Author: Momo Chan

In the second year of my divorce battle with Rachel, the court stripped me of everything. I was cleaned out, left with nothing but the clothes on my back and a mountain of debt. While I was packing my life into cardboard boxes, my daughter fished an old, dusty phone from the bottom of a trunk. “Look, Daddy! It lights up!” I tapped the screen. A single email notification popped up, casting a dim glow over the empty bedroom. It was a message from ten years ago, written by my younger self. Are you doing okay, twenty-eight-year-old Drew? Did you marry the girl of your dreams? Is our baby as cute as you always hoped? She loves kids more than anything. I bet you guys are incredibly happy, aren’t you? My throat tightened. I gripped the phone, typing back a reply line by line. I got married. We have a beautiful daughter. But three years into the marriage, I found out she was sleeping with my best friend. The godfather of our child. We fought in court for two years. She won. She made sure I was left with absolutely nothing. Seconds after I hit send, a reply flashed across the screen. You’re lying! Rachel and Jordan love me more than anyone in the world. They would never betray me! I let out a bitter, hollow laugh, my fingers trembling against the glass. The people who love you most? Our daughter has a congenital heart defect. She won’t survive without surgery. I literally got down on my knees, begging Rachel for the money to save her life, and she accused me of trying to extort her. She froze all my bank accounts and spent our wedding savings on a lavish ceremony with Jordan. The invitations are already out. Drew, don’t be an idiot. Ten years from now, Rachel doesn’t love you anymore. Whether you break up with her or stay—it’s your choice. … The messages stopped. I waited ten minutes, but there was no reply. Eighteen-year-old Drew was so hopelessly in love with Rachel. How could he possibly believe me? I wiped the tears from my eyes and went back to packing. My daughter sat on top of the open suitcase, swinging her little legs. “Daddy, why are we moving?” she asked in her sweet, quiet voice. I opened my mouth, but the words caught in my throat. How do you explain to a child that you lost everything? How do you tell her that her mother is marrying someone else, and that she will soon have a brand-new family that doesn’t include us? It was a burden too heavy for a four-year-old to carry. Below, the purr of a high-end engine broke the quiet afternoon. A sleek, black Mercedes-Maybach pulled up to the curb. Jordan and Rachel stepped out, laughing and talking in low, intimate whispers as they walked up the steps. I dragged my heavy suitcase down the stairs, meeting them right at the landing. Jordan smirked, waving a marriage certificate in front of my face. “Leaving so soon, Drew?” he asked, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Rachel was in such a rush. The court finalized the divorce this morning, and she insisted we get hitched this afternoon. She couldn’t wait a single minute.” I didn’t look at him. My eyes locked onto Rachel, but she simply stepped aside, her expression entirely blank. She looked at me the way she would look at a stranger on the subway. Lucy, completely unaware of the tension, waved her tiny hand. “Uncle Jordan, hug!” Jordan smiled warmly, pinched her cheek, and slid a thick white envelope into my hand. “Just a little something for the kid. Take it.” The envelope was heavy. In the old days, my fist would have met his jaw before he could finish the sentence. But now, I swallowed my pride, gripped the envelope, and slid it into my pocket. Rachel’s brow furrowed in disgust. “Is this who you are now, Drew? You couldn’t win any assets in court, so now you’re stooping to taking handouts?” I stood there in silence for a few seconds before asking one last time, my voice barely a whisper. “Rachel… Lucy’s surgery. Can you please just—” “Drew, enough!” she snapped, her eyes narrowing. “I have given you more than enough money over the years. Stop using our daughter as a cash cow. I saw her physical report from the clinic—she’s perfectly healthy. You won’t extort another dime from me.” I gripped the handle of my suitcase so hard my fingernails dug into my palms. It hurt enough to bring tears to my eyes. I had told her dozens of times that the clinic report Jordan gave her was a fake, but she refused to believe me. She said Jordan’s family owned the best private hospital in the city, so there was no way they could be wrong. She trusted Jordan blindly. When I tried to show her the official diagnosis from the state general hospital, she tore it to pieces right in front of me, calling me a liar. She had even hired a high-powered corporate legal team specifically to ensure I walked away with nothing. Lucy pulled at my coat. “Daddy, I’m scared.” I bent down, scooped her into my arms, and walked right past them, dragging the suitcase behind me. As I brushed past Jordan, I caught the sharp, woody notes of his cologne. It was the custom fragrance Rachel had gifted me for our anniversary two years ago. She had told me it was a limited blend, that it represented how I was the only one in her heart. Not long after, the same scent started clinging to Jordan. Every time I smelled it, it felt like a physical blow. I loaded our lives into the back of my old sedan. As I started the ignition, the old phone in my pocket vibrated. Are you really me? eighteen-year-old Drew wrote. I asked Rachel about it. She laughed and said she’d only ever love me. She promised our baby would be healthy and beautiful, and that she’d give her the world. Rachel loves me. I believe her. Of course he did. He was young and untouched by betrayal. I pulled the gold-embossed wedding invitation from my bag, took a photo of the names Rachel & Jordan printed in elegant cursive, and hit send. Ask her then. If she swore to love me forever, why is she marrying him today? After sending the email, I powered the phone down. From the moment I first discovered Rachel’s affair until today, I had remained remarkably quiet. I had signed the papers quietly. I had stood in the courtroom quietly. Even when her lawyers tore my character to shreds, I hadn’t shed a single tear. But now, communicating with the ghost of our past, a profound wave of grief washed over me. Because I remembered, better than anyone, how fiercely she used to love me. When my family went bankrupt when we were sixteen, she gave me every penny of her savings to help pay off our debts. When her parents cut her off financially to force us apart, she worked three part-time jobs just to help me pay my college tuition. After graduation, she defied her entire family to move to an unfamiliar city and build a startup with me. I had tried to push her away back then, telling her she deserved a better life. But she had held onto me, crying, and said, “Drew, as long as I have you, I don’t need anything else.” We had promised to build a beautiful life for our future children. But the very day we finally moved into our dream home, our marriage began to rot from the inside out. I drank myself to sleep that night in our cramped rented apartment. The next morning, my head was splitting, but I forced myself to sit up and dial every contact in my phone, begging for loans to cover Lucy’s surgery. I had just put the phone down when the preschool called. “Is this Lucy’s father? Lucy just collapsed on the playground. We’re in the ambulance on the way to the pediatric ER…” By the time I sprinted into the hospital lobby, Rachel was already there. She stood by Lucy’s bed, looking down at our pale, unconscious daughter. Her expression was cold and harsh. “Alright, Drew. How much do you want this time?” My hands shook as I dug through my bag for the medical charts. “Rachel, she’s really sick. Just look at the arterial scans, please—” Rachel grabbed my wrist, her grip unexpectedly painful. “Stop acting.” She threw a shiny platinum debit card onto the linoleum floor. “I know exactly what’s wrong with Lucy. This card has more than enough to cover your rent and living expenses. The PIN is your birthday.” I wrenched my hand free and knelt to pick up the card. Rachel glanced at Lucy one last time, then turned toward the exit. As she passed me, she paused. “Drew, if you had just pretended not to know about Jordan and me, we would still be a happy family. I never wanted to marry him. You’re the one who insisted on a divorce and made this so incredibly ugly.” My chest heaved with a quiet, burning rage. Pretend? How could I pretend when I had walked into our own guest bedroom and seen her wrapped in the arms of the man I called my brother? Even when she was pregnant, she couldn’t keep away from him. It was the constant stress and her reckless lifestyle that had caused Lucy to be born premature. Since she was an infant, Lucy had been in and out of critical care. While I spent sleepless nights weeping in hospital corridors, Rachel was either at “late-night business dinners” or traveling with Jordan. Jordan had spent more time with our daughter than Rachel ever did. I leaned against the hospital wall, suddenly remembering the old phone. I pulled it out, charged it, and powered it on. Several unread emails popped up. Drew, I asked her, the messages from my younger self read. She saw the photo of the invitation and broke down. She swore it wasn’t her. She actually cut Jordan out of her life. He lost his mind, screaming at her, but she told him she couldn’t bear the thought of hurting future-you. Jordan was supposed to go to the same college as us, but now he’s enrolling in a school abroad. See? The future can be changed. Rachel also said that if she ever turns into the monster you described, she wants to apologize to you. She’s so sorry. A strange sensation washed over me, like ink dissolving in water. My mind felt fuzzy for a moment, and then, a set of new memories settled into my brain. In this altered timeline, Rachel had indeed severed ties with Jordan after high school, and Jordan had left the country. But four years later, he returned. He used his family’s massive investment fund to bail out Rachel’s struggling startup, positioning himself as her primary partner. They still ended up in the same bed. I typed back to the eighteen-year-old Drew: It doesn’t work. He comes back. If you want to save our daughter, you have to break up with Rachel. You have to leave her completely. Lucy remained unconscious through the night. The next morning, she slowly opened her eyes, her tiny hand reaching out to touch my cheek. “Don’t cry, Daddy. Lucy doesn’t hurt anymore.” I buried my face in her small, warm palm, letting my tears flow silently. The doctor stepped into the room, his face grim. “Mr. Evans, your daughter’s vitals are dropping. We need to get her into the operating room as soon as possible. Have you secured the deposit?” “I’m working on it,” I whispered. I had exhausted every single resource. The money I managed to scrape together was barely enough to cover the pre-op tests. In a state of sheer desperation, I dialed Jordan’s number. “Jordan… please. I need sixty thousand dollars. I’ll sign whatever you want. I won’t contest the assets, I won’t look at Rachel again. Just let Lucy live.” A soft, mocking chuckle came through the receiver. “Well, look who finally crawled back to me.” “Jordan, please.” “There’s a high school reunion tonight at the hotel downtown,” Jordan said, his voice dripping with malice. “Come down. Get on your knees and beg me in front of everyone, and maybe I’ll think about it.” At eight o’clock that evening, I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the private dining room. The laughter inside died down instantly. Dozens of eyes turned to me, filled with amusement and pity. “Wow, Jordan wasn’t lying. The fallen prince actually showed up for a handout.” “If he hadn’t played the victim and kept Rachel away from her family back then, she would have married Jordan years ago…” I had lived with these whispers for three years. But the boy who used to throw punches to defend my honor in high school was now the man sitting on the plush velvet sofa, swirling a glass of expensive Cabernet. “You’re here,” Jordan said, tilting his chin upward. “On your knees, Drew.” I froze, my joints locked. “What’s wrong? Don’t want the money?” He slid a blank check across the polished mahogany table. “Kneel, and you can write whatever number you want.” The room erupted into snickers. “Just do it, Drew. Don’t act like you still have pride.” My fists clenched, my chest burning with a humiliation so intense it felt physical. Slowly, I let my knees drop to the carpet. “Jordan, I’m begging you. Save Lucy. She’s only four. She didn’t do anything wrong.” Jordan stood up, walked over to me, and slowly tipped his glass, pouring the dark red wine directly over my head. “You know what I hate most about you, Drew?” he whispered, his eyes dark. “We grew up together, the three of us. But Rachel always looked at you. I spent years trying to earn her parents’ approval, and she threw it all away for a charity case like you.” The cold, sticky liquid ran down my forehead, dripping into my collar. Jordan tossed the check onto my wet lap. “Take it. Write the amount. We were brothers once; I’m not going to let a kid die.” I picked up the pen and wrote the exact amount needed for the surgery. Not a penny more. Just as I finished, the double doors burst open. Rachel walked in. She took one look at the check in my hand, walked straight up to me, and delivered a stinging slap across my face. I fell sideways onto the floor, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. “Have you no shame, Drew?” she spat, her voice trembling with rage. “You’re actually begging Jordan for money now?” Jordan stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Babe, don’t be mad. I just felt bad for him. He has nothing left.” Rachel looked down at me, her eyes filled with cold, unadulterated disgust. “Take the charity and get out. You’ve embarrassed yourself enough.” I grabbed the check and scrambled to my feet, walking out to the sound of hushed laughter. As the heavy doors clicked shut behind me, I caught the voice of an old classmate asking, “Rachel, do you ever regret marrying him in the first place?” Through the crack in the door, I heard her clear, steady reply. “Every single day. If I could go back ten years, I wish I’d never met him.” My chest seized. If eighteen-year-old Rachel could hear those words, she would hate the woman she had become. I rushed back to the hospital and scheduled the surgery for the following week. After agonizing over it, I dialed Rachel’s number. It took ten attempts before she finally answered. “Rachel… can you come to the hospital on Wednesday? It’s the day of her surgery. She keeps asking for her mom.” The line was quiet for a long moment. “I have a product launch. I’m busy,” she said flatly. “Just text me when it’s over. Oh, and Jordan and I are having our ceremony this weekend. Don’t cause any trouble.” Before she could say another word, I hung up. The day of their wedding, the entire city seemed to be celebrating. Every local news channel was broadcasting the “wedding of the century” live from the grand cathedral downtown. I sat by Lucy’s bed, staring at the gold-embossed invitation, wanting nothing more than to tear it into a thousand pieces. Suddenly, the monitors beside the bed began to blare. Lucy’s face turned a terrifying shade of blue, her tiny chest heaving as she gasped for air. Within seconds, a team of doctors and nurses rushed into the room, pushing me out of the way. “Lucy! Lucy, look at Daddy! Stay with me!” I screamed, but a nurse held me back as they wheeled her toward the ICU. “Mr. Evans, her lungs are failing. We have to do the emergency bypass right now! Go to the billing desk and clear the deposit!” I sprinted to the desk, pulling the platinum card Rachel had given me from my wallet. “Declined,” the receptionist said, looking at me with pity. “The account has been frozen.” My blood ran cold. Rachel had frozen the card. I called her. Declined. I called again. Blocked. I ran out of the hospital, hailed a cab, and urged the driver to fly toward the cathedral. When I arrived, the steps were covered in white rose petals. Rachel was standing near the entrance, her magnificent lace gown trailing behind her, a bouquet of white calla lilies in her hands. I lunged past the security line, grabbing her arm. My voice was completely shot, raw and bleeding. “Rachel, Lucy is dying! She’s in the ICU right now. Unfreeze the card! Please, I’m begging you, just unfreeze the card!” Rachel’s face darkened. She waved her hand, and two large security guards immediately grabbed my shoulders, dragging me backward. “Drew, stop this ridiculous drama!” she yelled over the crowd. “I checked the clinic reports myself. She has a mild arrhythmia. To crash my wedding with a lie like this… you’re pathetic.” “Rachel! Please!” The heavy oak doors of the cathedral closed, and the beautiful, resonant notes of the wedding march began to play, completely drowning out my screams. I fell to my knees on the stone steps. In my pocket, the old phone vibrated. It was a message from eighteen-year-old Rachel. Drew, it’s Rachel. I know everything now. I promise you, I will never let those awful things happen to us. I swear to love you with my entire life. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I stared at the screen, my vision blurring with tears. The eighteen-year-old Rachel had sworn to love me with her life. The twenty-eight-year-old Rachel was inside, walking down the aisle to another man, leaving our daughter to die alone. My phone rang. It was the hospital. “Mr. Evans… I am so sorry. We couldn’t get her into the operating room in time. Lucy passed away at 2:14 PM.” The world went entirely silent. The air left my lungs. My mind went blank, a vast, frozen wasteland. Through the stained-glass windows of the cathedral, I could hear the faint sound of cheering. They were exchanging rings. A sudden, violent surge of adrenaline hit my system. I broke free from the guards’ grip, threw my weight against the heavy wooden doors, and charged down the center aisle. “Rachel!” I screamed, my voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “Our daughter is dead! She’s dead because of you!” The guests gasped, rising from their pews. Rachel shrieked, stepping back into Jordan’s arms. “Drew, you’re insane! Lucy was fine! Someone get him out of here!” “Drew, get the hell out!” Jordan yelled, stepping in front of her. “I paid for her treatment!” I lunged at him, my fist connecting heavily with his cheekbone. “You changed the records! You knew she was dying, and you hid it from her! You killed my little girl!” The chapel fell into absolute chaos. Guests were screaming, and several security guards tackled me to the ground, pinning my face against the cold stone floor before dragging me out into the pouring rain. As I lay on the wet pavement, the old phone in my hand buzzed one last time. It was eighteen-year-old Drew. I can’t do it, Drew. I can’t break up with her. She loves me too much, and I love her. I have to believe her. I let out a ragged, weeping laugh. We were the exact same fool, he and I. Even when we knew how the story ended, we still chose to believe. I pushed myself up, my fingers slippery with rain and blood as I typed my final reply. Drew, Lucy is dead. She died ten minutes ago while Rachel was kissing Jordan at the altar. They killed her. I am begging you, please break up with her. Don’t love her. Don’t marry her. Please… don’t let my little girl die again. The tears blinded me completely. I couldn’t see where I was going. I stumbled off the curb, my boots slipping on the wet asphalt. High-beam headlights cut through the gray storm. A horn blared, deafening and sharp, followed by the violent screech of brakes. The world spun. In the final, fading moments of my consciousness, I thought I saw an eighteen-year-old girl in a high school uniform, tears streaming down her face, sprinting toward me through the dark. “Drew!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “499024”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

We were halfway through a private spa party when my fiancée went missing. I headed toward the VIP wing to find her. As I walked, lines of glowing text—a bizarre, floating stream of internet comments—glitched across my field of vision: [Why is this charity-case fiancé suddenly heading to the sauna? The heroine is in there getting cozy with the golden-boy imposter right now!] [I love that he paid for the private booking, only for it to become their secret love nest. Delicious irony!] [Serves him right for standing in the way of true love. Die mad about it!] My fiancée’s assistant, Luke, stepped out of the shadows to block my path. “Mr. Carpenter, Miss Harrington said she went to fetch some fresh linens for you. She asked you to wait in the private lounge.” [Luke’s such a bro, always covering for them.] [Our sweet, edgy Christian belongs with Isla. If I were there, I’d lie to this country bumpkin too.] [Isla was too reckless, though. She slammed the door so hard she jammed the emergency lock from the inside. You can’t open it from within now.] I looked at the heavy door. Faint waves of heat radiated from the seams, shimmering in the cool corridor air. Then I looked at the red “Out of Order” sign hanging from the brass handle. I pulled out my phone and dialed the locksmith down the mountain. “Hi, the lock on the sauna door is jammed. Take your time riding your scooter up the mountain. No rush, an hour should do. I’ll wait right here.” [Wait, no! If they wait an hour, they’ll be steamed alive!] 1 “Wayne, what are you doing standing out here?” Isla’s trust-fund friends approached me. Leading the pack were Chad and Ashley. They belonged to Isla and Christian’s elite circle, and they had despised me ever since the Carpenters brought me back a year ago—the biological son who had been lost for twenty years. Chad rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with condescension. “Didn’t Isla tell you to wait in the lounge?” “Did you get lost, Wayne? I guess a luxury alpine resort is a bit much for a guy raised in the sticks.” Ashley chimed in, crossing her arms. “Honestly, Wayne, just because you have the title of fiancé doesn’t mean you have to cling to her like wet paint. Isla has been working herself ragged with PR lately. She finally gets a second to unwind, and you’re smothering her. Aren’t you embarrassed?” [Seriously, this guy is so clingy. Go away already!] [Don’t interrupt our couple’s private time!] [It’s getting incredibly hot in there. Go away, Wayne! Luke, figure out a way to get them out!] I didn’t bother replying to their barbs. Instead, I turned to the spa attendant standing nearby. “Bring me a chaise lounge,” I said. “And set up two of those heavy-duty industrial fans, pointed right at me.” “Oh, and bring over a platter of iced watermelon, chilled grapes, and the most expensive gelato you have.” The attendant blinked, startled, but scurried off to comply. Chad frowned, his brow furrowing. “Wayne, what the hell is wrong with you? This is the VIP corridor. You’re turning it into a campsite?” I ignored him, sinking into the plush leather of the lounge chair the attendant had brought and scooping up a spoonful of blood-orange gelato. “I paid to book out this entire floor. I’ll sit where I want, eat what I want. If you don’t like it, the elevator is right there. Walk.” “You—” Chad’s face turned a dark, mottled purple. Luke was sweating now. His eyes darted repeatedly to the heavy, sealed door of the sauna. The heat escaping from the seams was already warming the hallway. “Mr. Carpenter, it’s really humid out here. It’s not good for your health. How about I escort you to the hydrotherapy pool?” I took my time swallowing. “No need. I just noticed the lock on this sauna seems to be broken. What if someone’s trapped inside? I have a soft heart, Luke. I think I’ll stay right here and wait for the locksmith.” Luke’s face drained of all color. He knew exactly who was in there: his boss, and the adoptive brother she actually loved. [Oh my god, he’s doing this on purpose!] [Does he know? No way, how could a brainless charity case figure it out?] [This is bad. Christian has a weak heart. It must be over 120 degrees in there by now. They’re going to dehydrate!] Chad stepped up, pointing a finger at my chest. “Wayne, don’t push your luck. There’s a maintenance sign on the door. Why would anyone be in there? You’re just throwing a tantrum to get Isla’s attention, aren’t you? Let me tell you something—no matter what pathetic stunts you pull, she will never look at you.” Ashley sneered in agreement. “Exactly. You’re a crude, classless bore. You don’t possess a fraction of Christian’s grace. The Carpenters only brought you back out of pity. Don’t act like you actually belong here.” I looked at them, my gaze cold. I was the biological Carpenter heir, stolen at birth and raised in poverty for twenty years. A year ago, they found me. But my birth parents and my older sister had already poured two decades of love into Christian, the boy they adopted to replace me. They hated my bluntness, my refusal to play their high-society games. Even Isla, the girl I had been betrothed to since childhood, only had eyes for Christian. For a year, I tried to fit in. I begged for their affection. In return, I received nothing but cold shoulders and quiet mockery. Well. I was done playing nice. 2 I dropped the empty rind back onto the silver platter with a loud, deliberate clatter. Chad and Ashley flinched, their irritation spiking. “Who do you think you’re throwing a tantrum at, Wayne?” Chad crossed his arms, looking down his nose. “You think having the Carpenter name makes you special? In this town, people only respect Christian. You’re just a stray dog who wandered into a mansion.” I laughed. “A stray dog? Chad, did you fail basic English, or do you just struggle with metaphors? Christian lived my life, spent my parents’ money, and wore my name for twenty years. How exactly am I the stray here?” [He’s just bitter. Blood means nothing; history is what counts!] [Christian is so sweet. If he weren’t trying to protect Wayne’s feelings, he and Isla would have gone public ages ago.] [Someone open the door! It’s hitting 140 degrees in there!] [Isla is losing consciousness, and Christian is fading. They’re going to die of heatstroke!] Luke was practically vibrating with anxiety, clutching his walkie-talkie but too terrified to call for help publicly. “Mr. Carpenter, please, I’m begging you. Go back to your suite. Let me handle this. If Miss Harrington sees you acting like this, she’ll be furious.” I leaned back into the chaise lounge, completely unbothered. “Let her be furious. What do I care? Nobody touches that door without my permission.” Ashley’s patience snapped. “Wayne, you’ve always been a ghost in our social circle. If you don’t leave right now, I will personally make sure you are blacklisted from every country club and gala in the state!” “Yeah! We’ll freeze you out completely!” Chad barks. I looked at them, finding it almost tragic how much I used to care about their approval. I used to swallow their insults and pay their bar tabs, just to spend five more minutes near Isla. Now? I couldn’t care less. “Sounds great,” I said softly. Chad and Ashley exchanged a stunned look. They hadn’t expected me to fold so easily—or rather, not care at all. “What did you say?” Chad blinked. “I said, sounds great. Frankly, I’m sick of paying for a bunch of trust-fund freeloaders anyway. I already closed the tab for today. From now on, if you want to drink, buy your own. Oh, and Chad? Venmo me for the gelato and the fan rental. Let’s split it fifty-fifty.” [Is he insane? He’s actually burning bridges with her friends?] [He used to beg to be included!] [Forget about that! Christian just collapsed in Isla’s arms! Save them!] [Isla tried to throw herself against the glass, but she’s too weak. It’s blast-resistant glass, she can’t break it!] Luke could not take it anymore. Gritting his teeth, he stepped forward. “Mr. Carpenter, forgive me.” He reached out to grab the arm of my chaise lounge, intending to drag me away. I looked up at him, my eyes like ice. “Touch me, Luke, and see what happens. You’re Isla’s assistant, not my keeper. Remember your place.” Luke froze. Just then, a sharp, irritated voice cut through the humid air of the corridor. “Wayne! What on earth are you doing now?” I looked up. It’s my biological older sister, Vicky. And she brought security with her. Chad immediately ran to her like a kicked puppy. “Vicky, thank God you’re here! Wayne is throwing a fit. He’s blockading the hallway, insulting us, and threatening Luke!” Vicky’s brow furrowed, her eyes blazing as she marched over to me. “Where is Christian?” “We’ve been looking for him everywhere, and here you are, lounging like a king and stuffing your face?” Looking at her familiar, biased face, I felt a dull ache in my chest, but I swallowed it down. “He’s a grown man. Why would I know where he is?” Vicky pointed a manicured finger at my face. “Don’t you dare use that tone with me! Christian has a heart condition. If anything happens to him because of your negligence, you’ll answer to me. Get up right now and go find him!” I took another sip of my chilled drink. “No. I’m waiting for the locksmith.” 3 “What locksmith? Have you completely lost your mind?” Vicky swats the glass out of my hand. It shatters against the marble floor, sticky liquid splashing across my designer trousers. She doesn’t apologize. She just looks at me with pure disgust. “Wayne, when is it going to be enough?” “Every time we go out, you ruin the mood. Do you have any idea how pathetic and small-minded you look right now?” [Yes! Tell him, Vicky!] [He needs to be thrown out of the family!] [Vicky, move him! It’s nearly 160 degrees in there! Christian is slipping away!] [Isla’s skin is completely flush! Break the door!] “Vicky,” I said, my voice deadly quiet as I stood up and brushed the glass shards off my knees. “That is the last time you will ever lay a hand on me.” “If you don’t want to wait for the locksmith, be my guest. Smash the door open yourself. If you have the guts, go ahead.” Vicky let out a bitter laugh. “You are utterly deranged. Security, remove him. Get him out of my sight before he embarrasses this family any further.” The two guards she brought stepped forward, grabbing me by the shoulders. [Yes! Toss him out!] [Once he’s gone, they can break the lock!] [Christian, hold on, help is coming!] [Isla is convulsing. Oh my god, this is awful!] “Get off me!” I twisted violently, anchoring my hands around a heavy marble pillar in the corridor. Vicky snapped: “Pry his hands off!” The guard applied pressure to my knuckles, a sharp, white-hot pain shooting up my arm. In a flash of adrenaline, I leaned down and bit his wrist, hard. “Ah!” The guard gasped, releasing his grip instantly. Dark red blood began to drip onto the pristine white marble. [Oh my god! He bit him?!] [Feral trash! He has no class whatsoever!] [Vicky, call the cops! Don’t let him delay the rescue!] Vicky screamed, “Wayne! You animal!” “I will teach you some respect if it’s the last thing I do!” Chad yelled, “Call the resort police! Get him arrested for assault!” Within minutes, two local deputies who patrolled the resort area arrived. Vicky pointed at me, her voice shaking with calculated fury. “Officers, my brother is mentally unstable. He’s been causing a public disturbance and just brutally assaulted my security guard. Please take him into custody immediately.” Chad and Ashley eagerly backed her up. “Yes! We saw it! He’s extremely violent!” The deputies looked at the guard’s bloody wrist, their expressions hardening. “Sir, you’re under arrest for aggravated assault. Please step away from the pillar.” The cold metal of the handcuffs clicked around my wrists. I offered a thin, razor-sharp smile. “I’ll go quietly, deputies. But I suggest you stick around. There’s about to be a massive scandal in this hallway.” “Shut your mouth!” Vicky snarls. Just then, the elevator chimes. “Vicky! Have you found Christian yet?” A portly, middle-aged man in a tailored suit rushed out, followed by several wealthy business associates he’d been entertaining. 4 My father, Richard Carpenter, looked frantic. But when he saw me in handcuffs, his worry curdled into instant rage. “Wayne! You worthless embarrassment! What have you done now?” “Your brother is missing, and you’re here starting fights and getting arrested? I should have left you in whatever gutter we found you in! You are a stain on the Carpenter name!” [Preach, Mr. Carpenter! He doesn’t deserve the name!] [Only Christian is a true Carpenter!] [Drag him away! The lock is melting!] The deputy explained, “Sir, your son assaulted a guard. We have to take him in.” Richard waved his hand dismissively. “Take him! Keep him locked up for a few days to teach him a lesson! Just get him out of my sight so I can find Christian!” I looked at the man who shared my DNA, feeling nothing but a cold, liberating emptiness. “Dad,” I said, the word tasting like ash. “You want to find your precious Christian?” “Look right there.” I nodded toward the sauna door with the “Out of Order” sign. Richard’s face faltered. Vicky immediately scoffs. “Don’t lie. Why would Christian be in a closed sauna?” “If you don’t believe me, ask Luke,” I said, tilting my head. “He’s been guarding this door like a loyal dog since the start.” Every eye in the corridor turned to Luke. Luke stammered, his collar soaked in sweat. “No… no, sir… Miss Harrington and Christian… they aren’t in there…” I let out a soft laugh. “Really? Then who turned the temperature dial up to maximum? And who slammed the door so hard the lock jammed?” “Your golden child, Dad. He’s inside right now, having a lovely little rendezvous with my fiancée.” Slap. The force of Richard’s hand spun my head to the side. My cheek burned instantly, and the metallic taste of blood pooled in my mouth. “You filthy-minded degenerate!” Richard was shaking, his face bright red. “You dare slander your own brother and Isla? Christian is a boy of impeccable character! He would never do something so vile! You’re just jealous because he’s better than you, more loved than you, so you throw dirt on his name!” The wealthy associates behind him shook their heads. “Wayne, that’s incredibly low. You don’t accuse your own brother of that.” “Yes, Isla is a lovely girl. Quite respectable. This is absurd.” I touched my burning cheek, my eyes narrowing to slits. Slap. An even louder, sharper crack echoed through the corridor. I watched as Richard stumbled back, clutching his own face. The hallway goes dead silent. Vicky gasped, her eyes wide with horror. “Wayne! You hit Dad!” Richard looked like he wanted to tear me apart. “You ungrateful bastard! I brought you into this world, and you dare strike me?!” The deputies quickly stepped between us. “Sir, step back! Calm down!” I stood behind the deputies, looking down at my father. “You gave me life, but you never gave me a father. If you think I’m lying, open the door. Let’s see who is telling the truth.” Driven mad by the humiliation, Richard lunged toward the sauna. “I will! And when it’s empty, I’m personally throwing you out of the family!” He grabbed the metal handle of the sauna door. “Ah!” He shrieked, pulling his hand back. The metal was scalding. Just then, the locksmith ran out of the elevator, clutching his tool bag. “Make way! Emergency!” The man worked fast. Within thirty seconds, his drill ate through the jammed lock mechanism. With a heavy click, the blast-resistant glass door swung open.

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My best friend was about to propose to the girl of his dreams, and he wanted my help to plan it. It was only on the day of the proposal that I realized his dream girl was Vicky—the girl I had spent ten years loving in silence. I stood there and watched them kiss. When they got married, I was the best man. When he got busted in a vice raid, he told everyone he was taking the fall for me. When he stole and sold her family’s priceless heirlooms, he claimed it was to pay off my mounting gambling debts. And finally, when he embezzled millions from the company, he framed me so perfectly that I was sentenced to fifteen years. I died a cold, miserable death in a prison cell. But then I opened my eyes. I was back. Back to the exact day his affair was about to be exposed. … Every time Brandon snuck out to meet his secretary, Tiffany, he would tell Vicky that he was helping me out with some personal crisis. This time, as my phone buzzed incessantly with Vicky’s incoming calls, I hesitated before finally sliding the screen to answer. I didn’t take my usual apologetic, deferential tone. I kept my voice flat, entirely detached. “What is it?” “Wayne, are you seriously doing this again?” Vicky’s voice cut through the receiver, sharp and dripping with exhaustion. “Is it another fake breakup, or did your dad crash his car this time? What’s your excuse for dragging Brandon away tonight?” I listened to the static on the line, feeling the phantom ache of my prison years settling into my joints. “You’ve made a complete wreck of your own life, so you just have to drag everyone else down into the mud with you, don’t you?” she snapped. “When you got caught in that sting last year, Brandon literally took the fall to protect your reputation! Do you have any idea how much strain that put on our marriage?” She paused, waiting for an apology that wasn’t coming. “Wayne, you’re Brandon’s best friend. That’s the only reason I’ve turned a blind eye to the hookers and the gambling. But if you don’t start showing some gratitude, if you keep harassing my husband, don’t expect me to keep playing nice. I will run you out of this city. Tell Brandon to get his ass home. Now.” If it hadn’t been for this phone call, I wouldn’t have fully understood how thoroughly Brandon had dismantled my character over the years. Among close friends, covering for a late night is one thing. But from the moment I learned Brandon had set me up for a fifteen-year prison sentence, we ceased to be brothers. This time, I was only playing for myself. I had no intention of warning him. “You’ve got it wrong, Vicky,” I said, my tone bordering on bored. “I have no idea where Brandon is. If you’re looking for him, why don’t you call Tiffany? She’s his secretary. She usually keeps a tight grip on his schedule.” I hung up before she could reply. Brandon was a parasite, surviving entirely off the wealth of Vicky’s family. For an old-money dynasty like theirs, a keeping-up-appearances husband sleeping with his secretary was the one transgression that could never be swept under the rug. Thinking about the storm heading his way, I walked into the kitchen and cracked open a cold beer, enjoying the quiet. But Vicky’s contempt for me ran deeper than I anticipated. Ten minutes later, she showed up at my apartment. She didn’t come alone; she had brought three security guards from her father’s company. They burst through my door, pinning my arms behind my back as if I were a violent fugitive. They kicked open my bedroom door, only to find the room empty. Brandon was nowhere to be seen. “Wayne, where the hell is he?!” Vicky looked down at me, her eyes filled with disgust. There was a time when we were childhood confidants, sharing secrets under the summer stars. Now, in her eyes, I was a degenerate, a gambler, a blight on society. Meanwhile, Brandon had spent years painting himself as the loyal, self-sacrificing saint who kept pulling his worthless friend out of the gutter. It was a masterclass in manipulation. I decided it was time to let her see the man she had actually married. “I told you,” I muttered, wincing as a guard tightened his grip on my wrist. “You should ask Tiffany. They’re practically joined at the hip.” She let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Do you honestly think these pathetic lies make me angry? I know my husband’s character, Wayne. I would never believe a single word out of your mouth. I just feel incredibly sorry for him. I don’t understand how he could have remained loyal to a piece of garbage like you.” She stepped closer, her designer heels clicking against my cheap linoleum floor. “I’m giving you one last chance. Where is Brandon? Why isn’t he answering my calls?” Because Brandon’s saintly image was so deeply ingrained in her mind, she genuinely believed I was trying to destroy her marriage out of spite. With a flick of her hand, she signaled the guards. They threw me to the floor. A heavy boot found my ribs, and a fist caught the side of my jaw. My head hit the floor, and my vision blurred. But through the throbbing pain, a strange, cold clarity washed over me. The physical pain was nothing compared to the fifteen years of slow death I had suffered in my previous life. If anything, the sting of the blows only fed the fire of my anger. I wanted to watch them burn. “You’re just a cockroach in the sewer, Wayne,” Vicky spat, looking down at me as I spit blood onto the floor. “And the sewer is exactly where you belong.” “I told Brandon to cut you out of his life years ago. But he kept defending you. He gave you a job at the firm, he paid off your loan sharks, he lied to your parents to preserve your image as a good son! And this is how you repay him? By whispering venom behind his back? If you won’t talk, I have other ways to make you behave.” She pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen. “You’ve always cared so much about your parents. What do you think will happen to your mother’s weak heart when she finds out her golden boy is a degenerate?” My parents were lifelong employees of Vicky’s father. They had worked at his estate for decades, and they had always treated Vicky like their own future daughter-in-law. They kept in touch. Vicky dialed, and she put it on speaker. A moment later, my mother’s voice came through, sounding old and tired. “Hello? Vicky, sweetheart? Is everything okay? Why are you calling so late?” Vicky didn’t hesitate. “Helen, I’m calling because we need to talk about your son.” “Oh? What’s wrong with Wayne? Is there trouble at the office?” Vicky let out a cold laugh. “It’s not his job, Helen. It’s his character. Last week, Wayne was arrested in a vice raid at a massage parlor. I assume he didn’t tell you?” “What? No… my Wayne? That’s impossible, Vicky. He’s not that kind of boy!” My mother’s voice began to tremble. Rage surged through me, and I tried to lung toward the phone, but the guards slammed me back down, a heavy hand crushing my mouth shut. “Helen, Brandon saw it with his own eyes,” Vicky continued smoothly. “Brandon went to the parlor to drag him out, and the police raided the place. Wayne ran like a coward, leaving Brandon to take the fall and protect his name. Surely you don’t doubt Brandon’s integrity?” I stared up at Vicky, my eyes wild with hatred. You foolish, arrogant girl, I thought. You have no idea that the man you are protecting is the one who will eventually ruin your entire family. “It’s not just the hookers, Helen. Wayne is a compulsive gambler. He owes millions to loan sharks. Brandon actually had to sell some of our family’s heirlooms just to keep those criminals from breaking your son’s legs. He’s a mess. Honestly, looking at him tonight, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on drugs too. I’m telling you this because you need to rein him in. He is going to drag my husband down with him.” She ended the call, leaving my mother’s soft, weeping voice cut off in the dark. Seeing the blood in my eyes, Vicky smiled, a look of vindication on her face. “It turns out your parents really had no idea what a monster you’ve become. They still think you’re the straight-A student from college.” “I honestly don’t know why Brandon stays associated with you. What do you even bring to his life besides trouble? He even bought you a house, Wayne. You’re nothing but a parasite.” I blinked, the pain momentarily forgotten. “What did you just say? Brandon bought me a house?” “Oh, keep playing dumb,” Vicky sneered. “He told me he bought a townhouse in your name to thank you for helping us get together years ago. He only made me promise to keep it a secret so we wouldn’t hurt your fragile pride. But looking at you now, it’s clear you don’t have any pride left.” A puzzle piece fell into place. I knew for a fact Brandon hadn’t bought me a house. But I knew he had recently purchased a townhouse in the suburbs using corporate funds. He had told Vicky it was for me, but in reality, it was the love nest he had bought for Tiffany. And right now, they were almost certainly inside it. I spit another mouthful of blood onto the floor and looked up at her. “I don’t know anything about a house, Vicky. But your gullibility is truly impressive. Do you actually believe every single lie that comes out of his mouth?” “I know the address, Wayne. Stop trying to squirm out of this.” I nodded slowly. “Fine. If you’re so sure, take me there right now. Unless you’re too scared to find out what’s actually behind that door.” “You really want to play this out?” Vicky’s eyes flashed with anger. “You think I don’t know he bought that place with my family’s money? If you want to be stubborn, I’ll go there right now and evict you myself.” She pointed at the guards. “Put him in the car. We’re going to clear out his things tonight. I want him to lose every single thing he took from us.” An hour later, the black SUV pulled up to a quiet, tree-lined street in an upscale suburban development. But the real trouble was waiting on the sidewalk. As I stepped out of the car, I saw my mother standing under a streetlamp, shivering in her thin coat. Vicky had known exactly how to hurt me. She had called my mother to meet us here, wanting to humiliate me in front of the only person whose opinion still mattered to me. She wanted to break me completely so I would never dare speak to her husband again. Seeing my bruised face and the blood on my shirt, my mother burst into tears. She rushed over, throwing her arms around me before turning to Vicky. “Vicky, please,” she begged, her voice cracking. “I know Wayne has done terrible things. He’s made mistakes, but please, for my sake, don’t do this to him. Let us go home.” “Helen, I wanted to handle this quietly,” Vicky said, her tone dripping with condescending pity. “But Wayne is still lying to my face. He refuses to tell me where Brandon is, and he’s even denying that Brandon bought him this house. I had to bring you here because you’re the only one who can make him see sense.” My mother turned to me, her face pale with shock and disappointment. She struck my arm, her hands trembling. “Wayne! What has happened to you? How could you become like this? I raised you to be honest! How could you take a house from Brandon? If the neighbors find out, how am I supposed to show my face?” “Helen, your parenting wasn’t the problem,” Vicky intervened. “But Wayne has completely lost his way. The gambling, the vice… if he continues to behave like this, I will have no choice but to involve the police.” My family had never had any dealings with the law, and the threat terrified my mother. She grabbed Vicky’s hand, pleading desperately. “Please, Vicky, my husband and I worked for your family for thirty years! Give him one more chance. Wayne… he’s just lost. He still loves you, you know. He still keeps your photo on his nightstand!” “Mom! Stop!” I shouted, the humiliation burning hotter than the physical pain. Vicky looked at me, her expression turning from anger to deep disgust. It was the primal reaction of a wealthy woman realizing she was being coveted by someone she considered a servant. I forced myself to look her dead in the eye. “Vicky, are you sure you want to make a scene here?” “Are you threatening me? You brought this on yourself.” “No,” I said, a cold smile touching my lips. “I just don’t think this is a big enough audience. Why don’t you call our old college classmates? Call the executives from the firm. Let’s make it a real show.” Vicky’s jaw clenched. “You think I won’t?” “I know you won’t.” Driven by her own arrogance and the need to prove her dominance, Vicky pulled out her phone. In college, she had been the wealthy, untouchable campus queen, and she still held sway over our old social circle. With a few quick messages, she summoned anyone who lived within a twenty-minute drive, promising a reckoning. Within half an hour, a small crowd of former classmates and colleagues had gathered on the sidewalk. They looked at my bruised face with complete indifference, quickly gathering behind Vicky to listen to her recount my “crimes.” “Wayne always seemed so quiet in school. I guess you never really know someone.” “He’s just a parasite. I don’t understand why Brandon kept him around for so long.” “If it weren’t for Brandon, he would have been fired months ago. He has no shame.” “Wayne, you’re an embarrassment. Stop leeching off people who actually work for a living.” Their whispers grew louder, and Vicky’s posture grew more triumphant with every insult. My mother was weeping openly now, pulling me behind her small frame, trying to shield me just as she had when I was a child. “Please, stop saying those things,” she sobbed. “My son isn’t a bad person. He was a good student, he cares about us… he’s not what you think…” “Helen, of course you’d say that,” a former classmate interrupted coldly. “But people change. Wayne is just bitter. He couldn’t stand seeing Brandon succeed, and he couldn’t stand seeing Brandon marry Vicky. This is pure jealousy.” “They’re a perfect couple, Wayne. Without them, you’re nothing. You’re just a loser standing on a sidewalk.” “Like mother, like son,” another whispered. “No wonder he turned out this way.” The crowd continued their verbal assault, and Vicky looked at me like a queen looking down at a peasant. “Well, Wayne? Are you satisfied with the turnout?” In my past life, this level of public humiliation would have destroyed me. But tonight, I was almost giddy. The larger the crowd, the more spectacular the fall would be. I looked at Vicky. “Not quite. Since we’re all here, why don’t we go up to my ‘new house’ and take a look? Unless, of course, Brandon didn’t actually buy it for me. What if he spent your family’s money on something else and used my name as a cover?” “Wayne, you ungrateful bastard!” someone yelled from the crowd. “Brandon threw you a lifeline, and you’re trying to drown him!” “I’m streaming this live,” another colleague muttered, holding up a phone. “The local business community needs to see what kind of snake Wayne really is.” Vicky let out a cold, sharp laugh. “You think I don’t know the unit number, Wayne? I know exactly which door it is. I only stayed away because the very thought of you makes me sick. But since you want to play the victim, let’s go up. Let’s see how long you can keep this act up.” I had to admire Brandon’s cleverness. He had used Vicky’s hatred of me to create the perfect blind spot, conducting his affair in a place Vicky knew about but would never visit. We piled into the building’s elevator in shifts. When we finally stood in front of the door to Unit 4B, Vicky turned to me, her eyes cold. “Alright, Wayne. Stop the show. Hand over the keys.” “I don’t have the keys,” I said simply. But as I spoke, I pointed to the small shoe rack next to the door. On it sat a pair of expensive men’s leather loafers and a pair of delicate women’s heels. Vicky’s eyes followed my finger. She froze. She recognized those loafers; she had bought them for Brandon herself last Christmas. “Wayne…” her voice trembled slightly, her confidence wavering for the first time. “Is Brandon inside your apartment?” I let out a soft, pitying chuckle. “Why don’t you knock and find out? Or are you suddenly afraid of what’s on the other side?” “Afraid? Of what?” Her temper flared, and she pounded heavily on the wooden door. Almost immediately, a woman’s annoyed voice drifted from inside. “Who is it? Can’t you use the doorbell? Stop pounding!” The lock clicked, and the door swung open. Standing in the entryway was a young, beautiful woman in a silk robe, her hair tousled and her makeup slightly smudged. The crowd behind us gasped in unison. They recognized her immediately. It was Tiffany, Brandon’s personal secretary. “V-Vicky…” Tiffany stuttered, her face turning pale as she tried to pull her robe tighter around her body. Before anyone could speak, a man’s voice called out from the bedroom. “Babe, who is it?” And then, under the gaze of a dozen colleagues and a live phone camera, my best friend Brandon walked into the hallway. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of boxers, his skin glistening with sweat. When his eyes met Vicky’s, the color drained completely from his face. I leaned against the wall and smiled. The show had finally begun.

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When I cancelled the fifteen-thousand-dollar wedding photography package, the boutique coordinator stared at me in absolute silence. “Miss Evans, the deposit is completely non-refundable,” she said, her voice dropping into a hushed, cautious tone. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait until Drew gets back from his business trip to talk this over?” I slid the receipt back across the polished glass counter. My voice was quiet, but steady. “No need to wait. He’s too busy watching the Northern Lights in Iceland with his childhood sweetheart.” Drew and I had been together for eight years. Over nearly a decade, I had begged him countless times to take me to Iceland. I wanted us to stand under the green glow of the aurora for our wedding photos. It was my only real dream for our wedding. Every single time I brought it up, his brow would furrow with irritation. “It’s too far, Tina. Too expensive. Why do you always need these elaborate, useless things? We can just shoot in a local studio and have them Photoshop the lights in. It looks exactly the same.” I had believed him. I had forced myself to be the practical, low-maintenance partner he always praised. Until last night. I was looking for an old tax document on his backup laptop when I found a social media account still logged in. It was an Instagram page with over a million followers, a joint couple’s blog called Joyce@ChasingLights_WithYouJoyce. For eight years, hundreds of posts had documented a secret life. And the star of every single photo, every beautifully edited reel, was his childhood sweetheart, Joyce. Every single September, while I stayed behind in our cramped San Francisco apartment, Drew had flown to Iceland to capture a commemorative photo with Joyce under the green ribbon of the aurora. It turned out Drew wasn’t incapable of romance. He just didn’t want to waste it on me. When the partial refund was finalized, I walked past the window and stared at the lace gown I had tried on three times. My chest ached so deeply I could barely breathe, and tears began to blur my vision. The boutique manager gently handed me a tissue. “Since the deposit is forfeited anyway… we could transfer the credit to a solo portrait session for you?” I wiped my eyes and shook my head. “No, thank you.” I had already booked a one-way ticket to Southern Italy, leaving in three days. If the moon wasn’t going to shine on me, I would go chase the sun myself. … The moment I stepped out of the boutique, my phone vibrated in my purse. It was Mom. “Tina, sweetie,” she began, her voice warm but tinged with that familiar maternal worry. “Your father and I were talking. We’re thinking of selling the old house in Eugene. With that and our savings, we should have enough to help you and Drew with a down payment on a place in the Bay Area.” She paused, taking a soft breath. “A woman needs her own name on a deed, Tina. If you marry into that family without a safety net of your own, you won’t have a way out if things get hard.” Hearing her voice, my throat tightened. The tears I thought I had finished crying threatened to spill over. “Mom, don’t,” I choked out, swallowing the lump in my throat. “You don’t need to do that. I’m not marrying Drew.” There was a sudden, heavy silence on the other end. Then, the sound of the phone being snatched away. My dad’s gravelly voice filled the receiver. “Did he do something to you? Does his family think we’re just small-town nobodies?” My parents had always carried a quiet guilt about how hard I struggled to survive in San Francisco. If I hadn’t been so relentlessly, stubbornly in love with Drew, they would have never agreed to this marriage. “No, Dad,” I lied, looking up at the gray city sky to keep the tears from falling. “I actually just landed a massive historic restoration project in Southern Italy. It’s a three-year contract, and the pay is incredible. When I get back, I’m going to buy a beautiful house with a massive garden right there in Eugene. I don’t want to struggle in the city anymore.” It took a long time to soothe them, but they finally believed me. The second I hung up, a notification flashed at the top of my screen. The couple’s account had just posted a new photo. In the image, their fingers were tightly intertwined. Behind them, the sky was ablaze with the breathtaking, emerald ribbons of the aurora borealis. The caption read: Year Eight. Guided by the Northern Lights, we are still each other’s only. I stared at the word only, my fingers trembling against the glass screen. Eight years. Drew had never posted a single picture of me on any of his social media accounts. Whenever I had asked about it, he’d dismiss me with a patronizing sigh. “Tina, I’m thirty years old. I don’t feel the need to broadcast my private life to the world. It’s childish.” I realized then: he didn’t hate showing off his life. He just didn’t want to show me off. When I walked into our apartment, a plush teddy bear sat on the entryway console, pinning down a small, elegant note. Drew’s homemade ginger tea is literal magic! Here’s a little thank-you gift—my favorite plushie! I stood in the quiet hallway, a cold numbness spreading through my chest. Just last month, my cramps had been so severe I couldn’t get out of bed. I had begged him to make me some hot ginger tea. He had been on the phone with Joyce, his face twisted in annoyance as he snapped at me: “Tina, stop being so high-maintenance. I’m a guy, I don’t even know how to make that stuff. Just order something on Postmates.” Looking at Joyce’s delicate handwriting, I realized he not only knew how to make it, but he also made sure the temperature was perfect for her. I crumpled the note into a tight ball and threw it, along with the plush toy, directly into the trash can. In the study, the monitor of his desktop was still glowing. He had forgotten to log out of his personal email and social accounts. I sat down and began clicking through the archives, page by page. Aside from their annual September trips to Iceland, all those weekends he claimed he was “pulling overtime at the office” were actually spent taking Joyce to every trendy boutique hotel and scenic spot along the Pacific Coast Highway. Two years ago, my favorite singer was in town. I had saved up to buy two tickets and practically begged him to come with me. He had scoffed. “Those arenas are loud and crowded. I’d rather spend my weekend catching up on work.” Yet, the digital trail showed that the very next day, he had accompanied Joyce to an outdoor music festival. In the vlogs, he carried her designer tote bag, blocked the chilly wind with his own jacket, and knelt down in the dirt to tie her sneakers. In contrast, every photo of Drew and me from the past three years had been taken by me. In every single one, he looked utterly miserable. “My angles are terrible,” he’d always complain, rushing me. “I’m a straight guy, I don’t know how to take aesthetic photos. Just take a quick one and let’s go.” Suddenly, my phone rang. It was a FaceTime call from Drew. On screen, the cozy, wood-paneled interior of a luxury Icelandic cabin flickered. He noticed my red, swollen eyes and frowned. “Have you been crying?” My throat felt like it was coated in sand. I shook my head. “No. Just windy outside. Got some dust in my eye.” He seemed to accept the excuse, his tone immediately turning dismissive. “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. We can do the wedding shoot then.” I opened my mouth to tell him the shoot was cancelled, but before I could speak, Joyce’s smiling face popped into the frame. She naturally wrapped her arm around his. “Tina! I was vacationing in Iceland and literally ran into Drew during his business trip! You don’t mind, do you?” Before I could answer, Drew chuckled, looking down at her. “Why would she mind? Go on, show her what we got.” Joyce proudly held up a cheap, generic Northern Lights keychain. “I picked this out just for you, Tina!” I stared at the plastic trinket. In the drawer of our entryway table, there were already eight identical keychains. It was her signature, passive-aggressive way of reminding me she was always there. I didn’t acknowledge her comment. I just stared at the screen and said softly, “Safe travels. When you get back, I have a big gift waiting for both of you.” The next afternoon, Drew arrived home. His suitcase was packed with expensive organic supplements, luxury skincare sets, and rare teas. He rummaged through the clutter for a long time before pulling a cheap keychain out of a side pocket and tossing it onto the kitchen island. “Here. Yours.” I caught it, the sharp plastic edges digging into my palm. I looked at the beautifully wrapped gift boxes still sitting in his suitcase. “What about all those?” “For Joyce’s parents. They have delicate health, they need the supplements,” he said casually, not even looking up. “And the ceramic tea set is for her mother. Joyce mentioned her old set was chipped.” My parents sent homemade jam and local Oregon honey every single month; Drew had never once acknowledged their gestures, let alone bought them a gift. I took a slow breath, my grip tightening on the cheap plastic in my hand. “I still want to go to Iceland for our wedding shoot, Drew. Can we please make it happen?” His movements stiffened, and his brow furrowed immediately. “We already booked the indoor studio here. Why do you have to be so difficult, Tina? We aren’t children anymore. Can you please start being practical about our life together?” Practical. Sensible. Reasonable. Those were always the rules for me. But for Joyce, his boundaries didn’t exist. Before I could reply, the front door clicked open. My future mother-in-law, Diane, walked in, laughing gaily with Joyce at her side. Diane took one look around our living room and scoffed. “Tina, I don’t mean to be harsh, but you’re supposed to be a designer. Why is this place so dreary? It feels incredibly small-minded and cheap.” She looked at me, her eyes sweeping over my simple clothes with open disapproval. “If Drew hadn’t introduced you to his clients, how would you even survive in San Francisco? You have no leverage in this city without him.” In the past, I would have swallowed the insult, keeping the peace. Drew would always stand by, whispering, She’s just old-fashioned. Be the bigger person. But this time, I didn’t back down. “If you think it’s so awful, Diane, why don’t I tear everything down and let you redecorate it entirely to your taste?” Diane froze, her expression shifting from surprise to deep disdain. “A lot of attitude for someone with so little to show for it. Look at how Joyce styled the family estate. Cozy, refined. You should take notes instead of embarrassing the Mercer name.” Joyce chimed in, putting on her sweet, peace-making act. “Diane, Tina is from a small town in Oregon. It’s only natural she has a different aesthetic. Oh, Drew, I’m starving! I’m going to cook tonight so Tina can try my recipes. Will you help me prep?” Drew looked down at her, his expression softening into an indulgent smile. “Always putting me to work. What are we making?” “Your special marinated sea bass!” Without a second thought, the two of them walked into the kitchen. Drew grabbed the linen apron hanging on the wall and carefully tied it around her waist, his movements so natural, so practiced, they looked like a married couple. Diane sat down on the sofa, smoothing her skirt. “Honestly, Drew was always meant to marry Joyce. They share the same background, the same pedigree. Tina, since your family has neither wealth nor influence, you should learn to be agreeable. Marrying into our family is the luckiest thing that will ever happen to you.” I stood in the shadow of the hallway, watching the kitchen, and smiled quietly. “It’s fine,” I whispered. “I won’t argue anymore.” At the dinner table, I sat like a ghost. The three of them laughed over childhood vacations and family gossip, speaking in a shorthand I could never hope to understand. As I reached for a serving dish, my eyes fell on Joyce’s left hand. Resting on her ring finger was a brilliant, custom-cut diamond band. And on Drew’s left hand—the hand that usually wore nothing—was an identical, matching silver band. My chest felt as though it had been struck by a heavy hammer. That night, as Drew stood by the closet unbuttoning his shirt, I stared at his hand. “Is that a matching couple’s ring, Drew? What is the meaning of this?” He didn’t even turn around. “Oh, this? Joyce’s birthday is coming up. She wanted to know what it felt like to wear a diamond engagement ring, so she begged me to wear the matching band for a few days to indulge her. It’s just a piece of jewelry, Tina. Do you have to make a federal case out of everything?” A physical ache bloomed in my chest. “An accessory? I am your fiancée, Drew. You are wearing a couple’s ring with another woman while we are planning our wedding. What do you think I am?” Drew slammed his tie onto the mattress, his face darkening. “Tina, are you seriously doing this? I put your name on the deed of the condo without you contributing a single cent so you could have a future in this city. Most outsiders would kill for that opportunity. What more do you want from me?” He sneered, his voice laced with venom. “Joyce and I have a lifetime of history. What is the harm in wearing a silly ring to make her happy on her birthday? Why must you be so small-minded?” He grabbed his jacket, slammed the bedroom door, and left. I stood frozen in the quiet room. A few minutes later, my phone lit up. Joyce@ChasingLights_WithYouJoyce had updated. The photo showed their hands overlapping, the matching bands gleaming under the soft light. The caption read: Fulfilling my little princess’s birthday wish. I looked at the screen and let out a soft, dry laugh. “You’re right, Drew,” I whispered to the empty room. “I should be satisfied.” Over the weekend, it was Joyce’s birthday dinner. I had tried to stay behind, but Drew had blocked the doorway, his face set in a hard scowl. “If you don’t show, Joyce will think you’re holding a grudge. She bought you gifts, she helped with the photography contacts. Don’t be ungrateful, Tina.” How thoughtful of her. She had spent a week in Iceland with my fiancé, worn a matching ring, and paraded it online. But I went anyway. Not because I was submitting, but because I wanted to see exactly how hollow the man I had loved for eight years had become. The private dining room at the restaurant was loud and lively. Joyce sat at the head of the table, her makeup flawless, the diamond ring catching every reflection of the chandelier. “Tina’s here!” one of Drew’s close friends called out. “Drew, man, when is the big day? Have you set the date?” Drew, sitting close to Joyce, took a sip of his wine. “The date isn’t locked in yet, but we’re doing the photoshoot tomorrow.” A chorus of congratulations rose around the table. The conversation quickly shifted to local real estate and the new country club. I sat quietly in the corner, a familiar outsider. In the past, I had tried so hard to blend in, but Drew would always steer me away, whispering, These business discussions are dry, Tina. You wouldn’t find them interesting. Now I realized he didn’t want to save me from boredom; he just didn’t want me in his world. Suddenly, someone across the table noticed the jewelry. “Joyce, your ring… wait, matches Drew’s? Is that the custom piece from that Italian designer?” A few people turned to look at me, their eyes filled with awkward, lingering curiosity. Drew leaned back in his chair, his tone entirely casual. “It was her birthday wish. She wanted me to wear it with her to ward off unwanted attention tonight. Just a birthday gift to keep her happy.” “Does Tina mind?” someone joked. Drew’s gaze slid over to me, cold and warning, assessing my reaction. I picked up my water glass, took a small sip, and met his eyes. “I don’t mind.” He frowned, his brow twitching slightly at my complete lack of emotion. Before he could speak, the waitstaff wheeled in a massive tiered cake. As Drew stepped forward to help Joyce cut it, his eyes landed on the fruit garnishes. His face hardened and he snapped at the waiter, “Who ordered this? You know Joyce is severely allergic to mangoes!” He carefully sliced a piece from the untouched side, placed it on a plate, and handed it to me. “Here, don’t let it go to waste.” I didn’t reach for the plate. Drew’s frown deepened. “I thought you said you didn’t mind. Eat it. Don’t waste good food.” I looked at him, my voice flat. “I’m allergic to mangoes too, Drew.” Drew’s hand froze mid-air. The entire table fell into a sudden, uncomfortable silence. One of his friends tried to laugh it off. “Man, Drew, how do you forget that? Don’t tell us you forgot her birthday too.” Drew, defensive, snapped back instantly. “Of course not. September third.” The table erupted into easy laughter again, but I couldn’t join them. September third was the date printed on my driver’s license—a clerical error from when I was a teenager. My actual birthday was two months later. I had corrected him dozens of times over the years, but he had never bothered to remember. Joyce cut another slice, placing it in front of me with a soft, sympathetic smile. “Don’t be mad at him, Tina. Drew remembers my allergies because we grew up together. That kind of instinct… you can’t just unlearn it.” It was an apology wrapped in absolute triumph. I pushed my chair back and stood up. “Excuse me, I need to use the restroom.” Inside the quiet bathroom, I washed my hands. The door opened, and Joyce walked in, letting the heavy door click shut behind her. Without an audience, her sweet demeanor vanished. “You have quite the tolerance, Tina,” she said, leaning against the counter. She turned her phone toward me, the screen open to the Instagram page. “See this? Every time he held me, took care of me, memorized my favorite things, made my dreams come true—it’s all here. You’ve spent eight years with him. What do you actually have?” I looked at the photos of them laughing in the snow, but I said nothing. She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “You can play the fiancée all you want, but he doesn’t love you. If I were you, I’d have packed my bags and left to save whatever dignity I had left.” She stared at me, waiting for me to break, waiting for the tears. But I only looked at her calmly. “So what? No matter what you did, the person marrying Drew is me.” The color drained from her face. I walked past her, opening the door without another word. Outside, Drew was already waiting in his car. He didn’t ask about the dinner; he drove in silence, the tension thick between us. When he took a sharp right turn, I looked out the window. “This isn’t the way to the condo.” Drew kept his eyes on the road. “Joyce drank too much tonight. She’s going to be miserable tomorrow. I’m going to drop off some honey water and her favorite bakery cake.” I leaned my head back against the leather seat. “You treat her so much better than you treat me.” The tires screeched as Drew slammed on the brakes, pulling over to the curb. He turned to me, his voice raw with frustration. “I’ve told you a thousand times, she’s like a sister to me. It’s a habit. I’m marrying you, Tina. Isn’t that enough?” I closed my eyes, too tired to argue. “It’s enough.” When we finally parked outside our building, he kept the engine running, clearly eager to leave again. As I unbuckled my seatbelt, I looked at him one last time. “Drew, if one day I left you, what would you do?” He let out a dry, incredulous laugh. “Are you serious right now? Joyce’s parents are out of town. She’s completely alone. It’s only right I look after her.” He paused, a smug, dismissive smirk pulling at his lips. “You’ve been with me since you were nineteen, Tina. Everything you have, I gave you. If you leave me, do you really think you’ll find anyone better?” I looked at him, feeling the final, lingering pieces of my love for him turn to ash. He was entirely convinced that I would never leave, because he believed I had nowhere else to go. I didn’t answer. I got out of the car, and the moment the door clicked shut, he hit the gas and drove away. Inside the quiet apartment, my phone buzzed. It was an email from United Airlines: Flight confirmation to Rome, Italy tomorrow morning at 10:30 AM… I stared at the text, then walked into the bedroom and pulled my suitcase from the top shelf. When I actually began packing, I realized how little of myself was in this space. My clothes, my laptop, a few skincare bottles. It barely filled a single suitcase. Yet, Drew’s closet was packed with high-end, custom-tailored suits I had bought him with my savings. Diane’s vanity in the guest room was lined with expensive organic supplements I had worked late-night freelance shifts to afford. At 2:00 AM, my phone buzzed with a new post from Joyce@ChasingLights_WithYouJoyce. The photo showed Drew sitting at the edge of a bed, gently wiping a damp cloth over Joyce’s forehead. The caption: No matter how late, he’s always there when I need him. I locked the screen and set the phone down. There were no tears, no anger. Just a profound, hollow silence. The next morning, I made breakfast out of habit—toasted sourdough, soft-scrambled eggs, and warm milk. Drew let himself in around 7:00 AM, the cold morning air clinging to his coat. He kicked off his shoes, offering a quick, tired explanation. “Joyce was really sick last night. I couldn’t leave her alone.” I set the plates on the table. “Okay.” My lack of emotion seemed to make him uneasy. His tone softened slightly. “After the photoshoot this afternoon, we’ll lock down the wedding date and call your parents. Happy?” I looked at his face—the face of the boy I had loved for eight years. “Drew, in these eight years, did you ever actually love me?” Drew froze, his expression hardening instantly. “If I didn’t love you, would I be marrying you?” Eight years ago, when he was chasing me, he would stand outside my dorm in the freezing rain just to bring me coffee. He used to celebrate monthly anniversaries, finding tiny, beautiful ways to surprise me. Now, there was only this transactional indifference. Suddenly, his phone began to vibrate violently on the counter. It was a call from Joyce. He answered, and her weak, trembling voice filled the quiet kitchen. “Drew… I’m so cold… I think my fever is coming back…” Drew’s face went pale. He snatched his car keys off the counter. I reached out, my fingers wrapping around his wrist. “Joyce has a full-time housekeeper, Drew. She doesn’t need you there. Today is our wedding photoshoot. Can you just stay? Just this once?” He looked down at my hand, his expression wavering for a fraction of a second, before hardening into irritation. “Tina, be reasonable. She’s sick. I’ll have the driver take you to the studio. Go ahead and start your makeup, I’ll catch up as soon as her fever breaks.” He pulled his arm from my grip and walked out the door. I looked at my empty hands, and a single, quiet tear slid down my cheek. I took a deep breath, walked to the table, and laid a handwritten note next to his keys. Drew, I cancelled the photoshoot. The wedding is off. These eight years end here. Then, I opened my laptop. I compiled every screenshot, every folder of chat logs, every photo from the hidden couple’s account, and uploaded them to a public post. My caption was simple: We ran a marathon for eight years, and you documented it for eight years. Since you love each other so much, I’m stepping aside. I hope you get exactly what you deserve. I zipped my suitcase, walked out of the apartment, and headed to the airport. On the other side of the city, Drew was sitting by Joyce’s bed, carefully peeling an apple, when his phone began to ring off the hook. He answered with a scowl. His friend’s panicked voice came screaming through the line: “Drew! That secret Instagram account with Joyce—Tina found out! She just put the whole thing online! It’s going viral!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “499021”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Three years after my heart stopped beating, Douglas stood on the grand stage of the Lincoln Center, basking in the applause as he accepted the international trophy for the Metropolitan Dance Company. When a reporter asked about me—the fallen prodigy who had once been the company’s star—Douglas’s face hardened into a mask of righteous disgust. “I have no room in my heart for students of such low moral character,” he declared, his voice echoing through the microphones. “He was a boy who used his pretty face to seduce a daughter of our city’s political elite, all while carrying on a sordid affair with the daughter of a cheap construction tycoon.” He paused, letting the dramatic weight of his words settle over the audience. “I have no tolerance for corruption. I personally pinned an open letter of denunciation to the theater doors, stripped him of his residency, and cast him out. It was the only way to protect the young lady’s future and set an example for the rest of the company. That same young lady went on to build an empire in the real estate boom. Today, she is the wealthiest woman in the state. History has proven that my judgment was entirely correct.” The host sighed with theatrical sympathy, pressing for details about my current whereabouts. Douglas offered the camera a cold, dismissive sneer. “He’s been dead for years. He was one of the vagrants who froze to death in the great blizzard three winters ago. If you ask me, it was simply the natural conclusion to a life of utter ruin.” The interview aired that evening, quickly spreading across every social column in the city. But the woman at the center of the story knew nothing of it. At that very moment, Diana Maxwell was sitting in a private gallery penthouse, elegantly raising her paddle to bid on a limited-edition antique watch her fiancé had fallen in love with. … My soul drifted in the quiet space of the luxury sedan, watching Diana slide the watch onto Elliot’s wrist. In the passenger seat, Elliot smiled warmly, deliberately tuning the car’s radio to the broadcast of the interview. “Diana, look,” Elliot said, his voice dripping with faux-concern. “It’s another interview with my uncle Douglas. Honestly, that Jude Fletcher was terrible. He nearly ruined my uncle’s career back then, and he’s the reason your family threw you out of the estate…” He turned to look at her, his eyes searching her face. “Diana, do you ever think about—” A shadow of intense distaste crossed Diana’s brow, and she cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand. “Don’t speak of him.” Her hand drifted down to rest on her swollen belly. “You’re going to be a father soon, Elliot. Don’t let such worthless things occupy your mind.” She smoothly changed the subject. “The celebration dinner for Douglas is set at the Plaza. I’ve already had my assistant handle the reservations.” I hovered above her in the dim light of the car, unable to shed a single tear. I knew Diana hated me. Years ago, she had severed ties with her family for my sake, squeezing into a drafty, single-room rental in the poorest district of the city. On stormy nights when the roof leaked, she would pull me tightly against her chest, using her own warmth to thaw my frozen hands and feet. “Don’t be afraid, Jude,” she had whispered into my hair. “As long as we have each other, I will never let you go.” That was before she walked into a basement studio and found me in bed with another woman. Only then did she realize how foolish she had been to ignore Douglas’s warnings. She closed the door on my memory because remembering me was a stain on her perfect life. It made sense. After all, I was the darkest mistake she had ever made. The Plaza was a sea of crystal chandeliers and expensive silk. Douglas had returned to the city draped in glory, and half the high-society registry had gathered to pay their respects. Former students who hadn’t spoken to him in a decade crowded around, offering expensive gifts and hollow praise. When Diana and Elliot entered the ballroom, Douglas’s eyes lit up. “Diana, Elliot! You finally made it. Come over here.” Diana smiled, but her eyes instinctively swept the perimeter of the room, searching the crowd. Douglas, catching her glance, smiled knowingly. “Don’t bother looking, Diana. He isn’t coming.” The comment drew the attention of the surrounding guests. Diana quickly pulled her gaze back, her lips curling into a cool, detached smile. “You misunderstand, Douglas. I was only thinking that with our wedding next month, I should probably send Jude an invitation for the sake of old times. I just didn’t expect him to lack the courage to even show his face in public.” A sudden, suffocating silence fell over the circle. The air grew heavy. Finally, a young man from the old neighborhood spoke up, his voice hesitant. “Diana… didn’t Jude die three years ago?” The entire ballroom seemed to lose its sound. Diana froze, but her immediate reaction was a cold, mocking laugh. “I didn’t realize his acting skills had improved so much over the years. He actually has you all playing along with his little drama.” The guests exchanged uneasy looks, quickly raising their glasses to smooth over the tension. “Right, right. Diana has been busy running her empire; it’s natural she wouldn’t keep up with old rumors. Let’s not let the past ruin tonight. Cheers! This is a rare vintage of Cristal.” I watched the hollow spectacle from above, my chest aching with a phantom coldness. These were the same people who had thrown stones at me when we were teenagers. My father had been a covert intelligence officer whose records were destroyed during a bureaucratic purge, leaving our family branded as traitors. They had called me the son of a rat, a stain on the neighborhood. Only Diana had been different. She had stood between me and their cruelty, shielding me with her own body. “Don’t just stand there and let them hurt you,” she had told me, wiping a smudge of dirt from my cheek. “You have me now.” To help me gain her family’s acceptance, she had knelt in her grandfather’s study for three days and three nights, begging the retired General to use his influence to secure me an audition at the Metropolitan Dance Company. I had danced until my feet bled, spending fourteen hours a day in the studio until I became the youngest principal dancer in the company’s history. I thought that if I climbed high enough, I could finally stand by her side without shame. But Douglas’s arrival shattered everything. Douglas had never married; he poured all his ambition into his nephew, Elliot. From the moment he took over the company, his eyes were on the Maxwell family fortune. He was determined to see Elliot marry Diana. And I was the only obstacle in his way. Douglas’s cruelty always came disguised as mentorship. To “build my character,” he forced me to clean the entire theater alone after hours. To “strengthen my discipline,” he made me rehearse through lunch breaks while the others rested. To “teach me humility,” he took a pair of scissors to the performance costume my mother had spent nights sewing by hand. “Some people put more effort into cheap theatrics than actual technique,” Douglas had sneered in front of the entire company. “Who are you trying to seduce with these rags?” My peers slowly drifted away, whispering behind my back. Confused and hurt, I tried to confide in Diana. But she was drowning under her family’s immense pressure, and she could only offer tired, empty comforts. “Douglas is from the elite circles of Boston, Jude. His standards are high. He’s only pushing you because he knows what you’re capable of.” She had sighed, massaging her temples. “The international competition in Paris is next month. If you win the gold, my grandfather will finally have to accept you. Just bear with it a little longer.” I believed her. But the abuse only grew worse. During a public dress rehearsal, Douglas stood in front of the patrons and spat his venom directly at me: “You think you’re an artist? You’re nothing but a cheap hustler. Your father sold out his country, and you’re selling yourself. Is that a family tradition?” My mother had walked into the theater lobby at that exact moment, carrying a warm lunchbox she had prepared for me. Before I could even process his words, she collapsed onto the marble floor, her face pale. Terrified, I pushed Douglas out of my way to reach her. But by the time we reached the hospital, a notice of my suspension had already been delivered. I sat by my mother’s bedside, staring at her unconscious form, my world collapsing around me. Late that night, Diana walked into the hospital room. Her eyes were dull with exhaustion and profound disappointment. “Jude, I heard you got into a physical altercation with Douglas. You pushed him?” “No, Diana, you don’t understand,” I pleaded, grabbing her sleeve, the tears spilling over. “He insulted my father. He said horrible things in front of my mother—that’s why she collapsed! He’s been tormenting me for months, Diana, you know how much I cherish my father’s memory!” I held onto her like a drowning man, terrified that my only light was about to go out. Diana was silent for a long, agonizing moment. The hope in my chest withered with every passing second. “I know Douglas is strict,” she said softly, pulling her arm away. “But he is a respected mentor. I cannot believe he would say such vulgar things.” She looked at me, her eyes hollow. “My mother has already cut me off because of us. My grandfather is bedridden with stress. All I need from you is to go to Paris, win that gold, and prove to them we belong together. Jude, please. Stop causing trouble. Just apologize to Douglas so we can put this behind us.” Her words were a slow, deliberate twist of a knife. I had never cried when the company mocked me. I had never complained when my joints burned from exhaustion. But I could not bear the weight of her disbelief. I slowly let my hand fall to my side. The taste of iron rose in my throat. “You don’t believe me either.” Diana looked away. “It’s not about belief, Jude. We simply have no ground left to lose.” My hands shook. “I have nothing to apologize for. I am innocent, and I will prove it.” I ran out of the hospital, heading straight back to the theater. I only wanted to confront Douglas, to force him to admit his lies. But when I reached his office, his harsh demeanor was gone. He smiled warmly and asked me to join him in the private basement studio so we could talk things out. I followed him, desperate for a resolution. The studio smelled of a strange, cloying sweetness. Douglas handed me a glass of water, and without thinking, I drank it. Within minutes, my vision blurred. My limbs turned to lead, and the world went dark. When I woke, it was to the agonizing sensation of my clothes being torn. I was lying on the cold, dirty floor of the prop room. Bridget Callahan, the spoiled daughter of the local developer, was hovering over me, her hands ripping at my shirt. I tried to push her off, but my arms wouldn’t obey my command. Suddenly, the heavy door was kicked open. Diana stood in the doorway. She took in the scene—my disheveled clothing, Bridget draped over me—and her entire body went rigid. I choked out the words through the haze of the drug. “Diana… it’s not… Douglas did this…” But my voice was a slurred whisper, and Bridget immediately began to cry, pretending she had been the one assaulted. Diana’s eyes burned with a cold, murderous rage. “Jude Fletcher. I destroyed my relationship with my mother for you. I broke my grandfather’s heart. I even carried your child when we had nothing, believing we had a future.” She took a slow, deep breath, her voice cracking with betrayal. “And this is your answer to me.” She didn’t look back as she walked out. With the last of my strength, I flung Bridget off me and tried to drag myself toward the door. But Bridget, humiliated and furious, grabbed a heavy iron staging pipe from the corner and brought it down hard on my right leg. The sound of my bone snapping echoed in the empty room. Jude Fletcher, the prodigy of the Metropolitan, became a cripple that night. That was the price of my innocence. Soon, the rumors flooded the city. They said I had abandoned Diana the moment she was cut off from her family, choosing instead to climb into the bed of a wealthy heiress. I knew Douglas was the architect of those lies, but lying in my hospital bed, I was powerless to stop them. What I didn’t know was that Diana had gone to Bridget’s home in a blind fury, leaving the girl bloodied and earning herself a severe police record. When her grandfather heard of the disgrace, his heart gave out. He died before the ambulance could reach the estate. While I was still mourning the General’s death, a doctor from the county clinic came to my room. He handed me a forged document. Our daughter—the fragile, premature baby girl we had kept in an incubator at the clinic—was dead. Before I could even process the grief, the door flew open. Diana stood there in her mourning black, her eyes red and sunken. “Jude Fletcher. My grandfather is dead.” Her voice was dead, devoid of any warmth. “He died believing I ruined our family name for a common thief.” The tears blinded me as I tried to press the paper into her hand. “Diana… our baby… she’s gone…” “Stop it!” she shrieked, slapping the paper from my hand. “Douglas told me everything. You sold our daughter to Bridget’s family for fifty thousand dollars. You sold her to fund your new life.” She turned on her heel. “We are done.” The door slammed shut, dividing our lives forever. Overnight, my name became synonymous with ruin. Diana left the country the following morning without another word. It was raining heavily that day. My mother, barely recovered from her collapse, walked out of the hospital and saw the public denunciation pinned to the community board. She had lived her life with quiet dignity, a retired schoolteacher who had never raised her voice. But that afternoon, she tore at the paper with her bare hands, screaming herself hoarse. “My son is not a monster! Don’t believe them! Please, look at me, he didn’t do this!” A crowd gathered, throwing insults and garbage at her. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Your husband was a traitor, and your son is a parasite.” Dazed and heartbroken, my mother wandered toward the riverbank. Her foot slipped on the wet grass, and she fell into the freezing currents. They didn’t find her body until three days later. My last anchor to this world was gone. Eventually, after months of searching through the dark corners of the state, I found my daughter. Douglas had hidden her in a neglected foster home in a remote Appalachian coal town. I took my little girl, Maisie, and we lived in a small cabin on the edge of the mountains, scraping by on whatever odd jobs a crippled dancer could find. Back at the Plaza, the celebration dinner was winding down. Douglas, thoroughly drunk on vintage champagne, leaned over the table. “Jude Fletcher didn’t have the stomach for a hard life,” he muttered, a cruel chuckle escaping his lips. “And that little bastard of his was no better. Died of leukemia at three years old. That’s what you call divine intervention.” Diana’s hand trembled, spilling hot tea over her silk cuff. My soul stood beside her, watching her face. The night Maisie was diagnosed with acute leukemia, the mountains were hit by the worst blizzard in fifty years. The local doctor told me her only hope was a bone marrow transplant from a direct relative. I walked seven miles through knee-deep snow, my crippled leg screaming in agony, to reach the only payphone in the valley. When the call finally connected, I sobbed into the receiver. “Diana, please! I’m begging you, save Maisie! She’s your daughter! Your marrow is the only match!” But a man’s soft, mocking laugh answered instead. Elliot’s voice came through first, followed by Diana’s cold, level tone. “Jude, your performances are getting pathetic. I will never allow myself to be manipulated by a liar like you. Stop using these disgusting tricks to crawl back into my life.” The line went dead. That night, I held my daughter close as her body grew colder and stiffer in my arms, my own blood staining the wooden floor as I coughed up the last of my life. The next morning, the local mail carrier delivered a money order for a thousand dollars. In the memo line, there were only six words: Buy a coffin. We are even. I held Maisie’s worn photograph and that piece of paper, and I sat by her small grave in the woods until the snow covered us both. I didn’t feel the cold. I was only glad that I would finally see my little girl again. In the warm light of the Plaza, Douglas let out a heavy sigh. “Well, what’s done is done. It’s a pity, really. That little girl had her mother’s eyes. She would have made a beautiful dancer.” With that, he collapsed onto the table, unconscious from the alcohol. Diana stood up so fast her chair screeched against the marble floor. The guests stared at her in shock. Her face was bloodless, her voice tight. “There’s an emergency at the office. Excuse me.” She drove like a madwoman, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, leaving Elliot calling after her in confusion. “Diana! Where are we going?” She didn’t answer. Her gaze was locked on the dark road ahead. The car tore through the winding mountain passes, finally screeching to a halt at the base of the Appalachian valley. The old town mayor recognized her immediately. His face contorted with hatred. “Diana Maxwell. You have some nerve showing your face here.” Diana blinked, confused. “You… you know who I am? Is Jude Fletcher here?” The old man’s eyes filled with tears, and he pointed a trembling finger toward the ridge. “That little girl looked exactly like you. She died without ever seeing her mother’s face. They’ve been dead for three years, Diana. Did you come all this way just to gloat?” Diana looked up toward the ridge. Nestled among the wild pines were two mounds of earth, one large and one very small, sitting close together under the gray sky. Her breath caught. her pupils dilated with a sudden, violent terror. Elliot stepped out of the passenger side, his eyes wide with manufactured grief. “Diana, don’t listen to them. I heard Bridget’s family went bankrupt last month. This is obviously a scam to extort money from you using a fake grave…” Diana took a slow, shuddering breath, her professional composure sliding back into place like armor. She stared at the dirt mound and spoke four cold words: “Dig it up.” The gathered townsfolk gasped, clutching their shovels and tools. Diana’s voice was flat, carrying the absolute authority of her wealth. “If he is dead, there should be bones. I will not allow a liar to use my family’s name to play his games.” Her security guards stepped forward, pushing past the angry locals. In the chaos, Elliot saw his chance and shoved Diana from behind. She fell onto the cold dirt. As she turned to see who had pushed her, Elliot grabbed the old mayor by his collar, shouting, “How dare you lay a hand on her! Did Jude pay you to hurt her baby?” That accusation snapped the last thread of Diana’s sanity. Her eyes turning a violent, bloodshot red, she snatched a rusted shovel from a guard’s hand. “Get away from me!” she screamed. Ignoring the sharp pain in her abdomen, she swung the shovel down into the larger grave with all her might. Clang. The first strike. The dark earth flew, landing on my spectral form like lead weights. Clang. The second strike. The wooden grave marker snapped in two, my name splintering into the dirt. The old mayor collapsed, clutching his chest in distress. I wept, trying to grab her hands, begging her to stop. But she was possessed, throwing herself into the earth, digging deeper and deeper. Suddenly, the metal blade struck something solid with a dull, hollow thud. Diana froze. Her face drained of what little color remained.

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Pregnancy had turned me into a creature of suffocating anxiety. Every single day, I would text Donald to ask if he loved me. For the first ninety-nine times, he replied with a measured, manufactured gentleness. Until the hundredth time. Suddenly, my phone buzzed with three rapid-fire texts, dripping with a venom I’d never seen from him before. [Camille, do you seriously have nothing better to do?] [The morning sickness stopped, the baby isn’t torturing you anymore, so now you’ve decided to torture me?] [If you have this much free time, why don’t you look in the mirror? Your face is starting to look like a bloated piece of cheap meat.] I sat there, paralyzed. A second later, the messages vanished from the screen—unsent. A voice note popped up in their place. “I’m sorry,” Donald’s voice came through, smooth and composed. “My junior assistant accidentally sent those from my phone. Please don’t take it to heart.” Accident or not, the logistics didn’t matter anymore. All I knew, with a sudden and crystalline clarity, was that our marriage was completely, irreversibly dead. … I got up and went straight to the clinic. When I walked out of the sterile, brightly lit recovery room, my womb was empty. The four-month-old pregnancy was gone. By the time I finally returned to our penthouse, the city skyline was cloaked in absolute darkness. The living room was bathed in the warm glow of the designer lamps. Donald was sitting on the Italian leather sofa. Hearing the door, he looked up, his brow furrowing instantly. “Where have you been? It’s late. Do you not know how to return a text or a call?” I didn’t say a word. I slipped out of my heels, stepped into my slippers, and walked into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. He watched me, his gaze lingering on my face for a few seconds before he finally let out a long sigh. “I explained what happened this afternoon. My assistant grabbed the wrong phone. She’s already apologized to me, and I reprimanded her. It won’t happen again.” ‘A junior assistant grabbed her boss’s private phone by mistake?’ A faint, hollow laugh escaped my lips. I set the glass down and actually looked at him. Donald was breathtakingly handsome. It was the first thing I had known about him, the very first time I saw him. Now, at thirty-three, he had aged like fine bourbon—far better than most men his age. Just sitting there in his cashmere loungewear, he looked like an editorial spread in GQ. I used to love looking at him. I used to think I could spend a lifetime memorizing the planes of his face and never grow tired of it. But tonight, looking at him, I realized his beauty had nothing to do with me anymore. He was like a couture gown in a heavily guarded window display. You can stand on the sidewalk staring at it for years, convincing yourself it belongs to you, but you never actually get to take it home. “Donald,” I started, my voice ringing out much calmer than I had anticipated. “What was that little assistant’s name again?” He paused, a micro-shift in his posture. “Marissa. Why?” “How long has she been working for you?” “Six months, give or take.” He frowned, quickly adding, “Why are you interrogating me about this? I told you it was a misunderstanding. Do you really have to cling to this? Can’t you just pretend you didn’t see it?” Four defensive questions in a row. I didn’t take the bait. I just let the silence stretch for a moment before I continued. “I remember when she first started. You mentioned her in passing. You said the new hire was clumsy, practically incompetent, completely lacking the ruthless efficiency you usually demand from your staff. You never brought her up again. I naturally assumed you’d fired her.” I tilted my head. “But it turns out, not only did you not fire her, but right around the time she showed up, your ‘overtime’ hours mysteriously doubled. Your sudden out-of-state business trips became incredibly frequent.” The crease between Donald’s brows deepened. “Camille, what exactly are you implying?” I offered a small, empty smile. “I’m just stating the facts.” His irritation finally broke through his polished veneer. “Look, I know pregnancy is hard. Your hormones are all over the place, your emotions are volatile. I get that. But you can’t just spiral into paranoia over a few misfired texts. It’s not good for you, and it’s not good for the baby.” ‘The baby.’ The words were a microscopic needle slipping precisely between my ribs, piercing directly into my heart. How long had we been married? Four years. I was twenty-two when I sneaked back to the States after living in Europe, just wanting to rebel, to play. At a society party, I laid eyes on Donald and fell with a catastrophic, gravity-defying kind of love. I went after him with everything I had. At first, he thought I was too young, too naive. But I was relentless. I ripped my heart out of my chest and offered it to him on a silver platter. I bought him expensive watches, sent him rare vintages, and eventually, I was the one who proposed. People in our circle whispered. They laughed at me behind their manicured hands, saying a girl from my background shouldn’t be so desperate, so lacking in grace. But I hadn’t cared. I thought that was what love was supposed to be—brave, unashamed, loud. Eventually, he wore down. We dated for a year, then married. For the four years of our marriage, every single day was a tightrope walk of me pouring out my affection, desperate for scraps. If he gave me the slightest hint of warmth, it was like the sun rising in my universe. When I got pregnant, something shifted. He seemed genuinely pleased. He gave me more attention than he ever had. But the quiet terror had already set in. The foundation was rotting. I couldn’t shake the anxiety, constantly clinging to him, begging him to validate me. Even though he rarely used the word ‘love,’ his soft, ”I’ll be home early tonight,” felt like a lifeline. Until today. When the private phone—the one he never even let me touch—was casually handled by another woman to hurl insults at me. That was when the fog cleared. He had never, not from day one, held me in his heart. But it was okay. It was finally over. I had simply run out of love to give. Seeing me stand there in silence, he must have assumed I had yielded. He walked over, his anger softening into a patronizing patience, and reached out to pull me into his arms. “Alright, enough. Stop overthinking. I had the housekeeper make your favorite soup. Have a bowl and go to sleep. It’s the weekend tomorrow, I’ll take you shopping—” “I had an abortion.” The words slipped from my mouth, light as a feather. But Donald froze completely. His arms were still raised in the ghost of an embrace, suspended mid-air. The penthouse went so quiet I could hear the rhythmic ticking of the antique clock in the hallway. ‘One. Two. Three.’ Slowly, he straightened his posture. He looked down at me as if the English language had suddenly become a foreign tongue. “What did you just say?” I looked up, meeting his eyes dead on. I enunciated every syllable. “I said, the baby is gone. After you sent me those messages, I went to the clinic. I terminated the pregnancy.” I watched the color drain from his face, inch by agonizing inch. In the five years I had known Donald, I had almost never seen him lose his composure. To the world, he was utterly untouchable, a man whose emotions were regulated like a flawless piece of Swiss engineering. But right now, the gears were grinding to a halt. I found a morbid sense of fascination in it. I just kept watching him. “You didn’t consult me… and you just got rid of the baby?” My lips curved upward. “Yes.” “Camille.” My name tore from his throat, trembling. “That was my child, too.” I gave a nonchalant shrug. “I know.” “You know?” His voice suddenly shattered the quiet room, his eyes turning a violent, bloodshot red. “You know, and yet you went to the clinic by yourself and killed our child without even saying a damn word to me?!” “Camille! Do I even exist to you as your husband?!” He had never yelled at me like this. Whenever we fought in the past, his weapon of choice was icy silence. He would simply freeze me out until the lack of oxygen forced me to apologize first. But in this moment, a genuine laugh bubbled up from my chest. “Donald, so you actually ‘can’ get angry? Your eyes ‘can’ get red? You’re capable of losing your mind like a normal human being? I thought your only setting was emotional abuse.” Donald flinched, but the shock quickly morphed into absolute fury. His hand shot out, his fingers digging painfully into my jaw. “What the hell is wrong with you?! I told you I didn’t send those texts! Why won’t you just believe me?!” he roared, his breath hot against my face. “And that wasn’t just your baby! It was mine! What gave you the right to play God and rip it out of you?” “Since you’re so capable of murdering my child all by yourself, then you are going to give me another one!” Before I could process the words, he yanked me forward and crushed his mouth against mine. It wasn’t a kiss; it was an assault. The sharp, metallic taste of copper flooded my mouth instantly. I winced against the pain. Five years together, and he had never initiated a kiss. Even in our most intimate moments, I was always the one reaching for him, pulling him down. There were times I would lie awake, dreaming of him just wanting me like this. Now, all it invoked was a rising bile in my throat. I bit down, hard. He groaned in pain and shoved me backward. I stumbled, catching myself, my eyes burning with unshed tears as I glared at him. “You want a baby? Go find another woman. Your little assistant seems pretty damn eager to breed for you.” Donald froze, wiping the blood from his lip. “What did you say?” “I said,” I screamed, my voice tearing at the seams, “Go have a baby with Marissa! Keep your pathetic, hypocritical hands off me!” “Donald, right now, looking at you makes me want to vomit!” He stared at me, his gaze so intense it felt like he was trying to nail me to the floorboards. Three agonizing seconds passed. Then, he laughed. A cold, hollow sound. “Fine. Since you’re being so incredibly generous, I’ll give you exactly what you want.” He grabbed his keys from the console. “Don’t regret this. And don’t come crawling back to me crying.” The front door slammed shut with bone-rattling force. The silence rushed back in, heavier than before. I stared at the heavy oak door. The tears, which I hadn’t realized were falling, suddenly became a torrential flood. I collapsed to my knees, sobbing uncontrollably. It was as if I was purging five years of quiet humiliation, of begging for scraps, of making myself small. ‘Donald, I promise you, I won’t regret this.’ ‘And I will never, ever beg you again.’ I wiped my face with the back of my trembling hand, pulled out my phone, and dialed a number I rarely used. “Hey, it’s me,” I whispered when my brother picked up. “The shadow capital we injected into Donald’s firm. Pull it all. Every last cent.” Donald didn’t come home that night. First thing Saturday morning, I went straight to my lawyer’s office and had the divorce papers drawn up. Since it was the weekend, he wouldn’t be at the office. I had no idea where to find him to serve him. Just as I stepped out onto the bustling Manhattan street, my phone buzzed with a video file. A second later, a voice note from my best friend, Jocelyn, exploded through my speaker. “Cam! Is this your untouchable, golden-boy husband?!” “I’m at Fifth Avenue shopping, and I just saw him with some girl! He literally got down on one knee on the sidewalk to tie her shoe for her!” “You were four months pregnant, and he’s out here scavenging for scraps? The absolute audacity of this bastard! I swear to God, I am going to murder them both!” My thumb hovered over the screen. I tapped play. The footage was slightly shaky, shot from a distance. But there he was. The man who always stood above the rest of the world, crouching on the pavement with an indulgent, helpless smile, tying the laces of the young girl beside him because she was pouting. She was laughing, filming him with her phone. A sharp, phantom pain sliced through my chest. It wasn’t that I hadn’t wanted that kind of indulgence from him. I had. But whenever I asked, he would just look down at me with that cool, detached expression. He never outright refused, but he never moved a muscle, either. He would just let the silence stretch until I was so humiliated I had to laugh it off and change the subject. I swallowed the lump in my throat, typed a quick reply to Jocelyn. [I’m divorcing him.] The moment the text sent, an unknown number called me. “Is this Camille St. Claire?” a stern voice asked. “Your husband and your friend were involved in an altercation. We need you to come down to the 19th Precinct immediately.” Jocelyn had a temper, but I hadn’t expected her to go scorched-earth this fast. I hailed a cab and rushed downtown. The moment I pushed through the heavy glass doors of the precinct, the shouting hit me like a physical wave. “Donald, you piece of shit!” Jocelyn was screaming, restrained by an exhausted-looking officer. “How could you do this to Camille?! She was carrying your child! And you’re out here flaunting your mistress in broad daylight, tying her damn shoes?! Why don’t you just drop dead?!” “Camille gave you everything! She loved you so much—” “Did I ask her to?” Donald’s voice cut through the air, sharp as a guillotine. I froze in the doorway. Donald wasn’t finished. “Did I ever beg her to treat me well? Did I beg her to love me? Was I the one who threw away my pride to chase a man who didn’t want me? Was I the one who crawled into her bed, practically begging to be married the second I snapped my fingers? So what if she was good to me? I didn’t love her. Why the hell should I owe her anything just because she decided to martyr herself? And what, just because she was pregnant, I’m supposed to chain myself to her side?” Jocelyn looked ready to combust. If the cop hadn’t been holding her back, she would have torn his throat out. “You soulless bastard! If it weren’t for Camille, you would’ve been bankrupt and rotting in—” “Jocelyn, stop,” I interrupted, stepping fully into the room. I walked straight past Donald and looked at the desk sergeant. “I’m here to take her home.” Before the officer could speak, Donald’s dark, commanding voice echoed through the bleak room. “She assaulted someone. You think she gets to just walk away?” I slowly turned to look at the woman clinging to his arm. Marissa. Her eyes were red, her cheek bearing the faint, pink outline of Jocelyn’s hand. Finally, I looked at him. “What do you want, then?” Donald’s eyes were glacial. “Your friend slapped my assistant. Now, I want her to pay it back.” Jocelyn let out a bark of incredulous laughter. “Let that little bitch try to hit me, I’ll break her—” “I didn’t say she would hit you,” Donald interrupted, his gaze sliding off Jocelyn and locking onto me with a terrifying intensity. “Camille. Your friend made a mistake on your behalf. Therefore, you foot the bill.” “You motherf—” Jocelyn trembled with rage, lunging forward. But before she could move, I spoke. “Fine.” Jocelyn’s head whipped toward me. “Camille, are you out of your mind?! He’s the one cheating! He’s the one who ruined everything!” I ignored her. I walked the few steps until I was standing directly in front of Donald and Marissa. “Do it.” Marissa shrank back slightly, tears welling perfectly in her eyes. “Mr. Hobart, please, don’t make it hard for your wife, I—” ‘SMACK.’ Before she could finish her performance, Donald grabbed Marissa’s wrist and drove her hand forcefully across my cheek. A sharp, burning pain exploded across the left side of my face. The room went dead silent. I turned to walk away. “Did I say we were done?” Donald’s voice was absolute ice. “She slapped Marissa once. I want it paid back tenfold.” He practically dragged Marissa forward. Before my brain could even register the threat, the blows rained down. ‘Smack. Smack. Smack.’ Nine hits. Each one heavier, more degrading, more violent than the last. With every strike, a tiny piece of the pathetic, desperate love I had hoarded in my chest withered away and died. By the time the final blow landed, I felt absolutely nothing. A profound, hollow numbness had settled into my bones. Something warm trickled down the corner of my mouth. I tasted iron. None of the officers stepped in. Donald Hobart owned half the real estate in this city; no one was going to cross him over a domestic spat where he technically didn’t throw the punch himself. When it was over, Donald gently massaged Marissa’s wrist, not looking at me. He delivered his final warning to Jocelyn. “Keep your dog on a leash. Next time she barks at people who belong to me, it won’t end like this.” He turned, placing a protective hand on Marissa’s lower back to guide her out. “Donald.” I called out to his retreating back. Reaching into my designer tote, I pulled out the manila envelope. “Let’s divorce.” He stopped, turning back with a look of pure disdain. “You want to divorce me?” I nodded once. “Yes.” He stared at me for a long, suffocating moment, and then a cruel smirk touched his lips. “Camille, I haven’t even settled the score with you for killing my child behind my back. Now you’re pulling this ‘divorce’ stunt to get my attention? Playing hard to get?” I gave a dry, broken smile. “You flatter yourself.” His expression darkened instantly. He snatched the papers from my hand, pulled a Montblanc pen from his breast pocket, and aggressively slashed his signature across the bottom line. He threw the papers directly into my chest. “Just a friendly reminder, Camille,” he sneered, leaning in close. “Without me, you are absolutely nothing. When you inevitably come crying back, begging me to let you in, I won’t even look your way.”

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My cousin Tyler got married on a crisp October afternoon, but my wife, Tracy, refused to stand by my side at the ceremony. I’d seen it coming. It was the same script she ran every Thanksgiving, every Christmas, finding some eleventh-hour excuse to avoid visiting my family in our quiet Ohio hometown. Yet, even with my expectations managed, standing in the reception hall under the warm string lights, dodging well-meaning questions from aunts and childhood friends, a familiar, bitter ache settled in my chest. I knew what people whispered when my back was turned. ‘Can’t even bring his own wife home. What kind of man is he?’ Some had already quietly assumed we were divorced. I sat at the corner table, nursing a glass of bourbon in silence, the noise of the celebration fading into a dull hum. Right then, a strange, cold clarity washed over me. I made my decision. There was no need for them to whisper anymore. I pulled out my phone and dialed Tracy’s number. It rang. Declined. I called again. Declined. A third time. Declined. A text popped up a second later: ‘Are you seriously doing this right now? I’m busy.’ Staring at her words, the last lingering thread of my patience snapped. I calmly typed three letters back: ‘I want a divorce.’ I locked my phone, set it face down on the table, and took a slow sip of my drink. 1 ‘You are completely insane,’ her text read the next morning. ‘You want to throw away our marriage just because I didn’t drag myself to your cousin’s wedding?’ Another text followed immediately: ‘My sister Courtney came up to the city for the weekend. God forbid I actually spend time with my own family.’ In the past, I would have replied with a essay. I would have tried to appeal to her sense of fairness, explaining how it felt to always be the one compromising. I would have reminded her of the double standards—how she claimed to loathe “obligatory family gatherings” yet expected me to show up, smiling and helpful, at every backyard barbecue, birthday, and baby shower her family threw. But I had run out of words. The silence in my chest felt too vast to fill with arguments. ‘I’m serious, Tracy,’ I typed back. ‘Start thinking about what you want to keep. I’ll do the same.’ ‘We split everything fifty-fifty. If you agree, we can sign the papers and keep this quiet.’ A beat of silence, then her final reply: ‘Get help.’ I put my phone away. I had no intention of replying. For the rest of the holiday weekend, the silence between us stretched across the state lines. She didn’t call, and I didn’t reach out. On Sunday evening, the heavy front door of our apartment clicked open. Tracy walked in, carrying a reusable grocery bag stuffed with fresh produce and farm eggs from her parents’ place upstate. She took one look at my cold, set expression, rolled her eyes, and marched into the bedroom, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frames in the hallway. A few minutes later, the door swung open again. She stormed into the living room, her face flushed with rage, clutching the draft of the separation agreement I had left on the kitchen island. “What is this?” she demanded, flinging the papers at my chest. They fluttered to the hardwood floor. “A divorce,” I said, my voice flat, matching the gray light filtering through the window. “I want a real reason, Jeremy.” “I’m tired,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. “I don’t want to do this with you anymore.” “You’re discarding me over a wedding?” Her voice cracked, and her eyes welled with tears. In the early years, those tears would have undone me. I would have reached for her, apologized, swallowed my own hurt just to make her stop crying. Now, I watched her face with the detached curiosity of a stranger. “We’re adults, Tracy. Can we at least do this with some dignity?” “Dignity? You call tearing our lives apart dignified?” She grabbed the papers from the floor and ripped them in half, then in quarters, scattering the white scraps like confetti. “I’m not divorcing you. I’m not going to be the town gossip because you had a temper tantrum.” I stood up, walked into the guest room, and rolled out the suitcase I’d packed earlier that afternoon. “I’ll give you three days to think it over. If you don’t agree to a dissolution, I’ll file contested.” “Step away from that door! Jeremy, you don’t get to just walk out on me! What did I ever do to deserve this?” She followed me into the entryway, her voice rising to a shriek. “Is there someone else? Who is she?” I didn’t give her the satisfaction of an answer. I pulled the door shut behind me, the lock clicking into place with a definitive, satisfying snap. I just wanted it to be over, even if it meant leaving money on the table. But the peace didn’t last. Less than two hours later, my phone lit up with a call from my father-in-law, Richard. He didn’t yell; he just told me to come over to their house so we could “talk like men.” Hoping for a clean break without a prolonged legal circus, I turned my car around and drove to their suburban home. When I walked into the living room, the atmosphere was suffocating. Richard, his wife Pam, and Tracy’s sister Courtney were all lined up on the sectional sofa, their faces grim. It felt less like a conversation and more like a tribunal. Pam was the first to strike. “Jeremy, Tracy told us everything. Don’t you think you’re being incredibly cruel? Threatening divorce just because she missed one family event?” She leaned forward, her silver bracelets clinking. “Marriage isn’t a game. You don’t just throw a tantrum and walk away when things don’t go your way.” I sat on the armchair opposite them, keeping my hands folded in my lap, refusing to engage in the familiar, exhausting dance of defending myself. Over five years, we had fought about everything. We fought about our non-existent sex face because she rejected me so often I’d stopped trying. We fought about money—even as my salary climbed into the mid-six figures, she’d always find some friend’s husband who made more, using their success as a club to beat down my confidence. And then there was the control. If I was home, I wasn’t allowed to just ‘be’. If I watched a game or read a book, I was “lazy,” “lacking ambition,” “wasting my life.” For five years, she claimed we couldn’t have children because we weren’t financially stable enough, yet she had quit her demanding corporate job for a low-stress, twenty-hour-a-week receptionist gig that paid pocket change, spending her afternoons streaming shows and her weekends at the spa. I was drowning in her double standards. “Tracy has sacrificed so much to build a life with you,” Pam continued, her voice dripping with maternal indignation. “She’s never known a day of real comfort since she married you. What right do you have to call it quits?” My eyes drifted to the thick gold band glistening on Pam’s wrist. I bought that. I thought about Richard and Pam’s farmhouse upstate. When they fell behind on their property taxes and their private insurance premiums skyrocketed, I was the one who wrote the checks. I was the one who set up a monthly three-thousand-dollar transfer to keep them afloat. And Tracy? Every anniversary, birthday, Valentine’s Day, and random Tuesday of self-care was funded by my account. The only “bitterness” she had ever tasted was the artisanal coffee she complained was never hot enough. Pam’s mouth kept moving, recounting all the wealthy sons-in-law her friends had, comparing my efforts to theirs. I looked directly at her. “I came here to talk to Tracy. Could you please keep your mouth shut?” Pam gasped, surging up from the sofa. “Do you hear him? The charity case we let into our family is telling me to shut up! Tracy, look at the monster you married!” She pointed a manicured finger at me. “If you treat us this way in our own home, God only knows what you do to my daughter behind closed doors.” “If this is the level of conversation we’re going to have, I’ll let my lawyer handle it,” I said, standing up. “Sit down, Jeremy,” Richard barked, his voice thick with authority. “Do you think your parents raised you to treat your elders with such disrespect?” “Let’s wait for his parents,” Courtney piped up from the corner, checking her watch. “They should be here any minute.” My heart sank slightly. I knew Tracy had called them, hoping to weaponize my mother’s traditional views on marriage against me. But if we had to lay all the cards on the table, we might as well do it now. A few minutes later, the front door opened, and my parents walked into the tense room. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here,” Pam lamented, immediately rising to greet them. “Your son has completely lost his mind. He’s threatening to ruin this family, and when I tried to offer some gentle guidance, he insulted me in my own home.” My father didn’t look at Pam. He walked over to me, placed a heavy, reassuring hand on my shoulder, and looked down at me. “Have you made up your mind, son?” “Yes, Dad. I have.” “Then we support you,” my father said simply. Pam’s face turned a violent shade of crimson. “Are you serious? We called you here to help fix this, not to encourage his foolishness!” “Fix what?” my father asked, his voice steady and quiet. “Since the day they got married, Tracy has treated us like we don’t exist. She hasn’t spent a single holiday with us. She’s never once called us Mom or Dad. Where was your ‘guidance’ then?” “They aren’t my parents!” Tracy snapped, her tears drying up as her anger flared. “I have my own parents. Why should I have to pretend?” “Then you don’t have to pretend to be his wife anymore either,” my father said. “Let’s go, Jeremy.”

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On our eighth anniversary, I didn’t prepare a single thing. Instead, I sat at the kitchen table and drafted a divorce agreement with my own hands. When I walked into the house, Elliott had his little mistress pinned against our headboard, taking her with a desperate, frantic hunger on our wedding bed. The girl turned her face toward the door, her lips curving into a smug little smile when she saw me. “Hazel… you’re home?” she gasped, her voice dripping with mock innocence. “Should I… should I get up?” Elliott didn’t even pause. He patted her hip, his tone warm and teasing, the way someone might comfort a pet. “Why get up?” he said. “She doesn’t exactly inspire passion.” He finally looked up, cutting his eyes toward me before gesturing toward the hallway with his chin. “Be a good wife, close the door,” he added casually. “She’s shy.” He expected me to do what I always did—to turn around in silence, walk out, and give them whatever space they needed to ruin my life. Instead, I walked into the bedroom, set the divorce papers on the nightstand, and said quietly, “Elliott, let’s get a divorce.” … His movements faltered. He looked down at the girl beneath him, then slowly pulled away. “Hazel, do you really think I have the time for your little tantrums right now?” Amber tilted her head, her eyes flashing with a mix of surprise and irritation at being interrupted. “Hazel, a man has needs,” she purred, adjusting her hair. “If you’re too old and faded to satisfy Elliott, you have to let me do it, right?” I ignored her and pushed the papers closer to him. “Sign it, and I’ll leave right now.” Elliott grabbed a cigarette from the nightstand, lighting it with one hand while keeping the other casually draped over her waist. “Are we really doing this?” he asked, exhaling. “I’m not throwing a tantrum.” “Not throwing a tantrum?” He let out a slow plume of smoke, the gray haze blurring the sharp lines of his face. “Every single time you pull this stunt, you end up tearing up the papers yourself. Stop playing hard to get, Hazel. It doesn’t work on me.” Amber shifted, letting out a soft, delicate sigh. “Elliott, baby… don’t be so mean to her. She did give you a child, after all. Even if… well, even if she had to trick you into it.” Elliott blew out another breath of smoke, his lips twisting into a mocking sneer. “Hazel, you drugged my drink and crawled into my bed eight years ago just to get this ring on your finger, didn’t you? As long as you stay in your lane, the title of Mrs. Mercer is yours. Don’t push your luck.” He truly believed I would keep playing the obedient, understanding wife, guarding the empty shell of our marriage while I waited for him to look at me. But he didn’t know that my heart had already rotted from crying. I didn’t even have the strength left to pretend it didn’t hurt. I was done. I couldn’t do it anymore. “Elliott, I mean it,” I said, my voice shockingly steady. “I’m sick of playing the perfect wife. I’m exhausted. I don’t want it anymore.” He let out a dry laugh. Reaching out, he pinched Amber’s chin, forcing her to look up. “Amber, tell her. How long have you been with me?” Amber’s voice was soft, breathless. “Almost… almost three years…” “She isn’t complaining about being tired,” Elliott said, letting go of her chin to look back at me. “And yet you’re the one crying about it? What right do you have to be tired?” He picked up the divorce papers and shoved them back into my hands. “Take your papers and close the door. Or what? Are you lonely? Want to join us?” He was always like this. Treating my sincerity like a comedy, my exhaustion like a petty bid for attention. He truly believed everything I did was a desperate plea for him to look at me. I felt so tired. Too tired to even argue. I turned and walked out, the sounds of their passion picking up again behind the closed door. I sat on the living room sofa. A draft from the window fluttered the edge of the papers resting on my knees. I buried my face in my hands, sitting there in the quiet for a long time, but my palms remained completely dry. When you cry too much, you eventually run out of tears. My daughter’s photo sat in a silver frame on the coffee table. She was wearing a little white sundress, her eyes crinkled into perfect, happy crescents. I closed my eyes, and the memories—the ones that had already decayed into my bones—flooded back. Elliott and I had been together for eight years. The first three years were genuinely beautiful. So beautiful that I thought he was my forever. Then came the night he was drugged at a party, and I ended up pregnant. I remember spinning around in his arms, crying, “Let’s get married, Elliott!” But his first words to me were: “Hazel, you really are calculating, aren’t you?” From that day on, the women in his life never stopped. The day our daughter was born, he was out shopping with some swimsuit model. I suffered a massive hemorrhage during labor and had to sign my own consent forms. The day our daughter turned a month old, he drank until dawn in a VIP lounge. The day she first called him “Daddy,” I recorded a video and sent it to him; he replied a day later with a single word: ‘Annoying.’ But for our daughter’s sake, I endured it. Three years ago, when she was diagnosed with congenital heart disease, Elliott pulled strings and hired the best medical team in the country. For a brief second, I thought we might finally find happiness. But the surgery failed. During those agonizing eleven hours in the waiting room, every call and text I sent him vanished into a black hole. I knelt on the cold hospital floor, throwing up from sheer panic. And where was the man who had vanished? He was all over Amber’s latest Instagram post. The caption read: ‘The best kind of company.’ He was at a music festival with Amber, kissing her passionately under a shower of confetti in a roaring crowd. Before my daughter passed away, her last words were: “I hope Mommy and Daddy don’t fight anymore.” I had foolishly believed that day would come. If only I was quiet enough, patient enough, obedient enough. But I never saw that day. And now, I truly couldn’t do it anymore. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a text from Elliott: ‘Pick up a box of ultra-thin condoms on your way back. And get some macarons from that bakery down on 4th. Amber wants some.’ I stared at the screen, motionless. I had done things like this too many times. When they slept in my bed, I slept on the living room sofa. When she wanted desserts from the other side of town, I drove two hours in traffic to buy them. When she wanted to wear my clothes, I cleared out my closet. I didn’t feel anything anymore. The phone buzzed again. ‘If you aren’t back in twenty minutes, consider yourself off the Chelsea project.’ The project was my life’s blood, the product of countless sleepless nights. I looked at the pouring rain outside, took a deep breath, put on my coat, and walked out. I returned drenched to the bone. Opening the front door, I saw Amber sitting on the living room sofa wearing my silk pajamas. Her bare feet were propped on the coffee table, and she was turning something over in her hands. It was my daughter’s picture. The frame I kept on my nightstand, the one showing her happiest smile. Amber tapped her manicured nails against the glass. “Cute kid,” she murmured. “Too bad.” My voice squeezed out of my throat, raw and unrecognizable. “Amber. Put it down.” She looked up, a smirk playing on her lips, and loosened her fingers. The frame slipped. It hit the hardwood floor, and the glass shattered, sending shards flying everywhere. I stared at the cracks, a violent buzzing filling my ears. Amber carelessly kicked a piece of glass away with her toe. “Oops. Hand slipped. Hazel, you’re not going to get angry over a dead person, are you? After all, how can the dead compete with the living?” I was shaking so hard my bones ached. I raised my hand and slapped her across the face, hard. Amber’s head jerked to the side. She froze for a second, then began to shriek. “Hazel, don’t you think you’re taking this too far?” Elliott walked into the room, grabbing my arm in a vice grip. His voice was flat, but the fury beneath it was unmistakable. He pulled so hard I stumbled, my knees crashing onto the floor. Shards of glass sliced into my skin, and the sharp pain made me gasp. “Elliott, do you even dare to look down?” I choked out. “That is your own flesh and blood.” He glanced down, the anger in his eyes flickering slightly. “I’ll have someone restore the photo.” Amber buried herself in his chest, whimpering, “Elliott, it was an accident… I didn’t mean to…” He let go of her and leaned down toward me. “But as for hitting her, that’s where the line is crossed.” He reached out and yanked the necklace from around my neck. It was the promise necklace he gave me years ago. When we were eighteen, he told me it belonged to his late mother and was meant for his future wife. The chain snapped. The pearls scattered across the floor. Elliott clutched the pendant in his hand, looking down at me. “From now on, you don’t deserve to wear this.” He tossed the pendant carelessly into the trash can. Then he picked Amber up in his arms and walked toward the door. Amber clung to his neck, looking back at me over his shoulder. Her lips moved silently. I read her lips perfectly: ‘Serves you right.’ The door slammed shut. Left behind were the scattered pearls, the broken glass, and my daughter’s smiling face, sliced into jagged pieces on the floor. She seemed to be asking me: ‘Mommy, does it hurt?’ I collapsed onto the glass, my tears falling one by one, blurring her ruined smile. I fell into a dream. I dreamt of our senior year of high school, when I was hospitalized with acute appendicitis. Back then, I had no parents, no family. I had to sign my own surgery forms. Elliott skipped three days of classes just to sit by my bedside. When the pain kept me awake, he held my hand and told me terrible jokes, over and over. They weren’t funny at all, but he told them with such earnestness. The day I was discharged, he knelt down to tie my sneakers. The sunlight caught the back of his head, highlighting his hair in gold. He looked up at me, his eyes crinkled with warmth. “Hazel, from now on, I’m tying your shoes. For the rest of our lives. I promise.” I smiled in my sleep. Then I woke up, my pillow soaked. My phone screen lit up. It was a video from Amber. In a VIP hospital suite, Amber leaned against the pillows, a shy, radiant smile on her face. Elliott sat on the edge of the bed, his hand resting gently over her slightly rounded belly. “Who do you think the baby will look like?” he asked, looking up into her eyes. “I’ll give both of you the absolute best of everything. I promise.” Amber giggled and snuggled into his chest. The text beneath read: ‘It’s been so long since you’ve been a mother, Hazel. I guess you probably can’t comprehend how happy I am right now.’ The screen went black. I stared at the dark glass for a long time. My chest felt squeezed by an invisible hand, numb with pain. In three years, he had never once asked who our daughter looked like. “I’ll give both of you the absolute best of everything.” He had never said those words to me or to Lucy. My phone buzzed again. A location pin from Elliott. ‘Thought you wanted to talk about the divorce? Get over here.’ I changed my clothes, took the divorce agreement, and walked out. The door to the third-floor VIP lounge was cracked open. The moment I pushed it open, a dozen pairs of eyes whipped around to face me. The long leather sofas were packed with people, their expressions shifting from surprise to amusement. “Look at that, the wife actually showed up!” “And she made it in under thirty minutes! Damn, I just lost three grand!” Elliott sat right in the center, legs crossed, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. “Mrs. Mercer is always punctual.” Amber walked up to me, snatched the papers from my hand, and read aloud: “Voluntary dissolution of marriage…” The room erupted into laughter. Some clapped, others doubled over. “Hazel, are you seriously divorcing him? Where are you going to find a guy as good as Elliott?” “Yeah, even if he plays around, he still gave you the title, didn’t he?” Amber picked up a small red booklet from the coffee table and held it up to my face. A marriage certificate. She opened it, pointing to the names and photos. ‘Elliott Mercer. Amber Ward.’ “Hazel, look closely,” she laughed, her smile widening. “Your marriage certificate is a fake!” “The venue was rented, the officiant was a hired actor, and the entire wedding was a sham populated by paid extras.” She snapped the booklet shut and tapped it against her hand. “This one is real.” The laughter swelled around me. “Jesus, Elliott, that is brutal!” “I went to that wedding! She was sobbing her eyes out, completely clueless! Haha!” “The officiant could barely read his lines, and she just thought he was nervous!” The laughter poured into my ears and leaked out of my eyes. I stood frozen. I had thought that, at the very least, I had that wedding. I had that boy in the white shirt. I had his promise to tie my shoes forever. It turned out even that was a lie. Elliott sat there, watching me through the haze of smoke and mockery. “The day we were supposed to register, Amber clung to me and begged so sweetly I couldn’t say no. But publicly, you were still Mrs. Mercer, weren’t you?” It seemed there was no need to sign the divorce papers after all. I turned and walked out of the lounge. Behind me, the laughter continued. “Elliott, she was crying like that at the wedding. Now that she knows it was all a joke, do you think she’ll want to kill herself?” His voice was soft, indifferent: “Who cares.” I leaned against the hallway wall, slowly sliding down until I was crouching on the floor. I had grown up an orphan, and at eighteen, I was severely bullied at school. I fell into deep depression and stood on the edge of the school rooftop, ready to jump. It was Elliott who had appeared behind me. “Hazel, I’ll protect you.” He had pulled me back from that ledge. Everything I learned afterward—how to smile, how to stand tall, how to walk with my head held high in a crowd—I learned because of him. But the person who had pushed me right back to the edge of the roof was also him. I got home after midnight and began to pack. There wasn’t much in my closet. Most of the clothes had been worn by Amber anyway, and I didn’t want them. I packed only a few of my own things and the photo album. I flipped to the last page of the album. Lucy was completely bald, terribly thin, but she was still smiling. She said, “Don’t cry, Mommy. Lulu doesn’t hurt.” I clutched the album to my chest, crouching on the floor. My phone buzzed several times. Amber. ‘Hazel, there’s something I’ve always wanted to tell you.’ ‘You didn’t actually think your daughter’s surgery failed because of bad luck, did you?’ My hands began to shake violently. ‘The day of her surgery, Elliott knew I had a high fever, so he pulled her entire surgical team to treat me instead.’ ‘The schedule got messed up, and they had to swap in a backup surgeon who wasn’t up to the task.’ ‘Oops, I didn’t think there would be an accident~’ ‘But honestly, she was just a kid. She couldn’t possibly be more important than me, right?’ I could barely hold the phone. Back then, when Elliott secured the country’s top medical team, it had kept me from completely losing my mind. I thought he cared about us. I had stayed in that empty marriage, lying to myself, hoping he would change his mind and make our family whole again. But he hadn’t even cared about his own daughter’s life. Another video arrived. In the video, Elliott leaned back on the couch while Amber snuggled in his lap, her voice babyish: “Elliott, do you regret pulling the medical team away for me back then?” His voice was calm. “You had a hundred-and-four-degree fever. I wasn’t thinking about anything else.” Amber pouted. “But do you regret it?” Elliott paused for a second. “No. There’s only one of you.” The video ended. I stared at the black screen. My voice was trapped in my throat, but the tears wouldn’t stop. I bent over, my forehead pressed against the cold floor, my entire body shaking with dry, silent sobs. By the end, my tears had run dry, leaving only a hollow, radiating ache in my chest that made it hard to breathe. My daughter’s smiling face was pressed against my chest, icy cold. I packed the album into my suitcase, zipped it shut, and booked the earliest flight out. On my way to the airport, I watched the sky gradually brighten outside—from black to gray, and finally to white. My heart was entirely still, devoid of even a single ripple. I took out my phone and sent Elliott one final message. After printing my boarding pass and passing through security, my phone lit up before I could turn it off. Texts from Elliott. One after another, the phone vibrating relentlessly. I turned it off. As the plane lifted into the air, the string inside my heart—the one that had been stretched taut for so many years—finally snapped.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “499017”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When I prepared to deactivate our TikTok account—the one with over a million followers—the comments section was a frenzy of pleas. “Please don’t go! We’re still waiting for your travel documentary series!” I stared at the screen, gave a quiet, humorless laugh, and tapped confirm. My boyfriend was the editor. We’d made a pact to document every city we visited together on the platform. For three years, my lens was trained entirely on him. But in the final cuts he exported, I was nowhere to be found. Until last week, when I was helping him clean up his external drive. Tucked away in the deepest subfolder was a directory named Elena. I clicked it. It was another girl. She was standing on a backlit beach, the setting sun painting her hair a warm, spun-gold. The footage was in slow motion, edited to the exact indie ballad we called “our song.” Every single frame had been meticulously color-graded and retouched. Meanwhile, in the hundreds of videos we’d published, I had only ever appeared once. I was a blurry, out-of-focus shape in the background. In the overlay comments, he’d actually typed: “Who let this random extra into the shot?” It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to edit me. It was that I was never worthy of being in his frame. As I was packing my things, my phone buzzed with an urgent text from him, demanding to know why the account was gone. I didn’t reply. Since he never wanted me in his frame, I would simply walk out of his shot entirely. 1 I opened my airline app and booked a one-way ticket back home to Maine for three nights from now. When the confirmation popped up, my thumb hovered over the screen. It felt like finally waking up from a three-year-long dream. It was just past one in the morning when the front door unlocked. The bedroom lights flickered on, harsh and blinding. I winced, shielding my eyes. Tim stood by the edge of the bed, his voice tight with impatience. “What the hell happened to the account?” “Do you have any idea how important tomorrow is? Elena has a brand sponsor reviewing our metrics. You deleting the account just killed her deal.” “Regina, do you ever think before you act?” I opened my eyes but said nothing. He waited a beat, his temper flaring hotter. “A million followers, just gone? Three years of my editing work, down the drain?” “What kind of crazy episode are you having right now?” I propped myself up against the headboard, keeping my voice quiet. “Tim, I want to break up.” He stiffened, then let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “This again?” “Aren’t you tired of threatening to leave every time you’re unhappy? I was just putting together a portfolio for Elena so she could sign a contract.” “You’re a grown woman, Regina. Is it not exhausting to be this jealous over nothing?” I didn’t take the bait. He sighed, his posture slumping slightly as his tone softened. “Look, I get it. You’ve been in a bad mood lately. But did you really have to blow things up like this? Now I have to spend tomorrow explaining this to the sponsors. Do you think I don’t have enough on my plate?” I watched him pour a glass of water, drink it down, and explain his rationalizations. A profound, bone-deep exhaustion washed over me. In his entire tirade, there was room for Elena’s brand deals, the value of the account, and his three years of wasted labor. There was just no room for me. I pulled the duvet back over my shoulders and turned my back to him. Tim lingered for a moment, his voice dropping an octave. “Just sleep. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.” Soon, the rush of the shower filled the apartment. I kept my eyes wide, staring at the blank wall. In the quiet of the dark, my mind drifted back to three years ago. The night we hit a hundred thousand followers. We’d been sitting on the hardwood floor of our cramped studio apartment, eating cheap instant ramen. Tim had held up his phone, his eyes reflecting the blue light of the screen with absolute wonder. “Regina,” he had said, “from now on, you capture the most beautiful frames. And I’ll edit you into the most beautiful story. I promise.” The hum of the water continued in the bathroom. My eyes stung with a sudden, sharp ache. When I woke up the next morning, he was already gone. I made myself a quick bowl of oatmeal, the rising steam blurring my vision. I pulled out my phone and texted my mother. “Mom, I’m coming home in a couple of days to stay for a bit.” It took a long time for her to reply. “Really? You aren’t too busy?” followed by, “Your dad had his checkup last month. The doctor says his recovery is on track, but he keeps asking when you’ll visit.” I stared at her words—You aren’t too busy?—and felt a lump rise in my throat. During our first year, over the holidays, Tim had insisted we stay to finish a holiday campaign. “If you leave, who’s going to assist me?” During our second year, when my dad underwent coronary bypass surgery, Tim had told me, “Going back won’t help him heal. It’s better to finish the sponsor shoot so we can send them money. That’s more practical.” By the third year, when Elena returned from living abroad, he didn’t even bother making up a good excuse. He just shrugged and said, “We can’t walk away right now.” I typed out a long, rambling paragraph. I wanted to apologize. I wanted to tell her how much I had missed them, how utterly exhausted I was. But in the end, I deleted it character by character. I simply wrote: “I’ll call you when I land. Don’t worry Dad about it.” Around four in the afternoon, Tim returned. A few minutes later, the clatter of pots and pans drifted from the kitchen. I froze. Tim was cooking. In our three years together, I could count the number of times he’d cooked on one hand—and it was always just scrambled eggs or instant noodles. Today, there were three different dishes and a pot of soup simmering on the stove. He was looking at a recipe video on his phone, awkwardly tossing vegetables in the pan. I stood in the doorway. “Who is all this for?” He didn’t look up from his phone. “Elena’s coming over for dinner. She’s on a strict diet, and takeout is too greasy. It’s healthier to cook at home.” I mumbled a quiet “Oh” and went back to the bedroom. I remembered the weeks I’d worked late nights, stumbling through the front door at midnight, asking if he could at least boil some pasta for me. His response had always been the same: “Are your hands broken? Do I have to wait on you hand and foot?” Now, he was cutting fruit, simmering bone broth, and remembering that Elena didn’t eat spicy food and preferred room-temperature water. Meanwhile, I had told him a thousand times that I couldn’t stand cilantro, yet a thick layer of it floated on top of the soup he was brewing. The savory scent of the kitchen drifted into the bedroom, and my stomach betrayingly growled. I opened a food delivery app and ordered a simple bowl of soup. Just as I finished eating, the doorbell rang. Elena had arrived. She brought a bottle of red wine, her laughter ringing out as she stepped inside. “Tim! Since when do you know how to cook? This is amazing.” Tim sounded almost bashful. “Just picked it up last week. It’s nothing special.” At the dining table, Elena offered me a fork with a bright smile. “Regina, you should try some of this.” I shook my head. “I already ate.” Tim frowned, setting down his glass. “When did you eat?” “I ordered delivery.” His face darkened immediately. “I cooked a whole table of food and you went and ordered takeout? What is your problem, Regina? Do you have to act so childish in front of Elena?” I looked at him, the sting of humiliation rising in my throat. But I refused to let him see me cry. I turned and walked back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind me. “Enjoy your dinner.” Through the thin wall, I could hear Elena’s bright, melodic laughter and Tim’s murmuring responses. His voice was low, laced with a gentle patience I hadn’t heard directed at me in three years. The next morning, Tim came into the kitchen and immediately asked, “Did you make breakfast?” “I forgot,” I said quietly. He took a deep, irritated breath. “I literally asked you last night. How do you forget that? Regina, what is wrong with you lately? You used to never be like this.” “You can make it yourself,” I replied. “Since you’re such a good cook now.” He stared at me for a long beat, letting out a cold scoff. “Fine. Keep playing these games. Let’s see who breaks first.” I said nothing. He slumped onto the sofa and opened his laptop to edit. After a while, he spoke up without looking at me. “Oh, by the way, the Iceland sponsorship is locked.” My thumb froze over my phone screen. Tim’s voice was casual. “The brand wants an aurora-themed travel shoot. We fly out early next month. Seven days.” I remained silent. He seemed to recall something, adding, “I know I promised we’d go together. But the brand specifically requested someone with a chic, editorial look. Elena fits that aesthetic better.” He paused, then tossed out a careless reassurance. “I’ll take you some other time. It’s not like Iceland is going anywhere.” Iceland wasn’t going anywhere. But I had been waiting for three years. The night we hit a million followers, eating cheap ramen in our tiny apartment, Tim had promised: “Once things settle down, I’m taking you to Iceland to see the Northern Lights. I know it’s your dream.” I had brought it up so many times after that. Each time, he claimed we didn’t have the budget, or our schedule was too packed, or that we should focus on domestic trips first. Now the budget was there. The schedule was open. He was finally going to Iceland. But he was taking Elena. I gave him a quiet murmur of agreement. He visibly relaxed, likely assuming I was finally falling back into my usual submissive role. I stood up and went to take a shower. Once the water started running, I slid down the tiled wall and sat on the floor, letting the hot spray wash over me. My tears mingled with the water, completely indistinguishable. When I came out, Tim was browsing a camera retailer on his laptop. The screen showed a high-end camera body—worth over five thousand dollars. He didn’t look up. “Elena’s birthday is next month. I want to get her this. Her phone’s video quality is terrible. You’re the gear expert, take a look for me.” I stared at the screen. My birthday had been last month. He had completely forgotten it. I hadn’t reminded him. I had just ordered a lonely bowl of takeout at the studio. Three days later, he’d sent a brief text: “Forgot your birthday. I’ll make it up to you.” He never did. “Whatever,” I muttered. Tim scowled. “What do you mean, ‘whatever’? I’m trying to have a normal conversation with you. Can you at least act like a human being?” I looked at him. Three years. Over sixty cities. A career I’d abandoned. A family I’d neglected. A birthday spent eating cold takeout alone. And now, I was the one who wasn’t “acting like a human being.” The words choked me, pooling in my throat until only a flat response remained. “Do whatever makes you happy.” I walked into the bedroom. Before the door clicked shut, I heard him mutter, “Unbelievable,” followed by the sound of heavy keystrokes. He bought the camera. He paid for it using our joint business account. Half of that money was mine. He left again in the afternoon. I pulled my suitcase from the top shelf of the closet. A few sweaters, my documents, my old storyboarding notebooks, a pair of gold earrings. That was it. I stared at the small pile, stunned by how little there was. Three years of my life, shrunk down to fit into half a suitcase. My phone rang. It was Tim. “Elena’s shoot is short-handed this afternoon. We need someone to hold the reflector. Can you come over?” “I’m busy.” He scoffed. “You’re just sitting at home. What’s the big deal?” “No.” The line went quiet for a beat. Then, Elena’s sweet, melodic voice chimed in near the receiver. “Regina! Hey, it’s Elena. Please don’t worry about it, I can easily find a friend to help. Tim, don’t badger Regina, let her rest at home.” She giggled. “Oh, by the way, Regina, Tim was just telling me how thin you’ve gotten lately. Make sure you eat a good dinner, okay?” I gripped the phone tightly. It turned out even his minor displays of concern had to be filtered through Elena before they reached me. “Got it,” I said, and hung up. I went back to folding my sweaters, my chest aching with a dull, throbbing weight. The package arrived that evening. It was the camera. Tim unboxed it with extreme care, handling it like a fragile treasure. “The sensor is gorgeous,” he murmured. “Elena’s going to love this.” His mother’s name lit up his phone screen. He swiped to answer and put it on speaker. “How are things, sweetie? Is that lovely girl, Elena, still filming with you?” Tim smiled. “Yeah, Mom. It’s going great.” “I saw the video you posted. She is just stunning, and she has such class.” Tim chuckled. “Stop, Mom, you’re going to give her a big head.” His mother continued, “Make sure you bring Elena over for Christmas dinner. Your dad really wants to meet her.” I sat on the edge of the sofa, my hands and feet turning ice-cold. There was a brief pause on the line before his mother seemed to remember my existence. “Oh… and how is Regina? I feel like I haven’t heard her name in a while. Are you two doing okay?” Tim glanced at me. “We’re fine, Mom. Don’t worry about it.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t ask if I wanted to say hello. For three years, I had bought his parents Christmas gifts, called them on their birthdays, and sent weekly check-in texts. Yet to his mother, I had become an afterthought—a name that had faded from conversation. He ended the call and placed the camera into a decorative gift box. I stood up. “Where are you going?” he asked. “To bed.” My final day arrived. Before leaving that morning, Tim called out, “I have a full day of shooting. I’ll probably be back late.” “Okay,” I replied. Once the front door clicked shut, a heavy silence settled over the apartment. This was my last day in this space. I pulled my suitcase out from behind the wardrobe. Documents, the gold earrings, my notebooks, a few outfits, my chargers. Everything fit into a single carry-on bag. I looked around. Almost everything in this apartment had been bought by me. I left all of it behind. In the kitchen, the spice jars still bore the neat labels I’d printed. A sticky note remained on the refrigerator door in my handwriting: Need eggs. Almost out of olive oil. Before I moved in, Tim’s fridge was always empty. I was the one who had turned this cold apartment into a home. In the living room, I had picked out the sofa, ordered the curtains, and replaced the throw pillow covers three times. The packing foam from his new camera was still piled on the coffee table, waiting for someone to clean it up. In the study, the high-end editing monitor and PC had been purchased with my savings—nearly twenty thousand dollars. At the time, Tim had told me, “Once the channel takes off, I’ll pay you back tenfold.” It had been three years. He had never paid me back, nor had he ever brought it up. On the corner of the monitor screen, a cute little panda sticker that belonged to Elena was pasted, a silent reminder that the space already belonged to someone else. I rolled my suitcase to the entryway and took one last look. Inside the elevator, I dialed my mother. “Mom, I’m landing today.” Her voice instantly brightened, pitching higher. “Really? Should we come pick you up at the airport? Your dad went to the market early this morning—what do you want to eat?” Listening to her voice, a sudden wave of warmth flooded my chest, and my eyes swelled. “Anything is fine, Mom.” During the cab ride to the airport, I scrolled through my social feed and saw Tim’s latest post. A nine-image grid. Every single photo was of Elena. Elena holding her new camera, Elena laughing into the lens, Elena leaning in close to Tim to look at the monitor. The caption read: New journeys, new partnerships. Stay tuned. I scrolled back through his profile. In three years, there wasn’t a single mention of me. No couple photos, no birthday wishes, no trips. The only time I had ever appeared was in a sponsored post from two years ago. He had written: Thanks to the team. I was the entire team. Scrolling further down, I saw his mother had shared the post, commenting: My son found the perfect partner. Bigger and better things ahead! I closed the app. I opened my phone’s photo library, selected the remaining fourteen photos of Tim and me, and hit delete. I arrived at the airport, checked in, and went through security. The terminal was buzzing with travelers. My phone vibrated in my palm. It was a voice message from Tim—the first time in three days he had actually reached out with his own voice. I tapped play. His voice was slightly low. “Regina, are you still mad at me? You’ve been so quiet these past few days. I’ve been thinking, and maybe… maybe there were some things I overlooked.” I held the phone, a small, involuntary ache flaring in my chest. Another message popped up immediately. “But you have to understand me, too. It’s been insanely busy. Elena’s just starting out, and she relies on me for almost everything. Once she’s established, I promise I’ll make time for you. You’ve worked in media; you know how this goes.” “About the account… think about it again. Losing a million followers is a massive waste. I can help you rebuild your own brand if you want. It’s hard to start from scratch, but we can make it work.” Finally, a text message followed: Don’t be mad. It’s really not that big of a deal. Not that big of a deal. I stared at those words. Three years of quiet humiliation, the deleted frames, being labeled a random extra, the broken promises of Iceland. To him, it was just a minor inconvenience. I began typing a long response. I wanted to tell him how long I had waited, how deeply it had hurt. I wanted to tell him that he wasn’t incapable of love—he was just incapable of loving me. But midway through, I deleted the entire block of text. I scrolled back through three years of chat history to the very first message he had ever sent me: From now on, you capture the most beautiful frames, and I’ll edit you into the most beautiful story. I stared at it for a few seconds. Then, I replied with just five words: This is where we end.

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My cheating husband got his brain scrambled in a car accident. Now, the only words he can utter are “yes” and “no.” Nothing else. Not a single other word. And the kicker? He can only tell the absolute truth. Talk about poetic justice. I asked him, “Is the woman you’re sleeping with my best friend?” His face went paper-white, but his lips moved against his will: “Yes.” “Did you transfer our marital assets?” “Yes.” “Is your bank passcode your high school sweetheart’s birthday?” “Yes.” Armed with this bizarre condition of his, I easily sent his mistress to prison and clawed back every single dime of his fortune. He couldn’t even manage to yell at me for it. Until today. A cute delivery guy flirted with me at the door. I turned back to look at my husband, sitting there with his usual blank, vacant stare. “Are you really my husband? You don’t even care?” I teased. But the words slipped right out of him: “No.” I froze. I stared straight into his eyes. It took me a long, agonizing moment to find my voice. “Then is my husband, Dylan… is he dead?” “Yes and no.” … 1 A cold shiver ran down my spine. I stared deeply into his eyes and asked him again, slower this time. “Are you really Dylan?” The man sitting before me looked entirely calm. “No.” My lips trembled. “Then… who are you?” He couldn’t answer that. He was bound by the rules of his condition—only straight yes-or-no questions would work. Well, that and the strange “yes and no” he had just uttered for the first time. I studied the face in front of me. It was Dylan’s face, line for line. The faint scar near his temple was from three years ago, when someone dropped a heavy glass bottle from a high-rise balcony. He had shoved me out of the way, taking the blow himself. It took seven stitches to close. The scar was real. It was Dylan’s. I fell silent, my mind spinning into a dark, chaotic spiral. Up until now, this man had been a hundred percent accurate. It didn’t even matter if the questions had nothing to do with his life; he could predict World Cup scores with terrifying precision, or tell me which celebrity rumors were true. I had made a small fortune relying on his answers. I trusted his word implicitly. If I asked him if an earthquake was going to hit in five minutes and he said “yes,” I would have packed my bags and run without a second thought. But now, he was telling me he wasn’t Dylan. And when I asked if Dylan was dead, he said, yes and no. An icy dread settled deep in my bones. If he wasn’t Dylan, then who had I been living with for the past three months? And where was my actual husband? Is it really possible for a person to be both dead and alive? As I was debating whether to tie him to a chair and drag the truth out of him question by question, a sudden, heavy knock rattled the front door. I went over and pulled it open. Two police officers stood on the porch, their expressions grim. “Are you Flora? We’re with the city police department. We have some news, and we need you to try to remain calm.” “At approximately 9:30 this morning, we recovered a severely decomposed body from the riverbank. We found an ID card in the victim’s pocket belonging to your husband, Dylan. We’re here to ask if you have any knowledge of this.” I nearly collapsed. “That’s impossible!” The two officers exchanged a quick, guarded look. “Why is it impossible?” I dug my fingernails into my palms, forcing myself to stay grounded. “Dylan can’t be dead. He’s right here.” I pointed toward the living room, where Dylan sat on the sofa, his head bowed, completely silent. The officers blinked, then walked past me into the living room. One of them pulled out the ID card and compared the photo to the man on the couch. Seeing the identical features, they fell into a tense silence. I scrambled to explain. “My husband is incredibly clumsy. He loses things constantly. Someone must have found his lost ID and then met with an accident. It’s just a bizarre coincidence…” The older officer cut me off, turning directly to the couch. “Sir, are you Dylan?” The man answered in a quiet, flat tone. “No.” The room went dead silent. The way the officers looked at me changed instantly. I quickly reached into my bag and pulled out the medical files. “Please, let me explain. My husband was in a severe car accident three months ago. His hippocampus was badly damaged. Aside from losing a large portion of his memory, his language center was compromised. He can only say ‘yes’ and ‘no.’ Here, I’ll show you.” I stepped closer to the couch. “Dylan, do you like eating garbage?” “No.” “Dylan, are these two police officers bad people?” “No.” “Dylan, are you Dylan?” “No.” I let out a weak, desperate laugh. “You see? His mental capacity is currently comparable to a seven-year-old. You can’t take his words literally.” The officers exchanged another look. They carefully inspected the official medical reports I handed them and made a quick call to the hospital to verify the details. Once they confirmed I was telling the truth, the tension in their shoulders eased slightly. “It looks like this might just be a strange misunderstanding. But we’ll still need you to come down to the station with us to make a formal statement.” I asked if we should bring Dylan along. The older officer thought about it. “Bring him. You wouldn’t feel easy leaving him home alone, would you?” So, I took Dylan and followed them to the station. Earlier, I’d been clever. I deliberately asked him three questions in a row where the answer could only be “no.” The second question confirmed the officers weren’t bad people, which meant they probably wouldn’t make things too hard for me. But just as we finished the statement and were getting ready to leave… A female officer suddenly pushed the door open, her face grim. “Wait. I have some questions.” She caught the eye of the younger officer, giving him a brief nod, and sat down directly across from me. “I think you’re lying.” My fingernails dug hard into my palms. “Excuse me?” She stared deeply at me, reaching over to click off the recording device. Her voice dropped to a low whisper. “Flora, don’t you recognize me? It’s Lisa.” A cold shiver ran down my spine. At first, I honestly hadn’t recognized her. Lisa, my old high school classmate. A girl who once harbored a massive crush on Dylan. We had never gotten along, and she spent years chasing him. After Dylan rejected her, she vanished from my life. I had no idea she’d joined the force. “The DNA results for the body aren’t back yet, so we can’t confirm if it’s Dylan. For all we know, you hired an actor to take his place.” She glanced sideways at Dylan, her tone softening just a fraction. “Dylan, do you remember me?” Dylan flicked his eyes up to her, then quickly looked back down at the floor. I didn’t know if it was just my imagination, but a fleeting flash of pain seemed to ripple through Lisa’s eyes. I spoke up immediately. “His brain is damaged. He literally cannot answer anything that isn’t a straight yes-or-no question.” Lisa tapped her ballpoint pen against the desk, looking lost in thought. “Flora, let me ask you. Why did Dylan get into that accident in the first place?” My body went rigid as the memories flooded back. When I first found out Dylan was cheating on me, I had completely spiraled. He had started lying to me about a year ago, getting incredibly good at it. It began with a stray lipstick left on the passenger seat, then a long, unfamiliar strand of hair tangled in his coat buttons, followed by endless nights “working late” at the office. Every sign pointed to an affair. But he had ripped out the dashcam, wiped his phone clean, and left me with zero hard evidence. My hysterical confrontations were met with nothing but his impatient, defensive screams. “Enough! Do you have any idea how crazy you look right now? Like a hysterical nag!” “You want to go through my phone? Go ahead! Search it! And when you find absolutely nothing, you’re getting on your knees to apologize to me!” I had finally given up, fully prepared to file for divorce, when the crash happened. He’d been driving fatigued, wrapping his car around a semi-truck halfway up a mountain road. I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Should I say there’s a God after all? He crashed on his way to meet his mistress and ended up a vegetable. You can look it up; the accident report is on file right here at your station.” Lisa nodded, tapping out a quick message on her phone. A moment later, a reply chimed. As she read it, her expression grew increasingly heavy. “What you’re saying is true. But it still doesn’t prove that this man sitting next to you is actually Dylan.” My patience snapped. “Are you insane? Can you not see his face? He is Dylan!” “Back in high school when you were learning how to sketch, didn’t you secretly draw hundreds of portraits of him…” Lisa cut me off. “Flora, I suspect you murdered Dylan.” I laughed out loud, utterly bewildered. “Lisa, if you keep making accusations like that, I will file a formal complaint.” “A severely decomposed corpse. Tell me, how on earth did you decide that was Dylan? Based on a single ID card?” “Not just the ID. The height and weight of the corpse perfectly match Dylan’s medical records.” Lisa’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “And then there’s the tattoo.” “The face was ruined by the water, yes. But the tattoo on his wrist is entirely unique. It was…” She hesitated, closing her eyes for a brief second. “…it was something I tattooed on him with my own hands.” The interrogation room fell into a dead silence. Beside me, Dylan remained completely motionless, not saying a word. But at the mention of the tattoo, his hand twitched. In the next second, I grabbed Dylan’s arm and yanked his sleeve up. On the inside of his wrist, a poorly drawn, ugly little dog tattoo came into view. Lisa’s face went entirely pale. “Don’t tell me you gave the same tattoo to two different guys!” I scoffed. “I always wondered why he had such a bizarre, ugly tattoo. Now I know it was your doing.” “Lisa, does your face burn yet? Still suspecting me? You think I killed Dylan? What would even be my motive?” She furrowed her brow, fighting back. “Tattoos can be copied…” I cut her off. “Copied? So you’re telling me I found someone who looks exactly like him, matches every single physical feature, just to pull off a duplicate? Why would I even bother?” “Dylan cheated on me and ended up half-braindead. He only recognizes me. As long as I play the loyal, doting wife, his parents are practically weeping with gratitude. I have free rein over all his money. Why would I want him dead?” “If he actually died, his parents would swoop in to claim their share of the estate. What do I stand to gain?” The older officer let out a sharp, warning cough. “Watch your language. Keep your speculation to yourself.” I shut my mouth, shaking my head with a cold smirk. Truth was, I wasn’t worried at all. Because I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I hadn’t killed anyone.

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