Author: Momo Chan

1 The night of high school graduation was supposed to be a beginning. Instead, for me, it was a haunting encore. The notification pinged on our class GroupMe at 7:00 PM. Madison Prescott, our resident “it-girl,” had posted a neon-drenched flyer. “We’re finally eighteen. Who’s still playing the good little student?” she’d typed, followed by a string of cocktail and devil emojis. “Tonight, we have a real rite of passage. Drinks, mystery boxes, a taste of the real adult world. No parents, no rules.” In my first life, I had been the martyr. I was the Class President, the girl who cared too much. I had spent that night frantically calling teachers, messaging parents, and finally physically blocking the entrance to the club. I thought I was saving them. The fallout was catastrophic. Madison lost her promoter’s commission, became a social pariah, and a month later, she jumped from the roof of the library. They blamed me. All of them. They dragged me to that same rooftop, forced me to my knees in front of her memorial, and poured vodka down my throat until I choked. Jackson Reed, her boyfriend, had looked at me with bloodshot eyes and asked, “Audrey, why couldn’t you just let her be happy once?” Then, he pushed me. Now, as the blue light of my iPhone screen bled into the dimness of my bedroom, I was back. Back to the exact moment the flyer hit the chat. Madison tagged me: @AudreyMiller, you’re not going to be a buzzkill again, are you? I looked at the details: the Venmo link, the address of a penthouse lounge called The Apex, the teaser for a “private livestream,” and the guest list that included two juniors who wouldn’t turn eighteen until next month. I didn’t argue. I didn’t warn. I didn’t care about being their savior anymore. I smiled, my fingers steady as I took screenshots and screen-recorded the chat. I left the group without a word. Then, I dialed the non-emergency line for the local precinct. “Hi, I’d like to report an illegal gathering involving minors, unlicensed alcohol service, and potential solicitation at The Apex Lounge.” The frenzy in the group chat had reached a fever pitch before I left. Madison’s messages were a tactical masterclass in peer pressure. “OMG, a real adult party? Finally!” “This is how you celebrate graduation. Who wants to go to some lame pizza party?” “Madison, you’re a legend for pulling this off.” The flyer was slick—black background, crimson font. Eighteen: Don’t waste your first night of freedom. Below the text were photos of VIP booths, bottle service towers, and blurred stills from a “members-only” stream. My skin crawled. I knew that flyer. In my previous life, that “adult world” Madison promised was a predatory trap. She was selling us out for a kickback from the club promoters. Back then, I had fought her. I had been the wall she crashed into. And for my “heroism,” I had been rewarded with a grave. Madison’s voice notes were playing in my head, even though I’d muted them. That honey-sweet, manipulative tone: “Guys, don’t be cowards. We worked so hard for four years. This isn’t about being bad; it’s about making a memory.” The echoes of the others followed: “Madison’s right.” “If you’re eighteen and still asking for permission, you’re pathetic.” “If you don’t show up, don’t bother coming to the alumni meetups.” I felt a strange, cold peace. This time, I wasn’t going to stand in their way. But I wasn’t going to let them anchor me to their sinking ship, either. Before I left the chat, I typed: I’m out. Take my name off the list. The chat froze for two seconds. Then, Madison tagged me. Audrey, don’t be like that. It’s the last time we’ll all be together. It’ll be so awkward if you’re the only one missing. Jackson Reed jumped in immediately. Audrey, quit the act. Madison worked her ass off to get us into this place. What do you mean ‘you’re out’? I stared at the screen, my expression flat. It means I’m not going. And I don’t authorize anyone to use my name for registration, promotion, or fee collection. The chat exploded. “She really thinks she’s someone special, doesn’t she?” “Who even wants her there?” “Better if the narc doesn’t show up. She’d probably call the cops anyway.” Madison replied with a crying emoji. Guys, don’t be mean to Audrey. She’s just… traditional. But the list is already sent to the venue, and the deposit is paid. Changing it now is going to be a nightmare. I laughed. That was the hook. In my last life, that was how they dragged me under. The list is sent. The deposit is paid. Your face is on the promo. They tied me to the mast and then screamed at me for not wanting to drown with them. I typed back: Make it happen. Or I’ll be forced to contact my family’s attorney regarding the unauthorized use of my likeness. Madison stopped posting in the main chat. My phone buzzed with a DM. Audrey, do you have to be so dramatic? Everyone just wants to blow off some steam. You’re ruining the vibe. I didn’t reply. I just kept filing the evidence: the flyer, the Venmo, the guest list. I wasn’t going to talk them out of it. I was going to let their own choices be the hand that slapped them awake. 2 Madison’s talent wasn’t just being pretty; it was her ability to package her own greed as a communal struggle for “freedom.” She posted a long paragraph in the group chat after I left. One of my few friends, a girl named Sophie, sent me the screenshot. “I know some people think this party is ‘shady,’” Madison wrote. “But we’ve graduated. We’re adults. Are we really going to live our lives based on what other people think? This isn’t for me. It’s for all of us. I want us to remember this summer forever.” She had successfully cast herself as the revolutionary, and me as the oppressive regime. “Ignore her, Madi,” someone replied. “She’s been a control freak since freshman year.” “Audrey, if you’re not coming, fine. Just don’t ruin it for the rest of us.” Then, Jackson called. I hit speaker and started a voice recording on my laptop. “Audrey, what the hell is wrong with you?” his voice boomed. “You used to be cool.” “What was I, exactly?” I asked calmly. “You cared about the class! You looked out for people.” “I am looking out for someone,” I said. “Myself.” Jackson went quiet for a moment, caught off guard. Then he lowered his voice, trying a different tactic. “Madison is under a lot of pressure, okay? Her parents are strict, and she just wanted one night to go wild before college. Why do you have to target her?” “How am I targeting her?” I asked. “By saying no?” “By making her look bad! It’s disrespectful.” “Her ego isn’t my responsibility, Jackson.” He let out a frustrated growl. “Audrey, stop being so stuck-up. Everyone is going. You’re going to be the only one left out. Do you really want that?” “Did you know there are two seventeen-year-olds on that list?” I asked. Silence. Then, dismissively: “So? It’s a few months. It’s not like we’re doing anything illegal.” “Then why is it called an ‘Adults-Only’ party? Why are there mystery boxes? Why is there a private livestream link?” Jackson’s voice turned sharp. “Stop making it sound so dirty. It’s just a game. Madison said there’s a ‘hype crew’ and some big donors who want to support the stream. It’s just a party.” Because I wasn’t fighting him, he kept talking. He was digging his own grave and Madison’s right along with it. “Why would ‘big donors’ give money to a bunch of high school grads?” I asked softly. “They like the energy! People with money spend it on weirder things. It’s just a way to fund the booze and the venue.” “And after they spend the money? What do they get?” “Why do you care so much?” he snapped. I looked at the sound waves on my laptop. “Jackson, are you sure tonight is safe?” “I’m sure,” he said. “If anything happens, I’ll take the heat. I promise.” “Good,” I whispered. “I’ll remember that.” I hung up and backed up the recording. Madison posted a final update in the chat: 8:00 PM. The Apex Lounge, Penthouse A. $100 per person. Covers drinks, ‘party favors,’ and the stream access code. Bring your IDs. We have to verify everyone is ‘adult’ at the door. I stared at the word verify. Someone asked: What if I’m not eighteen yet? Madison’s reply was instant: Don’t ask that here. I’ll handle it at the door. She added a wink emoji. I screenshotted it. Seconds later, she deleted the message. Too late. I sent her a DM: Remove my name from the list. And tell the underage kids to stay home. She replied within seconds: Audrey, did you screen-record the chat? Why are you nervous, Madison? The ‘typing’ bubble appeared and disappeared for a full minute. Finally: I just want everyone to be happy. I didn’t bother responding. People who want others to be happy don’t sell their classmates to a livestream of ‘big donors.’ They don’t use a girl’s graduation photo to promote a “Quiet Class President” reveal. I checked her Instagram. She’d posted a story: Entering the adult world with the whole class. In the corner of the collage was my school ID photo. Below it, the text: The Ice Queen is coming out to play tonight. The comments were already turning toxic. “I always knew the quiet ones were the wildest.” “Can’t wait for the stream.” “How much for the private room access?” My hands shook, but not with fear. With rage. In my last life, I died thinking I was the problem. Now I saw the truth. They didn’t want me there as a friend. They wanted me as a commodity. I saved everything—the story, the comments, the QR code for the stream. Then, I sent the final email to the precinct and the school board’s ethics committee. “I am reporting an organized event involving minors, non-consensual use of likeness for adult entertainment purposes, and illegal gambling/livestreaming. I have attached all records.” I hit send.

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1 The night Miles Preston won the Academy Award for Best Actor, the first thing he did wasn’t thank me. It was to announce his early retirement to a room full of flashing lights and a world of stunned fans. By the time I reached the parking lot, the internet had already imploded. But inside our agency’s group chat, it was a goddamn carnival. “I can’t wait to see how Becca cleans this one up,” one message read, popping up on my screen with a relentless ping. “Seriously. She’s spent ten years trying to turn Miles into a legend, and he just flushes it all down the toilet for Summer. Now that is what I call a romantic power move. Total boss energy.” A new intern typed tentatively: “But if Miles retires, don’t we all lose our jobs?” Zack, Miles’s long-time bodyguard and self-appointed ‘brother,’ replied with a laughing-crying emoji. “You’re new, kid. You don’t know Becca. She’s been obsessed with Miles for fifteen years. She’s a professional doormat. No matter how much Miles messes up, she’s there to catch the fall. It’ll just take a few more late-night dinners with investors and a few more drinks to smooth things over. It’s what she’s good for.” “Summer was just jealous,” another added. “She told Miles she hated sharing him with a million fangirls. He did this just to keep his girl happy.” “I’d pay to see Becca’s face right now. I bet the old girl is absolutely fuming. LOL.” Amidst the scrolling text, a voice note appeared. It was Miles. His voice was that familiar, gravelly baritone that used to make my heart skip—the voice I’d spent a decade marketing to the world. “Stop the chatter,” he said, sounding breathless and distracted. “I’m busy. You guys are being too loud.” The chat erupted in whistles and lewd jokes, demanding Miles finally give Summer a “promotion” to wife. “She’s fresh out of college, Miles. You can’t just keep her as a ‘secret assistant’ forever. Break it off with Becca so we can finally call Summer ‘the boss’s lady’ officially.” “Do it while Becca is busy doing damage control,” Zack chimed in. “She’ll be so stressed she’ll probably agree to a divorce—wait, they aren’t even married. She’ll agree to the breakup without even hearing the words.” “Assuming she can hear them at her age,” someone joked. “Earplugs or menopause?” I stood in the shadows of the parking garage, the cold Los Angeles air biting through my evening gown. My thumb hovered over the screen. I didn’t type a word. Instead, I logged into our official agency account, drafted a press release, and hit Post. “Preston-Miller Management is officially dissolved effective immediately. Miles Preston will no longer be accepting any professional engagements.” “To our fans: To compensate for the sudden departure, the agency will be facilitating full refunds for all tickets and merchandise purchased within the last three years. No questions asked.” In the top pinned comment, I posted Miles’s personal bank account details for the wire transfers. He wanted to retire for his new muse? Fine. I’d make sure he could afford the lifestyle. I logged out, deleted the app, and booked a one-way ticket to the Maldives for the next morning. For fifteen years, I had poured every ounce of my soul into Miles’s career. I was his manager, his publicist, his stylist, and his lover. I hadn’t taken a single day off. I was the one who dragged him to auditions when he was a nobody, the one who negotiated the contracts that made him a millionaire, the one who hired his friends and gave them six-figure salaries they didn’t deserve. And my reward? To be called a “doormat” and the “old girl.” I’d drunk myself into a stomach ulcer to land him his first lead role. I’d endured the wandering hands of sleazy producers at after-parties so he didn’t have to compromise his ‘artistic integrity.’ To them, it was just “a few drinks.” They were already calling his twenty-two-year-old mistress “sister-in-law.” Meanwhile, I’d told them a thousand times I hated the nickname ‘Auntie Becca,’ yet they only used it more often, laughing behind my back. I’d brought it up to Miles once. He had just pinched my cheek, laughing. “Don’t be so sensitive, Becca. You’re just acting like an old hen. It’s just a joke. Don’t get jealous of the young kids.” While I packed my suitcase, my phone rang. The ringtone was a raw, acoustic song Miles had recorded for me the year we started dating. “Becca, this is just for you,” the young, teenage Miles had whispered on the track. “My exclusive song. Every time you hear it, remember I’m yours.” Back then, he was a boy with bright eyes and a crooked smile—the cleanest, purest thing I’d ever known. I answered. The man on the other end was huffing, his voice cold and impatient. I expected a confrontation about the refund post, or perhaps an apology because he’d realized he accidentally sent those messages to the main group chat instead of his private ‘bro’ circle. But he didn’t mention the chat. “Becca, I need you to send a bouquet to the St. Regis. Pink roses. The expensive ones.” I went still. “Flowers?” “Yeah. Summer’s young, she needs the whole ‘romance’ thing. She’s playing hard to get, says no flowers, no fun. Just get it done, okay?” I clutched the phone, a dry, bitter laugh escaping my throat. I remembered our first time. There were no roses. No five-star hotels. Just the scent of sweat on high school gym clothes and a cramped, dirty backseat of a borrowed car. That was the year Miles’s grandmother—his only family—passed away. He was self-destructing, trying to pick fights, threatening to drop out. I gave him everything I had to fill the hole in his heart. I used my college savings to pay his rent. I kissed away his tears. I whispered forever into his ear until he believed it. Later, when he got his first big paycheck, he bought me a three-hundred-dollar ring. He told me, “Becca, we’re going to make it. Forever.” Ten years later, Miles had everything, and he couldn’t even remember my birthday. I looked at the clock. Midnight. The first hour of my thirtieth birthday. “Sure,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I’ll send them.” Miles paused, perhaps sensing something off. “Actually, never mind. I’ll ask Chris to do it. Your eyes have been bothering you lately, you shouldn’t be driving at night.” “Okay,” I said, ready to hang up. “Becca,” Miles added suddenly. “Look, people crave novelty. I’m an actor; it’s in my nature. But you know how this ends. I’ll marry you eventually. Let me have my fun before we settle down. It’s not a big deal, right?” In the past, those words would have shattered me. I would have screamed, cried, and begged him to see my worth. But tonight, I was just… tired. Too tired to even say the word breakup. “I get it,” I said. “Have fun, Miles.” I hung up and immediately messaged a real estate agent. I told her to list the apartment. We had rented this place when we first moved to the city. We were so broke we shared one bowl of instant noodles for dinner. Later, when he became a star, he moved into a penthouse. But I couldn’t let go of this place. I’d bought it secretly, keeping it as my sanctuary. My home. As I finished packing, the front door clicked open. Miles walked in, tossing a small velvet box into my lap. “Happy birthday,” he said. “I saw what the guys were saying in the chat. They went too far. I’ll tell them to knock it off later.” I opened the box. It was a necklace—a generic, gold-plated chain. It was the kind of ‘gift’ luxury boutiques give away as a consolation prize when you spend fifty thousand dollars on a handbag. Three days ago, I’d seen Summer posting a photo of a new Birkin. It wasn’t hard to connect the dots. This was the scrap left over from her shopping spree. “Thanks,” I said, closing the box. Miles blinked, clearly thrown by my lack of emotion. Two years ago, when he’d promised a proposal and left me waiting at a reserved restaurant for three hours because “Summer was having a period cramp crisis,” I had started a war. We didn’t speak for two weeks. Last year, he stood me up again, and I’d cooked a five-course meal only to throw it in the trash at 3:00 AM. He expected a fight. He thrived on the drama of my devotion. “Look,” he said, reaching out to pinch my chin. “Don’t be like that. I didn’t stand you up this year. I brought you an Oscar. I’ll tell the guys to stop mentioning Summer around you. Is that what you want?” I flinched away from his touch. “Miles, did you check Twitter?” His hand hovered in mid-air, his expression darkening. “The refund notice? I assumed that was just some creative PR stunt you cooked up to pivot my image. Isn’t that your job? Or are you looking for a thank you note for doing your chores?” I nodded slowly. I see. That’s why the group chat had gone quiet. They weren’t ignoring the dissolution of the company because they were slow—they just didn’t believe I’d actually do it. They were so certain I was a permanent fixture in Miles’s life that they viewed my professional suicide as just another “tactic” to protect him. “You’re right,” I smiled. “It’s a tactic.” Miles watched me for a second, then softened his voice. “Once the heat from the retirement announcement dies down, I’ll take you on a trip. Maybe we can finally do that engagement thing you’re always hinting at.” The engagement thing. He’d been dangling that carrot for years. The first time was after his first hit show. We were young, rich for the first time, and he’d promised me a castle wedding. Then he met Summer, the “poor little intern” with the gambling father and the sick mother. Miles, the “savior,” hired her, gave her a massive salary, and told me, “We can’t get married now, Becca. It’ll hurt the brand. Let’s wait until I have a little more saved for that castle.” Every year, there was a new reason. My birthday, his awards, even the time I got pregnant and had to go to the clinic alone because Summer’s cat was sick and she needed him to go to the vet with her. “I’d be there, Becca, but if a paparazzi sees me at a women’s clinic, it’ll ruin the movie. Summer is crying her eyes out over this cat, just be a good girl and handle it, okay? I’ll make it up to you with a ring.” Miles must have seen a flicker of that memory in my eyes because he cleared his throat. “I’m serious this time. I already ordered the ring. We’ll go to that island you like.” I didn’t want to play anymore. But looking at his face—the face of a man who had mastered the art of the sincere lie—I felt a spark of spite. For the girl I used to be, the one who skipped meals to buy him acting classes. “Show me,” I said. “What?” “The ring order. Since you already bought it.” Miles froze. I snatched his phone off the coffee table. He was too surprised to stop me. I opened his banking app and scrolled through the recent transactions. 80,000–Hermes.∗∗80,000–Hermes.∗∗ 52,000 – Wire transfer to Summer Hart. $39,000 – Cartier (Men’s and Women’s matching bracelets). And then, a $20 transaction from an online wholesale site. I clicked it. It was a plain silver band. In the chat with the seller, he’d asked: “Can you engrave the letter ‘B’ on it? It’s for a ‘long-term associate.’” Then I went to his messages with Summer. I searched for the word “Island.” Last week, Summer had thrown a tantrum about being a “secret.” Miles had booked a private island to pacify her. “I’ll take you next month, baby,” Miles had written. “We’ll have to bring Becca along, though. She’s still the manager. If we get spotted by a drone, I can just say it’s a business retreat. It keeps the press off your back.” I started to laugh. It started as a giggle and turned into a jagged, hysterical sound that pulled tears from my eyes. “This is your grand proposal, Miles? A twenty-dollar ring from a bargain site? And a ‘romantic’ getaway where I’m the chaperone for your mistress?” I threw the phone at his chest. “Fifteen years. I’ve given you fifteen years, and in your head, I’m worth exactly twenty dollars.”

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1 The jet lag was a dull ache behind my eyes, a souvenir from twelve hours of recycled cabin air and three years of being away. I smoothed the silk of my gown as I stepped into the ballroom, the scent of expensive lilies and floor wax hitting me like a physical weight. “Nora! It’s really you!” My cousin, Lana, rushed toward me, her bridal train trailing behind her like a white silk cloud. She pulled me into a hug that felt almost like the old days. Almost. “Three years, Nora. Look at you,” she gushed, stepping back to scan me from head to toe. Standing beside her was the man of the hour—her fiancé, Grant Miller. He didn’t offer a hand. Instead, he let out a sharp, mocking bark of a laugh. I looked at him, confused, and he met my gaze with a look of pure, unadulterated condescension. “I thought you said she was some high-flyer coming back from the city,” Grant sneered, his eyes raking over my outfit. “She looks like another one of your charity-case relatives. Is that dress a knockoff? I can smell the cheap polyester from here.” Lana didn’t defend me. Instead, she let out a dainty, practiced titter. “Oh, Nora, don’t mind him. Grant is an executive at Bennett International—he moves in circles where people actually know their labels. You can’t really blame him for noticing.” Bennett International? The irony tasted like copper in my mouth. That was the very firm that had spent the last six months headhunting me, offering me a package I’d turned down three times before finally considering their latest offer. I had spent weeks selecting this dress. It was a custom piece from a boutique atelier, a quiet luxury that didn’t need a logo to scream its price. “What exactly makes you think this is a ‘knockoff’?” I asked, my voice level. Grant chuckled, thinking he’d already won. He stepped forward and grabbed my wrist, hoisting my hand up like a piece of evidence in a courtroom. “It’s simple math, sweetheart. A dress like that, if it were real, would cost more than your annual rent. But look at this,” he flicked the worn leather strap of the watch on my left wrist. The edges were frayed, the face scratched. “A woman who wears a piece of junk like this doesn’t own a five-figure dress. Real wealth is about the details, and yours are falling apart.” Lana saw my silence and reached out, playfully slapping Grant’s hand away. “Grant, stop. You know your stuff, we get it. But Nora’s just a girl—let her have her little moment of make-believe.” I looked down at the watch. The leather was indeed peeling. It was the watch Lana had given me the day I left for my Master’s program. Back then, my family couldn’t afford the tuition, and I had almost turned down the scholarship. It was Lana who had sat me down, handed me this watch, and told me that it was my time to shine, that I had to go. I had worn it today as a silent tribute to the sister I thought I had. A way of saying, I haven’t forgotten where I came from, or who helped me get there. Now, I realized she had forgotten it all herself. I let out a long, slow breath. Lana took it as a sign of defeat, a surrender to my own supposed “shame.” She hooked her arm through mine, her voice dripping with pity. “Anyway, let’s talk about something else. You’re back for good, right?” “Yes,” I said, my voice feeling hollow. “I’m staying.” “Found a job yet?” “I’m still weighing my options.” It was a standard, polite answer, but it seemed to trigger Grant’s “success” reflex again. He leaned in, his breath smelling of expensive scotch. “Options? What options? Which local fast-food joint is hiring? Or did you spend three years overseas just to forget how to speak the language of a paycheck?” I was done with the games. I turned my head slowly, staring him straight in the eyes. “What exactly are you trying to say, Grant?” He flinched, just for a second, caught off guard by the sudden coldness in my tone. Lana stepped in to play peacemaker again. “Oh, he’s just teasing, Nora! Actually, Grant is about to be promoted to General Manager at Bennett. Once he’s settled, maybe he can find you a spot in the filing department or something. You’d be lucky to have him looking out for you.” Grant puffed out his chest, adjusting his cufflinks. He didn’t even bother to look at me anymore. Since moving abroad, I had built a career in high-stakes finance. Last year alone, my personal portfolio had cleared eight figures. In the world of global markets, my name carried weight. When Arthur Bennett, the CEO of Bennett International, flew out to meet me, he offered me the GM position on a silver platter. I’d told him I’d think about it. Just last week, he’d called again, saying the seat was mine whenever I wanted it. I had no idea where Grant got the confidence to think the role was his. I tilted my head, feigning a look of wide-eyed admiration. “Wow. General Manager? That’s impressive. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your full name earlier.” “It’s Grant Miller,” Lana chimed in, beaming. “Grant, this is my cousin, Nora Brooks.” I nodded and extended my hand. “Grant. I have a feeling we might be seeing a lot of each other in a professional capacity.” He scoffed, keeping his hands deep in his pockets. “Don’t count on it. I didn’t agree to be your career coach. Take care of yourself and try not to be a burden on the family.” With that, he pulled Lana away to greet more “important” guests, leaving me standing in the middle of the room. I was ready to leave my gift and slip out the back when my Aunt Martha spotted me. She dragged me over to the head table to catch up. We’d barely exchanged three sentences when I heard someone shouting my name. I turned to see Grant standing by the buffet, waving me over with an impatient, flicking motion of his wrist. I sighed, set my clutch down, and walked over. “Nora, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Look, don’t just sit there like a guest. We’re short-staffed. Go help the servers with the hors d’oeuvres and champagne.” Before I could even open my mouth to refuse, he turned his back on me and walked away. I looked at Lana, who was watching from a distance. She didn’t say a word. She just gave me a small, helpless shrug that told me exactly where I stood. Fine. It was her wedding. I’d play nice for the sake of the blood we shared. I spent the next hour in four-inch heels, navigating the crowded room with trays of miniature quiches and flutes of sparkling wine. My feet were throbbing, and my silk dress felt like a cage. Just as I thought I was done, Grant appeared again, acting like a floor manager. “Champagne’s low. Go to the storage room and bring out three more cases.” I couldn’t carry cases in this dress. I had to ferry the bottles two by two, back and forth from the kitchen. By the third trip, I was exhausted. I sat down on a small stool in the service corridor to catch my breath. Voices drifted through the door—Lana and Grant. They were arguing. “Grant, Arthur Bennett is going to be here any minute,” Lana hissed. “We can’t have him sitting in the corner near the service entrance.” “Then move the ‘poor relatives’ table,” Grant snapped. “And keep Nora away from him. Seriously, Lana, you need to distance yourself from people like her. She’s unemployed and clearly desperate. She’ll be a black hole for your money. Now is the time to show her exactly where she fits in our new life. Don’t give her any ideas that she’s welcome in our circle.” There was a long, suffocating silence. Then, Lana spoke. Her voice was quiet, devoid of the warmth she’d shown me earlier. “Fine. Whatever you think is best.” The last flicker of my affection for her died right then and there. The girl who had encouraged me to fly had finally clipped her own wings to fit into Grant’s narrow world. Why was I still trying to protect their dignity? I stood up, picked up a full bottle of champagne, and held it high. I let go. The crash of glass shattered the silence of the corridor. Lana and Grant burst into the room, their faces twisted in shock. Grant’s face went purple with rage. “You clumsy idiot! Do you have any idea what that bottle cost? I was right—you’re a total liability. A waste of space!” Lana looked at the mess, then at me. Her voice was cold. “Nora, honestly. How could you be so careless?” “Get back to the ballroom,” Grant ordered, pointing a finger at me. “But you’re not sitting at the head table. Go to the overflow seating in the back row. Actually, just stay in the kitchen.” “Don’t bother,” I said, my voice steady and dangerously calm. “If I’m such a burden, I’ll just leave.” Lana called my name, but she didn’t move to stop me. Grant was practically beaming. “Great! Go. And do us a favor—don’t call. We’re moving on to bigger things.” I forced a smile. I walked up to Grant, stepping into his personal space until he had to lean back. “You’re right,” I whispered. “We are both moving on to bigger things. But here’s a tip, Grant: You are never, ever going to be the General Manager of Bennett International.” He turned red, his teeth bared. “You want to say that again?” “I said,” I enunciated every syllable, “you will never be the—” CRACK. The slap echoed through the small room. My face stung, the heat blooming across my cheek. I looked at Lana. Her hand was still raised, her eyes burning with a self-righteous fury. “Don’t you dare talk to my husband that way,” she spat. “Apologize. Now.” I didn’t cry. I reached down, unbuckled the worn leather watch from my wrist, and dropped it onto the floor amidst the broken glass and spilled champagne. “Goodbye, Lana,” I said. It was the heaviest word I’d ever spoken. The atmosphere was suffocating, the calm before the storm. As I turned to leave, a groomsman ran into the hall. “Grant! What are you doing? Mr. Bennett is here!” Panic and excitement instantly replaced their anger. They forgot I even existed, scrambling past me to the front entrance. I followed at a distance, watching as they practically prostrated themselves before a tall, silver-haired man in a charcoal suit. Grant was bowing so low he looked like he was folding in half. He led Arthur Bennett toward the table I had been sitting at earlier. Noticing my clutch was still on the chair, Grant snatched it up and threw it across the room like it was trash. I walked over, picked up my bag, and prepared to walk out of their lives forever. Arthur Bennett’s eyes tracked the movement. He frowned, squinting at my back. “Wait,” he called out. Grant, thinking Arthur was annoyed by my presence, rushed over to shove me toward the door. “I am so sorry, sir. She’s just a distant relative of my wife’s, totally unrefined. She was just leaving. Get out of here, Nora! You’re an eyesore!” I turned around, catching Grant’s hand before he could push me again. Arthur’s face lit up with pure relief. He pushed past Grant, his hand extended. “Nora! I didn’t expect to see you here. I heard you were back in the country, but you haven’t returned my last three messages. Please tell me you’ve reconsidered. The GM office is literally waiting for your nameplate. We haven’t even interviewed anyone else.” The silence that followed was absolute. Lana and Grant looked like they had been turned to stone, their mouths hanging open in a grotesque parody of shock. “Mr. Bennett,” I said, my voice smooth as silk. “Maybe we should talk about work another day. You’re here for a wedding, aren’t you?” Arthur realized he was being a bit overbearing and laughed. “Right, right. My apologies. I’m just so eager to get you on board. Come, sit with me. Let’s enjoy the evening.” “I’d love to,” I said, glancing at the corner of the room. “But there isn’t a seat for me. My ‘assigned’ spot is at that little card table by the trash cans.” Arthur’s gaze followed my finger. He looked at the tiny table, then back at Grant, his expression hardening. “I see,” Arthur said, his voice dropping an octave. “I clearly misjudged the character of some of my employees. Nora, wherever you sit, I sit. It’s that simple.” Grant started stammering, his face pale as a sheet. He began frantically slapping his own cheeks, a frantic, desperate gesture of apology. “Oh god, Nora—Ms. Brooks—I was… I was joking! A misunderstanding! Please, come to the head table. I’m an idiot, a complete fool!” Lana rushed over, trying to grab my arm with her old, forced intimacy. “Nora, honey, don’t be mad at your big sister. It was all a big joke, really!” The slap on my cheek was still throbbing. I looked at her—really looked at her—and felt a wave of nausea. I pulled my arm away, stepping back. “Mr. Bennett,” I said, turning to Arthur. “I’ll take the job. But I have one condition.”

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1 My sister died when she was four years old. On the day of her cremation, I was the one who held the small, heavy mahogany box containing her ashes. I was the one who walked it to the niche in the columbarium, feeling the cold marble through my palms. I was fifteen then, and I thought that was the hardest thing I’d ever have to do for her. I was wrong. Twenty-five years later, a process server knocked on my door and handed me a court summons. In the column for the Defendant, typed in cold, serif font, was my sister’s name: Lily Miller. The claim? An outstanding debt of two million dollars. I stared at the attached loan agreement. At the bottom, next to her name, was a vivid, crimson thumbprint. The date on the contract was October 5th, 1999. Exactly twenty-five years ago. I turned my head to look at the wall where her portrait had hung for a quarter-century. Lily, with her pigtails and a toothy grin that never aged. I stood there in the silence of my parents’ living room, lit a cigarette, and watched the smoke curl around her frame. When I finished, I carefully took the portrait down, tucked it under my arm, and walked straight toward the county courthouse. Inside the courtroom, the bank’s legal representative—a man named Reggie Blackwood—was leaning back in his chair, tapping a gold pen against the table. He looked at my parents and me with the bored arrogance of a man who had already won. He was demanding a lien on my parents’ house, a forced foreclosure to satisfy the “debt.” The judge hammered his gavel, his brow furrowed as he looked at me, sitting alone in the defendant’s chair. “Does the family of the defendant have any further objections to the evidence provided by the plaintiff?” the judge asked, his voice weary. I didn’t say a word at first. I simply stood up and placed Lily’s funeral portrait on the table, facing the judge. “Your Honor,” I said, my voice echoing in the sterile room. “I just have one question. If a bank issues a loan to someone in the afterlife, can I sue them for metaphysical fraud, or just regular old racketeering?” It had started a week earlier. “If your family doesn’t settle this, the sheriff will be at your door by Monday,” Blackwood had sneered, tossing the summons onto our coffee table. I looked at the top page. Defendant: Lily Miller. Amount Owed: $2,000,000. Beneath it was the photocopy of the original 1999 agreement. The red thumbprint sat right above the signature line. October 1999. Lily was diagnosed with acute myocarditis that autumn. She was four. She didn’t survive the week. I remembered the smell of the hospital antiseptic, the way her hand felt so small and cold in mine. And I remembered the day of the funeral, the way the earth sounded hitting the vault. My father’s face was a sickly shade of gray. He clutched his chest, pointing a trembling finger at the papers. “We never took a loan! This is a lie! It’s a goddamn shakedown!” “Save the drama for someone who cares, old man,” Blackwood had laughed, adjusting his tie. “The paperwork is airtight. The thumbprint is there. Ink and blood, as they say. Even if she’s in the ground, your family owns this debt.” He turned his eyes to me, dismissive and sharp. “You’re the son, right? Tell your sister to stop playing dead and pay up. Or don’t. We’ll just take the house. See you in court.” After they left, the silence in the house was suffocating. My mother sank to the floor, gripping my jeans, her sobs racking her thin frame. “David, we don’t owe anyone,” she gasped. “You were there. You carried her yourself. She was only four… she was just a baby.” I took a deep breath, the air tasting like dust and old grief. I looked up at the wall, at the black-and-white photo of a girl who would never grow up. The wood of the frame had darkened over the years. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I let my cigarette burn down until the heat stung my fingers, then I crushed it out on the floor. I stood on a chair, took the photo down, and wiped the dust from the glass with my sleeve. I unzipped my jacket, placed the frame against my chest, and zipped it back up. “Stay with Mom,” I told my father. “I’m calling Mark.” Mark Stevens had been my best friend since high school. Now, he was one of the top litigators in the city, with an office in a glass-and-steel skyscraper downtown. When I walked into his office, he was mid-sip of a Starbucks blonde roast. “I thought you were on sabbatical, Dave,” he said, grinning. “Visiting the folks?” I sat down and slid the summons across his mahogany desk. “A commercial bank is suing my family. They’re claiming a two-million-dollar debt and trying to seize my parents’ house on Monday.” Mark’s smile vanished. He sat upright, flipping through the pages. The only sound was the crisp snap of paper. When he reached the last page, his jaw tightened. He looked at me, eyes wide with genuine shock. “The borrower is… Lily Miller?” He paused, searching his memory. “Wait, Lily was your sister, right? Didn’t she pass away when we were kids?” “She was four,” I said, leaning back, my voice cold. “I carried the urn myself.” I pointed to the thumbprint on the photocopy. “So, Mark, use that expensive law degree of yours. Tell me how a four-year-old girl who has been dead for twenty-five years walked into a bank, signed a contract, and left a thumbprint.” Mark exhaled slowly, staring at the red ink. He saw the absurdity, but more than that, he saw the malice. “This isn’t a clerical error,” he whispered. “This is predatory. It’s a manufactured debt. They’re likely trying to cover internal losses by resurrecting old, dormant accounts or creating fake ones tied to real social security numbers. But to use a dead child…” He slammed the file down. “It’s ghoulish. If we get the death certificate and the probate records, this contract is worth less than toilet paper. I won’t just win this; I’ll bury them in a countersuit for fraud and emotional distress.” “Winning isn’t enough, Mark.” I looked at the coffee cup on his desk. “I want to protect my parents’ home, but I also want blood. I want every single person involved in this to rot.” Mark looked at me, seeing the version of me he hadn’t seen in years—the one that didn’t back down. He stood up and grabbed his car keys. “Let’s go to the bank.” The branch of the commercial bank was a hive of activity, all glass partitions and fake smiles. We bypassed the tellers and went straight to the loan department. I shoved the summons through the window. “I want the original file for this loan,” I said. “And the signing records from 1999.” The clerk typed into her computer, her expression shifting from professional to panicked in seconds. She didn’t say a word. She got up and ran into the back office. A moment later, Reggie Blackwood walked out. He was the same man who had come to the house, but here, in his element, he looked even more smug. Mark stepped forward, flashing his bar card. “I’m the attorney for the Miller family. We are formally requesting the original wet-ink signatures, the notary journal from the date of signing, and the disbursement records for the initial fifty-thousand-dollar principal.” Blackwood didn’t even blink. He leaned against the glass, straightening his silk tie. “Records from twenty-five years ago? The retention period is over. Our systems have been migrated three times since then. We don’t have video, and we don’t have a paper trail beyond the digitized contract.” He tapped the glass with a manicured fingernail. “The thumbprint is on the document. It’s notarized. We have the court date. If you have a problem, tell it to the judge. But my advice? Pack your parents’ bags.” Mark pointed a finger at him. “You issued a loan without a face-to-face verification? That’s a violation of federal banking regs. I’ll have the FDIC all over this branch by dinner.” Blackwood chuckled. “Go ahead. File your reports. Our legal department handles hundreds of these ‘disputed’ debts a year. We have more resources than you have breath.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a hiss. “Tell your sister to stop being a ‘deadbeat’—pun intended—and pay her bills. Otherwise, I’ll make sure her name stays on the national credit blacklist forever. She’ll be a pariah in the eyes of the law, even in her grave.” I felt a heat behind my eyes I hadn’t felt in a long time. This man was talking about a toddler as if she were a criminal. Mark started to shout, his face reddening, but I caught his arm. “Forget it, Mark,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “If they won’t show us the evidence here, we’ll just wait for the hearing.” I led a fuming Mark out of the bank. Monday came quickly, the sky a bruised purple, heavy with the threat of rain. I left my parents at home, telling them I’d handle it. I walked up the courthouse steps holding a square object wrapped in a heavy black cloth.

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1 My name is Elena Wood. I’m a board-certified cardiothoracic surgeon with a PhD and eight years of grueling experience under my belt. Because of a bout of acute gastroenteritis that forced me into a seven-minute bathroom break, I was reported to the hospital board by a unanimous petition from my own patients. The day my formal disciplinary notice arrived, Arthur Miller—a patient I had personally saved with a complex quadruple bypass—was leading a celebration in the patient support group on Facebook. “Finally, we got that irresponsible doctor out of here!” he posted. What he didn’t know was that the specific anastomosis angle I used on his bypass graft was a technique only five surgeons in the entire country could pull off. The day I resigned, nobody tried to stop me. Three months later, Arthur came back for his post-op follow-up. The new surgeon looked at his scans, and his hands began to shake. “This… who performed this surgery?” “Elena Wood.” “Where is she?” “Gone.” “What is wrong with you, Doctor? You’re disappearing to the bathroom during shift hours?” I had just stepped out of the restroom when a middle-aged man blocked my path, his finger nearly poking the bridge of my nose. This was Jason Miller, the son of the patient in Room 302. “I just stepped off a six-hour surgery,” I said, my voice raspy. My stomach was still cramping painfully. “Stop making excuses! My father is waiting for his dressing change. You were nowhere to be found. Just admit you’re being lazy!” His voice boomed, echoing through the entire wing. At the nursing station, Sarah Jenkins poked her head out and mouthed, Don’t engage. I took a sharp breath and stepped around him. “Mr. Miller, your father’s dressing change is scheduled for 3:00 PM. It is currently 2:10.” “How dare you talk back to me? I’m filing a formal complaint with administration!” I ignored him and walked into my office. My phone was vibrating uncontrollably in my pocket. I pulled it out to see the “Heart Warriors” Facebook group blowing up. Arthur Miller himself was posting: “Everyone, you saw it today. Dr. Wood vanished during work hours, leaving us patients high and dry. I suggest we all go to the board and demand action!” “I’m with you, Arthur! I’ve never liked her attitude.” “I asked about my condition last week and she acted like a total elitist, using all those fancy terms. Who does she think she is?” “Exactly! We pay her salary through our insurance premiums. She doesn’t get to just walk off whenever she wants. Her service attitude is appalling!” I flipped the phone face down on the desk. Sarah leaned in. “Elena, don’t look at it. It’s not worth the blood pressure.” “I’m not angry,” I said quietly. “I just keep thinking… I was in the OR until 4:00 AM yesterday saving his father’s life. It feels… hollow.” Sarah’s eyes welled up. “They’re ungrateful vultures.” At 4:00 PM, the head nurse informed me that HR wanted to see me the following morning. “A collective patient complaint has been filed. We have to follow the investigation protocol.” I nodded. “I understand.” Back in the call room, I stared at the crowded shift schedule on the wall. This month, I had pulled twenty-two night shifts. I was the only one in the department who took the complex cases, the only one who handled the difficult consultations, and the only one whose phone never stopped ringing at midnight for emergencies. All it took was one stomach bug to erase it all. My phone lit up again. Jason Miller tagged me in the group. “Dr. Wood, if you feel wronged, explain yourself. But did you consider my father’s feelings? He’s the patient here!” I typed out a long explanation, then deleted it. I settled for: “Mr. Miller, I will be there promptly for your father’s dressing change tomorrow morning.” Sarah sent me a private message: “Why even reply? That bypass Arthur got? Nobody in this state would have touched it. You’re the reason he’s breathing!” “He was under anesthesia,” I replied. “He doesn’t remember.” “Vultures!” I put my phone on silent. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed with an irritating buzz as I pushed open the double doors of the OR. Tonight, there was an emergency—a car crash victim with cardiac contusion. My hands couldn’t shake. Not tonight. The surgery lasted four and a half hours. By the time I emerged, it was nearly midnight. The victim’s wife grabbed my hands, sobbing with relief. “Thank you, Dr. Wood. Thank you for saving my husband…” I patted her hand gently, my legs feeling like lead as I walked back to the staff room. Passing the nursing station, Sarah stopped me, her face pale. “Elena… Arthur and the others. They’re talking about a lawsuit.” I stopped dead. “On what grounds?” “Dereliction of duty. Creating a ‘safety hazard’ by leaving the floor during active hours.” I stood in the hallway. I had just wrestled a soul back from the edge of death, and the people I had saved before were plotting how to ruin me. “Let them sue,” I said, opening the door to the call room. “I have three surgeries tomorrow. I need to sleep.” 2 The next morning, I sat in the sterile conference room of the hospital administration. Two suits from HR sat across from me, their expressions grim. “Dr. Wood, this is a routine inquiry. Patients reported that you left the department for fifteen minutes during work hours yesterday at 2:00 PM.” “Seven minutes,” I corrected them. “I have acute gastroenteritis. You can check the security cameras.” One of them paused, then shifted gears. “During your absence, were there any patients requiring emergency intervention?” “No. I finished my third surgery of the morning at 1:45 PM. Before I stepped away, I personally verified that every patient in the wing was stable.” The other man flipped through a file. “There are also complaints about your ‘cold demeanor’ and ‘lack of empathy.’” “Specifics?” “Well… no specific incidents, just a general ‘vibe’ described by several patients.” “My rounds, my post-op notes, and my follow-up logs are all in the system,” I said. “I check on every patient twice a day and answer every question. Is that ‘lack of empathy’?” Silence filled the room. Finally, the man spoke. “Dr. Wood, we understand the pressure you’re under. But since this is a collective complaint, the Board’s decision is to issue a formal written warning to appease the patients.” “To ‘appease’ them,” I repeated. He nodded awkwardly. “I’m sure you understand.” I signed the paper that read Formal Warning: Dereliction of Duty (Unauthorized Absence during Shift). As I reached the door, I turned back. “If a patient had coded during those seven minutes and I wasn’t there to save them, would you be punishing me for the death, or for the bathroom break?” They exchanged a look, speechless. “Those are two separate issues.” “No,” I said. “It’s the exact same issue.” I closed the door, leaving their silence behind. Back at the ward, Sarah rushed over. “What happened?” “A written warning.” “For a bathroom break? That’s insane!” “Forget it. I need to change the dressing for Room 302.” I grabbed the chart and walked into Arthur Miller’s room. He was propped up, scrolling through his phone. When he saw me, his lip curled into a sneer. “Ah, Dr. Wood. Have a nice rest yesterday?” I didn’t answer. I leaned over to inspect his incision. “Mr. Miller, I’m removing the drainage tube today. It’ll pinch a bit. Try to stay still.” “Careful now. Don’t go taking your frustrations out on me just because you’re the doctor.” I worked with clinical precision. The tube was out and the dressing changed in under five minutes. “Everything looks normal. You’re healing well.” I turned to leave, but he barked, “Doctor, let me ask you something.” “Yes?” “This bypass surgery… it’s a pretty standard thing, isn’t it? Anyone could have done it?” I looked at him. His coronary artery blockage had been in a treacherous location. I had used a modified sequential anastomosis—a technique only a handful of surgeons in the country could master. But all I said was, “The surgery was successful. Just make sure you follow up on time.” “I’m asking if any doctor could do it!” He shoved his phone in my face, showing a clickbait article: Heart Bypass: Not as Complicated as You Think. “See? It says right here it’s a routine procedure. You doctors just love to act like it’s a miracle so you can justify the insurance costs.” A flash of heat rose in my chest. “Mr. Miller, your billing is handled by the insurance office. If you have a dispute, take it up with them.” “I’m not saying the bill is wrong, I’m saying you doctors are greedy and arrogant!” “Get some rest, Mr. Miller.” As I walked away, I heard him muttering to the patient in the next bed. “See? Ask her a simple question and she gets all high and mighty. The internet is right—these doctors need to be put in their place.” I gripped my clipboard so hard my knuckles turned white. He had no idea that for his surgery, I had spent three nights obsessing over the plan and had called my former mentor in Switzerland twice to consult. I had stood for six hours without a drop of water. His heart had stopped in my hands, and I had brought it back. I realized then that I didn’t want to tell him any of that. He wouldn’t believe me anyway. 3 Jason Miller posted the news of my disciplinary action on Facebook that afternoon. He included a blurred photo of the warning notice. The caption read: “Justice may be delayed, but it is never denied! Huge thanks to the board for standing up for the patients!” The comments were a cesspool of people calling me “unethical” and “heartless.” Sarah was shaking with rage. “This is public harassment! How is this allowed?” “It doesn’t matter,” I said, finishing a patient chart without looking up. “How can you say that? Elena, you’re being way too soft!” “What should I do? Get into a shouting match? Let him record me so he can file another complaint?” Sarah went quiet. From that day on, the atmosphere in the department shifted. The trust I had built over years vanished, replaced by scrutiny. Whenever I entered a room, someone would pointedly check their watch. “Dr. Wood, no bathroom breaks today?” “Dr. Wood, did the hospital overcharge me for this procedure? I saw online that the clinic downtown is $2,000 cheaper.” “Dr. Wood, can you speak plain English? Stop with the medical jargon. We know you’re smart, you don’t have to show off.” The words were needles, pricking at me constantly. I remained a machine—rounding, charting, prescribing—ignoring the stings. Sarah walked into my office and saw me chewing on a dry protein bar. Her eyes softened. “Did you miss lunch again?” “I’m not hungry.” “Stop lying.” She shut the door and lowered her voice. “Elena, Arthur and the group are at it again.” “What now?” “They’re filing a formal petition with the State Medical Board. They want a full investigation into your conduct.” I stopped chewing. “The claim is… that you’re using your position to force patients into high-priced medical supplies for kickbacks.” I tossed the rest of the protein bar into the trash. “Evidence?” “None. It’s just Arthur stirring the pot, saying his surgery was ‘too expensive’ so there must be some ‘shady business’ behind it.” “Let them file it.” “Elena!” Sarah stomped her foot. “An investigation is a nightmare! You don’t have the time or energy for this!” “So what do I do? Get on my knees and beg for their mercy?” I stood up and buttoned my white coat. “I have two more surgeries this afternoon. Get the charts ready.” That evening, I stepped out of the restroom only to run into Jason Miller. He was holding his phone up, filming. “Here she is, folks! Dr. Wood, caught slacking again. Eight bathroom breaks in one day!” I reached out and blocked the lens. “Delete that. You’re violating my privacy and hospital policy.” “Privacy? I’ll film whatever I want! What are you gonna do about it?” He sneered, his face inches from mine. I didn’t engage. I walked away. That night, my Department Chief called. “Elena, the Board knows about the petition.” “I figured.” “The hospital wants to settle this quietly. They think… it would be best if you just apologized to the patients. Smooth things over.” “Apologize?” I let out a dry laugh. “For going to the bathroom? Or for saving their lives?” There was a long silence on the line. “Elena, I know it’s unfair. But the complaint rate affects the department’s rating. Just… do it for the team.” “Chief, I performed two surgeries today. I saved two lives.” “I know, you’re an asset—” “I’m going to sleep now.” I hung up. I didn’t apologize. But the world didn’t get any quieter. 4 The next morning during rounds, the tension was suffocating. I walked into Lily’s room. Her mother, Monica, immediately turned her face toward the window. Lily was a six-year-old girl with a congenital heart defect. Her family lived below the poverty line. I had helped them apply for the hospital’s charity fund, and when there was still a $2,500 gap, I had anonymously covered it myself. “Dr. Elena,” Lily chirped shyly, holding up a drawing. It was a picture of a woman in a white coat with the words: Thank you, Dr. Elena. I took the drawing, but before I could speak, Monica’s voice cut through the air like ice. “Dr. Wood, do we still owe this hospital twenty-five hundred dollars?” I blinked. “No, the balance was cleared.” “Cleared? Then why is the billing department calling me every day? They said if I don’t pay, they’re sending it to collections!” My head started to throb. “Dr. Wood, you act like you’re helping us, but then you send your dogs to harass us? Is this how you treat people who are struggling?” I stormed down to the billing department. After twenty minutes of digging, I found the error. The donation I had made had been miscoded in the system. I forced them to correct it on the spot, then ran back to explain it to Monica. “It was a system error. I’ve fixed it. You don’t owe a cent. I’m so sorry for the stress.” Monica’s expression softened for a second, then went cold again. “Whatever. I saw what they’re saying about you in the Heart Warriors group.” “What are they saying?”

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The crystal chandeliers of the grand ballroom cast a golden glow over the evening, illuminating the culmination of my life’s work. Tonight was the night my son was officially taking the reins of the Morton Corporation. Then, my husband stepped up to the microphone and apologized to the crowd. “The truth is,” Richard’s voice echoed through the hushed room, trembling with perfectly rehearsed sorrow. “The boy Coral raised isn’t ours. He is the posthumous son of my late brother. The real heir—our biological child—is the one who suffered severe brain damage from an untreated fever years ago.” A collective gasp swept through the city’s elite. “I couldn’t bear to see my brother’s child grow up without a father,” Richard continued, looking at me with mournful eyes. “And since you and my sister-in-law went into labor on the exact same day… I made a choice. I had no other option.” Right on cue, his widowed sister-in-law, Monica, rushed forward. Tears spilled over her perfectly contoured cheeks as she grabbed my hands, apologizing frantically, swearing up and down she had absolutely no idea her child had been swapped with mine. My mother-in-law, Helen, immediately stepped in to play the peacemaker, feigning utter shock before pivoting to cold, hard pragmatism. “Well, Coral, since your biological son is mentally incapacitated and cannot inherit the company, giving the empire to your nephew still keeps the wealth within the family. It’s a blessing in disguise.” I just stood there. Silent. Unmoving. Taking my silence as submission, Richard turned to my son and his new wife, demanding they call Monica “Mom.” “Your biological mother has suffered so much for you,” Richard urged, his voice thick with guilt-tripping authority. “She endured the agony of being separated from her flesh and blood because of my actions. You owe her. As for the woman who raised you, she will take her disabled son and live a quiet life. She’ll be fine.” Anyone with a pulse could see this for what it was: a meticulously orchestrated coup. But as the victim of this grand conspiracy, I wasn’t angry. Not in the slightest. Instead, I smiled, reached out, and gently helped Richard to his feet. “Isn’t that a coincidence, Richard?” I murmured, my voice carrying effortlessly over the dead-silent room. “You spent so much time crying over your brother’s fatherless baby back then… that I decided to swap the infants, too.” 1 Just moments before, Thomas and his wife, Jessica, had raised their champagne flutes. Surrounded by our closest friends, board members, and industry titans, my son had publicly thanked me. “Thank you for your relentless guidance, Mom,” Thomas had said, his eyes shining. “Jessica and I promise to take Morton Corp to new heights.” I had been holding back tears, nodding with overwhelming pride. That was when Richard sighed heavily, stepping in to shatter the moment. “Thomas,” he said, his tone thick with condescension. “The person you should really be thanking is your Aunt Monica. If it weren’t for her, you would never have had the chance to sit in the CEO’s chair.” The room flatlined. Everyone knew Thomas was the heir to the Morton empire simply because he was my son, Coral Morton’s son. What on earth did my husband’s tragic, clinging sister-in-law have to do with it? Before the crowd could process the absurdity, Richard dropped to his knees in front of my custom gown. “Coral, I’m so sorry.” He looked up, a picture of tortured nobility. “Thomas isn’t our son. He belongs to my brother and Monica.” The impact of the words hit me like a physical blow. I stumbled back two steps, the breath knocked from my lungs. Jessica caught my arm instantly, guiding me into a velvet chair. She and Thomas flanked me like bodyguards, radiating a fierce, protective energy that steadied my racing heart. Thomas’s jaw was clenched tight. He glared down at his father. “What the hell are you talking about, Dad?” Richard had clearly anticipated the resistance. He waved it off, keeping his sorrowful gaze fixed on me. “You both gave birth on the same day in the same hospital,” Richard explained, his voice projecting for the audience. “My heart broke knowing Thomas would grow up without his father. So, I switched the bassinets in the nursery.” He paused, letting the tragedy marinate. “But now… Jessica is pregnant. You’re starting your own family. I have to confess. My brother’s only child already took your last name, Coral. I cannot allow my brother’s grandchild to carry the Morton name as well. If I let that happen, how could I ever face my brother in the afterlife?” 2 To ensure his narrative stuck, Richard motioned to the AV team. The massive screens, previously showing the Morton Corp logo, flickered to display a grainy, decades-old security video from the maternity ward, supposedly proving he had swapped the newborns. The ballroom erupted. Whispers turned to harsh murmurs. For twenty-five years, society had viewed Richard as the fortunate man who married into the Morton dynasty, a man who swallowed his pride for a corner office. Now, the room was convinced this “trophy husband” had spent two decades playing a long, venomous game of chess, waiting for the exact moment the inheritance was finalized. The judgment in the room was palpable; people were openly sneering at him. Seeing the tide turning against him, Monica immediately activated her performance. She gasped, a delicate hand flying to her mouth, her eyes widening in a flawless cocktail of shock and maternal joy. Anyone looking at her would think she was furious at Richard’s rogue actions, yet profoundly overwhelmed to discover her biological son was this brilliant, handsome CEO. It was a masterpiece of a reaction. She must have rehearsed it in her vanity mirror for months. “Richard, what have you done?!” Monica wailed, her voice trembling. “You felt sorry for your nephew, yes, but to steal a child? To me, the boy I raised is my son, no matter what. But Coral… she is a businesswoman. How could a woman like her ever accept something so horrific?” Helen, my mother-in-law, was practically pinching her own leg to stop herself from smiling. “What’s done is done,” Helen announced, waving a dismissive hand. “There’s no point pointing fingers now. If you ask me, this is a blessing. Coral’s biological child is severely disabled and cannot run a corporation. Thomas is brilliant. It’s a perfect fit. And since the Mortons and our family are united by marriage anyway, the money stays in the same house. What’s the difference?” My parents, the formidable founders of Morton Corp, were trembling with rage. My father stepped forward and delivered a resounding backhand across Richard’s face. The smack echoed like a gunshot. “Do not insult our intelligence, Richard,” my father hissed. “Drop the martyr act. You swapped those boys to hijack the Morton empire. If this was about a guilty conscience, you would have confessed years ago. You waited specifically for the day Thomas took full legal control of the trust. You make me sick.” 3 Richard cradled his red cheek. Even now, the ingrained fear of my father’s authority kept him from yelling back, but a sneer of impatience leaked into his voice. “Coral, tell them to calm down. You’re all misunderstanding me,” Richard pleaded, playing the misunderstood saint. “I just wanted to do a good thing. I planned to tell you the truth once you and Thomas bonded. But then… our biological baby was diagnosed with severe cerebral palsy. You were still recovering from a difficult labor. If I had told you your real baby was broken, you would have lost your mind.” But the confession wasn’t landing the way he planned. Not just with me and my parents, but with Thomas and Jessica. My son looked at the man who raised him with unadulterated disgust. This was the variable Richard hadn’t accounted for. Since Thomas was a toddler, Richard had constantly fed him stories about how wonderful, brave, and tragic Aunt Monica was. He had been laying the groundwork for this very night. But he grossly underestimated my son. Frustration bled through Richard’s carefully crafted facade. “Thomas, you may go by Morton, but you have my family’s blood in your veins. Monica’s blood. Don’t act like an ungrateful brat just because the Mortons have deeper pockets.” Richard pointed an accusing finger. “Don’t forget, your biological mother and Coral are the victims here. You are the only one who profited. You control the company now. You can take care of both of your mothers. Just… in different ways. Blood is thicker than water, Thomas.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Monica threw herself onto the floor at my feet. “Coral, to you, Thomas was just a pawn to inherit your company,” Monica sobbed, clutching at my skirt. “But he is my flesh and blood. All these years, I thought my son was disabled. I bathed him, fed him, suffered through the endless agony. I took your punishment, Coral! But I forgive you. I just beg of you… give my boy back to me. Keep your company. Thomas doesn’t need it.” 4 A cold, razor-sharp smile touched my lips. Nothing happening tonight surprised me. Not a single thing. And Monica’s little speech about not wanting the money? Pure garbage. She wasn’t stupid. Changing the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate isn’t like swapping out a dining chair. Thomas had spent years building his loyalties within the board. I couldn’t just fire him with a snap of my fingers, even if I wanted to. Attempting to sever Thomas from Morton Corp would tank the stock and incite a shareholder revolt. Furthermore, if I brought my disabled “biological son” into the spotlight, the world would know the Morton dynasty had no viable successor. At my age, having another child was a medical impossibility. The wolves on Wall Street would smell blood in the water. Rivals would initiate hostile takeovers before the week was out. Richard and Monica knew this. They knew my only logical move to save my family’s legacy would be to swallow the bitter pill, accept Thomas as the heir, and beg him to have children who would carry the Morton name. Either way, they would have me by the throat. But I didn’t address them. I simply turned my head and looked at the young man standing beside me. “Thomas,” I said softly. “What do you make of all this?” Thomas had reached his breaking point. I had raised him to be a shark in the boardroom, not a fool. He saw the exact same extortion play I did. They timed this perfectly. And in Thomas’s eyes, I was his mother. The only one that mattered. His voice was like ice. “I don’t believe a word of this.” He glared at Richard. “You’re trying to extort my mother and hijack her company. It all makes sense now. I always thought it was sick how you acted. Mom suggested years ago that Monica should remarry, and you fought tooth and nail to keep her in our guest house.” Thomas stepped in front of me, shielding me. “And for the record, Mom has loved me unconditionally since my first breath. Even if she knew about the swap, it just means she wanted to protect me from your toxic, plotting family. You sicken me.” 5 Thomas’s words ripped the elegant mask right off their faces. Monica scrambled up, shaking her head frantically. “No, no, baby. I was only kind to you because I thought my own son was broken, and seeing a healthy boy like you… it was like looking at what I lost. It was just a mother’s intuition drawing me to you.” It was a lie so vile it made my stomach turn. Especially because I knew the truth. After my traumatic delivery, I had been bedridden for weeks. But once I recovered, my mother had sat me down and told me what really happened to the other baby. “You and Monica delivered on the same day,” my mother had said, her voice tight with disapproval. “We paid for her to have the VIP suite and the same elite neonatal nurses you had. But Monica and Helen chased the medical staff out. They refused to trust the doctors.” “There was a heatwave,” my mother had continued, her eyes dark. “The baby spiked a massive fever. Instead of calling the nurses, they refused to turn on the AC and wrapped him in thick blankets, claiming some old wives’ tale about sweating out the toxins. By the time our security forced the door open and got the doctors, the baby’s brain was practically boiling. The damage was permanent.” Looking back at them now, the puzzle pieces snapped together with horrifying clarity. It wasn’t ignorance. It was intentional. They tried to render my child brain-dead so I would have no choice but to rely entirely on theirs. Helen, oblivious to the fact that I knew their dark secret, rushed over to stroke Thomas’s arm. “Your real mother is a gentle soul, Thomas,” Helen cooed. “Not like Coral. Coral only cares about profit margins. Your mother would love you rich or poor. Don’t side with the Mortons just because they can buy you nicer things.” She shot me a venomous look. “Coral might be a victim, but she’s hoarded another woman’s son for decades! Any pity I had for her is gone. We don’t want the Morton money, Thomas, but if they give it to you, it’s merely compensation for what she stole from us!” 6 The ballroom devolved into absolute chaos. Security was scrambling. My father was clutching his chest. “Not a single dime of Morton money will ever go to parasites like you! I’d burn it to the ground first!” Fear spiked in my chest. My parents were healthy, but they were older. I urgently signaled my assistant to bring the concierge doctor over to them. Jessica and Thomas tried to move toward my parents, but Monica and Helen physically blocked them, clawing at Thomas’s tuxedo jacket. “Look!” Monica cried hysterically. “The Mortons don’t even care about you! You control the company now, Thomas! Change your last name! Give my grandchild his rightful name!” Richard stood by, pretending to mediate while throwing gasoline on the fire. He looked at me with cold reproach. “If you weren’t such a ruthless, calculating woman, I wouldn’t have feared for my nephew’s life,” Richard said, loud enough for the press to hear. “The fact that I swapped them and you didn’t even notice proves you’re a terrible mother. He’s just an asset to you. Give him back to the woman who actually loves him.” Over the din of shouting, Thomas finally roared. “ENOUGH!” The room jolted into silence. “I don’t care about your sob stories,” Thomas snarled, his chest heaving. “This is a hostile takeover disguised as a family tragedy. If you’re telling the truth, and I’m not a Morton, then fine. I resign. I’ll hand the keys to a trustee until Mom’s real son can be cared for. I won’t take a single red cent of this company.” A profound warmth bloomed in my chest. Twenty-five years of sleepless nights, of fiercely protecting and educating this boy… it was worth every second. My son was a king. My parents let out a collective breath. Thomas was a man of his word. The legacy was safe from vultures. But the sheer heartbreak of the situation still hung heavy in the air. The boy we loved with every fiber of our beings was supposedly a stranger’s blood. 7 While my heart found peace, Richard and his cabal completely panicked. The facade shattered. Richard lunged forward, grabbing Thomas by the lapels. His voice dropped to a vicious, guttural whisper meant only for us. “Listen to me, you little fool,” Richard hissed. “Your disabled ‘cousin’ is chemically castrated from the medications. He will never have kids. You either keep the Morton name, take the CEO spot, and make sure your child inherits it all… or you watch the Morton legacy die today.” Monica leaned in, her eyes manic. “If you don’t publicly acknowledge me as your mother right now, we go to the press tomorrow. We’ll tell the world you’ve known for years. We’ll say you stayed with Coral out of pure greed. We will destroy your reputation, Thomas. We have nothing to lose.” Thomas was so angry his hands shook, speechless at the sheer depravity of his own blood. I took a slow, deep breath, smoothing the fabric of my gown. The quiet moment had passed. It was time. “Richard. Monica,” I said, my voice calm, cutting through their hysteria like a scalpel. “That’s quite a compelling threat.” “But I’m afraid I have to decline. Because…” Before I could finish, Monica threw herself onto the marble floor again, sobbing violently. “I don’t care about the last name anymore!” she wailed, pivoting her strategy. “Just let Jessica’s baby carry our blood! We can all live together! We won’t bother you, Coral! We just want to be a family!” Richard dropped back to his knees beside her, his head bowed. “Coral, think about it,” he muttered darkly. “We either rise together, or we burn this whole empire to the ground.” I stepped forward. Slowly, delicately, I reached out and pulled them both to their feet. “Will you two at least give me the floor for a moment?” I asked pleasantly. “I’ve been trying to tell you… things are a bit more complicated than your little narrative.” I looked Richard dead in the eye. “Years ago, when your brother died, Monica was threatening to get an abortion. You spent hours, sometimes entire days, locked in her bedroom, ‘comforting’ her.” “I was willing to adopt the child. But I didn’t want to upset my parents. So, lying in that hospital bed, I did something foolish.” I smiled. A real, genuine smile. “When the nurses took the babies to the nursery on the second night… I sneaked in. And I swapped them back.”

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On the eve of our honeymoon, Garrett suddenly canceled our flights to Svalbard and rebooked everything for Egypt. I was standing in the middle of an outdoor gear store, holding a heavy down parka, when the automated confirmation text flashed on my phone screen. Before I could even process the notification, Garrett’s call came through. His voice carried that familiar, detached composure. “Mallory said she wants sunshine,” he said smoothly. “The Arctic is too cold for her.” I looked down at the receipt in my hand. The transaction for the cold-weather jacket had just gone through. A heavy silence settled between us. Mallory was my cousin. She was also Garrett’s first love. “Cass,” Garrett said, his tone softening in a rare effort to soothe me. “Mallory saved my life back in the day. If it weren’t for her, I might not even be standing here. Be reasonable. I’ll take you to the Arctic next time.” A bitter taste spread across my tongue. Three years ago, Mallory had casually handed him a packet of over-the-counter cold medicine when he was running a fever—a gesture Garrett had managed to canonize into an insurmountable life debt. Meanwhile, I had spent three months pleading with him just to secure this honeymoon, only for him to alter our destination at a single word from her. A sudden, dull exhaustion washed over me. “Okay,” I whispered. I hung up, turned around, and placed the down jacket back on the display rack. “Ma’am?” the cashier called out, looking at me in confusion. “Are you not taking the jacket?” I offered a small, polite smile and shook my head. “No. I don’t need it anymore.” I didn’t need the jacket. And I didn’t need Garrett anymore, either. … The moment I stepped out of the shopping center, a light rain began to fall from the overcast sky. The damp, chilly air made me exhale in subconscious relief. But as soon as I caught myself feeling grateful for the gloom, my steps faltered. There was a time when I loved the sun, too. Five years ago, to help Garrett gather field research data for his breakthrough biology dissertation, I spent six months tracking desert lizards under the unforgiving sun of the Mojave. That half-year left me with severe photodermatitis and irreversible skin damage. Since then, direct sunlight had become my body’s worst enemy. I remembered how Garrett—always so controlled, so emotionally distant—had touched my peeling, raw skin with trembling fingers, his eyes red with unspoken anguish. “Cass,” he had whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I swear on my life, I will never let you down.” In the five years we had been together, that was the first time Garrett had ever expressed such fierce, undivided affection. I was so overwhelmed with joy that I completely brushed off the dermatologist’s somber warning that I could never stand under a clear sky again. Back then, in my foolishness, I wore those permanent scars like a badge of honor—proof of my love. Now, standing in ninety-degree summer heat wrapped head-to-toe in heavy, UV-protective layers, I felt utterly pathetic. Garrett had probably forgotten all about it. That was why he had so carelessly allowed Mallory to pick Egypt—a place where the ultraviolet radiation would effectively trap me indoors. Ten years of devotion, reduced to nothing against Mallory’s simple preference. The rain began to fall heavier. I hadn’t brought an umbrella, so I waited under the awning for a ride-share. Half an hour passed, but no drivers accepted the request. My phone screen remained parked on Garrett’s contact page, but I never pressed call. It wasn’t pettiness. It was simply that over all these years, Garrett almost never picked up my calls anyway. His phone was permanently set to Silent, except for a custom alert list that bypassed his settings. And the only person on that priority list was Mallory. I used to cry about it. I used to confront him. But he would only knit his brows in irritation and say, “Cass, you know the nature of my research. It’s inconvenient to take calls. Just leave a text on messaging, and I’ll reply when I see it.” My grievances were always buried beneath his dismissive, logical tone. On our anniversary two years ago, a sudden bout of acute gastroenteritis had left me curled on the floor in unbearable pain. I had instinctively dialed his number, only to be met with his cold, automated voicemail. By the time a kind neighbor found me and rushed me to the emergency room, I woke up in a hospital bed to a text from him: “Didn’t I tell you not to call? Leave a message if it’s important.” So, I slowly learned to stop calling. I learned to eat alone, sleep alone, and navigate hospital hallways alone. Even our wedding photos had to be digitally composited by the photographer because Garrett missed the appointment due to a last-minute lab emergency. A sharp honk pulled me back from my thoughts. I looked up and saw a familiar black sedan idling near the curb. It was Garrett’s car. And sitting in the passenger seat was Mallory. “Cass!” Mallory rolled down her window, waving enthusiastically at me before playfully nudging Garrett’s shoulder. “See? I told you she was still here! You insisted she’d already left. If I hadn’t made you drive over, she would’ve gotten completely soaked!” She turned to Garrett, teasing, “Go get my sister! Do you want me to beat you up?” Garrett let out a soft laugh, reaching over to fondle Mallory’s hair with fond indulgence. But when his gaze shifted toward me through the rain, his brow immediately furrowed. “The rain’s getting heavy,” he called out through the open window, his tone clipped. “Just run over.” Mallory frowned at him. “What are you doing? She’ll get drenched!” “She’s wearing enough layers,” Garrett replied indifferently. “She’ll be fine.” I stood silently under the awning, watching the cozy, comfortable chemistry between them inside the dry vehicle. A young woman standing beside me, also waiting out the storm, sighed in quiet envy. “Your sister is so sweet,” she murmured to me. “Having her boyfriend come pick you up in the rain like that.” A sharp, suffocating ache twisted in my chest. The humiliation was so acute I wanted to turn and run, but my feet felt glued to the pavement. “She’s sweet, alright,” I said softly, not looking at the stranger’s startled face. “Except the man in the driver’s seat is my husband.” Without waiting for her reaction, I stepped out into the pouring rain. Throughout the drive, Mallory chattered endlessly about her travels. As a moderately successful travel blogger, she was adept at uncovering off-the-beaten-path destinations. Early on, she used to invite me along, but my demanding corporate job made it difficult to take spontaneous time off. After I declined a few times, she stopped asking. Then, a week later, Garrett began appearing in her travel photos. That was the first time I had ever truly fought with Garrett. “Why does your mind always have to be so filthy?” he had snapped, his eyes flashing with disgust. “Mallory is your cousin. Do you honestly think something is going on between us? Cass, stop making a scene. You are exhausting me.” The look of profound irritation on his face back then had cut me to the bone, making all my valid questions feel absurd. I couldn’t understand why, in all our years together, Garrett had never once taken a vacation with me. Every time I eagerly took leave and planned an itinerary, he would cancel at the last minute citing lab priorities. I had complained, but I had always forced myself to be understanding of his career. Yet, Mallory was always the exception. “Cass, why aren’t you saying anything?” Mallory’s playful voice brought me back to the present. I looked out the window and realized the car had pulled up in front of a high-end luxury boutique. “Cass, what is wrong with you now?” Garrett’s scolding voice broke in, sharp with displeasure. “Mallory is talking to you. Can’t you hear her?” “Garrett, don’t,” Mallory chimed in softly. “Cass is probably just tired.” She turned back toward me, offering a sweet smile. “Cass, Garrett said my top got a little wet from the rain, so he wants to take me inside to pick out a new shirt. Do you want to come in with us?” She dabbed at a few imperceptible drops of water on her collar, her tone dripping with subtle coyness. “Don’t bother with her,” Garrett said, shooting me a cold, dismissive glance in the rearview mirror. “She’s throwing another one of her princess tantrums, expecting everyone to cater to her.” He pulled a soft tissue from the box and carefully dabbed at the faint dampness on Mallory’s hairline, his touch remarkably tender. “If we hadn’t stopped to pick her up, you wouldn’t have gotten wet in the first place. Let’s go get you changed before you catch a cold.” Mallory gave an embarrassed giggle. “Well… alright. Cass, if you change your mind, come inside. Garrett and I will be waiting.” They got out, and the engine cut off. I sat alone in the backseat, wearing my damp, heavy clothes, watching them walk into the boutique arm in arm. With the engine off, the air conditioning quickly died. The sweltering nineties heat outside, combined with the humid rain, rapidly turned the interior of the car into a suffocating sauna. Within minutes, sweat drenched my skin all over again, mixing painfully with the damp fabric of my clothes. I reached for the door handle to get out, only to find that Garrett had locked the doors from the outside. I pulled out my phone and sent Garrett a message: “When are you coming back?” Ten minutes passed. No reply. I sent another text. Still, silence. After thirty minutes of suffocating in the trapped heat, my pulse began to race with heat exhaustion. I dialed emergency services. When the police officer managed to unlock the car and pull me out, Garrett was just strolling back toward the vehicle, holding an umbrella over Mallory. I was soaked through with sweat, my limbs trembling as the female officer supported my weight. “Cass, are you out of your mind?” Garrett’s voice was icy as he approached. Mallory looked at the broken window in shock. “Cass, if you wanted to come inside to buy clothes, you could have just texted Garrett! Why did you have to call the police on Garrett’s car? This is an official vehicle assigned by his research institute!” It took me a long moment to clear the dizziness from my vision. I raised my head and looked at Garrett, who was still instinctively sheltering Mallory under his umbrella. A hollow laugh escaped my lips. “Did you really think I didn’t text you?” Garrett’s expression froze. His hand tightened around his phone. He knew he had seen the notifications—he had simply chosen to ignore them. The female officer’s face darkened as she looked at them both. “Leaving someone locked inside a sealed vehicle in this heat can be fatal!” she scolded sharply. “As family, do you have no basic common sense?” Mallory’s face paled slightly, and she cast a nervous glance at Garrett. For the first time, a flicker of genuine guilt crossed Garrett’s eyes. He took a step toward me, reaching out a hand to wipe the sweat from my forehead. “Cass, I… I didn’t check my messages in time…” I pulled back, avoiding his touch entirely. I didn’t offer a single word of explanation to him. I simply thanked the officer softly and stepped into the back of the police cruiser. By the time I finished making my statement at the station and returned home, it was past eight in the evening. The house was pitch black. Garrett had likely gone back to the research institute. In our ten years together, aside from occasional visits to see our parents, he spent almost all his time in the lab. After taking a hot shower, I gathered my damp clothes to throw them into the washing machine. As I emptied the hamper, a pair of black lace underwear fell onto the floor. It wasn’t mine. Because of my severe skin sensitivities, I hadn’t been able to wear anything other than pure, un-dyed cotton for years. At that exact moment, voices echoed from the hallway outside the master bathroom. “Garrett, I think I left my underwear here last time? Did you see it?” “If you dropped it, it’s gone. I’ll buy you new ones…” “Stop it! You didn’t keep it, did you?” “Do I look like a pervert to you?” “Please, you were way more shameless than that when we were in bed…” I froze, my hand clutching the wet clothes so tightly my knuckles turned white. My gaze locked onto the sliver of light beneath the bathroom door. My heart felt as though it were being crushed under a heavy weight, making it impossible to breathe. “Enough, Mallory,” Garrett’s voice came through, laced with a clear cough. “Stop playing around. We broke up years ago. Cass is my wife now.” His words sparked a faint, treacherous flicker of hope in my chest. Did he still care about me? Was I still his priority? But Mallory’s tone instantly dropped into a cold, sharp blade. “You only got close to Cass in the first place to make me jealous and force me back to you, didn’t you? Professor Mercer, don’t tell me you actually fell in love with her?” The blood drained from my face. Memories flooded back—specifically, the night Garrett had confessed to me in college. We had attended the same university. I was an English major, while he was the celebrated prodigy of the Department of Biological Sciences. With his striking looks and brilliant academic record, he was the quiet obsession of half the women on campus. I had been one of them, though I never entertained the foolish dream that our paths would cross. Until one night during my sophomore year, when I found him stumbling drunk near an off-campus bar district. Driven by a quiet, hidden devotion, I had managed to pull him into a nearby hotel, staying by his bedside through the night to make sure he didn’t choke. When he woke up the next morning, he looked at my exhausted, anxious eyes and suddenly smiled. He was breathtaking when he smiled. I had been so spellbound that I barely heard the words coming out of his mouth. I just nodded blankly. It wasn’t until he leaned in and kissed my forehead that I snapped out of my trance, pushing him back with a bright red face. “What’s wrong?” he had murmured softly. “My little girlfriend?” That was how it started. I should have asked questions; I should have been confused. But my heart was so full of naive joy that I simply buried my head and accepted it. It wasn’t until much later that I learned the truth: he had officially broken up with his first love—Mallory—that very afternoon. His heartbreak, his rare display of vulnerability—it had all been because of Mallory. He had approached me, asked me out, solely because my facial structure bore a thirty percent resemblance to hers. And his subsequent coldness over the years was simply because my personality was nothing like hers. Mallory was vibrant, demanding, and dramatic. I was quiet, steady, and mundane. I was never her. “If you’ve really fallen for her, I’ll leave right now,” Mallory’s voice snapped, sharp with anger at Garrett’s sudden silence. “I’ll disappear from your life forever!” A sharp slap echoed through the hallway, followed by her furious tone. “In that case, I wish you and my sister a long and happy marriage!” She turned to leave. Garrett instinctively grabbed her wrist, his voice taking on a desperate, pleading note. “Mallory, you know that’s not…” Through the gap in the doorway, I watched Garrett—a man who had always been so proud, so emotionally distant in front of me—bow his head, carefully soothing Mallory with frantic humility. And I, his newly wedded wife, was hiding in the shadows like a trespasser in my own home. What had I been to him all these years? A wave of bitter humiliation washed over me, urging me to burst out and confront them both. But cold, harsh logic pulled me back. What would confronting them achieve? It would only be another opportunity for them to humiliate me. I pulled out my phone and composed a text to a family law attorney: “Hello. I need your assistance in drafting a divorce agreement.” I had finally seen the truth. Ten years of my life, wasted on a shadow. By early the next morning, the attorney sent over the draft. “Ms. Callahan, given that your spouse has been unfaithful during the marriage, you are legally entitled to claim a significantly larger share of the marital assets. Are you sure you only want a fifty-percent split?” “I’m sure,” I replied. To give Garrett credit, he had never been stingy with money. Outside of his endless hours at the research institute, he appeared to be an ideal partner on paper. Gift boxes arrived predictably on every major holiday, and whenever my parents fell ill, he would send high-end wellness supplements to their house. He maintained a squeamish distance from other women at work, even bluntly turning down a junior researcher who had confessed to him at the lab. To an outsider, he was a flawless partner. But I knew the truth now. The holiday gifts were managed through an automated store subscription he had set up years ago—always flowers and the exact same silver necklace. I had received nearly twenty identical necklaces over the years. And his “attentiveness” toward my parents only occurred because their town happened to be on the driving route to the resorts he visited with Mallory. I had known all of it deep down. I had tried to walk away before, but every time I pulled back, he would offer a sudden, fleeting glimpse of tenderness that re-ignited my foolish hopes. Now, my hope was entirely exhausted. The day before our scheduled departure for Egypt, I texted Garrett, asking to meet at a quiet coffee shop near our old campus. For the first time in ten years, he replied instantly with a single word: “Okay.” A small, stupid ripple went through my heart, only to be crushed when I sat alone in that coffee shop for seven hours, leaving only when the barista politely informed me they were closing for the night. The signed divorce agreement remained in my bag, undelivered. That night, I hired a moving crew to clear out every single item I owned from the apartment. Two years ago, my company had established an overseas division in London and had repeatedly offered me a transfer to lead the team there. I had turned it down time and again because I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Garrett. Last week, I submitted my application. Given my credentials, the paperwork was approved in less than seven days. My departure date was set for the exact day Garrett and I were originally supposed to fly out for our honeymoon. I placed the signed divorce agreement alongside the black lace underwear on the master bedroom nightstand. Then, I turned to look at the apartment I had lived in for years. It was empty, looking as though no one had ever inhabited it. The heavy knot that had lingered in my chest for years suddenly loosened. My phone chimed with a text notification. It was from Garrett: “Why are you taking so long? The flight is boarding. Mallory and I are boarding first. Book the next flight and come over yourself.” I pulled up social media. Ten minutes ago, Mallory had posted an update: “【So excited for Egypt! Someone once told me that no sun in the world shines hotter than I do】” I pressed the like button on her post. Then, I replied to Garrett’s text: “I’m not coming. Have a great trip.” After hitting send, I removed the SIM card from my phone, snapped it in half, and tossed it into the trash can alongside the wreckage of our ten-year relationship.

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My mother owned a camera that could take pictures of the future. When I was born, she snapped a photograph of me and my older sister, Megan. In the picture, I was supposed to encounter a kidnapper years later. I escaped safely, but Megan died saving my life. From that day on, I became the family’s sinner. At mealtimes, I squatted in the corner of the kitchen, picking through Megan’s lukewarm leftovers. At night, I slept in the cramped utility closet right next to Megan’s princess-themed bedroom, so I’d be close enough to turn off her light, fold her clothes, and fetch her water whenever she called. The night I caught a fever, my head spun so badly I couldn’t hear Megan asking for a fresh glass of water. Mom dragged me out of bed and locked me outside the front door. “You’re going to cost your sister her life one day,” Mom snapped through the crack in the door. “The least you can do right now is serve her to pay off your debt.” “You’re just being lazy,” she added coldly. “Stand in the draft for a while. The cold wind will freeze that fever right out of you.” I stood outside in the dark hallway until dawn. I didn’t push the door open until it was time to start preparing Megan’s breakfast. That was when I overheard my parents speaking in the kitchen. “Margo, she’s only four years old,” Dad said softly. “Don’t you think you’re going a bit too far?” Mom let out a heavy sigh. “When we had Megan, we decided she would be our only child, blessed with our undivided love. Then Sadie came along by accident. We betrayed Megan the moment Sadie was born.” She paused, setting down a mug. “Making Sadie yield to Megan helps ease the guilt in my heart. Besides, it’s not like that camera actually predicts the future. Once Sadie grows up and realizes that photograph was photoshopped, we’ll start treating her normally.” My breath hitched. The photograph that had made my entire life a nightmare—the reason I had suffered every single day—was fake. I walked into the living room, my legs numb, staring blankly at the framed picture hanging on the wall. Suddenly, the figure in the photo moved. The masked kidnapper turned his head, his raspy voice echoing inside my small storage room. “Are you willing to die in place of your sister?” … The photograph was real after all. I really was going to meet the kidnapper. My eyes lit up, and I nodded frantically. “I am!” A dark, unsettling smile curled under the kidnapper’s mask. “In three days, I will come for your life.” The voice faded, and silence swallowed the closet again. The photograph hung on the wall, still and lifeless. But I knew everything in our house was about to change. In three days, I would be dead. Megan would return to being the adored, only child of the family. Mom and Dad wouldn’t have to carry that heavy guilt anymore, and they wouldn’t have to feel like they were betraying Megan every time they looked at me. Overjoyed, I ran straight into Mom’s bedroom to share the wonderful news. “Mom! Mom! The man in the picture talked to me! He said I could die in Megan’s place, and I said yes!” I looked up at her, beaming. “You and Dad can give all your love to Megan now!” Mom didn’t look happy like I thought she would. She looked down at me, her brow furrowing into deep, angry lines. “What ridiculous nonsense are you spewing now? How could a piece of paper talk?” She shoved me aside. “Talking about dying first thing in the morning—do you have to bring such foul luck into this house? What if you curse your sister?” “I’m not making it up,” I whimpered, feeling a lump rise in my throat. She didn’t believe me. Just like last week, when Megan accidentally dropped a porcelain bowl and blamed it on me. I had tried to explain, but Mom called me a dirty little liar and struck me with the kitchen broom. My arm was still purple and green from the bruises. I opened my mouth to explain again, but my stomach let out a loud, hollow growl. From the time my fever started last night until now, I had been standing in the cold hallway without a single bite to eat. Holding my flat belly, I summoned every ounce of courage I had. “Mom… since I’m going to save Megan’s life soon, can I please have a piece of bread?” Whenever we sat down for meals, Mom always heaped the best dishes onto Megan’s plate, reminding me that Megan was my future savior, so I needed to eat less to show my gratitude. Afraid Mom would refuse, I pointed to the stale, half-eaten roll Megan had left on the table yesterday. “I can just eat that one. I’m really, really hungry.” Usually, whatever Megan didn’t finish was thrown straight into the trash. I had cried once, asking why good food was thrown away instead of given to me, but Mom had just glared at me with deep annoyance. “I bought those snacks for your sister. What she does with them is none of your business,” she had scolded. “Your sister is going to sacrifice her life for you one day, and here you are, picking fights over a few crumbs? Get into the utility room and think about what you’ve done, or I’ll give you something to cry about!” I stared longingly at the dry piece of bread. “Since I’m saving her now,” I thought, “maybe Mom will let me have it.” The next second, a hard palm cracked against my cheek. The force knocked me off my feet. I crashed onto the hardwood floor, my cheek burning red and a sharp ringing filling my ears. “You played this whole ghost story act just because you were greedy for food?” Mom towered over me, her voice shrill. “Every single day you try to steal from your sister! How many times do I have to tell you before it sinks into your stupid head?” When she saw the bright red mark on my face, Mom’s body stiffened slightly. Instinctively, her tone softened just a fraction. “Stop lying on the cold floor pretending to be hurt. If you’re hungry, hurry up and go make breakfast so it’s ready when your sister wakes up.” I stared at the dusty floorboards. None of it—not the food, not the love, not the kindness—would ever belong to me. Understanding that truth made a sharp ache blossom in my chest. At preschool, when the other children talked about their favorite candies, I never knew what to say. I didn’t have any friends. I wondered if I died and went to heaven, would I still have nothing to talk about with the other child ghosts? I tried to push myself up, but my arms felt like wet noodle ribbons. “Why are you still playing dead?” Mom growled. “I barely touched you. You’ve taken harder hits than that and bounced right back…” She grabbed my small arm to yank me up, her long acrylic nails digging deep into my skin. A sharp sting ran up my shoulder, but then she abruptly froze. She looked down at me, finally noticing something was wrong. “Why are you so hot?” I swallowed against the dryness in my throat, forcing my heavy eyelids open. “My head… it’s hurt since last night…” Mom let go of me like I had burned her. She grabbed the forehead thermometer from the nightstand and pressed it against my skin. The device let out a sharp, red warning beep. “104 degrees…” Mom muttered under her breath, a flash of genuine panic flickering in her eyes. Just then, Megan’s sweet voice drifted in from the hallway. “Mommy! I woke up all by myself today!” The worry on Mom’s face vanished instantly, replaced by a radiant, proud smile. “My precious girl! You are so amazing!” I envied Megan so much. She could sleep in until eight, brush her own teeth, and Mom would shower her with praise. But if I was even a few seconds slow getting dressed in the morning, Mom would snap at me, calling me an ungrateful brat who couldn’t even follow simple orders to serve my sister. “Wait in the living room, baby,” Mom called out sweetly. “Mommy’s coming to put you in your pretty dress.” Before stepping out, Mom cast a quick glance back at me. “Stay in this room and don’t come out, do you hear me? Don’t you dare pass your sick germs to your sister.” I gave a small nod, crawling onto the damp, mildewy mattress on the floor. It didn’t matter anyway. I didn’t have the strength to leave. I waited a long time, but Mom never came back to tell me what to do about the fever. Outside my door, the house was filled with the warm, joyous sounds of Mom, Dad, and Megan laughing together. Sometime later, a light knock sounded against the thin door of my closet. “Sadie, we’re taking Megan to the amusement park. Do you want to come?” It was Dad’s voice. From the hallway, Mom let out a sudden gasp. “Oh! I completely forgot Sadie was sick.” She pushed open the door, placing a glass of tap water and two pills on the small wooden crate I used as a nightstand. “She’ll be fine. She just needs to take this fever reducer and sleep it off.” Dad stepped inside, his brow furrowed with mild concern. “How high was her temperature? Maybe we should take her to the urgent care clinic first.” Mom shook her head impatiently. “Megan has her dance recital at the park today. She practiced all night. If we cancel now, our sweet girl will be heartbroken. Do you really want to ruin her special day?” Megan’s tearful, whining voice echoed from the living room. “Daddy, I rehearsed a solo dance just for you and Mommy! I want to go!” I swallowed the bitter pills with a gulp of water, feeling heavier and sleepier by the second. I tried hard to stay awake, forcing out a small whisper. “Daddy… take Megan to play. Sadie is okay.” If I ruined Megan’s mood, Mom would punish me later. Dad hesitated, looking down at me, but Mom was already tossing his coat over his shoulders. “Let’s go, we’re going to be late. We’ll just come back early and take Sadie to the clinic then. Sadie, stay home and be a good girl. Mommy will buy you a pretty dress on the way back.” The closet in Megan’s room was packed with beautiful dresses. Whenever Megan wore them, she would twirl around in front of me, the colorful skirts flaring out like a fairy’s wings in a cartoon. I was only allowed to wear Megan’s old, outgrown clothes. But even those were far too big for my tiny frame, hanging off me like loose flour sacks. I remembered how nervous I used to get, tugging at the oversized fabric to make it fit better, while Megan pointed at me and laughed hysterically. Once, I couldn’t resist the temptation. While Megan was taking an afternoon nap, I secretly slipped into one of her frilly pink dresses. I stood in front of the mirror, pretending that I was a little princess held in the palms of my parents’ hands, just like Megan. Mom had caught me. She flew into a terrifying rage, pulling off Dad’s leather belt and whipping me until my skin bled. She shouted that I was a born thief, that I’d grow up to rob banks and end up shot dead by the police. She reminded me, over and over, that Megan was going to lay down her life for me, and that I was a horrible monster for betraying her. It was Dad who had woken up later, snatched the belt away, and carried me to the emergency room when I couldn’t stand up anymore. I lay back down on my damp mattress, a tiny smile touching my lips. “Bye, Mommy. Bye, Daddy. I love pretty dresses. I want the blue one with the small flowers, just like Megan’s.” Mom gave a relieved nod and turned away. Dad lingered at the doorway, looking at me with a complicated expression, but he didn’t say anything. He picked Megan up in his arms and walked out. The front door clicked shut. I closed my eyes and fell fast asleep. When I woke up again, it was because my stomach felt like it was tearing itself apart from hunger. I slid off the bed, intending to creep into the kitchen, only to find the closet door locked from the outside. Mom didn’t want me coming out. She was afraid I’d contaminate the house. I searched around the small room until my eyes landed on the trash can in the corner. Inside was a plastic cup containing a few sips of spoiled boba tea. Megan hadn’t finished it yesterday. Mom had tossed it into my room’s trash so the smell wouldn’t bother Megan in the main living space. Usually, I took out all the heavy trash bags every morning when I left for preschool. But today, because of the fever, I hadn’t been allowed out. I carefully picked up the plastic cup. I remembered Mom always telling Megan that eating spoiled food would make her sick. “Does that mean I shouldn’t drink this?” But I quickly pushed the thought away. I ate leftover food that had been sitting out for days all the time, and I was fine. I put the straw to my mouth and took a sip. It tasted sharp and sour, like something fermenting. I winced, my face twisting at the horrible flavor. But as it went down, there was a faint, lingering hit of sugar. I hadn’t tasted anything sweet in so long. I didn’t hesitate anymore. I gulped down the rest of the liquid until the cup was completely empty. With my stomach no longer completely hollow, I lay back down on the bed to wait for Mom. Before Mom came back, the stomach pain hit. It was a sharp, searing pain that made me curl into a tight ball. I clutched my stomach, my hands shaking uncontrollably as I tapped the screen of the cheap kid’s smartwatch on my wrist to dial Mom’s number. I almost never called her. Last year, on Megan’s birthday, Mom took her to the store to buy a smartwatch. The store was running a promotion: buy one, get a basic model for twenty dollars. The clerk talked Mom into it, and Mom grudgingly paid the extra money, tossing the cheaper watch at me. “Look how good your sister is to you,” Mom had grumbled. “She’s saving your life in the future, and now you get a watch because of her. You can keep it on so when your sister wants a snack or water while you girls are playing, she can just call you. But don’t you dare place random calls yourself. I’m not wasting money on your phone bill.” I knew Mom’s money was reserved for Megan. Every single day after work, Mom brought home a little gift for Megan, never missing a day. The phone rang for a long time before someone finally picked up. The background was loud and chaotic—cheering crowds and merry-go-round music. They were still at the park. Mom’s voice was sharp with irritation. “Didn’t I tell you to stay home? If you don’t feel good, take the medicine!” “Your sister is finally performing on stage and you’re calling to ruin her moment? Is this how you repay her for saving your life?” My lips trembled, cold sweat pouring down my forehead. “But Mommy… my tummy hurts so bad…” “What? Speak up!” Mom yelled over the noise. I didn’t have the energy to scream. I tried again, my voice barely a squeak. “Mommy…” “It’s too loud out here, I can’t hear a word!” she cut me off impatiently. “Just tough it out. We’ll head home after your sister’s show… David! Hurry, get a photo of Megan!” “Click.” The line went dead. When I tried to dial back, an automated female voice informed me the phone was switched off. I tried calling Dad’s phone, but nobody answered. Maybe he couldn’t hear it over the noise. I didn’t want to be a burden anymore. Shaking, I crawled out of bed and found the remaining blister pack of pills Mom had left on the crate. But my stomach hurt even worse now. “Is it because I didn’t take enough?” Mom had said to take medicine if I felt sick. I had to be a good girl and listen to Mom. I popped all the tiny capsules out of their foil slots. Since there was no water left, I forced them down my dry throat one by one. The medicine was so bitter. Tears spilled down my cheeks. I dragged myself back to the mattress. My vision blurred, and the sharp pain in my stomach gradually faded into a dull, distant numbness. Darkness crept in from the edges of my eyes, and I lost consciousness completely. …… When I opened my eyes again, I was lying in a hospital bed. Mom was sitting by my bedside, her eyes bloodshot and swollen. “You ungrateful little brat!” she hissed the moment she saw me blink. “We leave you home for one single day, and you take a whole bottle of pills to threaten us?” “Your sister is willing to lay down her life for you, and you can’t even stand to see her have one happy day?” I clutched my dull, aching stomach, shaking my head with all the strength I had left. “No… I want Megan to be happy. I already agreed to let the kidnapper take me instead. I’m the one who’s going to die…” “Shut your mouth!” Mom grabbed a glass off the nightstand and slammed it violently against the floor. Shattered glass sprayed everywhere. “I sat by your bed for an entire day, and the first thing you say when you wake up is that you want to die?” “Then go die right now!” she screamed, her voice cracking. “Go ahead! That way your sister won’t have to! I never wanted you in the first place—having Megan is more than enough for me!” “Margo!” Dad roared from the doorway. Mom snapped her mouth shut, turning her back to me to wipe away her tears. When she turned around, her face was cold and detached once again. “We need to go home and make dinner for Megan,” she told Dad, her voice lifeless. “Let’s go. The doctors are monitoring her anyway.” “If we aren’t home tonight, Megan will be scared.” Dad picked up his car keys, looking down at me briefly. “Sadie, if you feel bad, press the call button or dial our phones.” “We’ll come see you tomorrow after we drop Megan off at school.” I gave a small nod. I was used to spending the nights alone. I wouldn’t be scared. I just guessed that Mom had forgotten about the blue dress she promised me again. …… Early the next morning. A stranger suddenly appeared in my room. He wore a dark tactical mask over his face, looking exactly like the kidnapper from the photograph. “The three days are up,” his voice rumbled. “Have you really made up your mind?” My voice was weak, but firm. “Yes.” The only regret I had was that in my short four years, I had never tasted a delicious snack or worn a pretty dress that was truly mine. The man reached out, his hand resting gently against my throat. In an instant, my body dissolved into thin air. The hospital bed was empty, save for the old photograph resting on the white sheet. Mom and Dad walked into the room carrying a breakfast container, arriving just in time to see the air swallow me whole. “Sadie!” Mom screamed, lunging forward to grab the photograph off the bed. The kidnapper was still in the picture. But the positions had changed. I was the one lying on the cold ground under the sharp blade, covered in bright red blood. Megan stood off to the side, completely unharmed. “Sadie…” Mom’s face drained of all color in a fraction of a second. Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed onto the floor.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “554449”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Only one-seventh of Damian belonged to me. Every Wednesday, like clockwork, he would call. “Mal,” he’d ask, his voice smooth and measured through the speaker, “how has your week been?” It was always Wednesday. Only Wednesday. On Monday, a drunken stranger spent ten excruciating minutes kicking at the front door of my rented apartment. I hid inside the closet, my limbs shaking violently as I dialed his number. “The phone you are trying to reach is turned off.” On Tuesday, I was admitted to the hospital with acute pneumonia. The nurses needed a family member’s signature before administering the heavy-duty IV. I called him five times. “Line busy.” Outside of Wednesdays, his phone was a black hole. And every Wednesday, his excuse was as smooth as river stones: “I’m slammed at the clinic, Mal. My phone stays on silent most of the day.” “If you feel unsafe, move to a better building. If you’re sick, ask a coworker to sit with you.” “The situation is already over. There’s no point in transferring your anxiety onto me.” I genuinely believed he was just under immense pressure at work. Until this Wednesday. Wanting to surprise him, I saved up three days of paid leave and flew five hundred miles to his city. Standing in his home office, I found his leather-bound planner lying open on the desk. Every line was filled with neat, precise handwriting. “Monday: Escort Serena to her follow-up appointment.” “Tuesday: Serena is feeling down. Drive her to the coast to clear her mind.” “Thursday: Adopt a kitten with Serena.” The remaining days revolved entirely around her name. Only Wednesday had a faint, offhanded circle drawn around it, with a single initial scrawled in the margin: “M.” One-seventh of him was mine. Six-sevenths belonged to Serena. Suddenly, I didn’t even want that single seventh anymore. Something that isn’t whole isn’t worth keeping. … I tried dialing Damian’s cell again, but it went straight to voicemail. That was the rule of our relationship: the line only connected when he initiated the call on Wednesdays. When I called him, his phone was either turned off or permanently busy. The front desk assistant pushed open the heavy oak door of his private practice, offering me a tight, professional smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Ma’am, this is Dr. Ellis’s private therapy suite. Unauthorized guests aren’t allowed in here,” she said, motioning toward the hallway. “If you’d like to book a consultation, you can step up to the front desk. Please don’t linger.” I carefully placed the planner back where I’d found it. “I’m Damian’s girlfriend.” The assistant blinked, startled for a fraction of a second, before letting out a soft, amused laugh. “You must be joking. We all know Dr. Ellis’s girlfriend.” She leaned against the doorframe. “Miss Serena comes by the suite every week. Two days ago, she fell asleep on the lounge sofa, and Dr. Ellis made all of us hold our team meeting in the conference room on our feet so we wouldn’t wake her.” She pointed a polished nail toward the kitchenette. “You see that glass tea kettle over there? Dr. Ellis bought it specifically to brew herbal tea for Miss Serena’s stomach ulcers. He used to be a strict black coffee drinker—now he’s swapped out all our coffee beans for decaf.” I followed her gaze. On the granite counter sat two matching mugs. One was Damian’s usual cool gray ceramic. The other was a pastel pink glass shaped like a cat’s paw. Last month, he’d mentioned that the clinic had ordered a batch of customized couple’s mugs, including one in pink—my favorite color. I had foolishly assumed it was meant for me. The assistant pulled out her phone and slid it across the desk toward me. “If you still don’t believe me, take a look for yourself.” It was Damian’s social media page. Damian—a man who used to insist that spending time in the kitchen was an inefficient waste of energy—was wearing a dark apron, carefully monitoring a pot of slow-simmered broth on the stove. His caption read: “Cooking homemade soup for a special someone.” I lowered my head and opened my own phone. When I tapped into his profile from my account, there was nothing but a cold, blank divider. He had restricted me from seeing his posts. “All right,” I whispered. “I’ll go.” I turned and walked out of the practice, stepping onto the sidewalk and looking up blankly at the gray overcast sky. In this unfamiliar city, I had nowhere to go. I hailed a cab and gave the driver the address to Damian’s high-rise apartment. I rang the doorbell, but no one answered. With numb, freezing fingers, I typed my birthdate into the digital keypad. “My passcode will always be your birthday, Mal. You can come home whenever you want.” That was what he had told me the day he moved in. I entered the six digits three times. Each time, a harsh, mechanical chime buzzed back at me. The lock had been changed. So I stood there in the drafty hallway for two full hours, the chill seeping through the soles of my shoes. Until the elevator signaled with a soft “ding”. Serena stepped out, wrapped in an oversized cream cashmere coat that clearly belonged to Damian. She carried a tote bag filled with fresh groceries. Seeing me, a flicker of surprise crossed her eyes, quickly replaced by a soft, delicate smile. “Mal? Why are you standing out in the cold? Come on in.” She casually punched in a long string of numbers. The lock chimed softly. “Welcome home, Serena.” The door swung open, releasing a wave of central heat. Serena turned to me, resting a delicate finger against her lips. “Try to keep your voice down, Mal. Damian stayed up all night helping me through a panic attack. He didn’t fall asleep until dawn, so let’s not wake him.” She slipped her feet into a pair of plush pink rabbit slippers and offered me a pair of disposable ones from the closet. Inside the shoe rack, the light-blue slippers that had once been reserved for me were nowhere to be found. Damian came downstairs half an hour later. When his eyes fell on me, his steps faltered, and the faint relaxation around his mouth vanished completely. “Why didn’t you give me a heads-up before flying over here?” “I tried calling you,” I said softly. “Your phone was off.” “Are you blaming me again?” His voice instantly hardened. “I’ve explained this to you dozens of times—when I’m working with clients, I need absolute, undivided focus.” I gripped the hem of my sweater, the fabric bunching under my fingers. Serena stepped forward, pressing a mug of warm water into his hands. “Damian, don’t be so harsh. Mal just missed you.” Damian took a sip, his posture softening slightly, though his tone remained dry. “I’m not being harsh. I just wish she would learn to be a little more independent.” He turned his gaze back to me. “Mallory, you’re twenty-eight years old. Stop pulling these surprise drop-ins to check up on me. It’s exhausting and meaningless.” “Independent.” The word sank into my chest like a jagged shard of glass. I used to suffer from severe separation anxiety. When we first started dating, I couldn’t even walk down to the corner store at night without holding his hand. On stormy nights, I would burrow into his chest, refusing to sleep unless his arm was around me. In the dead of winter, I’d shove my ice-cold hands directly under his collar to steal his warmth. Back then, he would wrap his arms tightly around me with a gentle, exasperated laugh. “What are you going to do if I’m not around to take care of you?” But then he changed. My desire for closeness became a constraint; my reliance on him, a burden. “Mal, we both need breathing room,” he had told me when he decided to take the position in Chicago while leaving me behind in Charleston. “A long-distance dynamic will be good for us. It’ll force you to grow up.” So he left me alone in Charleston and built a life here, where Serena lived. During the first six months apart, I would sit in my empty living room after work, staring at the walls in total silence. I suffered from insomnia night after night, only able to drift off if I buried my face into an old button-down shirt he’d left behind. In the beginning, he called every night to talk me to sleep. Then it stretched to every two days, then every three. Until finally, it settled into Wednesdays. Until I was left with only one-seventh of a man. I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “You changed the passcode on the front door.” Damian pinched the bridge of his nose. “The system went through a security update two days ago, so I updated it while I was at it. Do you really need to make an issue out of something so trivial? You could have just rung the bell.” “I stood out there ringing it for ten minutes.” “Then I didn’t hear it. What do you want me to do about it now?” “Change it back.” “Fine,” he said without hesitation. “When I have a moment.” At ten that evening, Serena changed back into her street shoes and left. Finally, the apartment belonged to just the two of us. I showered and pulled the comforter up to my chin. Damian slid into bed behind me, his long arm draping over my waist. “You’re so rigid, Mal,” he murmured, his jaw resting in the curve of my shoulder. “You’ve changed so much. You used to curl up right against my chest before you could sleep. Why are you acting like a stranger?” I stared down at his forearm resting against my stomach. The silver promise ring I’d bought him years ago was missing from his wrist and fingers. “If I hadn’t forced myself to get used to sleeping alone,” I said quietly, “I would have lost my mind to insomnia a long time ago.” On those endless nights, I had stared at the ceiling until dawn broke through the blinds. Every text I sent him dissolved into silence, met only with an offhanded “Sorry, didn’t see this” on Wednesday evening. If I hadn’t learned to put myself to sleep, I would have burned out completely in the waiting. The arm around my waist stiffened. Damian let out a weary sigh. “Do you really have to bring up such depressing topics on the one night we actually get to see each other?” He pulled me an inch closer. “I know the distance hasn’t been easy on you. You’ve always wanted a pet, right? Once this busy stretch at the practice winds down, I’ll take you to pick out a kitten.” “I don’t like cats.” “Stop being difficult, Mal.” “I like dogs,” I said, my voice steady. “My whole life, I’ve only ever liked dogs.” He frowned into the darkness. “What’s the difference?” I reached down and firmly pried his hand off my waist. “There’s a massive difference. Your planner was very clear: on Thursday, you’re taking Serena to adopt a kitten. You got the person wrong, Damian. And you got the preference wrong.” He sat up abruptly, the warmth leaving his voice. “You went through my private belongings? Mallory, when did you turn into the kind of person who snoops through someone else’s office?” I felt the last thread of fight leave my body. The word that used to terrify me slipped out effortlessly. “Damian, let’s break up.” He stared at me in disbelief. “Break up? Because I misremembered whether you preferred cats or dogs?” He took a deep breath, deliberately dropping his pitch to a soft, therapeutic tone. “Mal, Serena has severe clinical depression. Her ex abandoned her, and she’s had intense suicidal ideation—you know how deep the cuts on her wrist were.” “She requires my professional intervention. As a healthy, functional adult, do you really lack this much basic empathy?” I couldn’t survive without him, so I was forced to become independent. Serena couldn’t survive without him, so she was granted his presence. My fingernails bit into the palms of my hands until my skin stung. Damian reached over, pulling me against his chest and lightly patting my back. “All right. Don’t cry. I promise you, once her condition stabilizes, I’ll wind down our private sessions and set firm boundaries, okay?” On the nightstand, his phone suddenly vibrated. It was Serena’s custom ringtone. He answered instantly. “Serena? What’s wrong? Hey, take a deep breath. I’m coming right over.” He didn’t even put on socks. Barefoot, he walked to the closet, pulling on a pair of slacks and a dark button-down shirt with practiced haste. “Serena is having a panic episode. I have to step out. Get some sleep.” After the front door clicked shut, I reached under my pillow and picked up my phone. I dialed my mother’s number. I swallowed the bitterness in my throat. “Mom… I’m thinking about moving back home soon.” My mother let out a bright, surprised laugh on the other end. “Really? Are you coming back to start planning the wedding with Damian? I’ll take off work tomorrow and start repainting your bedroom… We need to start looking at caterers…” “Mom,” I cut her off gently. “We broke up.” Silence stretched over the line for a long moment before my mother spoke again, her tone instantly softening into something tender and fierce. “Did my girl get her heart broken?” she asked softly. “It doesn’t matter what happened. Home is here. When you get back, I’ll make that crab bake you love.” Damian didn’t come back all night. By morning, I realized I had left my handbag at his clinic the previous afternoon—it had my driver’s license and my house keys inside. I called his phone. Unanswered. I gave a self-deprecating laugh, got dressed, and took a cab straight to his suite. Inside the consultation room, Serena was draped over the reclining leather armchair, her hair slightly tousled, her skin flushed. Damian was kneeling beside her, holding one of her wrists in his palm while using a soft towel to gently dab the perspiration from her forehead. They were so close their shoulders touched, wrapped in an intimacy that looked effortlessly natural. “Damian… you stayed with me all night. Won’t Mallory be upset?” “Even if she is, I couldn’t just leave you when you were in crisis.” I pushed the heavy oak door open. It swung inward with a low squeak. Damian looked up, his expression freezing for a brief second. “What are you doing here?” He stood up smoothly. “Serena just had a severe episode. She’s still emotionally unstable, so I’m stabilizing her. Don’t overthink this.” Serena’s eyes flushed red. “Mal, please don’t misunderstand… Damian is just far too responsible…” “I came to get my bag,” I said, walking past them toward the shelving unit. Before my hand could reach the leather strap, violent shouts echoed down the hallway outside. “Quack! Get out here!” A man with bloodshot eyes burst through the doorway, clutching a small glass prescription bottle. He pointed a trembling finger at Damian, screaming at the top of his lungs. “What kind of sleeping medication did you prescribe my wife yesterday?! She swallowed it and went straight into comatose shock! The ER doctor said the dosage was three times the maximum limit!” Serena let out a sharp shriek, shrinking into the corner of the room, trembling violently. “It was you!” the man roared, his eyes locking onto the corner. “You handed her the bottle yesterday!” He raised his arm, preparing to hurl the thick glass bottle with all his strength. It happened in the span of a single heartbeat. Damian suddenly grabbed my arm and shoved me violently into the space between the man and the corner. He stepped back, covering Serena with his body. “It wasn’t her!” Damian shouted at the man. “You’ve got the wrong person! The girl who handled the medications yesterday wasn’t her—it was this one!” He was pointing at me. A high-pitched ringing echoed in my ears. The heavy glass bottle left the man’s hand, flying through the air and smashing directly against my collarbone and hand. A sharp, searing pain exploded down my nerve endings. I remembered a time when I had nicked my finger slicing an apple, and Damian had turned the apartment upside down looking for the first-aid kit, his hands shaking as he bandaged a tiny one-centimeter cut. Now, to shield another woman from a mess of his own making, he had thrown me into the line of fire. Security guards rushed through the door, tackling the enraged man to the floor. The police arrived shortly after, cuffing him and leading him away. The consultation room was left in ruin. Once Serena’s hysterical crying finally settled into quiet sniffling, Damian seemed to snap back to reality. He rushed toward me, dropping to his knees on the carpet. His face drained of color as he saw me sitting on the floor, my hand soaked in crimson. His hands hovered over my wound, trembling, afraid to touch me. The panic on his face looked almost comical. “Mal… I…” “I was just trying to de-escalate him,” he stammered, his voice tight. “I didn’t think he’d actually throw it. Serena can’t handle any physical trauma right now, so I had to secure her first.” “I’m her therapist first, Mal, before I’m your boyfriend. You understand that, right?” The cut throbbed painfully, but inside my chest, everything had gone eerily, terrifyingly quiet. Blood was seeping into the cuff of my sleeve. I forced myself to stand up, ignoring the sharp pang in my shoulder. “No, Damian. I don’t.” He reached out to support me. “Mal, let me take you to the emergency room.” I took a step back, dodging his reach. “No need. I can go myself.” As I turned toward the door, Damian called after me, his tone laced with mounting frustration. “Mallory!” “You didn’t use to be like this! You used to need me to hold your hand just to get a routine flu shot! You wouldn’t even look at the nurse! You needed me to bandage a tiny cut on your finger!” I stopped at the threshold and looked back over my shoulder. “Damian,” I said quietly, “you got what you wanted. I’m independent now.” Behind me, Damian’s breath hitched sharply, accompanied by Serena’s muffled, theatrical weeping. I didn’t turn back. I walked out of the building and made my way to the urgent care clinic down the street. After the doctor stitched and bandaged my hand, I headed straight to the station and bought a one-way ticket back home.

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On my wedding night, my husband, Gavin, died suddenly in bed, leaving me a multi-billion-dollar estate. Everyone urged me to remarry while I was still young. My best friend even secretly set me up with a guy—broad shoulders, narrow waist. He wasn’t as handsome or wealthy as Gavin, but he was young and attentive. On the day he proposed to me, floating live-chat comments suddenly flared across my vision. [Don’t accept the proposal! Your best friend introduced him on purpose! She knows your late husband’s spirit is right beside you!] [The second you take that ring, you confirm you’re a gold-digging, unfaithful snake!] [Your ex-husband turns completely dark from betrayal. When he returns to life, you’re the first one he strangles!] [And your “best friend” saves his broken soul, claiming his devotion and his billions for herself. They live happily ever after for forty years—a storybook romance.] Looking at the man holding out a diamond ring, I paused for a few seconds and chose to believe the floating text. I slapped him across the face. … Dylan clutched his cheek, reflexively shouting at me. “Are you out of your mind? I’m asking you to marry me! What the hell is wrong with you?” I didn’t have time to process his sudden shift in demeanor. Gavin was a possessively intense man. When he was five, he got into a fight at school. His father boasted that with their wealth, he could have anything in the world—yet Gavin only ever clung to me. That was when I gained a “brother.” He took care of me like a mini-adult. From the time I was one until I turned eighteen, even my mother complained that he kept too tight a leash on me. Gavin never paid her any mind. When I was nineteen, a local thug on the street merely whistled at me. Gavin had every delinquent in the neighborhood run out of Charleston overnight—a move that kept the city on the “Top Safest Cities” list for five consecutive years. Honestly, at first I didn’t believe the floating text overlay. Because on our wedding night, I had held Gavin until his body turned ice-cold and rigid. I watched with my own eyes as his coffin was sealed and lowered into the ground. But considering I was literally seeing floating text in mid-air—something equally absurd—what if it was real? Realizing Gavin’s ghost had been watching me with Dylan for three months made me shudder uncontrollably. Even the gentle breeze felt frigid. “Cass,” my best friend, Whitney, looked at me in total confusion. “You and Dylan have been together for months. You said it yourself—you two fit together like a favorite sweater. Isn’t marriage the natural next step? What’s going on with you?” Before I could answer, a burst of text rolled across my field of vision out of the corner of my eye. A chill ran down my spine. [Saying you fit together like old clothes right in front of the dead husband? She’s implying you’re completely intimate inside and out!] [For three months, he’s been following you. He’s heard plenty of this. Accepting the ring is the final straw that breaks him.] In hindsight, I realized Whitney “had” constantly dropped loaded, suggestive hints in front of me. I had never actually done anything with Dylan. I used to think it was just cheeky girl-talk between best friends. Now I saw it clearly: if Gavin’s ghost was truly standing beside me, she was deliberately provoking him—trying to turn his devotion into toxic hatred toward me. “When did I ever say that?” It was perhaps the first time I had ever called her out. Whitney’s face froze slightly. “Well, Whitney’s not wrong,” Dylan said, his expression a mix of confusion and impatience. “We were bound to be that close sooner or later. What is wrong with you today? I love you, and you love me. Why won’t you accept my proposal? Don’t you want me by your side? Could you really bear to walk away from us?” More comments flashed in the air: [The girl he actually loves is your best friend. He even bought the ring in HER size, then lied saying he was nervous and got the wrong size!] [Three days! He revives in three days! Don’t fall for their words!] I grabbed the ring from Dylan’s hand. Ignoring the barrage of glowing text, I slid it onto my best friend’s ring finger. A perfect, flawless fit. Dylan visibly panicked. “It… it was my first time proposing. I was so nervous that I got the wrong size.” Even his exact line matched the text. A deep dread settled in my chest. If the comments were right about Gavin returning in three days, and if I had accepted Dylan’s proposal, I wouldn’t just miss out on the multi-billion-dollar estate—I’d be choked to death by a husband consumed by vengeance. If he was coming back in three days, I’d wait and see if it was real! “You’ve misunderstood,” I said coldly, looking at Dylan’s expectant face. “I only ever saw you as a friend.” “A friend?” Dylan looked utterly stunned. A moment later, he grabbed my hand, adopting a helpless, patient tone. “Cass, don’t be petty. I know you’re upset about the ring. We can go pick out a new one right now!” Whitney also took my hand, smiling gently. “He’s right. He was just nervous. Just say yes so you two can get married—then my mind will finally be at ease.” [Of course she’ll be at ease. Once the ring is on, your ex-husband goes on a killing spree.] [She’s ruthless. And you never did a single thing to wrong her.] Looking at the face I had known for ten years, I suddenly felt like I was looking at a complete stranger. “Why are you so desperate for me to marry him?” Whitney blinked, caught off guard. “What has gotten into you today? Didn’t you always say how much you liked Dylan? You said he was young, that you were sick of Gavin’s old-man energy, that you and Dylan…” Gavin was only two years older than me, but his demeanor made him seem far more mature. He loved buying me soft, pastel-colored clothes. Outsiders often misunderstood, thinking he was much older. Once, an admirer taunted him, calling him an “old man,” which drove Gavin so wild with fury he ended up hospitalized from high blood pressure. “I’m older than you,” he had once whispered to me. “If I die before you, there won’t be anyone left to protect you.” That had always been a thorn in his heart. And I had “never” once expressed disgust toward him. She was fabricating lies! Gritting my teeth, I slapped Whitney hard across the face. The next second, Dylan shoved me to the ground. “Are you insane?! Whitney isn’t in good health—how could you hit her?!” He pulled the startled Whitney into his arms, his eyes brimming with concern. He didn’t even glance down at me where I lay on the floor. I wasn’t stupid; I knew where his true priorities lay. “The ring was my mistake,” Dylan snapped. “If you’re mad, take it out on me. Don’t blame Whitney!” In his haste, all his masks slipped away. Dylan didn’t love me at all. I said nothing, looking down at my scraped, swelling knee. Noticing my injury, Dylan froze for a split second, then belatedly came over to pull me up, guilt flickering in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Cass. Let me take you to the hospital right now.” I dodged his reaching hand. “Whitney looks so pale. You should take her first.” Dylan opened his mouth, thought of something, and nodded hastily. “Fine. I’ll drop Whitney at urgent care, then come back for you. We’ll go pick out a ring together afterward.” He swept Whitney up into his arms and rushed off. When I went to the urgent care clinic to get my knee bandaged, I ran into them again. Dylan was leaning over Whitney, gently massaging her temples with his thumb—just as he used to do for me. After Gavin died, I had been consumed by grief. A multi-billion-dollar fortune dropped into the lap of an unprotected woman was a ticking time bomb. Extended relatives hurled insults and plotted against me; combined with the grief of losing my husband, I hadn’t even dared to step out of the house. That was when Whitney brought Dylan into my life. He stayed by my side, pulling me out of the dark shadow. I loved Gavin, but he was gone; I had no choice but to bury my love deep inside. I had genuinely believed Dylan was sincere. “Cass!” Dylan’s eyes lit up when he saw me, and he walked over quickly. “Don’t worry, Whitney’s fine—she was just startled. Let’s go pick out a ring now. Whitney has great taste; she’ll help pick the best one for you.” “I’m not marrying you,” I said flatly. His expression stiffened. “I made one small mistake—why can’t you forgive me? To marry you, I even sold my childhood home in my hometown just to put down a deposit on a townhouse for us.” He pulled a keycard from his pocket and offered it to me. “Cass, I’ll work hard to be a good husband and make you forget all your past pain.” [Yeah, and YOU get to pay the mortgage while HE never works a day in his life.] [He’ll demand the newest sports car, and when you die, he won’t even claim your body.] I let out a cold laugh. “Did you buy it in full?” Dylan looked like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. “Well… it’s a mortgage, but I’ll pay it off myself! Cass, you have to trust me!” Whitney suddenly let out a soft sigh. “I know you care about money, Cass. Back then, you told me that if Gavin hadn’t been so wealthy, you never would have married a controlling freak like him. You said Dylan was different—that you actually loved Dylan, but never loved Gavin.” I smiled coldly. Whitney’s expression relaxed slightly, thinking she had won. “Once you and Dylan are married, you’ll be family. Who pays the mortgage doesn’t matter.” Dylan smiled too. “Yeah, we’re family. Don’t be so distant. As for Gavin, stop dwelling on him. You hated how he controlled every aspect of your life anyway. Now that he’s dead, you should be happy. No one can stop us from being together now.” [Wife using her own money to support another man… the ex-husband is about to pass out from rage.] [Stop digging your own grave! Tell these two snakes to get lost!] “Finished?” I asked quietly. Dylan blinked, nodding. The next second, I slapped him across the face. Whitney gasped. Before she could speak, I slapped her too. “You helped me through my grief, and I appreciated that. But you have no right to insult Gavin! I loved him with everything I had, and I never, ever resented him!” I glared at Whitney. “You keep fabricating these vicious lies. Anyone listening would think Gavin’s ghost was standing right here, and you were deliberately trying to make him hate me!” Whitney’s eyes quivered. Cold sweat broke out on her forehead. “Gavin is dead! How could he be here? And… and you “did” say those things! You just… you just forgot…” I didn’t bother arguing further. The more said, the worse it got. If Gavin really was beside me, these lies were slashing at his heart. I turned and walked away. Behind me, Dylan yelled in frustration, “Cassidy! I’ve already notified both our families! The invitations are sent out! The wedding is in two days! Go home and pull yourself together! Don’t make your mother worry—her health isn’t good!” … I returned to the estate Gavin and I had shared. The staff stayed on the ground floor; I was alone on the second floor. Lying in bed, I felt an icy chill permeating the entire room. [Your ex-husband is staring right at you.] Seeing the text, panic surged through me. I frantically pulled out Gavin’s framed photograph, clutching it to my chest as I declared to the empty room, “Gavin, my love… you’re the only one I’ve ever loved, from start to finish.” Eventually, I drifted into a fitful sleep, only to see Gavin in my dream. His obsidian eyes were fixed on me, unblinking. His icy fingers clamped around my jaw, repeating over and over: “You lied to me.” My lips trembled as I tried to explain, but suddenly his hands shifted to my throat, squeezing tightly. “Ah!” I snapped open my eyes, gasping for air. Drenched in cold sweat, I ran to the bathroom mirror. There were no marks on my neck, but the sensation of suffocation was terrifyingly real. “No… I didn’t take Dylan’s ring. Gavin won’t kill me.” I splashed cold water on my face, trying to reassure myself. Dylan hadn’t just invited relatives; he had sent invitations to his former college classmates and even leaked news to online followers who tracked my life after Gavin’s death. A widow moving on after just three months? Online commentators assumed I had trapped Gavin in a honeypot scheme, swarming my social media accounts to label me a husband-killing leech. Trembling with anger, I posted a video clarifying that I had no intention of ever remarrying. Nobody believed me. To catch a break, I went back to my mother’s home. My mother had cooked a full table of dishes. Just as I picked up my fork to eat, the floating comments flared again. [Your mom is furious that you won’t give your money for your brother’s wedding dowry, so she sold you out! The food is laced with muscle relaxants. Once you eat, she’s dragging you straight to the venue to marry Dylan!] [He paid her $500,000 in cash. Whether you want to or not, you’re getting married. Your ex-husband is about to go full villain mode!] My hand froze in mid-air. I hadn’t given my brother money because his girlfriend was a known scammer; I didn’t want my family swindled. Besides, during our marriage, Gavin had given my family generous financial support, telling me he would take care of my parents so I wouldn’t have to stress. And now, my own mother was selling me out for half a million dollars. “Mom,” I said, setting my fork down. “I’m not marrying Dylan.” Her face instantly turned dark. She clutched her chest, gasping as if suffocated by grief. My heart pinched, but before I could speak, she snapped, “If you don’t marry him, who else will take you?! Look at the internet—everyone says you cursed your husband! If you don’t marry Dylan, you’ll die alone! The venue is booked! The invites are out! If you refuse now, you’ll make our entire family a laughingstock! Parents decide marriage—if I say you marry, you marry!” I gripped my fork tightly, my heart turning to ice. “I’m leaving.” The moment I stood up, darkness swept over my eyes, and I collapsed onto the floor. “Good thing I put some in the incense room diffuser too,” my mother chuckled triumphantly. She locked me in the attic for two full days. Strangely, during those two days, the floating text didn’t appear once. Until my mother dragged me to the wedding venue. Through the bustling crowd, my eyes caught a tall, familiar figure standing near the back. Gavin had actually returned to life! Everything the comments said was true! Thinking about how Whitney and Dylan had spent the last three months manipulating me, treating me like a naive fool, tears stung my eyes. Instinctively, I took a step toward Gavin. “Cass!” Dylan grabbed my hand, forcing his fingers through mine in a tight grip. To onlookers, we looked like a doting couple. “I knew you’d come. You do love me after all.” I looked into Gavin’s distant eyes. My teeth chattered, but I lacked the physical strength to shake Dylan off. “Dylan, are you insane? I never agreed to…” He squeezed my shoulder so hard I thought the bone would snap, though he maintained a bright, loving smile—the picture of a devoted groom whispering sweet nothings to his bride. “Be good now. It’s time for our ceremony.” He dragged me onto the stage. I turned my head, silently pleading toward Gavin with my eyes. If he had been following me as a ghost, he had to know I was being forced! I didn’t want to die. “Gavin…” Before I could say more, Whitney stepped up, blocking my view. “Are you out of your mind, Cass? Gavin is dead! The man standing beside you now is Dylan, your husband.” I was brought up to the altar by Dylan and Whitney. Gavin remained in the crowd, watching me silently. His expression was unreadable, but a bone-chilling coldness swept through me. He didn’t believe me. Why would he? Dylan and Whitney had staged everything so convincingly. But I refused to accept this fate. Mustering every ounce of strength left in my body, biting my lip until blood pooled in my mouth, I forcefully shoved Dylan and Whitney away. “I won’t marry him!” “Cassidy!” Whitney shouted, her voice shrill with reprimand. “Stop acting out! You’re over three months pregnant! Do you want your baby to be born without a father?!” My head thundered. I stared at her in utter disbelief. “What ridiculous lie are you telling now?! I’m not pregnant!” Whitney’s mother stepped forward, sighing dramatically. “Cass, how can you lie like that? I personally accompanied you for your ultrasound yesterday—the paperwork is right here!” The ultrasound scan was suddenly projected onto the large screen behind the altar. Before I could open my mouth, the room exploded into whispers and gasps. “Gavin’s only been dead three months, and she’s nearly four months along? That means she was cheating on him while he was alive!” “How shameless! How could she take his inheritance after betraying him like that?” “If Gavin knew, he’d rise from the grave just to tear her apart!” Vicious accusations and pointing fingers assailed my ears. I shouted explanations, even beating my own stomach to prove I wasn’t pregnant, but nobody listened. “Honey, I beg you,” Dylan fell to his knees before me, his eyes bloodshot, performing his role to perfection. “It’s my fault for upsetting you, but please don’t hurt our child.” Seeing me stand motionless, my mother rushed up and slapped me hard across the face. “Have you had enough?!” she shrieked. “You’re carrying his child—how much longer are you going to throw a tantrum?! Haven’t you humiliated us enough?! With a reputation like yours, Dylan is the only decent man willing to take you!” My cheek burned with sharp pain. A bitter realization washed over me: nothing I said mattered. Whitney wanted Gavin to see me as an unfaithful monster so he would kill me, leaving her to claim the status of his wealthy widow. Dylan loved Whitney, so he danced to her tune. My biological mother hated me for withholding money from my brother, so she sold me out for half a million dollars. And Gavin… had witnessed what looked like complete betrayal by his wife. They all wanted a specific narrative. Nobody cared about the truth. Through the noise, a man wearing a black face mask stepped out from the crowd and stopped right in front of me. Remembering the floating text, the dream, and the terrifying sensation of being strangled, I began to tremble uncontrollably. “How could you not believe me?” I gasped, tears falling. “I thought you were dead… Dylan and I…” Red veins streaked his dark eyes. His vein-popped hand lifted, tracing lightly across my cheek before he whispered, “Congratulations.” Then, his fingers closed brutally around my throat. The familiar feeling of suffocation returned. I gripped his wrist with all my remaining strength, forcing out a single sentence through my constricted airway. In an instant, the expressions on everyone’s faces changed.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “554447”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel