmuring softly, “Shh, don’t cry. I’ll buy you a much better one.” Lydia stepped up. “Wyatt, it was an accident. Don’t be so petty.” Richard frowned. “Enough. It’s a trinket. It broke, so be it. We’ll buy you another one just like it tomorrow.” I stood up slowly, the broken shards cutting deep into my clenched palm. I walked right up to Cody, raised my hand, and hit him. The slap cracked like a whip through the silent room. A collective gasp echoed through the crowd. In the next second, Margot surged forward. She grabbed my wrist, and before I could react, her other hand came down hard across my cheek. Slap. My cheek burned with white-hot pain. The metallic taste of blood seeped onto my tongue. Margot’s eyes were cold as ice. “Wyatt. You’ve gone too far.” [Oh my god! That was his grandmother’s only keepsake!] [Margot is a monster! She knew exactly what it meant to him!] [I actually feel for Wyatt now. Who wouldn’t lose their mind?] I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth. I didn’t scream, and I didn’t cry. I carefully wrapped the broken pieces and the severed string in my handkerchief, tucking them deep into my breast pocket. “Whatever debt I owed you,” I said, looking at Margot, “is paid in full.” Then I looked at Richard and Lydia. “I don’t want this family anymore.” I turned and walked out of the ballroom. Behind me, Lydia’s hysterical voice echoed: “Let him leave! If he walks out that door, he’s never coming back!” My phone buzzed relentlessly. Margot sent a wire transfer: Stop being angry. Richard and Lydia each sent massive sums, labeled Compensations. I accepted every single one. The next afternoon, I returned to the house to pack the last of my belongings. As I reached the corner of the hallway, voices filtered out from Cody’s half-open bedroom door. “Dad, Mom… Margot is carrying my baby. We need to expedite the wedding.” “I heard rumors that she kept some charity case on the side. Honestly, it makes me feel so insecure.” I froze, the air violently knocked out of my lungs. The child she was carrying… belonged to Cody? [Wow, Wyatt got absolutely wrecked. In the end, he lost his girl and his baby.] [I officially support him going full villain mode.] My chest tightened so hard I couldn’t draw breath. Every remaining shred of hope and lingering affection I had harbored was ground into dust. I didn’t make a sound. I simply turned around and walked away. I grabbed my suitcase and threw my few clothes inside. An hour later, I was sitting in the airport lounge. I pulled out my phone and opened my chat with Margot. I typed out a final message: Margot, whatever mercy you showed me years ago, I paid back with five years of my life. I know the truth about the baby now. From this moment on, we are strangers. I attached a picture of the broken jade pendant. Send. Block. Delete. I powered down the phone, popped out the SIM card, and dropped it into a nearby trash can. The overhead speakers crackled to life. “Now boarding flight 248 to London Heathrow…” I stood up, picked up my bag, and walked toward the gate without looking back.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “514683”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the day of my graduation, Larry had just slipped a simple silver band onto my ring finger when my phone buzzed. It was an email from a scrambled, unrecognizable address. The subject line read: From Ten Years in the Future. Amused and assuming it was some elaborate graduation prank, I typed out a quick reply: “Will Larry and I be happy? What about Cathy, my best friend? Will the two of us stay friends forever?” The response came almost instantly. “According to your current timeline, Larry has already been sleeping with Cathy for a year.” “Everyone knows. Even your mother.” “After you marry him, he will give you a thousand dollars a month for groceries while wire-transferring ten thousand to her.” “You will suffer three miscarriages, all because of him and Cathy.” “And you will only discover the truth on the day they celebrate their tenth anniversary of being together.” The final email contained only a single sentence. I stared at the screen, my entire body beginning to tremble. “I beg you, don’t marry him. The doctor says I only have a month left.” … Seeing me frozen in place with my eyes locked on the screen, Larry smiled, wrapping an arm around my waist. “What’s got you so mesmerized, babe?” I forced myself back to reality, locking my phone. “Nothing. Just a rejection letter from another firm.” He let out a soft laugh. “That’s their loss. You’re too good for them anyway. Besides, we already agreed we’re starting at the firm together.” I managed a tight smile but said nothing. Just then, Cathy ran over, her white sundress fluttering in the June breeze. She was holding a bouquet of baby’s breath. “Diana! Come on, we need to get our graduation photos before the light fades!” She grinned, grabbing my arm, before casting a playful glance at Larry. “I suppose I’ll let you be our photographer. But if they’re blurry, I’m throwing a punch.” She raised a small, clenched fist toward his chest. Usually, when they acted like oil and water, I would step in to play the peacemaker. But with the weight of that email sitting like lead in my chest, I simply watched. Larry offered a lazy, slow curl of his lips. He reached out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist as he drew out his words. “Is that so? I’d actually love to see you try.” Cathy’s cheeks flushed a sudden, deep crimson. She yanked her hand back, huffing. “Don’t touch me with your gross hands. Come on, Diana, let’s go.” Later, during a break in our photo session in the empty classrooms, I excused myself to use the restroom. As I walked back down the quiet hallway and reached for the classroom door, voices drifted through the slightly open gap. “Larry, this ten-carat diamond ring is so gorgeous. I love it. Why didn’t you get Diana one too? We’re best friends, we should have matching ones.” I heard the rustle of clothing, and then Larry’s voice, soft and indulgent—the tone he reserved for things he truly cherished. “Silly. You forgot? I’m playing the broke college grad around her. Besides, this was custom-made just for you. It’s one of a kind.” I looked down at the cheap, plain silver band on my finger. The cold metal suddenly felt like a brand. I stood there for a long moment, forcing a slow, quiet breath into my lungs, before pushing the door open. At the sound of the hinges creaking, Larry’s hand snapped away from Cathy’s shoulder. To celebrate our graduation, the group went out for dinner and drinks that evening. Sitting at the loud, crowded table, my phone vibrated in my lap. Another email. “Don’t listen to what they say. Watch what they do.” I didn’t quite understand the warning until someone at the table suggested a game of Truth or Dare. Larry drew a card: Do ten squats while bridal-carrying the second person to your left. I was sitting directly to his left. Cathy was sitting to mine. The second person to his left was Cathy. A chorus of whistles and suggestive laughter erupted from our friends. Cathy rolled her eyes, her brow furrowing in apparent disgust. “Ugh, what a stupid game. As if I’d want you touching me. Don’t worry, Diana, I’ll make sure he pays for this.” Larry chuckled, casting a brief, reassuring look at me. “Just a game, babe. Don’t be jealous.” He walked over and lifted Cathy into his arms. The fit was seamless, their bodies pressing together in an intimate, familiar alignment. Cathy’s arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her fingers burying slightly into his collar. When he finished, Larry laughed off the tension, complaining that she was heavy and wiping sweat from his forehead. But I noticed his ears were burning red. Cathy sniffed. “I’m the one who’s disgusted. Diana, I’m going to the restroom to wash off this cheap cologne.” They left the table—one after the other—with a practiced, silent coordination. My phone buzzed again. “Do you know? When I found his old journal years later, I learned that during that graduation dinner, when they took forever to return, they were in the empty private dining room next door…” I stood up, claiming I needed to use the restroom. The friends at the table tried to stop me. “Wait for Larry to get back, Diana. It’s crowded tonight, don’t go alone.” I offered them a calm, reassuring smile. “Actually, I’m feeling a bit under the weather. I think I’m going to slip out and head home early. Can you let them know for me?” They looked visibly relieved, nodding quickly. I walked down the hallway, keeping my footsteps light against the carpet. The restaurant’s bass-heavy music muffled the ambient noise, but as I passed the dark, vacant private room next door, I stopped. Through the narrow crack in the doorframe, under the dim amber light, I saw them. Cathy was pressed against the wall, her lips parted, her tongue sliding against his in a deep, desperate kiss. Larry’s hand was locked at the back of her head, his fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her in with a hunger I had never seen in him. When I finally stepped out into the cool night air, a text message from my mother popped up. A few days ago, she had been ecstatic about booking the flights for our post-grad trip. I hadn’t received the confirmation email yet, assuming she was still waiting on a deal. “Diana, I could only get three tickets—one for me, one for Larry, and one for Cathy. There weren’t any left for you. See if you can get yourself on the standby list.” I stared at the glowing screen. A cold, hollow realization settled over me: I was the outsider in my own life. We had planned this trip for months. Cathy was the one who had suggested bringing my mother along, and my mother had happily volunteered to handle the bookings. My parents had divorced when I was young, and Cathy, who lived across the hall, had practically grown up in our home since middle school. We were a trio. Or so I had believed. My phone vibrated again. Larry was calling. “Why didn’t you wait for me, babe? I wanted to drive you home.” His voice was still so tender. It brought back memories of our high school graduation, of him standing under the streetlights, face flushed as he confessed his love. Throughout our four years of college, he had always played the protective boyfriend. When a stranger had followed me to my dorm, Larry had taken a blow from a metal pipe to protect me. He had never missed an anniversary, always scraping together whatever money he had to buy me a thoughtful gift. “Protecting my girl is just what I do,” he used to say, flashing that boyish grin. In our junior year, I had finally introduced him to Cathy. From their very first meeting, they seemed to detest one another. Larry had grumbled, “Is she going to steal all your attention from me? No way.” Cathy had laughed it off, asking me where on earth I had found such a hopelessly devoted simp. The morning after the graduation dinner, I was carrying the last of my things down from the dorm lobby when I ran into Cathy. She was in a foul mood, muttering about how Larry had dumped her at the campus gates the night before and made her walk the rest of the way. I said nothing. Outside, Larry’s car was idling. Cathy pulled open the rear door and slid inside, muttering that she was going to sleep. A couple of underclassmen walked past us, gossiping loudly. “Did you hear? Last night, near the woods behind the dorms, someone was making out so loud you could hear it from the path.” Larry, who was loading my suitcases into the trunk, froze for a fraction of a second. As I sat in the passenger seat, I adjusted the sun visor to check my makeup. Through the compact mirror, I watched them. Larry handed me a bottle of water, his eyes automatically darting to the rearview mirror to meet Cathy’s gaze. She made a childish face at him, and his lips curved into a private, knowing smile. When we got home, my mother was waiting. We had always kept a guest bedroom ready for Cathy. Before bed, my mother brought a warm glass of milk to my room. Her eyes lingered on my face a second longer than usual. “You’ve had a stressful week, sweetheart. Drink this and get some sleep.” I smiled, taking the glass. “Thanks, Mom. I will.” The moment she closed the door, my hand hesitated. Remembering the email, I walked over to the windowsill and slowly poured every drop of the milk into the soil of a large succulent, using a small spade to cover the wet dirt with fresh soil. My mother had sacrificed a lot to raise me. She had always seemed to give me whatever I asked for. But after everything I had seen, I couldn’t afford to trust blindly anymore. I lay down on the bed, keeping my breathing slow and even, pretending to be asleep. After what felt like hours, my bedroom door creaked open. Footsteps approached, stopping right beside my bed. Someone stood there, watching me in the darkness, before quietly slipping back out and shutting the door. A moment later, muffled, hushed voices drifted from the living room. I slipped out of bed, my bare feet making no sound on the floor, and pressed my ear against the wood of the door. “Is she asleep?” Cathy’s voice was a soft whisper. “She drank it. She’s out cold—I made sure to put a sleeping aid in her milk,” my mother replied, her voice chillingly calm. “Keep your voices down. Don’t wake her.” My heart gave a violent, painful squeeze. Larry’s voice rose, carrying a trace of hesitation. “Do we really have to go through with this? Is there no other way?” “Didn’t you promise me we’d celebrate after we registered the marriage license tomorrow?” Cathy’s voice turned into a whiny, petulant pout. “You said you’d make it up to me.” “But…” “Larry,” Cathy cut him off, her tone shifting. “Think about it. If she doesn’t get hurt, we marry tomorrow and we don’t even get to go on a honeymoon? She’ll expect you to spend all your time with her.” A long silence stretched over the apartment. “Fine. We’ll do it your way,” Larry finally sighed. “Tomorrow, Diana and I will go to the old bookstore downtown,” Cathy said, her voice turning sweet again. “Is that place safe? Don’t make it too serious. We don’t want a real tragedy,” Larry warned. My mother’s voice joined back in. “I’ll pretend I know nothing tomorrow. Just be careful, both of you.” I leaned my forehead against the cold wood of the door, my fingernails digging into my palms until they nearly drew blood. The mother who had fought a bitter, years-long custody battle against my father to keep me, the woman I had trusted with my entire life, was quietly conspiring with my boyfriend and my best friend to stage an accident so they could run off on a honeymoon. I took a slow, deep breath, walked back to my bed, and closed my eyes. The next morning, I intentionally stayed in bed until nearly noon. When I finally walked into the living room, they were already waiting. Larry and Cathy were sitting side-by-side on the sofa, while my mother hummed a tune in the kitchen. They looked radiant—no doubt because they had already made a trip to the courthouse that morning to sign their marriage certificate. Seeing me, Cathy jumped up with a bright smile. “Diana! Come to the old bookstore with me? I really want to find a copy of that vintage art monograph.” “Sure,” I smiled back. “Let’s go.” Larry offered to drive us. He parked outside the shop and stayed in the car, claiming he had some emails to reply to. The old bookstore was a dusty, two-story labyrinth. Cathy led the way toward the creaky wooden staircase that led to the second-floor loft. I followed a few steps behind, watching her closely. She climbed halfway up, then suddenly let out a sharp gasp, her body tilting backward as her arms flailed wildly, reaching out to grab my collar. Having prepared for this, I kept my hand locked tightly around the solid iron banister. I pressed my back flat against the wall, giving her absolutely no leverage. Cathy’s hands grabbed empty air. Losing her balance completely, she tumbled backward down the wooden stairs, landing hard on the floorboards with a sickening thud and a scream of genuine pain. Hearing the commotion, Larry burst through the front door. His eyes scanned the room, bypassing me entirely to land on Cathy writhing on the floor. He looked up at me, his eyes blazing with a raw, unscripted fury. “Why didn’t you catch her? You just stood there and watched her fall?” I stood on the stairs, looking down at him, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “Larry, whose boyfriend are you? You didn’t even ask if I was okay before accusing me. If someone walked in right now, they’d think you were the one married to her.” He froze, a sudden flicker of panic and guilt crossing his face. Cathy whimpered from the floor, clutching her ankle. “It hurts so much, Larry… my leg…” Larry immediately knelt beside her, lifting her into his arms with practiced care, and carried her out to the car. He didn’t look back at me once. At the hospital, Larry was a whirlwind of anxiety. He handled the registration, paid the bills, and wheeled her to the radiology department, showing far more concern than a friend of the family ever should. In his panic, he completely forgot to play the role of the broke college kid. I leaned against the wall outside the examination room, my arms crossed, watching his frantic movements with a cold, steady gaze. Sensing my eyes on him, he finally seemed to realize his mistake. He walked over, rubbing the back of his neck, a sheepish smile plastered on his face. “She’s your best friend, Diana. I know how much you care about her. I just wanted to make sure everything was handled so you wouldn’t have to worry.” I almost laughed. His acting was usually seamless, but today, he had overplayed his hand. I turned around, walked out of the hospital lobby, and dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. After a few rings, my father’s voice came through the line, thick with disbelief and hope. “Diana? You’re actually calling me.” “Dad,” I said, staring at my reflection in the glass doors of the hospital exit. “That offer to join the company in London—does it still stand?” “Of course. Anytime you want, sweetheart.” “Set it up,” I said. “As fast as you can.”

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I sold my custom-built Alienware laptop—the one that cost me three thousand dollars—for fifty bucks of scrap metal. I did it because of my past life. In that life, my roommate’s computer had crashed right on the eve of our senior thesis submission deadline. I still remembered the sheer panic in her voice. “Izzy, the portal closes in an hour! Please, you have to let me borrow your laptop!” I had agreed immediately, wanting to be a good roommate. But Bella had forgotten to save her work, downloaded some sketchy formatting software that turned out to be ransomware, and wiped her entire capstone project. Because of that, she had to take an extension, failed to graduate on time, and lost her post-grad fellowship. Her parents showed up at the university with half their extended family, screaming that I was jealous of her fellowship, that I’d maliciously infected my own laptop with malware to sabotage her. The story went viral on TikTok and Twitter. I became the internet’s favorite villain—the bitter, toxic roommate. My dad tried to defend me. He went on camera to clear my name, only to be cornered outside his office by a mob of self-righteous vigilantes. They beat him so badly he died of a brain hemorrhage. After that, my life became a living hell. No one would hire me. The depression swallowed me whole, and eventually, I jumped from the roof of our apartment building. When I opened my eyes again, I was back. Right on the eve of our thesis defense. I had just gotten rid of the laptop when Bella came bursting through the door, tears streaming down her face. “Izzy, my hard drive just crashed! Let me borrow your Alienware, please!” I didn’t even look up from my phone. “Go to the campus library computer lab if you need to write. What does that have to do with me?” … Bella’s tears stopped instantly. She stared at me, dumbfounded. “Izzy… how can you be so cold? The library lab closes at ten, and my draft is due first thing in the morning!” She reached out to grab my sleeve, but I slipped out of her reach. At the other desk, Courtney paused her game and pulled off her headphones, looking at me with disapproval. “Come on, Izzy, that’s harsh. We’re roommates. It’s a laptop, not your kidney. Bella is literally having a panic attack. You’ve got that three-thousand-dollar rig just sitting there. Why are you being so selfish?” I packed my notebook and water bottle into my bag and pointed at Courtney’s desk. “You have a laptop right there. Why don’t you lend her yours?” Courtney rolled her eyes. “Mine is a desktop setup, and Bella hates mechanical keyboards. Plus, my guild is doing a raid tonight.” “So your gaming raid is more important than her thesis, but I’m the one who has to hand over my property?” Bella’s eyes welled with tears again, looking utterly pathetic. “Izzy, I know you’re bitter about the department fellowship. But that was the committee’s decision, not mine. You can’t sabotage my entire future just because you didn’t get selected!” She raised her voice, making sure it carried. A couple of girls passing by in the hallway stopped, peering into our room. Megan from next door leaned against the doorframe, chewing on a piece of gum. “Wow. Talk about petty. The fellowship is based on merit, Izzy. Don’t take it out on her laptop.” “Yeah, she’s rich anyway. The richer they are, the stingier,” another girl muttered. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and let out a cold laugh. “How you actually secured that fellowship, Bella? You and I both know the truth. Don’t make me spill it right here.” Bella’s face paled slightly, her fingers twisting the hem of her shirt, but she quickly recovered her self-righteous look. “Don’t you dare slander me! I’ve had a perfect GPA every semester. I earned that fellowship!” “Great. If you’re so accomplished, use your scholarship money to buy your own computer. Leave me out of it.” I shoved past the crowd blocking the doorway and walked out. Behind me, Bella stamped her foot and screamed, “Isabel, if you walk out that door, we are completely done! Three years of friendship, gone!” “Suits me fine. I was getting tired of the company anyway.” I didn’t look back, letting the door slam shut behind me. As I reached the lobby, my phone started vibrating relentlessly. Hundreds of notifications flooded our class group chat. Bella was playing the victim, heavily implying I was withholding my laptop right before her deadline out of pure jealousy. Courtney had posted three angry emojis, tagging everyone to side-eye me: “Always thought she was quiet, but turns out she’s just toxic. Can’t stand to see someone else succeed.” Justin, the student rep, immediately jumped in to play savior. “Don’t worry, Bella. I’ve got an old MacBook you can use. Don’t let petty people get to you.” Bella replied instantly: “Thank you, Justin. Glad to know there are still decent people left. Not like some black-hearted snakes.” My thumb hovered over the “Leave Group” button, but I paused and pulled it back. Leaving now would be too easy on them. The cyberbullying, the threats, the relentless harassment my father and I endured in my past life—this time, I was going to make them choke on every single word. Suddenly, my phone rang. It was Mr. Conrad, our academic advisor. “Isabel, I need you in my office. Right now.” His tone left no room for negotiation. When I arrived, Bella was already sitting across from Mr. Conrad, sobbing quietly into a tissue. Mr. Conrad frowned deeply as I walked in, gesturing for me to sit beside her. “I’ve been watching the group chat, Isabel,” he said, sounding like a disappointed parent. “You’re classmates, and you’re about to graduate. Why does it have to be this toxic?” I remained standing. “Mr. Conrad, my laptop is my personal property. Choosing not to lend it out doesn’t violate any university policy, does it?” “It doesn’t violate policy, no, but it violates basic decency. If Bella can’t submit her capstone, her graduation will be delayed. Are you prepared to take responsibility for ruining her career?” He set his mug down heavily on the desk. Bella sniffled, playing the peacemaker. “Mr. Conrad, please don’t blame Izzy. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let my computer crash and stress her out.” “You see that, Isabel? Look at her maturity, then look at yours!” He pointed a finger at me. “Go back to the dorm, get the laptop, and let’s put this behind us.” I stared at them, amused by their little routine. “Mr. Conrad, if you’re feeling so generous, why don’t you lend her your office desktop?” “That’s entirely different! This is university property, loaded with sensitive department records!” “And my laptop has my senior thesis and private personal data. Why is my privacy worth less than yours?” Mr. Conrad’s hand shook with anger. “You… you are being utterly unreasonable! This is a severe character issue!” Suddenly, Bella’s phone rang. She pressed speakerphone, and a middle-aged man’s voice boomed through the office. “Bella? Did that little brat Isabel give you the laptop yet? Who does she think she is, treating my daughter like this?” “Dad, please don’t get upset. Mr. Conrad is trying to talk to her,” Bella whimpered. “Talk to her? She’s just a jealous, bitter girl from a family of nobodies. I know her type. You wait—your mother and I will be at the campus tomorrow to handle this ourselves!” The voice was loud enough to echo into the hallway. Mr. Conrad shifted uncomfortably but didn’t say a word to stop him. Outside the door, several students who had come to turn in papers were whispering and peeking in. “Isabel is taking this way too far. Even the advisor told her to lend it.” “I heard her family struggles. No wonder she guards that Alienware like it’s made of gold.” I looked directly at Mr. Conrad. “Mr. Conrad, Bella’s father just verbally harassed and threatened me over the phone. As my advisor, you didn’t intervene; instead, you’re helping them pressure me. I’ve recorded this entire conversation, and I will be sending it directly to the Dean’s office to ask if the university condones bullying and extortion.” Mr. Conrad turned pale. He lunged across the desk to grab my phone. “What do you think you’re doing? Delete that! You want to blow a minor roommate dispute out of proportion to the Dean?” I stepped back, slipping my phone into my pocket. “Whether it’s minor is for the Dean to decide. As for my laptop—I’ve already sold it. Even if you try to squeeze the life out of me, I don’t have an Alienware to give her.” I turned and walked out, ignoring the shouts behind me. When I reached the dorm lobby, Courtney sent a photo to the group chat. It showed my personal locker, the lock completely smashed, the metal door bent out of shape. “Hey Izzy, thought you said you sold your laptop? Then what’s this sitting in your locker? You’re a pathological liar.” I rushed back to the room. It was a complete mess. Courtney was sitting at her desk, casually playing her game. “Oh look, the liar is back. I thought you were too scared to show your face.” I marched over to my locker. It was empty. The black backpack I’d left in the corner was gone. “Where is my bag? Who took it?” I demanded. Courtney didn’t look up from her screen. “Bella took it, obviously. She has a thesis to write. And honestly, you deserve the broken lock. Saying you sold it when you were just hiding it? That’s low.” “She broke my lock and stole my property. That is grand theft, and you’re defending her?” “Oh, please. ‘Theft’? We’re roommates. She’s borrowing it. You’ll get it back when she’s done.” Megan peeked her head in. “Seriously, Izzy, don’t make a federal case out of this. Bella was desperate. If you hadn’t been so petty in the first place, none of this would have happened.” I pulled out my phone, taking high-definition photos and videos of the smashed locker. “If you all think breaking and entering is perfectly fine, I’ll keep this as evidence.” Courtney slammed her mouse down, glaring at me. “Delete that! What, are you going to call the cops on Bella now? You are unbelievably malicious.” “We’ll see who’s malicious when the police get here.” I turned and left. I didn’t call the police right away. In my past life, Bella had used this exact trick—crying to the campus security and the police that it was just a “roommate misunderstanding over a borrowed item,” and they let her off with a warning. This time, I was going to make sure she was exposed in front of everyone. I walked straight to the computer science department’s main lab. Today was the final day for seniors to format and submit their graduation capstones. The lab was packed with students. As I approached the entrance, I heard Bella’s voice. “Justin, thank you so much. If you hadn’t helped me carry this heavy thing over here, I never would have finished the formatting in time.” Justin stood beside her, scratching his head with a proud smile. “No problem. This Alienware is a beast, but the specs are incredible. Running the formatting software will be a breeze.” I pushed through the crowd. Resting on the desk in front of Bella was a heavy, dark-gray laptop. An Alienware. Except it wasn’t my laptop. It was a completely dead, gutted chassis I’d bought for ten dollars from a recycling yard yesterday. I had stuffed it with two heavy red bricks to match the weight, and the motherboard inside was nothing but melted copper and ash. When Bella saw me, she instinctively pulled the laptop closer to her chest. A flash of panic crossed her eyes, but she quickly forced herself to stand tall. “Izzy! What are you doing here?” “I’m telling you right now, I took this from your locker, and I’ll return it once I submit my thesis. Don’t even think about taking it back right now!” The surrounding students stopped working and turned to look. “Izzy, seriously, she’s already using it. Just let her finish.” “Yeah, tracking her down to the lab over a laptop? How embarrassing.” I crossed my arms, looking down at her. “Go ahead. Use it. I’ll just stand right here and watch.” Bella gritted her teeth and pressed the power button. Nothing. She pressed it again, harder this time. The screen remained pitch black. Not a single LED indicator blinked. “What… why isn’t it turning on?” Panic crept into her voice. She looked at Justin. Justin leaned in to check the power cord. “Maybe the battery’s completely drained. Plug it in.” Bella frantically plugged in the charger and hit the power button again. Still, absolute silence. She whipped her head up, glaring at me with raw hatred. “Isabel! What did you do to this laptop?” “What did I do? It was locked inside my locker. You smashed the lock and stole it. Now it won’t turn on and you’re blaming me?” I scoffed. Bella’s hands were shaking as she repeatedly slammed her palm onto the keyboard. “This is impossible! It’s a high-end gaming rig! It can’t just be dead! You did something to it to ruin my life!” Sweat poured down her face as she yanked her USB flash drive out of the port. “My thesis… my fellowship paper is on this flash drive! When I plugged it in, the light flashed once and went dead. You infected this computer with a virus to destroy my drive!” The lab erupted into whispers. “Oh my god, did Izzy seriously leave a malware trap in her locker?” “That’s not just petty, that’s criminal. Sabotaging someone’s career is sick.” Justin pointed a finger at me, shouting, “Isabel, this is too far! If Bella can’t graduate, you’re going to pay for this!” Just then, the glass doors of the computer lab were pushed open. A middle-aged couple stormed in, followed closely by a young woman holding a selfie stick with a phone streaming live. “Where is she? Where is that toxic little snake Isabel?” Every eye in the room landed on me. Bella’s father spotted me instantly. With a roar, he lunged forward, swinging his open hand at my face. I took a quick step to the side. His momentum carried him forward, and he nearly crashed into a desk. “Dad! You’re here!” Bella threw herself into his arms, sobbing hysterically. “Izzy put a virus on her laptop! My thesis is gone! I can’t graduate!” Her mother rushed up, screaming right in my face. “You classless piece of trash! You couldn’t get the fellowship so you had to ruin my daughter’s life? If you don’t recover her files right now, I swear to god I will tear you apart!” The influencer immediately pointed the camera at my face. “Hey guys, we are live on campus! This is the toxic roommate I was telling you about—the one who set a trap to destroy her roommate’s future. Keep sharing the stream, let’s make this viral! People like this shouldn’t be allowed in society!” The live chat on her screen was scrolling at lightning speed. “Dox her!” “Expel her immediately!” The commotion drew the attention of the department Dean and several faculty members, who came rushing into the lab. Mr. Conrad followed right behind the Dean, pointing at me. “Dean Henderson, this is Isabel. She has a history of hostile behavior in the dorms, and now she’s pulled this incredibly malicious stunt.” Dean Henderson’s face was dark. “Isabel, this is a disgrace to this university. I am officially revoking your honors graduate status, and we will be moving forward with your immediate expulsion.” Bella sniffled, her voice trembling. “Dean Henderson, expulsion isn’t enough. She ruined my life. I want her to get down on her knees and apologize to me in front of the entire student body!” “Yes! Kneel! You’re not leaving this room until you kneel!” Bella’s father grabbed a heavy metal lab chair, brandishing it threateningly. The crowd watched, waiting for my breakdown. When I didn’t move, Bella’s father raised the chair, ready to swing it at me. At that exact moment, the massive projector screen at the front of the lab flickered to life.

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The year of my most foolish, innocent love, I was sitting on the wooden bleachers by the basketball court, holding a cold drink for the boy I secretly adored. Travis sunk a clean three-pointer, then turned and blew a cocky whistle in my direction. My face burned hot. I was just about to stand up and hand him the bottle when a raspy, jarringly familiar voice crackled through my cheap wired earbuds. “Don’t go! I am you, ten years in the future. Tomorrow, Travis is going to get arrested for a gang assault and sent to juvenile hall!” “Open your SAT vocab book right now. If you don’t memorize two hundred words today, I will make you wish you’d never been born.” “After school tomorrow, go to the corner store with the sports book in the back. Bet on Germany beating Brazil, seven to one. It is your only ticket out of this dump.” I gasped, nearly dropping my phone. The voice, the sharp, cynical tone—it was legacy-grade me. The next second, Travis was jogging over, sweating and grinning, reaching for the bottle in my hand. I scrambled to unscrew the cap, lifted it to my lips, and took a massive gulp. “This is mine,” I blurted, wiping my mouth. “I have to study. I’m going for top of the class. See ya.” 01 The smug grin on Travis’s face froze. He swung his leg back and kicked the metal base of the hoop with a resounding “clang”. “Have you lost your damn mind, Maeve? Top of the class? Since when do you care about that?” His roar made me flinch, my neck burning with residual heat, but my feet obeyed the voice in my ears. I turned on my heel and walked toward the school gates. Travis caught up in three long strides, snatching my school lunch card right out of my hand. “Fine, go be a genius. I’m taking this. Courtney said she was hot today, so I’m going to the organic market to buy her a carton of those fancy rainier cherries to cool her down.” He caught the hurt, bewildered look on my face and let out a soft sneer from his nose. “Don’t look at me like some tragic housewife. I’m not trying to be mean, but with your grades, dreaming about being number one is just pathetic.” I stood there frozen, watching him walk away toward the convenience store with my last twenty dollars of lunch money for the month. Everything that had just happened felt too surreal. My head was spinning. Travis and I had been neighbors for over ten years. We grew up on the same block, sharing the same bruises and the same empty stomachs. When I was eight, he threw rocks at the stray dogs chasing me down the alley. When I was ten, he pulled me behind the stairs to hide from my dad’s drunken rages. Travis was the only person in the world I thought I could trust. But high school changed him. As hormones kicked in, I found myself secretly reading those cheap romance paperbacks from the dollar store, daydreaming. Naturally, I started doing what the girls in the books did—bringing Travis drinks, letting him take my lunch money, hoping he’d be the hero who saved me, who told me he’d protect me forever. Now, he was stealing my lunch money to buy imported fruit for a rich girl who had transferred here less than a month ago. I bit my lip, but the voice in my ear cut through the silence again. This time, it sounded cold, heavy with an exhausting, bone-deep weariness. “Do you hear him? That’s the boy you’ve spent your youth protecting.” “If you stay on this path, you won’t even make it to the final exams. You’ll get jumped by Travis’s rivals, drop out, and end up working twelve-hour shifts at a packaging plant just to pay off debts. You’ll ruin your life for him, and the second he gets out of prison, he’ll leave you to become Courtney’s personal bodyguard.” “Tomorrow afternoon, Courtney is going to pick a fight with some townies from the vocational school. She’ll run to Travis to play her knight in shining armor. To show off for her, Travis is going to take an iron pipe and shatter a boy’s spine.” “You won’t be able to bear seeing him get hurt. You’ll jump in to block a blow, take seven stitches to the back of your head, and miss your exams. His rivals will hound you day and night. You’ll drop out, leave town, and rot.” I shuddered, a phantom chill creeping up the back of my neck. The future me paused, her voice cracking slightly. “If you choose him again this time… we will never escape.” A cold sweat broke out across my back. I clenched my jaw. Ever since I could remember, my only dream was to get out of this decaying neighborhood. I didn’t hesitate anymore. I broke into a run, darting through the narrow alleys smelling of sour garbage, back to the cramped, moldy rental apartment we called home. I pushed open the flimsy wooden door. The air inside was a suffocating mix of mildew and cheap, stale beer. My deadbeat father hadn’t been home in two weeks, probably off on another bender or hiding from bookies. My mother had packed her bags and run away with a trucker when I was six, unable to bear the endless cycle of debt collectors pounding on the door. Through the thin walls, I could hear the neighbors shouting over a card game. The bare bulb overhead flickered, buzzing like an angry insect. “You wanted him to be your family,” the future me said, her voice gentler now, but still unyielding. “But Travis only ever saw you as a loyal dog.” “Put away your useless teenage heartbreak. Go to the bed. Pull out the metal tin under the floorboards.” I got down on my hands and knees, sliding my arm under the bed to pull out a rusted Danish butter cookie tin. Inside was a crumpled stack of bills. Five hundred and thirty-one dollars. My entire savings for the next two months. “Take it. Tomorrow, you bet every single cent on Germany, seven to one.” “Now, open your AP prep book. Unit Two. Start memorizing.” The future me knew exactly what needed to be done. If that was the case, all I had to do was listen. I cracked open the textbook, grabbed a pen, and began writing on a scrap piece of paper. 02 The next morning, I stepped out of the alley with dark circles bruised under my eyes. Two hundred words. It had taken me until three in the morning to commit them all to memory. As I reached the corner of the street, a middle-aged woman in a faded, greasy floral housecoat stepped out to block my path. It was Travis’s mother, Mrs. Shaw. She was cracking sunflower seeds, spitting the shells onto the cracked asphalt, eyeing me up and down. “Maeve, sweetheart, grab Travis a breakfast burrito from the deli on your way to school. He’s growing, he needs his energy.” She stuck out her hand, expecting me to drop cash into it as I always did. For years, she had done this. Every morning, she found some excuse to make me spend my meager allowance on her son. She’d always tell me how my useless father didn’t care about me, how lucky I was to have Travis looking out for me, and how once I “joined their family,” I’d finally know what comfort felt like. My money was Travis’s money, in her eyes. I took a step back, dodging a flying seed shell. “I can’t, Mrs. Shaw. Travis took my lunch card yesterday. I don’t have a single cent on me.” Her expression soured instantly, her eyes narrowing into hostile slits. “No money? Go borrow some then! If you can’t even handle a simple task like this, how are you going to take care of my boy later? If it weren’t for my Travis keeping those street thugs off your back, you’d have been eaten alive by now!” I didn’t argue. I just walked past her toward the bus stop. Her entire family had come to view bleeding me dry as their god-given right. When I walked into the homeroom, I immediately noticed my desk had been messed with. My books were scattered everywhere. The AP Bio notebook I had spent all night organizing was currently folded in half, jammed under the leg of Travis’s desk to keep it from wobbling. Travis slung his backpack over his chair and saw me staring at the floor. He gave his desk a careless kick. “What? Courtney said the desk was rocking, so I just grabbed some scrap paper of yours to steady it.” On the cover of my notebook was a dark ink stain from where I’d fallen asleep working the night before. I tried to swallow the sharp sting in my chest. I knelt down, pulled the notebook out from under the desk leg with a violent yank, and threw it directly into the trash can. Travis’s face darkened instantly. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a heavy switchblade, and slammed it onto my desk with a loud “clack”. “What the hell is wrong with you today, Maeve? Who do you think you’re throwing attitude at?” “Keep this in your bag. The Dean is doing random locker sweeps for contraband at noon. You’re a good student; they won’t search you.” Looking at the cold silver gleam of the blade, my palms broke out in a cold sweat. The future me was entirely correct. This knife was the catalyst for the fight this afternoon. He didn’t give a damn if I got suspended or expelled for carrying it. I took a deep breath, picked up the knife, and shoved it right back into his jacket pocket. “No. Keep it yourself.” Travis froze. He clearly hadn’t expected me—always the quiet, obedient shadow—to actually refuse him. The whispers in the classroom died down as our classmates turned to look. Travis’s face flushed a violent red. He grabbed me by the collar of my hoodie, pulling me close as he hissed through his teeth. “Who the fuck do you think you are to tell me no? You’re a piece of trash with a junkie father. If I wasn’t the one keeping you safe, nobody in this town would even look at you!” He let go of me, kicked over the trash can containing my ruined notebook, and stormed out of the classroom. I smoothed down the crumpled collar of my hoodie, sat down, and opened my test prep. My pen scraped across the paper in sharp, deliberate strokes. I felt a quiet ache in my chest—not of longing, but the sickening realization that ten years of devotion had been given to a monster. 03 I spent the morning hours completely locked in, drowning out the world with schoolwork. When the lunch bell rang, I slipped away from the crowds and ran out of the school gates. Three blocks down was a dingy, smoke-filled convenience store that ran an underground sports book out of a back room. Inside, several middle-aged men in dirt-stained work shirts were shouting at a flickering TV screen. As a teenage girl in a school hoodie, I stuck out like a sore thumb. I nervously gripped the strap of my backpack, my palm slick against the damp roll of five hundred dollars in my pocket. The voice in my ear was calm, commanding. “Don’t hesitate. Walk to the counter. Put the money down.” I squeezed through the crowd of men and placed the cash on the scratched glass countertop. “I want to place a bet on the World Cup,” I said, my voice shaking slightly. “Germany versus Brazil. Exact score: seven to one.” The bookie, a balding man with a lit cigarette dangling from his lip, looked up from his ledger and burst into a loud laugh. “You kidding me, kid?” “This is the semifinals. Brazil is the host country. Seven to one? You think this is a varsity team playing middle schoolers?” The men around the counter joined in, guffawing loudly. “High school girls are hilarious. Throwing away her lunch money on a dream.” “Go buy yourself some Starbucks, sweetie. You throw five hundred bucks on those odds, you’ll never see it again.” My neck burned under their mocking stares. But the words “This is your only ticket out of this dump” echoed in my head. I raised my chin and looked the bookie dead in the eye. “Five hundred dollars. On the exact score. Print the ticket.” Seeing I wouldn’t budge, the man shrugged and tapped the keys on his terminal. “Suit yourself. It’s your funeral. Don’t come back crying to me when you lose.” The machine spat out a small, thermal-printed slip of paper. I took it with trembling fingers, folded it neatly, and slid it into the zippered inner pocket of my hoodie, right against my chest. Back at school that afternoon, I paused at the corner of the second-floor hallway. In the shadow of the stairwell, two people were standing close. Courtney was wearing a short tennis skirt, her hair styled in perfect beach waves, holding an iced Starbucks drink. Travis was leaning against the lockers, all his usual anger gone, replaced by a desperate, eager-to-please grin. Courtney poked him in the chest with a manicured nail, her voice dripping with sweet poison. “That townie with the bleached hair from the vocational school was staring at me yesterday. It was so gross. Travis, I thought you said you ran things around here.” Travis immediately puffed out his chest, his eyes flashing. “That idiot is nothing. Don’t worry. During study hall, I’ll corner him behind the bleachers. I’ll break his legs.” Courtney giggled, covering her mouth. “You promise? Because if you chicken out, don’t bother talking to me again.” I watched them from the shadows, a wave of nausea rolling through my stomach. The vocational kid hadn’t even done anything to her. Courtney was just bored. She wanted to see two dogs tear each other apart for her amusement. And Travis was more than happy to be her loyal hound. I drew back into the hallway, turning toward my classroom without a second glance. If Travis wanted to jump headfirst into hell, I wasn’t going to pull him back. 04 The last period of the day was study hall. Suddenly, a barrage of shouting and screaming erupted from the back of the campus. Near the fence line of the back fields, a crowd had gathered. I could hear the dull, heavy clangs of metal hitting metal. Students in my classroom rushed to the windows, pressing their faces against the glass. “Holy shit! Travis is fighting the vocational guys!” “Is he crazy? It’s five against one! He’s got an iron pipe!” I sat at my desk, my pen pausing for a fraction of a second. The voice in my ear came right on cue. “To impress Courtney, he’s going to shatter the leader’s spine.” “The police will be here in exactly three minutes. Courtney’s family driver is already waiting at the back gate to whisk her away.” I looked out the window. Sure enough, amidst the chaos, Courtney was clutching her skirt, jogging toward the back gate in her designer sneakers without looking back once. A sleek black Mercedes was waiting. She slipped into the back seat, and the car sped away. In the distance, the wail of police sirens grew louder. The crowd on the field scattered instantly, boys running in every direction. Travis stood frozen, holding a blood-slicked iron pipe, looking around in a daze. He turned, realizing Courtney was already gone. When the police cruisers slammed to a halt at the edge of the field, panic finally registered on his face. He looked up at the school building and locked eyes with me standing by the second-floor window. His eyes lit up with desperate hope. He bolted toward the building, dragging the heavy pipe behind him, leaving a harsh scraping sound on the concrete. “Maeve! Come down here!” “Hide this for me! Hurry!” He wanted to hand me the weapon—the heavy iron pipe coated in someone else’s blood and bone. The voice in my ear screamed with terrifying authority. “Step back! Do not touch a single thing he has!” Heavy, frantic footsteps echoed up the stairwell. Travis kicked open the back door of the classroom, his hands dripping red. He thrust the pipe toward me. “Take it! Put it in your bag, now!” He was hyperventilating, his veins bulging, his eyes wide with animal terror. I looked at the weapon inches from my face and took two deliberate steps backward. Travis stared at me, his face twisting into a hideous snarl. “Why the fuck are you moving? Give me your jacket to wipe the blood! Hurry up!” He lunged forward to grab my clothes. I dodied him, my voice flat and cold. “You did this. You deal with the consequences. I’m not helping you.” The heavy thud of tactical boots echoed on the linoleum outside. Two officers burst through the door, tackling Travis to the floor before he could react. They pinned his face to the dusty tiles. The iron pipe clattered to the floor, rolling to a stop right by my sneakers. The lead officer picked it up, sealing it inside a clear plastic evidence bag. Travis thrashed under the officers’ weight, forcing his head up to glare at me. A venomous light flickered in his eyes. “Officer! It was her! She made me do it!” He screamed at the top of his lungs, spit flying from his lips. “Maeve told me to beat him up! That switchblade in my pocket is hers too! She forced me!” The classroom fell into a dead, suffocating silence.

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On graduation photo day, my girlfriend, Cherry, took over two hundred pictures of Chase, the campus golden boy. She was the president of the photography club. She knew exactly how to find the light, how to capture the perfect angle that made a person look like a movie star. Chase stood beneath the shade of the campus sycamores, flashing his easy, effortless smile. “Am I being too much of a pain?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. Cherry kept her eyes glued to her camera, scrolling through the viewfinder with a softness in her voice I hadn’t heard in months. “Never. You’re impossible to take a bad photo of anyway. Honestly, it’s a pleasure.” But when it was my turn, Cherry barely even looked at me. She just raised the camera and clicked the shutter twice. “Done,” she said, letting the camera drop against her chest. I froze. “That’s it?” She frowned, her irritation immediate. “Jude, you’ve never been photogenic. Let’s not hold up the line.” I glanced down at the two photos she had taken on her digital display. In one, my eyes were half-closed, caught mid-blink. In the other, a harsh shadow from the branches sliced directly across my face, cutting me in two. “Could you just try a few more?” I asked quietly. Instead of answering, she pulled out her phone and posted a thread on the campus student board: “Offering $20 for a student photographer to take a couple of quick, casual graduation photos of my boyfriend.” Half an hour later, a direct message popped up on my phone from an account with a default profile picture. I sent her my location, then hesitated before typing out a quick, self-deprecating warning: “Just so you know, I’m really not photogenic.” She replied almost instantly: “That usually just means the person behind the camera doesn’t know how to guide you.” When we finished shooting and she sent over the raw files, I could only stare. My chest tightened. It was the first time in my life I had ever looked at a photo of myself and thought, “Oh. I can actually look good.” I looked bright, natural, completely alive. But what felt even more surreal was the realization that this twenty-dollar photographer was miles ahead of the president of the university’s photography club. … The photographer sent over a few more raw files. No Photoshop, no filters, no artificial editing. Just me, captured from different angles. In those shots, I was standing under the natural light, my eyes reflecting a warmth and confidence that felt entirely foreign to me. “Your features are actually great,” she texted. “You’ve just been trained to freeze up every time a lens is pointed at you.” Whenever Cherry used to take my picture, her voice would always carry this sharp, exasperated edge. “Can you please just smile normally?” After three or four quick snaps, she’d let the camera drop with a heavy sigh. “Forget it.” Then she’d shake her head and mutter, “I don’t get how you can be so incredibly awkward in front of a camera.” She said it so often that it became my truth. Over time, I learned to shrink. Every time a lens was raised in my direction, my first instinct was to look down, to hide, to apologize in advance for ruining the shot. My phone buzzed, breaking the memory. My roommate had forwarded a screenshot of Chase’s Instagram feed. It was a beautifully curated grid of nine photos—all taken by Cherry. Chase was standing under the sycamores, bathed in a soft, golden-hour glow that perfectly highlighted his jawline. “Perks of having the photography club president as your personal shooter. Blessed.” The comments below were already piling up: “This looks like a cover shoot for the university prospectus.” “Literal main character energy, Chase.” Chase had replied with a humble-brag emoji: “Honestly, Cherry is just amazing at directing. Whenever I got stiff, she kept cracking jokes to make me laugh.” I zoomed in on his photos until the pixels blurred, a dull ache blooming behind my eyes. So Cherry did know how to guide someone. She knew exactly how to make a person feel comfortable and seen. She just had never cared enough to do it for me. Just then, a notification from the university’s official app popped up on my screen: “Seeking the New Face of Campus: Graduation Season Student Ambassador Search.” “Submit a portrait and a one-minute campus introduction video. The selected student will star in next year’s official recruitment campaign.” I swiped it away automatically. That kind of spotlight was never meant for someone like me. Cherry had drilled it into my head too many times: I was the guy who belonged in the shadows, not the billboard. But a moment later, a text from my $20 photographer came through: “Did you see the ambassador call?” I stared at the screen. “Yeah, I saw it.” “You should apply.” My fingers hovered over the keyboard. “I don’t think I’m the type.” Her reply was instant: “Trust me. You’re exactly the type.” A few seconds later, another message popped up: “An ambassador shouldn’t just be a pretty face on a poster.” “They need to be someone who makes people feel like they belong here.” I stared at those words, the silence of my room suddenly feeling very loud. Then, she sent over an attachment—a structured nine-day shooting schedule. “Days 1–3: Camera comfort exercises.” “Days 4–6: B-roll and campus scenes.” “Days 7–9: Editing and voiceover.” A sudden, quiet rebellion flared up inside me. I had actually loved photography once. But over the four years I’d spent with Cherry, her passive-aggressive critiques had slowly eroded that love, turning the camera into a weapon that made me feel small. I wanted to take that power back. The next afternoon, I went into the photography club room to gather some things. Cherry caught sight of the printed application form peaking out of my bag. She frowned. “Jude? Are you actually submitting for this?” I nodded. “Yeah.” She let out a soft, incredulous laugh, as if I’d just suggested I was running for president. “The student ambassador campaign? Jude, don’t let a silly disagreement over graduation photos make you do something impulsive.” Chase, who was lounging on the desk beside her, gave me a patronizing smile. “Hey, Jude, there’s no shame in working behind the scenes. Being the face of the school comes with a ton of pressure. If the final edit doesn’t turn out perfect, people online can be brutal.” Normally, comments like that would have made me retreat into my shell, apologizing for even trying. But this time, I just quietly zipped my bag. “Whether it looks good is for the selection committee to decide,” I said. “You don’t need to disqualify me in advance.” Cherry’s expression hardened. “Why are you being so stubborn lately?” My phone buzzed in my hand. “4:00 PM. West entrance of the library,” the text from the photographer read. “We’ll do the first set. Don’t overthink your clothes or hair. Just show up as you are.” I stared down at the screen, letting out a quiet breath. Then I looked up, meeting Cherry’s eyes. “I found a photographer.” Cherry’s face flushed with a mix of surprise and sheer offense. “Fine,” she spat, her voice icy. “But without me, you won’t get a single shot worth looking at.” I didn’t bother replying. I just walked out and made my way to the library’s west entrance exactly at four. For years, my role in Cherry’s photography had been that of a glorified assistant. When she shot Chase, I was the one carrying her heavy lens bags, holding up the reflectors, handing them water, and guarding her equipment. I’d even step in to adjust Chase’s collar when it looked messy. Afterward, she’d make me transfer and catalog the raw files. But when it came to me, she wouldn’t even bother adjusting the white balance on her camera. Today, for the first time, I wasn’t the guy standing in the shadows. But my photographer didn’t immediately start shooting. She just gestured for me to stand near the stone steps. “Let your shoulders drop,” she said, her voice calm and steady. “Ignore the lens. Treat it like it’s just a piece of the scenery. Look at the wind in the trees, the bricks, whatever catches your eye.” I looked up, my neck stiff with tension. She observed me for a second, then lowered her camera slightly. “Jude. The lens isn’t Cherry. It’s not here to judge you.” A sudden, sharp sting hit the back of my throat, and my eyes flared hot. I had to look up toward the sky, blinking rapidly to keep from breaking down right there. She didn’t rush me. She just stood there, waiting patiently in the quiet space she’d created for me to find my footing. We shot for about half an hour. She didn’t talk much, but her directions were incredibly clear and gentle. “Relax your hands. Don’t grip your jeans.” “Now look over at the maple on the left.” “Turn back toward me.” “Perfect. Keep that exact gaze.” For the first time in my life, I realized that being photographed didn’t have to feel like an interrogation. It could feel like breathing. The next morning, Cherry pinged me in the photography club group chat: “Jude, I need you to hold the reflector this afternoon. Chase is shooting his promo material for the ambassador submission.” In the past, I would have dropped everything to say yes. This time, I typed back: “I can’t. I have my own shoot this afternoon.” The group chat fell completely silent. Within a minute, a direct message from Cherry flashed on my screen: “Are you seriously prioritizing some random twenty-dollar amateur over this? Chase’s submission is a major project for the club. Stop being childish and focus on what actually matters.” I stared at the words “what actually matters”. A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my lips. What mattered to her was Chase’s portfolio. My graduation memories, my aspirations, the tiny scrap of courage I had gathered to put myself out there—none of that had ever mattered. That afternoon, I went over to the science building to shoot some B-roll. Walking past the athletic field, I saw Cherry and Chase. Chase was standing in the center of the green grass, perfectly lit by the afternoon sun. Cherry was kneeling on the turf, adjusting her angles with obsessive care. “Take your time, Chase. Wait for the breeze before you turn your head.” “If you can’t force a smile, just look at me.” “Beautiful. Let’s do one more just like that.” Chase laughed, running a hand through his hair. “Am I being a total diva?” Cherry’s voice was incredibly tender. “Not at all. You’re a natural, Chase.” I stood by the edge of the running track, my fingers slowly curling into tight fists. She did know. She knew exactly how to coax warmth out of a person, how to soothe their insecurities. She just had never wanted to waste that grace on me. The photographer noticed my expression but didn’t pry. Instead, she stepped in front of me, gently holding up her camera. “We’re doing motion today,” she said. “Just walk naturally, look toward the lens, and tell me one reason why you love this university.” I looked down, feeling the old familiar knot form in my chest. “I don’t really know what to say.” “Then don’t think about the camera,” she replied softly. “Just talk to me.” I let the silence hang between us for a long time before I finally spoke. “Because the people here always seem to be running forward,” I said, looking at her rather than the black glass of the lens. “It makes me feel like… as long as you don’t stop, even the most ordinary person can slowly find their own strength.” She didn’t interrupt. When we finished, she held out the camera screen so I could watch the playback. The guy on the small display wasn’t polished like Chase, and he didn’t possess that practiced, effortless charm. But he was real. There was a quiet sincerity in his eyes that I had never seen before. That evening, some of the applicants began sharing snippets of their progress in the official submission group chat. My photographer had selected a still of me standing by the library’s side door. Almost immediately after she uploaded it, a message popped up: “Wait, is that Jude?” “Wow, this has so much depth. It looks like a movie still.” A quiet warmth bloomed in my chest. But before I could even process it, Cherry’s name appeared in the chat. “It’s just a mood shot,” she wrote. “Anyone can look decent if you hide their face in shadows and rely entirely on composition. The ambassador campaign is about real screen presence, not stylized portraits.” Chase chimed in right after her: “Totally. Video is a completely different beast than stills. Motion captures every awkward angle and forced expression.” I looked at their messages. My chest tightened slightly, but the overwhelming panic that used to consume me didn’t come. I didn’t feel the desperate urge to explain myself or apologize. I simply typed: “I’ll keep practicing.” Later that night, a text arrived from my photographer with the plan for the next day. “Tomorrow we hit the senior wall. Don’t worry about being perfect. Just be you.” On the day of the deadline, I submitted the final cut. It was only a sixty-second video, but I must have watched it fifty times before hitting upload. It opened with the stone steps of the library’s west entrance. I was walking down, holding a stack of books, and then I turned to look at the camera. The middle segment drifted through the quiet corners of the campus—the track, the brick facades of the labs, the colorful, messy senior wall. And the final frame was me, standing by the university gates, saying: “I hope when you come here, you’ll slowly find yourself, too.” My fingers were still trembling when the confirmation screen appeared. A text popped up from my photographer: “Beautifully done. Now, go get some sleep.” But sleep was impossible. For my entire life, I had hidden in the background, a shadow behind other people’s bright lights. This was the first time I had ever dared to let myself be seen. Three days later, the preliminary shortlist was announced. The admissions office published the top entries on the university’s official page. “1st Place: Jude” “2nd Place: Chase” I stared at my phone, the names blurring together. My roommate grabbed my shoulders, shaking me wild with excitement. “Jude! You’re number one! Holy crap, you actually beat Chase!” Before the reality of it could even sink in, the photography club group chat erupted. “Jude is first?” “Chase got second?” “How did Cherry’s submission lose?” Cherry remained silent for an hour. Finally, someone tagged her directly: “Pres, thoughts?” She only replied with one cold line: “The committee will likely review the authenticity of the submissions before making anything final.” My heart plummeted. She hadn’t congratulated me. She hadn’t asked how the shoots went, or who had helped me. Her immediate instinct was that my success had to be a lie. A moment later, Chase sent me a direct message: “Jude, seriously impressive stuff. But your photographer must be a professional, right? No offense, but getting that kind of production value for twenty bucks seems… a little too good to be true for a student.” Within minutes, a screenshot of his message was leaked into the main club chat, and the whispers turned into a wildfire. “Yeah, that quality is insane for twenty bucks.” “Did he hire an outside PR team to package him?” “Is it heavily photoshopped?” “The rules say it has to be organic student work.” “Does his photographer have connections in the admissions office?” It didn’t stop there. By evening, a thread went viral on the student forum: “Controversy over the new Student Ambassador results. Did certain applicants use professional agencies?” “Is it realistic for a twenty-dollar student hire to deliver agency-level cinematography?” The comments below grew progressively crueler. “Isn’t that Jude guy famous for being completely unphotogenic?” “Suddenly he looks like an indie film lead? Please.” “Some people will do anything for fifteen minutes of fame.” I stared at the glowing screen, my hands turning cold. Then came Cherry’s text, cutting deeper than the strangers’ comments. “Who is this photographer, Jude? Did she bring in an outside crew? The ambassador campaign is representing our university’s integrity. Don’t use a school platform just to satisfy your ego.” I stared at the message, a heavy, suffocating weight pressing down on my chest. It took me a long time to type a response: “You really think I cheated?” She replied instantly: “You know better than anyone how you look in front of a camera, Jude.” The words felt like a physical blow, a needle driving straight into my chest. It didn’t matter how well I was captured. She would never believe that the boy in those frames was really me. To her, my beauty could only ever be an illusion. The next afternoon, my phone rang. It was an administrator from the admissions department. “Jude? We need you to come down to the communications office. An official complaint has been filed regarding your submission. There are allegations of professional agency involvement, heavy digital manipulation, and potential conflicts of interest. We need to verify the integrity of your raw footage.” I stood in the doorway of my dorm room, my mind going completely blank. My phone vibrated. A text from my photographer: “Take a deep breath. Don’t let them scare you. You didn’t magically become handsome overnight, Jude. You were just finally shot by someone who actually looked at you.” I stared at the words, and the feeling slowly began to return to my numb fingers. But a second later, Cherry texted again: “I’m coming with you. I can speak to your historical camera presence.” I gripped my phone and began the long walk to the administration building. My pocket buzzed relentlessly as the forum thread continued to gather traction. “Wait, is he actually being summoned?” “Oh shit, so there really is a scandal?” “We can’t have a fake represent our brand.” “Are we sure there isn’t something going on between him and the photographer?” I paused on the pavement, my breath catching. These accusations were filthier than any comment about my face. They weren’t just criticizing my photos anymore; they were dragging my character through the mud. Inside the communications office, the head of admissions, the faculty advisor for student affairs, and two PR staff members were waiting. On the table lay printed copies of the forum threads alongside screenshots of my video. The head of admissions looked up, his expression grave. “Jude, we’ve received a formal, signed complaint from a fellow student alleging that your submission was produced by an outside commercial agency. There are also concerns raised about potential inappropriate arrangements between you and the photographer. This campaign represents our university’s core values and academic integrity. We have to take these allegations seriously.” The word “integrity” felt like a physical weight crushing my throat. I unlocked my phone and slid it across the desk. “I didn’t hire an agency. And there’s no editing trickery. The photographer was hired through a listing Cherry posted on the student board. I paid her twenty dollars.” The administrator reviewed the screenshots of the chat logs and the transaction receipt. He frowned, but the tension in the room didn’t fully dissipate. “Even so, Jude, the discrepancy between your past campus appearances and this video is striking. We need to understand how such a radical shift occurred.” Right then, there was a knock at the door, and Cherry walked in. The administrator looked up. “Cherry, as the president of the photography club, you’ve worked with Jude before. Can you speak to his usual screen presence?” I looked at her. In that fleeting second, a pathetic, foolish spark of hope flared in my chest. She knew she had posted that ad. She knew those awful graduation photos were the result of her own carelessness. Surely, she would set the record straight. Cherry hesitated, looking at me then back at the committee. “Jude has good features,” she began. I felt a tiny fraction of the tension leave my shoulders. “But,” she continued, “his camera anxiety has always been severe. I’m not saying he actively cheated, but… the technical sophistication of this submission is simply not something a twenty-dollar student hire could pull off.” The office fell into a dead silence. She hadn’t outright called me a liar. But with those soft, calculated words, she had effectively validated every single rumor. I stared at her, the hurt hardening into something sharp and cold. “Cherry,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremble in my chest. “You wrote the post. You’re the one who told me I was unphotogenic and threw me to whoever would take twenty bucks. And now that someone actually took the time to do it right, you call it a lie.” I leaned in slightly. “You aren’t doubting the photographer. You just can’t accept that when someone else held the camera, I actually looked good. You can’t accept that I succeeded without you.” Cherry’s face turned completely pale. A shadow fell over the frosted glass of the door, and Chase stepped into the room. “Excuse me, Dr. Fletcher? May I say something?” He looked at me with a performative expression of concern. “I don’t want to attack Jude. But everyone in the department knows how intensely he used to dislike being on camera. I just worry… what if someone took advantage of his desire to prove himself, and used him as a puppet for their own agency showcase?” He left the sentence hanging, but the implication was clear. I stood there, a cold sweat breaking out across my back. The admissions head sighed, rubbing his temples. “Jude, until we can verify the source files, we will have to place a temporary hold on your first-place ranking. We need you to submit the raw footage, any behind-the-scenes material, and the full contact information of your photographer.” I walked out of the office, the heavy door clicking shut behind me. A few students had gathered in the hallway, whispering as I passed. “A temporary hold? That basically means he’s guilty.” “Honestly, it’s just a school promo. Why go to such lengths?” When I reached the stairwell, my phone rang. It was my mother. “Jude, why did I just get a call from your student affairs advisor? It’s just a campus photo campaign. Don’t do anything reckless that might mess up your graduation.” “Mom,” I whispered, my voice thick. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t cheat.” There was a pause on the line, and then I heard my father’s voice in the background, sharp and impatient: “If he didn’t do anything wrong, why is the dean’s office investigating him?” I hung up, a cold, hollow ache settling deep into my bones. Cherry hurried down the stairs after me, catching my sleeve. “Jude, listen to me. The smartest thing you can do right now is shift the blame to the photographer. Just tell them you had no idea she was using an outside team. If you play the victim, the school won’t go hard on you.” I looked down at her hand on my arm, then up at her face. A dry, humorless laugh escaped me. “Oh, now you’re worried about me?” I asked. “But Cherry… you’re the one who hired her for twenty bucks.” Her hand slipped off my sleeve as she froze. My phone vibrated in my palm. “I’m downstairs at the administration building,” the message from the photographer said. “Don’t worry, Jude. I’m going to set this straight.”

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My first day out of prison. I received a call from my husband. Or rather, the eighteen-year-old version of him. “Mae, are we married now? Did I cry like a baby at our wedding?” The boy’s voice was bright, bubbling with anticipation, answering his own question before I could even find my voice: “I love you so much, I bet I was a total mess.” “Oh, and our brilliant Mae—you must be a world-class surgeon by now, right? And me? Am I a captain yet? Flying those massive commercial jets?” I looked down at my right hand, a landscape of jagged, angry red scars. Then I looked through the glass window of the hospital room, watching the man he had actually become gently feeding another woman soup. I smiled, though it felt like tearing open a fresh wound. “You sent me to prison,” I whispered into the receiver. “I can’t even hold a scalpel anymore. And you? You became a lying, cheating coward. Someone who makes me sick.” Before he could reply, I hung up. I remembered what he had told me when we were eighteen. Mae, no matter what happens, you have to keep moving forward. … My phone rang and vibrated relentlessly, buzzing in my palm like a dying insect. I shut it off entirely. Then, I knocked on the heavy wooden door of the private hospital room. The moment Chase saw me, his body went rigid. His first instinct was to step forward, shielding the woman in the bed. “Maeve,” he said, his voice tight. “What are you doing here? Haven’t you done enough?” Behind him, the woman shrank back into the pillows, her pale face a picture of fragile innocence. Serena. His co-pilot. His constant shadow. “Maeve… I’m so sorry,” Serena whimpered. “It’s my fault. If I had just listened to you, you wouldn’t have gone to jail. I’m so, so sorry…” Hearing her say the word jail sent a sharp, phantom ache shooting through my right wrist. Every scar beneath my sleeve throbbed, reminding me of the horror of the past seven days. But it was over. Finally. “Have you signed the papers?” I asked. My voice was steadier than I expected. His expression shifted, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. He clearly hadn’t expected me to come here looking for a divorce. “Maeve, you’re the one who crossed the line. Why are you making a scene—” “Have you signed them?” I cut him off. Serena reached out, her fingers catching the hem of Chase’s sweater. “Chase, please don’t fight with her because of me.” Irritation flashed in Chase’s eyes. “Maeve, Serena and I are not what you think.” “I’m not signing those papers.” “Go home. Once I’m done here, I’ll come find you and we’ll talk.” A dry, humorless laugh escaped my throat. Not what I think. Then what was it? A week ago, Serena had been scheduled for emergency abdominal surgery. I was her attending surgeon. I had given strict, explicit orders: no food, no liquids. NPO. Yet during the procedure, the moment the anesthesia began to take effect, she aspirated. She had secretly drank milk the night before. She choked, suffocated, and coded on the table. We brought her back, but she ended up in the ICU. When Chase found out she was in critical condition, he didn’t ask for an explanation. He didn’t care about medical records. He marched straight into my department, in front of all my colleagues, and slapped me across the face. The rumors about him and Serena had been swirling since the day she joined the airline. I had ignored them. We had been together since we were eighteen. High school sweethearts. I was utterly convinced he would never betray me. But reality was a cruel teacher. The very next day, a photo of them kissing in the back of a taxi went viral online. Chase had knelt before me, weeping, slapping his own face over and over, begging for forgiveness, swearing he was drunk. I believed him. I forgave him. But that slap in the hospital corridor? That was different. That was a physical declaration of where his loyalty lay. In that moment, years of repressed betrayal and humiliation erupted. I screamed at him like a wild animal. I stormed into Serena’s room and yanked her oxygen line right out of the wall. I wanted him to see what actual cruelty looked like. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated rage. And the consequences were immediate. Chase filed charges. Attempted murder. He used his connections to put his own wife in jail. Those seven days in that concrete hell became the defining nightmare of my life. And when I got out? A termination letter from the hospital was waiting for me. My career was dead. My right wrist was ruined, the nerves severed. And worst of all… A secret I never got to tell him. The child I lost, beaten out of me on the cold prison floor. My wrist flared with pain again. My face grew pale, and I looked at him with cold disgust. “If it’s not what I think, then what is it, Chase? Tell me. Explain it to me.” Chase opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Serena let out a soft, delicate cough. Instantly, Chase forgot about me. He spun around, leaning over her bed, his voice so tender it made my skin crawl. “Where does it hurt? Should I call the nurse?” His back was turned to me. His shoulders were broad, his posture straight, draped in the light grey cashmere sweater I had handpicked for his birthday. In that second, a memory of eighteen-year-old Chase washed over me. He was wearing his faded high school varsity jacket, standing on the rooftop of the science building, looking at me with fierce devotion: “Mae, I swear to God, I will never let anyone hurt you. Not even myself.” I had teased him: “And what if you do?” His face had gone dead serious. “If I ever hurt you, Mae, you hit me. You scream at me. You get your revenge. And then you run. You run as far away from me as you can, and you never look back. But,” he hesitated, leaning in to press a quick, breathless kiss to my cheek, his ears turning bright red, “I’ll never give you a reason to run.” I had laughed, pushing him away. “If you ever do, Chase, I’ll make sure you can never find me again.” A bitter ache bloomed in my chest. I snapped back to the sterile light of the hospital room. There he was. Facing away from me, comforting another woman. The corners of my mouth curled into a faint smile. I reached into my bag, pulled out a fresh, signed copy of the divorce agreement, and placed it on the bedside table. “I printed another copy. Sign it and mail it to this address.” I placed a lawyer’s business card on top of the documents. “The division of assets is attached. If you have a problem with it, have your lawyer call mine.” Chase’s shoulders stiffened. He slowly turned around, his eyes dark and turbulent. “Maeve,” he said, his voice rough and low. “Are you seriously doing this? We’re going to end a ten-year marriage over a petty misunderstanding?” A petty misunderstanding. Seven days in a jail cell. A shattered wrist. A dead baby. And he called it a petty misunderstanding. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and forced a polite smile. “In all the years we’ve been together, Chase, when have I ever joked about something like this?” “Just sign it. It’s better for you. For me,” I glanced at Serena, who was watching us like a hawk, “and for her.” Chase’s expression hardened into ice. He grabbed the papers off the table and tore them into shreds. “Get that out of your head,” he spat, throwing the paper scraps onto the floor. “I’m not divorcing you.” “Your mental state is completely shot right now. Go home. We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down.” Having delivered his ultimatum, he dismissed me entirely, turning back to Serena to adjust her blankets. I stood there for a long moment, staring at the shredded paper on the linoleum. My eyes burned, but I didn’t let the tears fall. “Fine. I’ll see you in court.” I turned and walked out. The damp autumn air hit me as I stepped out of the lobby. I pulled out my phone and powered it on. Instantly, hundreds of missed calls and text messages flooded the screen. I scrolled through them numbly. They were all from an unknown number, but the words belonged to a boy I used to know. “Mae, you’re lying to me, right? There’s no way I’d ever betray you. I’d never put you in jail. I love you too much.” “Mae, please answer me. Don’t ignore me, I’m begging you.” The tone shifted from frantic disbelief to absolute devastation. “Mae, do you remember what I told you?” “If I ever hurt you, you have to get your revenge.” “And then, keep running. Don’t ever look back.” “Mae, I’m going to break up with eighteen-year-old you. I won’t let anyone hurt you—not even my future self. I promise.” A cold rain began to fall, blurring my vision. I couldn’t tell if it was the rain or my own tears. But the last message on the screen remained piercingly clear: “Mae. Keep running. Don’t look back.” Three days before our scheduled court date, the process server delivered the papers to Chase. That night, my phone rang. It was him. “Maeve, I’m not admitting to any affair,” he said, his voice cold and defensive. “Nothing happened between Serena and me, except for that one accidental kiss when I was drunk.” “Besides, Serena has a boyfriend. He’s one of my closest friends. Do you really think I’d sleep with my buddy’s girl?” “I’m not accepting these papers, and I’m sure as hell not showing up in court. Stop this childish drama.” “Captain, we’re cleared for pre-flight check,” a soft, familiar voice called out in the background. Chase’s tone softened instantly as he answered her, before returning to his cold, dismissive drawl with me. “I’m going to be busy flying for the next few days. I’ll come over and explain everything when I get back.” Before I could say a word, he hung up. I stared at the black screen and typed out a single message: “I’m not dropping the suit, Chase. I expect to see you there.” As expected, it went unanswered. Over the next three days, there was nothing but silence from his end. Instead, I saw Serena’s public social media updates. The first post: A selfie of her and Chase in the cockpit, cruising at thirty thousand feet. The caption read: “Always feel so safe sleeping when my Captain is at the controls.” The second post: A grid of gourmet food photos. The caption: “Just landed in Seattle. Big thanks to my Captain for the late-night room service delivery!” The third post: A close-up of a hand with scraped, bruised knuckles. I recognized those hands instantly—they belonged to Chase. Serena’s caption: “Some creep tried to hassle me at the terminal, and my Captain literally knocked three of his teeth out. My hero’s hand is hurt now. So much love for him!” And there was more. Chase, who despised shopping more than anything, had spent an entire day accompanying her through luxury boutiques in Seattle. Chase, who never touched sweet drinks, had stood in a trendy boba line for three hours just to share a cup with her. If this wasn’t betrayal, what was? I laughed aloud, the sound dissolving into quiet tears. I didn’t sleep at all that night. When morning came, I washed my face, tried to soothe my swollen eyes, and headed to the courthouse. By ten o’clock, there was still no sign of Chase. My lawyer, Mr. Kelly, sighed, tapping his pen against his briefcase. “Mrs. Callahan, do you want to postpone, or should we proceed?” My ears buzzed with a dull, ringing sound. I barely heard him. My eyes were locked onto a fresh notification on my phone. Serena had just posted again. It was a photo of an ultrasound sheet. Six weeks pregnant. The caption read: “An unexpected little miracle with my Captain. He says he loves babies and wants me to keep it a secret for now.” Below it, a small, gray text added: “Only visible to Maeve.” My face went entirely bloodless. My fingers shook so violently I nearly dropped the phone. Why? Why did her baby get to grow safely inside her, while mine had been violently torn from me on a cold concrete floor? I stood up so fast my chair scraped loudly against the floorboards, and I stormed out of the courthouse. I drove straight to the hospital. By some cruel stroke of fate, I ran into Chase and Serena just as they were walking out of the lobby. I didn’t think. I lunged forward, putting every ounce of my strength into a slap that caught Chase squarely across the face. “Chase! Why couldn’t it have been you who died?” I screamed. The force of the blow turned his head to the side, his cheek blooming into a sharp red welt. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes, and he took a step toward me. “Maeve, wait, let me explain. It’s not what you think. Serena and I—” “I don’t want to hear another word!” I shrieked, tears blinding me. “What lies are you going to tell me this time, Chase? Another accident? Do you even hear yourself? Aren’t you disgusted by your own voice? If you’re man enough to do it, why can’t you just admit it—” “Fine! I did it!” Chase roared, his patience snapping. “It’s exactly what you think, Maeve! Serena and I have done everything. We’ve held hands, we’ve kissed, we’ve slept together! More times than I can count!” The world seemed to tilt. The breath was knocked clean out of my lungs. Chase let out a cold, venomous laugh. “Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you happy now? I don’t love you anymore, Maeve. I haven’t in a long time.” “Look at you. You’ve aged. You’re miserable. You’re exhausting. Standing next to you makes me feel sick to my stomach. I dread coming home to look at you. The only thing keeping me with you was obligation, and you just blew that to pieces.” “Are you satisfied? Do you have any more questions?” My lips parted, but my throat was too dry to produce a single syllable. Chase stepped closer, his voice dripping with condescension. “Seriously, Maeve. You’ve been with me since you were eighteen. You married me at twenty-two. You’re twenty-eight now. We’ve been together for ten years. Do you actually think you can survive without me? What are you going to do?” “Go back to being a surgeon? Look at your hand. And after you ripped out Serena’s oxygen line, what hospital in this country would ever hire a mentally unstable doctor like you?” “Why couldn’t you just look the other way? Why did you have to dig until you ruined everything for both of us?” “Chase, please, don’t talk to her like that,” Serena sobbed, stepping forward with tear-filled eyes. She looked at me, her expression a mask of performative guilt. “Maeve, I’m so sorry. Please don’t be angry at him. This is all my fault. I’m the shameless one…” “Serena, stay out of this,” Chase snapped, though his hand instinctively went to her waist. “No, it is my fault,” Serena cried, reaching out to grab my arm. “Maeve, please, I—ah!” I instinctively shook her off. It wasn’t a hard shove. But Serena stumbled backward, losing her footing and striking her side hard against the edge of a concrete planter. Within seconds, dark red blood began to seep through her light-colored trousers. “Serena!” Chase’s face drained of color. He whipped around, and before I could even register the movement, his hand collided violently with my cheek. The force of the slap sent me stumbling back. “Maeve! You’re a fucking lunatic!” I felt something warm trickling down the corner of my mouth. I stood frozen, my mind completely blank. Chase lunged forward, grabbing my right wrist in a vice grip, ready to scream at me again. But as his fingers dug into my flesh, he froze. Beneath his palm, he felt the thick, uneven ridges of scar tissue. He let go, staring at my wrist, his voice suddenly faltering. “Your hand… what happened to your hand?” Without a word, I reached into my bag, pulled out the crumpled divorce agreement, and threw it in his face. “I hope I never see your face again as long as I live,” I whispered. Chase’s expression darkened, his jaw clenching. “You really want this?” “Yes.” He stared at me for what felt like an eternity, his eyes burning with a mixture of rage and wounded pride. “Fine!” he spat. “You want a divorce? You got it. Let’s see how long you last on your own. Just don’t you dare come crawling back to me.” As we parted ways, two ghosts from a decade ago—eighteen-year-old Chase and eighteen-year-old Maeve—stood in the shadow of the corridor, watching the wreckage of their future.

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