Author: Momo Chan

1 Rachel insisted on keeping our marriage hidden from the world. She made me delete our wedding photo captioned “To the rest of our lives,” calling it childish. On our third anniversary, I stood in a freezing parking garage for three hours with her favorite flowers after she walked away from her office entrance, texting that I’d humiliate her in front of employees. I convinced myself she was just shy and reserved, that I should be more understanding. Then last week, her old phone lit up. A notification read “1,500 days together” with a photo of her and Dylan, the underprivileged student she’d sponsored through college, cheek to cheek at Disneyland. I had used my own connections to get Dylan a corporate job. At his welcome dinner, he’d raised a glass and called me “big bro.” Scrolling through her secret account, I found four years of daily posts about him. Their first hot pot, first snowfall, first ferris wheel. Every caption dripped with a giddy sweetness she had never once shown me. Blood rushed from my head. I powered off the phone and placed it back in the drawer. If she didn’t want the world to see me, then I no longer wanted her to see me either. … That night, I sat on the floor of the study until dawn, scrolling through her alt account over and over again. On Valentine’s Day this year, I had booked a table at a Michelin-starred restaurant six months in advance. But at the last minute, Rachel texted me saying she had an urgent emergency at work and told me not to wait up. I ended up giving the reservation to another couple, sitting in my cold kitchen eating instant noodles while texting her: “Don’t push yourself too hard at work, babe. If it ever gets too exhausting, I can support us both.” She never replied. Yet on her secret account posted that exact same night, she was leaning head on Dylan’s arm. Her caption read: [Our fourth Valentine’s Day together. Thank you for making me believe in love.] Below it, Dylan had commented: [You don’t just believe in love. You are my love.] The next morning, Rachel walked out of the master bedroom in her silk robe. Seeing me sitting on the couch with dark circles under my eyes, her brow furrowed immediately. Her first words were not of concern. “Why are you still sitting there? Is breakfast ready?” I nodded silently, pointing toward the dining table. She hummed a response, sitting down to eat while staring intently at her phone. Her fingers flew across the screen, and the corners of her mouth curved into a soft, tender arc. I knew that smile all too well. Whenever she was texting on her phone, that gentle expression would invariably appear. In the past, I would have asked her what good news had put her in such a wonderful mood. And she would inevitably brush me off with a cold, “It’s nothing.” This time, I finally knew who she was talking to. And I no longer cared to ask. At ten in the morning, a priority notification chimed on my phone. Rachel had made a public post on her main account: [Grateful for the company’s trust. Today, I am officially promoted to General Manager of Marketing at Apex Group!] The comment section was flooded with congratulations from her professional circle. I typed two simple words in the comments: [Congratulations!] Three minutes later, my phone rang. The second I picked up, Rachel’s sharp voice blasted through the speaker. “Did you comment on my post again?” “How many times have I told you not to mix our personal relationship with my career? My executives and clients can see that!” I went quiet for three seconds before speaking in a flat tone. “I already deleted it.” Noticing the unusual coldness in my voice, her tone softened just a fraction. “Don’t do it again. I just got promoted, and I need to maintain my professional image. Can’t you just be reasonable for once?” After hanging up, I scrolled through an official press release published by Apex Group. [Apex Group Lands Multi-Million Dollar Contract with Ellington Enterprises; Marketing GM Rachel Plays Key Role] The cover photo featured her standing at the signing ceremony, sharp, gorgeous, and glowing with confidence. The article lavished five thousand words of praise on her brilliance and tactical leadership, even extending thanks to the company’s internal logistics team. There was not a single word mentioning me. Yet the only reason that contract was signed was because of me. Three months ago, Mr. Ellington had slammed the initial proposal back onto the table, declaring that Apex Group’s work was complete garbage. Rachel had been so frantic with stress that cold sores broke out around her mouth. It was me who mobilized six years of hard-won industry connections, calling in every favor I was owed. Mr. Ellington didn’t care about proposals; he cared about drinking. I accompanied him to high-end lounges three nights in a row, drinking until the early hours of the morning. On the third night, I suffered acute stomach bleeding and was rushed to the emergency room by my colleagues. I spent two days alone in the hospital hooked up to an IV drip. Rachel came to visit me once for forty minutes. During that visit, she took eight business calls. As she left, she merely said, “I won’t be home for dinner tonight.” I stared at that press release for a long time. Then, I dialed the personal number of my company’s Vice President, Vernon. “Vernon, about that long-term transfer to the London branch… I’ll take it.” Vernon gasped over the line, completely stunned. “Are you serious? A few years ago during your peak, the board asked for you three times, and you refused every single time because you said you couldn’t bear to leave your wife.” I let out a soft laugh. “Yeah. I’ve thought it through now.” That afternoon, an invitation arrived in my inbox from Apex Group. [Dear Family Member of Rachel: You are cordially invited to attend Apex Group’s Annual Celebration Gala tonight!] A faint glimmer of hope flickered in my heart. Maybe Rachel did care after all. I was her lawful husband, and for a major corporate event like this, it made sense that she wanted me by her side. I took half a day off work, put on the tailored navy suit Rachel had bought me years ago, and adjusted my tie in the mirror before heading out. By the time I arrived, the grand ballroom was already packed with guests. I flipped through the guest directory at the VIP sign-in desk, but my name was nowhere to be found. I asked the receptionist. She scanned her computer screen, then looked up at me with a polite, confused smile. “Ms. Rachel only registered one family member under her name, a Mr. Dylan. May I ask who you are?” Before I could answer, a few female voices chuckled behind me. “Oh, look who it is!” It was a few women from Rachel’s marketing department whom I had seen from a distance before. “I’m Rachel’s husband,” I said calmly. The women exchanged amused glances, one of them covering her mouth to hide a smirk. “Oh, right! Rachel mentions you all the time, saying you make fantastic home-cooked meals.” Another woman chimed in, her voice pitched just loud enough for the surrounding crowd to hear. “Honestly, I thought Rachel was single. I’ve never seen her bring her husband to anything. She always brings young Dylan to every event, so I thought those two were…” Before she could finish her sentence, her friends nudged her, and they walked off giggling. I stood at the entrance, leaving the sign-in sheet blank. Beside the label reading Family of Rachel, Dylan’s signature was already neatly written. I walked into the dimly lit ballroom and found an empty chair in the very back row. The stage lights brightened. Rachel stepped up to the podium wearing a stunning black evening gown, looking sleek and commanding. Thunderous applause erupted throughout the room. She began her speech. “I want to thank my incredible team, especially Dylan. From his days as an intern to now, he has been my most trusted partner. Without him, today’s achievement would not have been possible.” A spotlight swept across the audience, settling on Dylan. Dressed in a sharp suit, he stood up and bowed gracefully toward the stage. The look in Rachel’s eyes as she gazed down at him was one I knew intimately. It was filled with pride, affection, and that subtle upward curve of her lips, the exact same expression she had while typing into her old phone. Another round of applause filled the room. Sitting in the darkest corner of the back row, my mind drifted back to three months ago, lying in the ER, holding up my own IV bottle with one hand while sending her a text: Ellington agreed to the deal. Don’t worry anymore. Her reply back then had been a single word: K. Halfway through the dinner, I stepped out to use the restroom. Passing by the secluded hallway near the balcony, I heard Rachel’s voice. She was talking to her close friend, Samantha. Samantha asked her, “Did your husband come tonight? Why didn’t you bring him to an event like this?” Rachel paused briefly. “Why would he come? He doesn’t fit into occasions like this anyway. If he came, he’d just sit in a corner awkwardly.” Samantha countered, “He’s your husband after all. He helped you secure that massive contract. What’s wrong with introducing him around?” Rachel lowered her voice, a slight edge of disdain creeping into her tone. “Sam, you know as well as I do that he isn’t someone I can show off. The major clients and corporate partners are all here tonight. If I introduce him and they ask what he does, what am I supposed to say? That tiny little firm of his isn’t even worth mentioning!” Samantha let out a light laugh. “It’s not that bad, is it? He seems to be doing decent for himself.” “Doing decent and being presentable are two completely different things,” Rachel replied casually, as if talking about an irrelevant piece of furniture. “Do you have any idea how presentable Dylan is? Not only is he handsome, but he’s also sharp and charming. He’s entirely different from my man.” I leaned back against the cold wall, feeling an overwhelming tightness in my chest. It wasn’t sharp pain, but a suffocating weight. You break your back trying to give someone dignity, only for them to feel embarrassed by your very existence in front of the world. When we got married, I was indeed broke. The wedding and expenses totaled nearly three hundred thousand dollars. I maxed out three credit cards and borrowed from every friend I knew to pull it off. Back then, she had held my hand and said, “I’m marrying you for who you are, not your money.” I believed her for four years. After marriage, I worked myself to the bone. By the second year, I had cleared every single debt. Aside from taking full responsibility for our mortgage and car loans, I transferred two thousand dollars to her parents every single month without fail. I genuinely thought she didn’t care about material status. In the end, she still looked down on me for being poor. Not because of where I stood today, but because in her heart, I would forever remain that broke kid who couldn’t even afford a proper wedding. I didn’t return to the gala. Instead, I walked down to the parking garage, got into my car, and sat silently in the dark. My phone vibrated with a new notification. It was an email from my company containing my flight details. My flight to London was scheduled for next Monday. Six days from now. I didn’t know what time Rachel came home that night, but she stayed in the study for a long time before coming to bed. Early the next morning, Rachel shook me awake. “Derek, hurry up and pack your things.” Every Sunday, going back to my in-laws’ house for lunch was an unwritten rule of our four-year marriage. This Sunday was no exception. I carried armfuls of expensive gift boxes through their front door and greeted them respectfully. “Dad, Mom, we’re back.” My father-in-law sat on the couch reading the morning paper, not even bothering to lift his eyelids. “Mm.” My mother-in-law poked her head out of the kitchen. “Derek, come in here and wash the vegetables.” “Sure.” I immediately walked into the kitchen. My mother-in-law dumped a basket of greens into the sink and wiped her hands against her apron. “Derek, how many employees do you have at that company of yours now?” I washed the leaves under running water and replied, “About twenty-five. Our revenue doubled this year.” “Mm,” my mother-in-law replied indifferently. “Small-time operations, as long as you can feed yourself. Rachel is climbing higher and higher in her corporate career, so you need to step up your game too. Don’t be the dead weight dragging her down from behind.” I kept my head down and didn’t respond. “Alright, get to chopping. There are eight dishes today. Make sure to add extra vinegar to the sweet and sour pork, Rachel likes it tangy.” She turned and left the kitchen. I stayed in the kitchen alone, washing, chopping, prepping, and cooking. From ten in the morning until nearly one in the afternoon, not a single person stepped inside to check on me. When I finally carried the last dish out to the dining room, I froze in my tracks. An extra person had arrived in the living room. “Hey, bro!” Dylan was sitting comfortably on the couch, laughing brightly as he helped my father-in-law set up a brand-new tablet. I didn’t reply. Seeing me stand frozen with the dish in my hands, my mother-in-law smiled warmly. “Oh right, Dylan dropped by for lunch today. I forgot to mention it to you.” She then turned to Dylan with a beaming smile. “Dylan, try this sweet and sour pork. Derek made it, his cooking is actually quite good.” Dylan picked up a piece with his chopsticks, his eyes lighting up. “Delicious! Bro, your cooking is incredible.” He flashed a boyish grin at me. “Rachel always tells me how amazing your food is.” Rachel gave him a light glare from the side. “Who are you calling Rachel? Stop pretending to be so formal!” Dylan stuck his tongue out playfully. “Well, bro is right here…” My father-in-law laid down his newspaper and chimed in, “Dylan, Rachel told me about your stellar performance at work recently. Keep up the good work!” He then shifted his gaze toward me, his tone dropping into a starkly different, stern register. “Is your little company still operating out of that run-down office space?” I nodded slightly. My father-in-law let out a heavy sigh. “You’re not getting any younger. Stop wasting your time on those dead-end ventures.” My mother-in-law quickly added, “Exactly. Look at Dylan here, such a wonderful boy. He knows how to be grateful and comes to visit us every week.” She cast a dismissive glance in my direction. “Unlike some people, who run around pretending to be busy all day without anything to show for it.” A heavy silence fell over the dining table for a couple of seconds before my father-in-law spoke up again. “Derek, don’t blame us for being brutally honest.” “When Rachel insisted on marrying you back then, we knew it wasn’t a good match.” “It’s not that we look down on you, but the gap between you two is simply too wide.” He glanced at Dylan, then back at me. “Look at Dylan. Even though he came from a poor background, he has ambition, real drive, and talent. In the future, he’ll definitely be worthy of…” He cut himself off mid-sentence. But everyone at the table knew exactly what he was about to say. Rachel let out two artificial coughs to break the tension. “Let’s just eat.” For the rest of the meal, I didn’t say another word, nor could I find a way into their conversation. Once lunch was finished, Rachel looked up and said to me coolly, “You go home first. Dylan and I are staying to watch a movie with my parents.” I nodded silently, put on my jacket, and walked out the door. The moment I stepped out of the apartment building, I pulled out my phone and sent a text to my lawyer: [Draft a divorce agreement for me. As fast as humanly possible.] By Thursday evening, I returned home early to gather the final confirmation documents for the London project. As I unlocked the front door, I caught the sound of Rachel’s voice coming from the master bedroom. She was on the phone, her voice hushed to a whisper. “Mom, I know… I’m going to the clinic tomorrow to confirm it.” “Don’t tell anyone yet. I haven’t figured out how to break it to him… This baby came out of nowhere, I’m completely overwhelmed myself.” I stood in the entryway, my hand frozen on the doorknob. My heart slammed against my ribs. A baby. We were going to have a child. I was going to be a father. In that split second, a barrage of thoughts flooded my mind. Maybe everything could go back to the way it used to be. Maybe a child would soften her heart and change her. We could go to prenatal checkups together and design the nursery side by side. Maybe I could even reconsider the London transfer… The very next sentence out of her mouth plunged me straight into a pit of ice. “Dylan doesn’t know I’m carrying his baby yet.” “I know. I’ll handle Derek on my end. Don’t worry, Mom, I know what I’m doing.” I stood rooted to the spot, entirely motionless. It felt as though someone had drained every drop of warm blood from my body and replaced it with freezing slush. The baby belonged to Dylan. A few seconds after hanging up with her mother, I heard Rachel dial another number. This time, her voice transformed completely. It was filled with a soft, coquettish sweetness that I had never once heard in our four years together. “Dylan, I have incredible news for you.” “I’m pregnant. It’s yours.” The person on the other end said something, making her giggle softly. “I’m going to file for divorce with Derek, don’t worry.” “Once the paperwork goes through, we can finally be together in the open.” However, no matching joy came from the speaker. Dylan remained silent for a painfully long moment. “You’re… pregnant?” Rachel’s tone shifted instantly, laced with anxiety. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you happy?” Dylan finally spoke, his voice sounding entirely detached. “I’m only twenty-six. I’m still young, Rachel. I don’t want to be trapped by a child and a marriage right now.” Rachel’s voice turned instantly cold. “What do you mean by that? Are you saying you won’t take responsibility?” Dylan launched into a long explanation. Separated by the heavy bedroom door, I couldn’t hear every detail, but I could hear Rachel’s breathing grow heavier and heavier, eventually turning into suppressed sobs. Then, I heard Dylan’s final proposal. His idea was simple: let Derek raise the child for now, and when the timing was right in the future, he would step in and take over. The bedroom fell into a suffocating silence for so long that I thought she had hung up the phone. Finally, Rachel spoke, her voice raspy and broken. “…Fine. That’s the only way.” At that exact moment, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text from Rachel. [Babe, come home early tonight. I have something really important to tell you.] [I have a big surprise for you!] She had even attached a red heart emoji at the end of the message. Standing in the entryway, a wave of dark absurdity washed over me. My wife was pregnant with another man’s child. That man rejected her. So she turned right back around to force me to take the fall. And she called that a surprise. I stared at that little red heart emoji for a long time. In four years of marriage, this was the very first time she had ever sent me a heart emoji. Only because another man didn’t want her anymore. I typed out a single line in response: [Great. I’ve prepared a surprise for you, too.] After pressing send, I messaged my executive assistant, instructing him to rebook my Monday flight to London to the earliest available flight today. Then, I grabbed my pre-packed suitcase, walked out, and pulled the door shut behind me. At seven in the evening, Rachel walked through the front door carrying bags of groceries, calling out with a forced smile. “Babe! I’m back! I have something to tell you!” “I’m preg…” Her voice sliced off instantly. The apartment was deathly quiet and completely empty. On the dining table sat a single set of keys and a copy of the divorce agreement.

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I wrapped up my Paris acquisition early and flew back home without telling a soul. My plan was to go straight to my daughter’s engagement banquet and give her a surprise. Instead, standing right outside the grand ballroom, I stared at the bride’s name on the gilded welcome sign: Jane Prescott. Behind me, guests from the groom’s side were chuckling among themselves. “Now that is a real heiress of the Prescott family.” “Unlike that girl Elinor. She’s just an orphan living off the Prescott family’s charity, yet she had the nerve to crash the event and claim the family wanted to call off the engagement. What a complete joke!” “Jane has such a gentle heart. Anyone else would have kicked Elinor out on the street days ago.” Elinor was my daughter. Jane was merely the orphan my family foundation sponsored. Yet somehow, the entire groom’s side believed Jane was the true Prescott heiress, while my actual daughter was treated like a shameless gold-digger trying to climb the social ladder. I pulled out my phone and dialed my board secretary’s private number. “Run a check for me immediately,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “I want to know who stole my daughter’s identity and her engagement while I was in Paris.” 1 The entire penthouse ballroom at The Grand Carlton had been booked out by the Mercer family. Champagne towers, archways of fresh orchids, a dedicated press gallery, and reserved tables for major corporate partners, no expense had been spared. The backdrop behind the main stage displayed four glaring words: The Mercer-Prescott Union. Word on the street in Linton was that the Mercer Group’s cash flow had been dangerously tight lately. Tonight wasn’t just a simple engagement party for them; it was their lifeline. I stood in the side hallway, observing from the shadows. A few women in cocktail dresses were sipping champagne nearby. “Isn’t Victoria Prescott still in Paris?” one asked. “That’s why the Mercers are so smart,” another replied with a smirk. “Announce the engagement publicly first. By the time Victoria gets back, the kid will already be on the way. How could she possibly refuse to acknowledge her own son-in-law then?” “Jane’s pregnancy came at the perfect time. The Mercer Group is completely safe now.” A third woman let out a contemptuous laugh. “What about Elinor then? I saw security stopping her at the side entrance just a moment ago.” “What can she do? A charity case who got too comfortable, actually convincing herself she’s a real Prescott.” The temperature in my blood dropped to near zero. At that moment, the doors to the bridal suite opened. Jane stepped out. She wore a pearl-white evening gown, one hand resting softly over her belly. Her makeup was delicate, her eyes artificially reddened to look soft and fragile. A crowd immediately swarmed around her. “Miss Prescott, congratulations!” “Zachary is so devoted to you. This setup is absolutely breathtaking.” “A girl raised by the Prescott family really is built different. No wonder the Mercer family treasures you so much.” Jane lowered her gaze, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Please don’t call me that. If Elinor hears it, it’ll make her uncomfortable.” Someone immediately jumped to her defense. “Why should she feel uncomfortable? Your family raised her for years, and now she wants to steal your fiance? People receiving charity should know their place. Jane, you’re just too kind for your own good.” Jane didn’t add another word. She simply offered a delicate, tearful smile. I reached out and stopped a young businessman walking past me. “Excuse me. Is tonight’s bride the daughter of Victoria Prescott?” He looked me up and down. “Of course. Jane Prescott.” “Are you certain?” He laughed. “What’s there to doubt? She carries the Prescott name, rides in the family’s private cars, and her social media is packed with photos inside the Prescott estate, private jets, and board galas. Zachary himself confirmed she’s the sole heir to Prescott Enterprise.” He leaned in closer, dropping his voice. “She keeps a low profile, though. Whenever people call her Miss Prescott, she tells them not to make a fuss.” “What about Elinor?” I asked. The man’s expression twisted into disgust. “Oh, her? Word is she’s just an orphan funded by the Prescott Foundation. Guess she lived in their mansion for too long and started pretending she owned the place. She even tried to crash the party tonight to cause a scene.” I didn’t bother asking anything else. Over by the side entrance, Elinor was standing near the security checkpoint. She wore a simple black dress, holding her ID card and an invitation, blocked by two burly security guards. “Apologies, ma’am,” the guard said coldly. “Our guest list specifically notes that you are barred from entering the main hall.” Elinor’s voice was soft, but steady. “The invitation specifies family members of the Prescott house. My last name is Prescott.” The guard remained impassive. “Mrs. Mercer specifically instructed us that you are a high-risk disturbance.” The second guard sneered impatiently. “Miss Jane is pregnant. Don’t stress her out. If you want to wait, go sit in the holding room down the hall. Don’t block the camera crew.” Elinor’s face went completely pale. She didn’t scream or make a scene. She simply clutched her ID card tightly in her palm. My daughter, standing outside an engagement party meant for her, was labeled as a trashy intruder while a fraud stole her life. I almost rushed over to hold her. But I forced myself to stop. Holding her right now would only bring her tears. I needed every single person inside that hall to see who the real joke was. I looked back at Jane, who was surrounded by applause, softly rubbing her belly while accepting blessings. Then I looked at Elinor, standing alone outside the doors of her own home’s legacy. A cold laughter boiled in my chest. The Mercer family thought they could corner me into backing their loans tonight. They had no idea that I detest being cornered. And I especially detest parasites using my daughter’s dignity as a stepping stone. 2 I pulled out my phone and sent a rapid series of texts to my chief of staff, Simon. [Freeze all security footage from the hotel.] [Retrieve the event itinerary, security rosters, press releases, and Mercer Group’s latest financing pitch decks.] [Have legal prepare all evidence for screen projection.] [Ensure no key guests at tonight’s head tables leave early.] Simon replied almost instantly: [Understood, Ms. Prescott.] With three hours left before the official ceremony, I checked into a private suite on the twenty-sixth floor. When Simon and my head of legal, Dominic, arrived, they didn’t even have time to take off their coats. Simon placed an iPad in front of me. “Ms. Prescott, Jane didn’t come up with this overnight.” The first slide showed a social media post from Jane three years ago. The photo was taken inside the glass botanical greenhouse on the north side of the Prescott estate. Caption: Mom pushed me to come home for dinner again. In the original photo, Elinor and I were standing right next to the floral racks. When Jane posted it, she cropped us out completely, leaving only the iconic greenhouse that everyone in high society recognized. The second slide showed her posing inside a luxury vehicle. Caption: My driver says traffic is terrible today. The license plate belonged to Elinor’s private security detail. The third slide featured a dusty-blue haute couture gown. It was a one-of-a-kind piece I had personally bought for Elinor’s twentieth birthday at an auction in Geneva. Jane’s caption read: My closet is overflowing. Mom is forcing me to clear out some space again. She never outright stated, “I am Victoria Prescott’s daughter.” She just casually mentioned “Mom.” She never outright said, “This is my car.” She just referred to the “driver.” She never blatantly declared herself the heiress. She simply let people see her using the Prescott name, riding in Prescott cars, and standing inside the Prescott mansion. And she let society fill in the blanks for her. Dominic opened a secondary file. “Jane’s original name was Jane Jiang. She legally changed her surname to Prescott at age nineteen.” Her official application reason was smoothly written: Deeply grateful for the Prescott Foundation’s support, wishing to honor the name. Yet buried deep in the original charity agreement, printed in stark black and white, were three explicit terms: Does not constitute legal adoption. Does not establish familial status. Grants no rights to Prescott Group equity, family trusts, or inheritance. I stared at those terms, letting out a sharp laugh. She hid the three most critical legal clauses, while dangling the name “Prescott” in front of the world. “What about the Mercer family?” I asked. Simon’s expression darkened further. “In the pitch deck the Mercer Group sent to several commercial banks, they attached tonight’s itinerary. The header explicitly declares a ‘Mercer-Prescott Union,’ complete with a forged summary of an intent-to-partner agreement with Prescott Enterprise.” Dominic added, “The corporate seal on that summary was digitally spliced from old documents. It is entirely fraudulent.” In short, the Mercers weren’t just using this party to generate clout. They were using a fake endorsement to trick major banks into releasing credit lines. I scrolled down. In an email chain between the Mercers and their PR firm, one sentence stood out like a thorn: Victoria Prescott is still tied up in Paris and cannot deny it in person. Announce the union first, secure the signatures later. Leak the news of Jane’s pregnancy simultaneously. To protect their corporate reputation, the Prescotts will most likely accept it quietly. I slammed the tablet onto the glass table. “Ambitious little bastards, aren’t they?” Dominic handed over a security roster. Elinor’s name was highlighted in bold red text. Note column: Funded orphan. Suspected stalker obsessed with Zachary. Emotionally unstable. Forcefully detain and remove if she approaches the stage. Authorized signature: Vivian Mercer, Zachary’s mother. Attached was a voice note transcript she sent to the security chief: If she throws a tantrum, let the media film it. The messier, the better. It’ll prove to the public that she’s mentally unhinged. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, every trace of warmth in my chest had turned to ice. Half an hour later, I met Elinor in the service hallway on the lower level. The moment she saw me, she froze in her tracks. “Mom?” Her eyes turned red instantly. But a second later, panic flashed across her face as she instinctively looked behind me. “Why are you back early? Do the Mercers know? Did the press catch you?” A sharp pain pierced my heart. I pulled her into a tight embrace. “Elinor, look at me. What are you actually afraid of?” She remained rigid for a long time before whispering, “I’m not afraid.” I stepped back, looking straight into her eyes. “Then tell me.” “Why did the bride become Jane?” “Why were you stopped at the door?” “And why is everyone claiming that you are the charity case?” Elinor’s face drained of all color. Her lips trembled as tears finally spilled over her cheeks. “I told them the truth,” she choked out. “I really did… But they all said I was just jealous of her.” 3 Elinor’s story came out in quiet, broken sentences. The Mercer and Prescott families did have an old, informal understanding. Years ago, during a casual dinner between elders, someone had joked that if the children grew up and took a liking to each other, a union would be lovely. I had never taken that joke seriously, and neither had Elinor. After her very first meeting with Zachary Mercer, she came home and told me one thing: “Mom, he doesn’t look at me like a person. He looks at me like a piece of high-value collateral.” I was in the middle of closing the Paris acquisition at the time, so I told her to handle it according to her own wishes. She promptly and explicitly rejected his advances. Yet the Mercer family refused to take no for an answer. Dinner invitations, charity galas, horse races, art exhibitions, the invitations arrived in relentless waves. Elinor grew exasperated, but didn’t want to bother me while I was negotiating overseas. That was when Jane stepped up. Jane had said: “Elinor, if you don’t want to see him, I can go return his gifts for you. I’ll make it crystal clear to them so they stop harassing you.” Elinor believed her. Jane had taken the Prescott name and visited our estate frequently over the years, learning countless intimate details about our household. Elinor assumed she was simply acting as a polite buffer. Instead, the first time Jane met the Mercer family, Vivian Mercer had asked her: “Are you the Prescott girl?” Jane hadn’t denied it. She simply offered a shy, modest smile. “My family prefers me to keep a low profile. You can just call me Jane.” The second time, she rode in Elinor’s driver-driven car. The third time, she wore a designer dress borrowed from Elinor’s closet. By the fourth time, she accepted a diamond bracelet from Zachary, posting a photo online with the caption: Some arrangements simply cannot be avoided. When Elinor finally realized something was wrong and confronted her, Jane broke down in tears right in front of Zachary. “Elinor, are you angry that I met Zachary on your behalf? I was only trying to keep them from bothering you!” Zachary had frowned on the spot, scolding Elinor: “She’s been speaking up for you this whole time. Don’t be so venomous.” When Elinor told them that Jane was not the Prescott heiress, Vivian Mercer let out a cold sneer. “You’re just a parasite raised by the Prescotts. How dare you speak on behalf of their family?” From that day on, in the eyes of the Mercers, Elinor became an ungrateful, jealous orphan. Every time Elinor tried to clear her name, Jane would cry, softly whispering that “Elinor is just a bit sensitive.” Every explanation Elinor offered was twisted into proof of her bitter jealousy. To make matters worse, after Jane got pregnant, she sent a copy of her ultrasound directly to Elinor’s phone. Elinor, a child needs a father. You already have a mother, Prescott Enterprise, and a legacy. I have nothing except this baby. You never liked Zachary anyway. Can’t you just let me have this engagement? Elinor had texted back: An engagement isn’t a commodity. It can’t be handed off. Jane immediately cropped out her own message and forwarded Elinor’s response directly to Vivian Mercer. And so, rumor spread among high society that Elinor was so consumed by jealousy over Jane’s pregnancy that she was trying to force a miscarriage. Listening to her, my fingers clenched tightly into my palms. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Elinor lowered her head. “You were in Paris.” “The Mercers were watching our corporate movements, waiting for any sign of instability in your acquisition deal.” “Jane told me that if I made a public scene, your board would think you couldn’t even manage your own household, which would tank the negotiations.” She looked up at me, her eyes brimming with heartache. “Mom, I didn’t want to be a burden to you.” A lump formed in my throat. I had raised her to be thoughtful and considerate, so considerate that when she suffered severe injustice, her first instinct was not to ask for help, but to calculate my business risks. “Was I stupid?” Elinor asked softly. I wiped the tears from her face. “No.” “It’s my fault for keeping you out of the public eye to protect your privacy, without teaching you that even a quiet life requires fierce boundaries.” By early evening, Simon sent another file. Jane had used Elinor’s secondary security pass to enter the Prescott estate’s walk-in closet nine separate times. She had taken four haute couture gowns, two sets of high jewelry, and digital copies of over thirty family album photos. She had also attended two private Mercer family dinners under the explicit title of “Prescott Heiress.” Her identity on the sign-in sheet: Miss Prescott. Nobody had bothered to verify it. Because her surname was Prescott, and because the Mercer family desperately wanted to believe the lie. At six in the evening, Jane posted a new update: If even carrying the family name cannot prove my devotion, what else do I have left to give? The comment section was flooded with sympathy. Jane, don’t cry. You are a real Prescott! Elinor is utterly vile. Receiving charity from the Prescotts and still abusing a pregnant woman! You’re carrying his child now. No one can tear you and Zachary apart. Zachary commented below: I’m right here with you. Staring at those five words, a cold smile touched my lips. Oh, he would be right there, alright. Between the recorded audio, security logs, legal injunctions, and police reports, he wouldn’t miss a single second of what was coming. 4 At six-fifteen, I called Richard Mercer, Zachary’s father. He answered on the second ring, his tone unable to mask his rising excitement. “Ms. Prescott! You’re back in the country?” “Yes,” I replied calmly. “I’ll be taking the stage tonight to say a few words.” Richard let out an immediate, relieved laugh. “That’s wonderful news! With you making a personal appearance, any silly rumors circulating outside will be crushed.” I asked, “Who authorized your team to market tonight as the Mercer-Prescott Union?” He paused for a fraction of a second before chuckling smoothly. “Well, the young couple’s feelings have reached this stage, and with a baby on the way, we elders certainly shouldn’t stand in the way of love, should we?” “Besides, the child Miss Prescott is carrying shares Mercer blood.” He deliberately emphasized the title “Miss Prescott.” I didn’t bother arguing with him. “Proceed as scheduled. I’ll be on stage at seven.” After hanging up, I instructed Simon, “Take full control of the main projection screen.” “Keep the press gallery locked down.” “Seat the commercial bank executives in the front row.” “Have the police squad wait outside the hotel for my signal.” Dominic asked, “Should we shut down the event now?” I cast a cold glance toward the grand ballroom. “No.” “They wanted the entire city as their witness.” “So let the entire city watch the show.” At six-twenty-five, I walked into the bridal suite. Jane was sitting before the vanity mirror touching up her makeup. The gown she wore was the exact one Elinor had worn to her birthday celebration last year. Later, Jane had begged to borrow it, claiming she loved the design. Seeing me enter through the mirror, the powder puff slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the marble desk. “Aunt Victoria…” I sat down on the leather sofa. “Don’t call me that.” Her eyes rimmed with red instantly. “Did Elinor say something to you? I swear I never tried to steal anything from her!” “Who told the Mercers to put your name on the welcome sign tonight?” She bit her lip tightly. “My legal name is Jane Prescott now.” “The name is yours,” I said flatly. “The title of Prescott heiress is not.” Tears spilled over her cheeks. “I changed my name out of pure gratitude toward your family! I never once explicitly told people I was your daughter. They just misunderstood!” “And when Elinor was branded a parasite and a stalker, did you ever bother to set them straight?” She went silent for two seconds. When she looked up again, the fragile, timid act had vanished from her eyes. “Aunt Victoria, Elinor never loved Zachary in the first place.” “She didn’t want this union. Is it really so wrong for me to step in and take what she rejected?” I looked at her cold-bloodedly. “Step in and take it? Or manipulate your way into stealing it?” Jane rested her hand over her lower belly, her tone hardening. “I am pregnant with Zachary’s child.” “The Mercer family only recognizes me now.” “Tonight, the media, the banking executives, and all your business partners are out in that hall. If you expose me publicly, you won’t just ruin me. You’ll destroy Mercer’s financing, and you’ll sabotage Prescott Enterprise’s fresh European acquisition!” She stepped forward, a sharp, bitter laugh escaping her lips. “The public will say the ruthless Prescott CEO drove a pregnant young girl to the brink of death.” “They’ll say you raised me for over a decade, only to crush me into the dirt the moment your biological daughter threw a jealous tantrum.” “Aunt Victoria, you care so much about your corporate reputation. You wouldn’t want your massive Paris deal tarnished by a ugly public scandal, would you?” She had finally dropped the fragile act. First tears, then threats. When soft manipulation failed, she reached for emotional blackmail, weaponizing her pregnancy, public opinion, and my business interests. She truly believed she held the winning hand. I offered no response. I simply turned and walked out of the room. At six-forty-five, Simon sent me a fresh screenshot. Jane had just posted another update: I only wanted to reach for a tiny piece of happiness that felt like my own. Zachary had replied: Whatever belongs to you, no one can ever take away. I forwarded the image directly to Dominic. “Add it to the slide deck.” “Copy that,” Dominic replied. At seven o’clock sharp, the lights inside the grand ballroom dimmed. The master of ceremonies stepped into the center spotlight, his voice booming through the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests! Tonight, we gather to witness a historic union between the Mercer Group’s very own Zachary Mercer and the beloved Prescott heiress, Jane Prescott!” Thunderous applause echoed through the hall. Jane emerged through the orchid archway, her hand gently resting on Zachary’s arm. She looked delicate, tearful, and radiant, like a white lily blooming through adversity. Zachary leaned down lovingly to adjust the train of her gown. Cameras flashed wildly. Soft murmurs filled the guest tables. “Zachary is so devoted to her.” “The Prescott heiress looks stunning even while pregnant.” “Once this merger locks in, Mercer Group’s financial troubles are officially over.” The host’s voice rose again. “And now, please join me in welcoming the representative of the bride’s family…” Before he could finish his sentence, the heavy side doors swung wide open. I stepped into the grand hall, flanked by Simon, Dominic, and Prescott Enterprise’s full executive legal team. The entire ballroom fell dead silent. Richard Mercer was the first to spring up from his seat, a massive, eager smile plastered across his face. “Ms. Prescott! You made it!” I didn’t give him a single glance. I walked straight onto the main stage, reached out, and took the microphone directly from the host’s hand. “Good evening, everyone. I am Victoria Prescott.” A blinding sea of camera flashes illuminated the stage. I paused, letting my gaze sweep slowly over the crowd. “I have just returned from Paris.” “I originally assumed tonight was merely a modest family dinner hosted by the Mercer family to honor an old acquaintance.” “To my surprise, upon arriving at the entrance, I saw a profoundly absurd title displayed on the banner.” I turned my head, fixing my eyes directly on Jane. Her face had already begun to turn deathly pale. I delivered every single word with icy precision: “Prescott Enterprise has never had a daughter named Jane.”

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The guy I had a secret crush on just went official with my roommate. He had mistaken Laura, who volunteered to deliver my love letter, for the actual sender, falling for her at first sight. Later, even when the truth finally came out… Neither of them chose to break it off. With tears brimming in her eyes, Laura looked up at him and asked, “If it weren’t for that love letter, would you still love me?” He leaned down, pressing a lazy kiss to the corner of her lips, a soft laugh escaping his throat. “Of course, baby.” “I like you for who you are. I don’t give a damn about who actually wrote that letter.” And just like that, I quietly laid my dead-end crush to rest, convinced that Charles and I would never cross paths again for the rest of our lives. Until that afternoon. He showed up as a wingman to help his best friend pursue the girl he was falling for. The moment his eyes landed on me, he froze. His gaze lingered on my face in a subtle, unreadable way. And then, I heard him utter a soft, teasing chuckle: “Not bad, bro. You’re about to land a girl who looks almost identical to my old ideal type.” 01 I pushed open the dorm door. Empty. I was just letting out a sigh of relief when a bashful whisper drifted down from the top bunk. “Babe, do you really think I look good in this color?” Since she thought no one was around, she had her call on speaker. The guy’s low, chuckling voice vibrated clearly through the air. “Yeah. Wear it for me next time we meet, okay?” “Then remember to book…” I dragged my suitcase inside, intentionally heavy-footed. The loud metallic scrape of the wheels cut her off mid-sentence. An abrupt silence fell over the room. Laura poked her head out from behind her bed curtain, asking softly, “Monique, you’re back from the competition?” My steps hitched for a second. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the framed photo sitting on her desk. She was leaning sweetly against a guy’s shoulder, smiling like a girl in love. The guy was looking down at her, the corners of his lips curved upward, his usual reckless demeanor melted into a pool of effortless tenderness. They actually looked quite good together. I dropped my gaze, looking away. When I didn’t answer for a long moment, Laura bit her lower lip awkwardly. “Monique, I texted you so many times while you were away and you never replied. Are you still mad at me?” I ignored her, unpacking my things at my own desk. I hadn’t been back in two months. I pulled out a bottle of disinfectant spray, spritzing it over the wooden surface and wiping it down thoroughly. I tried my best to pretend she didn’t exist. Yet her voice drifted down again, heavy with emotional guilt. “We used to be so close. Why do we have to let something like this ruin our friendship?” Her tone gradually turned soft and aggrieved. “You used to say that no matter what happened, we’d always be best friends, didn’t you?” My hands froze mid-wipe. Right. In our dorm, she and I used to be the closest. She was quiet and timid, so I always stood up for her. I was impulsive, and she would patiently advise me to think twice. Because our personalities complemented each other, we became inseparable. Her family background made her insecure and sensitive. Whatever she did, I made excuses to accommodate her, which was why I had once made that promise: No matter what, we’ll always be best friends. I said it because I was willing to invest in a real friendship. I thought she was my friend. But what about her? She knew better than anyone how much I liked Charles. 02 Charles was the undisputed golden boy at the neighboring university. Tall, wealthy, devastatingly handsome, and an absolute star on the basketball court. During the inter-collegiate tournament, his performance pulled screams from every girl in the stands. That was the first time my heart had ever skipped a beat for a guy. I asked around, only to find out that countless girls tried to get his number, but he was notoriously cold in private and never handed out his contact info. So, I decided to write him a love letter. I hunched over my desk for an entire week, obsessing over every word, terrified of sounding cheesy or desperate. Unluckily, my dance troupe’s competition schedule was moved up at the last minute. Intensive training started immediately, and we had to leave campus the very next day for weeks. In my panic, Laura stepped up and offered to deliver the letter for me. At the time, I was moved to tears by her kindness. I happily promised to buy her a massive dinner the moment I got back. Until that afternoon. I was sitting on the team bus, nauseous from the stench of leather and stale exhaust. Battling a violent wave of motion sickness, my phone buzzed with a screenshot from a classmate: [Did your roommate just get a boyfriend?] It was a screenshot of Laura and Charles’s official relationship announcement post on social media. I stared at the screen for a long time, an overwhelming sense of absurdity washing over me. I opened Laura’s profile and refreshed it again and again. Nothing. She had blocked me from seeing that post. Still, I refused to believe it. With trembling fingers, I texted her to ask if she was really with Charles. The typing indicator flickered at the top of the screen for five straight minutes. Finally, she sent a crying emoji. Then came her text: [Yeah…] My hand squeezed the plastic motion-sickness bag so hard my knuckles turned white. I doubled over and threw up until my stomach was completely empty. 03 [Monique, you know I’m terrible at saying no to people. He asked if we could try dating, and I just… yielded and said yes.] [I’m so sorry.] Laura told me that Charles had fallen for her at first sight, which was why he didn’t take my love letter. She claimed she tried forcing it into his hands, but he tossed it straight into the trash. Was that really what happened? I endured a blistering lecture from my dance instructor just to get a half-day pass back to campus. I went to the coffee shop where they first met and persuaded the manager to let me check the security footage from that day. The scene opened like something straight out of a romance drama. Laura clumsily tripped and fell right into Charles’s chest. He caught her by the waist, holding her there for a beat, his gaze casually sweeping over her. When he spotted the envelope in her hand, his eyebrows arched with interest. “For me?” Laura stared at him, stunned. Before she could react, he took the letter, scanning it rapidly. The curve of his lips deepened into a charming smirk. “Nicely written, and you’re pretty cute too. Let’s see, your name is…” At the bottom of the letter were my personal details and contact number. Just as he was about to read it, Laura snatched the paper back with a flustered expression. She whispered something to him, her voice timid. “That draft isn’t good enough. I’ll write you a better one later.” “I’m from the university next door. My name is Laura.” I had to face the brutal truth: she had lied to my face. Exposed, Laura admitted her deceit in tears. I had no intention of keeping her secret to save her pride, and soon our close mutual friends knew what she had done. Under the overwhelming social pressure, she was forced to set up a meeting with Charles to clarify things. Laura looked up at him with tear-brimmed eyes. “If it wasn’t for that letter… would you still have liked me?” Charles listened to her confession, his expression darkening slightly. But the moment he saw her bloodshot eyes, his irritation melted into helpless tenderness. He bent down to press a soft kiss to the corner of her lips, letting out a lazy chuckle. “Of course, baby.” “I like you. I don’t give a damn about who actually wrote the letter.” Standing a short distance away, I watched the entire exchange. The step I was about to take forward froze in mid-air. I pulled my foot back. The misunderstanding was resolved. What else was there left for me to understand? He wasn’t going to break up with the girl he fell for at first sight for a stranger he’d never met. If they could be together like that, how could there be no real feelings between them? 04 “We used to be so good together. Do we really have to throw away our friendship over this?” Seeing that I hadn’t spoken for a long time, Laura asked again, her voice thick with suppressed sobs. Snapping back to reality, I answered in an even tone. “That was all in the past.” “Is there really any point in us being friends anymore?” Her phone call hadn’t been disconnected. In the quiet room, a faint, scoffing laugh suddenly sounded over her speaker, full of disdain and petty mockery. “What an arrogant act.” I curled my fingers inward slightly. I pretended I hadn’t heard a thing. 05 That evening, our other two roommates returned one after the other. Seeing me, their eyes lit up instantly. “Monique! I saw your dance troupe’s competition video online! You were amazing, the comment section is full of people praising you guys!” “Right? Absolutely stunning! You brought so much glory to our school!” I happened to be reviewing my performance footage on my tablet, so I turned around and offered them a warm smile. “Thanks guys.” Laura’s voice chimed in at an awkward moment, dripping with gentle sweetness. “Hey guys, my boyfriend just ordered boba for our dorm. Who wants to come downstairs with me to pick it up?” Their attention shifted immediately, and they eagerly volunteered to walk down with her. When they carried the drinks back upstairs, however, an uncomfortable tension filled the air. Four girls in the dorm. Only three cups of boba. Laura offered a sheepish smile. “Monique, you can have mine.” “I’m so sorry, you just got back, and my boyfriend is so used to ordering three cups that he probably forgot to change the order.” I glanced at the mango sago drink she held out. “I’m allergic to mangoes.” Feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion, I turned my head back to my desk. “And you know that.” “Laura, do I need to spell it out for you? We cut ties. We are nothing to each other now. I have zero interest in Charles anymore. Who you date is your business, but there’s no need to pull these petty little mind games.” She went completely rigid, looking entirely helpless. “I really forgot…” As she spoke, massive tears began spilling over her lashes. “I’m so sorry, Monique, I didn’t mean it.” “You used to never speak to me in such a harsh tone… If my presence bothers you that much, I can just pack up and move out.” A bitter laugh almost escaped my throat. Look at that, I was the villain again. First, I was the bitter loser ruining her fairytale romance. Now, I was the bully forcing her out of her own room. “Do whatever you want.” I closed my laptop, climbed up to my bunk, and pulled my bed curtain shut, blocking out her pitiful gaze. Our roommates stood nearby, awkward and silent. They had witnessed our fallout from start to finish, so they knew the truth behind the drama. But because Charles was generous and frequently bought them expensive treats, they couldn’t take a moral high ground either. Hating to offend either side, they chose to play blind and deaf. 06 My childhood best friend, Sienna, sent me a text. [Babe, you’re back? I heard you made Charles’s girlfriend cry.] Sienna and Charles both attended the finance department at the neighboring university. Back then, she was the one who swore up and down that Charles’s ideal type was a tall girl with long black hair, fair skin, and great style, insisting I fit the bill perfectly. That was what gave me the courage to write my very first love letter. Who knew the guy would fall for Laura at first sight instead? Afterward, Sienna felt terribly guilty. [I’m so sorry, babe! How was I supposed to know he had so many ‘ideal types’? Ugh, ideal type my foot! He just falls for whoever looks pretty in the moment!] Staring at her text, I parted my bed curtain slightly. Through the gap, I saw Laura sitting at her desk wiping away tears, her fingers flying across her phone screen. Sienna sent another message right after: [Charles is furious. He said he’s taking his girlfriend to live off-campus.] I slowly sat back up. [Oh.] Sienna was a bit airheaded, but realizing my dull response, she quickly changed the subject. [By the way, your competition video blew up on our campus forum! It’s hilarious, you’ve gained a whole army of fanboys.] [You’re incredible, babe! Whenever I tell people you’re my friend, I feel so proud.] I touched my cheek, letting out a small, embarrassed smile. [Thanks.] Then I added: [Credit really goes to the photographer.] That was the truth. The video that went viral was shot from a stage-front angle by a student photographer. He had captured every movement and expression with breathtaking precision. After the show, he had even approached me to ask for my contact info. A black baseball cap had been pulled low over his messy hair, revealing a pale lower face and tightly pressed lips. He had held out his phone’s QR code toward me. My knee-jerk instinct was to politely decline. Yet, looking past his calm demeanor, I noticed his ears were burning bright red, and his long lashes were trembling with quiet nervousness. On a weird whim, I had agreed. He sent a brief message shortly after: [Gavin.] 07 Laura started packing her suitcases. I assumed she was moving out. For some reason, after stepping out later that evening, she abandoned the idea. Down by the entrance of our dorm building, she was arguing with Charles. She was sobbing uncontrollably while yelling at him, and Charles was pulling her forcefully into his arms, murmuring low words of comfort. Students passed by, many turning their heads to stare at his striking appearance. He suddenly looked up. I pulled my gaze back instantly. Acting as if it had nothing to do with me, I headed back upstairs to do a face mask. When Laura came back, her eyes were swollen and red. “Monique.” She called out to me, hesitating. “You said you don’t like Charles anymore, right?” “Can you promise me that you won’t ever try to step between us again?” I glanced at her reflection in the mirror, thoroughly speechless. “I’m not insane.” “He isn’t the last man on earth. Am I forbidden from liking anyone else?” She pressed further, “Then do you have someone you like right now?” I didn’t answer. I pulled a tissue to wipe away the excess serum from my neck. The exact moment she asked that question… Gavin’s face had popped into my mind. 08 When my emotional breakdown hit its rock bottom weeks ago, I had spent a late night crouching on the campus amphitheater stairs, crying my eyes out. At the time, everything felt unbearable. More than losing a secret crush, I couldn’t get over the sting of betrayal from someone I thought was a true friend. I had been so slow that I hadn’t even noticed during the basketball tournament that Laura, sitting right next to me, was looking at Charles with the exact same burning, desperate admiration that I had. Why didn’t she just tell me she liked him too? Why hide it? Why lie to me? We were supposed to be friends… As my thoughts spiraled, tears leaked through my fingers. Someone had sat down beside me, handing me a paper cup of warm water. I wiped my eyes and instinctively tried to stand up, forgetting I was on the edge of a step, and lost my balance. By the time I realized what was happening, I was sprawled across a pair of broad shoulders. A faint scent of summer breeze and fresh body wash drifted from his clothes. My ankle hurt, and my heart hurt even more. I ended up sobbing right into his back. Gavin had a wonderful voice. Though his words were straightforward to a fault. “I’m really bad at comforting people. But if it’s okay with you… could you maybe stop crying?” I froze. I clutched his neck tighter, far too embarrassed to shed another tear. 09 Gavin had shown me photos of his alpine mountain climbs. The raw vitality in those shots almost burst through the screen. He was the textbook definition of an adventurous college guy. Except when he was around me, he was quiet. Most of the time, I did all the talking while he listened silently. He would sit motionless, his eyelids lowered, looking as if he were meticulously counting my eyelashes. After the inter-collegiate showcase ended and we returned to our respective campuses, he became noticeably warmer. He handled conversation topics effortlessly. He would also order small cakes and snacks to be delivered to my dorm. Yet for some reason, the brands he picked always managed to match the ones Laura received from Charles. It led Laura to observe me constantly, her eyes filled with deep suspicion. Fearing she would accuse me of copying her, I turned down quite a few of Gavin’s gestures. Our chat log went quiet for a while. Until today, when he texted asking if I wanted to go on an outdoor photoshoot with him. I happened to be free, so I agreed without thinking twice. I spent the afternoon picking an outfit and doing my makeup in the dorm. My roommate leaned over curiously. “Monique, are you heading out?” “Yeah.” Her eyes caught the silver bracelet on my wrist. Excitement flushed her face. “Wait, that looks like a men’s design! Monique, are you seeing someone?” I paused, touching the metal self-consciously. Gavin had given it to me. He said he crafted it by hand. Our other roommate perked up instantly. “What? Who’s the lucky guy who managed to capture our dance goddess’s heart?” “Can I take a look at that?” Laura’s voice cut in suddenly. I turned to look at her. She was staring intensely at my wrist, looking as if a deadly threat had appeared. “Monique… where did you get that bracelet? Charles has the exact same one. I’m positive, it has his club’s custom logo on it.” She looked up at me, acting like the victim of a betrayal. Gavin attended the same university as Charles. Being in the same student club was hardly an impossibility, it was a simple coincidence. “A guy from the university next door gave it to me,” I said. “Are you sure it wasn’t Charles?” “…No.” “How can you prove it?” I met her eyes, the corners of my lips lifting into a faint smile. “Because I’m not you. I don’t steal things from other people.” “I have zero desire to covet anyone else’s boyfriend.” Laura went rigid, biting her lip hard. Holding back her tears, she spat out a bitter warning: “You better mean what you say. Don’t let me catch you lying.” 10 I was under no obligation to manage her insecurities. Once I finished dressing, I left the building. I walked to the designated coffee shop as agreed. Through the glass windows, I caught sight of an unexpected figure: Charles. He was leaning against the service counter, frowning down at his phone. Standing right beside him was Gavin. Charles let out an impatient scoff, his lips moving rapidly. It was obvious he was talking trash about someone. Given that Laura had likely complained to him earlier, he was undoubtedly calling me malicious, jealous, and vengeful. The disgust on his face was unreserved. Finally, he chuckled coldly, wrapping up his rant: “Honestly, being liked by a girl like that is seriously disgusting.” Gavin didn’t seem to be paying attention. He sat with his head down, fingers tightly laced together, visibly tense. Charles noticed it too. He clapped a hand onto Gavin’s shoulder. “Don’t be nervous, bro. I’ll be your wingman today.” “I’d bet money that girl likes you back. You’ve got this in the bag. Once you two start dating, make sure your girl helps out mine a bit so she stops getting bullied by that roommate.” “At the end of the day, it’s drama between girls, so it’s awkward for me to step in.” So they were friends. Just as I hesitated over whether I should walk inside, someone pushed open the door beside me, setting off a clear wind chime. Both guys looked toward the entrance simultaneously. A gentle breeze drifted past, sunlight spilling across the flowing hem of my dress. Gavin stood up straight in an instant. “Monique.” Charles’s casual glance swept over me. His eyes hitched slightly, a brief pause of surprise flashing through his expression before vanishing just as fast. Then, I heard his amused, teasing voice: “Not bad, bro. You’re about to land a girl who looks almost identical to my old ideal type.” Gavin glanced sideways at him, his voice low. “Watch it.” Strictly speaking, this was the very first time Charles had ever seen my face in person. Yet I had seen him more times than I could count. Which explained why he failed to recognize that I was the very roommate he had just labeled as evil incarnate. Suppressing the bizarre tightness in my chest, I looked at Gavin. “Hey.” 11 The three of us sat down at a booth. They sat on one side, and I sat across from them. Gavin stood up to head to the counter to place our order. Charles rested his chin on his hand, observing me with undeniable curiosity. “So, what’s your impression of Gavin? Mind sharing?” “If you two end up together, he’s a pretty lucky guy.” “By the way, are you a dancer? I saw your university performance video online, you’re pretty famous now.” Before I could form an answer, an angry voice shattered the quiet atmosphere. “What are you two doing?!” Laura was standing a short distance away. Her eyes were wide with disbelief, her rims red, radiating the furious energy of a wife catching her husband red-handed. She turned her glare onto me, wiping her tears away with a vicious swipe of her sleeve. She let out a harsh, cold laugh. “Monique! Didn’t you say you had zero interest in Charles?!” “You were the one who said you dropped the whole love letter thing and moved on!” “So what is this now? Trying to seduce my boyfriend?!” “You’re doing this just to get revenge on me, aren’t you?! Pretending to be so detached and unbothered, you make me sick!” The casual smile slid off Charles’s face. Capturing the key piece of information, he turned his head slowly to look at me, his throat working. “The person who sent me that love letter… was you?”

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My best friend suddenly transferred one hundred million dollars into my bank account! Right after the transfer went through, she sent me a video. In the clip, she was lounging on a tropical beach in a string bikini, laughing directly at the camera. “Did you get the cash I sent?” she asked. “Quit that garbage job, stop taking their crap, and go travel the world!” She looked incredibly happy. With a hundred million dollars sitting in my account, I should have been ecstatic too. But there was one massive, glaring problem. My best friend was a low-level clerk at our local county courthouse making barely three grand a month. Even if she worked every single day until retirement, she would max out at maybe a million dollars in her entire lifetime. Where the hell did she get this kind of money?! 1 I flipped on the bedside lamp, shoved my glasses onto my face, and stared at my banking app, carefully counting the digits on the glowing screen. Ones, tens, hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands… a solid one followed by eight zeros. One hundred million dollars. This was not Monopoly money. It was not a glitch, and it certainly was not a photoshopped prank. One hundred million dollars had actually been wired into my checking account! My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold the phone, but I managed to call the bank’s 24-hour customer service line to verify it. “My account just received a massive deposit of one hundred million dollars,” I told the representative. “It says it’s from a Ms. Sarah Davis. Is this real?” The bank employee replied with a perfectly calm, professional tone. “Yes, Miss Riley. Five minutes ago, at exactly 12:05 AM, a Ms. Davis authorized a wire transfer of one hundred million dollars into your account.” “The transaction is fully confirmed and cleared.” I hung up the phone and sank back into my chair, my mind spinning out of control. This made absolutely no sense. Sarah was a low-ranking civil servant in our rusty little Midwestern town. Her monthly salary was three thousand dollars. Where on earth did she get this fortune? I tapped the screen and opened the video she had sent me again. Yes, right after the money hit my account, this video popped up. It was short, barely thirty seconds long. She was wearing a bikini, half-reclined on a beach chair, speaking brightly to the lens. “Riley, did you get the cash I sent?” “Quit that garbage job, stop taking their crap, and go travel the world!” Those two sentences were it. The video abruptly cut to black. I dragged the progress bar back to the very beginning and watched it again, analyzing every single frame. Sarah was wearing a bright yellow, tiny string bikini. Her posture was relaxed, showing off her figure in a way she never normally would. In the background, I noticed a random guy walking past, staring at her with obvious, lingering hunger. She wasn’t wearing an ounce of makeup, presumably because she was about to go swimming. She flashed a radiant, confident smile at the camera and delivered those two lines. “Riley, did you get the cash I sent?” “Quit that garbage job, stop taking their crap, and go travel the world!” Wrong. Every single thing about this video was completely, terrifyingly wrong! 2 First of all, Sarah was the most modest, risk-averse person I knew. If she wasn’t, she would never have moved back to our boring hometown after college to take a secure, mundane government job. Someone that conservative would never, ever wear a revealing string bikini to a public beach. We had grown up together and went swimming all the time. Whenever she got in the water, she wore a high-necked, one-piece swimsuit. I had never seen her wear anything remotely this daring! Secondly, Sarah struggled with intense insecurities. Even though she was naturally pretty, she had crippling appearance anxiety. Whenever she left the house to see people, she either put on a full face of carefully blended makeup or hid behind a surgical mask. She would never let herself be seen bare-faced. Yet in this video, not only was she completely makeup-free in public, but she was smiling with a level of radiant confidence I had never seen from her before. It was impossible! But the final, most crucial red flag was the color. I had known Sarah practically my whole life, and if there was one thing I knew for an absolute fact, it was that she despised the color yellow. When we were in middle school, her beloved grandmother passed away. On the day her grandmother died, she was wearing a yellow dress. Ever since that traumatic day, the mere sight of the color yellow triggered a panic attack for Sarah. It reminded her of the worst loss of her life. All of her friends knew to actively avoid wearing yellow around her. She would absolutely never buy or wear a bright yellow bikini! This video was a massive, screaming distress signal. The moment the realization hit me, I frantically typed a message back to her. “Holy crap, look at you, rich girl! Are you messing with me? A hundred million?!” “Did you rob a bank or something?” Silence. Ten agonizing minutes ticked by. Still no reply. I hit the audio call button on our chat app. Nobody answered. I called her three more times in a row, the ringing echoing in my quiet bedroom, but the calls just timed out. A cold, heavy dread began to pool in my chest. I opened my contacts and dialed her actual cell phone number. Instead of a ringing tone, a robotic female voice immediately filled my ear. “We are sorry, the number you have reached is turned off or disconnected…” Sarah was missing. 3 The next morning, I called out of work and drove straight to Sarah’s parents’ house. Since Sarah and I were childhood best friends, her parents practically treated me like a second daughter. It was right around lunchtime. When I walked in, they smiled warmly and asked if I wanted to stay for food. How could anyone eat at a time like this?! “Where is Sarah?” I asked, my voice tight with panic. Seeing my frantic state, the smiles instantly vanished from their faces. “Sarah went to sleep over at a coworker’s house yesterday,” her mom replied, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “She hasn’t come back yet. What’s wrong?” “Did something happen to my baby?” “A coworker’s house?!” I echoed, completely stunned. “Which coworker? Did she give you a name?” Her mother shook her head, looking utterly lost. “No, she just said it was a good friend from the office.” Another massive red flag! Sarah had complained to me countless times about how utterly alienated she felt in that office. She was a quiet, traditional girl, but she wasn’t archaic. Meanwhile, the older generation she worked with were incredibly toxic. They constantly judged her for being single, gossiped maliciously, and made her work life a living hell. She vented to me all the time about how she could barely tolerate being in the same room as them, forcing herself to maintain a polite facade just to survive the workday. Under what possible circumstance would she voluntarily sleep over at one of their houses? “Mrs. Davis,” I asked, grabbing her hands. “When exactly did she go to this coworker’s house?” “Right after she clocked out yesterday,” her mom answered. “Did she come home first to pack a bag, or did she go straight there?” “She just texted us right after work and said she was heading over.” I needed to be absolutely sure. “So the last time you physically saw her was yesterday morning?” Mrs. Davis nodded vigorously. “Yes!” Her eyes darted around in rising panic. “Riley, what is going on? Please don’t scare me!” I hesitated for a split second, wondering if I should tell them the truth. 4 If I told them, I was terrified they would have a heart attack. But if I didn’t, I would be keeping her disappearance from the people who loved her most. They had a right to know. I took a deep breath and made my choice. “Mrs. Davis… I can’t reach Sarah anywhere. She’s completely off the grid.” The color drained from both their faces. They simultaneously yanked out their phones to call her. Mrs. Davis slapped her husband’s hand away in a frenzy. “Stop it! Let me call! If we both call at the exact same time, whose call is she going to get?!” With trembling fingers, she dialed Sarah’s number and put it on speaker. The cold robotic voice filled the kitchen again. “We are sorry, the number you have reached is turned off…” Mrs. Davis stumbled backward. Mr. Davis had to grab her arm to keep her from hitting the floor. “Why is her phone off? She was perfectly fine yesterday! Why would she just vanish?!” Mr. Davis was a retired veteran police detective. Years of grueling investigative work kicked in, making him significantly calmer than his wife. “Breathe, honey. Sarah sent a message in the family group chat just this morning, remember?” “It’s only been a few hours. We live in a quiet town. A missing phone doesn’t automatically mean a tragedy.” “Don’t let your imagination run wild. Her battery probably just died.” If I had not received that astronomical wire transfer, I probably would have agreed with his logic. But that money, paired with that horrifying distress signal of a video, made it impossible to stay calm. Just as I opened my mouth to tell them about the hundred million dollars, a sharp knock echoed against the front door. Mrs. Davis hurried over and pulled it open. Two uniformed police officers were standing on the porch. They flashed their badges. “Are you the parents of Sarah Davis? Your daughter is a prime suspect in a massive money laundering operation. We need you to come with us for questioning.” That completely shattered whatever composure the older couple had left. Even Mr. Davis, the hardened veteran detective, swayed on his feet. Mrs. Davis couldn’t take the shock. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, and she collapsed in a dead faint. 5 The officers rushed in to catch her. I grabbed her shoulders, helping them lower her safely to the sofa. Right as I looked up, one of the officers locked eyes with me. He looked me up and down, checking a photo on his phone before staring intently at my face. “Are you Riley Smith?” I nodded slowly. The officer’s expression hardened into stone. “We tracked a massive sum of illicit funds that Sarah Davis wired directly into your account. You need to come with us too.” Half an hour later, I was sitting in a sterile interrogation room alongside Sarah’s bewildered parents. In my head, I cursed Sarah a thousand times over. What the hell was she playing at? What kind of criminal underworld had she stumbled into? I was a girl who didn’t even dare to jaywalk on an empty street, and now, thanks to my best friend, I was sitting in a police precinct being treated like a cartel boss! The detectives hammered me with questions about Sarah. How long had it been since I last saw her? Did I know what she was doing outside of work? Besides this wire transfer, had she ever handed me large amounts of physical cash? I answered every single question truthfully. No. It was the honest truth. The last time I saw Sarah in person was over a month ago. We texted all the time, but it was just normal best-friend banter. Complaining about life, sharing memes, talking about food. The only bizarre thing she had ever done was this insane wire transfer last night. After answering their questions, I pulled up the video Sarah had sent me and pushed my phone across the metal table. I had no idea what kind of mess Sarah was in, but she was missing. Her life could be in imminent danger, and finding her was the only thing that mattered. The detectives watched the video closely and made a copy for their evidence files. Once they finally verified my story and confirmed I was a clueless bystander, they let me go. By the time I walked out of the precinct doors, it was already past ten at night. The moment the cool night air hit my face, I saw my parents waiting anxiously by the entrance. They rushed over to me, their faces tight with stress. I opened my mouth, ready to explain the terrifying ordeal I had just survived, but my mother grabbed my arm and cut me off. “Riley! I heard your friend transferred a hundred million dollars to you! Is that true?!” My dad’s eyes were practically glowing with greed. “Yeah! Where is the money?!” Something felt deeply, horrifyingly wrong. 6 My parents were simple, honest, hardworking people. Sure, everyone loved money, but in a crisis like this, any normal parent would ask if their child was okay first. They wouldn’t immediately interrogate me about the cash. What the hell was going on today? They didn’t even ask if the police had mistreated me. They just wanted to know about the bank account. My stomach churned with disgust, but these were my parents. I forced down my anger and answered them patiently. “The money Sarah sent me is classified as illicit funds. The authorities have completely frozen the account.” Hearing that, my dad slapped his thigh in sheer, agonizing regret. “Dammit! How did it get frozen?!” My mother clutched her chest, looking like she was about to pass out from heartbreak. “All that money! How could they freeze it?! This is your fault! Why did you involve the cops?!” I was absolutely stunned. First of all, I wasn’t the one who called the police. But even if I had, what was wrong with doing the right thing?! I stared at her in disbelief. “Mom, if I hadn’t cooperated with the police, what exactly did you expect me to do with a hundred million dollars of dirty money?” Without missing a beat, my mother blurted out, “You transfer it to us, obviously!” Give it to them?!

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A thread was trending on a popular forum: “Why do some people stay friends after a breakup?” One girl replied with unmistakable smugness: “To put it simply, they’re still in love, but both are too proud to make the first move.” “Honestly, I quite enjoy his devotion, his special treatment, his love.” “If we hadn’t ruined things so badly during our long-distance phase, his current girlfriend wouldn’t even stand a chance.” My chest tightened. I clicked on her profile. It was Jenny, David’s ex. I had been with David for three years, and for those three years, Jenny had played the role of his “best bro.” She used that title to slowly worm her way into our lives, eventually moving into the apartment right below ours and even securing a job at David’s company. The two of them behaved more like a couple than he and I did. I screenshotted the post and sent it to David. He replied casually: “Just ignore her, she loves talking nonsense.” I let out a bitter laugh and left a comment on the thread. “Because both of them know exactly what they’re doing, but they’re just playing dumb.” 1 I walked to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. David was in the study. I couldn’t even remember when we had started texting each other despite being in the same house. Whenever I tried to talk to him about it, he’d defend it, calling it a way to keep things “steady and long-lasting.” But his idea of steady was simply refusing to engage. As I set my glass down, I noticed a ticket stub slipping out of David’s briefcase. The exhibition was titled “Nowhere to Belong.” It was a project he and Jenny had spent nearly every waking hour planning together. Clutching the stub, I pushed open the study door. “She usually insists on dragging me to these events just to make me feel small, so why didn’t she invite me to the grand opening this time?” David’s fingers slammed against his keyboard, the sound sharp and irritable. “Jenny only invited you in the past because she was worried you’d be bored at home,” he said, his voice laced with annoyance. “Why do you have to be so sarcastic? Mind your own business and stop assuming the worst of people.” Two months ago, at their college reunion, Jenny had insisted I tag along. I sat there all evening while everyone huddled around them, dissecting their legendary campus romance in agonizing detail. Nobody noticed my chronic chest pain flaring up. Last month, on her birthday, she demanded David bring me along. At midnight, she was draped over him, acting completely wasted. Since I was the only one who hadn’t touched alcohol, I had to play the silent chauffeur, driving them both home. When we got back, David and I had a massive fight. I was on the verge of tears. “You two are exes. Is it really that hard to have some boundaries?” “What do you want me to do, pretend she doesn’t exist?” He looked at me, wearing that familiar mask of guilt. “We were broke back then, and she went through a lot of hardships with me. Now that I’m doing well, I just want to help her out when I can. It’s not easy for a single woman to make it in the city alone. You don’t understand that struggle. Besides, she’s like family to me now.” I wanted to laugh. Family? Since when did people date their family? David’s phone buzzed. He answered, gave a couple of brief replies, and glanced at me. “Jenny’s exhibition opens tomorrow, and she’s feeling anxious. I’m going downstairs to talk her through it. Want to come?” I walked right past him, slamming the bedroom door behind me. Ever since she moved downstairs, these calls had been constant. Sometimes, when she couldn’t reach him, she would march up and knock on our door, dragging him out of his study without a hint of shame. “You still haven’t fixed your habit of ignoring texts. I was worried sick! I’m so glad we broke up, otherwise being your girlfriend would have driven me insane.” I used to think there was some emergency. It turned out she just had too many packages and wanted David to carry them. David was usually a sharp, no-nonsense man, but he became a completely different person around her. No matter what she demanded, he listened meekly, almost desperately trying to please her. She was always his exception. Even introducing him to my parents had to take a backseat for her. The first time he planned to visit my family, Jenny sprained her ankle the day before. Without hesitation, he carried her to the hospital on his back and spent the next two months taking care of her. The second time we set a date, she called him crying, claiming her workload was too overwhelming. He spent three days and nights at her place, helping her finish her project. My parents were already deeply displeased, and I had to swallow my pride to make up excuses for him time and time again. A few days ago, he mentioned planning another visit to my family next week. But this time, I didn’t want to bring him home. 2 The next morning, David left early. Lately, he had been pouring every spare second into helping Jenny set up her exhibition. I took a cab there alone, needing to see for myself what this show was actually about. The space was styled beautifully, filled with old relics: matching couple sweaters, rings, watches, handwritten love letters, and travel tickets. It felt exactly like a Museum of Broken Relationships. My eyes stung. They had certainly gone to great lengths to publicly mourn their past. The final wall was covered in their old photos and videos, accompanied by dense, handwritten annotations. Around me, visitors were wiping away tears, while some wrote “I loved you” on a memory board. My chest tightened as a cold shiver ran down my spine. Last month, I had found an old, frayed scarf in our closet. I suggested throwing it away and buying a new one. David’s face had paled instantly as he snatched it out of my hands. The rough wool caught on my acrylic nails, pulling painfully. Only today did I realize that scarf was part of a matching set he shared with Jenny. I let out a hollow laugh and walked toward the corner of the gallery. David and Jenny were surrounded by reporters. My eyes instantly fell on the Chanel bag on Jenny’s shoulder. David had practically dragged me to the store to help pick it out, claiming it was to make up for the hardships she had suffered in the past. Standing in that boutique, I had felt incredibly out of place. Watching him meticulously compare the leather, color, and style, I felt a wave of envy and deep disappointment. He told me she had never owned one. Neither had I. Jenny stood slightly angled toward him, tilting her head and smiling up at David as she spoke. “This exhibition wouldn’t have happened without him. He was there for every little detail. Even though we tease each other constantly, he always shows up when it matters.” A reporter smiled, looking between the two of them. “You look quite similar. Are you siblings?” Jenny laughed, naturally slipping her hand around his arm. “Haha, maybe we have that married couple look. We used to date, but we realized we make much better friends.” The reporter steered the conversation toward the inspiration behind the exhibition. They bounced off each other, sharing stories of their past. Jenny looked deeply into David’s eyes. “Don’t let his calm exterior fool you. He’s incredibly soft-hearted. Right after we broke up, on my birthday, he took a two-hour train ride after work just to drop off a gift.” She kept her tone light and teasing. “He looked completely stoic when I opened the door, but later, he was sobbing his eyes out in the lobby downstairs.” David laughed sheepishly. “At that moment, I realized something. When it comes to marriage, you need to find someone suitable. We were meant to be friends.” Suitable. I let out a silent, bitter laugh, but it couldn’t numb the sharp ache in my chest. When I had once asked him why he pursued me, he had wrapped his arms around me. “You make me feel safe. You’re the kind of woman who is suitable for marriage.” I hadn’t thought much of it then. Now, the realization hit me. I had painted our relationship with a beautiful filter. The love I thought we shared meant nothing to him. I was just suitable. I stood there for a long time, staring blankly until the crowd dispersed and my vision finally cleared. David walked briskly toward me. “What are you doing here?” I forced a casual smile. “If I didn’t come, how would I know how unforgettable your love story was?” “Didn’t you two break up because of the long-distance? Well, you live in the same building now. If you can’t let each other go, why not just get back together?” His brows furrowed, suppressing his irritation. “If I really couldn’t let her go, you wouldn’t be the one standing next to me right now.” Before I could reply, a young woman peeked her head over. “How do you two know each other?” she asked, pointing between David and me. David gave me a subtle shake of his head. He was terrified I would say something to embarrass Jenny. “I’m his girlfriend,” I said clearly. The girl walked away, and her hushed gossip with her friend immediately drifted back to us. “Told you so! It’s a total love triangle, haha.” David glared at me, his voice a harsh whisper. “Today is about Jenny’s exhibition. Stop drawing unnecessary attention to our private lives. Do you have to make everything about yourself?” So that was how he saw me. Simply stating the truth was a crime. “Go cool off,” he said, walking away with Jenny. I slipped my promise ring off my finger and tossed it into a nearby trash can. When David first slid it onto my finger, he had joked, “Now that you’re caught, you can’t run away.” It was just a casual remark to him. How had I been foolish enough to believe it? 3 Before I even made it out of the exhibition hall, my phone buzzed. My boss sounded thrilled. “Have you heard about the ‘Nowhere to Belong’ show? Apparently, she curated it with her ex-boyfriend, like a Museum of Broken Relationships. This topic is guaranteed to go viral. Go check it out and write up a feature.” I gripped my phone case, biting my lip. “Sure.” As I hung up, a sharp pain shot through my chest. I leaned against a nearby pillar, struggling to breathe. I needed to go to the hospital again. That afternoon, as I stepped out of the examination room, I spotted David on the first floor. He was kneeling, gently holding Jenny’s calf with one hand while pressing her knee with the other. “Does it hurt here, or here?” Jenny looked up, her eyes locking onto mine. She immediately shifted into a protective stance. “He just happened to have free time to accompany me for a checkup. Don’t go misinterpreting things and starting another fight with him.” David stood up, offering a hurried explanation. “Jenny’s meniscus is acting up again. It started hurting during lunch.” He paused. “It’s an old injury from years ago when she worked extra shifts to help me pay off loans. Standing all day ruined her joints.” He was always like this. Once he started talking about Jenny, he couldn’t stop. Noticing my silence, he finally changed the subject. “What are you doing at the hospital anyway?” “My chest has been hurting.” Jenny cast a dismissive glance at my chest. “Just watch your sleep and diet. The more you stress over minor things, the worse you make it for yourself.” David nodded in agreement. “She’s just too delicate. Going to bed early is better than any medicine.” I had told him about my congenital heart condition before, but he didn’t remember. In the past, I would have picked a fight over this. Now, I just felt numb. I turned and walked away without a word. When I got home, I immediately began packing my suitcase. If I didn’t clear out of the apartment, I’d just be overstaying my welcome. My phone chimed. It was my boss, pressing for the article. “It’ll be best if you include their past history and their current relationship status.” Their current status was that Jenny would always be David’s top priority. He used to reassure me: “Once Jenny gets a boyfriend, I’ll step back.” But when she finally did date someone, the guy ended up taking advantage of her. The usually rational, level-headed David had stormed over, beaten the guy up, and landed himself in the police station. I was the one who had to go bail him out. The first thing he asked when he stepped out of the cell was, “Is Jenny okay?” Worrying that her old neighborhood wasn’t safe, he went ahead and leased the apartment directly below ours for her. The sound of the electronic lock broke the silence. David walked in, kicking off his shoes as he asked about my hospital visit. I stood up. “Let’s break up.” His expression shifted. “What are you on about now?” I ignored him, zipping my suitcase and dragging it into the living room. He threw his hands over the bag, pinning it down. “Is this about Jenny again? Are you mad because I helped with her show, or because I went to the hospital with her? I’ve told you a thousand times, we—” “You two are completely innocent,” I interrupted. “I just don’t want to be with you anymore. Is that clear enough?” He let out a weary sigh, throwing his hands up in frustration. “You always target her. Have you ever stopped to think that maybe you’re the problem here?” I froze. He had never spoken to me like this before. He used to tell me how lucky he was to have found me. Suddenly, his ringtone shattered the silence. Jenny’s voice came through the speaker. “The bathroom light won’t turn on. Can you come take a look?” “I’ll be right down,” David replied. He looked at me. “Wait here. We’ll talk when I get back.” I watched the door click shut, wanting to laugh. Even when we were breaking up, he could be pulled away by her minor inconvenience. I had waited for three years. I wasn’t going to wait any longer. As the elevator descended, my heart sank with it. My pulse slowed, as if trying to make up for all the extra beats it had wasted on him. I checked into a hotel, intending to resign as soon as I turned in the article. For two days, David made no effort to contact me. Jenny, however, was highly active on social media. She posted a photo of the two of them laughing on an amusement park pirate ship. She was holding David’s hand tightly, and the promise ring on his finger was gone. David had once told me he was terrified of heights and would never ride a pirate ship in his life. Men certainly loved using the phrase “in my life.” And they were incredibly good at forgetting. Jenny’s caption was particularly striking: “How to recall an ex in three easy steps.” I left a comment: “What kind of prize is worth recalling anyway?” 4 After turning in my resignation letter, I booked an evening flight. I was walking through the hotel lobby to buy a bottle of water when I saw David marching toward me. I realized I had forgotten to turn off our location-sharing app. He looked incredibly tense, as if the world was ending. The moment he stopped in front of me, his first words were: “You need to record a clarification video right now.” “Tell everyone you and Jenny are close friends, and that she never came between us.” I stared at him, momentarily stunned. “What?” He shoved his phone in front of my face. The comments section of a viral gossip page was tearing Jenny apart. “Are we rebranding home-wrecking as high art now?” “Hilarious. In that interview, she looked like she wanted to crawl into his skin.” “Her social media got leaked. She actually shared a post on ‘how to recall an ex.’ What a joke.” David was practically hyperventilating. “That girl from the exhibition wrote about us online, calling it a love triangle, and it went viral! It’s all fabricated lies. You need to record a video and clear her name.” I looked at him for a long, quiet moment. “No.” His eyes darkened instantly. “What did you say?” I took a step back. “This has nothing to do with me. Besides, isn’t Jenny the exact reason we’re over? If you care about her so much, go post your own clarification.” His anger flared, nearly boiling over. “If a statement from me worked, do you think I’d be begging you? Jenny has been crying since this morning. How is she supposed to handle this kind of abuse? If you hadn’t blurted out that you were my girlfriend, none of this would have happened!” I didn’t want to argue anymore, so I kept quiet. “Audrey.” He rarely used my full name. “This is serious. If you don’t record this video, we are truly finished.” I let out a tired laugh. How could he threaten me with something I had already walked away from? “We were finished two days ago.” I walked past him and headed into the convenience store. When I reached for a bottle of water, my hands were shaking. I thought I was emotionally prepared for this, but the coldness of his betrayal still stung. Before heading to the airport, I realized my passport was still at David’s apartment. I had the driver make a quick detour. When the apartment door opened, Jenny was standing there. She was wearing an oversized button-down shirt that belonged to David, her damp hair draped over her shoulders. I had bought that shirt for David last year. I could hear the shower running in the bathroom. Jenny blocked the doorway, looking down at me. “You still have the nerve to show up here?” I pushed past her without looking at her. “Just grabbing my things.” As I retrieved my passport and walked out, I noticed Jenny’s luggage sitting in the hallway. They really couldn’t wait. Jenny leaned against the doorframe, tilting her head with a smug smile. “After looking around, I still think David is the best.” She chuckled. “He hasn’t lost his touch in bed, either.” My fingers clenched around my passport. “You’re blocking the door,” I said, keeping my voice entirely flat. On the surface, I was calm, but my throat felt as if a fishbone were lodged in it, making it difficult to swallow. Sitting in the back of the cab, I stared blankly at the passing streets. For the first time, I realized how incredibly foolish I had been to love him. My hand brushed against a small, hard object in my bag. It was a transparent pill organizer. Each compartment held different tablets, labeled in neat, handwritten script: allergy meds, cold medicine, motion sickness pills, and my heart arrhythmia medication. David had put it together for me three years ago before my first business trip. I had forgotten it was even in my bag. Three years. The medicine inside was probably long expired. The car moved smoothly through the intersection, heading in the opposite direction of everything we had built. I unlocked my phone, deleted David’s contact info, and blocked his number. It was finally over.

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By the third month of keeping Rowan locked in the estate, he had barely spoken a word to me. The heavy blackout curtains were drawn shut. His phone was locked away in my safe. The passcode to the bedroom door was changed every twenty-four hours. When I walked in carrying a tray of warm oatmeal, he was sitting on the edge of the mattress, staring blankly down at the ring of fading bruises around his wrists. I softened my voice, trying to coax him. “Rowan, after you eat, how about I take you for a walk in the gardens?” He didn’t look up. His voice was terrifyingly hollow. “Silas, when are you finally going to let me go?” I reached out to touch his shoulder, but suddenly, a line of glowing text flickered into existence, hovering right in front of my eyes. [Stop touching him. He’s literally at his breaking point.] [Give it two weeks, and he starts hoarding pills.] [Silas crying over his cold dead body later won’t change a damn thing. He pushed him to this.] My hand froze in midair. Rowan flinched away from me on instinct, his shoulders trembling beneath his thin shirt. I looked at his eyes—so empty, stripped of all the brilliant, fierce light they used to hold. Something inside me snapped. I turned on my heel, walked over to the dresser, and pulled out everything I had confiscated: his phone, his ID, his credit cards, and the keys to his Porsche. I dropped them onto the bed. “You can go,” I said. Rowan froze. I grabbed a pen, scribbled today’s door passcode on a piece of paper, and slid it across the nightstand toward him. “I won’t come after you anymore.” Maybe it was just a trick of the dim lighting, but for a split second, the corners of his eyes looked stained with red. 1 Rowan didn’t reach for the paper. He just sat there on the edge of the bed, his wrists half-hidden inside his long sleeves. The bruises were from last night. When I had caught him trying to slip out the door, I’d pinned his wrists and dragged him back to the bed. He had struggled once, briefly, before giving up. After that, he turned his back to me and hadn’t said a single word all night. I thought he was just giving me the silent treatment. I thought he was using his silence as a weapon to force my hand, to make me yield. After all, Rowan Hayes had always been a master at that. He was ice-cold in the boardroom, and he was ice-cold at home. So cold that every time I saw that indifferent, one-foot-out-the-door look on his face, all I wanted to do was deadbolt the locks, draw the curtains, and drag him back into my arms until he remembered he was mine. But now, those glowing words were still suspended in my vision. Line after line, like a live feed of a phantom audience screaming at me. [Silas, stop being a psycho and look at his face.] [Where are all the toxic romance apologists now? Come get your boy.] [I can’t even reread this part, it’s too dark.] [God, he’s already hiding the pills right now. Somebody save him.] My eyes locked onto that last line. Hiding pills. I had personally swept every inch of this room. The medical kit was locked downstairs. The kitchen knives were secured in a biometric drawer. I had even replaced the razors in his master bath with electric trimmers. What the hell could he possibly hide? I turned slowly and walked toward the nightstand. Rowan finally lifted his head. Panic flashed across his pale face. “What are you doing?” I didn’t answer. I gripped the heavy mahogany nightstand and dragged it away from the wall. The wood screeched violently against the hardwood floor. All the color completely drained from Rowan’s face. In that fraction of a second, my heart dropped into my stomach. I pried off the false backing of the drawer. A small, unlabeled white plastic bottle rolled out from the hollow space. It hit the plush rug with a soft, barely audible thud. But the silence in the room suddenly felt like a graveyard. I bent down, picked up the bottle, and popped the childproof cap. Inside, it was half-full of heavy white sedatives. I looked at Rowan. “What is this?” He pressed his lips into a thin, bloodless line. He didn’t speak. I took a step closer. “Who gave these to you?” His eyelashes fluttered against his pale skin. When he spoke, his voice was raw, scraped hollow. “Do you really have to tear everything apart, Silas?” The phantom text exploded across my vision. [Oh my god, this is it! He actually found the bottle!] [Reading this chapter for the first time literally made my blood run cold.] [Stop interrogating him. He can’t sleep. He’s been awake for weeks.] [He was already mapping out his way out of this world.] [If Silas had found this even a day later, it would have been over.] My fingers tightened around the plastic bottle until the edges dug painfully into my palm. “How many have you taken?” I demanded. Rowan let out a sudden, breathy laugh. It was a sound as fragile as shattering ice. “Do you even care?” My throat closed up. Of course I care. I wanted to cross the room and grab him. I wanted to pry his mouth open and force him to tell me where every single missing pill had gone. I wanted to kiss him, to shake him, to tell him that I loved him so deeply it felt like a sickness. But the moment I shifted my weight, Rowan’s shoulders violently flinched. He was terrified I was going to touch him. For the first time, the reality of it cut through my obsession with absolute clarity. Rowan was afraid of me. What I had interpreted as his stubbornness, his rebellion, his calculated silent treatment designed to torture me… it had mutated into genuine terror. The text kept scrolling. [Look at the state of him. And Silas still wants to hug him?] [Wake the hell up, Silas.] I stood glued to the floor, completely paralyzed. I couldn’t take a single step toward him. After what felt like an eternity, I tossed the pill bottle into the trash can. Rowan stared at me, stunned. I turned my back to him, opened the top drawer of the dresser, and pulled out the rest of his belongings. His bank cards, his watch. I piled them onto the mattress. I walked over to the writing desk. I grabbed a pen and aggressively wrote down the estate’s master gate code, the garage pin, and the combination to his personal safe. I pressed down so hard on the last digit that the pen tore straight through the heavy cardstock. I slid the paper across the desk. “Go.” Rowan looked up at me. I forced my voice to remain completely steady. “The security detail is pulling out tonight. My driver is waiting downstairs. You can go wherever you want.” He looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. It took him a long time to finally whisper, “Are you done playing your games, Silas?” I glanced at the trash can where the pills lay. “Yeah.” The edges of his eyes slowly turned red. I didn’t dare look at him any longer. “I’m not coming after you anymore.” 2 Rowan didn’t leave that night. I sat in the dark living room until the sun came up. Upstairs, the house was so quiet it felt entirely vacant. Every ten minutes, a visceral urge seized me to go upstairs and check on him. I would walk to the base of the grand staircase, grip the banister, and force myself to stop. The floating text flickered in the gloom. [Don’t go up there.] [If you show your face right now, you’re only going to terrify him more.] [Give him room to breathe, Silas. For the love of god, act like a human being.] I stood at the bottom of the stairs, my palm slick with cold sweat against the mahogany railing. When morning finally broke, I called my private physician, Dr. Aris. While the doctor examined Rowan, I stood out in the hallway. The door was cracked open. I could see him sitting on the edge of the velvet sofa, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looked ghostly pale, but his expression had returned to its usual detached neutrality. Dr. Aris clicked his pen. “How has your sleep been lately, Mr. Hayes?” “Fine,” Rowan replied. “And that bottle of sedatives?” Dr. Aris pressed. “Did you take any?” Rowan paused. Standing by the door frame, my fingers dug into the drywall. He lowered his eyes, his voice barely a murmur. “No.” Dr. Aris frowned. “The bottle Silas showed me was half-empty.” Rowan meticulously buttoned his cuffs. After a long beat, he said, “I flushed them.” The doctor blinked, taken aback. “Why would you do that?” Rowan didn’t answer. I lowered my gaze to the floorboards. Maybe none of those pills had actually made it into his stomach. But he had still hidden them inside the false back of the nightstand. He had still sat alone in the dead of night, unscrewed the cap, and poured those heavy white tablets into his palm, staring at them. Thinking about how easily they could dissolve into his bloodstream and shut his body down for good. I was almost too late. After Dr. Aris left, Rowan walked out into the hallway and stopped in front of me. He was still pale, and there was no light left in his eyes. “You heard?” he asked. I looked at him. “Why did you flush them?” He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Take a guess.” The air in my lungs felt like it was going to combust. If this were a month ago, I would have grabbed him by the jaw and forced him to finish that sentence. Instead, I took a step back. Rowan’s smile slowly faded. “Silas—” “The driver is waiting outside,” I cut in. He stared at me. “You’re really letting me leave?” My throat felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. “Yes.” Rowan turned and picked up his car keys from the console table. When he reached the grand front double doors, he paused. The morning light poured in from outside, blindingly bright. He stood silhouetted in the glare, his frame looking so terribly thin, as if a strong gust of wind would shatter him. “Silas.” I looked up. He didn’t turn around. “You’re really not going to come looking for me?” I clenched my fists inside my pockets, my nails digging half-moons into my palms. “No.” The sound of the heavy door clicking shut was incredibly soft. When the rumble of his engine faded down the driveway, I remained standing in the foyer, entirely paralyzed. The floating text went dead silent for a long time. Finally, a single line drifted across my vision. [He finally made it out.] [God, I hope he survives this time.] I brought my hand up and covered my eyes. My palm was damp and freezing. It felt like my boiling blood had instantly turned to ice. It’s so cold, Rowan. Why couldn’t you just love me back? 3 Rowan moved back into his downtown penthouse. On the first day, he didn’t leave the apartment. On the second day, he returned to the Hayes Corporation headquarters. By the third day, he was chairing their executive board meeting. I was sitting at the head of the conference table at Montgomery Holdings, my phone resting face-up next to my legal pad. Halfway through my VP’s quarterly report, my screen lit up. It was a photo sent from a mutual contact. In the picture, Rowan was wearing a sharp, charcoal-grey Tom Ford suit, sitting at the head of his own boardroom table. He still looked pale, but the icy, commanding authority had returned to his eyes. His cuffs were perfectly tailored, hiding any fading bruises on his wrists. He looked infinitely better than he had locked inside my estate. The text drifted by. [See? He thrives the second he’s away from you.] [This is where he belongs. Not chained inside some dark bedroom.] I flipped my phone face-down against the mahogany table. “Keep going,” I told my VP. My executive assistant, Bennett, glanced at my expression and noticeably lowered the volume of his voice. After the meeting wrapped, I sat alone in my corner office until the city skyline outside turned pitch black. Rowan hadn’t contacted me. And I hadn’t contacted him. But I still had my security detail tailing him from a distance. Just to make sure he was alive. That was the lie I kept telling myself. A line of text mocked me in the dark: [So this is what Silas Montgomery calls ‘giving him space’? Yikes.] I stared at the words. Right. Rowan wouldn’t like this. I pulled myself together and texted the head of the detail: [Pull back. Stand down.] The reply came almost instantly: [Sir?] I typed it again: [Stand down. Now.] I tossed the phone onto my desk, but the suffocating weight in my chest didn’t lighten in the slightest. At 10:00 PM, Rowan called me for the first time. I stared at his name glowing on the screen. My finger hovered over the ‘Accept’ button, trembling, unable to press down. The ringing stopped. A second call immediately came through. The phantom comments started arguing. [Just answer it! What if it’s an emergency?] [I can’t handle these two. Picking up a phone call shouldn’t feel like diffusing a bomb.] When the third call came in, I answered it. The line was dead quiet. I could only hear the faint, shallow rhythm of Rowan’s breathing. I spoke first. “Do you need something?” It took him a moment. “The door lock is broken.” I immediately sat up straight in my leather chair. “Where are you?” “The penthouse.” “Alright. I’ll have maintenance head over right now.” There was a few seconds of silence on the other end. “You’re not coming?” I gripped the phone, my knuckles turning white. “No. I don’t want to crowd you.” Rowan let out a soft, breathy laugh. “You’re being so considerate these days, Silas.” The words felt like a surgical needle slipping directly into my eardrum. He hung up. I dispatched my best security tech to his building. Half an hour later, the tech texted me. The smart lock wasn’t broken. Someone had manually popped the battery pack out from the inside. I stared at that text message for a long, long time. I didn’t call him back. The comments scrolled by slowly. [His behavior is so off.] [It’s a trauma response. He’s testing the waters to see if Silas will actually show up.] [Don’t romanticize this, oh my god.] I put the phone down. Outside, the Manhattan lights glittered endlessly. But all I could see was that suffocating, curtain-drawn bedroom back at the estate. 4 Rowan went to a club. He almost never stepped foot in places like that. The photo came from a wealthy acquaintance of ours who ran in the same circles. He had no idea we had severed ties, so his text was entirely teasing: [Hey Silas, who’s the pretty boy hanging off your guy? You gonna let that slide?] I opened the image. Rowan was sitting at a high-end mahogany bar. A young man in a black silk button-down was leaning in way too close, whispering something into Rowan’s ear. Rowan wasn’t pulling away. I stared at the screen, a vicious, ugly fire igniting in my chest and burning straight up my throat. If this were before, I would have already been in the car. I would have stormed into that club, yanked Rowan off that barstool, wrapped my trench coat around his shoulders, locked the car doors, and driven him straight back to the estate. But now, I didn’t even have the right to yell at him. The phantom text was having a field day. [Lmao, that guy is literally his cousin.] [We know that, but Silas doesn’t. This is about to be a disaster.] [Stop laughing, I’m genuinely terrified Silas is going to relapse and kidnap him again.] [Releasing a man and then immediately dragging him out of a club? Straight to jail.] I grabbed my car keys. I made it to the elevator banks before I forced my feet to stop. Eventually, I turned around and walked back into my office. Thirty minutes later, my phone rang. It was Rowan. I answered. The heavy bass of club music thumped in the background, but his voice cut through the noise, sharp and clear. “Silas.” “What is it?” “Did you get the picture?” I squeezed my eyes shut. “Rowan, stop playing games with your own safety just to spite me.” He laughed. “I thought you didn’t care anymore.” I didn’t reply. The background noise muffled slightly. It sounded like he had stepped out onto a balcony or an alley. The chill of the night wind hissed through the receiver. He asked, “Are you jealous?” My fingernails dug into the edge of my mahogany desk. “No.” “Then why are you angry?” I kept my voice dead level. “I’m not angry.” Rowan fell silent. After a long, agonizing pause, he murmured, “You wouldn’t have acted like this before.” My throat felt tight. “Before was toxic. I was hurting you.” “Whether you were hurting me or not,” he said softly, “was always up to you to decide, wasn’t it?” The words landed lightly, but they crushed my chest like an anvil. “It’s too late for this,” I said. “Go home.” “To which one?” I couldn’t answer that. He couldn’t go back to the estate, and my penthouse wasn’t an option. He had already claimed the lock to his own apartment was broken. My heart spasmed, but I couldn’t force a single word out. Rowan let out a bitter little chuckle. “Forget it,” he said. “You’re a coward now, Silas. You don’t even have the guts to order me around anymore.” The line went dead. That night, he checked into a luxury hotel a few blocks away. I drove there. But when I parked across the street, I didn’t go inside. I sat in the driver’s seat of the Aston Martin, watching the entrance from the dead of night until the dawn broke. Early the next morning, Rowan walked out of the lobby. He was alone, still wearing the suit from the night before. He stopped on the curb and, quite suddenly, looked directly across the street at my car. Through the heavy tint of the windows, there was no way he could see me. But his gaze felt like it was burning a hole straight through my skull. I didn’t move a muscle. Rowan stood there for a few seconds, then turned, got into his waiting town car, and drove away. The text drifted past. [He totally knows.] [Yeah, he definitely feels Silas watching him.] I leaned forward, resting my forehead against the cold leather of the steering wheel. I didn’t lift my head for a long time. 5 Rowan moved back into the estate. When Carson, the estate manager, texted me, I was in the middle of signing a multi-million-dollar acquisition contract. [Mr. Hayes has returned.] [He went into the master bedroom and drew all the curtains.] My Montblanc pen stalled on the heavy paper. The black ink bled out, forming an ugly, dark stain. I stared at those two lines of text, completely paralyzed. The floating comments were just as shocked. [Why the hell did he go back?!] [No, no, no. I’m actually terrified right now.] [He needs to stay as far away from that house as possible.] I didn’t go back. At 9:00 PM, Carson texted to say Rowan had refused dinner. At 10:00 PM, Carson texted to say Rowan had shattered the bedside lamp. At 10:30 PM, my phone buzzed with an image sent directly from Rowan. It was a picture of the hardwood floor covered in broken glass. And a shallow, bleeding cut across the back of his pale hand. The caption read: [You used to get so angry when I did this, Silas.] I stared at that thin line of blood, my fingers trembling slightly. I texted back: [Dr. Aris is on his way to you.] His reply was instantaneous. [You’re not coming?] I typed. Erased it. Typed again. Finally, I hit send on: [You need medical attention.] A long time passed before he sent back a single letter. [Oh.] Dr. Aris went to the estate. Carson reported back that it was just a superficial scratch, and they had bandaged it. I sat in my corporate office until two in the morning. Suddenly, my screen lit up again. This time, it was a photo of the white plastic pill bottle. The cap was off. The heavy white sedatives were scattered all across the nightstand. No caption. A high-pitched ringing exploded in my ears. I snatched my car keys and practically sprinted for the private elevator. The text was flying frantically across my vision. [Jesus, slow down! You’re going to crash!] [Call an ambulance first!] [Silas, don’t lose your damn mind, but also PLEASE GET THERE NOW!] I dialed Rowan’s number as the engine roared to life. Once. Twice. Three times. No answer. Thirty minutes later, I slammed the front doors of the estate open and took the stairs two at a time. The door to the master bedroom was wide open. Rowan was sitting on the edge of the bed. The white pills were scattered all around him like snow. He looked up at me. The corners of his eyes were rimmed in angry red. “You’re here.” I crossed the room in three strides, grabbed his jaw, and forced his face up. “How many did you swallow?” He looked at me, his voice lighter than a ghost. “Take a guess.” My blood ran ice cold. I grabbed the water glass on the nightstand, sniffed it, then roughly pried his hands open to check for residue. Nothing. No smell of medication. Every single pill was accounted for. When I finished counting, my hands were violently shaking. Rowan just sat there, watching me. “Silas.” I ignored him, spinning around to grab the medical kit Dr. Aris had left behind. Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed the cuff of my shirt. His grip was weak. “This is the part where you usually scream at me,” he whispered. I froze. His voice dropped even lower. “This is the part where you pin me down on the mattress, and tell me that if I ever try to scare you like that again, you’ll lock me in a room without a single window.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “That was sick, Rowan. That was wrong.” His fingers slowly let go of my sleeve. I looked back at him. That red flush was still lingering at the edges of his eyes, but his terrifying stillness sent a shockwave of panic through my chest. “So now you’re just going to do nothing?” My throat was parched. “I can’t be the monster that terrifies you anymore.” “What if I want to terrify you?” I stared at him. He stared back. In that split second, I felt like I was standing dead-center in an invisible spiderweb. Rowan was sitting at the nucleus—pale, broken, looking like he was about to shatter into a million pieces. Yet he was the one holding all the threads. But I was too terrified to take a step forward. I was terrified of making the wrong move, of slipping back into the toxic abyss where neither of us would survive. I swept the pills into a biohazard bag to hand off to Dr. Aris for testing. Then I ordered Carson to strip the bedroom of all medications, sharp objects, and glass. Throughout the entire process, I didn’t lay a single finger on him. Rowan sat perfectly still on the edge of the bed, watching me sterilize the room. When I was finally done, he asked in a barely-there whisper, “Silas… do you even want me anymore?” My fingers locked up. The text flooded my vision. [Holy shit…] [Holy shit.] [HOLY SHIT!] I turned around, agonizingly slow. “Rowan. We need to stop.” The last bit of color drained from his face. “Once you’re stable,” I forced myself to say, “we can talk.” He let out a broken laugh. “Talk about what?” “You’re going through withdrawal right now,” I said, my voice cracking. “We are toxic for each other. We need to detox.” When those words fell from my mouth, the final spark of light in his eyes completely extinguished. 6 Before I left the estate, I made Carson remove every single sharp object from the entire second floor. Rowan sat on the edge of the mattress, his head bowed. He hadn’t said a word. He looked dreadfully pale, a pristine white bandage stark against his bruised hand, the sleeve of his shirt hanging loose over his cold, delicate wrist bone. Just as my hand touched the door handle, he finally spoke. “Silas.” I stopped. His voice was thick, almost as if he were choking back a sob. “Where are you going?” My grip on the brass handle tightened. “Back to the office.” “And then what?” I didn’t turn around. I forced my mouth into a painful imitation of a smile. “I’m going to see a doctor, too.” He let out a soft, mocking laugh. “You’re certainly playing the good boy these days.” The comment sent a spike of irritation and agony straight down my spine. I wanted to turn around. I wanted to ask him what the hell he actually wanted from me. I wanted to ask if he wouldn’t be satisfied until he watched me completely lose my mind. The primal, obsessive urge boiling in my marrow was threatening to swallow me alive. I wanted to drag him against me, to kiss the breath out of him, to scream that I loved him. I wanted to shake him and demand to know why he couldn’t just love me the way I loved him—with a terrifying, all-consuming devotion. But before I stepped through the door, my voice came out hard and clinical. “I won’t touch you again.” The room behind me fell dead silent. It was silent for so long I assumed he was done speaking. But right in the exact second the heavy door clicked shut, I heard Rowan whisper. “You’re a liar, Silas.” My hand froze on the knob. But the latch had already caught. I stood in the dark hallway for a long time, unable to move. The text began to slowly drift in. [Something feels off about that line.] [Wait, is it just me, or was Rowan not just running away out of fear back then?] [Does anyone remember earlier in the book? Every time he ‘escaped,’ he only ever made it as far as the garden.] [Shut up, both of their brains are completely deep-fried at this point.] I lowered my eyes. Yeah. My brain is deep-fried. From the second I saw that pill bottle hidden in the nightstand, I hadn’t had a single rational thought. The best thing I could do right now was stay as far away from Rowan Hayes as physically possible. My therapist had diagnosed me with severe coercive control tendencies. I was a psychopath who had driven the man I loved to the brink of suicide. I knew what I was. So when I got into my car, I dialed my assistant, Bennett. “Set something up for me… a date. A blind date.” Anything. Anything to break the cycle. Dead silence stretched over the line for five full seconds. “Mr. Montgomery?” I stared up at the second-story window of the estate. The blackout curtains were drawn tight. “Or a charity gala, a dinner party. Just find someone.” Bennett’s voice dropped. “Are you absolutely sure, sir?” “I’m sure.” The moment I hung up, the text went absolutely nuclear. [???] [Oh my god, these two psychopaths are about to level up.] [Rowan is going to absolutely lose his mind when he finds out.] I threw my phone onto the passenger seat. I didn’t start the ignition right away. I looked up at the house. The curtain in the master bedroom twitched. Just a fraction of an inch. Like someone was standing in the pitch black, watching me through a sliver of fabric. I stared intently at the window. The curtain immediately fell perfectly still. Half an hour later, I drove away. But the image of that shifting fabric haunted the back of my eyelids all night.

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My brother wanted me to play the innocent, wide-eyed boy—the kind who could coax his fiercest corporate rival into falling head over heels. Then I laid eyes on Wilder Fox. He had unruly crimson hair, a lean waist, and a reckless, predatory grace that belonged in a high-end bourbon ad. He was an untouchable heir to an empire who treated the world like his private playground: fickle, notoriously hard to please, and utterly ruined by indulgence. And more importantly… I stared at the glossy dossier in my hands, my stomach sinking into my shoes. “Garrett, I’m straight.” Later. Wilder was sprawled across silk sheets, a cigarette smoldering between two calloused fingers, looking down at me with heavy, hooded eyes. The pale expanse of his thighs was littered with dark, swollen bite marks. Breathing hard, he nudged my hip with his bare foot. “Still calling yourself straight, Mercer?” A wicked smirk pulled at his swollen lips. “You went straight for my throat the second the lights went down.” 1 Three days after I landed back in the States, my half-brother ordered me to seduce a man. We were sitting in the shadowy back booth of a dimly lit cocktail lounge in Midtown. The memory of Garrett’s morning briefing still hummed bitterly in my ears: Remember, Wilder likes them sweet. Fresh. Sincere. You just got back from London. You’re entirely off the radar. You’re his exact poison. “Garrett,” I had said, my hands tight on my coffee mug, “is this seriously the best corporate espionage strategy you could cook up overnight?” I didn’t even know what the man looked like. Just because my brother was desperate to snag a multimillion-dollar municipal redevelopment project, I was supposed to offer myself up as bait to distract the competition? To a man, no less. “I’m straight,” I’d repeated, my voice hollow. “You owe me, Logan,” Garrett had replied, sliding a single photograph across the polished mahogany table. “If I hadn’t covered your back in the Holloway house after our father brought you in, you wouldn’t have survived long enough to get that degree abroad.” He leaned in, cold and calculating. “A trust-fund parasite like Wilder Fox doesn’t do love. Relationships are just distractions to him. I need you to make him fall, make him lose his focus, and tear him apart when it matters.” I looked down at the photograph. Slender hips, sharp jawline, and a mess of defiant red hair. The man was laughing straight into the lens—feral, unapologetic, entirely unbothered by the world burning around him. A bad boy through and through. The kind who took what he wanted and left a trail of wreckage in his wake. “Can you do it?” Garrett had asked. I had pressed my lips into a thin line and said nothing. 2 Truth was, I wanted to tell him it was suicide. You didn’t have to hire a private investigator to unearth Wilder Fox’s reputation; a two-second Google search on Page Six gave you the entire gory picture. FOX HEIR SPOTTED WITH NEW BOY TOY AT HAMPTONS GALA. TEN-DAY FLING BURNS OUT: WILDER FOX BACK ON THE PROWL. THE BLUEPRINT: INSIDE THE BRIEF, VOLATILE ROMANCES OF NEW YORK’S WILDEST BACHELOR. Gossip rag fodder. From top to bottom. As the sole heir to Fox Enterprises, he ought to have been groomed for the boardroom, yet he treated his family’s billion-dollar conglomerate like an inconvenient joke. He drifted through penthouses and after-parties, swapping partners the way ordinary people changed coats. His only tangible achievement was Nocturne, a moody, ultra-exclusive lounge where high-society heirs went to lose their minds. Word on the street was that his father, old man Fox, had finally grown fed up and dumped a mid-tier waterfront bid on his desk to force him into adulthood. Lost in thought, my gaze drifted toward the centerpiece of the lounge. Under the warm pendant lights, a shock of brilliant red cut through the velvet gloom. He was perched lazily on a leather barstool, long legs crossed, a custom charcoal suit hugging the narrow taper of his waist and the lean line of his back. I gave my glass a slow swirl, set it down, and stood up. 3 “Usual. Negroni,” Wilder murmured, propping his chin in his hand, his tone effortless and dripping with boredom. Brushing past a stray lock of red hair, I slid onto the adjacent stool and nodded to the bartender. “Make that two, please.” “First time here? Haven’t seen your face around,” Wilder said, turning his head. A slow, speculative brow arched upward. Meeting those amber, amused eyes, a strange stillness washed over me. Garrett had been right about one thing: Wilder Fox was undeniably curious. “Just got back to the city,” I said, pitching my voice softer, letting it carry the tentative cadence of someone younger and slightly overwhelmed. “A friend mentioned this place had an atmosphere you couldn’t find anywhere else.” The corner of his mouth ticked up. “An expat?” “Architecture student,” I said smoothly. “Taking a year off to handle some personal family affairs.” A half-truth was always the sturdiest shield. If everyone in this zip code traded in fabricated personas, I could play the part just as well. “Fair enough.” He extended a pale, ring-adorned hand, his smile teasing. “Wilder Fox. I own the joint. Ring any bells?” I shook my head, keeping my grip light and brief. “Logan Mercer. Should they?” “Ha. Do me a favor and don’t look me up,” he said, the dry heat of his palm lingering on my knuckles a second longer than necessary before he withdrew. “Trust your gut. Let our first impression be untainted. It’s more fun that way.” “Deal,” I murmured, watching him while my mind added: Untainted, maybe, but already etched in stone. Irresponsible. Hedonistic. Beyond saving. The bartender set down two crystal tumblers, ice clinking musically. Clink. Wilder tapped the rim of his glass against mine. “Boys like you shouldn’t linger in places like this. You’re bound to get picked apart by someone with bad intentions.” As he spoke, he loosened the top buttons of his tailored shirt. No tie. Just the clean, porcelain slope of his collarbones on display. The slight upturn at the corners of his eyes lent him an air of effortless debauchery. I had to admit—he was vastly more magnetic in the flesh than in Garrett’s grainy dossier. I offered a modest, disarming smile. “With the owner standing right beside me, I figure I’m in safe hands.” Wilder narrowed his eyes playfully. “Just call me Wilder.” I took a slow sip. “Wilder.” His fingers twitched against the crystal. Beneath his breath, I caught a soft, rough curse: “Jesus.” When he looked back up, the tips of his ears carried a faint, dusty flush, though his smirk remained intact. “Where are you crashing while you sort through your family stuff?” “An apartment down by the river,” I replied. “It’s quiet. A little too empty, to be honest.” His smile widened. “Funny. I keep a loft right around there. If the quiet gets too loud, you know where to find me.” Before I could answer, he signaled the bartender. “Mix Mr. Mercer a glass of First Sight.” Turning back to me, his eyes caught the amber light. “On the house. Low proof. A toast to meeting by chance.” The faint scent of cedarwood and dry gin drifted from his skin, dizzying and sharp. He was undeniably striking, with full lips and eyes that seemed to look at everyone as though they were a secret he already understood. He waited patiently for me to take the bait. “I think I’ll pass tonight. Thank you, though,” I said softly, rising from the stool. “I’ve had enough to make me lightheaded, and I’d hate to get reckless.” Wilder’s eyebrows shot up. His fingers darted out, hooking lightly into the cuff of my jacket. “Not even a number?” I slipped my sleeve gently from his grasp, stepping backward toward the exit. “Let’s leave the first impression right here. We’ll see if fate orders us a second drink.” Behind me came another quiet, startled laugh, followed by the sound of whiskey going down his throat. I didn’t look back. 4 Our paths crossed again four days later. Le Mirage. Corner table overlooking the fountain tier. 8:00 PM. The text from Garrett glowed on my screen: 7:57 PM. He should be arriving any minute. Garrett had tipped me off that Wilder was seen around town with someone new, and that they had reservations here tonight. My brother had hounded me all afternoon, terrified that another pretty face would monopolize the target before I sank my hooks in. It was almost pathetic how much stock Garrett placed in my supposed charm. Right on schedule, a tall, languid silhouette stepped past the velvet rope. Wilder had his arm draped casually around a slender, brown-haired boy. He was wearing a fluid black silk shirt, unbuttoned just low enough to be indecent, his long legs moving with easy arrogance. The boy clinging to his arm was pretty in an understated, cherubic way—the soft, doe-eyed aesthetic Wilder clearly favored—but he looked faded next to Wilder’s vibrant, feral heat. “I asked for this table specifically,” Wilder was saying, his tone smooth and detached. “The view gives you a clear shot of—” He cut off mid-stride. “A clear shot of what, Wilder?” the boy asked, blinking up at him. I looked up from my menu, affecting mild surprise as my eyes locked onto the crimson-haired man. Wilder dropped his arm from the boy’s shoulder. He closed the distance between our tables in three long, deliberate strides, his eyes gleaming with dark delight. “Well. Look who decided to exist outside my head.” “Dining alone?” he asked. “I was—” “Wilder, the water show starts in five minutes,” the brown-haired boy interrupted, scurrying over with a sharp glare directed squarely at me before attaching himself back to Wilder’s forearm. “Let’s sit down, please?” Wilder looked down at the boy’s hand for two silent seconds. Then, catching the boy by the wrist, he peeled him off. “Go home,” Wilder said smoothly. “What? But we just got—” “Do I look like a man who enjoys repeating himself?” Wilder’s lips curved into a smile, but his eyes were pure ice. The boy’s face drained of color. He smoothed his cuffs with trembling fingers and stormed toward the coat check in humiliated silence. Too impatient. Too transparent, I noted silently. Did he really think Wilder Fox was an idiot with an open checkbook? “Mind if I join you?” Without waiting for permission, Wilder pulled out the leather chair opposite mine and settled in. 5 “Not at all,” I said softly, keeping my eyes modest. “Small world, Mr. Fox.” He leaned back, grinning. “So you figured out who I am.” “It’s hard not to be curious about someone who introduces himself as the owner of the hottest club in Manhattan,” I replied. “I just didn’t expect you to be that Fox.” Before he could respond, our server arrived, gracefully setting down a pair of elaborate appetizers. Wilder made a mock gesture of standing. “Ah. Seems I’m interrupting a date.” “Stay,” I said quickly, offering an embarrassed, sheepish smile. “A friend had an emergency and bailed last minute. I ordered the tasting menu for two… there’s no way I can finish it alone.” Wilder looked down at me from across the table, a low chuckle rumbling in his throat. “Did you plan this?” “An unfortunate coincidence,” I lied without missing a beat. He picked up his water goblet and tapped it against my wine glass. “To fortunate misfortunes, then.” Coincidence is a magnificent liar. Wilder picked up his fork, casually asking, “So now that you know who I am—the trust-fund playboy, the tabloid regular—did your pretty little first impression come crashing down, architecture boy?” The crimson hair fell loosely over his forehead. He projected an air of absolute indifference, as though my judgment wouldn’t graze him in the slightest. I nudged the bread basket closer to him and answered honestly, “A little.” His fork paused. He stared at me. “Psychology calls it the primacy effect,” I said evenly, holding his gaze. “The initial impression anchors our perception. It makes us forgive the noise that comes afterward. You feel it too, don’t you?” The primacy effect: the cognitive bias that causes early information to carry more weight than everything that follows. A beat passed. “…Cheeky,” he murmured, a genuine, startled grin breaking across his face as he looked down. The dinner unfolded with effortless warmth. Wilder asked about my time studying in Europe, swapping stories about his own chaotic stints in Paris and Milan. Listening to him, you wouldn’t mistake him for a deadbeat heir; he possessed the sharp, cultured wit of someone who had seen the world and found it mildly amusing. He deftly carved a piece of seared foie gras, lifted his fork, and brought it directly to my lips. “Taste.” It was an overt breach of boundaries. An unmistakable test. I hesitated for half a second before leaning forward, parting my lips, and letting the fork slide free. The rich, savory fat melted instantly on my tongue. “Good?” Wilder’s eyes darkened, a predatory spark dancing in them. “You look tense.” “I am,” I admitted, my fingers brushing the back of his hand as I reached for my napkin. Snap. His hand clamped down around my wrist, his skin burning hot. He leaned across the small table, trapping me under his heavy, golden gaze. “You know what I like, Logan. And I’m entirely unattached right now.” I met his stare, my expression entirely placid, and said quietly, “Wilder. Let go.” He arched a brow. His grin widened by a millimeter, but after a second of silent standoff, his fingers uncurled. “Jesus… you handle me like I’m a dog on a leash.” I rubbed my wrist, shaking my head. “Never. I just prefer to sit across from you as an equal.” “Then tell me, Logan,” he said, the teasing edge softening into something almost earnest. “Do you want to be my boyfriend?” Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass, the outdoor fountains erupted into towering plumes of illuminated spray, catching the neon glow of the city skyline. It was the textbook moment for surrender. All I had to do was say yes. I would become the latest ornament on his arm. In two months, he’d tire of me, Garrett would quietly secure the contract while Wilder was distracted, and I would walk away clean. Neither Garrett nor Wilder saw me as an actual person with a pulse. To both of them, I was a variable to be managed. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I don’t date men.” For the first time, a flicker of genuine shock cracked Wilder’s unflappable exterior. His fingertips tapped a restless rhythm on the tablecloth. Then, his shoulders shook with a sudden, breathless laugh. “Give me a shot, Logan. Just one.” He leaned in, his voice dropping an octave. “I’ll make you like me.” “…” He slid his smartphone across the table, screen open to a blank contact card. “Take my number. In case you find yourself needing a little company.” By the time I stepped out of the restaurant, the autumn air had turned sharp. He offered to call a town car for me; I politely declined. I walked down the riverside promenade alone, the cold wind biting my cheeks. My phone buzzed in my pocket. An unsaved number: Thanks for dinner. Tomorrow night is on me. You free? By the way, you look devastating in that cream turtleneck. Don’t overthink it—it’s just a fact. 6 Wilder meant what he said. He launched a campaign that was as relentless as it was unsubtle. He clearly had no idea how to court someone through gentle persistence. Money had always solved every obstacle in his life, so he treated courtship like an auction: bouquets of rare orchids arriving at my lobby desk every morning, limited-edition sneakers, high-end watches worth three years of my London rent dropped off in discreet gift bags. He kept inviting me back to Le Mirage, entirely undeterred by my lack of definitive answers. The notorious playboy seemed genuinely, absurdly domesticated. Garrett was thrilled. He reveled in reports that Wilder was spending his afternoons scouring boutiques instead of reviewing RFP documents for the upcoming municipal bid. And me? …I had no idea where I stood. I couldn’t tell if the heat in my chest was the dirty thrill of playing a part, or something far more dangerous. “What’s got you so deep in your head?” The voice came from behind me, threaded with that familiar, mocking warmth. I turned around, clutching two admission passes at the steps of the modern art museum. Wilder wore a charcoal cashmere turtleneck beneath a long, tailored black wool coat. He looked like he’d stepped directly out of an editorial spread. The fiery red of his hair had faded slightly to a warm, burnt copper, falling loosely over his forehead without its usual sculpted gel. It took the edge off him. Made him look almost vulnerable. “Nothing,” I said as he reached me. “Just wondering if you were going to leave me standing here.” “For you? I’d show up an hour early just to watch you walk up the steps,” he teased. “Come on. The galleries are quiet today.” I took a few strides forward, realized he wasn’t beside me, and glanced back. Wilder had stopped, holding out an open, pale hand with a shameless, crooked grin. “Do a guy a favor. Hold my hand. Please?” 7 The gallery was cavernous and quiet, pale autumn sunlight filtering through the vaulted skylights, gilding the gilded frames in soft amber. Wilder moved through the rooms with surprising familiarity, keeping our fingers loosely laced together, occasionally leaning in so his warm breath grazed my ear as he murmured details about the painters. “You come here often?” I asked. His thumb traced absentminded circles on the back of my hand. “My mother used to bring me when I was a kid. She was an artist. Loved this place more than anywhere in the city.” He paused. In the low gallery light, I caught a sudden, brief shadow passing over his eyes. “She passed away when I was twelve. After that, this was the only place where she didn’t feel entirely gone. She gave up painting after she had me. I used to think I ruined her life.” The confession caught me entirely off guard. A ruthless operative would have seized the opening, using his dead mother as an emotional wedge to pry him open further. But as I looked at the slight downturn of his mouth, I found I wasn’t cold-blooded enough to turn his grief into an asset. “I’m sorry,” I murmured. Wilder shook his head, tugging my hand gently. “Come here. I want to show you my favorite.” His grip was hot and steady. For all his posturing, his skin was remarkably soft against mine. He led me past three interconnected galleries, stopping before a massive, moody canvas. The painting was dominated by an ocean of suffocating, ink-black tones. But dead center, a sliver of pale, incandescent light pierced the clouds, striking a tiny circle of still water below. It hummed with an ache that was impossible to name—loneliness and salvation knotted together. “Don’t worry about sounding smart,” Wilder said softly. “Do you like it?” “I do,” I answered. “Why?” “I like the dark,” I said. “It feels safe enough to disappear into. But that light… it reminds you that there’s still somewhere to run toward.” It was the story of my entire life. Wilder let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh. “Funny. It’s my favorite piece here, but I despise the dark.” His voice dropped so low I had to strain to hear it. “Some things happened when I was younger. Ever since, darkness is just… an empty room. No light at all.” He squeezed my fingers. “Come on, Mercer. There are happier things to look at.” 8 For the rest of the tour, Wilder was a ghost of himself. He stopped whispering in my ear, stopped laughing at his own jokes. He simply drifted alongside me, offering mechanical nods when I pointed out a sculpture. The arrogant, untouchable heir was gone, replaced by someone small and defenseless. Remember who he is, I commanded myself. He’s still a weapon Garrett pointed you at. Outside, under the sprawling limbs of a bare oak tree, I guided him toward a circular wooden bench. “Sit down,” I murmured. “Are you alright?” Wilder looked up at me, managing a weak, sarcastic curve of his mouth. “What, worried about me?” “Yes.” He was sitting; I was standing. The power dynamic flipped, forcing him to crane his neck to meet my eyes. The mask slipped entirely. “God,” he whispered, turning his head away toward the gravel path. “Pathetic. I’m completely pathetic around you.” “Wilder—” “I envy you, Logan. Truly.” “Envy me for what?” “You’re clean,” he said, turning back, his eyes glassy and bright. “There’s a… purity to you I can’t even describe.” He swallowed hard. “I grew up in rooms where nobody ever said what they meant. Every single person who ever crawled into my bed had an invoice waiting in their back pocket. I knew what they wanted. They never said no to me, they just clung closer and closer… and the closer they got, the less they heard a single damn word I said.” He stared at me, his gaze tracing the bridge of my nose, my lips. “You’re different. You’re that light in the painting.” The evening wind caught his copper fringe, making him look young, fractured, and terribly exposed. The corners of his eyes were rimmed with pink. Clean? My chest burned with self-loathing. I’m the dirtiest thing that ever walked into your life. A suffocating panic gripped me. I took a half-step back, wanting desperately to run. Grab. His hand caught my wool sleeve. He looked up at me, hair tangled across his forehead, his fierce eyes pooling with unshed tears. “Kiss me,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Please. Just kiss me.” … I didn’t think. I reached down, fisted both hands into his lapels, buried my fingers in his hair, and crushed my mouth against his. 9 It was nothing like the gentle seduction I had mapped out in my head. It was violent, desperate, my teeth catching his bottom lip hard enough to draw copper. The taste of salt and blood flooded my mouth, swallowing every lie I hadn’t told yet. “Mmh…” Wilder let out a muffled gasp, startled by the ferocity of it. Then, his hands flew up, winding tightly around the back of my neck. He pulled me down harder, parting his lips, surrendering completely to the assault. His neck arched, his lean hips tilting upward toward mine. In a surge of blind frustration, my hand dropped to his waist, digging hard into the lean muscle above his hip bone. “Ah…!” A sharp shudder ran through him. I didn’t know who I was angry with. Him, for using his misery to disarm me? Or myself, for feeling like a monster? His eyes were glazed, dazed with tears and oxygen deprivation, when I finally tore my mouth away. “Ha…” Wilder’s chest heaved against mine, his eyes blinking rapidly in the twilight. “Be with me, Logan,” he panted, breathless. “I know my track record is garbage. But I mean it this time. Say whatever you want to me, do whatever you want. I’m in.” I stood over him, my pulse pounding in my ears, completely silent. Reading my frozen silence as rejection, Wilder’s expression shuttered. He produced a silver lighter and a cigarette with shaking hands, attempting to patch his cool facade back together. “Right. If you don’t buy it, forget I spoke. Go on home.” “I…” My throat felt like sandpaper. “It depends on how you act.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. “If you’re still just a spoiled brat with nothing to show for his life, count me out.” It wasn’t the script. I was supposed to say yes, hook him, and keep him pliable. Wilder froze, the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. Then, a deep, resonant laugh tore through his chest, vibrating with sheer, unadulterated delight. “Logan Mercer,” he said, rising from the bench and letting his thumb brush my burning earlobe. “Watch me.” He pressed the unlit tip of the cigarette lightly against my breastbone, his eyes burning with renewed fire. “I won’t give you a single reason to say no.” 10 Three days later: the Fox Foundation Annual Charity Gala. I arrived thirty minutes before the scheduled start, but the grand ballroom of the Plaza was already swelling with Manhattan’s elite. Tiered champagne fountains, crystal chandeliers, and an endless parade of diamonds and bespoke tuxedoes. “Mr. Mercer,” an attendant whispered, guiding me through the foyer. “Mr. Fox is finalizing his remarks upstairs. Please enjoy the reception.” I nodded, stepping into the periphery. This wasn’t my world. When my mother fled my father’s family, she severed every tie to high society. To the Holloways, I had always been an embarrassment—an illegitimate son tolerated only because Garrett occasionally used me as a buffer during family disputes. If Garrett hadn’t intervened when my uncles were circling like vultures, I might not have survived my teenage years. My mother eventually reclaimed her maiden name, took me with her, and we lived quietly until she fell ill. I returned to New York only because my father’s health had collapsed, triggering a bloodbath over the estate. Garrett and my uncle Richard were at each other’s throats, and Garrett needed every chip he could play. Including me. In the center of the hall, an archival black-and-white photograph hung on an easel: an elegant woman smiling gently, holding a five-year-old boy in her lap. The boy’s grin was radiant and pure—a world away from the jaded playboy I knew. “Mr. Fox has arrived!” A collective hush swept through the room as the double doors parted. A pair of long, perfectly tailored legs stepped across the threshold. Wilder was clad in a razor-sharp, midnight-black tuxedo, the silk lapels catching the light with subtle, understated elegance. His hair was no longer crimson. He had dyed it back to a deep, natural raven black, slicked back from his forehead to reveal the sharp, aristocratic architecture of his brow and cheekbones. Gone was the decadent drifter. In his place stood an heir who commanded the room with effortless authority. “Holy shit, did Fox get an exorcism?” a young venture capitalist whispered nearby. “I thought he was boycotting tonight!” Through the murmuring crowd, Wilder’s gaze swept across the sea of faces with cool detachment. Then, he stopped. His eyes locked onto mine. A slow, private warmth crept into his amber irises. Lifting his champagne flute in my direction, his lips shaped four silent words across the cavernous room: How did I do? 11 For the remainder of the evening, Wilder operated with staggering finesse. He moved between senators, hedge fund managers, and foreign dignitaries with the grace of a seasoned diplomat. When he took the stage for the closing address, his posture was immaculate, his hands steady on the lectern. I watched him from the shadows, a knot of unease tightening in my stomach. Was his playboy routine just a performance? A deliberate mask to keep the vultures at bay? And if it was… did I stand a chance of walking away from him intact? “…Tonight, thanks to your generosity, we have secured thirty-five million dollars, every cent of which will be directed toward youth educational initiatives in underprivileged districts.” Wilder offered a dignified bow, and the room erupted into thunderous applause. As the crowd began to thin toward the exits, my arm was roughly seized from behind. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I turned to find Garrett staring down at me, his eyes bloodshot and venomous. He shoved me behind a massive marble pillar, his voice an incensed hiss. “I told you to ruin him. I told you to make him useless, not turn him into the damn poster boy for civic responsibility!” “Garrett—” “A charity gala?” Garrett sneered, his fingers digging into my bicep. “What’s next? Is he going to polish up his redevelopment proposal and sweep the city council off their feet just to impress you?” I pried his fingers off my arm, my jaw clenched. “This wasn’t part of the plan, but you don’t know him—” “Are you falling for him, Logan?” Garrett spat, his face inches from mine. “I need corporate dominance, not a tragic queer romance. Are you going to deliver, or are you just as worthless as your mother thought you were?” The venom in his voice was familiar. Back in the Holloway mansion, he had protected me only so long as I remained useful. Now that the inheritance war was peaking, I was just another pawn to sacrifice. “I have it under control,” I said coldly. “If I want him to hand over the contract, I have to be the only thing he cares about. Let me work.” Garrett scoffed, adjusted his cuffs, and vanished into the crowd. I leaned back against the cold stone pillar, letting out a long, ragged exhale. “Found you.” Wilder’s voice cut through the quiet. 12 The top floor of the venue housed a private penthouse suite reserved for the Fox family. Wilder lay sprawled across a deep velvet sofa, having already discarded his jacket and untied his bowtie. The starched white collar was undone, exposing the pale hollow of his throat. “My sanctuary,” he said, crooked finger beckoning me forward. “I come up here after these stupid galas to breathe. Tonight’s the first time I didn’t come up alone.” I sat on the edge of the sofa, looking out over the glittering Manhattan skyline. “So,” he murmured, his gaze tracing my profile, “give it to me straight. Did I pass the test? I wrote that damn speech myself. Nearly bored myself to death practicing it in the mirror. Logan, do you ever get exhausted playing the saint?” Every single day, I thought. “I’m used to it,” I said aloud, offering a soft smile. “You were incredible tonight. Truly.” Wilder chuckled, taking a sip from his glass. The amber bourbon glistened on his lower lip. “Do I get a reward?” I leaned down, aiming for his mouth, but his index finger pressed against my lips, halting me. “Not yet,” he whispered, looking up at me through dark, thick lashes. “I want the real answer first. Am I your boyfriend now, Mercer?” His eyes were wide, unguarded, reflecting my own face back at me with terrifying clarity. I ran my fingers through his black hair. “Yes.” Wilder let out a breathless laugh, hauling me down by the lapels until I tumbled against his chest. He kissed me hungrily, his hands roaming my back, muttering against my mouth: “What did that Holloway asshole say to you down there…?” My heart stopped. I pushed back, staring at him. “You saw?” Wilder’s hands slid down to my waist, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles. “Look at you, all jumpy. I saw him grab your wrist by the pillar. By the time I walked over, he took off. Was he harassing you?” Relief washed over me, cold and sickening. “He… he was asking for directions, got aggressive when I blew him off.” “Fucking parasite,” Wilder cursed softly, his brow furrowing. “Putting hands on you in my building. He’s lucky I didn’t break his jaw.” I let out a shaky laugh. My brother was using me. I was deceiving Wilder. And through it all, Wilder was the only one in the room acting with something resembling honor. “You’re laughing?” Wilder pouted, tugging at the hem of my shirt. “I was about to lose my mind with jealousy.” Before I could reply, he pulled me down again, his lips gentle this time, nuzzling my jaw with clumsy affection. The heat shifted, thick and heavy. My fingers traced his ribs, and he pulled me closer, guiding my weight on top of him. I reached for his tie, murmuring against his throat, “Let me make it up to you.” He caught my wrist, his gaze dark and heavy with desire. “You know how this works?” I paused. “What?” “Innocent little virgin,” he teased softly, though his pupils were dilated. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. It might sting the first time, but I’ll be careful.” As his fingers worked my buttons, I hesitated, then whispered, “I want to be on top.” He stopped. “I’ve always hated pain, Wilder,” I murmured honestly. Growing up in the Holloway house had left me with plenty of bruises; I had zero desire to collect more. Wilder stared at me for a long, stunned second before groaning into the cushion. “Jesus Christ.” He looked up, resigned and completely wrecked, his cheeks blooming with heat. “Fine. You win. Take what you want.” “Just… go easy. It’s my first time this way, too.” I rested my hand tentatively on his thigh, suddenly uncertain. “Show me what to do.” Wilder’s face turned scarlet. He kicked my shin lightly, his eyes flashing with mortified indignation. “Are you seriously asking me for a tutorial right now?!” “…” “Shower first,” he grumbled, his bare toes hooking around my waist to haul me up. “And use your hands.” …

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Shane Callahan was the single most offensive human being I had ever encountered. The first time I took an interest in him, he looked me dead in the eye and sneered, “Back the fuck off, you sick faggot. You disgust me.” Three years later, I found him bleeding to death on the concrete floor of an unsanctioned underground fight club. I bought his life. When he finally came to, he stared up at me through swollen, purple lids, voice raw and suspicious. “Why the hell did you pull me out?” I smiled, letting the silk lapels of my coat fall open. “I’m a queer, Callahan. What the fuck do you think a queer wants with a man like you?” He immediately dragged his hands down, shielding his groin, his lips peeling back in a snarl. “You filthy dog.” I reached out, caught him by the shoulder, and flipped him flat onto his stomach, pinning him into the mattress so hard the air left his lungs in a wheeze. “With a man like me,” I murmured into the shell of his ear, “what good do you think covering the front is going to do?” 1 The pit had a new problem child. The club manager practically bowed as he led me up the private iron staircase into the VIP mezzanine, his hands wringing together like dry parchment. “It’s this kid, Mr. Mercer. He refuses to take a dive.” The manager leaned close, lowering his voice against the roar of the crowd below. “He’s won six bouts in a row. The odds are completely fucked. The high-rollers on the books are starting to lose their minds.” I rested my forearms on the brass railing and looked down into the cage. Sitting on an overturned grease bucket in the corner, staring blankly at the blood-spattered canvas, was Shane Callahan. Memory hit me like an electric shock, dragging me back thirty-six months. I didn’t hand out my attention easily; in my world, men bent over backward for a fraction of my favor. But three years ago, when I had extended a silver-plated invitation his way, what had he given me in return? Back the fuck off, you sick faggot. I tapped the edge of my cigarette against the railing, watching the ash drift down through the smoke-choked air. “Put Maddox in the cage with him next round. Triple the dose on Maddox’s pre-fight cocktail.” The manager swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Right away, sir. And… how far should Maddox take it?” I didn’t turn around. My voice remained as light and indifferent as the autumn wind outside. “Beat him until he stops breathing.” 2 Down in the pit, there were no weight classes, no rounds, and no refereeing. The animals in the bleachers paid for one thing: red meat. Maddox was built like an industrial press, six-foot-four of scarred muscle and unhinged aggression, and tonight he had enough synthetic amphetamines coursing through his veins to stop an ox’s heart. He felt no pain. Shane was fast. He moved like water, ducking hooks that would have shattered brick, constantly pivoting, hunting for an angle, an exposed throat, a liver shot. But you cannot reason with a bulldozer that has no nerve endings. The roar inside the warehouse nearly blew the corrugated roof off when Shane coughed his first mouthful of dark blood onto the floor. He staggered, caught himself on one knee, and forced himself back up. That face of his—god, even split open and dripping red, there was an infuriating, untamable vitality to it. He lasted two more exchanges before Maddox caught him mid-pivot and slammed him into the concrete. The fists came down like sledgehammers. Heavy. Rhythmic. Shane’s mouth and nose sprayed crimson with every impact, his head bouncing off the deck. The crowd went feral, pounding the chain link, spitting foam. “Kill him! Break his fucking neck! Kill him!” I curled the corner of my mouth. Game over. I stood, smoothing the crease of my slacks, preparing to leave. But just as I turned my back, my gaze snagged on Shane’s eyes. Unfocused. Glazing over. Those were the eyes that had arrested me three years ago—alive with an arrogant, sunlit insolence, burning with youth. Now, the light in them was flickering, guttering out like a dying match. My shoe stopped mid-stride. A sudden, sharp hollow opened up behind my ribs. After everything, I still wanted him. “Call it,” I told the manager. “Get him out.” 3 By the time they hauled Shane into the back locker room, his pupils were blown wide, his consciousness slipping through his fingers like sand. I crouched beside the rusty gurney and waved my hand in front of his battered face. “Two choices, Callahan,” I said, voice calm and level. “You come home with me, and I keep you breathing. Or you lie right here and bleed out.” His cracked lips twitched. I leaned down, bringing my ear close to his mouth. “Go… fuck… yourself…” he rasped. A laugh slipped out of me. “Still the same feral stray. Suit yourself.” I straightened and turned toward the metal door, throwing a careless sentence over my shoulder. “You really have nothing left to live for? Not a single thing?” Every human being has an anchor. Nobody walks through hell without a reason. The room went dead silent. Just as my hand touched the brass handle of the door, a sound cracked through the damp concrete room. Hoarse. Desperate. “Save me.” I didn’t turn back. I merely lifted two fingers in the air, signaling the private medical team waiting in the corridor to go in. I walked out into the cold night air, and someone immediately draped my cashmere coat over my shoulders. I checked the Patek Philippe on my wrist. I was five minutes behind schedule. Five minutes wasted on Shane Callahan. In my precisely engineered, mechanically cold life, Shane was already proving to be an anomaly. 4 It took two months in a high-end private facility to piece his ribs, his skull, and his spleen back together. The moment the discharge papers were signed, my driver delivered him directly to my penthouse. I cut my afternoon board meeting short, driving back through the city faster than usual. When I took the private elevator straight up and entered the master suite, I heard the sound of rushing water from the bathroom. I pushed the frosted glass door open. Shane jerked around, water streaming down his lean, corded shoulders. “What the fuck!” He instantly clamped both hands over his groin, backing into the subway tile, his glare venomous. “Are you out of your mind? Can’t you see I’m taking a shower?!” I unfastened my watch, setting it on the marble vanity, and began unbuttoning my shirt. Piece by piece, right in front of his deteriorating expression, I stripped completely bare. “I see it.” “You sick faggot, you—” Before he could finish the curse, I stepped under the hot stream, grabbed his arm, spun him around, and slammed his chest flat against the wet tile. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you, Callahan?” I murmured, pressing my weight against him until his spine arched. “When you’re dealing with a queer like me, it’s the back you need to cover.” The roar of the showerhead did little to drown out the gasps, the choked groans, and the steady stream of filth Shane spat into the steam. It was the same handful of words, over and over. Pervert. Disgusting. Animal. Get the fuck off me. “Is that all you’ve got?” I chuckled against his neck. He ground his teeth together, the veins in the back of his hands bulging as his fingers clawed at the slick ceramic. “Fucking sickos like you used to get dragged behind trucks.” I hooked my fingers into his hip, shifting his angle, and a violent shudder ran through him, his knees buckling so hard he nearly hit the shower floor. I leaned over his shoulder, watching the sharp profile of his jaw. “Before you throw stones at me, Shane, maybe check your own glass house,” I whispered. “A straight guy being handled by a queer isn’t supposed to get hard.” He froze. He looked down at himself, water dripping off the tip of his nose, staring in total, uncomprehending horror at his own body’s betrayal. The sheer, childlike bewilderment on his face in that split second was so raw it was almost endearing. A sharp ache coiled deep in my lower belly. I reached around, caught his wet chin between my fingers, and turned his face to press my thumb against his bruised, crimson lips. “All right,” I breathed against his mouth. “I’m done in here. Let’s move to the bed.” 5 I possessed neither the patience nor the temperament for gentleness. He trembled beneath me, his hands clutching my forearms with white-knuckle force as his breath fractured into ragged, hitching sobs. His handsome face was crumpled in pain, damp brown hair plastered to his temples by sweat and steam. He looked ruined. Utterly, intoxicatingly wrecked. Every drop of desire in my blood caught fire. Even the curses he hissed through his teeth felt like lighter fluid poured straight onto the flame. “Filthy dog…” “Mm.” “Get off… get the fuck…” I pushed harder, burying myself deeper. “What was that?” His neck arched back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat, practically begging for teeth. I leaned down and bit the cord of his neck, hard enough to taste salt and iron, and a strangled whimper tore out of his chest, vibrating straight through my ribs. He drove me out of my mind. I wanted to crush him. I wanted to grind his bones down and swallow them whole until he lived inside my skin. For the first time in my thirty years, I finally understood why men burned down empires for an hour in bed. The wet, frantic rhythm of skin on skin filled the dark room. He had no breath left to swear at me, his defiance eroding into something thin, desperate, and pleading. “Please… don’t… no more…” I shifted, kissing the wet salt trailing down the corner of his eye. “Shane,” I murmured, my voice thick. “Whose bed is this? Who am I?” He gasped for air, his chest heaving three, four times before he could piece together the syllables. “Adrian… Mercer.” His voice was rough, low, and beautiful. It sounded infinitely better wrapped around my name. “I was going to let you sleep tonight,” I said against his mouth. “Too bad.” Shane, you are far too breathtaking when you break. 6 Shane stayed in my penthouse. The first rule I laid down was absolute: he was never stepping foot inside an underground ring again. He fought me on it with everything he had. “Who the fuck are you to tell me what I can do?” he snarled across the dining room table. “You come back from those bouts bruised to the bone, limping, wincing every time I lay a finger on you,” I said, slicing into my steak without looking up. “It ruins my mood.” “Do you have any idea what it means to cut off a man’s livelihood?” he shouted, slamming his palms on the dark wood. “You’re taking food off my table!” “And?” “You arrogant prick!” He lunged. He had professional reflexes, and I took his right hook square across the cheekbone. The butler dropped a silver tray; the maids in the hallway froze in terror. I had never, in my entire privileged life, been struck by another human being. Yet, oddly, I didn’t feel a flicker of rage. The scuffle dragged us both onto the Persian rug, fists turning into grips, fury bleeding into friction. We sparked like flint and steel. By morning, I had taken my fill. I dragged myself out of bed, buttoning a fresh shirt, while Shane lay tangled in the Egyptian cotton sheets, glaring at me like a caged wolf. “Someone ought to cut that thing off you and feed it to the coyotes,” he spat. I paused by the door, adjusting my cufflink. “Want another round?” His gaze dropped instantly, his shoulders tensing. I smirked and reached for the doorknob, but before I could turn it, his voice drifted from the bed, quiet, muffled, and thick with defeat. “You can’t just stop me from earning money, Mercer.” There was an edge of helplessness in it. A tiny, raw tremor of despair. A ripple disturbed the smooth, icy surface of my chest. Before I could examine what that ache was, it slipped away into the shadows. 7 I had my private investigator pull Shane Callahan’s background that afternoon. The file was thin, but heavy. His parents had died in an industrial boiler explosion at a textile plant just outside the city. Shane had been fifteen. His brother, Luke, had been ten; his little sister, Maisie, just seven. “The settlement from the company was insulting,” my assistant explained quietly, standing on the other side of my mahogany desk. “Non-union shop. They barely paid burial costs. A fifteen-year-old kid carried the entire family on his back from that day forward.” He flipped a page. “The sister, Maisie… she’s in end-stage renal failure. She’s been living in a county hospital ward for the past eighteen months waiting on a kidney. The brother, Luke, just started his freshman year at state college.” My assistant’s face softened with genuine pity. He could look at those numbers and feel the suffocating weight of an impossible life. I couldn’t. I had been born into private equity and old money; poverty was an abstract concept, like zero-gravity physics. You cannot truly comprehend a cage you have never touched. I closed the manila folder. “Understood.” As autumn turned bitter and gray, Shane couldn’t go back to the cage, so he found a part-time gig at an auto body shop on the west side. One evening, on a whim I couldn’t quite justify to myself, I had the driver take a detour all the way across town to pick him up. Outside the garage, under the freezing neon light, two young men were leaning against a rusted fender, sharing soft-serve ice cream despite the bite in the air. One was Shane. The other was a kid his age, wiping motor grease from his hands with a rag. The coworker slung a heavy arm over Shane’s neck, leaning in close to whisper something right against his ear. Shane didn’t pull away. With me, he flinched or braced himself whenever I got within arm’s reach. But here, he leaned into the casual contact, threw his head back, and laughed—an open, bright, unguarded sound that cut through the cold. Had I ever seen Shane laugh like that? Not once. A sour, suffocating heat flared behind my ribs. Shane spotted the black Maybach idling by the curb. He waved goodbye to the kid, jogged over, and slid into the leather interior, smelling of motor oil and cheap vanilla. “What are you doing here?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The tightness in my chest deepened. “Had business in the district. It was on the way.” He nodded, asked no further questions, and went back to chewing the edge of his sugar cone. “Stay away from other men,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. Shane paused, frowning. “He’s a coworker.” “I don’t care. Don’t let them hang on you like that. You don’t know what kind of filth is running through their heads.” His brow furrowed deeper, a look of profound disgust washing over his face. “You think everyone in the world is as sick as you?” I turned my head, my eyes locking onto his. “What did you just say?” “Normal people aren’t like you, Mercer.” The words barely cleared his teeth before I grabbed him by the front of his jacket and slammed him down across the wide leather bench. The privacy partition whirred upward, sealing us in the dim, soundproof darkness. Shane stiffened. Outside the penthouse, in public, his resistance was always muted—he hated making a scene, suffocating his protests in the back of his throat like a trapped animal. I didn’t understand the sudden, blinding fury tearing through me, but I didn’t care to stop it. I pinned his wrists above his head, pressing down until my chest crushed his. “Not like me?” I sneered, leaning into his ear as his breathing turned shallow and jagged. He clamped his jaws shut, turning his face away into the leather, his body shivering. I reached down, dragged his calloused hand between our bodies, and forced his palm flat against the damp, warm front of my trousers. “Feel that, Shane. Whose reaction is that? Tell me again how you aren’t like me.” He jerked his hand back as if he had touched white-hot iron, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and fractured with a panic he couldn’t hide. I gave a low, bitter laugh, but the irritation inside me only sharpened. “You and I are cut from the exact same cloth, Callahan. Don’t let me catch you forgetting it again.” I was drowning in him, completely blind to how lethal that current already was. 8 When I woke the next morning, Shane was already sitting up on the edge of the mattress. His hair was a messy nest of dark strands, one stubborn cowlick sticking straight up in the back. Looking at it, a ridiculous warmth brushed against my ribs. “Don’t go to the shop today,” I said, sitting up against the headboard. “Stay home and rest.” I knew I had been too rough in the car. “I have a shift,” he muttered, not looking back. My silk tie had knotted poorly, and I yanked it loose with an irritated tug. “Can’t I afford to keep you?” He was still half-asleep, his voice dull and groggy. “What, you’re gonna keep me forever?” “What if I do?” The words slipped out of my mouth before my brain could vet them. “What if I keep you for the rest of your life?” The bedroom fell dead silent. The gentle morning draft from the balcony fluttered the loose hair at the crown of his head. I looked away, clearing my throat, terrified of digging into the terrifying truth behind what I had just said. I pivoted sharply, needing to change the subject. “About your sister,” I said, keeping my tone crisp and managerial. “My people found a compatible donor kidney through a private registry. I’ve already retained the chief of transplant surgery at St. Jude’s. You can go down there this afternoon, meet the team, and lock in the surgery date.” I stood, smoothing my cuffs. “Don’t worry about the billing. It’s handled.” Shane’s mouth parted slightly. He turned around, staring at me as if I were speaking an alien language. I couldn’t help myself. I reached out and ruffled his hair, smoothing down that ridiculous cowlick. “I have to go.” As I pulled my hand away, his fingers suddenly shot out, clamping around my wrist. His eyes were rimmed with red, his grip trembling with an intensity that bordered on pain. He looked so fragile, so utterly stripped bare, looking up at me for confirmation. “Is that… are you serious?” It was such a minor thing for me—a phone call, a transfer of funds from an auxiliary account. Back then, I didn’t understand that the things we step over without looking can be the very boulders crushing someone else to death. The nightmare that had kept him awake in the dirt, bleeding his knuckles raw in back alleys for years, had been erased by me with a stroke of a pen. “Why would I lie to you about that?” Shane lowered his head, his chest hitching in silent, ragged breaths. I looked down at his dark eyelashes, fluttering against his cheek, and a bizarre, foreign ache tightened in my chest. Much later, I finally understood what that feeling was. It was an urge entirely detached from lust. It was simply the desperate, overwhelming need to press my lips against someone’s forehead and keep them safe. In my entire life, until Shane Callahan, I had never felt it once. 9 A multi-billion-dollar acquisition entered its final closing stages that month. I lived on black coffee and adrenaline, practically sleeping in the corporate boardroom, forgetting meals until my assistant placed them directly in front of my face. I hadn’t been back to the penthouse in four days. Realizing a crucial environmental clearance document was locked in my private study at home, I buzzed my house manager. “Yes, bottom drawer of the walnut desk.” “Right away, Mr. Mercer. I’ll have the courier bring it down.” My eyes wandered to the small porcelain dish on my desk. Strange—I was a man who ignored trivial domestic details, yet I had somehow memorized the fact that Shane had a weakness for blueberry tarts. “Is Shane at the house?” “Yes, sir.” “Have him bring it.” The moment Shane walked into my corner office forty minutes later, I realized what a catastrophic mistake I had made. Winter was setting in. He was wearing a cream-colored turtleneck beneath a tailored charcoal wool coat I had bought for him. As the coat swung open, the lean, firm contour of his waist was on full display. One look, and forty-eight hours of corporate strategy evaporated from my brain. I dismissed my vice president and general counsel immediately, waving them out the door. Shane touched his cheek self-consciously. “What are you staring at?” I gestured for him to come over. He hesitated, then walked behind the desk. I reached out, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him against my chair. He looked down at me, his fingers twitching slightly. For a second, I held my breath, waiting for him to touch my hair. But his hand stalled in midair, dropping back to his side. “You lost weight,” he said quietly. “I’m exhausted,” I mumbled, burying my face against his sweater. I didn’t even realize how much I sounded like a man whining to his lover. “What have you been doing all week?” At the mention of that, a faint, genuine warmth broke across his features. “At the hospital with Maisie. The doctors say her labs are stable. They set the surgery for next Tuesday.” He paused, swallowing hard, his voice dropping into something delicate. “Thank you, Adrian.” Had Shane ever been this soft with me? My grip on his waist tightened instinctively. If buying his gratitude was this easy, I would have moved heaven and earth for him ten times over. “That’s all the thanks I get?” Shane blinked, uncertain. “What else do you…” I parted my knees, reached up, and pulled him down by the collar until he was kneeling between my legs on the plush carpet. The gesture was unmistakable. The color drained from Shane’s face, leaving him rigid and pale. To be honest, I had wanted him on his knees for months. But with his feral pride, I had always assumed he’d bite me bloody out of sheer spite. Now, though, I knew he wouldn’t. Because beneath the rough exterior, Shane was far more decent, far more innocent than I was. He believed in debts. He believed in paying them back. Just as I anticipated, he took a slow, shuddering breath, his trembling hands reaching for the zipper of my slacks. Anticipation spiked through my veins, hot and sharp. But as I watched his crimson lips part, drawing closer, I couldn’t miss what was sitting in his eyes: humiliation, endurance, and a profound, hollow helplessness. My fingers tangled in his hair—and froze. A sudden, suffocating ache clamped down on my heart. I caught him under the arms and hauled him up violently, pulling him into my lap and burying his face into my shoulder. “What now…?” he gasped, disoriented. “Forget it,” I rasped, wrapping both arms around his back, pressing his chest flat against mine. “Just let me hold you. Let me recharge.” He stiffened, whispering a soft, bewildered, “You’re out of your mind,” but he didn’t pull away. I closed my eyes and tightened my grip, trying to drown out the frantic, chaotic beating of my own heart. I was feeling mercy. For a plaything. To develop a bleeding heart for an untamed stray was a dangerous, pathetic defect. It was a terrible sign. 10 The corporate war dragged on until the final week of December. The only redeeming part of those grueling weeks was knowing that when I returned to the cold glass tower, there was a warm body waiting beneath the duvet. Shane was a heavy sleeper. One night, I found him dead to the world, a faint red crease pressed into his cheek from the pillow. I stood by the bed, looking at him, an unreasonable irritation prickling at me. I wanted to hear his voice. I slid under the covers and deliberately pressed my freezing feet against his calf. He jumped, his face contorting in a groan. “Jesus Christ! Mercer, are you trying to give me hypothermia?!” He cursed, but he didn’t kick me away. “Sorry. Accidents happen. Go back to sleep.” “How the fuck am I supposed to sleep after that?” “Good. Stay awake then.” “You… get off me… mmph.” When I woke the next morning, the gray winter light was filtering through the sheer curtains. Shane was still out cold. I slipped out of bed with utmost care, but before I walked toward the dressing room, I couldn’t stop myself from leaning down and pressing a feather-light kiss to his forehead. It didn’t carry an ounce of lust. As I pulled away, Shane’s hand twitched in his sleep, his fingers curling slightly into the sheet—the exact same way he unconsciously held onto the hem of my shirt when he drifted off beside me. When bodies stay tangled for too long, the distance between hearts begins to fray. And it happens without a sound. It was New Year’s Eve. Following tradition, I prepared holiday bonus envelopes for the domestic staff. After handing them out in the marble foyer, I called the house manager over. “Find me another envelope.” He brought back a standard white one. I frowned. “Something bigger.” He returned with a heavy stationery envelope. “Bigger.” When we ran out of options, I stuffed a thick stack of cash into the largest one we had, took it upstairs, and set it gently on Shane’s nightstand. I leaned down, brushing the stray bangs from his forehead. “Happy New Year, Shane.” There was an embarrassing amount of tenderness in my voice, so quiet I barely recognized it myself. After I pulled the door shut with a soft click, the man on the bed slowly opened his eyes. A faint, tired smile touched his lips, his voice soft against the pillow. “Happy New Year, Adrian.” 11 The Mercer family was vast, which meant the annual New Year’s gathering at the ancestral estate in the hills was an exercise in performative elegance. Children ran through the manicured courtyard with sparklers. Near the bay window, my uncle was losing an aggressive game of chess to my grandfather. My mother, Victoria, approached me holding a flute of champagne, her diamonds catching the chandelier light. “Did you stop by the Montgomery estate this morning?” “I did.” “Good. Vivian is your future wife. Show some courtesy to her family.” I nodded vaguely, my fingers unconsciously fiddling with the leather band of my watch. Beneath the strap, hidden against my pulse point, was a faint ring of teeth marks Shane had left three nights ago. Outside, fireworks erupted over the valley. Inside, crystal clinked against crystal amid hollow laughter and polished smiles. Surrounded by all this glittering noise, an unbearable loneliness hollowed out my chest. I wanted Shane. I slipped out to the terrace, pulled out my phone, and dialed. He picked up on the third ring. The background was dead quiet. “What are you doing?” I asked. “Haven’t been back to my place in months,” he replied, his voice calm. “Doing some cleaning. Fixing a leaky pipe.” A beat. “Why? You need something?” “I’m a little…” The words jammed in my throat. I miss you was a sentence that had never existed in my vocabulary. “Bored.” A soft huff of laughter came through the receiver. “You’re surrounded by fifty of the richest people in the state and you’re bored?” Suddenly, a small tug hit my trouser leg. “Uncle Adrian! Come light sparklers with me!” my niece chirped. Shane heard her. “Sounds like you’re busy,” he said evenly. “Go back inside.” He hung up. I stood there for three seconds, looking at the black screen. I patted the little girl’s head. “Uncle has to leave, sweetheart. Go play with your cousins.” I snatched my coat off the hall rack and headed straight for the front double doors. My mother set her porcelain cup down, her voice sharp as glass. “Adrian. Where are you going?” My boots didn’t break stride. “Don’t worry about it.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “617940”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the evening of our third wedding anniversary, Nicholas Prescott stood before a room full of flashbulbs and federal prosecutors, publicly handing over the ledger that dismantled my family’s empire. Overnight, Robert and Marian Mercer tumbled from the heights of old-money Manhattan society into federal custody. I dropped to my knees on the polished marble floor, clutching at the hem of his tailored trousers, begging him for mercy. Nicholas looked down at my red, swollen eyes, his mouth twisting into a razor-thin sneer. “Love you? Evelyn, my entire existence has been about destroying you.” His voice was low, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd like shattered glass. “Fifteen years ago, when your parents drove mine to jump from our penthouse balcony for the sake of corporate debt, did they show any mercy? This isn’t cruelty. This is justice. The Mercer family owes me blood.” In the months that followed, he used my parents’ survival in prison as a leash, keeping me locked inside his sprawling coastal estate, subjecting me to slow, deliberate torment. When I took a blade to my wrists, he tore it from my grip. When I starved myself, he held my head back while private doctors forced nutrient lines down my throat. His face contorted with cold fury as he hissed into my ear: “I will drag you back from the edge every single time, Evelyn. I will keep you alive just to make sure you suffer for the rest of your days.” What Nicholas didn’t know was that my parents had never driven his family to their deaths. Nor did he know that “Donor E”—the anonymous benefactor whose trust fund had paid for his private schooling, his Ivy League tuition, and his rise from an orphaned boy to a Wall Street titan—had always been me. In the end, I climbed the cliffs behind the estate, seeking the only silence left to me. And that time, when I stepped off into the salt air, his outstretched fingers were just a second too late to catch the hem of my falling dress. 1 “Kneel, Evelyn. Beg them for forgiveness.” Nicholas’s voice had barely cut through the howling wind before the bodyguard behind me clamped two heavy hands onto the back of my skull, slamming my forehead down against the cold granite headstone. Crack. The impact vibrated through my teeth. Blood gushed from my split hairline, warm and thick against the freezing stone. A November squall was sweeping across the hillside cemetery, pelting us with driving rain. I had no umbrella, no coat; water and crimson rivers rushed together down the bridge of my nose, dripping onto the chiseled names of Arthur and Grace Prescott. The bodyguard didn’t pause. He grabbed my tangled, soaked hair, pulling my head back only to drive it into the stone again. And again. Not until the grey granite was slick with my blood did Nicholas finally lift two gloved fingers. “Get up,” he said, stepping forward. “Wipe it off. Don’t let your filthy blood stain my parents’ resting place.” My throat was raw, but I didn’t dare make a sound. Any sign of defiance would only be visited tenfold upon my parents in their upstate cells. For their sake, to keep the guards from looking the other way while they were beaten, I swallowed every scream. My body shuddered with violent tremors. I pressed my palms into the muddy sod, struggling three times before I managed to haul myself onto trembling knees. I reached into my pocket for a handkerchief, but Nicholas tossed a bundle of sodden, shredded fabric directly into the mud before me. My breath caught. My vision blurred. It was ivory silk and hand-sewn French lace. The bespoke wedding gown he had commissioned for me three years ago, shredded into ragged ribbons. Nicholas tilted his head, savoring the horror in my eyes. He stepped in, his leather-clad fingers pinching my jaw until bone ground against bone. “Heartbroken?” he whispered, his breath warm against my freezing skin. “Watching you walk down the aisle in this made me sick to my stomach. Every sweet word, every tender touch—it was an act, Evelyn. An agonizing performance. Using it as a rag to scrub my parents’ grave is the only real purpose it has ever served.” He leaned closer, his eyes pitch-black. “Scrub it clean. If that headstone isn’t dry, the warden won’t bother feeding those two old convicts tonight.” He released his grip, shoving me backward. I fell hard, the rough, gravelly earth tearing the skin off my palms. Satisfied by my humiliation, Nicholas turned on his heel. He slipped an arm around the slender waist of Elise Warren, pulling her under the shelter of his black umbrella. Elise shot me a smirk of triumphant pity over her shoulder as they walked down the stone path toward his idling Maybach. I had no choice. I gathered the wet shreds of silk, crawled back to the headstone, and began to wipe. Blood oozed from my forehead and the palms of my hands, mixing with the rain, smearing across the granite in ugly streaks. I had to scrub over and over, my fingers numb and stiff, fighting the downpour that refused to let the stone dry. I lost track of time. My knees went entirely numb; the rain soaked through my thin clothes until my core turned to ice. Eventually, the sky emptied itself, the rain tapering into a sullen mist. The bodyguard stepped forward, ran a calloused finger over the damp granite, and gave a reluctant nod. “That’ll do.” He reached down to haul me to my feet by my collar, but my strength was already gone. The heavy exhaustion that had been building inside me for months finally won. My eyes slipped shut, and my knees gave out completely. I tilted backward, falling into the dark. Before the light went out, a jagged edge of the neighboring plot’s stone base slashed deep across the side of my neck. A flare of sharp, brilliant pain—and then, a profound sense of lightness. I didn’t feel fear. I only felt relief. In the final fraction of a second before my consciousness shattered, through the blur of my fading vision, I caught a glimpse of Nicholas. He was running back down the gravel path, his umbrella cast aside in the mud, his face pale and contorted with sheer panic. “Evelyn! Evelyn, look at me!” His voice sounded muffled, as if coming from the bottom of an ocean. For a fleeting moment, it felt like an old dream—back when he still pretended that I was the center of his world. “Evelyn, don’t you dare close your eyes! Talk to me! Evelyn!” 2 I woke to the smell of damp plaster and industrial bleach. Opening my eyes, I stared at the peeling white ceiling of the basement utility room. I reached up, my stiff fingers brushing against the thick gauze wrapped around my neck. There was no surge of gratitude for being alive. Only a hollow, suffocating regret. I survived again. Before I could fully gather my senses, the heavy wooden door was kicked open. Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper who had once bowed politely when I entered a room, stood in the doorway with her arms crossed. “Still lying there playing the invalid?” she sneered, tossing a bucket and a bundle of rags onto the concrete floor. “You think you’re still the mistress of this estate? You’re nothing more than a stray dog Nicholas keeps around to kick. Miss Warren wants the master suite cleaned from top to bottom. Get moving.” She grabbed my arm, dragging me off the narrow cot. My feet hit the floor, soft and unsteady. A deep, unnatural heat burned behind my eyes; fever had settled into my bones, making the room tilt. I picked up the bucket and climbed the stairs to the second floor. When I pushed open the double doors of the master bedroom, the breath left my lungs. Elise was straddling Nicholas’s lap in front of the mahogany desk, her slender arms looped tightly around his neck. They were kissing—deeply, messily. As I stepped over the threshold, she broke away with a soft gasp, a thin strand of saliva glistening between their parted lips before snapping. The sight struck me like an electric shock. The ache in my chest wasn’t a metaphor; it was a physical tearing, as though someone had forced a handful of broken glass down my throat. I lowered my head instantly, tightening my grip on the plastic handle of the bucket. “I apologize,” I whispered, staring at the floorboards. “Mrs. Gable told me Miss Warren requested the room cleaned.” Elise nestled further into Nicholas’s chest, her fingers playing with the lapel of his charcoal suit. Her voice was sweet, dripping with venom. “Oh, yes. Nicholas told me this used to be your bridal suite. No wonder the whole floor smells like defeat.” She looked down at me from his lap, her chin tilted high. “Take every piece of your clothing, every framed portrait, every little keepsake, and throw them in the incinerator. And don’t you dare use a mop. Get on your hands and knees with a rag. I want every single square inch scrubbed until it shines.” She turned her face toward Nicholas, pouting playfully. “Nicholas, darling, you don’t think I’m being too hard on her, do you?” Nicholas glanced at me. His gaze flicked over my fever-flushed cheeks, the dark circles under my eyes, and the white bandage at my throat, but there was no pity in his eyes—only irritation, as if my very presence were an unsightly stain on his rug. He looked away, pressing his lips softly against Elise’s temple. “Not at all. She’s a stray. Treat her however you like, as long as it makes you happy.” I pressed my lips together until I tasted copper, swallowed the shame, and sank to my knees. Keeping my head down, I dipped the rag into the cold water and began wiping the floor, inch by agonizing inch. Above me, Elise cupped Nicholas’s jaw, pulling him down into another lingering kiss. My mind betrayed me, dragging up memories of this very desk. Two years ago, right after we moved in, Nicholas had pulled me onto his lap in this exact spot, his head buried in the crook of my neck, whispering promises against my skin: Evelyn, it’s you and me against the world. I love you, Evie. More than my own life. I’ll spend every day making sure you never know a moment of sorrow. Thud. A sharp kick struck my ribs. I tumbled forward, my hands splashing into the grey water of the bucket. Nicholas looked down at me from the edge of the desk, his brow furrowed with cold impatience. “Take the trash out and finish inside the walk-in closet. Elise and I want to rest.” I used the wet rag to wipe away the stray tears that had dripped onto the hardwood, rose to my feet, and walked into the closet. Our wedding portraits had already been pulled from the walls; someone had used a box cutter to shred my face before tossing the frames onto the floor. My cashmere sweaters, my silk dresses, my jewelry boxes—everything had been stuffed carelessly into black heavy-duty trash bags. Every trace of the life we had built together had been systematically reduced to garbage. I dragged the bags out into the hallway. Through the cracked door behind me, I saw Nicholas sweep Elise up into his arms, carrying her toward the king-sized bed where I had slept for three years. She laughed, a high, melodic sound, before the heavy oak door clicked shut. Then came the muffled sounds of shifting sheets, gasps, and whispered intimacies. My feet felt like they were encased in concrete. I stood there in the corridor, unable to move, listening to the man I had loved make love to another woman in our bed. My fingernails dug into the meat of my palms until fresh blood broke through the scabs. The nausea hit me in violent waves; I braced myself against a marble pillar, dry-heaving until my ribs ached. The fever flared hot behind my temples. The world spun. I staggered toward the grand staircase. Standing at the top landing, looking down at the wide marble steps below, a profound, suffocating self-loathing rose up and swallowed me whole. I was tired. So deeply, impossibly tired. I closed my eyes, leaned forward, and let my weight drift over the edge. Just as the floor vanished beneath my feet, a calloused hand shot out from the side, gripping my wrist with crushing force and yanking me violently back onto the carpet. I opened my eyes, disoriented. Standing before me was a man in the estate’s black security uniform. His features were sharp, his jaw set, but his eyes held something I hadn’t seen in this house for months: fierce, desperate concern. He gripped my wrist tighter, leaning in so his lips barely grazed my ear, his voice a low, urgent murmur: “Miss Mercer. I’m going to get you out of here.” 3 “They spent fifty million on this engagement gala alone! Mr. Prescott treats Miss Warren like royalty.” “Well, can you blame him? I heard Miss Warren is actually ‘Donor E’—the secret benefactor who paid for his education after his parents passed away. Love combined with that kind of debt of gratitude? He’d give her the moon. But what I don’t get is why he suddenly downgraded the wedding to an engagement party.” “Oh, you didn’t hear? The benefactor’s identity isn’t fully confirmed. Mr. Prescott is still verifying the old trust records. He wanted this mysterious ‘Donor E’ to stand as their primary witness at the altar. Since he hasn’t tracked down the final paperwork, he pushed the wedding back and threw this gala instead!” The gossiping voices drifted past the service entrance. I leaned against the tile wall of the catering corridor, a faint, bitter smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. The “E” in Donor E didn’t stand for Elise. It stood for Evelyn. When I was sixteen, using the dividends from the trust fund my grandfather left me, I set up an anonymous endowment through our family attorney to cover the living and educational expenses of the orphaned son of Arthur Prescott. I chose the letter E simply because it was the first initial of my name. None of it mattered anymore. Even if Nicholas discovered the truth tomorrow, what difference would it make? We were separated by a chasm of ruined lives, prison bars, and hatred. We were enemies until the day we died. I kept my head down, picked up my mop and bucket, and walked toward the grand ballroom’s public restrooms to complete my assigned chores. As I passed through the service doors, an expensive leather shoe subtly extended from the edge of the hallway. Splash! I tripped, crashing hard onto the marble floor. The bucket tipped, dumping gallons of dirty, sudsy water all over my uniform. A ripple of cruel laughter broke out among the gathered waitstaff and high-society guests lingering nearby. Before I could push myself up, a pair of glittering silver heels clicked into my field of vision. Elise stood over me, her gown shimmering in the chandelier light, her face tight with barely suppressed rage. She looked around at the onlookers, then down at me, her eyes flashing. I lowered my head instantly, my voice hoarse. “Miss Warren, I’m sorry. I—” Crack. The slap was so hard it knocked my face sideways, my cheek slamming against the wet tile. Before I could draw breath, she struck me again. Crack. The metallic taste of copper flooded my mouth. My lips went numb. “You pathetic little cockroach,” Elise hissed under her breath, her chest heaving. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? Purposely making a scene at my engagement party to humiliate me?” She raised her hand for a third strike, her diamond rings catching the light. Mid-swing, a man’s hand caught her wrist mid-air. Elise spun around, furious words already on her tongue. “Who the hell do you think—Nicholas?” I looked up through my wet, tangled hair. Nicholas stood there, dressed in a bespoke tuxedo, looking tall and imposing. For a single, pathetic second—like the dying spark of a candle before it drowns in wax—a faint glimmer of hope rose in my chest. He had stopped her. Then Nicholas spoke, his tone smooth and cool. He took Elise’s raised hand, rubbing her reddened palm with his thumb, his voice filled with effortless tenderness. “Elise, if she offended you, tell the staff to deal with her. Why hurt your own hand? Look how red your palm is.” He brought her fingers to his lips, kissing them lightly. “Does it hurt?” The breath left my lungs. The pain in my chest didn’t flare; instead, it went completely, terrifyingly hollow. It was as if my nervous system, pushed past the limit of what it could endure, simply shut down all feeling to keep me from going insane. I didn’t give Nicholas the chance to order his guards forward. I couldn’t bear the thought of another beating at the hands of strangers. I raised my own right hand. And slammed it across my left cheek. Smack. The sound echoed sharply against the marble walls. I didn’t stop. I raised my left hand and struck my right cheek. Smack. Smack. Smack. A dozen times. Over and over, with everything I had left, until my jaw felt unhinged and blood trickled from both corners of my mouth onto my soaked collar. Only then did I let my hands drop to my sides. I looked up at Elise, my eyes empty. “I apologize, Miss Warren. I was careless. There is no need for your staff to dirty their hands on my account.” My voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “If you are still displeased, I can continue.” The hallway fell dead silent. Even Elise took a step back, her eyes wide with unease. The guests looked at me as if I were a madwoman who had lost all instinct for self-preservation. Nicholas stood frozen. His expression shifted into something strange—a fleeting, fractured look that almost resembled agony. He took two involuntary steps toward me, his lips parting as if to say my name. His Adam’s apple bobbed once, twice. Then his face hardened, his jaw tightening into a mask of cold dismissal. He waved a dismissive hand. “Get out of my sight.” I gathered my strength, picked up the overturned bucket, and walked down the corridor without looking back. Behind me, Nicholas’s voice rang out, sharp as a whip, directed at the maid who had tripped me: “Pack your things. You’re fired. Prescott House does not employ people who play petty games.” Elise hurried to his side, trying to link her arm through his. “Nicholas, darling, she was just—” He pulled his arm away, his voice ice-cold. “I told you before, Elise. Do not bring your street habits into this house. I have a headache. Go back to your suite.” Elise stood in the hallway, staring at his retreating back, her manicured nails digging deep into her palms. It was nearly midnight by the time I finished scrubbing the restrooms. Dragging my exhausted, aching body back down to the basement utility room, I found a small glass jar of burn ointment and sterile gauze sitting on the threshold. Inside my pocket, the burner phone Wesley had slipped to me buzzed faintly. I unlocked the screen: Everything is arranged, Miss Mercer. Hold on. Tomorrow, you’re free. 4 The day I ran from Nicholas Prescott, the sky broke open. The rain over the Long Island sound fell in sheets, violent and relentless, turning the sea below the cliffs into a churning cauldron of slate-grey foam. My face was still swollen and bruised despite the ointment, but I climbed the winding stone path to the ocean pavilion at the edge of the estate. The housekeeper had ordered me to clean the floor-to-ceiling windows of the clifftop guest house. Years ago, during the first summer of our marriage, Nicholas had brought me here when the waters were calm and blue. He had stood behind me, wrapping a cashmere shawl around my shoulders, whispering: You said you loved watching the ocean from high up, Evie. So I built this pavilion for you. Do you love it? Now, staring at my reflection in the dark glass, I saw a ghost covered in bruises, hollow-cheeked, with dead eyes. I didn’t dare remember anymore. Remembering was a slow suicide. The housekeeper had claimed I was the only one assigned to clean the pavilion today. But as I wiped the salt spray from the glass, the heavy oak doors behind me clicked shut with an ominous echo. I spun around. Elise stood near the entrance, wrapped in a fur coat. Behind her were four burly, rough-looking men in street clothes, their eyes roaming over me like vultures over carrion. Panic slammed into my chest like an adrenaline shot. I turned to sprint for the terrace fire exit, but the men moved faster. Two pairs of heavy hands slammed me down onto the polished oak floor, pinning my arms behind my back. Elise walked over slowly, the sharp click of her stilettos echoing off the high ceiling. She stopped beside my pinned hand, lifted her foot, and drove her metal stiletto heel straight through the delicate bones of my knuckles. I screamed, an agonizing, breathless sound. “You think you’re untouchable, don’t you?” Elise hissed, leaning down, her face twisted with rage. “You seduced him again, didn’t you? That’s why he canceled our wedding this morning! That’s why he fired my girl! He even had high-grade burn ointment delivered to your rat hole of a room! You’re the daughter of two convicted felons! You’re worth less than a stray dog, and you dare try to steal him back from me?” She twisted her heel deeper into my flesh, then pulled back and kicked me squarely in the stomach. The breath exploded from my lungs. A wave of iron rose in my throat; I choked, spitting dark blood across the floorboards. “I don’t have time to play games with you anymore,” Elise said, smoothing her coat. She looked over at the four men with a cruel, indifferent smile. “I brought some friends to keep Miss Mercer company. Let’s see if Nicholas still looks at you with pity after every man in this room has had his turn.” She turned and walked out, the heavy doors locking behind her. The men laughed, low and greasy, stepping closer. One of them knelt, his beer-soaked breath hot against my face as his heavy fingers ripped the collar of my shirt open. “Never had a high-society princess before,” he chuckled, pinning my shoulders down. “Hold still, sweetheart. It’ll hurt less if you don’t fight.” “Look at that skin,” another sneered, unbuckling his belt. “Hey, hold her legs. Let me get a taste first—fuck!” The moment his grip loosened around my knees, I drove the steel-capped toe of my work boot directly between his legs with every ounce of strength I had left. He shrieked, doubling over in agony. I scrambled backward like a wounded animal, pushed myself to my feet, and bolted up the spiral staircase toward the pavilion’s observation deck. Behind me, the sound of heavy boots pounded against the wooden stairs—a relentless, waking nightmare closing in. In the top-floor corner office of Prescott Tower in Midtown, Nicholas felt a sudden, inexplicable tremor in his chest. A deep, cold dread settled over him. A frantic knock shattered the silence. His executive assistant rushed in, out of breath, slamming a manila folder onto the mahogany desk. “Mr. Prescott! The forensic audit on the Prescott Educational Trust just cleared. We tracked the original escrow accounts for Donor E.” The assistant’s voice trembled. “It wasn’t Miss Warren. It was… it was Evelyn Mercer.” Nicholas stared at him, motionless. For three agonizing seconds, his brain refused to process the words. Then he lunged forward, grabbing the files. The documents were clear: established fifteen years ago, authorized by the Mercer family trust. Because Evelyn had been a minor at the time, the trust required the signatures of her legal guardians. Robert and Marian Mercer. His parents’ supposed mortal enemies had signed off on the trust that fed him, clothed him, and sent him to Harvard. They had willingly funded the son of the man who died in their wake—and years later, welcomed that same boy into their home as their son-in-law. “No,” Nicholas whispered, his hands shaking so violently the paper rattled. “No, this is wrong. Get the car!” He shoved the desk back, sprinting toward the private elevator. “Drive to the estate! Now! I need to hear it from her!” His mind was a storm of terror. If the Mercers had funded his entire life, what else had he been wrong about? When the car screeched to a halt outside the estate, Nicholas burst through the front doors, rain dripping from his coat. Mrs. Gable hurried forward, bowing low. “Where is she?” Nicholas demanded, his voice ragged. “Miss Mercer was sent to clean the ocean pavilion, sir,” Mrs. Gable stammered. “To prepare it for your wedding with Miss Warren—” Nicholas’s heart plunged. “I canceled the wedding with Elise this morning,” he said, his voice deadly quiet. Before Mrs. Gable could answer, a young kitchen maid broke through the staff entrance, tears streaming down her face. “Mr. Prescott! You have to go to the pavilion! Miss Warren brought four strange men up to the cliff house, and Miss Mercer is up there all alone!” Crack. The world went white. Nicholas didn’t wait for his security team. He bolted back out into the torrential rain, leaped into the driver’s seat of his SUV, slammed his foot on the accelerator, and tore up the narrow mountain road leading to the clifftop pavilion.

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1 The wedding march was three measures in. I stood at the beginning of the aisle in a strapless silk gown embroidered with thousands of micro-crystals, feeling the weight of the train pooling behind me. All I had to do was wait for Simon to walk down from the altar, take my hand, and lead me the rest of the way. Every seat in the cathedral was taken. Across the nave, the champagne tower caught the morning light filtering through the stained glass, throwing fractured diamonds across the pews. In the front row, my mother, Susan, clutched a lace handkerchief in her trembling fist, her eyes rimmed with red, smiling with a joy so fierce it looked like relief. Seven years. From eighteen to twenty-five. From cramped college dorms to the anchor desk at Channel 7 News. Everyone in our circle said the same thing: Nora Hayes was the luckiest woman in the city because Simon Mercer had carried her on his palms for nearly a decade. He stood under the vaulted archway, sharp in his bespoke tuxedo. I gathered the heavy satin of my skirt and took a step toward him. Then another. I was three paces away when his shoulders hitched. Simon winced, pressing the heel of his palm hard against his temple. He swayed, his knees buckling slightly, and Marcus, his best man, lunged forward to steady his elbow. “Simon?” A knot tightened in my throat. I reached out, my fingers brushing the lapel of his jacket, but he snapped his head up. The eyes that had watched over me for seven years—eyes that had always held a gentle, almost suffocating warmth—were completely blank. He looked through me as if I were a sheet of glass. A stranger trespassing in his line of sight. “Who are you?” he asked. The cathedral went dead. A rustle of confusion rippled through four hundred guests like dry leaves scraping across concrete. I froze. The train of my dress suddenly felt like cast iron anchored to the stone floor. Simon didn’t spare me another second. He looked straight past my bare shoulder, his gaze locking onto the second row of mahogany pews on the left. Evelyn Ward. His childhood friend. The fragile, sickly girl whose family lived next door to his growing up—the one who claimed the world was too loud, too sharp, and that she couldn’t survive without him nearby. Simon shook off Marcus’s grip. He walked past me with brisk, purposeful strides. Then, beneath the gaze of hundreds of colleagues, socialites, and my weeping mother, Simon sank onto one knee on the burgundy runner. He looked up at Evelyn, his microphone clipping his lapel, his voice low, steady, and amplified through every speaker in the vaulted ceiling. “Evelyn, marry me.” A pause, thick as suffocating smoke. “I’ve loved you for so long.” 2 The blood drained from my limbs, leaving my veins filled with slush. Marcus broke the trance first. He bolted down the aisle and grabbed Simon by the collar of his jacket. “Are you out of your goddamn mind, Simon?!” His voice echoed sharply against the limestone walls. “Seven years! Nora is the bride today! She’s twenty-four weeks pregnant with your twins! Don’t pull this psychotic stunt now!” Simon pulled his arm free with a light, dismissive scoff, looking at Marcus like he was a toddler throwing a tantrum in a grocery aisle. “Pregnant?” Simon turned his head slightly, glancing at me. The sheer indifference in his expression—the faint, patronizing irritation—was a blunt knife sawing slowly into my sternum. “I don’t know her,” he said. The room erupted. “What is happening? Did he have another episode?” “Is his amnesia back?” “Jesus Christ, what about Nora? Look at her bump…” My mother tried to stand, her hands gripping the pew in front of her, her lips trembling so violently she couldn’t form a syllable. I stood frozen in the middle of the aisle, my fingers gripping the stems of white calla lilies until the stalks snapped and green sap stained my satin gloves. Marcus’s face was gray. He gripped Simon by the nape of his neck and half-dragged him toward the private vestry off the side of the altar. The heavy oak door didn’t catch. It remained open by a sliver. I moved toward it like a sleepwalker, my feet carrying me across the stone floor without my permission, until I was pressed against the shadowed molding outside. Their voices cut through the jamb with razor clarity. “Are you really going to keep this charade going?” Marcus’s voice was a furious hiss. “Evelyn has a bad week, so you turn Nora into the town joke in front of four hundred people?” Charade. The amnesia. It was fake. The tips of my fingers went numb. A silence hung in the room for several seconds. When Simon spoke, it was that same low, measured voice I had fallen asleep to for seven years—reasonable, calm, utterly devoid of guilt. “Evelyn is spiraling, Marcus. Her doctor said the stress could trigger another cardiac event.” “So you destroy your pregnant fiancée?!” “Evelyn depends on me. She only listens to me,” Simon said evenly, as if explaining an algebraic equation. “I have to give her absolute, unmistakable proof that she comes first. It’s the only way to stabilize her.” Marcus sounded incredulous. “And Nora? She’s six months along! You humiliated her at her own wedding! What happens when she finds out this was all staged?” “Nora will fix herself.” The reply came without an instant of hesitation. “She’s always been sensible, Marcus. Since she was a kid, she’s known how to handle her own mess. With my intermittent amnesia as an excuse, she’ll rationalize it. She always finds an excuse for me.” 3 My spine pressed flat against the chilled plaster. So that was it. The rare, tragic diagnosis. The transient dissociative amnesia his private neurologist had supposedly confirmed three years ago. Every time he looked at me with unrecognizing eyes. Every time he abandoned our anniversary dinners to rush across town because Evelyn couldn’t breathe. Every time he wavered between two women, retreating into the fortress of a convenient, untestable mental fog. It was theater. Seven years of immaculate, rehearsed theater. And for seven years, I had believed him. I had wiped my own tears in hospital waiting rooms, smoothed things over with his horrified friends, comforted my weeping mother, and swallowed every humiliation whole. I had held his hand in the dark and told him, It’s okay, Simon. I love you enough for the both of us. We’ll wait for you to come back. I was the clown in his private circus. Inside the vestry, Simon spoke again, adjusting his cuffs. “Stay out of it, Marcus. If something happens to Evelyn because I hesitated, I won’t be able to live with myself.” I closed my eyes. When I opened them, the small, desperate ember of love I had nurtured since I was eighteen was gone. Not smothered. Crushed into fine, gray powder. He was right about one thing. I was sensible. I knew how to fix myself. And once I fixed myself, I didn’t want his child. And I didn’t want him. I turned around, lifting the hem of my dress, and walked back onto the raised platform. The officiant was still standing frozen behind the pulpit, holding the leather-bound service book like a shield. Four hundred guests stared at me, their eyes burning into my skin like branding irons. I didn’t look back at them. I walked up to the minister, reached out, and took the wireless microphone from his hand. The metal casing was still warm from Simon’s palm. I turned to the congregation. My voice, honed by years of live news broadcasts, came out entirely level. “Thank you all for coming,” I said. “Please consider this your official notice: the wedding is canceled.” Total silence fell over the room. “From this moment forward, Simon Mercer and I have no relation to one another. Our lives are separate.” I set the microphone gently on the wooden lectern. I stepped down from the dais just as the vestry door swung open. Simon stepped out. Hearing my announcement, his face didn’t register a flicker of surprise or panic. He didn’t even look in my direction. Instead, he walked straight back to the second row. He leaned over Evelyn Ward, brushed a stray dark curl away from her forehead, and smiled with infinite tenderness. “Little princess,” he murmured, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet. “Want to ditch this place with me?” A sharp intake of breath rippled across the pews. I smiled. A tiny, genuine pull at the corner of my mouth. It was astonishing how quiet a heart could be when it finally stopped beating for someone. I walked to the front row where my mother sat. Her tears were soaking through her lapels, her hands shaking so hard she couldn’t pick up her purse. “Nora…” she choked out. “My sweet girl…” I pulled a tissue from my pocket, gently dabbed the corners of her eyes, and kept my voice low. “It’s over, Mom. Let’s go home.” 4 After settling my mother into a quiet boutique hotel room downtown and making sure she had taken her blood pressure medication, I called an Uber. The driver glanced at my smeared eyeliner in the rearview mirror. “Where to, miss?” “St. Jude Women’s Pavilion,” I said. “Emergency admission.” He didn’t ask another question. Outside the window, the neon signs of the city blurred into streaks of magenta and cold blue. My hand rested instinctively on the swell of my belly. Twenty-four weeks. Twins. Two little boys. The sonographer had told me at my last scan that they were thriving, measuring slightly ahead of schedule, curled around each other like two small apples. I used to keep the ultrasound printouts hidden in a locked folder on my phone, waiting for Simon’s next “lucid period” so we could celebrate together. There would be no celebration. At the hospital, I bypassed the regular triage desk and checked in directly at maternal-fetal medicine. The intake nurse took my chart, glanced at my driver’s license, and then looked down at my intake form. Her pen stopped moving. “Ms. Hayes,” she said, her voice dropping to a cautious, clinical whisper. “You’re requesting a late-term termination for a twin pregnancy?” “Yes.” “Given your gestational age, this requires medical induction and a surgical evacuation. The risks are substantial. Severe hemorrhaging, uterine scarring, infection, and a permanent risk of secondary infertility.” She hesitated, looking at the diamond engagement ring still on my left hand. “Is your partner here? Have you discussed this with your family?” I looked down at my lap. My fingers curled into a fist, then slowly relaxed. Discuss it? With whom? With the man who dropped to one knee before another woman while his unborn children were inside me? I knew better than anyone what it felt like to grow up in the shadow of a lie. My mother had been deceived into being a married man’s secret mistress for seven agonizing years. I had spent my childhood hearing the whispers behind closed doors, branded a bastard child by suburban neighbors who looked at me with pity and disgust. I swore on my life that my children would never inherit that legacy. They would never be treated as the collateral damage of a coward’s double life. “I don’t need to discuss it,” I said, meeting her eyes. “My signature is on the consent form. Please prepare the room.” 5 Before they wheeled me into the procedure suite, the nurse prepped my arm for an IV line. I turned my head away, watching the fluorescent lights humming in the ceiling. My phone buzzed on the stainless steel bedside stand. A push notification from Instagram. I unlocked the screen with an unsteady thumb. It was a new post from Evelyn Ward. In the photo, she was wearing my custom-tailored silk reception gown—the one I had left in the bridal suite—reclining into Simon’s chest. The background was the ballroom at the St. Regis, where our reception had been scheduled. The five-tier cake stood behind them; the champagne tower remained untouched. Her caption read: Rock bottom isn’t terrifying when someone chooses you again and again, healing every wound you never thought would close. A cascade of likes rolled in beneath it. Marcus’s profile picture was among them. I stared at the image. Her childhood insecurities were worthy of being healed by Simon’s public, theatrical devotion. But my life, my mother’s dignity, and the two heartbeats fluttering beneath my ribs were simply disposable. I laid my hand flat against my stomach. A bitter, metallic taste flooded my mouth. “Family needs to step out,” the transport tech announced, pulling open the curtain. “We’re rolling.” I closed my eyes. As the propofol burned through my vein, cold and thick, I heard something deep in my chest snap. A clean, final fracture. 6 The surgery was complicated by heavy bleeding. The attending physician informed me that my uterine wall was thinned, and the blood loss had exceeded typical thresholds. I had to remain in the recovery bay until late afternoon with an abdominal pressure pack. I lay under the scratchy hospital sheet, watching the water stains on the ceiling tiles. My stomach was flat again. Empty. The emptiness hurt worse than the physical cramping tearing through my pelvis. At four o’clock, the doctor finally signed my discharge papers. “Bed rest for at least two weeks, Ms. Hayes. No heavy lifting, no cold baths, and absolutely no emotional stress. If the bleeding picks up again, come straight to the ER.” I nodded. I stopped by an attorney’s office two blocks from the hospital. In thirty minutes, an experienced family lawyer drafted a clean separation agreement and property division for our co-owned property. She was an older woman who listened to the timeline with tightening lips and a trembling jaw. “You should have left him years ago, dear,” she murmured as she stamped the notary seal. “I know,” I said. By the time the cab dropped me off at our high-rise condominium, twilight had bruised into navy blue. Every step up the carpeted hallway felt like walking through wet cement. I leaned against the doorframe, catching my breath before punching in the keypad code. The door clicked open. I froze. The living room lights were glowing softly. Evelyn was curled up on our Italian leather sofa, draped in my champagne silk robe—the one I had bought three months ago for my wedding night. She held a mug of chamomile tea, looking entirely at home. When the lock beeped, she looked up, her expression entirely neutral. “What are you doing here?” she asked. From the kitchen, the hum of the range hood clicked off. Simon walked out carrying two plates of glazed salmon. The moment his eyes landed on me, his brows knit into an irritated scowl. “Are you serious, Nora?” His tone was thick with exhaustion, like an exasperated homeowner dealing with a persistent stray dog. “I don’t even remember you right now. Stalking me back to my apartment—isn’t this getting pathetic?” Evelyn gave his arm a gentle, playful nudge. “Simon, be nice.” I stood by the entrance console, a cold draft sliding through my coat. My limbs were shaking from blood loss, but the sheer absurdity of the tableau gave me a strange, chilling clarity. I reached into my bag, pulled out the manila envelope, and tossed it onto the kitchen island. “Simon,” I said, my voice deadpan. “How long do you plan to keep playing the amnesia card?” 7 Simon’s hand froze mid-air, the plate hovering an inch above the marble island. The silence that followed was suffocating. He set the plate down slowly. Without looking at me, he walked over to Evelyn, whispered a few soothing words into her ear, guided her gently into the master bedroom, and pulled the door shut behind her. When he turned back around, the blankness in his eyes was gone. He looked exhausted, calculating, and slightly annoyed. “Marcus told you?” he asked quietly. I didn’t answer. He let out a long breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as if organizing his patience. “Nora, Evelyn’s nervous system is shot. She’s been in and out of clinics since we were kids. She relies on me. If I don’t give her absolute reassurance, she spirals into self-harm.” “And me?” I asked. It wasn’t an accusation; it was barely a question. He hesitated for two seconds. “You’re overcomplicating things. It’s an outward gesture, Nora. You know I have an obligation to her—” “An obligation?” “I care about her,” he said smoothly. “But I love you.” I stared at him. The man I had shared a bed with for seven years. He had managed to reduce seven years of gaslighting, public humiliation, and calculated abandonment into a tidy little phrase: an outward gesture. Seeing my silence, Simon softened his posture. He took a step toward me, reaching out to pat my shoulder like an adult soothing an unreasonable child. “Be good, Nora. Don’t throw a fit over optics. Tomorrow morning, I’ll take you to City Hall. We’ll get the marriage license signed properly. Just the two of us.” City Hall. In seven years, he had proposed three times, and all three times, the actual registry appointment had been canceled because Evelyn had an emergency. Now, he was offering me a courthouse signing like a bone thrown to a dog. I nudged the manila envelope toward him with one finger. “Keep it,” I said. “We’re breaking up—” The master bedroom door slammed open. Evelyn charged out, her hands clutching her head, her face pale and damp with tears. “You’re leaving me… you’re going to marry her anyway… I can’t breathe, Simon, I can’t do this anymore—” She stumbled toward the floor-to-ceiling balcony doors. Simon’s face drained of color. He lunged across the living room, catching her around the waist just before she reached the sliding glass. “Evelyn! Stop! Look at me!” She thrashed in his arms, sobbing hysterically. Then, suddenly, she turned her head, saw me standing by the island, and lunged. Her fingers hooked into my hair before I could react. Crack. Her open palm struck my cheekbone. “You!” she screamed, her spit hitting my face. “You’re trying to steal him from me! Get out! Leave him alone!” A second slap landed across my ear, followed by a third. My post-op body had no balance; my knees buckled, and I went down hard on the hardwood floor. A sharp, hot tear ripped through my pelvic wall, and the taste of copper filled my mouth. Before I could push myself up, Evelyn abruptly dropped to her knees, clutching her own shoulders, shaking violently. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” she sobbed into the carpet. “I didn’t mean to… I couldn’t control it…” Simon dropped beside her, wrapping both arms around her trembling frame, pulling her tightly against his chest. Then, he looked up at me. There was no horror in his face. No instinct to help me up. Only cold, mounting resentment. “Nora,” he snapped, his voice sharp with blame. “You know how unstable she is. Why did you have to come back here and trigger her?” 8 I lay on the floor for a long time, unable to gather enough strength in my core to stand. Through the veil of my disheveled hair, I saw Evelyn resting her cheek against Simon’s shoulder. As his hand stroked the back of her head, she tilted her chin slightly. Her eyes met mine. And in that split second, her trembling lips curved into a distinct, razor-sharp smirk. It was deliberate. Triumphant. A cold numbness spread through my chest, drowning out the throbbing pain in my cheek. I dragged myself up, using the side of an armchair for leverage. My hand was shaking so badly I could barely keep my grip. Before I could take a step toward the guest room, Simon’s hand shot out and clamped around my wrist. He was still kneeling, looking up at me with an unyielding scowl. “Apologize to her, Nora.” Apologize. The word echoed in the empty spaces of my mind. With it, the very last fragment of warmth I had preserved for this man vanished completely. I jerked my wrist out of his grip with every ounce of strength I had left. Without a word, I stumbled into the guest bedroom, dragged my duffel bag from the closet, and began tossing my clothes inside. Outside, Evelyn’s muffled whimpering continued through the drywall. “Simon… did I ruin everything again? I didn’t want to hurt her… my chest hurts so much…” Simon’s voice was lower than silk. “It’s not your fault, Evie. I’m right here. You’re safe.” I sank onto the carpet, my forehead pressed against the zipper of my suitcase, my nails digging into the skin of my palms until they bled. Halfway through packing, my phone vibrated in my coat pocket. It was Sandra Powell, the executive producer at Channel 7. I took three shallow breaths, swallowed the blood pooling behind my teeth, and answered. “Sandra?” “Nora, thank God you picked up,” Sandra said, her voice taut with urgency. “Someone leaked the footage from the cathedral. It’s on TikTok, and local news blogs have picked it up.” My stomach plummeted. “What are they saying?” “Someone claiming to be an insider is running a smear campaign on Twitter,” Sandra said, sighing heavily. “They’re framing you as a homewrecker who trapped a wealthy man with a pregnancy while his sick childhood sweetheart was pushed aside. The comments are disgusting, Nora. Broadcast standards has already called me. You need to keep your head down, or management is going to pull you off the six o’clock broadcast.” I closed my eyes. “I understand. Thank you for the heads-up, Sandra.” I hung up and tapped on Twitter. The top trending post under our city’s hashtag was from an account called @EvelynsSun. It was a detailed, emotional thread narrating the tragic romance of Simon Mercer and his delicate childhood love, portraying me as the opportunistic, ambitious journalist who wedged herself between them using an unplanned pregnancy as leverage. The final tweet read: I don’t understand why Ms. Hayes had to do this. Simon and I grew up together; we only took a break. But as long as he’s happy, I will step aside. The replies were a wall of vitriol: —Desperate social climber gets what she deserves. —Getting pregnant out of wedlock to secure a bag? Classic. —Justice for the real partner. My vision blurred, the edges turning gray and static. A cold sweat broke out across my collarbone. I tried to brace myself against the bed frame, but my hands slipped. The room tilted violently, and darkness swallowed the floor. 9 I woke up to the smell of hospital-grade antiseptic and the steady hum of an IV monitor. I turned my head. Simon was sitting in the vinyl armchair beside the bed, looking rumpled and tired. When he saw my eyes open, a flicker of relief—and perhaps a ghost of affection—crossed his face. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a fever?” he asked softly. “If Evelyn hadn’t heard you collapse in the guest room, you could have gone into septic shock.” He reached out, his hand cool against my forehead. “The fever finally broke.” I looked away from him, staring at the sterile white curtain. The window showed a pitch-black night. I reached toward the bedside table for my phone. Simon’s hand moved quickly, hovering over the screen before he reluctantly handed it over. “Don’t look at it right now, Nora. You need to rest.” My chest tightened. I swiped the screen open. Over eighty missed calls. Dozens of frantic texts from colleagues and college friends. And on the local trending tab, a new headline blazed: #Channel7AnchorNoraHayes HighSchoolScandal My thumb shook as I opened the link. Three hours ago, @EvelynsSun had posted another update. This time, she claimed to be a former high school classmate of mine from suburban Ohio. The thread alleged that I had engaged in an inappropriate relationship with our married track coach, Mr. Harrison, causing a scandal in our district. Attached was a class graduation photo. And next to it: a grainy, telephoto shot of Mr. Harrison walking into an OB-GYN clinic in Cleveland, his hand resting on the shoulder of a young woman whose back was turned to the camera. The angle made her hair and posture look eerily identical to mine at seventeen. The caption read: I wasn’t going to say anything, but since she ruined an innocent woman’s wedding, everyone should know the truth about how she operates. A tear slipped silently down my temple, soaking into the cotton pillowcase. I looked at Simon. “Ruining my career. Does that make the two of you feel better?” Simon answered instantly, his tone defensive. “This has nothing to do with Evelyn.” His certainty was absolute. “She doesn’t know anyone from your high school. She wouldn’t even know where to find these pictures. You probably crossed someone in the industry, Nora. An ambitious rival taking advantage of the wedding press.” He paused, his eyes shifting away from mine toward the baseboard. “Or,” he added quietly, “maybe there’s some truth to it.” 10 A sharp, acidic burn shot straight through my sinuses. I stared at him, my voice barely audible. “You think it’s true?” Simon kept his eyes fixed on the wall. “True or not, it doesn’t matter anymore, Nora. It’s in the past. I wouldn’t leave you over something that happened when you were a teenager.” My ribs felt like they were collapsing inward, suffocating my lungs under an impossible weight. My phone rang again. It was Sandra Powell. I pressed the speaker button, my voice hoarse. “Sandra.” “Nora,” Sandra sighed, sounding bone-tired. “You know corporate policy on morality clauses. With the station’s parent company going through a merger, management won’t tolerate this kind of press.” “I understand.” “Take a personal leave. Settle your domestic situation. We’re moving Jessica up to cover the evening desk starting tomorrow.” The call ended with a dull click. The phone slipped from my limp fingers, landing against the rough hospital blanket. I stared at the ceiling tiles, counting the tiny black dots in the plaster. When I spoke, my voice was a flat, dead whisper. “Simon.” “We’re done.” “Get out of my life.” Simon sighed, pressing his fingers into the corners of his eyes. His tone shifted back to that practiced, patronizing cadence—the voice he used when I was being ‘difficult.’ “Stop it, Nora. I know you’re humiliated. I know you’re upset.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the mattress. “But you won’t leave me. We’ve been together seven years. You’re carrying my children. You don’t know how to exist without me, and I know you’re not going to raise those babies alone.” Seven years of devotion. My unborn twins. To him, they weren’t sacred milestones of a shared life. They were leverage. Guarantees that I would remain his compliant, ever-forgiving spectator. The hollow ache in my chest didn’t flare into rage. It settled into a cold, flat calm. His phone buzzed in his breast pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the caller ID, and immediately stood up. “I need to take this,” he murmured. Two minutes later, he pushed the door back open, pulling his coat on. “Evelyn is having another panic attack,” he said briskly. “Her blood pressure is through the roof. I have to go back and check on her.” He walked to the foot of the bed, his tone matter-of-fact. “You’re an adult, Nora. Learn to take care of yourself for one night. Stop overthinking everything.” He reached for the door handle. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” The door clicked shut. His footsteps receded down the linoleum hallway. I looked back at the ceiling. I couldn’t even summon the energy to feel disappointed. 11 Ten minutes after Simon left, a floor nurse entered with an IV bag of saline. She paused at the door, glancing down the empty hallway where Simon had just disappeared. “Was that your husband?” she asked, adjusting the flow valve. “I tried to catch him at the nurses’ station to go over your discharge restrictions. You had a late-term surgical termination of twins yesterday morning, followed by a secondary uterine hemorrhage. You cannot be left alone under any circumstances—” She stopped, noticing my silence. “He told you he had an emergency?” she guessed, her professional mask cracking into quiet sympathy. “Yes,” I whispered. She hung the bag on the metal stand and gently tucked the blanket around my shoulders. “You’ve had two significant bleeds in thirty-six hours, Ms. Hayes. Your hemoglobin is critically low. You cannot afford an emotional breakdown right now. Please, try to sleep.” I nodded, closing my eyes, letting the saline drip cold into my arm. By three o’clock the following afternoon, my fever had vanished, and the cramping had dulled to a low, manageable ache. I signed my own discharge against medical advice and called a cab back to the condominium to gather the rest of my legal documents and clothing. The penthouse was silent when I entered. On the glass coffee table in the center of the living room sat a massive bouquet of three dozen long-stemmed red roses. And resting against the crystal vase were two embossed leather folders. State of New York. Certificate of Marriage. My feet seemed to root themselves to the floorboards. I walked forward as if drawn by a wire, reaching out with a trembling hand to open the top folder. The gold lettering gleamed beneath the recessed spotlights. The photograph showed Simon Mercer in a crisp charcoal suit, and Evelyn Ward wearing a cream lace dress with a fingertip veil. Both of them were smiling with effortless, radiant ease. The date stamped at the bottom was today. Ten o’clock this morning. A dry, hollow laugh escaped my throat. Last night, in my hospital room, he had promised to take me to City Hall to ‘make things right.’ This morning, he had married Evelyn Ward. The bedroom door clicked open. Simon walked out carrying a glass of water. When he saw me standing over the coffee table holding the certificate, he froze. “Nora? What are you doing out of the hospital?” His gaze shifted to the papers in my hand. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t flinch. He simply exhaled a slow, weary sigh, as if explaining an inconvenient administrative delay. “Evelyn is pregnant,” he said. I stared at him. “Last month, on our anniversary trip, you got angry about her calling me and took the train home early,” Simon explained calmly. “She came over to the hotel. We were both drinking. It happened once.” He took a sip of water. “She started vomiting yesterday morning. I took her to urgent care, and the blood test confirmed it. She’s five weeks along.” He looked at me with an expression that bordered on pity. “Nora, she isn’t strong like you. She couldn’t survive the social shame of having a child out of wedlock. I couldn’t let my baby be born a bastard. So we went down to the municipal clerk this morning.” 12 The word hung in the air between us like cyanide. Bastard. I stood there, feeling the cold weight of the leather folder in my palm, my mind struggling to process the sheer depravity of his logic. “And my children?” I asked. My voice sounded thin, scraping against the back of my throat like dry sandpaper. “My twins… they’re supposed to be born bastards?” Simon sighed again, stepping closer, his voice dropping into that soothing, reasonable register. “Once you deliver, we’ll handle it legally. We can arrange an open adoption agreement through Evelyn. On paper, she’ll be their mother of record, and they’ll have the Mercer name. No one will ever know.” He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing my arm. “Nora, a piece of paper doesn’t change what we have. Even with this marriage, you are the woman I love. Nothing between us has to change. You’ve always been sensible, Nora. You understand why I had to do this, don’t you?” Seven years. Seven years of shared meals, shared beds, shared secrets. And in the end, his cruelty was so absolute because he genuinely believed I lacked the pride to walk away. I let out a short, ragged breath. “Nothing changes? You want me to be your secret mistress?” Simon fell silent. He looked down at his leather loafers, then met my eyes, his tone deadening into something vile. “Your mother lived as a mistress for seven years, Nora,” he said quietly. “It’s not like the concept is unfamiliar to you.”

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