Author: Momo Chan

The Grand Prophet once foretold that a monstrous serpent would rise and bring ruin to our world. In response, the mortal King decreed a total purge. Every serpent shifter was to be hunted down and slaughtered, leaving none alive. With our clan facing complete annihilation, Grandfather, our Chief, decided to send our deadliest warriors to assassinate the tyrant. I rolled up my sleeves, practically vibrating with excitement as I volunteered for the job. But Grandfather simply patted my shoulder and sighed. “It is not your turn to play the hero, Maisie. Stay in the safety of our mountains and hold down the fort.” I had no choice but to swallow my grand dreams of battlefield glory. But tragedy struck, wave after wave. Garrick, our fiercest Black Mamba shifter; Talia, our deadliest Banded Krait; and even Toby, our master of stealth and camouflage—all of them met their ends at the hands of the tyrant King. Watching Grandfather lose his scales from sheer grief and stress, I couldn’t take it anymore. I scribbled a hasty farewell note and slipped down the mountain in the dead of night. The moment I crossed the ridge, Grandfather’s voice echoed through the canyon in a raw, hysterical screech: “You absolute idiot! You’re a corn snake! You don’t even have your adult fangs yet! What do you think you’re going to do, tickle him to death?!” Years later, I kicked that broody, cold-hearted tyrant clean off the royal mattress. Who says corn snakes are useless little pests? “Go on,” I’d tell him, pointing a finger. “Peel my corn.” … Grandfather’s voice was shredded by the howling mountain wind. I paused, blinking back at the dark peaks. “Was someone calling me?” I spun around twice, heard nothing but the whistling pines, and happily resumed my trek down the slopes. I pumped my fist in the air, a surge of righteous loyalty warming my chest. “Don’t worry, Grandfather! I won’t fail our people. The tyrant’s head is as good as mine!” But when I finally marched into the bustling capital, my heroic confidence evaporated. I stood frozen in the middle of the crowded cobblestone streets, completely lost. Damn it. I had spent so much time asking the elders for assassination techniques that I’d forgotten to ask the most basic question: How do you actually get inside the palace? Was I supposed to shift back into my snake form and slither past the armed guards on the drawbridge? As I crouched in a dusty alleyway, agonizing over my options, a pale, clean-shaven man in a stiff linen coat emerged from around the corner. He was wringing his hands, his voice pitched in a desperate, high-pitched whine. “Ruined! We’re absolutely ruined! One of the new kitchen maids caught the fever and died on the road. If our numbers aren’t complete, the Chief Steward will have my hide!” My eyes snapped wide. A palace recruiter. Just like the stories the elders told. I lunged out of the alley and blocked his path. “Excuse me, sir! Are you looking for staff? What about me? I can do anything—scrub floors, wash dishes, whatever you need! Just get me inside the palace. I need to see the King.” The steward eyed me up and down. A sleazy, split-second grin broke across his pale face, and he patted his chest importantly. “Well, aren’t you an eager little thing? I happen to be a very influential man in His Majesty’s household. Keep me happy, and I won’t just get you a meeting with the King—I’ll get you a ticket straight to his bedchamber!” I was practically vibrating with excitement. I nodded eagerly, trailing behind him like a loyal pup, dreaming of my impending glory. Ten minutes later, I was standing in the scullery of the royal latrines. “This is your new home,” the steward said, his smile entirely gone. He gestured coldly toward rows of wooden chamber pots lined up in the corner, radiating a stench so foul it made my eyes water. “From today on, you’re on chamber-pot duty. Thirty pots a day. No food until they’re spotless.” I stared at him, dumbfounded. “But… you said you’d take me to the King?” He didn’t even bother to look back as he swept out of the room. The other kitchen maids in the room burst into cruel, mocking laughter. “Look, girls, another gullible idiot fallen for old Higgins’s lies! A pot-scrubber wanting to see the King? Keep dreaming, honey!” I squeezed the rough scrubbing rag in my hand, my knuckles turning white. For the Clan. For the mission. I can endure this. I scrubbed. I scrubbed from the first light of dawn until the stars claimed the sky. By the time the last wooden pot gleamed in the dim candlelight, I sniffed my fingers and nearly gagged on the spot. Curse that rotten tyrant. Tonight, he pays for this indignity with his life. I stretched my aching neck, took a deep breath, and let the magic take over. My bones softened, my skin tightened, and my clothes fell away as I shifted into my true form—a small, vibrant corn snake, patterned in brilliant shades of red and orange. During my endless shifts, I had kept my ears open, piecing together a map of the estate from the maids’ idle gossip. I slithered along the cold stone baseboards, a silent, colorful shadow slipping undetected into the King’s private wing. I squeezed through a crack in the heavy oak window and slipped into the room. Sitting by the hearth, bathed in the warm glow of a desk lamp, was a man reviewing royal ledgers. He was stunning. Dark, sharp eyebrows, a nose carved like marble, and a jawline that could cut glass. I froze on the carpet, subconsciously swallowing a sudden pool of saliva. Get a grip, Maisie. I mentally pinched myself. This gorgeous creature is a cold-blooded monster who slaughters your people for sport. Kill him. I coiled my small body, aiming directly for the exposed, pale skin of his throat. With a silent prayer to our ancestors, I launched myself through the air. A split second later, two cool, incredibly strong fingers clamped around my neck, pinning my head in place. Wait. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I went completely rigid. Garrick, who was a master of the coil, had spent hours training me back home. He would pat my head and say, “Listen to me, little Maisie. Once our kind wraps around a beast’s throat, there is no escaping. You squeeze until their ribs crack and their lungs collapse. They die before they even realize what’s happening.” But theory and reality were violently clashing. I thrashed wildly, my tail whipping against his forearm in a desperate attempt to gain leverage. The two fingers holding me didn’t even twitch. Gideon raised his other hand, idly flicking the tip of my tail with his index finger. His voice was a low, amused drawl. “Where did you crawl out from, you foolish little thing?” Every single scale on my body flared in sheer indignation. Suddenly, the King’s brow furrowed. He brought me closer to his face, sniffing slightly, and his expression dissolved into pure disgust. “Why do you smell so foul? Did you fall into a cesspool?” Without another word, he wound my body into a tight, neat spiral—like a ball of yarn—and dropped me unceremoniously into a silver basin filled with fresh water. “Clean yourself up before you try to kill me again.” I thrashed in the water, cursing his entire royal bloodline to the heavens. But my small size made the simple task of untangling myself an absolute nightmare. I spent the entire night twisting, turning, and wrestling with my own knotted tail. By the time the horizon began to bleed gold, I finally managed to straighten my spine. Gasping for air, I propped my chin on the edge of the silver basin, only to find myself staring directly at the sleeping face of the King. Leaving an assassin loose in his chambers while he sleeps? He is as arrogant as he is foolish. I glided silently over the rim, climbing up the velvet bedpost and creeping onto the silk pillows beside his head. Talia’s voice echoed in my mind: “Our fangs carry the ultimate kiss of death, Maisie. One prick, and their heart stops before they can even scream.” I lunged forward, opening my mouth as wide as it would go, and bit down on his bottom lip with all the force my tiny body could muster. The King’s eyes snapped open. He didn’t scream. He didn’t even flinch. He simply reached up, plucked me off his face, and used his thumb to pry my jaw open. “You don’t even have your adult fangs yet, little pest,” he murmured, a slow, mocking smirk spreading across his lips. I glared at him, hissed, and tried to look as menacing as possible. Gideon tilted his head, bringing his face so close I could see my own bright, chubby reflection in his dark eyes. “Keep looking at me like that, and I’ll have the kitchens turn you into snake soup.” I froze. My eyes snapped shut, my tail tucked tightly against my belly, and I went limp, playing dead with absolute, shameless commitment. A soft, low chuckle vibrated above me. I peeked through a tiny slit in my eyelids, catching the thoughtful glint in Gideon’s eyes. He suddenly turned toward the door and called out, “Guards!” My stomach plummeted. A young servant rushed into the room, bowing deeply. “Your Majesty?” Gideon lifted me by the tail, dangling me like a piece of colorful rope. “Take this thing out and dispose of it.” Dispose of me? Soup? Skinning? Cold dread washed over me. I immediately flipped onto my back, let my tongue loll out of my mouth, and tried to look like a shriveled piece of jerky. “Oh dear, is it already dead?” the young servant gasped, recoiling slightly. Gideon glanced at my pathetic performance. The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. “If it’s dead, throw it in a jar of spirits. It’ll make a fine medicinal wine.” The servant gingerly scooped me up and turned to leave. The moment we crossed the threshold into the cool hallway, I launched myself out of his hands, landing on the stone floor with a soft splat before vanishing into the shadows of the corridor. “Ah! It’s escaped!” the servant shrieked behind me. I fled through the maze of hallways, not slowing down until I scrambled back into the safety of my smelly latrine scullery. Only then did my racing heart begin to settle. Gideon was terrifyingly sharp. No wonder our first three assassins had failed so miserably. I curled up in the corner of the room, resting my chin on my knees, deeply analyzing my tactical errors. Direct force and venom were clearly out of the question for a harmless corn snake shifter. I needed to adapt. I needed to study Toby’s method of stealth and infiltration. But as I looked down at my reflection in a bucket of water, my heart sank. Bright orange and red scales, decorated with bold, festive yellow saddles. I looked like a walking holiday lantern. If I tried to hide in the grass, I’d be visible from a mile away. My snake form was useless for stealth. I bit my lip and made a decision: I would have to use my human form. For the next week, I pushed my body to its absolute limits. By day, I scrubbed my thirty chamber pots; by night, I slipped out to shadow the King, studying his schedule. Eventually, I noticed a pattern. When he worked in his private study late at night, he dismissed all his guards and advisors. A perfect, moonless night. The ultimate time for a strike. I slipped into a makeshift suit of black clothes I’d sewn from discarded rags. Crawling beneath the shadows, I reached the exterior wall of his study just as the sentries rounded the far corner. It was now or never. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the stone windowsill and hoisted myself up to climb through. I shoved the glass panes open with a sharp clatter. But I had vastly overestimated my physical agility. I ended up hopelessly wedged in the window frame, my legs dangling outside while my upper body spilled into the bright, warm study. The room was ablaze with candlelight. Gideon sat behind his grand desk, surrounded by several high-ranking ministers in formal robes. They were clearly in the middle of an incredibly important council meeting. Every single eye in the room snapped to me. The silence that followed was suffocating. “Uh, hi,” I offered, letting out a nervous, high-pitched chuckle. “Busy night, huh? Keep up the good work!” I frantically tried to wiggle backward out of the frame. I had just managed to get one leg back over when Gideon’s smooth, dry voice cut through the air: “Arrest her.” The guards lunged. Panic seized me. I thrashed wildly, but the cheap fabric of my makeshift black suit caught on a heavy iron latch, pinning me in place. Seeing the guards closing in, I tore myself free with a desperate wrench of my body. I fell backward, landing hard on the muddy grass outside. Before the guards could burst through the palace doors, I willed my body to shift back into my colorful snake form. But just as I made a mad dash for the shrubbery, a long, elegant hand descended from above, pinning me expertly by the neck. “You again?” I looked up into Gideon’s handsome, mocking face. He held me up to his eyes, examining my bright scales as if I were a particularly amusing clockwork toy. The guards came rushing around the corner, only to find a pile of torn black rags on the ground. “Forgive us, Your Majesty. The assassin has vanished.” Gideon waved them off with an indifferent shrug. “Let it go. Any assassin who gets stuck in a window frame is hardly a threat to the crown. Besides,” he added, glancing down at my plump midsection, “judging by her proportions, I suspect she was merely trying to raid the royal pantry.” I snapped, sinking my tiny, toothless mouth onto his index finger. Threaten my life all you want, but do not insult my figure! Unfortunately, no matter how hard I clamped down, I couldn’t even break his skin. Gideon ran his thumb down my spine, tracing the vibrant orange patterns of my scales. “I’ve been needing a new belt,” he mused, a dangerous spark in his eyes. “Since you’re so fond of sneaking into my quarters, I think I’ll keep you.” Before I could react, he wrapped my long, supple body around his waist and tied me in a loose, secure knot. The sheer humiliation of it. A proud warrior of the serpent clan, reduced to a tyrant’s belt accessory. I wanted more than anything to bite him, but every time I squirmed, the knot tightened, squeezing the breath right out of me. After a few futile struggles, I gave up, letting my tail dangle limply against his thigh, swaying with the rhythm of his steps as he walked back inside. My life went completely off the rails after that night. Whether Gideon found me genuinely amusing or simply wanted to torture me, he refused to go anywhere without his new “accessory.” During morning court, I was wrapped around his wrist, masquerading as an exotic orange bracelet. During meals, I was coiled neatly beside his plate, presented with a silver saucer of small, harmless crickets (which I flatly refused to touch). At night, he left me on the silk pillow right beside his head, completely unbothered by the fact that I was technically his sworn enemy. One morning, as I was dozing off around his wrist, a cold, grating voice echoed through the Great Hall, snapping me awake. “Your Majesty, the serpent plague remains a threat to our realm. I have read the stars, and the dark magic of the serpent clan still lingers. If we do not tear them out by the roots, they will bring ruin to your throne.” My eyes snapped open. Standing in the center of the hall was an old man in flowing black robes, holding a silver staff. It was Grand Prophet Lucius, the architect of our clan’s misery. “I implore you, Your Majesty, double our forces. Every serpent, from the grandest python to the smallest hatchling, must be put to the sword.” Rage surged through me, hot and suffocating. This was the man who had ordered the slaughter of my family. I squeezed Gideon’s wrist in a tight, furious grip. Sensing my sudden agitation, Gideon calmly laid his other hand over me, his thumb gently stroking the top of my head to soothe me. “I hear your concerns, Prophet. We shall discuss this at a later date.” Lucius frowned, stepping forward. “But Your Majesty, this is a matter of urgent—” “Court is dismissed,” Gideon interrupted, rising from his throne without another word. I peeked out from the edge of his sleeve, flicking my tongue toward Lucius as we swept past him. That afternoon, Lucius left the palace for his private manor. Waiting until Gideon was deeply engrossed in his paperwork, I slipped down his sleeve, sliding along the baseboards and out into the gardens. Lucius was a cunning old fox; physical force or brute strength would never work on him. But during my time spent clinging to the King, I had observed the royal physicians and managed to swipe a pouch of powerful sleeping powder used to treat Gideon’s occasional insomnia. I had stolen a massive dose. I would knock the old bastard out cold, and then I’d find a way to finish him. Keeping to my snake form to avoid detection, I carried the pouch in my mouth, trailing Lucius through the winding, quiet streets of the capital. When he finally turned down a deserted alley, I coiled my tail and launched myself through the air, flinging the pouch directly at his face. But Lucius didn’t flinch. A sickening, cruel grin stretched across his wrinkled face. He whipped out a heavy silk fan and gave it a sharp, powerful flick. The entire cloud of sleeping powder was blown straight back into my face. The world began to spin. My vision blurred, my muscles went limp, and I collapsed onto the cold stone path with a soft plop. A sharp, agonizing pain flared in my tail. Lucius ground his heavy boot down on my lower body, twisting his heel with slow, deliberate cruelty. He looked down at me, his voice dripping with malice. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you tailing me, you pathetic little worm?” I thrashed in agony, but the pressure only intensified, crushing my delicate scales. “A mere corn snake trying to take my life?” he hissed, raising his boot to hover directly over my head. “I could crush you like a common garden slug.” He smiled, his boot slowly descending. My vision began to go dark, my lungs screaming for air. Just as the sole of his boot was about to crush my skull, a calm, commanding voice echoed down the alleyway: “That is my pet you’re stepping on, Prophet. And I get incredibly displeased when people break my toys.”

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As we passed our old high school, Wright suddenly spoke. “Georgia, let’s call off the wedding. It’s in three days, I know, but…” My expression remained flat. “For a trainwreck who can’t keep herself out of trouble?” Wright’s eyes flared with warning. “No matter how much of a mess she is, I’ll always be there to clean up after her. As long as her feelings for me are real.” I stared at this man I had loved for nine years. Finally, I smiled and nodded. “Fine. Then I hope you get exactly what you want—a trainwreck’s pure, unadulterated heart.” Nine years of devotion. The love had died a slow death long ago. It was time to go home, inherit the family empire, and marry the childhood ward my grandfather had groomed to be my husband. …….. Wright’s cool, detached eyes flickered in surprise. He hadn’t expected someone as notoriously rigid and proper as me to speak with such biting sarcasm. Then his lips curved downward into a frown. “Georgia, I admit I’ve wasted nine years of your life. But I hope you won’t let jealousy drive you to do something that hurts her.” He didn’t bother to examine the shift in my demeanor. He simply chalked it up to bitter, ugly envy. I looked at this man. The man I had chased for nearly a decade, whose love I could never quite grasp. Suddenly, the whole thing felt incredibly hollow. He used to say we both needed to work hard for our future together. But in reality, he had just stood by, coldly watching me sink deeper and deeper into a relationship I couldn’t escape. He didn’t love me. He didn’t care about my soul, my hopes, or my quiet suffering. To him, I was just a walking stereotype—the rigid, disciplined heiress bound by duty and etiquette. I was boring. Not even half as exciting as his precious scarlet letter. I used to think that even if he strayed, he would eventually find his way back to the right path. That we would face the world together as partners. Now I saw the truth. Some people are just destined to remain in the gutter. “Wright, I knew you wouldn’t forget our nine-year promise.” A tall woman in a striking scarlet dress stepped out from behind him. Jet-black hair, blood-red lips—she was breathtakingly, aggressively beautiful. She carried herself with an easy, untamed confidence, sliding her hand effortlessly around Wright’s arm. “I heard you finally gave up on me and were getting married. Why didn’t I get an invitation? And if you’re really tying the knot, why did you come to meet me today?” Scarlett’s barrage of questions made the usually taciturn Wright flush a deep crimson. He answered in a panicked rush: “Who said I was getting married? It’s completely untrue.” As the words left his mouth, he cast a tense, guilty glance at me, terrified I would expose his lie. I lowered my head, hiding the bitter smirk playing on my lips. “He’s right. It’s entirely untrue.” No wonder Wright—who was supposed to go wedding dress shopping with me today—had suddenly taken a detour to our old school. Scarlett tossed her long hair back with a carefree laugh. “Georgia, honestly, you’re hopeless. I gave you nine years, and you still couldn’t lock him down? If I were you, I would’ve just pounced on him the way I did back in the day.” If I hadn’t known Scarlett’s true colors, I might have actually believed she was just a bright, free-spirited beauty. She smiled, reminiscing about the past. Wright reached out to hold her hand, his tone firm: “I’m not the kind of guy who settles for just anyone.” I didn’t believe a word of what Wright usually said, but that statement? I agreed with it completely. Even when Scarlett had cheated on him a dozen times with wealthy patrons to secure her modeling career—getting caught red-handed in hotel rooms more times than I could count—Wright had remained fiercely, pathetically loyal, begging her not to leave him. You have to understand, Wright came from old money. He was notoriously proud, cold, and untouchable; most people couldn’t even get him to spare them a glance. Yet Scarlett could pull his heartstrings with a single look, making him lose his absolute mind. Scarlett smiled seductively, leaning into him. “Didn’t you say you wanted to show me what it feels like to ride in a Maserati again? Let’s see if you’re still as good as you used to be.” Wright’s eyes darkened with raw desire. He didn’t even try to reject the invitation. I watched them walk away hand in hand. I didn’t say a word to stop them. When I was seventeen, my grandfather bypassed my greedy, vulture-like uncles and handed me my first major project as a test for the family inheritance. But my first campaign was publicly exposed for plagiarism. Wright, representing our partner firm, mobilized his own resources to prove someone had deliberately copied and leaked my pitch. A classic damsel-in-distress rescue. Cliche, but incredibly effective. I fell head over heels for this quiet, serious, meticulous man. We both carried the crushing expectations of our families. In the eyes of high society, we were the perfect golden couple. When Wright’s mother was driven to suicide by his father’s mistress trying to force her way into the estate, I used my family’s PR machine to block the mistress from taking her place. When his illegitimate half-brother tried to steal his shares, I helped him land a massive international client, securing his position. When he was diagnosed with a rare, aggressive form of cancer and admitted to the ICU, I wrote him letters by hand every single day, pulling strings to get them delivered to his sterile room. I was naturally quiet and reserved, but I spent hours scouring the internet for jokes, reading them over and over until I laughed out loud, just so I could write them down and coax a smile from him. Over three years of cancer treatments, I wrote a thousand letters. I stood outside that ICU window, watching him in secret, a thousand times. The day his cancer went into complete remission, Wright wrote back to me for the very first time: My life was as flat and colorless as water, but meeting you made it burn. We had walked through the valley of death together. It was indeed a burning, passionate survival story. I thought our silent bond didn’t need to be spoken. I thought we were partners, chosen for life. But then Scarlett burst into our lives like a force of nature. On the day he was discharged, Scarlett, carrying a bundle of fiery red roses, collided straight into his chest. She laughed and said, “Hey handsome, you broke my flowers. You have to pay me back. These were meant for my sweetheart, but since they’re in your hands now, I guess you’re my sweetheart!” He had frowned, but he hadn’t pushed her away. At the time, I didn’t realize that single collision had knocked her straight into Wright’s heart. If I had known, I would have thrown myself between them without hesitation. After that, Scarlett pursued Wright relentlessly. She held up massive signs in public, filled his driveway with elaborate flower arrangements. Wright went from frowning and avoiding her to smiling the moment she entered the room. Finally, in front of the entire student body, Scarlett presented him with a giant cardboard box. Wright had rubbed his temples, a helpless, indulgent smile on his face. “Fine, I give in. Just stop making a scene.” But Scarlett opened the box. “Give in to what? I’m just delivering your lunch. Pay up.” Wright’s face flushed. He pulled her into his arms, kissing her deeply. “Stop playing with me.” Three months. In three months, Scarlett did what I couldn’t do in three years. Since then, Scarlett loved to flaunt her hold over him in front of me. “I heard you two have known each other forever. You don’t still think of him as your cold, older-brother figure, do you? Let me tell you a secret. That untouchable prince of yours? To me, he’s just a toy.” Wright didn’t feel insulted. He would just affectionately ruffle her hair and say, “You’d better play with me for the rest of your life.” Scarlett would slap his cheek playfully, her eyes dripping with triumph. “Do they know that the great, dignified Wright Geller is just a begging dog when he’s with me?” Wright would stare at the love bites on her neck, his smile wild and reckless. “Then you’d better tell them I’m a dog that bites.” Scarlett would hit him in mock annoyance, and they would kiss passionately, completely ignoring my presence. Then she’d look at me. “And what about your dear ‘sister’ here? I hear you two have been partners in crime for years. Everyone in town thinks you’re a couple.” Wright’s brow would furrow with undisguised disgust. “Being with someone as stiff and boring as her doesn’t compare to being ruined by a beautiful mess like you.” It felt like a physical blow to my chest, stealing my breath. He proved it with his actions. Even after Scarlett humiliated and betrayed him countless times, he never looked at me. He was willing to throw his dignity away, punching her new boyfriends, getting into ruinous fights with her wealthy sponsors, dragging his own reputation through the mud. He refused to let go. But his burning obsession couldn’t keep her. “I just wanted to see what it felt like to tame the untouchable bachelor,” she told him one day. “I’m bored now. Bye.” That night, she posted a picture on a luxury yacht, wrapped in the arms of an international media mogul, captioned: [Next goal: Becoming his muse.] Scarlett repeated her tricks, chasing after the billionaire, turning herself into a joke across two continents. Wright didn’t say a word. He simply brought me a business proposal: “Didn’t you say we were partners? Help me regain my position in the company. When this is over, there will only be you by my side.” … Women always have this savior complex. For nine long years, I thought I was dragging Wright out of the quicksand. I helped him secure sole control of the Geller empire. But to him, that success was just leverage to win Scarlett back. I used to feel so bitter. How could I lose to someone so shallow? Now, I just felt thoroughly disgusted. If he wanted to chain himself to a toxic wreck, then I wished them a lifetime of misery together. May they never set each other free. The news of Wright canceling our wedding swept through our social circles. Many mocked me behind my back for being a pathetic, desperate hanger-on who got dumped at the finish line. My grandfather called me. “Are we still going ahead with the wedding?” I gave a quiet hum of agreement. Grandfather sighed softly. “If you don’t want to, sweetheart, we can call it off. I won’t force you.” My voice was light, untroubled. “A stray dog can never compare to a loyal, well-trained hound at home, Grandpa. Besides, if I don’t get married, my uncles will keep circling the estate like vultures. I’ve played this game long enough. It’s time to settle down. The wedding goes on. There’s no reason to waste a multi-million-dollar ceremony just because the groom ran away. We’ll just swap him out. It’s no big deal.” In our world, true love is a luxury few can afford. I had accepted that reality long ago. I went to my final bridal fitting alone. The moment I walked in, I noticed the sales associates looking at me with absolute dread and embarrassment. Sensing something was wrong, I stepped deeper into the boutique. The wedding dress—the one my mother had custom-ordered for me the year I was born—was currently draped over Scarlett. I turned to the manager, my voice cold. “Who gave permission to let someone try on a gown stored under the Lawson family name?” A sales girl rolled her eyes at me. “The Lawson family? This is Mr. Geller’s future wife’s dress. Everyone knows your engagement is off, so what does this dress have to do with you? Can’t even keep her own man, yet she’s trying to claim a priceless designer gown.” The girl stepped in front of me, physically blocking me from touching the fabric. I let out a dry, cold laugh, looking past her to Wright. “I wasn’t aware this dress had a new owner.” Wright, dressed in a matching tailored tuxedo, didn’t look even remotely guilty. He spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world: “Scarlett is the wife I’ve chosen.” He slid a black Amex card onto the counter. “There’s five million on here. Consider it payment for the gown. Don’t make a scene.” Scarlett giggled, covering her mouth. “Oh, Wright, even if this thing were dripping in real diamonds, it wouldn’t be worth five million. You really do spoil me.” Having no interest in their cheap theater, I walked past Wright, my face expressionless. “Take it off.” Wright stepped in front of me, a warning in his eyes. “Georgia, don’t force me to play dirty with you.” I smiled. The moment Wright decided to cancel our wedding and humiliate my family, we were already past the point of civility. “I won’t repeat myself. Take. It. Off. Or I’ll gladly strip your sweetheart naked right here in front of everyone, so they can get a good look at her famous figure.” Scarlett knew I wasn’t bluffing. She pouted, suddenly playing the victim. “Fine, Wright. Since Georgia wants it so badly, I’ll just let her have it.” I refused to play into her hands. “Who knows if you’ve already ruined it. I want to watch you take it off.” I didn’t trust Scarlett as far as I could throw her. Wright glared at me, his eyes burning with hatred, as if I had subjected his precious angel to some unspeakable torture. “Georgia!” Scarlett let out a triumphant smirk and pulled me into the fitting room. “Sure, then. Come watch.” I kept quiet, watching her slide the zipper down. She exposed her flawless skin and suddenly spoke: “Do you want to know why Wright would rather be my dog than look at you? Because to him, I’m the one who wrote him those thousand letters when he was dying of cancer. I’m his entire survival story.” I froze, staring at her in utter disbelief. Her grin widened. “You stayed by his side for all those years. You blocked his dad’s mistress after his mother died. You saved his inheritance. So why couldn’t you stay with him when he needed you most? Why did you give up on writing those letters?” She looked at me with the smug satisfaction of a victor. “Did you really think Wright kept you around for nine years out of affection? No, Georgia. He kept you around because he hated you. He hated you for leaving him halfway. He hated that your love wasn’t strong enough to stay.” A cold numbness spread from my chest to my fingertips. Everything in the last nine years had been a massive, tragic misunderstanding. Scarlett stepped closer, smiling. “It’s maddening, isn’t it? You were the one who wrote the letters. You were the one who pulled strings to get him the best oncologists when his family gave up on him. But he thinks it was me.” I stared at her, my hands shaking. She tilted her head innocently. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t steal your credit. Wright assumed it all on his own from the moment I ran into him. He said you were too stiff and boring to ever write such beautiful, funny letters. He said only someone as wild and vibrant as me could have saved his soul.” At that moment, I felt a wave of profound, pathetic irony. No verification. No questions. Wright had simply decided that Scarlett was his savior because she fit the fantasy. Suddenly, Scarlett raised her hands and violently slapped her own cheeks. She dragged her nails down her collarbone, leaving angry red welts, and began to shriek: “I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have touched your dress! I’m so dirty, I’m just a terrible person!” Wright burst through the door. Seeing Scarlett disheveled, crying, and covered in scratches, his face contorted in rage. He raised his hand and slapped me across the face. My head spun from the force of the blow, and I stumbled against the wall. “Georgia! I’m the one who called off the wedding! If you have a problem, take it out on me!” Remembering what Scarlett had just told me, I opened my mouth to speak. I wanted to ask him if he would feel a single shred of remorse if he knew the truth. But before I could speak, he cut me off: “You insisted on coming in here just because there are no cameras. You wanted to hurt her! Well, you got what you wanted. Are you happy now?” He pulled out his phone right in front of me and dialed a number. “Announce it to the press immediately. I am marrying Scarlett Young. From this day forward, if anyone so much as touches a hair on her head, they answer to me!” He glared at me. “If you ever go near my wife again, I will destroy the Lawson family if it’s the last thing I do!” He took off his tuxedo jacket, wrapped it around Scarlett, and ushered her out. The store owner, who had rushed over after being alerted by the staff, began apologizing profusely: “I am so sorry, Miss Lawson. I was out of the boutique today and didn’t brief the staff properly. I will personally resolve this misunderstanding with your fiancé.” She looked pale, terrified that this disaster would get her blacklisted from the entire luxury industry. “Don’t bother. He is not my fiancé.” I wasn’t going to take my anger out on an employee. I merely said, “Clean the gown. I’ll need it in three days.” The manager blinked. “But… isn’t the wedding off?” “The wedding is on schedule,” I replied coldly. “But you’ll need to size up the groom’s tuxedo. My new fiancé is three inches taller.”

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I was adjusting my bow tie in the dressing room of our engagement party when Ruth brought that impoverished junior from her college inside. “Troy got his suit dirty,” she said, her voice breezy, as if she were asking to borrow a pen. “Let him wear yours for a bit.” I froze, my fingers still tangled in the silk. She offered a small, dismissive shrug. “Everyone knows you’re the groom today anyway, Christopher. It doesn’t matter what you wear.” Troy stood hovering near the doorway. His canvas sneakers were scrubbed raw, practically fraying at the seams, and he looked down at his feet, offering a quiet, nervous, “Hey, Christopher.” Wayne stepped in front of me, his chest rising. “This is Christopher’s engagement party, Ruth. He went to thirty different shops to find this bespoke Italian suit. He’s been waiting months for it!” Ruth didn’t look at Wayne. She looked at me. It was a look I knew too well. For five years, whenever her eyes softened into that silent, pleading pressure, I was the one who stepped back. I was always the one who surrendered. I placed a hand on Wayne’s arm, gently pushing him down, and slowly unfastened my silver cufflinks. “Let him have it,” I said. Ruth smiled, a small, satisfied curve of her lips, and patted my cheek. “I knew you’d understand. I promise we’ll get you the absolute best custom suit for the wedding.” When Troy changed into my suit, Ruth leaned in, her fingers smoothing the lapels and adjusting the shoulders. “You look so handsome, Troy,” she murmured softly. I watched her, a cold knot tightening in my chest. I remembered that exact gesture. During our wedding photoshoot, the photographer had asked her to do the same for me, but she had brushed it off, calling it too cheesy for public display. I reached down and slid the engagement ring off my finger. This time, I was done being understanding. … “Who is this young man? He looks so sharp.” Ruth’s aunt was standing by the neighboring table, holding Troy’s hand and looking him up and down with an approving smile. Troy kept his head low, a faint, self-conscious smile touching his lips. Before he could speak, Ruth slid into the conversation. “He’s my junior from school,” she said smoothly. “His family has had a rough time lately. His clothes got ruined in an accident, and Christopher felt bad for him, so he insisted Troy wear his suit.” Her aunt nodded, her gaze drifting over to where I stood in my plain, off-the-rack gray blazer. “But why is Christopher dressed like that? For an engagement party, it’s… a bit casual, isn’t it?” “Christopher doesn’t care about things like that,” Ruth replied quickly, her hand reaching out to find my arm. “He’s the most generous man I know.” As her fingers brushed my sleeve, I took a half-step sideways. Her hand fell through the empty air. She blinked, startled. “What’s wrong?” I kept my eyes on the floor. “Nothing.” Wayne grabbed my elbow from behind and pulled me into the quiet shadow of the hallway corner. “Are you seriously just going to let this slide?” he hissed. “What do you want me to do, Wayne?” “Go out there! Tell everyone that’s your suit, that he’s a nobody, and that you’re the one she’s marrying!” I looked at his flushed face, the raw frustration in his eyes. “You’re more upset than I am, man.” “Of course I am!” Wayne’s voice cracked. “Do you have any idea what they’re saying at her table?” He pulled out his phone, tapping frantically before turning the screen toward me. It was an Instagram story posted by one of Ruth’s college friends. In the frame, Troy stood in my bespoke suit on Ruth’s right, her hand resting comfortably on his shoulder. In the background, someone was teasing, “The groom looks so handsome!” Troy merely blushed, keeping his eyes down, offering no correction. Ruth didn’t deny it either; she just laughed and waved a hand at the camera. Underneath the post, a comment read: Ruth’s fiancé is so sweet and innocent. It already had thirty likes. No one had corrected them. I swallowed the dry bitterness in my throat, handed the phone back to Wayne, and turned off the screen. From the banquet hall, another wave of laughter drifted out. Troy was being pulled into a toast. He handled the crowd gracefully, tilting his glass slightly as he leaned in to speak. I had taught him that. Just last month, he had confessed how terrified he was of formal business dinners. I had spent an entire afternoon showing him how to hold a glass, how to stand, how to navigate a room. “Call me an Uber, Wayne.” “You’re not going back in?” “There’s nothing left for me in there.” I walked over to the guest registry table. The silver engagement band felt heavy in my palm as I set it down next to the guestbook. The wood was slightly dusty, and the ring settled with a tiny, sharp clink. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was an Instagram notification. Ruth had posted. “Thank you to everyone who made tonight so special.” There were three photos. The first was a wide shot of the glittering hall; the second was her laughing with her bridesmaids; and the third… Troy, smiling brilliantly in my suit. She had tagged him. The caption read: Huge thanks to Troy for keeping things running tonight. Couldn’t have done it without you. My name wasn’t in the post. I wasn’t in any of the photos. I turned the screen off and pushed through the heavy glass doors of the hotel. When I crossed the street, the warm, golden light of the banquet hall was still burning. Even from the far curb, the music and the muffled laughter reached me through the damp night air. Before opening the cab door, I looked back one last time. Ruth was standing on the hotel steps, her head bent over her phone. Troy stepped out from behind her, gently draping his dark coat over her bare shoulders. She pulled the collar tight around her neck. It was a natural, fluid gesture. It looked like a habit. “Christopher, you left your ring on the registry table.” It was two in the morning when Ruth’s call came through. Her voice was steady, free of any real alarm. “I know.” “Well, I went ahead and kept it for you. I’ll put it back on your finger tomorrow.” She paused, her tone softening into that gentle, placating register she used when she wanted to smooth things over. “I know today was hard on you. Troy’s suit really was an emergency, but everyone saw how mature and understanding you were.” “Ruth, let’s break up.” The line went dead silent for three long seconds. Then, a soft, breathy laugh came through the speaker. “Christopher, come on. I know you’re hurt about the suit, but a breakup? Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?” “I’m serious.” “You always throw the word ‘breakup’ around when you’re sulking,” she said, her patience returning like a mother dealing with a stubborn child. “Fine. When you’re done being angry, call me. I’ll come over.” “Ruth—” “Be good, Christopher. Tomorrow I’ll take you to that sushi place uptown. The one you’ve been begging to go to.” I didn’t answer. After a quiet moment, her voice dropped, turning cool and sharp. “Christopher, it’s been five years. When have you ever actually had the courage to leave me?” The question hung in the quiet room. I didn’t have an answer for her. She truly believed I would never go. I ended the call. Wayne walked out of his kitchen, carrying a mug of warm water, and sat on the opposite end of the sofa. “What did she say?” “She said she’s coming to find me.” “Are you going to see her?” “No.” He opened his mouth to speak, took one look at my face, and quietly closed it. I stared down at the dark screen of my phone. Her contact name was still saved as Ruth with a tiny sun emoji beside it, a detail I’d put there five years ago. We had just started dating then. She had waited for me outside my dorm in the middle of a brutal November freeze, clutching a small, cheap plastic hand warmer to her chest to keep it warm. Her cheeks had been bright pink from the wind. Your roommate told me your hands get so stiff from drawing in the cold, she had said, her voice shaking slightly from the chill. I had told her she didn’t need to worry, that I was fine, that guys didn’t need things like hand warmers. But she had laughed, forcing the warm plastic into my palms and wrapping her small, frozen fingers around mine. With me, you don’t have to pretend to be tough. If you’re cold or tired, you tell me. Back then, her eyes had been so bright, so full of a fierce, protective warmth that made me feel entirely safe. Wayne broke the silence. “Do you remember when she actually started to change?” I thought about it for a long long time, tracing the memories back through the years. “I don’t,” I whispered. Maybe it was the afternoon Troy first showed up at her office, red-eyed and trembling because he couldn’t afford his tuition. Or maybe it was the first time she looked at me and said, “Just let him have this, Christopher. You have so much more than he does.” The shift had been glacial. A fraction of an inch every day, so small it was impossible to measure, until one day I woke up and realized there was nothing left of the woman I loved. Wayne stood up and tossed a thick blanket over my lap. “Don’t go back to your place tonight. Just crash here.” “Thanks.” At three in the morning, the phone lit up again. It rang three times before going dark. She didn’t call back. She believed one night of silence would be enough to cure my anger. She believed that when the sun came up, I would pack my bags and come home, just like I always did. I flipped the phone face down. For the first time in five years, I let the silence stay. “Wayne, let me in.” The next evening, Ruth was standing on Wayne’s porch, a small white bakery box dangling from her finger. Wayne stood firmly in the doorway, his arm blocking the frame. “He doesn’t want to see you, Ruth.” “I know he’s upset,” she said, giving him a tight, polite smile. “Just let me talk to him for five minutes. I’ll leave right after.” “Talk about what? About how you couldn’t even manage to type his name in your post yesterday?” Ruth’s smile faltered, her jaw tightening. “Wayne, this is between Christopher and me. Don’t interfere.” “Don’t call him Christopher. You don’t get to use that name anymore.” I walked over to the door and gently tapped Wayne’s shoulder. “It’s fine, Wayne. Let her in. I want to say this to her face.” Wayne slowly stepped aside, his eyes cold as he watched her brush past him. She kicked off her heels and set the bakery box on the coffee table. “I brought that tiramisu you love. I didn’t get a chance to give it to you yesterday.” I didn’t touch the box. She sat down on the armchair opposite me, smoothing her skirt. “Christopher, what exactly do you want me to do?” “I already told you. I want to break up.” Her brow furrowed, a trace of genuine irritation slipping into her voice. “You want to throw away five years over a suit?” “It was never about the suit, Ruth.” “Then what is it?” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and clasping her hands—the exact pose she assumed whenever we had a disagreement, her eyes wide with that patient, patronizing look that said she was ready to let me vent until I got over myself. “Last year on your birthday,” I said, my voice quiet, “I spent two months trying to get a reservation at that French place downtown. Right before we were supposed to leave, Troy called to say his stomach was cramping. You took the car keys and drove straight to his apartment.” “He was completely alone in the city, Christopher. What if his appendix had burst?” “He had eaten too much takeout, Ruth. That was it. And instead of coming back, you stayed there and watched TV with him until midnight while I sat at that table alone until the kitchen closed.” She hesitated, her eyes flickering. “I apologized for that. I bought you that designer watch to make up for it.” “And then you bought Troy the exact same one two weeks later.” “He was going through a rough patch—” “He’s always going through a rough patch,” I said, the words falling flat and heavy between us. “Tell me, Ruth, when is he ever actually fine?” She remained silent. “Last month, when I had that flight to Seattle, you told me to take an Uber because you had to help Troy move his things into his new apartment.” “He had so many heavy boxes—” “You gave him the wool blanket my mother knit for us. The one she sent from home.” “It was getting old and frayed,” Ruth said, her voice rising slightly. “I was planning to buy you a cashmere one to replace it.” “It was mine!” My voice didn’t rise, but the sheer weight of it made her flinch. “My mother sat in her armchair with her reading glasses on for an entire week to make that. She wrapped it in three layers of paper so the stitching wouldn’t get crushed in the mail. It wasn’t yours to give away.” The room fell into a suffocating quiet. Wayne stood near the kitchen doorway, his knuckles white against the frame. In the past, I would have kept pushing. I would have screamed, demanded to know why I wasn’t enough, and then I would have wept and forgiven her the moment she muttered a soft apology. But looking at her now, I felt nothing but a profound, exhausting emptiness. “Christopher,” Ruth said, her voice dropping into a cold, disappointed register. “I always thought you were different from the rest.” “The rest?” “People who keep score,” she said, looking at me with a genuine, baffling sincerity. “I thought you understood. Troy has absolutely no one in this city. You have me, you have a great family, you have a career… you don’t lack anything. Is it really so terrible that I give him a little extra support?” She spoke with such absolute conviction, as if her logic were entirely flawless. “You have everything,” she whispered. “Why can’t you just yield to someone who has nothing?” I looked at her. Really looked at her. There was a faint flicker of expectation in her eyes, a belief that if she just explained it one more time, I would nod, apologize for being selfish, and let it go. But among all those things she claimed I had, there was one thing named Ruth. And she had been slowly, quietly giving herself away to someone else, piece by piece, while wondering why I felt so empty. “You’re right, Ruth,” I said softly. “I have everything.” She let out a tiny, relieved breath. “So,” I continued, “I don’t need you anymore.” The relief vanished from her face. “Christopher.” “You used to be so soft,” she whispered. I didn’t answer. She stood up, grabbed her coat, and walked out, the front door clicking shut behind her. My eyes fell on the bakery box on the table. Tiramisu. She didn’t even remember. I had stopped liking tiramisu a year ago. The tuxedo fit me perfectly in the mirror. My mother stood behind me, her gentle hands smoothing the collar of my shirt, the fine lines around her eyes deepening into a warm smile. “When is Ruth getting here? I feel like I haven’t seen her in six months.” I looked down at my phone. Ten minutes ago, a text had arrived from Ruth. Troy’s graduation thesis data got corrupted. He’s in his advisor’s office crying his eyes out. I have to go help him sort it. Try on the suit without me, and explain things to your mom—she’s always so sweet, she’ll understand. I’ll book that Italian place she loves tonight to make it up to her. My mother had undergone minor heart surgery just last month. I hadn’t told her a single thing about the cracks forming between Ruth and me. I clicked the screen off and turned to her with a smile. “She had an emergency meeting at the office, Mom. She won’t be able to make it.” My mother’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but she quickly patted my hand. “Work is important, sweetheart. It’s wonderful that she’s so dedicated to her career. You look so handsome. Come on, let me take a few pictures of you.” Click. In the photo, I stood tall in my tailored suit, a perfect smile plastered on my face, but my eyes were entirely hollow. After watching my mother board her train back home, I drove straight to Wayne’s apartment. Sitting on his worn leather sofa, I dialed the wedding coordinator’s number. “Hi, this is Christopher. I need to cancel the reservation for Clearwater Chapel.” There was a long pause on the other end. “Mr. Hayden, that venue has an eight-month waiting list, and your ten-thousand-dollar deposit is completely non-refundable. Are you absolutely sure?” “I’m sure.” “But you came out here so many times,” the coordinator said, her voice filled with genuine confusion. “Our designer said you were incredibly meticulous about every single detail…” “Just cancel it. Thank you.” I hung up. Wayne sat on the opposite end of the couch, watching me. “Are you really sure about this, Christopher?” “Yeah.” That chapel was forty miles out of the city. There was no direct train; you had to take two buses and walk another twenty minutes through a gravel path. I had chosen it because of the lake. Five years ago, on our very first weekend trip, we had found that lake. I had spent the entire afternoon taking photos of her against the water. She had laughed, wrapping her arms around my neck, and told me it was our secret place. I had built the entire wedding design with the coordinator, draft after draft. I chose white magnolias for the tables because her mother loved simple, classic flowers. The processional music was the exact acoustic track that had been playing in the background of the coffee shop on our very first date. I had drawn the seating chart myself, color-coding it with colored pencils—pink for her family, blue for mine. I had placed her college roommate, who suffered from severe vertigo, on the ground floor near the French doors so she wouldn’t feel trapped. Ruth had never asked about any of it. “Christopher,” Wayne said softly. “If you need to break down, just do it. I’m not going to judge you.” I shook my head. I didn’t have any tears left to cry. Wayne was in the middle of a design review at his office when his phone rang. It was Ruth. “Christopher’s phone is off,” she said, her tone light and casual, as if she were asking to borrow a lawnmower. “Can you tell him something for me?” Wayne set his stylus down. “What is it, Ruth?” “Troy’s shooting his graduation photos next month and wants somewhere unique. I remembered that lakeside chapel Christopher booked. The view is gorgeous. Can you ask Christopher to call the venue and let Troy borrow it for the afternoon?” Wayne’s fingers tightened around his phone, his knuckles turning white. “Ruth,” he said, his voice dropping into a dangerously quiet register. “That venue has been cancelled.”

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My best friend asked me to help her plan the perfect confession to the love of her life. I spent weeks drafting her texts, picking out her outfits, and curating the perfect playlists. It was only on the night of the confession that I realized the man she loved was Chase—my childhood best friend, the boy I’d secretly loved for ten years. They kissed right in front of me, under the amber glow of the streetlights. When they got married, I wore the champagne-colored bridesmaid dress, smiling until my cheeks ached. When she was caught in a high-end escort raid, she claimed she was taking the fall for me. When she stole and sold his family’s priceless antique heirloom, she swore it was to pay off my non-existent gambling debts. And finally, when she framed me for embezzling two million dollars from his family’s firm, I was sentenced to fifteen years. I died a cold, lonely death in a prison cell. But then, I opened my eyes. I was back. Back to the exact day her affair was exposed. … Whenever Tori sneaked out to hook up with her assistant, Zack, she’d tell Chase she was with me, helping me handle some crisis. This time, as Chase’s name flashed across my vibrating phone, I hesitated for a long second before sliding the screen to answer. I didn’t sound like my usual submissive, eager-to-please self. My voice was flat, hollowed out of any warmth. “What is it?” “Isabel, are you seriously doing this again?” Chase’s voice boomed through the receiver, sharp and dripping with irritation. “What is it this time? Did you get dumped, or did your dad get into another car accident? What’s your excuse for keeping Tori out late tonight?” He sighed, a heavy, performative sound. “You make an absolute mess of your own life, so you just have to drag everyone else down with you, don’t you?” “Do you even remember last month? When the police raided that wellness spa and you almost got arrested for soliciting? Tori literally took the fall for you to save your reputation! Do you have any idea how much drama that caused for us as a married couple?” “Isabel, you’re Tori’s best friend, which is the only reason I’ve turned a blind eye to your trashy habits and your gambling debts. But if you don’t show some goddamn gratitude and keep harassing my wife, don’t expect me to remember our childhood. I will ruin you. Now tell Tori to get her ass home right now!” If it weren’t for this phone call, I wouldn’t have known just how wretched my reputation was in his mind. Among close friends, covering for each other is common. But the moment I died in that prison cell, knowing Tori had put me there, our friendship died too. In this life, I was only living for myself. I had absolutely no intention of warning her. Instead, I kept my voice cool and detached. “You’ve got it wrong. I have no idea where Tori is. Why don’t you ask Zack? He’s her assistant. He practically lives in her pocket. He’d know her schedule better than anyone.” I hung up before he could respond. Tori was a gold-digger, pure and simple. For a prominent family like Chase’s, a wife cheating with her subordinate was a cardinal, unforgivable sin. The thought of her perfect world shattering brought a rare smile to my face. I walked to the kitchen and popped open a cold can of beer, taking a long, satisfying sip. But Chase’s hatred for me ran deeper than I had calculated. Barely ten minutes later, my front door shook. Chase didn’t just show up—he brought the company’s security guards with him. They burst into my apartment, grabbing my arms and pinning me like a common criminal. One of the guards kicked my bedroom door open, but the room was empty. “Isabel! Where the hell is Tori?” Chase stared at me, his eyes burning with pure disgust. Once, we had been inseparable. We had shared whispered secrets in treehouses and stayed up late talking about our futures. Now, in his eyes, I was a cheap delinquent, a gambler, a parasite on society. Meanwhile, Tori had carefully painted herself as the long-suffering, saintly best friend who carried my crosses. There’s a word for that, isn’t there? Contrast. It was time Chase saw the real contrast. “I told you,” I said, wincing as the guard tightened his grip on my wrist. “If you want Tori, ask Zack. They’re always together.” He sneered, stepping closer. “You think playing these petty mind games is going to make me angry, Isabel? I know my wife. I know her heart. I wouldn’t believe a single lie that comes out of your mouth.” “Honestly, I feel sick just thinking about how much she protects you. How did she ever end up with a piece of trash like you?” “I’m giving you one last chance. Where is Tori? Why isn’t she picking up her phone?” In Chase’s mind, Tori was flawless. Because she spoke in sweet, soft tones and carried herself with grace, her narrative was the only one that mattered. He truly believed I was trying to poison his marriage. With a curt nod, he gestured to the guards. “Make her talk.” The punches came fast. I was thrown to the floor, boots and fists raining down on me until my vision blurred and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. My face throbbed, swelling instantly. But beneath the blinding pain, a cold, dark spark of satisfaction flared. Let them hit me. The anger was a physical weight, burning away the lingering weakness of my past life. It fed the desire to see Tori burn. “You’re nothing but a gutter rat, Isabel,” Chase spat, looking down at me as I lay curled on the hardwood floor. “And the gutter is exactly where you belong.” “I told Tori a thousand times to cut you off. But she insisted you were her sister. She kept giving you jobs, paying off your debts, lying to your parents to keep your squeaky-clean image alive!” “And this is how you repay her? Stabbing her in the back? You think if you keep your mouth shut, I can’t touch you?” Chase pulled out his phone, his face twisting into a cruel grin. “You’ve always been such a dutiful little daughter, haven’t you? Let’s see how your parents feel when they find out what a degenerate you really are.” My parents had worked for Chase’s father for decades at the family firm. They had practically raised Chase alongside me, and they still looked at him like the golden boy who would one day inherit everything. Of course he had my mother’s number. He pressed dial and put it on speaker. My mother’s fragile, aging voice echoed in the quiet room. “Chase? Sweetheart, is everything okay? Why are you calling this late?” “Mrs. Peterson,” Chase said, his tone instantly shifting to a polite, albeit stern, register. “I’m calling because we need to talk about your daughter.” “Oh? What about Isabel? Is she having trouble at work?” Chase let out a cold, sharp laugh. “I wish it was just work. Mrs. Peterson, did you know your daughter was arrested at a sketchy massage parlor last week for soliciting sex?” “What? No… no, that can’t be right. Not my Isabel. She would never do something like that!” My mother’s voice trembled, breaking into a sob. An electric jolt of rage went through me. I lunged forward, trying to grab the phone, but the guard slammed me back down, pinning his knee into my back and crushing his heavy hand over my mouth. I could only make muffled, desperate noises. “Tori saw it with her own eyes, Mrs. Peterson,” Chase continued, mercilessly. “Tori went there to find her, and the police raided the place. Isabel ran, leaving Tori to take the fall and protect her name. Do you really think Tori would lie about something like that?” I glared at Chase, my eyes burning with a silent, venomous promise. You blind fool. She’s going to ruin you, and you’re going to deserve every second of it. “And it’s not just that. She’s got a massive gambling problem. She owes millions to loan sharks. Tori even had to pawn one of our family heirlooms just to keep those thugs from breaking Isabel’s legs! Drugs, gambling, prostitution—she’s practically running the gamut. I’m telling you this because you need to rein her in before she drags my wife down to hell with her.” He ended the call. Seeing my bloodshot, furious eyes, his chest swelled with triumph. “Look at you. Your poor parents have no idea. They still think you’re the straight-A student they sent off to college.” “I honestly don’t get why Tori tolerates you. What do you even bring to her life besides filth?” “She even bought you a townhome, Isabel. You are the definition of an ungrateful leech.” I froze, the blood in my ears suddenly roaring. I managed to spit out the hand covering my mouth. “What did you just say? Tori bought me a townhome?” “Oh, cut the act.” Chase scoffed. “Tori bought you that place near the harbor as a thank-you for setting us up back in college. She didn’t want me to tell anyone to spare your pathetic pride. But looking at you now, it’s clear you don’t have any.” A manic, dark humor bubbled up in my chest. Tori hadn’t bought that townhome for me. She had bought it for Zack. And right now, they were probably in it. I spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the floor and looked up at him. “I didn’t receive any townhome, Chase. I swear, your brain is so rotted by love that you’d believe her if she told you the sky was pink.” “I know the address, Isabel. Don’t play dumb.” I nodded, a slow, dangerous smile stretching across my swollen lips. “Fine. If you’re so sure, take me there. Or are you just like Tori—all bark and no bite?” “You really want to play this out?” Chase’s eyes darkened. “You do realize she bought that place with my family’s money, right? Since you’re going to keep lying, I might as well reclaim what’s mine.” He pointed at the guards. “Throw her in the car. Keep her locked down. Tonight, she loses everything she never deserved.”

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Eight years in the shadows, and Freda went Instagram official with someone else. In the video, she was wrapping her arms around her handsome new designer, her smile warm and completely open. It was a look she had never given me. The entire internet seemed to be shedding tears over their beautiful love story. Even a simple photo of them watching the sunset together had already gone viral, turning the location into the ultimate “relationship goals” travel spot. Every top comment under the post felt like a eulogy for the eight years I had quietly given her: “I still remember when Damien lifted her up with one hand to let her make that shot on the court. I’ve been dreaming of a love like that for years.” “She loves him so much. Even when things were tough for her, she still made sure to set up a charity toy drive in his name.” A few friends who actually knew about us sent cautious texts, telling me to hang in there. I could only reply with a smiling emoji, just like I always did. For an entire week, she ignored my messages. As the sun was finally dipping below the horizon, she sent a single character back: ‘K’. The delivery guy arrived with my dinner. My throat tightened, and I choked out over the phone to the restaurant, “You… you forgot the marinara sauce.” The guy on the line panicked. “Hey, man, don’t cry. It’s okay. I’ll drive a new one over to you right now, okay?” In that moment, I realized a total stranger was terrified of my tears. Yet she had watched me suffer in the dark for eight years without a single shred of pity. Eight years, and I still hadn’t earned the right to stand beside her. So, I decided to stop trying. … Freda walked into the apartment carrying the crisp, sharp chill of early winter. Seeing me packing my things, she didn’t react. She simply held out a bundle of roses. “Last ones at the florist,” she said. “I remembered you liked roses, so I grabbed them.” The outer petals were already brown and curling at the edges. The thorns hadn’t even been stripped, and they were wrapped carelessly in a few sheets of old newspaper. I stared at the flowers for a long moment. My mind drifted to the Instagram photos I had seen yesterday, posted by a mutual friend. Freda had been in Paris, accompanying Damien to a fashion show. At the auction, she had bid on every painting he wanted. At a Michelin-starred sushi bar, she had lovingly peeled his sweet shrimp for him. That same day, I was at home fixing a burst pipe under our sink. I ended up spending six hours alone in the ER, hooked up to an IV. She hadn’t called. She hadn’t texted. Without a word, I tossed the roses into the trash can. Freda’s expression stiffened for a second, but she kept her voice gentle. “I really was busy this week, Jude. I didn’t mean to make you wait.” “And those trending articles… you know how the tabloids love to twist things. It’s not the first time. Don’t be mad at me, okay?” I looked at her face and suddenly let out a soft laugh. “Fine. Let’s go public tonight. Post it on your feed right now.” She sighed, stepping forward to wrap her arms around me. “Jude, don’t do this. I told you, it’s just not the right time.” I had heard that phrase for eight years. When her company needed a plus-one for their gala, she chose someone else—because it wasn’t the right time. When she was asked about her relationship status at the annual company party, she claimed she was single—because it wasn’t the right time. Now, she was hard-launching another man with a radiant, shameless smile, and it still wasn’t the right time for me. When would it be the right time? An overwhelming exhaustion washed over me. “Give me your phone.” She hesitated, but handed it over anyway. The lock screen was clean. On her messaging app, the only pinned chats were work groups and a few business partners. I opened her contacts. My finger froze. His contact name was My Boy. My contact name was Jude. Before I could even ask, she quickly explained, “We were playing a game at the afterparty. I lost a dare and had to change it.” I didn’t say a word. I opened her cloud storage drive. There was a password-protected folder. I tried my birthday. Access denied. I tried hers. Access denied. My mind went blank for a second. I typed in his birthday, and the folder opened. Over ten thousand photos. All of him. His profile as he bent over his sketchpad. A close-up of his fingers wrapping around a coffee mug. The way he squinted in the bright sunlight. Every single shot was taken with immense care, like a secret confession of devotion. I looked up at her. “Is this for work, too?” She stood frozen, completely silent. Then, she snatched the phone back and deleted the entire folder right in front of my face. She stared at me, her expression hardening. “Are you happy now? Is that enough? What else do you want me to do?” Her voice trembled at the end. I knew she was angry. Before I could say anything, she turned and marched into the bathroom. When she came out, she was holding a spare duvet, heading straight for the guest bedroom. “I’m sleeping in here tonight,” she said coldly. “Your snoring is too loud. I can’t get any rest.” Right before she closed the door, her phone rang. Even through the heavy wood, I could hear her voice—soft, sweet, cooing as she comforted whoever was on the other end. I used to actually believe I snored. I used to feel so guilty about it. For an entire month, I recorded my sleep every night, desperate to find the cause so I could see a doctor. There was no snoring on those tapes. Only the occasional rustle of me turning over in bed. And her, murmuring in her sleep: “I miss you so much, Damien.” What was the exact moment things had started to change? Maybe it was when she began coming home later and later, staring at her phone with a lingering smile. Or when she stopped drinking the herbal tea I brewed for her, switching instead to a sweet, cloying perfume I didn’t recognize. Maybe it was when she stopped sharing her day with me, reducing our conversations to cold, one-word replies. Or perhaps it was that one night when she stared at me for a long, quiet moment, and said, “Why don’t you have any ambition? You’re so ordinary. You’re nothing like…” She never finished that sentence. To say it didn’t hurt would be a lie. But as I packed, I realized how little of myself actually existed in this apartment. Everything I owned barely filled a single suitcase. As I stood in the entryway, she walked out of the study to grab a glass of water. She glanced at me. “Going somewhere?” “Yeah.” She nodded slowly, then turned and went back to her office. In the back of the Uber, I opened our chat history. I scrolled up. It was a graveyard of one-sided effort: “It’s getting cold today. Wrap up warm.” “What do you want for dinner?” “When will you be home?” Her replies never exceeded three words. I typed out a final text: It’s over. I hope you get everything you ever wanted. The moment I got out of the car, my best friend, Zack, threw his arms around me. I couldn’t speak. My eyes burned with a fierce, hot pressure. Once we settled into his apartment, we sat across from each other. He started counting on his fingers, his anger boiling over. “I haven’t forgotten how toxic she is,” Zack said. “How many fires did you put out for her? And what did you get? She literally stood in front of a crowd of people and pretended she didn’t even know you.” “Or what about that time you spent an entire month pulling all-nighters for that design proposal? She handed it over to someone else because she claimed your degree ‘wasn’t prestigious enough.’” “And the most ridiculous part? You brewed custom remedies for her insomnia every single day, and she had the nerve to complain that you were ‘lazy’ and ‘had too much free time’ just because you took care of the house.” He grew red-faced, finally looking at me with a heavy sigh. “For years, every time you brought up marriage, she dodged. Jude, she was never your person.” “It’s over, and that’s a good thing. Cut your losses. I just… I genuinely don’t get what you ever saw in her.” I forced a small, tired smile. The truth was, I had fallen first. Back then, I saw her kneeling on a rainy sidewalk to feed a stray dog, always willing to give her last dollar to help a friend. When I finally confessed my feelings, she stayed up all night thinking about it. “I want to try,” she had told me. “Give me a chance, and I’ll build a better life for us.” I knew there was someone else in her heart, but neither of us ever spoke his name. Maybe she wasn’t a good partner, but there was a time when her love felt real. Zack pulled out his phone, scrolling through Damien’s social media. Damien’s posts were mundane: what he ate, a sketch he drew, a cute florist shop he passed. And under every single post, Freda’s handle sat at the very top of the likes. “He’s a master manipulator,” Zack muttered. “Who can compete with that kind of calculated innocence?” Seeing the look on my face, he softened. “You know what? Forget it. Let’s get out of here. I’m taking you out.” The bar was dark, the bass vibrating deep in my chest. I looked up, and my heart seized. Freda was walking in from the VIP entrance, guiding Damien through the crowd with her hand resting lightly on the small of his back, shielding him from the drunken patrons. As they reached their booth, their circle of friends erupted: “Look at that! Freda finally grew up!” “I knew you two would end up together. Congrats, guys!” Freda, unusually, remained quiet. But Damien offered a shy, modest smile. “Stop teasing us. She just saw I was bored and brought me out to clear my head.” I watched them, feeling an odd, hollow calm. All night, Freda sat close to him. When he lost a drinking game, she immediately reached over and downed his shot without a second thought. When people joked about them, she didn’t get defensive; she just laughed along. I remembered a night when I had worked late, past eleven. I had texted her, keeping my tone as polite and small as possible: Do you think you could pick me up? I waited an hour in the cold before she showed up. Her face was tight with irritation. “Can’t you just call an Uber next time? I’m incredibly busy, Jude. I don’t have time to be your personal chauffeur.” Just then, my coworker walked out of the office lobby, spotting her and asking with a warm smile if this was my girlfriend. I had looked at her, hoping. She had offered a polite, distant smile. “No, just a friend.” When the night ended, Zack’s girlfriend came to pick him up. I sat alone on a bench, waiting for my ride. A few minutes later, Freda walked out, supporting a tipsy Damien. She didn’t notice me at first. She leaned down to button his overcoat, her movements so tender she might have been handling glass. Then, as if remembering something, she pulled out her phone to call someone. She turned, and our eyes met. Her brow instantly furrowed. “Going out to bars to find a replacement the very night we split? Is that why you wanted to break up, Jude?” So that was how she saw me. I didn’t answer. I just sat there. My Uber pulled up. Freda carefully tucked Damien into the backseat of her car, then marched over and grabbed my arm. “Get in. We’ll drop you off.” I pulled my arm back. “No thanks. My ride is here. Go ahead.” Her impatience flared. “Just get in, Jude. I’m not leaving you out here.” The Uber driver honked, and to avoid a scene, I finally got into her passenger seat. The ride was agonizing. She asked the driver to adjust the AC, then reached into the back to drape a soft throw blanket over Damien. Damien stirred, blinking sleepily. “Freda… do you remember that Italian place near campus? You saved up for six months just to take me there.” Freda murmured softly in response. They talked about their shared past the entire ride. I watched the neon lights of the city blur against the window, hearing nothing. When we reached my complex, I got out. Freda followed me onto the sidewalk. Under the dim yellow streetlamp, she looked slightly uncomfortable. “I know I’ve been distant lately. But Damien and I… it’s not what you think.” “Throw a tantrum if you need to. But when you’re done acting out, you can come home. I won’t pressure you.” I let out a soft laugh. “There’s no need. Do whatever makes you happy, Freda. Goodbye.” As I turned away, her voice cut through the cold air. “Don’t regret this, Jude. Because when you come crawling back crying for me to take you back, I won’t.” I didn’t look back. Inside my new apartment, I pulled out my phone and found my dad’s contact. I hesitated for three seconds. I typed: That blind date you mentioned… I’ll go. Two weeks later, I met Ella Crawford. My father had described her as stiff and overly analytical, but she was the exact opposite. She was incredibly warm and attentive. She arrived twenty minutes early, and throughout dinner, she never asked a single invasive or awkward question. Every topic she brought up was tailored to my interests. As we were talking, I caught a movement at the edge of my vision. Freda and Damien were walking toward our table. Freda froze, her gaze darting between me and Ella. Before she could speak, Damien smiled and gently pulled her arm. “Oh, is this your little brother? Looks like he’s finally moving on.” Little brother. So that was the story she told the world. I expected them to leave, but Freda kept her eyes locked on me. “Mind if we join you?” I looked at Ella. She gave me a reassuring nod, so I agreed. The moment they sat down, Freda flagged the waiter down, rattling off a list of demands: “No onions, no garlic, no spicy elements in any of his dishes. And please make sure his water is room temperature. He has a sensitive stomach.” The waiter blinked, taking down the notes. The rest of the meal passed in excruciating silence. Freda kept piling food onto Damien’s plate. “Eat up. You’ve been working late on those designs, you’re practically skin and bones. Your health comes first.” Damien chuckled, patting her hand. “Alright, alright, I get it. We have company, Freda.” Freda seemed to suddenly remember I was there. Her smile faltered. After a moment of hesitation, she picked up a piece of shrimp with her chopsticks and placed it on my plate. “You should eat more, too. You look thin.” Before I could say a word, a hand reached across the table and pulled my plate away. Ella spoke, her voice quiet but razor-sharp. “Jude can’t eat shellfish. It’s a shame that after living with your ‘little brother’ for so long, you didn’t even know he has a severe allergy. I suppose you must have been terribly busy, Ms. Heather.” Freda’s face turned white. Just as she opened her mouth to argue, Damien’s eyes rolled back, and he slumped sideways, sliding out of his chair. “Damien!” Freda practically threw herself onto the floor to catch him, lifting him in her arms and rushing out of the restaurant without casting a single glance back at me. I stared at the empty plate where the shrimp had been, then looked up to meet Ella’s worried eyes. “You look pale. Do you need me to take you to the hospital?” I shook my head. After dinner, I declined Ella’s sweet offer to drive me home. I took a cab to the local clinic myself—my stomach had been acting up from stress. As I walked through the lobby, I overheard a couple of nurses gossiping, their voices thick with envy. “I’m serious! It was just a minor blood sugar drop, but his girlfriend was practically screaming at the attending doctor. She was so frantic!” “God, they look like a movie couple. I need a girlfriend who cares about me like that.” I followed their gaze down the corridor. At the end of the hall, Freda was standing by Damien’s hospital bed. She was a woman of few words, but right now, she was talking animatedly, her face flushed with concern. Damien suddenly reached up and wrapped his arms around her waist. She let out a helpless, affectionate laugh, running her fingers through his hair. I looked down, letting the scene fade. The nurse at the desk asked, “Are you here alone? What seems to be the problem?” “Nothing. I was just… checking on a friend.” For years, I had held onto the foolish hope that maybe Freda would turn around, that she would finally claim me in front of the world. But seeing her like that, the last embers of hope died. It was okay. I still had time to save myself. The next morning, I packed my resignation letter into my briefcase and went into the office. The elevator doors opened to a burst of laughter from the creative department. “Damien, man! Hard work pays off! I knew that design award had your name on it!” “You’re on a roll lately, man. Career, love… you’ve got it all.” “Are those flowers from Freda? Oh, look at that ring! Congratulations!” I walked straight past them and into Freda’s office, laying the letter on her desk. She pushed it back toward me. “You’re doing fine here. Even if you’re just an administrative assistant, it beats grinding it out in the cold.” I slid the letter back to her side. She let out a dry, mocking laugh. “What? Found a new sugar mama? You can’t wait to throw me away now?” “Freda, be reasonable. You’re the one who crossed the line. We broke up. What I do is none of your business.” She sneered. “Who am I to say anything? Before, you’d start a fight over going public, throw a tantrum and threaten to leave whenever you were unhappy. And now you don’t even have the decency to ask before you quit?” The office door suddenly burst open. Damien stood there, his eyes rimmed with red. “Jude, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you and Freda used to be together… Please don’t fight because of me.” In that split second, the blood rushed to my head. Before I could stop myself, I swung my hand and slapped him across the face. Freda’s reflexes were instantaneous. She shoved herself in front of him, shielding him with her body. She stared at me, cold and mechanical, as she threw my resignation letter back at my chest. “Get out. You’re fired. And before you leave, you will apologize to him.” I looked at her one last time, turned, and walked away. I stood outside the building I had worked in for five years, unable to believe this was how it ended. I walked aimlessly down the street, my mind spinning. Suddenly, a car swerved around the corner, heading straight for me. I tried to jump back, but the bumper clipped my leg. A sharp, white-hot agony flared up my right shin. I collapsed onto the cold pavement, my body shaking violently. With trembling fingers, I dialed Freda’s number. No answer. Just as I was about to give up, the call connected. Her voice was ice-cold. “Are you ready to admit you were wrong? Apologize to Damien, and you can have your job back.” The world turned black, and I passed out. When I opened my eyes, the doctor was standing over me, explaining the situation. “A fractured right tibia. You’ll need to rest and undergo physical therapy. Don’t take your youth for granted, young man.” I barely heard him. My eyes drifted through the half-open door of my hospital room. Freda was standing in the corridor, cradling Damien in her arms. Between them, Damien was holding a golden retriever puppy—a breed she had always refused to let me have. I had asked her a hundred times if we could get a dog. Every time, she told me they were too much work, too messy, that we didn’t have the time. Yet there she was, holding the puppy as if it were the most precious thing in the world. I stared at the display and let out a quiet, bitter laugh. Just then, a crowd of reporters flooded the hallway, their cameras flashing. “Mr. Enoch, is it true that you tried to insert yourself into Ms. Heather’s relationship?” “Freda Heather’s partner is Damien Ward. Were you aware of that?” “We heard you’ve been trying to sabotage their engagement. Is this a pattern of behavior for you?” I forced myself up, clutching the side of the bed, and limped toward the exit. As I brushed past Freda, her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something. But in the end, she turned to the cameras and said, “He and I have absolutely no connection.” After that, Freda never saw Jude again. She convinced herself he was just throwing a tantrum. He had done this before, she reasoned. He’d always come back in a few days. She called her housekeeper. “Make some of that restorative soup for Jude. He’s been looking pale lately.” The housekeeper paused on the other end. “Ms. Heather… Jude packed up everything and threw away the rest two days ago. He’s not coming back.” Freda’s fingers went cold. At that moment, a notification popped up on her phone. Jude had posted on social media. It was a single photo of us from the early days, when we were happy, his smile bright and unburdened. The caption read: [Eight years in the dark. In the end, her heart belonged to someone else, and I was nothing but a ghost in her story.]

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My ex-husband was dead. His wife didn’t call to invite me to the funeral. She called to demand that my six-year-old daughter go to the funeral home to sit with her father’s body for the overnight vigil. “If his own daughter isn’t there to keep watch,” she’d sniffed over the phone, “the neighbors will talk. They’ll say we’re cold-hearted.” But I was out of town on a business trip, stuck three states away, so I had no choice but to beg my ex-husband’s sister, Claire, to watch over her. It wasn’t until two in the morning that my daughter’s smart watch buzzed with a fragmented, static-heavy voice message. “Mommy… it’s so cold… there are so many metal drawers here… I think people are sleeping inside them…” “The door is locked… I can’t get out…” My fingers spasmed, and the phone nearly slipped from my hand, clattering against the nightstand. She was locked in the mortuary cold storage room. I remembered what our pediatrician had once said during a winter safety brief. A six-year-old child trapped in forty-degree temperatures will begin to experience organ failure in less than four hours. … “Mommy, a sheet slid off one of the tables. I see a hand. It’s so, so white.” My fingernails dug into my palms, my entire body shaking so hard I could barely hold the phone to my ear. “Baby, don’t look! Cover your eyes and go sit by the door. Jump up and down, okay? Let’s count. Count from one to a hundred. Mommy is coming. I’m coming right now.” “One… two… three…” Her voice was thick with tears, each trembling number hitting my chest like a physical blow. I dialed Claire. It rang eight, nine times before she finally picked up, her voice slurred and heavy with sleep. “Mmh… Zoe? Melanie said she took her back to the chapel… I think I had too much to drink…” “She’s in the morgue freezer, Claire! Wake the hell up!” There was the sound of rustling sheets, followed by a heavy, wet snore. She had passed out cold again. I screamed her name three times, but there was nothing but dead air. Claire never drank. She had a terrible stomach; even a sip of wine made her violently ill. Melanie must have forced those drinks down her throat. Gritting my teeth, I dialed Melanie. She picked up almost instantly, the canned laughter of some late-night talk show blaring in the background. “Oh, Zoe?” Melanie said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “She’s sitting vigil for her father. It’s good for her. Children need to learn respect and duty early on.” “She’s not in the chapel! You locked her in the damn freezer with the corpses!” Melanie went quiet for two long seconds. “Oh, that little brat really has a big mouth, doesn’t she? I told her to sit tight. I’ll let her out when the sun comes up. Besides, dead people don’t bite. Her dad is right there keeping her company. What is she so afraid of?” A vein throbbed violently in my temple, my jaw aching from how hard I was clenching it. “Melanie, you go open that door right now. It’s forty degrees in there. Four hours and her organs will start shutting down. If you do this to her, if you kill my daughter, I swear to God I will end you.” She laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound that sliced through the television’s laugh track—hollower and faker than any studio audience. “Oh, please. Who are you trying to scare? I have legal guardianship of this family now. Besides, it’s the middle of the night. I’m not driving all the way out there.” She let out a slow, exaggerated yawn. “If you’re so worried, Grace… come get her yourself.” The line went dead. My entire arm was trembling so violently that my phone slipped from my fingers and bounced onto the mattress. I grabbed it and dialed 911. “My daughter is locked inside the cold storage room of the Southside Funeral Home! She’s six years old! She’s only wearing a thin summer dress! It’s forty degrees in there and she’s already been inside for almost two hours!” “Ma’am, please try to breathe,” the dispatcher’s voice was calm, too calm. “That funeral home is in the unincorporated county sector. The nearest patrol unit is about thirty to forty minutes away.” “Forty minutes?!” I screamed. “She’s wearing a dress!” “We are dispatching a unit right now, Mrs. Evans, please remain calm.” I slammed the phone down and swiped frantically through my airline app. The absolute earliest flight out was at 5:30 AM, landing at 7:00 AM. With the drive to the airport and the run to the mortuary, it would take at least seven hours. The screen flashed in bold, red letters: No Tickets Available. My phone buzzed again. It was Zoe. She wasn’t counting anymore. Her voice had changed—it was slow, dragging, thick with sleep. “Mommy, my feet hurt so bad. I lost my shoes. I’m so tired. I want to go to sleep.” I bolted from the edge of the bed, my knee slamming into the sharp wooden corner of the nightstand. I didn’t even feel it. Extreme lethargy. It was the onset of hypothermia—the most dangerous stage. If she fell asleep now, her core temperature would plummet. “Zoe! Do not sleep! Do you hear me? Stand up! Jump! Jump as hard as you can!” There was an agonizing silence on the other end. “Mommy… I can’t jump. My legs won’t move.” I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t just sit here and watch her die. My college roommate, Tara, lived back home, maybe twenty minutes from the Southside Funeral Home. I dialed her number. It rang four times. “Hello? Who’s calling this late?” she mumbled, thick with sleep. “Tara! It’s Grace! My daughter is locked inside the cold storage at Southside Funeral Home! She’s freezing to death! You’re the only person who can get there in under half an hour!” “The funeral home?” “Please, Tara! I’m begging you!” “Send me the address,” she said, her voice instantly sharp and sober. “I’m walking out the door right now.” I fired over the pinned location, kicked my bare feet into a pair of slip-ons, and bolted from my hotel room. No socks, no luggage. Just my phone and the rental car keys. That was all I needed. I couldn’t wait for the sluggish hotel elevator. I hit the heavy fire door and sprinted down the concrete stairs, throwing myself down twelve flights. At a landing, my elbow slammed into the steel railing, sending a sickening jolt of pain through my ribs, turning my vision black for a split second. I didn’t stop. I reached the parking garage, threw myself into the driver’s seat, and fired up the engine. My phone buzzed with an automated alert from Zoe’s watch. Wearer’s current core temperature: 95.7°F. Normal is 97.7°F to 98.6°F. My daughter was growing colder, degree by degree, right before my eyes. I slammed my foot onto the gas pedal, the tires screaming as the rental car tore up the exit ramp of the hotel parking lot. Less than three hours until organ failure. I was hitting over a hundred miles an hour on the dark interstate, the highway completely empty except for my headlights slicing through the black. Steering with my left hand, I used my right to frantically scroll through private charter apps on my phone. On the fourth service, a listing popped up: a small private propeller plane, on-call for emergency night dispatches, capable of taking off in an hour. Four thousand dollars. My fingers shook so hard I messed up the payment passcode three times before it cleared. Approved. Transaction successful. The watch call line clicked back open. Zoe was singing. “Twinkle… twinkle… little… star…” Each syllable was separated by an agonizing, shallow gasp. She didn’t have enough air. She was dragging the words out, pushing them past frozen lips. I bit down on my own lip, breaking the skin, the copper taste of blood filling my mouth. She stopped halfway through the verse. “Mommy… I can’t sing anymore. My mouth is hard. I can’t open it.” Her lips were stiffening. Hypothermic muscle rigidity. “Baby, listen to Mommy,” I sobbed, pressing harder on the gas. “Stand up. Clap your hands. Clap them really hard! If you make a loud noise, Mommy will buy you that singing bunny you wanted. The big white one.” “I can’t… my fingers aren’t listening to me…” I floored the accelerator, pushing the rental car to its absolute limit. My phone screen lit up with a voice note from my boss. His voice exploded through the car speakers. “Grace, the contract signing with the North Star Group is at eight tomorrow morning. You are the lead coordinator on this. I don’t care what kind of family emergency you have going on with your kid; you need to be in that boardroom. If you aren’t, the fifty-thousand-dollar breach-of-contract fee is coming straight out of your salary.” I held down his contact name and hit block. Fifty thousand dollars. My daughter was freezing to death in a room full of corpses, unable to even open her mouth, and they wanted to talk to me about fifty thousand dollars. The phone buzzed again. It was the 911 dispatcher transferring me to an officer on the scene. “Are you there?!” I yelled. The officer’s voice sounded young, hesitant. “Mrs. Evans, we’ve arrived at the funeral home. We’re in the main chapel right now with a Mrs. Melanie Evans. She’s keeping vigil, and there is a young girl next to her in a pink puffer coat who says she’s sitting with her father.” “That is not my daughter! That’s her own daughter! Ask that child what her name is!” Through the receiver, I heard the officer murmuring a question, followed by a sweet, high-pitched little girl’s voice. “My name is Lexi.” “Did you hear that?!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “Her name is Lexi! Not Zoe! My daughter is in the cold storage! Building B, the very back room!” There was a pause, a long, agonizing silence. Then Melanie’s voice cut in—soft, tremulous, laced with fragile, performative tears. “Officer, please don’t listen to her. ‘Lexi’ is just Zoe’s nickname. Her biological mother has been trying to ruin my life ever since she divorced my husband. She’s calling in the middle of the night making up these horrible, crazy lies.” Her sob pitched higher, perfectly practiced. “My husband’s body isn’t even cold yet, and she’s still trying to torture us like this.” The veins in my temples pulsed with a stabbing heat. I gripped the steering wheel so hard the leather creaked under my palms. “She is lying! Just walk over to Building B and open the door! One look! That’s all it takes!” “Mrs. Evans… look,” the officer said, clearly uncomfortable. “Mrs. Melanie Evans is the deceased’s legal spouse. She tells us the cold storage door lock is malfunctioning and won’t open until the morning facility manager arrives. Without a warrant or visual probable cause of an immediate threat inside that specific wing, we can’t legally force entry.” “So you’re just going to stand there and watch a six-year-old freeze to death?!” Silence met my question. “Mrs. Evans, we will keep trying to resolve this with the family. Just try to stay calm.” The line went dead. I slammed my fist against the steering wheel three times, my knuckles cracking against the hard plastic in dull, useless thuds. A notification popped up on my screen. It was a text from Melanie. It was a photo. Lexi was sitting on a plush, heated velvet sofa in the main chapel, wearing the exact pink puffer coat I had bought for Zoe just last week. She was holding a warm bowl of sweet dumplings, smiling brightly for the camera. The caption read: Lexi is being such a good girl keeping watch for her sister. She’s warm, full, and completely safe. You can stop worrying now. One child was eating warm food in a stolen coat. The other was barefoot, freezing in a dark room full of dead bodies, unable to even part her lips. My phone vibrated with a FaceTime call from Tara. “Grace! I’m here! But the funeral home gates are locked!” she yelled, wind whipping into her microphone. “The security guard won’t open up. I told him there’s a kid freezing to death inside, but he says they don’t allow non-family members in after hours!” “Climb the fence!” I cried. “The east wall—there’s a low section near the trees. Climb over it!” Tara paused for a single beat. “Okay.” Over the speaker, I heard the frantic scraping of her shoes against brick, the metallic clatter of her hands grabbing the iron bars, and the sharp tear of fabric as her jacket caught on a spike. Then, a heavy thud. Tara gasped, sucking in air through her teeth. “I’m over. I’m running toward Building B.” Her footsteps were rapid, her breathing growing heavier and shallower through the line. Then, she stopped. “I’m here. It’s a low, gray brick building. The door is heavy iron, and there’s a massive padlock on the outside.” “Put your ear to the door!” A long, excruciating silence stretched over the connection. My hands on the wheel were slick with sweat, slipping against the leather. Then, Tara’s voice cracked. “I hear her. It’s incredibly faint… like a tiny whimper. Grace, she’s still breathing!” “Break it! Find a brick! Smash the lock!” The sound of a heavy brick slamming against steel echoed through the speaker. Clang. “It’s not working!” Tara panted. “It’s an industrial-grade lock! The brick shattered and the lock didn’t even scratch! My hand is bleeding, Grace. I can’t break it!” “Do it again!” Suddenly, the smashing stopped. There was a confusion of voices, the sweep of flashlights, and heavy, approaching footsteps. Melanie’s voice cut through the dark like a blade. “That’s her! She’s trespassing! What the hell are we paying security for?!” The sounds of scuffling and dragging filled my phone. Tara was struggling. “Let go of me! There’s a little girl in there!” A man’s gruff voice roared over her. “Get back! You keep making trouble and we’ll have you arrested!” “Get her out of here! Drag her out!” The call disconnected. I dialed back frantically, but it went straight to voicemail. A minute later, my phone rang. It was Tara, breathing hard, her voice tight with pain. “Grace… they threw me out. Four guys. They literally tossed me over the wall.” She paused, her voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.” “It’s not your fault,” I said, my voice eerily calm as adrenaline took over. “Call the police again. Tell them it’s unlawful imprisonment of a minor. Tell them you’re a witness and you heard her crying inside.” “I’m on it.” 4:10 AM. The private charter terminal. The small propeller plane sat on the dark tarmac. The pilot, a weathered man in his fifties, was running through his pre-flight checklist. “We need about twenty more minutes,” he said without looking up. “Make it ten. I’ll pay you an extra thousand dollars.” He paused, turning to look at me. He took in my tear-stained face, my bare, dirty feet, and my dust-covered clothes. He didn’t say a word. He just turned back and doubled his speed. My phone vibrated. I swiped and connected to Zoe’s watch. There was a sound on the other end. A tiny, incredibly weak breath. Slow. Shallow. The pauses between each gasp were terrifyingly long. “Zoe!” No answer. I screamed her name five, six times. Finally, there was a tiny rustle. “Mommy… Daddy is here. He’s telling me… to go to sleep with him. I’m so sleepy.” Her father had died three days ago. His body was sitting in one of those very freezer units. My six-year-old daughter was hallucinating her dead father telling her to go to sleep. “Zoe, listen to Mommy! You cannot sleep! Stand up! Jump!” No response. Her breathing was fading into a whisper. An automated alert popped up on my screen. Wearer’s temperature: 94.6°F. It was dropping again. “Zoe! Answer me! Please!” Nothing but a freezing, dead silence. The pilot called for boarding. The cabin door sealed shut, and my phone signal began to flicker—one bar, then half a bar. I made my first call to my brother, Jack. “Jack, I’m landing at 5:30. Pick me up. We’re going straight to the Southside Funeral Home.” He didn’t ask a single question. “I’m already in the car.” My second call was to my attorney, Robert. “Every recording, screenshot, and call log is synced to the cloud drive. If anything happens to my daughter, I want you to sue her. Sue her for everything she has. Destroy her.” “Grace, she’s going to be okay. Hang in there—” The signal cut out. The connection to Zoe’s watch severed. At thirty thousand feet, the world below was a vast sheet of black. I didn’t know if Zoe was still breathing. I didn’t know if her temperature had fallen past ninety-four. I didn’t know if she had closed her eyes and drifted off with her father. I knew nothing. I could do nothing. I sat in the dim cabin, clutching my dead phone, feeling every passing second tear away a piece of my soul. 5:28 AM. The tires screeched against the tarmac. The moment the plane touched down, my phone vibrated constantly as a flood of notifications poured in. Twelve missed calls from Tara. Three voice notes. The first one: “The police came back! Melanie is wearing full mourning black, crying and holding Lexi in the chapel! She’s telling everyone you’re completely unstable and making up stories!” The police had been fooled again. The second one: “I begged them to just check Building B! But her brother-in-law rushed in and accused me of trespassing again! He shoved me twice!” The third one, her voice hoarse and broken: “I tried everything I could, Grace. I’m so sorry.” A voice message from Melanie, sent forty-two minutes ago: “You’re still up in the air, aren’t you, Grace? By the time you get here, the sun will already be up.” And the final notification from Zoe’s watch, stamped forty minutes ago: Wearer’s temperature: 93.2°F. Heart rate: 48 bpm. A healthy six-year-old’s heart rate should be between eighty and one hundred and thirty. I threw open the cabin door and sprinted down the metal stairs into the freezing dawn. Jack’s truck was idling just outside the tarmac gate, exhaust pluming into the cold air. I yanked the door open and threw myself into the passenger seat. He took one look at me, asked nothing, and slammed his foot on the gas. The truck launched into the heavy morning fog. We were thirty minutes away from the funeral home. Zoe had been locked inside for over four hours. Jack drove like a man on a rescue mission. He didn’t slow down for the curves. When an oncoming semi blared its horn and flashed its high beams, he didn’t even blink, jerking the wheel to clip the edge of the shoulder and blast past. I gripped the door handle, my knuckles turning white against the plastic, my eyes glued to the GPS. 2 miles. 1.7 miles. “Jack, faster,” I whispered. He didn’t reply. The speedometer climbed from seventy-five to ninety. 6:05 AM. The heavy iron gates of the Southside Funeral Home loomed out of the morning fog. They were chained shut. Before I could even speak, Jack floored it. The front bumper plowed directly into the iron gate. A deafening screech of tearing metal echoed down the empty street as the gates were ripped from their hinges, dragging beneath the truck in a shower of sparks. He slammed on the brakes in front of Building B. I threw the door open and bolted toward the heavy iron entrance. Four people stood in our way. Melanie, her massive brother-in-law, her cousin, and a funeral home custodian. Melanie stood with her arms crossed, blocking the doorway. A brief flash of panic crossed her face, quickly replaced by a sneer of pure malice. “Are you out of your mind, Grace?! That’s public property you just destroyed! I’ve already called the cops! You’re going to jail!” I didn’t even look at her. My gaze cut past her shoulder, pinning itself to the iron door behind her. My daughter was behind that door. 93.2 degrees. 48 beats per minute. I took a step forward. Melanie’s brother-in-law, a massive guy over six-foot-two and easily two hundred and fifty pounds, stepped in front of me, spreading his thick arms. “You need to back off—” Before he could finish, Jack’s hand clamped onto the back of his neck. He hoisted the giant off his feet and threw him like a sack of concrete directly into the brick planters. Terracotta pots shattered everywhere. “Get out of our way,” Jack growled. Melanie shrieked and lunged at me, her long nails scraping across my neck, leaving three burning welts. I grabbed her wrist and threw her aside with everything I had. “Get off me!” She slammed against the brick wall and slid to the ground, howling. Her cousin took a half-step forward, but Jack gave him a single cold look, and the cousin instantly stepped back. The first door was secured with a heavy steel chain wrapped through the handles, held together by an industrial padlock. I spotted a metal emergency tool box on the wall. I tore it open with my bare hands, the sharp metal edge slicing deep into the meat of my palm. I barely felt it as blood welled up. I grabbed the heavy bolt cutters, clamping them onto the chain. I threw all my weight into the handles. Jack joined me, pressing down with his massive strength. The cuts on my hand split further, blood dripping down the cold steel. With a loud crack, a link snapped. I ripped the chains away and yanked the doors open. Behind us, Melanie was screaming. “This is breaking and entering! I’m suing you! I’m sending you both to prison!” The corridor inside was dark and freezing, the sharp stench of formaldehyde filling my throat. We ran. At the end of the hall stood the second door, secured with an electronic keypad lock. I grabbed the handle and pulled, but it didn’t budge. Jack raised the bolt cutters and slammed them into the control panel. Sparks flew as the LCD screen shattered, a shrill error alarm blaring incessantly, but the latch remained locked. We shoved the tip of the cutters into the gap between the door and the frame. We pried together, sweat and blood dripping onto the concrete floor. With a sickening screech, the frame gave way. We gave one final, desperate heave, tearing the aluminum casing out of the drywall. The door sagged open. We pushed through. The cold storage room. Two rows of stainless steel body drawers lined the walls, illuminated by the sickly green glow of emergency lights. At the far end was the third door. It was a heavy, walk-in freezer door, and an iron bar had been slid horizontally through the handle, jamming it tightly from the outside. I threw myself at it, pulling frantically, but my hands were covered in slick blood, slipping off the cold iron. Jack wedged the bolt cutters under the edge of the bar, hammering and prying. We took turns, pulling and slamming with raw, desperate fury until the bar finally began to budge. With a sharp clack, the bar popped free. I grabbed the round metal wheel handle and spun it—once, twice, three times. The seal broke with a heavy hiss, and the freezer door swung open. A wave of forty-degree air rolled over us. The lights inside were off. On either side, some of the body drawers were partially open, the white corners of body bags peeking out from the shadows. I ran inside, my eyes scanning the dark corners. Zoe was curled up on the concrete floor in the very back, wedged between two of the freezer units. She was barefoot, her thin summer dress covered in grey dust and stains. Her face was a ghostly, translucent white. Her lips were a dark, bruised blue, and a delicate layer of frost clung to her eyelashes. Her fingertips were completely purple. She wasn’t moving. I fell to my knees on the icy floor, scooping her up into my arms. She felt so light. Weightless. And cold—a deep, radiating cold that seemed to come from her very bones. I pressed my palm against her cheek. There was no warmth there. None. “Zoe! Zoe, wake up! Mommy’s here! I’m right here!” No response. I pressed my ear against her chest. My own heartbeat was roaring in my ears, so I held my breath, straining to hear. One second. Two seconds. Three. Then, a tiny, sluggish thump. Her heart was beating. It was agonizingly slow, but it was there. I ripped off my heavy winter coat, wrapped her in it, and stood up, running toward the exit. “Call 911!” I screamed at Jack. “Now!”

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To save myself a lot of trouble, I always made up a wife. One afternoon, while out shopping with a coworker, I spotted a jacket I absolutely fell in love with. The only problem was the price tag—it was a bit steep. As the sales clerk kept up her relentless pitch, I casually brushed her off. “Ah, never mind. My wife would kill me. Even if I bought it, she’d just make me return it.” I didn’t think much of it. But the very next day, a package arrived at the office. I ripped it open, and there it was—the exact jacket! My coworker’s eyes went wide. He grabbed the card tucked inside and read it aloud: “To my wonderful husband: If you love it, you should have it. You deserve the best of everything. Signed—Your loving wife!” I froze. My wife was completely made up. I had never even been in a relationship. Where the hell did a wife come from? 1 I figured Brandon was just playing a joke on me, making up the words as he read. I snatched the card from his hand. But the elegant, flowing script on the card was undeniable. There it was, written in black and white. “Damn, Zach. And here I thought you were just complaining all this time,” Brandon teased, nudging me. “Saying your wife doesn’t let you do this, doesn’t let you do that. Turns out she’s incredibly generous. Five grand, just like that!” A few other coworkers started crowding around my desk. “I had no idea your wife was so loaded, Zach!” I forced a tight, artificial smile, my throat completely dry. I couldn’t squeeze out a single word. I’d been at the firm for three months, and my status as a happily married man was rock-solid. Whenever there was a task I didn’t want to do or an after-work gathering I wanted to skip, I’d blame it on my “wife.” Oh, she’s cooking tonight. Oh, she prefers I stay in. It was the perfect shield. But the truth was, I was single. I had been single my entire life. I’d never even held a girl’s hand. So where did this wife come from? I snuck a glance at the label. Even the size was a perfect fit. Who sent this? For a brief, vain moment, I wondered if I had a secret admirer. But I had only seen the jacket when I was shopping with Brandon. He was the only one who knew about it. I quietly watched Brandon’s face. Nothing. He looked genuinely amused, completely devoid of guilt. I spent the rest of the day in a daze, unable to focus. Once I got home, I immediately called the store’s customer service. It was a high-ticket item, so they had to have some record of the buyer. But after a few seconds of keyboard clattering, the representative said, “I’m sorry, sir. This order was placed anonymously. The customer requested full privacy protection, so we don’t have access to their billing details.” Anonymous? Why so mysterious? I stared at the jacket for a long time before shoving it into the deepest, darkest corner of my closet. The next morning, Brandon stopped by my desk. “Hey, Zach, why aren’t you wearing the new threads? I was dying to see what a five-thousand-dollar jacket looks like on a regular Tuesday!” I laughed it off. “Wearing something that expensive to sit in a cubicle? Feels like a waste.” In truth, I was terrified to wear something when I didn’t know where it came from. Brandon dropped it, but before I could ease into my workflow, the receptionist paged me. “Zach, there’s a package for you at the front desk.” My stomach did a cold flip. I had a terrible feeling about this. Sure enough, I opened the box to find a luxury cologne set. And tucked inside was that same card: Your loving wife. Brandon, who had followed me, gasped. “Isn’t this that new limited-edition release? We were just talking about this last week! You said you loved almost every scent in the collection.” He was right. And I vividly remembered saying: “I’d love to buy the whole set, but my wife would have a fit. She already thinks I have too many bottles cluttering the bathroom.” Brandon shook his head in mock jealousy. “She wouldn’t let you buy it, huh? So she just goes ahead and buys the whole collection for you instead. Man, Zach, what kind of angel did you marry?” An angel. Right. An angel so celestial she didn’t even exist. What was happening to me? Was it really a secret admirer? If so, why not just ask me out? Why play this bizarre game, sending expensive gifts and calling herself my wife? My mind was a chaotic mess as I stuffed the cologne set into my bottom drawer. Brandon frowned, noticing my distress. “Hey, you okay? You don’t look happy at all. Did you and the wife have a fight?” I offered a weak, noncommittal smile. Taking my silence as confirmation, Brandon sighed. “Ah, that explains the gifts. Well, don’t stay mad at her too long. A wife that generous deserves a quick apology.” I said nothing. Instead, I copied the tracking number from the shipping label, found the online merchant, and messaged their support team. The response was exactly the same: Hi there! This order was processed anonymously under our high-profile privacy tier. We cannot disclose customer information. Can you even do that with standard online shopping? As I sat there, trying to make sense of it all, the receptionist’s voice cut through the office intercom again. “Zach, you’ve got a delivery. And… you’re going to need help carrying this.” 2 Flowers? I stood up, numb, and walked toward the lobby. A local courier was standing there, holding an enormous, breathtaking arrangement of deep red roses and orchids. It must have taken up half the counter. “Zachary?” the courier asked. “Your wife sent these.” I stood frozen. By the time I snapped out of it, the courier was already halfway out the door. I ran after him, catching him near the elevators. “Wait! Excuse me. Can you tell me who placed this order?” The courier gave me a strange look. “Your wife.” I shook my head, my chest tightening. “No, I mean, can I see the account name on the order? On your app?” The guy looked confused but shrugged and pulled out his phone, scrolling to his job history. As expected, the sender’s profile was completely blank—no name, no picture, just a system-generated ID. “Look, man, whoever she is, she paid three hundred bucks for the arrangement and left me a hundred-dollar tip,” the courier said, his grin reaching his eyes. “Your wife is amazing. You’re a lucky guy.” I handed his phone back, my fingers stiff. I managed to force a polite nod. Back in the office, my coworkers immediately swarmed my desk. “Are those roses? That looks like a fortune!” “That’s nothing. His wife didn’t even blink at a five-thousand-dollar jacket yesterday!” “Look, there’s a card. What does it say?” My eyes fell on the small envelope nestled among the petals. I slid the card out. Sweetheart, please don’t be mad at me anymore. My hand shook so violently I almost dropped the card. “Seriously, Zach, how could you ever stay mad at her?” one of the account executives joked. “I’m literally crying. Why can’t I find someone like that?” “Just forgive her already!” Their teasing voices faded into a dull hum. I kept my eyes fixed on Brandon. The jacket. The cologne. Only Brandon knew about those conversations. And now, right after I let him believe my “wife” and I were in a fight, a massive bouquet of apology flowers shows up. Was this some elaborate prank? Had he figured out that I was lying about being married, and decided to spend a fortune to mess with me? But Brandon was a junior designer. He didn’t have thousands of dollars to throw away on a joke. Nothing made sense. With my head spinning, I decided I needed some grounding. After work, I drove over to my Nana’s place. Nana’s small, cozy apartment always smelled of vanilla and baked chicken. She had prepared a massive feast for me, and as we sat down, I wrapped my arm around her shoulders, letting the warmth of her home wash over me. But then I noticed her ears. “Nana, where is your hearing aid?” Nana, whose hearing had been failing for years, squinted at me. It took her a moment to register my words. “Oh, that silly thing!” she chuckled, waving her hand dismissively. “It fell right into the pond yesterday while I was out by the park. Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I can hear you just fine!” How could it not matter? I immediately pulled out my phone and started researching the best medical-grade hearing aids on the market. “Just get me a cheap one from the drugstore, Zach. Don’t go wasting your hard-earned money,” Nana insisted, patting my knee. I stayed the night on her pull-out sofa. The next morning, a sharp knock on the front door woke me. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I stumbled into the hallway. Nana had already opened the door. A delivery driver stood on the porch. “Delivery for Zachary,” the driver said. Nana stared at the small package, her face lighting up. “Oh, Zach! When did you order this? That was incredibly fast!” I froze, the sleep instantly draining from my brain. I rushed to the door. The package in the driver’s hand was from a premium audiology brand. But I hadn’t placed the order yet. I had only put it in my online cart the night before. A cold shiver ran down my spine, raising the hairs on my arms. 3 “Sir? Need a signature here,” the delivery driver prompted. Nana reached out to take the stylus, but I quickly stepped in. “Actually, I think there’s been a mistake. I ordered the wrong model. I need to reject the delivery, please.” This was for my grandmother. I couldn’t risk her using something from a stranger. Who knew what was actually in that box? As the driver took the package back, my eyes caught a small, familiar card taped to the side. Only the best for Nana. —Your loving wife. My hand trembled so hard I had to shove it into my pocket. After sending the driver away, I called into work to take the morning off. I drove Nana to a local clinic, got her fitted for a proper hearing aid, and paid for it myself. Before I left, I held her hands tightly. “Nana, if you get any packages over the next few weeks, do not open them. Call me immediately. Promise me.” Though confused, Nana nodded and promised she would. When I finally got to the office that afternoon, I was a nervous wreck. Who was this person? How did they know my grandmother’s address? And more importantly… I had only searched for those hearing aids on my phone the night before. I hadn’t spoken a word about it to anyone else. How could a package arrive first thing in the morning? There was only one logical explanation. I stared down at the screen of my phone. Someone had hacked my device. They were monitoring my searches, my location, my life. It had to be. Determined to reclaim my sanity, I went straight to an electronics store after work. I bought a brand-new phone, factory-reset my old one, and sold it to a trade-in kiosk. It was a massive hit to my savings, but as the days passed and no new packages arrived, I finally felt like I could breathe again. My relief lasted for about a week. Then, on a rainy Thursday night, I had a dream. In the dream, a woman I had never seen before stood in front of me. Her eyes were filled with a profound, aching sadness. “Sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You won’t wear the jacket. You won’t use the cologne. You even sent back the hearing aid I got for Nana. “Do you hate me now? Or do you just not want my gifts? “It’s your birthday. Let me just give you money instead. That way, you can buy whatever you want.” I bolted upright in bed, my heart hammering against my ribs, drenched in cold sweat. I checked my phone. It was past midnight. Today was, indeed, my birthday. But what a bizarre, deeply unsettling nightmare. When my alarm finally went off, I shook my head, trying to banish the memory of her sad eyes, and got ready for work. At my desk, I was nursing a coffee and chewing on a bagel, trying to focus on a design pitch, when my phone buzzed. It was a notification from my banking app. I tapped it open. My jaw dropped. One… ten… a hundred… a thousand… ten thousand… a hundred thousand… One million dollars. A cool million had just been deposited into my checking account. I thought it was a glitch, some cruel banking error, but when I refreshed the page, the balance remained the same. And there was a transaction memo: Happy birthday, sweetheart. The room seemed to tilt. Let me just give you money instead. That way, you can buy whatever you want. The words from my dream echoed in my ears. I sat frozen in my chair, my entire understanding of reality crumbling. “Zach? You okay?” Brandon tapped my shoulder, noticing my blank stare. I quickly flipped my phone face down. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Dear God, what was happening to me? Where did a million dollars come from? Was it possible that I actually had a wife, and I had somehow… forgotten her? “Hey, I saw your calendar,” Brandon said, leaning against my cubicle wall. “It’s your birthday today. What are the plans?” I slowly picked up my phone and stared at the balance again. I had never used any of the physical gifts. But was this real? Could I actually spend this money? I took a deep breath. “Hey, everyone,” I called out to the office. “It’s my birthday. Dinner and drinks are on me tonight.” The office erupted into cheers. “Wait, Zach,” one of the designers asked. “Aren’t you celebrating with your wife?” “She’s… out of town on business,” I lied smoothly. I sent a group text with the address of a high-end steakhouse downtown. Brandon’s eyes went wide when he saw the venue. “Whoa, Zach. We’re going there? Are you sure you can afford that place?” I smiled, keeping my terror hidden. “Don’t worry about it.” But as we left, a cold knot of dread tightened in my stomach. What if the card got declined? 4 It didn’t. My worries were entirely unfounded. When the bill came—totaling over fifteen thousand dollars after bottles of high-end wine—I slid my card over without a flinch. The transaction went through instantly. My coworkers stared at me in absolute shock. “Zach, what does your wife actually do for a living?” “Seriously, man, you’ve been holding out on us. We had no idea you were loaded.” “Alright, alright, let’s let the birthday boy make a wish!” Brandon had ordered a chocolate cake, and someone placed a paper crown on my head. As the candles flickered, I closed my eyes. Given the sheer absurdity of the past few weeks, a wild, ridiculous thought popped into my head. What if I had somehow developed a superpower? What if whatever I wished for simply materialized? Let’s test the limits, I thought. I breathed in and made a silent wish: I want to be rich. Unbelievably, ridiculously rich. I opened my eyes and blew out the candles. Later that night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. My phone vibrated with a text alert. I sat up, my heart hammering, and opened the message. It was another bank notification. The number was so long I had to count the digits twice. One hundred million dollars. My breathing turned shallow. I got out of bed and started pacing the room, convinced I was losing my mind. Did I really have a wish-granting superpower? But that defied every law of physics and science. And as the initial rush of adrenaline faded, panic took its place. A sudden influx of a hundred million dollars would undoubtedly trigger red flags with the IRS, the FBI, or homeland security. And if it wasn’t the government, what if some dangerous criminal syndicate was using my account to launder money? As much as I loved the idea of being wealthy, this money felt like a gilded ticking time bomb. I decided right then: tomorrow morning, I was going to the police. If they could trace the source of the funds, great. If not, at least I’d have a paper trail showing I tried to report it. Yes. That was the smart thing to do. I took a few deep breaths to calm my nerves and crawled back into bed. I grabbed my phone to set my alarm, but my finger slipped, opening my photo gallery. I froze. There, at the very top of my camera roll, were several photos I had never seen before. They were pictures of me… standing next to a woman. She was smiling warmly, her arm wrapped around my waist. And her face was identical to the woman from my dream. Terrified, I scrambled out of bed and flipped on the lights. My apartment felt suddenly cold, haunted. I had absolutely no memory of these photos. I had never met this woman in my life. Could they be AI-generated? But I had just bought this phone. How could anyone have put them there? I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I kept every light in the apartment burning until dawn, and the second the sun broke over the horizon, I hailed a cab straight to the police station. “Morning. Can I help you with something?” The desk sergeant looked at me with immediate concern. I must have looked like a ghost, pale and disheveled. He poured me a cup of water. I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. “Officer… someone is putting photos of a strange woman on my phone. And… I keep receiving massive sums of money from an untraceable source.” The officer frowned. “How massive?” “A million dollars yesterday. And last night… one hundred million.” “One hundred million?!” He practically choked on his coffee, his voice echoing in the quiet lobby. “Officer Nightingale, what’s all the shouting about?” another detective called out from across the room. But I didn’t hear him. Officer Nightingale. Nightingale. That surname… I slowly raised my head and stared at her face, her badge. Suddenly, a violent spark flared in my brain. I remembered. I knew exactly what was happening. Along with the realization came a blinding, agonizing headache. My vision blurred, the room began to spin, and before I could say another word, the world went completely black.

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I am the biological daughter who was lost for fifteen years. When my family finally brought me back, my adoptive sister, terrified that I would slowly usurp her place, hired men to abandon me in the freezing Alaskan Barrens during a family vacation. I survived in that frozen hell for a month, nearly torn to pieces by wolves, before a local bush-dweller miraculously found me and saved my life. When I returned home, bloodied and hysterical, I told my parents she had tried to murder me. My parents brushed it off. “Beatrice was just being immature,” they said. “It was a prank, and she already knows she was wrong. Let it go.” I couldn’t accept the reality that my own parents didn’t love me. In a fit of raw, desperate rage, I took a knife and slashed Beatrice’s arm. Furious, they shipped me off to Stonebridge Academy—a brutal reform school disguised as a boarding school—to “break my spirit.” I spent three agonizing years there in a living hell until my heart turned entirely to stone. Three years later, they sent a car to bring me home. I escaped halfway through the drive and fled back to Alaska. I became a wilderness search-and-rescue specialist in the Barrens. For twenty years, I never lost a single soul. On my thirty-fifth birthday, I received a very specific rescue request. I looked at the dossier, shook my head, and said, “This one, I won’t save.” ……. Jonas, our local community lead, froze, the joy draining from his weathered face. He grabbed my sleeve, his voice tight with panic. “Kaya, why? Why won’t you save him?” “This is easy for you. If you pull him out, they’re offering five million dollars. That’s enough to replace your rusted prosthetic leg, and it would buy the targeted therapy drugs for your cancer.” “That five million is your lifeline. Why are you throwing this away?” I glanced down at the battered, scuffed prosthetic on my left leg and shook my head quietly. “I’ve lived long enough, Jonas. There’s no need to drag it out.” “If I say I’m not going, I’m not going. Just tell them I’ve gotten old and cowardly.” Jonas stared at me, his eyes filled with disbelief. “Old and cowardly? Kaya, if you were afraid of death, you wouldn’t have taken up Mika’s mantle as a search-and-rescue leader in these unforgiving wilds.” “Lately, the wolf packs in the interior have grown massive, and the danger of going out there is through the roof. Everyone else stopped doing runs years ago.” “Only you. For over twenty years, whenever someone screamed for help, you went out—no matter the blizzard, no matter the storm.” “And now you’re telling me you’re afraid to die? I don’t buy it.” My voice remained steady. “My mind is made up. I’m not saving him. You can find someone else.” Jonas sighed, defeated. “Who else? No one has been out into the deep Barrens in six years. They don’t even know the shifting ice paths. Besides, there are hundreds of wolves out there now. If a pack catches a scent, there won’t even be bones left to bury.” “But you’re different. You saved those pups years ago, including the alpha. The pack knows your scent. They won’t touch you.” Jonas ran out of breath. Seeing my stone-cold expression, he lowered his voice, almost begging. “Kaya, please. The boy’s name is Brody. He’s the only heir to one of the biggest billionaires in the country. People that rich… they look for scapegoats. They won’t care about your reasons.” “You have the power to save him. Why invite their wrath and bring trouble down on yourself?” I replied flatly, “Let them be angry. I’m not changing my mind.” Jonas sighed, defeated. He dialed a number on his satellite phone. When the call connected, he spoke with a heavy, pitying tone. “The boy just had his eighteenth birthday. His life hasn’t even truly begun. Can you really bear to let him freeze out there, to let the wolves tear him to pieces?” Eighteen… My mind drifted. I was eighteen when Beatrice had me dumped in the freezing Alaskan interior. I had struggled alone for a month before the wolves finally tracked me down and tore into my leg. Just as I was preparing to die, Mika, a local woman, risked her own life to drag me out and eventually helped send me back to the family who had cast me aside. And when I finally fled that family, hollowed out and broken, it was Mika who took me in. She taught me how to navigate the wilderness, how to survive, how to save others. The first time a survivor wept at my feet, thanking me for saving their life, something inside me healed. I found a purpose. I stayed in Alaska, saving hundreds of lives over two decades. Every rescue wasn’t just about saving someone else; it was about rescuing that terrified, eighteen-year-old girl sobbing in the dark. My thoughts were shattered by an arrogant, sharp voice coming through the speaker of the satellite phone: “If you bring my son back alive, I’ll double it. Ten million.” The familiarity of that voice made my chest tighten. I had spent twenty years convincing myself I had let the past go. But hearing her voice, the old, jagged glass in my chest cut deep. I took a slow, steady breath to quiet the storm inside me. “It isn’t about the money. I can’t do it. I won’t save your child.” On the other end of the line, Beatrice’s voice turned shrill and venomous. “I’ve done my research! You go in and out of the Barrens like it’s a walk in the park. You have the ability to save him, but you’re choosing to let him die. Aren’t you afraid of retribution?” Retribution? I whispered the word to myself and let out a cold, bitter laugh. Oh, Beatrice. Your retribution is already here. Back then, when they brought me back, I had been naive enough to think we could be sisters. I didn’t realize she saw me as a parasite. Terrified that my return would threaten her inheritance and her parents’ affection, she hired men to discard me in the freezing wilds during a family cabin trip. I had wept, begging her to let me go, promising I would leave the family and never claim a dime. Her cruel, venomous words had been burned into my soul for over twenty years: “You’re just a piece of trash they dug up from the dirt. You think you get to be my sister?” “Only when you’re dead will everything in this family truly belong to me.” I was left to rot, my leg mangled by wolves, rendering me a cripple. When Mika saved me and I dragged myself back to our estate, sobbing as I told my parents the truth, Beatrice merely shed a few crocodile tears. She clutched our mother’s sleeve and whimpered: “Mom, I just wanted to play a prank on her. I didn’t think she’d actually get hurt! I’m so sorry!” And my mother immediately shielded her, dismissing my agony with a casual wave. “Beatrice was just being careless. She apologized. Stop being so vindictive.” My mother’s eyes had been cold, filled with a warning. I had lost a leg, and she called it a careless prank. That was the moment I realized they would never love me. Hysterical and broken, I grabbed a paring knife from the counter, lunged at Beatrice, and screamed, “Then let’s see how you like my prank!” My mother threw herself in front of Beatrice, slapping me hard across the face, sending me crashing to the floor. “How did I give birth to such a monster? Your sister made a mistake, and you try to take her life? You should have just died out in the snow!” When my father returned, he didn’t even look at my bandages. He arranged for me to be sent to Stonebridge Academy, barking coldly: “You can come back when you’ve learned some basic decency, respect, and how to behave like a civilized human being.” The abuse I suffered at that reform school stripped away whatever affection I had left for them. The moment I escaped, I fled. But the despair of that day remained lodged in my chest like a rusted nail. Beatrice’s voice cut through my memories again: “If you rescue my boy, I will fund a state-of-the-art school for your village. I’ll make sure every single kid in that town gets a world-class education and a ticket out of there.” Jonas’s breath hitched beside me. I paused, but my voice remained flat. “I’m sorry. I cannot help you.” I hung up. Jonas looked at me, his eyes rimmed with red. “Kaya, did you hear her? She’s offering a future for the kids.” “We live in a place where teachers quit after three weeks because of the isolation. Our kids have to travel hours in freezing temperatures just to get to a basic middle school.” “We’ve been trapped in this cycle of poverty for generations. This is their only shot at a different life.” “Please, I’m begging you. Save the boy.” Listening to Jonas’s desperate plea, my lips trembled. “Jonas… it’s not that I don’t want to. I truly can’t. I won’t survive it, and neither will he.” Before the words fully left my mouth, the deep, thrumming roar of a helicopter echoed overhead, followed by the crunch of tires on ice. A fleet of black SUVs pulled up outside my cabin. The cabin door was thrown open. Beatrice, flanked by my biological parents, stepped inside. “Are you the legendary Kaya who navigates the Barrens?” Beatrice scanned me from head to toe, her expression dripping with cold arrogance. I looked at the three of them. There wasn’t a single flicker of recognition in their eyes. I had only spent three months with them before being shipped away. Now, after twenty years of harsh Alaskan winds, biting frost, and manual labor, my skin was weathered and dark, my cheeks flushed with permanent windburn, my frame thickened by years of hauling heavy gear. I looked nothing like the fragile, pale girl they had discarded. I said quietly, “I never said I could navigate it freely.” Beatrice’s lip curled in disgust. She cut me off dismissively. “Cut the act. You’re holding out for more money, aren’t you?” “Fine. Bring my son back, and I’ll give you fifty million.” I remained silent. Beatrice took my silence as greed, her tone turning venomous. “Don’t get greedy, sweetheart. Too much cash might choke you.” “Beatrice, mind your manners.” My mother pulled Beatrice back slightly, offering me a polite, plastic smile. “My daughter is just out of her mind with worry, Ms. Kaya. Please don’t take offense.” “Please try to understand our position. Brody is the sole heir to our family’s legacy. If we lose him, it will destroy us.” “You must have family of your own. Surely you can understand a mother’s desperation? I am begging you, as an old woman—save my precious grandson.” Seeing my biological mother humble herself to protect the child of the woman who had tried to kill me… a sharp, familiar pain bloomed in my chest. I wanted to scream at her. She isn’t even your blood! You give her and her son everything, so why couldn’t you spare even a drop of love for me? I didn’t need much. Just a crumb. But the words died in my throat. I pulled my lips into a cold, hard line. “I’m afraid I can’t relate. I was abandoned by my parents as a child, and I’ve never had a family of my own.” “I said no. Take your business elsewhere.” “You miserable bitch!” Beatrice’s face contorted with pure hatred. She pointed a finger in my face, her voice shrieking: “You cold-blooded freak! No wonder your parents threw you away. You deserve to die alone. I hope you rot in hell!” “Beatrice, calm down.” My father stepped in, gently patting her shoulder before turning his sharp, calculating eyes on me. He spoke in a measured, powerful tone: “Ms. Kaya, the golden window for rescue is closing. We have less than ten hours. Every second you waste puts my grandson closer to death.” “You’re refusing because the price isn’t right. Fine. Save my boy, and I will personally hire elite tutors to ensure every child in this village gets into an Ivy League school.” “On top of that, I will write a check for one million dollars to every single resident in this town.” “I believe that is more than generous.” “But if you still refuse…” My father’s eyes turned glacially cold as he gestured toward Jonas. “My conglomerate owns the distributors that purchase the wild chaga and morel mushrooms harvested by your people. It is the only source of income for this entire region.” “If you continue to stall, I will blackball your village. I will cut off your livelihood completely.” “Your people can starve on this frozen tundra for all I care. And I promise you, I keep my word.” Jonas’s face drained of color. He fell to his knees in front of me, grabbing my coat. “Kaya… they’re billionaires. They can do it.” “Please. For the sake of my mother who saved your life, bring the boy back. We can handle the cold, but the kids… their futures shouldn’t die here!” “Did you forget what my mother said before she died? She wanted the kids to see the world beyond these mountains!” I looked at Jonas’s tear-stained face, then glanced out the window at the local children huddled in the snow, watching us with terrified, wide eyes. The weight of their entire future crashed down on my chest. Tears welled in my eyes, but my voice remained a whisper. “I’m sorry. I really can’t save him.” “Why?! Why won’t you just save him?!” Jonas scrambled to his feet, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me in sheer, broken desperation. “Stubborn bitch,” Beatrice spat, her smile turning vicious. She turned to the armed security guards standing behind her. “Round up all the kids in this village. We’re taking them into the Barrens.” She laughed, a manic, desperate sound. “The biggest threat out there is the wolves. If we feed them first, they won’t touch my son.” “If this freak won’t go, we’ll use these local stray dogs to pave the way. One way or another, I’m getting my son back.” The guards moved instantly, heading toward the door. Jonas threw himself in their way. “Stop! Stop it! The kids have nothing to do with this!” I couldn’t believe the depth of her depravity. I shook with rage. “Beatrice! This is kidnapping! You’re breaking the law!” Beatrice lunged forward and kicked me hard in the chest. I crashed to the floor, my worn-out prosthetic snapping off and skittering across the wood. She stood over me, looking down with absolute disdain. “The law? There isn’t a cop for a hundred miles, you pathetic cripple. Who’s going to stop me?” “Besides, all of your worthless lives combined aren’t worth a single hair on my son’s head. Dying for him is the highest honor you’ll ever have.” “Don’t worry. Once he’s safe, I’ll pay some priest to pray for your miserable souls.” The guards dragged the screaming children from the snow, binding their wrists with zip-ties. “Kaya! Help us! I don’t want to go to the wolves!” “Kaya, I’m scared!” The screams of the children mixed with the desperate shouts of the villagers trying to fight off the armed guards. The scene was absolute chaos. And my biological parents stood there, watching the brutality unfold with cold, silent approval. Jonas was pinned to the floor by a guard. He watched his own nephew being thrown into the back of an SUV and screamed at me, his voice cracking: “Kaya! For God’s sake, tell me why! What did they do to you that’s worth sacrificing all of us?!” I stared at the cold, indifferent faces of my biological parents. I let out a ragged, hysterical laugh, and screamed at the top of my lungs: “Why?! Because his mother is the monster who tried to kill me!” “If I go out there, the only thing I’ll do is throw her son directly into the jaws of the wolves myself!” “Just like you did to me twenty years ago, Beatrice!”

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The turbulence on the flight home was violent, the kind that makes your stomach drop and the cabin scream. At the boundary between life and death, with my hands shaking, I dialed Griffith’s number, desperate to hear his voice one last time, to leave him my final words. He hung up on the second ring. An automated text popped up a second later: Driving. On my way to pick up Leona. In our five years of marriage, I’ve flown eighty-six times. Before every single landing, I would send him a tentative text, asking if he might be free to pick me up. His answer was always a variation of the same cold refrain: Leona’s flight is coming in too. I have to get her. Eighty-six landings for me. Eighty-six airport pickups for Leona. The worst of those times was during a torrential downpour last spring. I spent two miserable hours standing under the leaky awning of the arrivals terminal, dragging my heavy suitcase through puddles, unable to hail a single cab. When I called him, sobbing softly, it wasn’t Griffith who answered. It was Leona, her voice sweet and light over the static. “Hey, Monica. Griffith’s got his hands full loading my bags into the trunk right now. He can’t really talk.” Now, the cabin around me was a nightmare of screams, falling oxygen masks, and weeping. The plane was spiraling out of control at thirty thousand feet. Through the window, the night sky was stained a violent, blinding orange as the left wing ruptured into flames. My screen buzzed. A message from him. Got Leona. What time do you land? I’ll come get you. I stared at the glowing words, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping my throat. Five years. He was finally offering to pick me up. But the fire was consuming us, pulling the metal bird down in a sickening, terminal dive. He didn’t know. My flight was never going to land. 1 “Grif, has Monica texted you back yet?” The car was warm, the heater humming softly. Leona sat in the passenger seat, adjusting the collar of her wool coat. Griffith kept his eyes on the traffic light ahead, his hands relaxed on the steering wheel. “Not yet. She’s probably just sulking.” I sat in the back seat, watching them in silence. I wasn’t sulking. I was dead. My physical self was still trapped in the smoking, shattered wreckage of a fuselage. But my soul, bound by some invisible, cruel tether, had drifted back here—into the quiet luxury of Griffith’s SUV. Griffith picked up his phone, pressing the voice note icon. “Monica, I’m at the terminal. Which exit are you at?” He hit send. The little voice message bubble sat quietly in our chat, unanswered. The minutes ticked by, stretching into an uncomfortable silence. Outside, the wind whipped through the airport plaza, rattling the signs. Leona shivered and let out a soft sneeze. “Do you think something’s wrong? What if Monica got hurt?” Griffith let out a dry, dismissive scoff. “What could possibly be wrong? She’s just throwing a tantrum because I didn’t pick her up first. She’s playing hard to get.” He raised the phone to his mouth again, his tone sharpening. “Monica, there’s a limit to how much drama I’ll tolerate. Leona and I are both sitting here waiting for you.” He sent it. It sank into the same quiet abyss. With a cold, irritated sigh, Griffith shoved the phone into his pocket. “Forget it. It’s freezing out. I’m taking you home first. Once she’s done acting out, she’ll make her own way back.” He had no idea I was sitting right behind him, watching the faint line of annoyance etched onto his profile. On the drive back, the speakers played Leona’s favorite indie-pop playlist, filling the car with cheerful, mocking melodies. Thirty minutes later, the SUV pulled up in front of Leona’s apartment building. Griffith unbuckled his seatbelt, stepping out into the cold night to retrieve her bags. Leona wrapped her coat tighter around her shoulders, offering him a soft, grateful smile. “Thanks for picking me up tonight, Grif. You should probably head back and get Monica now.” Griffith grabbed her suitcase, his voice flat. “No need. She’s a grown woman. She has legs; she can hail an Uber.” I stood beside them on the damp pavement, watching this bitter little play. Five years. Eighty-six flights. Not once did he offer me this simple courtesy. While I had stood in endless, freezing taxi lines, shivering under the fluorescent airport lights, he was reserving his warmth, his gentleness, and his late-night drives for someone else. He wheeled her suitcase past the glass lobby doors. “Get some rest.” Leona took a step forward, wrapping her arms around his waist in a lingering embrace. “Thank you, Grif. Honestly, since we were kids, you’ve always been there when I needed you most.” Griffith patted her back, his expression softening into something incredibly tender. “Go on up. Get some sleep.” She turned and stepped into the elevator. Griffith walked back out to the sidewalk, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He struck a lighter, the small flame illuminating his face in the dark. He pulled out his phone again and tapped on our chat. Still nothing. The last shreds of his patience evaporated. He typed out a final, biting message: If you’re going to act like a child, Monica, don’t ever expect me to pick you up again. When you’re done throwing your fit, call a cab and get home. He locked the screen with a sharp snap of his thumb. Crushing the cigarette butt against the rim of a metal trash can, he climbed back into the driver’s seat. I sat in the passenger seat next to him, watching his hands grip the steering wheel as the engine purred to life. Griffith, don’t worry. I will never ask you to pick me up again. I’m never coming home. 2 Despite the harsh words he had texted, Griffith drove home fast, weaving through the late-night traffic. He was convinced I was already home. He was likely picturing me sitting on the living room sofa, arms crossed, staring sullenly into space. He was probably planning to throw a few half-hearted apologies my way, wait for me to soften, and put the whole thing behind us. But when he unlocked the front door of our townhouse, the living room was enveloped in pitch darkness. A flicker of irritation crossed his face. Suddenly, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out quickly, a spark of anticipation in his eyes that instantly died when he saw the sender. It was Leona. Hey Grif, just unpacked and heading to bed. Did Monica ever get back to you? Griffith typed back with one hand. Not yet. She probably checked into some airport hotel to make a point. Maybe you should go look for her? Leona replied. It’s pretty late for a woman to be out alone. It can be dangerous. Griffith let out a dry laugh. She’s a grown woman. What could possibly happen to her? He tossed the phone onto the kitchen counter and walked into the master bedroom. On the nightstand sat a silver picture frame. It was a photo from our third anniversary. We were standing on a beach, smiling into the camera. His gaze lingered on the photo for a long beat. I floated right beside him, a foolish spark of hope flaring in my chest, wondering if he had finally remembered. Once the clock struck midnight, it would be our fifth wedding anniversary. But he didn’t remember. The momentary pause was just the final sigh of his exhausted patience. He pulled open the closet, grabbed his silk pajamas, and headed into the bathroom. The rush of the shower filled the quiet room. He didn’t notice that the very bottom drawer of the wardrobe wasn’t fully closed. Peeking out from the gap was the corner of a small, pastel pink gift box. It was the surprise I had painstakingly prepared for our fifth anniversary, meant to be opened at midnight. Inside was a positive pregnancy test, alongside a pair of tiny, hand-knitted white baby booties. If the flight hadn’t torn apart in the sky… If I had made it home… I would have placed that box in his hands tonight. But now, both I and the tiny, unformed life inside me were nothing but ash, scattered across a barren field miles away. The water stopped. Griffith stepped out onto the bedroom balcony, throwing a dark bathrobe over his shoulders. He unlocked his phone. Still no missed calls. No texts. The silence was grating on his nerves. He tapped out another message, his thumbs flying across the screen with aggressive force: Monica, I don’t have the energy for this running-away game. Tomorrow morning, I’m taking Leona to that artisanal bakery upstate—the one with those brioche donuts she likes. Meet us there. Don’t make me go hunting through every hotel lobby near the airport. It’s embarrassing for both of us. He threw the phone onto the outdoor lounge chair and went back inside to bed. I stared at the messages sitting in the digital void, a profound sadness washing over my cold soul. That bakery upstate. It was my favorite place in the world. It was a forty-mile drive from the city. I had begged him, so many times, to take me there on a lazy Sunday morning. It’s too far, Monica, he’d always say, barely looking up from his laptop. It’s out of the way. A waste of time. But now, because Leona wanted those donuts, a forty-mile drive was no longer too far. It was no longer a waste of time. Griffith pulled the duvet over himself and switched off the bedside lamp. In the quiet dark, his breathing soon became slow and even. He slept soundly, wrapped in the comforting delusion that when the sun rose tomorrow, everything would return to its proper place. That I would still be waiting, ready to be forgiven. 3 The next morning, Griffith tried calling me one last time before leaving the house. It rang out, eventually dropping to voicemail. Suppressing a sigh, he drove over to pick up Leona and headed toward the upstate bakery. The morning commute was congested, bumper-to-bumper traffic stretching down the highway. The radio was playing softly in the background, transitioning into the morning news broadcast. “…Breaking news this morning. A commercial flight traveling from Chicago to New York experienced catastrophic failure late last night due to severe weather and structural distress. The aircraft crashed in a remote area upstate. Search and rescue operations are underway, but hopes are slim for the one hundred and thirty-two passengers and crew members on board…” Leona gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as her face paled. “Oh my god… that’s awful. Grif, wasn’t Monica flying back from Chicago last night? She wasn’t on that flight, was she?” Griffith’s fingers tapped rhythmically against the leather of the steering wheel. His expression remained entirely unbothered. “No way. She’d never book that one. It’s a prime-time evening flight—the tickets are always double the price. Monica is too frugal for that.” I sat in the back seat, looking at the absolute certainty on his face. He didn’t know. To see him a few hours earlier, to surprise him on the eve of our fifth anniversary, I had splurged. I had paid the exorbitant change fee to get onto that exact flight. He pulled into the gravel parking lot of the bakery. “Come on, let’s get some food. We can’t have our Leona starving.” The bakery was buzzing with the morning rush, smelling of fresh yeast and roasted coffee. Griffith’s eyes swept across the crowded tables, looking for my familiar face. He glanced down at his watch, his brow furrowing as his impatience mounted. Usually, if we had a disagreement, I would have arrived early just to secure a table for him, desperate to smooth things over. But the minutes stretched on, and the seat opposite them remained empty. “She’s really dragging this out,” he muttered, checking his phone again. He figured he’d grab a quick bite, drop Leona off, and then check a few airport hotels to find me. But before their order arrived, his phone rang. It was his senior VP, sounding frantic about an urgent board meeting that required his immediate presence at the office. Griffith had to rush through breakfast, drive Leona back to her apartment, and head straight to his downtown office. The moment he walked into his suite, his executive assistant, Thomas, was waiting with a tablet in hand. “Mr. Payne, the briefing materials for the emergency meeting are ready.” “Good.” Griffith shrugged off his suit jacket, draping it over the back of his chair. Thomas hesitated, looking slightly uneasy. “Sir… is Mrs. Payne doing alright? I saw the news about the crash upstate this morning, and I knew she was traveling.” Griffith opened his laptop, not even looking up. “She’s fine. She wasn’t on that flight.” “Thank goodness,” Thomas said, visibly relieved. He cleared his throat. “Also, today is your fifth anniversary. Would you like me to book a table at Le Jardin tonight?” Griffith froze, the realization hitting him like a belated wave. It was their anniversary. The tight lines around his mouth softened slightly. No wonder I had been so angry last night. No wonder I had gone completely silent. “Yes,” Griffith said. “Book the corner table overlooking the river. And order a bouquet of red roses.” Thomas smiled and nodded, turning to make the arrangements. Griffith picked up his phone again. Looking at our still-empty chat history, he let out a quiet sigh. He typed: Monica, I’m sorry about last night. I should have picked you up. Then, he sent the location of the French restaurant. Seven o’clock tonight. Let me make it up to you, okay? He assumed that once I saw the effort, the reservation, the roses, my anger would melt away. He had always operated this way. A cold shoulder, followed by a sweet gesture. He truly believed a fancy dinner and a dozen roses could erase months of neglect and quiet humiliation. But he didn’t know. I would never make it to dinner. 4 By late afternoon, the sky turned a bruised, heavy grey. Rain was on the horizon. A strange, low-level anxiety began to hum in Griffith’s chest. Then, a text from Leona popped up: Grif! My project bonus just cleared! I want to buy you dinner to celebrate tonight. Are you free? Griffith hesitated. He had plans to celebrate our anniversary tonight. But then he reasoned that he could easily grab a quick drink with Leona first and still make it to the restaurant by seven. Sure. Send me the place, he replied. I watched him make the choice with a dull, familiar ache. For five years, it had always been like this. Whenever Leona called, no matter how sacred the day was to us, she was always his first priority. After work, Griffith went straight to meet Leona at a trendy bistro downtown. He sat across from her, listening patiently as she rambled about her career wins, clinking his glass against hers to toast her success. It wasn’t until his watch read 6:45 PM that he finally slid his jacket back on and stood up. “I’ve got a commitment I can’t push, Leona. I have to run. Bill’s already taken care of.” On his way to the parking garage, he passed a luxury jeweler’s boutique. He popped inside, hastily picking out a delicate diamond necklace as an anniversary gift. Then, he got into his car and sped toward the French restaurant. I sat in the passenger seat beside him, staring down at the velvet box on the console. He had forgotten. Again. I had a severe contact allergy to certain metal alloys, especially nickel. Years ago, he had gifted me a similar necklace. To avoid hurting his feelings, I had forced myself to wear it for an entire evening. By midnight, my neck was covered in raw, weeping hives, and we ended up spending our anniversary in the ER. That night, he had held my hand, green with guilt, swearing he’d never be so careless again. But now, the promise had dissolved from his memory entirely. By the time he walked into Le Jardin, he was thirty minutes late. He expected me to be sitting there, just like I had for the past four anniversaries, waiting patiently with a gentle, forgiving smile. But the table was empty. He stood there, staring at the unoccupied velvet chair, momentarily stunned. He dropped the gift box onto the white tablecloth with a sharp click and pulled out his phone, shooting off an irritated voice note. “Monica, I booked the restaurant, I bought you a gift, and I’m sitting here waiting. How much longer are you going to keep this up?” A waiter approached him cautiously. “Sir, shall we bring out the steaks?” “Give it ten more minutes,” Griffith snapped, loosening his tie. He was growing increasingly resentful. He had cut his celebration with Leona short just to make it here, and yet I was still making him wait. What more did I want from him? He didn’t know I was sitting right across from him, staring at his frustrated face. His eyes remained fixed on the restaurant’s entrance, waiting for the door to swing open. He was utterly convinced I would walk through it. Just as I always did. Throughout our five years of marriage, all it took was a small crumb of affection for me to swallow my pride and sweep all my hurt under the rug. The minutes crawled by as the rain outside turned into a torrential downpour, splashing heavily against the glass. Griffith’s brow furrowed deeper. The silence since last night, paired with the background noise of the morning’s crash report, began to fester in his mind, growing into a cold, prickly dread. Suddenly, his phone vibrated violently against the wood table. The screen lit up with my name: Monica. The tension drained from Griffith’s shoulders, and he let out a long, heavy breath of relief. He swiped to answer. “So, you’re finally done playing hard to get? I knew you couldn’t stay away for long.” But it wasn’t my voice on the other end. It was the solemn, clinical voice of a man. “Is this the family of Monica Payne? We are calling regarding the passenger flight from Chicago. The aircraft suffered a fatal crash last night. “We need you to come to the precinct forensic center immediately to identify the remains.”

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I saw the post on our building’s resident WhatsApp group at ten on a Tuesday night. It was the kind of message that made me stop mid-sip of my wine, my eyes widening in the dim light of my living room. Belinda, the pregnant woman from across the hall, had tagged everyone. “Can anyone keep my husband company? Requirements: chat with him, cook him dinner in the evenings. I’ll pay $3,000 a month pocket money, plus a brand-new La Mer skincare set.” The chat went instantly quiet, a collective breath held in the digital ether. Then, she tagged me directly. “Lauren, I think you’re perfect for this. You’re single and beautiful. I’ve already left the gift box at your door. Just head on over tonight.” I opened my front door. Sure enough, there was a beautifully wrapped green box sitting on the welcome mat. I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. I picked up the box, walked to the trash chute down the hall, and tossed it right in. Then I typed a quick reply in the group chat: “Are you out of your mind?” I honestly thought it was just some bizarre, temporary lapse in sanity. I was wrong. It was only the first step into a nightmare. … At seven the next morning, I opened my door to head to the office. “Lauren, you took the skincare. Why didn’t you show up to keep my husband company last night?” Belinda was standing in the hallway, blocking my path. Her hands were propped on her heavily pregnant belly, her eyes wide and demanding. I frowned, keeping my voice low. “Have you completely lost your mind?” Belinda’s eyes narrowed to slits. “How dare you speak to me like that? I was trying to be generous. That La Mer set cost more than you make in a week, and you take my things and refuse to do the work? Where is your decency?” I pointed toward the end of the hallway. “The box is in the trash chute. Go fish it out if you want it. Now, get out of my way.” I tried to step around her toward the elevator, but she lunged forward, grabbing the strap of my canvas tote bag. “You stay right here! Is it the money? Do you think three grand isn’t enough?” Belinda’s grip was surprisingly tight. “I’m telling you, it’s easy cash. Just cook for my husband, talk to him. It’s not like it’s going to kill you!” My face went cold. “Belinda, let me say this one last time. I have zero interest in your husband, and I have zero interest in your money. If you touch me or my belongings again, I will call the police.” “Go ahead! Call them!” Belinda didn’t flinch. Instead, she pushed her pregnant belly toward me. “I’m pregnant. What do you think the cops are going to do to me? Touch me. Lay one finger on me and I’ll sue you until you’re completely bankrupt!” The shouting was loud enough to echo in the concrete stairwell, drawing the attention of our neighbors. Mrs. Higgins, an elderly woman from the floor below, poked her head out of the elevator vestibule, holding a mug of tea. “Oh, Lauren, dear, what’s all the commotion? It’s far too early for this.” Belinda pointed a manicured finger at me. “Mrs. Higgins, you be the judge! This girl took my expensive gift, promised she’d help watch my husband while I’m resting, and now she’s going back on her word!” My hands shook with sheer frustration. How could anyone twist reality so effortlessly? I pulled out my phone and pulled up the WhatsApp group. “Mrs. Higgins, look at this. She posted this insane proposal last night. I didn’t let her in, I didn’t accept her package, and I threw it straight into the garbage.” Mrs. Higgins squinted at the screen, then looked at Belinda. Her expression shifted into deep, awkward discomfort. “Oh, Belinda… sweetheart, this is… well, it’s a bit much, isn’t it? Who hires a companion for their own husband?” “What do you mean, a bit much?” Belinda’s voice grew louder, more hysterical. “I’m pregnant! I can’t take care of him right now. What’s wrong with finding him a little company? It’s my duty as a supportive wife!” She glared at me, her eyes dripping with condescension. “She’s a single woman. She dresses up to turn heads every single day—we all know what she’s looking for. I’m offering her a paid opportunity, and she’s acting like she’s too pure for it!” I took a deep, steadying breath, bypassing her completely, and dialed building security. “This is Lauren in Apartment 802. I have a tenant blocking my doorway and harassing me. Send security up right now. If they aren’t here in three minutes, I’m calling 911.” Hearing me mention security, Belinda’s face flickered with a brief flash of hesitation. “Call them! You think I’m scared of some rent-a-cops? My husband is a senior VP at a top firm. He could crush you like a bug!” Five minutes later, two security guards stepped out of the elevator, looking thoroughly flustered. I pointed at Belinda. “Get her away from my door so I can go to work. If she blocks me again, I’ll file a formal complaint against management for failing to maintain a safe building environment.” The guards looked apologetic, shifting on their feet. “Uh… Mrs. Matt, please. You’re pregnant, you shouldn’t let your blood pressure get this high. Let’s just go back inside, okay?” Belinda slapped their hands away, her finger nearly touching my nose. “Lauren, you’re going to regret this! This isn’t over! You think you can treat me like this? I’ll make sure you can’t show your face in this neighborhood!” I kept my expression entirely blank, walked past her, and stepped into the waiting elevator. I tried to convince myself that if I just ignored her, she would eventually get bored and stop. But I had severely underestimated how low she was willing to sink. That evening, I didn’t get home until eight after a grueling sprint of overtime. The moment the elevator doors slid open on the eighth floor, a sharp, chemical stench hit my nose. Wet paint. I walked toward my door, and my heart dropped into my stomach. My door was covered in thick, dripping crimson paint. Slurred across the wood in frantic, jagged strokes were the words: HOMEWRECKER GO TO HELL. Hanging from the brass doorknob by a bright red string was a dead, bloodied rat. The hallway seemed to spin. A wave of intense nausea washed over me, and I had to lean against the wall to keep my knees from buckling. Right then, my phone buzzed in my hand. I picked up. Belinda’s soft, mocking laughter came through the receiver. “Do you like my housewarming gift, Lauren?” My voice was like ice. “Your gift? Are you admitting you vandalized my door?” Her tone was dripping with fake innocence. “Vandalized? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m a fragile pregnant woman, Lauren. I can barely bend over to tie my shoes, let alone carry a paint can. What could I possibly do?” She paused, letting the silence stretch. “But then again, there are plenty of decent people in this building who can’t stand a homewrecker. Maybe some good Samaritan decided to do some community service.” My grip on the phone was so tight my knuckles turned white. “Belinda, do you honestly think you can get away with this just because the hallway camera is down?” “Go ahead and check the feeds,” she sneered. “The building manager told us weeks ago that the system is broken. Lauren, be smart. Wash up, put on something nice, and go to my husband’s room tonight. Let’s put this little misunderstanding behind us.” “Otherwise, tomorrow, it won’t just be paint on your door.” I hung up immediately, blocked her number, and dialed 911. Ten minutes later, two officers arrived. I laid out the entire sequence of events, showing them the WhatsApp logs, the call logs, and the recording of the call I had just received. The two young officers exchanged troubled looks. “I’ve heard some strange neighborhood disputes, but this is a new one,” one of them murmured before walking over to knock on Belinda’s door. The door opened. Belinda was wearing a loose, flowing linen maternity dress, holding a pristine bowl of washed grapes. When she saw the police, her face contorted into a perfect picture of innocent shock. “Officers? Oh my goodness, is everything alright? Did something happen?” The officer pointed toward my door. “Do you know anything about this, ma’am?” Belinda gasped, bringing her hands to her mouth. “Oh, how dreadful! Who would do such a horrible thing? Lauren, have you been getting involved with the wrong crowd?” I stared at her, my voice deadpan. “That’s not what you said on the phone five minutes ago.” The officer pulled out my phone and played the audio recording. As her own voice echoed in the hallway, Belinda’s eyes welled with tears. “Officers, please listen to that. Did I ever actually admit to doing it? I was just upset because she’s constantly trying to catch my husband’s eye. I was just talking back. How could a pregnant woman carry paint and do all that?” The officers looked frustrated. Without direct camera footage or an explicit admission, their hands were tied. “Mrs. Matt, your statements on this recording clearly constitute harassment,” the officer warned her, his voice stern. “Consider this a formal warning. If there are any further incidents, we will have no choice but to issue a summons.” Belinda nodded eagerly, wiping her dry eyes. Once the police walked away, the hallway fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Just the two of us. Belinda’s face instantly changed, her tearful expression melting into a cold, triumphant smirk. “See that, Lauren? Even the cops can’t touch me.” She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “I am carrying the heir to the Matt family fortune. Even if I ended you, any lawyer would get me off on postpartum psychosis. I wouldn’t spend a single day in a cell.” I looked at her, and for the first time, a strange, calm smile touched my lips. “Is that so? Let’s see how that works out for you.” I didn’t waste another word. I walked away, called a locksmith to change my locks, and hired a professional deep-cleaning crew to scrub the paint off my door. The next morning, the moment I walked into the lobby of my office building, the receptionist, a sweet girl named Julie, rushed over and grabbed my arm. “Lauren, oh my god, have you looked at the company Slack?” My stomach tightened. I pulled out my phone. On the main company-wide channel, an anonymous user had posted a long, detailed article. The title was venomous: The Dual Life of Senior Designer Lauren: Classy on the Outside, Homewrecker on the Inside. The post featured my professional headshot side-by-side with a cropped screenshot of Belinda’s WhatsApp message to me. The text beneath was pure poison: “This woman targets married men for money. She accepted expensive luxury gifts from a pregnant neighbor’s husband, but when she realized she couldn’t extort more cash, she backed out and called the police on a pregnant woman to cover her tracks.” The office was already humming with it. When I walked through the bullpen, my coworkers’ conversations died instantly. Eyes darted toward me, whispered judgments hanging thick in the air. I didn’t hesitate. I walked straight into the Director’s office. Diane, our Design Director, was a sharp, formidable woman in her late forty’s. She looked at the screenshots I handed her, then at the police report and the call logs. Her brow furrowed deeply. “Lauren, I’ve worked with you for five years. I know your character,” Diane said, her voice measured but serious. “But this post has spread like wildfire. We’ve already had two major clients call asking if this is going to affect our current campaign.” “I understand,” I said, drawing a breath that felt like lead. “I will handle this completely. If I can’t resolve it within the month, I will tender my resignation.” Diane nodded slowly. “Alright. Take the time you need to clear this up. I’ve already instructed IT to permanently remove the post and track the IP.” Leaving her office, I immediately called Russell, a private investigator I’d met through a mutual acquaintance. Defamation. Harassment. Extortion. I wasn’t going to play defense anymore. I booked a room at a boutique hotel near my office and didn’t return to the apartment. For the next month, Belinda went completely silent. There were no more posts, no more text messages. Everything seemed to return to normal. I allowed myself to believe they had finally realized they were playing a dangerous game and backed off. I was incredibly naive. It was a rainy Friday afternoon, exactly four weeks later, when I walked out of the office lobby. A figure stepped out from the shadow of the awning, blocking my path. He wore a tailored gray suit and gold-rimmed glasses, looking every bit the polished professional. He looked at me with an expression of profound, humble apology. “Lauren? Hi. I’m Zachary Matt, Belinda’s husband.” I stopped, my body instantly tensing. “What do you want?” Zachary sighed, reaching into his leather briefcase to pull out a beautifully wrapped package. He held it out with both hands. “I came to apologize to you in person,” he said, his voice soft and deeply apologetic. “Belinda’s hormonal levels have been completely unstable since she got pregnant. She’s had severe mood swings, and she’s done some incredibly irrational things. I’ve been traveling out of state for work and had no idea how bad things had gotten. I am so, so sorry for the nightmare she put you through.” I didn’t touch the box. “I don’t want your apology, and I don’t want your gifts. I’ve retained a lawyer, Mr. Matt. We’ll settle this in court.” At the word lawyer, Zachary’s eyes flickered. He withdrew the box slowly, taking a step closer. His voice dropped to a low, confidential murmur. “Lauren, a lawsuit is so exhausting. It takes months, and honestly, a public dispute like this won’t do any favors for a single woman’s reputation.” He adjusted his glasses, his eyes drifting down my figure with a slow, deliberate assessment. “To be honest… Belinda’s idea was crazy, but it doesn’t mean it was entirely wrong.” I froze, wondering if I had somehow misheard him. “What did you just say?” Zachary smiled, a greasy, predatory curl of his lips. “You’re a gorgeous woman, Lauren. It must be so exhausting, trying to survive in this city entirely on your own. Belinda’s health is poor right now, and she can’t… satisfy me.” He reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from my cheek. “If you agree, we don’t have to talk about three thousand dollars. I can make it thirty thousand a month. All you have to do is spend a few nights a week with me.” “Belinda is old-fashioned. She genuinely believes this is her duty to keep me happy. See? My entire family wants you. Why are you hesitating?” A wave of cold revulsion washed over me. These two were a perfect match: one was a delusional madam, and the other was a self-righteous john. I slapped his hand away and, in one fluid motion, brought my palm hard across his cheek. SLAP. Zachary’s head snapped to the side. He cupped his face, his polite facade instantly evaporating into a dark, vicious glare. “Don’t flatter yourself, Lauren,” he hissed, spitting a bit of saliva onto the pavement. “I was throwing you a bone.” He leaned in, his voice barely a whisper against the sound of the rain. “Believe me, I have a hundred ways to make you beg me to touch you.” I met his gaze, my voice deadly quiet. “I’d love to see you try.” I turned on my heel and walked away. The moment I got back to my hotel room, I called Russell. That night, around two in the morning, I was pulled from a deep sleep by a violent, deafening pounding on my hotel door. BANG! BANG! BANG! “Lauren! You miserable bitch, open this door!” It was Belinda. I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs. How did they find out which hotel I was staying at? “Open up! You think you can sleep with my husband? You think you can lay your hands on him? Get out here!” The screaming was hysterical, accompanied by a barrage of vile insults that echoed down the quiet hallway. I grabbed my phone, immediately dialed 911, and then called the front desk. “I’m in Room 802. There are people trying to break down my door. Send security up immediately!” Outside, the noise grew louder. Zachary’s voice joined the shouting. “Lauren, stop playing innocent! You had the nerve to hit me, but now you’re hiding like a coward?” His voice sounded slurred, heavy with alcohol and toxic confidence. I stood flush against the door, my hand trembling as I held a can of pepper spray. Five minutes felt like an eternity before I heard the sharp command of security guards, followed by the heavy, hurried footsteps of police officers. Only then did I let out a long breath and unbolt the lock. The hallway was a scene of utter chaos. Belinda’s hair was wild, her eyes crazed as she struggled against an officer trying to hold her back. Zachary was standing to the side, raising his hands to explain to another officer. “Officer, please, it’s just a family matter. My wife is pregnant and highly emotional. She thought her husband’s mistress was in this room. We just wanted to talk.” I stepped out, pointing directly at them. “Officer, they have been stalking and harassing me for over a month. They tracked me to this hotel.” The responding officer recognized them immediately. “You two again? The vandalism case from last month isn’t even resolved, and now you’re causing a scene at a hotel?” Belinda’s eyes turned bloodshot, her face contorting with wild rage as she lunged toward me. “You whore! You hit my husband! I’ll tear your eyes out!” The officer grabbed her arm, pinning her back. “Ma’am, calm down! You’re pregnant, you need to stop this!” Suddenly, Belinda went completely still. The rage on her face vanished, replaced by a ghastly, pale mask of pure terror. A low, guttural moan escaped her throat. “My… my stomach… Oh god, it hurts…” She collapsed onto her knees, and within seconds, a dark, brilliant pool of blood began to seep through the hem of her light-colored dress, staining the patterned hotel carpet. Everyone froze. Zachary’s face drained of color as he threw himself onto the floor beside her. “Belinda! Belinda, what’s happening?” The officer immediately barked into his radio: “Dispatch, we need an ambulance at the Grand Hyatt, eighth floor. Hemorrhaging pregnant female.” The hallway was a blur of shouting and panic. Belinda clutched Zachary’s jacket, her fingers trembling, her gaze locked onto me with a look of absolute, venomous hatred. “It’s her… she did this to my baby… Zachary, don’t let her get away with this…” When the paramedics finally arrived and wheeled her out on a stretcher, Zachary stood up. He turned back to look at me, his eyes dark with a terrifying promise. “If my child dies, Lauren, I will make sure you pay with your life.”

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