Author: Momo Chan

I had just stepped out of a grueling six-hour surgery when a text from my girlfriend, Catherine, popped up on my screen. She wanted to go out for a proper, candlelit date. I immediately headed to the chief’s office to request a shift swap. But just as I pulled off my scrubs, my phone rang. The caller ID was a string of scrambled, unrecognizable digits. I picked up, only to hear a desperate, breathless voice on the other end. “I’m on death row, Jared. They’re executing me today. The person who framed me is Catherine!” “Dustin screwed up. He tried to show off during a coronary bypass and lacerated the patient’s heart. The family is incredibly powerful—political royalty. Catherine was terrified he’d go down for it, so she lured you there to take the fall!” “She has everything ready—the OR logs, a forged suicide note, even a scalpel with your prints on it. The moment you walk into OR 5, the police will arrest you. You’ll be convicted, and the family’s retaliation will destroy Mom and Dad. They’ll die because of this!” Hearing the raw, blood-curdling panic in my own voice made my chest tighten. My hand began to shake. I hung up and immediately cancelled my shift swap request, but a cold, gnawing dread lingered in my gut. Right then, a sudden commotion erupted in the hospital lobby. A man was screaming, brandishing a blade, charging right at one of our nurses. Watching him lunging with the knife, I didn’t think. I grabbed a heavy red fire extinguisher from the wall and slammed it into the back of his head. By the time the police escorted me out of the building for questioning, my phone was blowing up with frantic, impatient texts from Catherine. I stared at the screen and let out a cold, sharp laugh. I wanted to see how she planned to frame me for a shredded heart when I was sitting locked inside a police interrogation room. 1 “You’re telling me you’re me from the future, and I’m about to face a firing squad? Stop messing with me…” I scoffed into the receiver, unable to mask my disbelief. Who was he kidding? I’d been a law-abiding citizen my entire life. How could I ever end up on death row like some hardened, violent sociopath? I was just about to press ‘end call’ when the voice spoke again, dropping a detail that turned my blood to ice. “When you were fifteen, you had a massive crush on a girl from the swim team. You finally built up the courage to write her a three-page love letter. Then, at a family Thanksgiving dinner, you realized she was your second cousin.” “You were so mortified you wanted to swallow a handful of glass. It scarred you so badly you couldn’t even look at a beautiful woman without sweating. That’s why you remained single until you were twenty-eight.” My brain went completely blank. A loud, rushing sound filled my ears. He was right. Every single word. It was a humiliating secret I had never breathed to a single soul. Not to my best friends, not to a therapist. My parents never understood why I was so intensely avoidant when it came to dating. It had taken my mother staging a full-blown intervention—practically threatening a heart attack—to get me to agree to a blind setup. That was how I met Catherine. She was a brilliant cardiothoracic professor. Since we were both in medicine, we understood the brutal hours, and she was transitionally striking. Over time, I let my guard down. I fell for her. So… was that really me on the phone? And if it was… did that mean her plan to destroy me was real too? I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned a bloodless white. I desperately wanted to tell myself that this was absurd. No girlfriend would frame her partner to save her childhood golden boy. But then, the voice on the line rattled off a string of numbers. As a doctor, I recognized it instantly: a patient medical record ID. “Look up the system right now,” the voice rasped. I sat down at my terminal and typed in the ID. The file popped up. It was a patient scheduled for an emergency coronary artery bypass graft. The date of the surgery was today. The scheduled time was right now. And the lead surgeon listed? Dustin Coleman. Catherine’s childhood sweetheart, the golden boy she’d brought into our hospital. Everything aligned perfectly. My mind screamed at me to deny it, but the future version of me let out a hollow, broken laugh. “I don’t have time to convince you. They’re coming for me. My time is up.” “Just listen to me. If you don’t want to become a disgraced scapegoat who ruined his own life and killed his parents with grief, get yourself an alibi. A rock-solid, undeniable alibi. Now!” Before I could press for more details, a sharp beep echoed, and the call cut out. I frantically hit redial, only for an automated recording to tell me the number didn’t exist. Was he… already gone? Had they just executed him? As I sat there, paralyzed by the sheer terror of it all, my phone buzzed. A text from Catherine: Hey babe, I’m stuck with a follow-up patient and can’t get away. I left my coat in the operating room. Could you grab it for me? It’s on the shelf in OR 5. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, reflexively starting to type Sure. But then my eyes drifted back to the active surgery monitor. The room assigned for the bypass surgery was OR 5. A cold shudder ran down my spine, followed by a sudden, fierce clarity. It didn’t matter if the phone call was some elaborate hallucination or a cosmic anomaly. I couldn’t afford to take the risk. The stakes were too high. I marched straight back into Dr. Davis’s office and pulled my shift swap request. Dr. Davis looked up from his paperwork, thoroughly confused. “I thought you were leaving early for a romantic candlelit dinner with Catherine? Why the sudden change of heart?” I forced a casual, easy smile, hiding the frantic hammering of my heart. “You know how it is, Chief. Patients come first. Romance can wait.” Dr. Davis beamed, clearly thrilled by my dedication. He tore up my request and immediately put me back on the schedule for three back-to-back orthopedic consultations. I let out a quiet breath. I was an orthopedic surgeon. Our clinic was in the North Wing, far away from the cardiac unit. With nurses, residents, and patients witnessing my presence, Catherine wouldn’t be able to pin anything on me. But then, my eyes caught the updated digital operating schedule on the screen. My breath caught in my throat. The lead surgeon for the bypass in OR 5 had just been changed. It no longer read Dustin Coleman. It read Jared Abbott. 2 In surgical procedures, the doctor whose name is on the charts carries the ultimate legal responsibility. If a patient dies under that name, they are the first one the medical board and the DA prosecute. A coronary bypass is cardiothoracic territory. I was a bone guy—orthopedics. Even if the hospital’s database had a massive glitch, it wouldn’t cross departments like this. There was only one explanation: manual override. And as a senior professor and clinical director, Catherine had the administrative clearance to do exactly that. What’s worse, our system didn’t allow a surgeon to be in two places at once. I tried to log into my own portal, only to find that the consults Dr. Davis had assigned me were already canceled and reassigned to another resident. According to the system, I was currently scrubbed in and operating in OR 5. My alibi was being systematically dismantled before it even began. A cold sweat broke out across my neck. She was closing every exit, trapping me in a corner. I forced myself to breathe, desperately trying to think. What else could I do? Go out for a public lunch? I wasn’t a social butterfly; I kept to myself. Catherine, on the other hand, was incredibly popular and well-connected. If she pointed the finger, the staff would instinctively take her side. Security cameras? As a department head, she had the authority to request footage or claim a “temporary system lag.” Was I truly trapped? Just as panic began to claw at my throat, a loud, violent crash shattered the quiet of the main lobby downstairs. “You greedy, bloodsucking parasites! You just want to drain every single cent I have! I told you I have a stomach ache, all I needed was some damn Tylenol, and you’re forcing me to get a CT scan and blood work? You’re running a scam!” I rushed out to the balcony overlooking the atrium. A middle-aged man in his fifties was screaming, frantically waving a folding knife in the air. He had backed a young nurse into the corner. It was Ellie, a fresh residency graduate. She had never faced anything like this. Her shoulders shook, and she could only stammer out the hospital’s standard protocols in a trembling voice. But her compliance only seemed to enrage him further. “You’re still trying to lie to me! You wicked little bitch!” He lunged, the blade flashing in the fluorescent light. My instinct, drilled into us by security training, was to back away and call for backup. We weren’t supposed to engage. Even if it was self-defense, getting physical with a patient meant administrative leave, internal investigations, and losing our annual bonuses. Wait. An investigation. My eyes widened. Where is the one place with absolute, tamper-proof security cameras? The one place where no hospital administrator, not even Catherine, could touch the records? The police station. Suddenly, this raging, dangerous man didn’t look like a threat anymore. He looked like my savior. Without a second thought, I ripped a heavy red fire extinguisher off its wall bracket. I slipped down the stairs, quietly circling around behind the hysterical man. Before he could drive the knife into Ellie, I swung the extinguisher with everything I had, aiming precisely for the sweet spot at the base of his skull. As an orthopedic surgeon, I knew exactly how to incapacitate a man without causing permanent neurological damage. The man crumpled instantly, knocking his head against the tile floor as he went out cold. Ellie stared at me with wide, tear-filled eyes before collapsing to her knees in pure shock. The lobby erupted into applause. Patients and visitors cheered. “So brave! That doctor saved her life!” I stood up straight, making sure my face was fully visible to the dozen onlookers who had their phones out, recording the whole thing. Excellent. More evidence. Within minutes, the sirens wailed, and two officers rushed through the sliding doors. They looked at the unconscious man, then at me, their faces grim. One of them tapped my shoulder. “Sir, even in self-defense, we’re going to need you to come down to the precinct for an official statement. We have to file a report.” 3 “We aren’t treating you like a suspect, Doctor. It’s just standard procedure…” The officer began to explain, likely expecting me to complain or demand a lawyer. But before he could even finish his sentence, I had already opened the door of the cruiser and climbed into the back seat. “Absolutely, officer. I completely understand. Let’s make sure everything is documented thoroughly. It’s best for everyone.” The officers blinked, completely caught off guard by my enthusiasm. Leaving a detail behind to handle the scene, the officer got behind the wheel and drove me toward the local precinct. As the hospital shrank in the rearview mirror, the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a cold knot of anxiety. What if the phone call really was a hoax? What if I had just torpedoed my career and caught an assault charge over a misunderstanding? Then, my phone buzzed. Another message from Catherine: Jared, where are you? Get to OR 5 right now. We found a bone tumor during a chest opening. I need an orthopedic consult immediately. It’s an emergency! When I didn’t reply within thirty seconds, her texts grew frantic, almost hostile: Jared! A man’s life is on the line! Stop slacking off. If you don’t show up in the next five minutes, we are done. I cannot be with a man who has zero medical ethics. She sounded like a passionate, dedicated doctor fighting to save a patient. But if you stripped away the desperation, it made no sense. There were three other orthopedic surgeons on duty today. Why was she so utterly obsessed with getting me into that specific room? I took a breath and typed a quick reply: My stomach is killing me. I’ve been stuck in the bathroom for the last hour. Call Dr. Adams. Then, I turned the phone completely off. When we arrived at the precinct, they escorted me into an interrogation room. “Alright, take a breath. No need to be nervous…” the detective began, opening his notepad. But before he could ask his first question, I launched into a highly detailed, incredibly thorough monologue. I started from the exact moment I heard the shouting, walked him through my cognitive assessment of the threat level, explained the biomechanics of my strike to ensure minimum lethality, and described my emotional state in vivid detail. I had never been this articulate during my residency board defense. The detective sat frozen for a moment, then hurriedly began typing on his computer. Twice, he had to ask me to slow down so he could keep up. By the time we finished, his fingers were practically cramping. He glanced at the clock, then at his screen, letting out a bewildered chuckle. “Dr. Abbott, you certainly have a way with words. In my ten years on the force, I’ve never had a simple witness statement take five hours. I think I’ve typed nearly thirty thousand words here.” I ignored his fatigue and leaned forward. “So, my name is officially logged in the state database? The timestamp is locked? Nobody can edit or delete this report, right?” The detective frowned, slightly offended. “This is a secured federal network, Doc. Nobody touches these files unless they want to spend a decade in federal prison.” A wave of pure, sweet relief washed over me. I shook his hand warmly, thanked him profusely, and walked out to hail a cab back to the hospital. But the moment I stepped into the hospital lobby, two massive men in dark suits stepped out from the shadows, blocking my path. “Are you Jared Abbott? The orthopedic surgeon?” My stomach dropped, but I forced myself to nod. “Yes. Who are you?” “You incompetent butcher,” one of them growled, grabbing me by the collar and lifting me nearly off my feet. “You killed our young master, and you’re still walking around acting like nothing happened?” The sudden commotion drew a crowd of onlookers. “Killed someone? But… surgeries have risks. Doctors aren’t miracle workers,” a bystander murmured, trying to defend me. But then, a voice, dripping with profound grief and authority, boomed from the center of the lobby: “If he had actually tried to save my son, I would accept it as God’s will! But this orthopedic hack wanted to show off in front of me! He forced his way into a cardiothoracic surgery he wasn’t qualified for!” “And then he took a scalpel and shredded my boy’s heart, letting him bleed to death on the table!” “This monster needs to pay with his life!” 4 Someone in the crowd gasped, recognizing the elderly gentleman in the tailored wool coat. “Oh my god… that’s Dr. Richard Kingsley. He’s a living legend in thoracic surgery!” Dr. Kingsley nodded slowly, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow with grief. At this moment, he wasn’t a world-renowned medical authority; he was just a devastated father looking for vengeance. “I trusted the reputation of this hospital,” Dr. Kingsley whispered, his voice trembling with rage. “I never imagined my son would be murdered by a reckless, unethical clown. I will personally see to it that you face the absolute maximum penalty under the law.” The crowd immediately turned on me. “Dr. Kingsley saved my grandmother’s life years ago! To think his own son was killed by a negligent idiot…” “He should go to jail!” The bodyguards tightened their grip, dragging me toward the exit. The sharp pain in my shoulder snapped me out of my shock. The horror of the future had actually manifested, but instead of panic, a strange, burning adrenaline took over. I looked up, staring directly into Dr. Kingsley’s eyes. “Dr. Kingsley, I understand you are in agonizing pain. But I am not the man who killed your son.” “When your son was on that table, I wasn’t even in the building. I was—” Before I could finish, a sharp voice cut through the crowd. “Jared! How can you still lie at a time like this?” Catherine pushed her way to the front, looking at me with a perfect mixture of heartbreak and disgust. “You wanted to impress Dr. Kingsley so badly that you took over the surgery, and now that you’ve butchered his son, you’re trying to squirm out of it? You are a coward and a monster!” “I must have been blind to ever love a man as soulless as you.” I looked at her—at the cold, calculated venom behind her eyes—and let out a bitter, hollow laugh. “One of us was blind, Catherine. But it was me. I was blind to what a parasitic, vicious snake you really are.” “You know exactly who killed that boy. Every word you just said applies to you. Turn yourself in now. It’s your only way out.” Someone in the crowd whispered, “Wait, what does he mean? Is he saying he didn’t do it?” Suddenly, Dustin stepped forward. He looked pale, but he held himself with an air of righteous indignation, holding up a manila folder. “Dr. Abbott, the charts don’t lie. Your signature is right here on the surgical log as the lead surgeon.” He showed the paper to the crowd, pointing at my forged signature with a trembling, theatrical finger. “How can you accuse Professor Catherine of lying when your own hand signed the document?” His performance was flawless, earning nods of sympathy from the onlookers. Dr. Kingsley snatched the folder, his knuckles turning white as he stared at the signature. “If you didn’t perform the surgery, why is your name on this paper?” “Dr. Kingsley, please listen to me. I have proof—undeniable proof—that I was nowhere near OR 5 when your son died—” I struggled against the bodyguards, but Catherine stepped closer, leaning in so only I could hear her whisper: “The security footage in the hallway has already been wiped, Jared. You’re taking this fall, whether you like it or not.” She stepped back, raising her voice for the crowd. “He’s completely unrepentant! Dr. Kingsley, I will use every resource I have to make sure he pays for what he did to your family!” Just then, someone shouted from the back, “The police are here!” Two uniformed officers pushed through the crowd, their faces stern. Dr. Kingsley stepped forward, swallowing his grief. “Officers, I am the one who called. Please arrest this man. He butchered my son.” The officers nodded grimly. “We’ll handle it, sir.” They pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Catherine stood with a cold, detached expression. Behind her, Dustin caught my eye and let out a tiny, mocking smirk, mouth silent but clear: Thanks for taking the bullet, fall guy. But as the officer stepped up to cuff me, his eyes locked onto my face. He froze. “Wait… Abbott? Is that you?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “497704”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My wife, the CEO, believed that every man who wanted to marry her was only after her wealth. Because of this, she made me submit an itemized expense report for any purchase over twenty dollars. Because I loved her, I was willing to step back and be the man behind her career. But on the day of my car accident, she rejected my emergency request for $3,000 to cover my surgery. “Do you have any idea how many people live on three thousand dollars a month?” she had snapped over the phone. “My money isn’t there for you to bleed me dry!” The delay in the surgery cost me the full use of my right hand, leaving me with a lifelong disability. By the time I was rolled out of the operating room, her childhood friend, Chase, who had just returned from living abroad, posted a picture on social media. The photo showed a rare luxury watch, easily worth half a million dollars. The caption read: Some girl is still the same as she was when we were kids—always giving me her absolute best. And he tagged Cynthia. 1 I didn’t throw a tantrum like I used to. Instead, I simply tapped the heart icon and left a comment: Good for you two. I hope you stay like this forever. “Isaac, what is the meaning of your comment on Chase’s post?” Cynthia’s voice blasted through the phone. “Everyone was having a great time, and now he’s feeling guilty because of you! He just got back to the country. What’s wrong with me giving him a welcome-back gift? We grew up together. Can you stop being so irrationally jeal—” Before she could even finish the word “jealous,” I cut her off. “Is that so? Then I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” There was a sudden, sharp silence on the other end of the line. Whenever we used to argue about Chase, I would scream and demand explanations, begging her to choose me. Even though those fights always ended in cold silence, and even though I was always the one left broken-hearted, the next time would come, and I’d inevitably find myself begging for proof of her love all over again. This was the first time I had ever accepted her accusations without a single word of defense. She didn’t know that the car accident had forced me to finally look at what we had, and what we had lost. Without waiting for her reply, I hung up. Right after I deleted my comment, my phone lit up with her caller ID again. Her tone was much calmer this time. “I wasn’t trying to blame you. It’s just… forget it. Where are you?” “The hospital.” “Right. You probably don’t have cash for a cab, do you? I’ll come pick you up.” The hospital corridor was dim, the lights off, and the heating seemed barely functional. It was New Year’s Eve, and the snow falling outside made the draft freezing. My hand, stiff and swollen from the surgery, clutched the phone. A wave of bitter irony washed over me. “Aren’t you even going to ask why I’m at the hospital?” Through the receiver, I heard Chase’s soft voice in the background: “Cindy, is Isaac still mad at me? I didn’t mean to make him uncomfortable… I don’t know what to do now. Can you please stay with me?” My voice went cold. “Cynthia.” She had just said she was coming to get me. A brief pause echoed on her end. “I’ll have the driver pick you up.” And with that, she hung up. Listening to the hollow dial tone, I slowly closed the phone, lowered my head, and let out a long, quiet sigh. As expected, I was still the one left behind in the end. Just like always. But for some reason, the tears didn’t come this time. I didn’t even feel sad. I just felt incredibly sorry for myself. I stood at the hospital entrance, the freezing wind whipping through my thin winter coat. A cab driver, hurrying to get home, pulled up to the curb and rolled down his window. “Need a ride home, buddy? I can take you for free. No one should miss New Year’s dinner!” I offered him a faint, tired smile. “Thank you, but someone is coming for me.” The cabs passed by, one after another, but Cynthia’s driver never showed up. She had probably forgotten about me again. I didn’t bombard her phone with desperate calls to demand her arrival. Instead, I simply stepped to the curb and waved down a passing taxi. I knew I didn’t have any money on me. But the thought of begging her, of making a scene just to get a ride, was something I could no longer bring myself to do. As the taxi pulled up to the entrance of our gated community, a brilliant burst of fireworks suddenly painted the night sky, illuminating the darkness in vibrant hues. I stared up, mesmerized. The driver chuckled warmly. “I heard the CEO of Sunrise Enterprises put on this whole show to welcome her husband back to the country.” “Her husband?” I repeated softly. The driver nodded, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “Yeah, apparently he just got back today. Word is they had some misunderstanding over another guy, so she threw a fortune at this display just to prove her devotion. They say these custom fireworks cost ten thousand dollars a minute! Must be nice to be rich, huh?” So I was the “other guy” now… I looked down, a quiet, humorless smile touching my lips. The driver continued his lighthearted chatter. “Well, at least the rest of us ordinary folks get to enjoy the view.” I stared out the window at the brilliant cascades of light. “Yeah. It’s beautiful.” A love so grand and public made it easy to forget who her actual husband was. No wonder picking me up from the hospital felt so insignificant compared to buying his happiness. “Sir? Sir?” The driver’s voice pulled me back to reality. He gave me an apologetic smile. “We’re here. That’ll be twenty-five dollars.” “Right.” I reached down, slipped off my platinum wedding band, and placed it on the passenger console. “Keep the change.” “Wait! Sir! This is too much! Sir!” The driver’s shouts faded behind me as I walked into the dark residential streets. Just as I reached the edge of our dimly lit driveway, a massive burst of light erupted directly overhead. I turned. An even more spectacular array of fireworks bloomed into the shape of giant roses, filling the midnight sky. A fleet of synchronized drones began to form words in the air: Love like youth, regardless of the cost. I supposed Chase was very happy right now. The dazzling lights illuminated half the city, but they only seemed to cast me deeper into the shadows. I took a few steps forward, letting the edge of the artificial glow wash over me. This was the warmth my wife had built for another man. I gently crossed my hands over my chest, looking up at the fading sparks. “Happy New Year, Isaac.” Back inside the quiet, drafty house, I curled up on the sofa and dialed my best friend, Kyle. He picked up almost instantly. “Hey, man. Short on cash again? How much do you need?” A lump formed in my throat. Every time Cynthia rejected my requests for essential expenses, Kyle was the one who quietly lent me the money without asking questions. I swallowed hard and shook my head. “No, Kyle. I wanted to ask… is there still a spot for me at the firm?” Silence stretched over the line for five agonizing seconds. Finally, Kyle spoke, his voice thick with disbelief. “Are you serious? You’re coming back? You’ve finally decided?” “Yes.” After graduation, Kyle and I had started a consulting firm together. Just as the business was beginning to take off, I met Cynthia during a corporate negotiation. She was the girl I had secretly loved since college. Those early days had felt like a dream. Cynthia had a fragile stomach; my cooking was the only thing she could eat without getting sick. She suffered from terrible insomnia; she could only fall into a deep, peaceful sleep when she was wrapped in my arms. For her, I agreed to her demand that I leave my career behind to focus entirely on her. Kyle had tried to warn me. He told me a man should never abandon his own livelihood, especially when our company was on the verge of massive growth. He mapped out our future, painting a picture of the wealth and success we would achieve together. But back then, I had only smiled and said, “If it’s for her, I’d give up anything.” I transferred all my shares to Kyle and dedicated my entire life to taking care of Cynthia. Only to be left stranded, over and over again, in the freezing cold. “Of course there’s a spot for you!” Kyle’s voice rose with genuine excitement. “You’re not just saying this because of another fight, right? You’re really in?” I smiled, feeling a genuine spark of hope. “I promise you. I’m in.” “Perfect! I’ve been wanting to set up our overseas branch, and you’re exactly the kind of strategist we need to get it off the ground. What do you say to moving abroad with me?” “I’d love that.” “Incredible! Get your language certifications sorted—just a standard IELTS score will do. I’ll help you prepare. We can head out as early as next month!” After we hung up, I dug out my old English test prep books from the bottom of the closet. I should have taken these exams years ago, before Cynthia swept me away. My English was rusty, and I knew I had to push myself. Still weak from the surgery, I sat in the study with a bottle of cooling balm pressed to my temples, trying to memorize essay structures. Because my right hand was entirely useless, I had to train myself to write, painstakingly slow, with my left. Eventually, exhaustion won, and I drifted off to sleep right there at the desk. Through the fog of a restless dream, the sound of the front door opening woke me. “If I drop you off like this, is Isaac going to be upset with me?” Then came Cynthia’s voice, thick with alcohol and slurred amusement. “He won’t care. He’ll probably just cry and beg me not to leave him.” “Whoa, Cindy, steady!” A sudden gasp echoed through the hallway, and the door to the study was shoved open, jarring me completely awake. Chase had his arms wrapped tightly around Cynthia’s waist, supporting her weight as she leaned heavily against him, smelling strongly of red wine. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the light of the study, and landed on me sitting at the desk. “You’re back?” I rubbed my eyes, letting out a soft yawn. Chase immediately let go of Cynthia, looking frantic and apologetic. “I’m so sorry, Isaac! Cindy had way too much to drink, and there weren’t any rides available, so I…” “Oh, don’t worry about it. Thanks.” I didn’t ask where Cynthia’s driver had gone. Instead, I stood up, walked over, and gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Your face is freezing. Thank you for bringing her home safe.” Chase froze, completely caught off guard. Even Cynthia frowned, her eyes narrowing. “Isaac, what is with the attitude?” “What do you mean? I’m just thanking him.” “Isaac, I really didn’t mean to cross any lines,” Chase said, reaching out to grab my arm. “If you’re going to be mad, be mad at me. Please don’t let this ruin things between you and Cindy…” I gently placed a warm compress I had been using for my hand into his palms. “Here. Take this. It’s freezing outside.” Cut off mid-sentence, Chase stared down at the compress in his hands, his expression twisting into a flicker of resentment. I walked past them toward the bedroom. “If you don’t mind the guest room, you’re welcome to stay the night. I’m exhausted, so I’ll leave you two to it. Goodnight.” I stepped into the bedroom and closed the door behind me. In the hallway, the two of them remained frozen in absolute silence. A few minutes after I closed my eyes, the bedroom door clicked open. “Isaac.” She called my name softly a few times. I was too tired to answer. “Isaac, I know you’re awake,” Cynthia said, her voice laced with rising annoyance. I reluctantly opened my eyes. “Is something wrong?” “I sent him home.” “Oh. You didn’t want him to sleep in the guest room?” Her brow furrowed. “Isaac, he’s my childhood friend. I wish you would stop acting so ridiculously jealous.” “Jealous?” I let out a soft laugh. “I just thought it was a snowy night and the roads were icy. It seemed safer for him to stay.” Cynthia stared at me, speechless. I turned back toward the wall, closing my eyes. The mattress dipped, and her warm body pressed against my back. Her breath brushed against my ear. “Don’t you have anything else to say to me?” I kept my eyes shut. “Like what?” “Usually, you have a million things to say when this happens.” I opened my eyes to the dark room. She was right. Every time I saw her with another man, I used to demand fights, validation, and promises. “You two grew up together,” I said quietly. “I don’t have any right to be jealous.” I felt her hand tighten on my shoulder. For the first time in our marriage, she was the one left without a response. After a quiet pause, her hand began to slide down toward my waist. A sudden jolt of anxiety went through me, and I quickly grabbed her wrist. “I don’t want to.” She wrapped her arms tighter around me. “But it’s been so long since we…” I held her hand firmly, keeping her at bay. “Cynthia, are you really not even a little curious about why I was in the hospital today?” My emergency funding request had clearly stated it was for surgery. Yet, from start to finish, she hadn’t asked a single question about my health. She let out a soft, dismissive chuckle. “I know, I know. It’s probably just a cold or a headache. Let me make it up to you tonight, okay?” “No.” I pulled the duvet tightly around myself, turning away. “I told you, I’m tired.” In our relationship, I had always been the one to accommodate her every whim. I was the one who begged, who pleaded. Rejecting her was something I had never done before. Beside me, her posture stiffened. “Isaac, you’re usually the one begging for this.” “Am I? Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore.” She didn’t say another word. A moment later, the bedroom door slammed shut with a violent bang that made me startle. I looked back, but her side of the bed was already empty. She had stormed out of the house. Soon after, the loud roar of an engine echoed from the driveway as her car sped away. I didn’t chase after her. I didn’t send her a string of apologetic texts like I always did whenever she got angry. Instead, I pulled the blanket up, settled into the quiet room, and finally fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. For the next week, Cynthia didn’t come home. I didn’t call to check on her. I spent my days meeting with Kyle, discussing our future business plans, and studying vocabulary. I had also officially rejoined the firm, and Kyle had already advanced me my first paycheck. “The paperwork for your shares will take a little time, but everything will be restored to you,” Kyle said, beaming as we looked over the company’s financial growth. “Our valuation has skyrocketed since you left!” Listening to him, a wave of regret washed over me. “You’ve worked so hard all these years. Thank you, Kyle.” Just then, my phone chimed with a notification. It was a custom alert for a social media update. I opened it. It was Chase. I used to care deeply about the relationship Cynthia had with her childhood friend, especially since she always made it a point to visit him whenever she traveled abroad. I had been caught in a miserable cycle of wanting them apart while obsessively tracking what they did. Because of that, I had turned on notifications for his account. His latest post was a selfie of him sitting inside a private helicopter, wearing sunglasses and wrapping an arm around someone’s shoulder. The caption read: Who says childhood sweethearts can’t have a romantic getaway? Though the person beside him was wearing large sunglasses and a face mask, I recognized Cynthia instantly. I didn’t call her to demand answers about why she had taken him on the trip. I simply tapped the like button, then systematically unfollowed his page and turned off the notifications. Just as I set my phone down, Cynthia’s name flashed on the screen. “I’m coming home for dinner tonight,” she said. “Oh,” I replied, unsure of what she expected. “Should I leave some leftovers for you?” Her voice carried a strain of barely concealed anger. “Isaac, do you really not understand what I’m saying?”

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I never paid my husband’s personal driver a high salary. But once a month, for six years straight, I took his wife out for an upscale afternoon coffee and pastries. Brad used to say I had too much time on my hands. What could you possibly have in common with a chauffeur’s wife? I would just smile. The driver’s wife talked much more than the driver ever did. Whatever her husband grumbled about when he got home, she turned around and told me over lattes. Last week, she texted me out of the blue. Jo, honey, I shouldn’t be saying anything. But my Mike took a woman to the Mount Sinai clinic yesterday. First-trimester OB-GYN appointment. Your husband was with her the whole time. 1 Patti Henderson sat across from me, her manicured nails nervously picking at a paper napkin. Usually, she was a fountain of neighborhood gossip. Whose kid was stressed over the LSATs, whose daughter-in-law had hired a ridiculously expensive postpartum doula, whose HOA fees had skyrocketed—she could easily fill a half-hour. Today, she had only said one thing, her eyes wide with panic. I took a slow breath. “Which clinic?” She gave me the name. I nodded. “What’s the woman’s name?” Patti shook her head. “Mike didn’t dare look too closely, but he heard your husband call her Lila.” Lila. The name hit the air between us, and my stomach turned over on itself. I knew her. Lila Foster. The administrative assistant at Brad’s marketing firm. She was twenty-six, had been there two years. Sweet-faced, sugar-tongued. Whenever she saw me, it was always a bright, chirpy, “Hi, Miss Jo!” At the company holiday party last month, she had worn a little white dress and personally handed Brad his bourbon. I had even smiled and praised her for being so attentive to the executives. I had been serving up my own heart on a silver platter, absolutely clueless. Patti watched my face carefully. “Jo, please don’t tell Brad it came from Mike. He’s terrified of losing his job.” “I won’t.” I paid the bill and asked the waitress to box up a slice of lemon cake for her. Patti didn’t reach for it. “Are you really not angry, Jo?” A faint, hollow smile touched my lips. “What good is anger right now? First, I need to tally the debt.” 2 Brad wasn’t home when I got back. I sat alone in the quiet, cavernous living room, mentally dragging every passing remark Patti had ever made over the years into the harsh light of day. Brad goes to the South District every Wednesday. He told me he was meeting clients. Patti had said Mike always parked below an upscale high-rise down there while Brad went up for exactly two hours. Brad is out of the office on the afternoon of the 15th every month. He told me it was for executive health check-ups. Patti had said he’d go to the bank, then pick someone up near a high-end baby boutique. Brad started wearing a new cologne last year. He told me a client gifted it. Patti had said the backseat of the car often smelled like a cloying, sugary perfume. I had never looked too closely. When you’re married long enough, your brain automatically builds alibis for your partner. You build enough alibis, and eventually, you’ve built your own grave. Brad walked in at 10:00 PM. He tossed his suit jacket to the housekeeper and looked down to unlace his oxfords. “Did you eat?” I asked. “Yeah.” “Where were you today?” He looked up at me, eyes flat. “The office.” “All day?” “Yeah.” I stared at his collar. There was a long strand of hair resting against the fabric. Not my shade. Not my length. I reached out and plucked it off him. His expression shifted, a microscopic flinch. “What are you doing?” “Hair.” I placed the single strand down on the glass coffee table. He stared at it for a fraction of a second, then let out a sharp, exasperated laugh. “What is this, Jo? Are we doing the paranoid housewife thing now?” 3 I laughed back. “Asking about your day is being paranoid?” Brad collapsed onto the sofa, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m exhausted lately. Don’t start manufacturing drama where there isn’t any.” He had been using that exact line for ten years. When we first got married, his first startup had crashed, leaving him buried in debt. He was exhausted. I understood. Later, when the current company took off, he was drowning in networking and corporate dinners. He was exhausted. I accommodated him. And later still, when young, pretty girls started orbiting him, he told me I was being overly sensitive. I swallowed it. I swallowed it right up until today, when Patti’s single text violently ripped away the thin veneer of dignity I had suffered to maintain. “Is Lila pregnant?” I asked. Brad’s hand froze. He lifted his eyes to mine. The exhaustion was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating stillness. “Who told you that?” “Does it matter?” His jaw tightened. “Are you having me followed?” “Answer the question.” He stood up, violently yanking his tie loose. “What does her being pregnant have to do with me? An employee got pregnant, I accompanied her to the clinic. It’s called checking in on my staff.” A bitter sound ripped from my throat. Checking in on staff by booking their VIP maternity suite. What a goddamn humanitarian. “Do you personally escort all your pregnant employees to the OB-GYN?” “Joyce.” He used my full name. A warning shot. “Don’t make this into something ugly.” I looked right through him. “Then stop doing ugly things.” The last trace of his feigned guilt evaporated. In its place was pure, unfiltered annoyance. “I’m not doing this tonight. My mother’s birthday is next week. Get everything ready. And don’t make us a laughingstock in front of outsiders.” With that, he walked up the stairs. I sat in the living room, staring at that single strand of hair on the glass for a very long time. When I had seen enough, I pulled out my phone and texted Patti. Next time he leaves anything in the back of the car. Don’t touch it. Just take a picture for me. Her reply came almost instantly. I got you, Jo. 4 Two days later, my mother-in-law called. No ‘hello.’ Just straight to business. “Joyce, Brad said you’re handling my birthday. Book a larger ballroom. None of that cheap, understated nonsense you like.” “Okay,” I said. “And reserve two spots at the head table.” “For who?” A slight pause on the line. “A friend of Brad’s.” My knuckles turned white around the phone. “Lila?” Dead silence. A few seconds later, Erica let out a dry, rattling laugh. “So you know.” I didn’t speak. She decided to drop the act entirely. “Good. You should know. That girl is carrying the Kingston heir in her belly. So drop the attitude.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “Erica. You know your son is having an affair, and you’re fine with it?” “A successful man having a little fun on the side isn’t an affair. You’ve been married into this family for ten years and haven’t produced a single child. Did you plan on letting the Kingston line die with you?” A cold laugh slipped out of me. “I don’t have children. Have you forgotten whose medical issue that is?” Erica’s voice instantly spiked into a shriek. “Don’t you dare bring up those old test results! Brad is having a child now, which proves he is perfectly fine. Stop taking up space as his wife when you can’t even give us an heir.” I pulled the phone away from my ear. She was on a roll. She cursed me out with practiced ease, finishing with a final demand. “At the gala, you will play the gracious host. Don’t cause a scene. If you’re smart, when the baby is born, they might even let it call you Mom.” I hung up. The housekeeper, who had overheard the shouting from the kitchen, looked profoundly uncomfortable. I turned to her. “Keep making the dinner. But leave the mushrooms in the salad.” “Mr. Kingston hates mushrooms.” “I know.” I had remembered that detail for him for ten years. Starting today, I stopped remembering. 5 Patti texted me on the third day. When we met, she slid her phone across the table. It was a photo of the backseat of Brad’s Lexus. Jammed into the crevice of the leather seat was a glossy receipt. A high-end baby boutique. A luxury crib. $4,500. Cardholder: Bradley Kingston. There was also a valet ticket. The Belvedere. I zoomed in on the photo. “Has Mike ever gone up to the apartment?” “No. Your husband won’t let him. He makes Mike park on the street and goes up alone every time.” “Which tower?” “Tower 3.” I had her text the photos to me. She hesitated, her finger lingering over the screen. “Jo… I shouldn’t say this, but last night Mike had a few beers and let it slip. Your husband told him he’s looking into a new vehicle.” “A new vehicle for who?” “He’s replacing Mike.” I looked up. Patti’s eyes were rimmed with red. “He says your husband thinks Mike knows too much. After this month’s payroll, he’s done.” I understood immediately. Brad wasn’t stupid. He knew his driver of six years held too many of his secrets. Now that Lila was pregnant, he was cleaning house. I reached into my bag, pulled out a thick envelope, and slid it across the table. “There’s ten thousand dollars in here. It’s not hush money. It’s a severance package, to help you transition.” Patti panicked, pushing it back. “Jo, no, I didn’t come here to shake you down for money—” “I know.” I held her gaze. “But you two shouldn’t bear the risk of his mess for free.” She covered her face with her hands and sobbed quietly. I didn’t try to soothe her. Sometimes, tears are the only dignity a person has left when they’re pushed to the edge. 6 That evening, Brad came home early. He was holding a velvet jewelry box. “For you.” I snapped it open. A pearl necklace. The style was painfully dated, the luster cheap. An airport gift shop afterthought. “What’s the occasion?” He sat down, his tone softening into something resembling affection. “I’ve been so wrapped up in work lately. I know I’ve neglected you.” I set the necklace back in its velvet groove. “Did you invite Lila to your mother’s birthday gala?” His pseudo-affection vanished. “My mother likes a full house.” “Having your pregnant mistress show up to celebrate her birthday sure will pack the house.” Brad fixed a hard stare on me. “What exactly is your endgame here?” “Are you done with her?” He didn’t answer. “The child she’s carrying,” I pressed. “Is it yours?” He slammed his water glass down on the marble island. “Joyce, can you stop being so aggressively paranoid for one minute?” I looked at the water that had splashed over the rim. “Asking for the truth is aggressive?” He stood up, towering over me. “My relationship with Lila isn’t what you think. She’s a pitiful girl, out here in the city all alone, pregnant with no one to take care of her. I’m helping her because she looks up to me.” I actually laughed out loud. Brad’s face turned to stone. “At the gala next week, you had better keep your mouth shut. Some of my biggest investors are going to be there. If you embarrass me, I promise you, neither of us will walk away clean.” “Okay.” I answered so quickly he actually blinked in surprise. I slid the velvet box back across the counter toward him. “Give the pearls to Lila. She needs your charity more than I do.” 7 Five days before the gala, I went to my bank. Inside my safety deposit box was a thick manila envelope. It held every original document from the days Brad and I built the company from nothing. The lease for our very first office. The wire transfer receipts from my personal savings. The massive loan my father gave him to keep the lights on. And a handwritten contract Brad had penned himself. Back then, he had literally dropped to his knees in front of my father, swearing he would treat me like royalty. My father hadn’t demanded blood. He merely said, “Joyce can weather the storm with you, but you will never humiliate her.” Brad had written the terms without hesitation. All major financial decisions within the marriage must be made jointly. In the event the marriage dissolves due to infidelity on my part, I forfeit all executive control of the company, transferring full management and liquidation rights to Joyce. The company was a pathetic little startup back then. He signed it like it was nothing. Later, when the money started rolling in, he found every excuse in the book to keep me off the board. “Your health isn’t great, honey.” “You hate networking events anyway.” “Someone needs to anchor the home front.” I swallowed every single excuse. Looking back, giving him the benefit of the doubt was the dumbest thing I’d ever done. Trusting him was like handing a loaded gun to a toddler. I photographed every page of the documents. Then, I drove to the hospital records department. The fertility clinic records from six years ago were still in the system. Bradley Kingston. Azoospermia. Complete absence of sperm. The doctor had recommended a sperm donor or adoption. Brad had ripped the physical report to shreds in the parking lot, claiming he “didn’t want to worry his mother.” Since that day, Erica had publicly berated me for being barren, and he had never—not once—opened his mouth to defend me. When the clerk handed me the fresh copies, my hands were incredibly steady. Steadier than I could have ever imagined. 8 Three days before the gala, Lila sent me a text. Hi Miss Jo! I heard it’s Erica’s birthday this weekend. Is it okay if I come? Followed by an innocently smiling emoji. I stared at the screen for thirty seconds. Then I typed: Of course. She replied instantly. Thank you so much! I was so scared you’d be mad. I typed: Not at all. Please come. Then came a voice memo. Her voice was dripping with manufactured, sugary sweetness. “I’ll make sure to wear a flowy dress, otherwise people might see my bump and get the wrong idea!” I played it three times. Then I saved the audio file. They won’t, I replied. She dropped the act entirely in her final message. You’re so sweet, Miss Jo. No wonder Brad always says you’re the most accommodating wife a guy could ask for. Accommodating. I’d worn that label for a decade. An accommodating woman bites her tongue. An accommodating woman shrinks herself to fit the room. An accommodating woman gets shoved face-first into the dirt, and still compliments the other person’s shoes. I screenshot her messages and sent them to Patti. She’s so arrogant, Patti replied. Let her be, I typed back. A minute later, Patti sent a new photo. There was a red legal folder sitting in the passenger seat of Brad’s car. The label on the front read: Post-Nuptial Asset Restructuring. Can Mike get pictures of the inside? I asked. Tomorrow is Mike’s last day on the job, she replied. He says he’s going all in. 9 The next morning, Patti sent the photos. Every single page was crystal clear. It wasn’t a long document. Brad wanted me to sign a new agreement. The stated purpose was “establishing a trust for a new family member.” The actual legal mechanism was transferring the deed to our primary residence, along with my remaining equity shares in the company, directly into a trust for the unborn child. The child’s designated legal guardian and sole trustee? Lila Foster. I read it twice, and then I laughed until my ribs ached. Brad had some serious nerve. He wanted to use my money and my house to fund his mistress’s life. And he expected me to sign it away with a smile. He came home that afternoon. Sure enough, he was carrying the red folder. “Jo, I need to discuss something with you.” I poured him a glass of iced tea and slid it across the island. “Go ahead.” He placed the folder in front of me. “Look, Mom is getting older. She’s always wanted a grandchild. Whatever people might say about Lila, the child is innocent. I want to make sure the baby is provided for.” I flipped open the cover. “Provided for with my house and my company shares?” “Those are marital assets.” “So you’re giving them to a stranger?” He frowned, playing the weary peacemaker. “Not a stranger. The baby.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Is the baby going to have the Kingston name?” He hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Of course.” “And I agreed to this?” Brad hadn’t expected the pushback. He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. “Joyce, don’t put yourself on a pedestal. You don’t have the final say on everything in this family.” I closed the folder with a sharp snap. “We’ll discuss it at the gala.” His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What are you planning?” I smiled. “Nothing. But discussing family matters in front of your mother seems more official, doesn’t it?” 10 The day of the gala, I wore a sleek, pitch-black dress. When Brad saw me, his face clouded over. “It’s my mother’s birthday. You’re wearing black?” “It’s slimming.” “Change into something else.” “No.” He clenched his jaw, fighting a visible war with his temper. “Do not start anything today.” I walked to the front door, pausing with my hand on the knob to look back at him. “If you’re so terrified of me starting something, why did you invite Lila?” His face darkened. “You already gave her permission.” “I gave her permission to attend. I didn’t give her permission to walk all over me.” Brad closed the distance between us, his voice dropping into a dangerous hiss. “Joyce, let me remind you. The clothes on your back, the food you eat, the life you live—I provide all of it.” I stared right back into his cold eyes. “Let me remind you. The very first meal you ever ate in this city, I paid for.” His face drained of color. We rode to the country club in suffocating silence. Erica was already at the grand entrance, playing the royal matriarch to the arriving guests. She took one look at my black dress, then glared at my bare neck. “Where is the necklace Brad bought you? Why aren’t you wearing it?” “It looked cheap.” Her eyes bugged out. “Excuse me?” I offered a polite, icy smile. “I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of your friends.” Erica choked on her retort. With a lobby full of wealthy relatives and business partners, she couldn’t risk a screaming match. She bared her teeth in a strained smile. “Get inside and start seating the guests.” I didn’t move. “I’m your daughter-in-law, Erica. Not your event coordinator.” A few heads turned in our direction. Erica’s face flushed a deep, blotchy red. Brad quickly stepped between us, grabbing my elbow and pulling me aside. “Have you lost your goddamn mind?” “No.” “Then act normal.” I yanked my arm out of his grip. “I am acting perfectly normal.” 11 Lila arrived at 11:30 AM. She was wearing a flowing white silk maternity dress, her baby bump proudly on display. Brad personally jogged to the lobby doors to escort her in. The moment Erica saw her, her face lit up with absolute joy. “Oh, sweetheart, take it easy! Don’t tire yourself out.” She practically carried Lila into the ballroom. The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. Guests traded loaded glances. Some looked at me with pity. Some stared at Lila’s belly. Whispers rippled across the linen-draped tables. Lila waddled over to me, flashing her innocent, dimpled smile. “Happy birthday, Miss Jo—oh, silly me! Happy birthday to Erica. I’m just so nervous today!” Erica immediately stepped in to shield her. “It’s pregnancy brain, darling. Completely natural.” I nodded slowly. “Of course. The brain is clearly starved for oxygen.” Lila’s smile shattered. Erica slammed her hand down on the table. “Joyce! Watch your mouth!” I picked up my water glass. “I was just agreeing with you.” Brad rushed over, his voice a low, gravelly threat. “Joyce.” Just my name. A heavy warning. I watched as Lila was seated at the head table, right next to Erica. My designated place card had been quietly moved to a small, secondary table near the back. Erica even made a point to announce it. “Joyce, you sit back there. It’ll be easier for you to direct the waitstaff.” I looked at my chair. Tucked in the corner. Facing the stage, with my back to the giant projector screen. Perfect. It gave me an unobstructed view of the entire room. I had barely sat down when Erica pulled the red legal folder out from her designer tote bag. She tapped a spoon against her champagne flute to command the room’s attention. “Since our closest family and friends are here today, I have a joyous announcement to make.” Brad’s face went white. “Mom, don’t—” Erica ignored him. She lifted her chin, looking down her nose at me. “Joyce. Come sign this. Once you do, Lila’s child will essentially be half yours.” Lila looked down, tenderly stroking her belly. Brad didn’t step in. He didn’t stop his mother. He just watched me. Waiting for me to bow my head and submit, like I always did. Erica slapped a silver pen on the table in front of me. “Sign it.” I picked up the pen. Brad exhaled a quiet sigh of relief. Lila fought back a triumphant smirk. Erica beamed with smug satisfaction. I flipped to the signature page. Before the pen touched the paper, I looked up toward the AV booth at the back of the room. Patti Henderson was standing in the shadows. She gave me a single, sharp nod. I put the pen down. And I picked up the microphone resting on the table. 12 “Since it’s a joyous occasion, I think everyone in the room should have the full picture.” My voice boomed through the ballroom’s surround-sound speakers. Erica’s smug expression evaporated. “Joyce, what are you doing with that microphone?” I didn’t look at her. “Today is your birthday, Erica. As your daughter-in-law, I’ve prepared a very special gift.” Brad lunged across the table to grab the mic. I stepped backward, out of his reach. Up in the booth, Patti hit the spacebar. The massive projector screen behind the stage flared to life. The first slide was the clinic intake form. Lila Foster. 12 Weeks Pregnant. Accompanying Partner: Bradley Kingston. The second slide was the receipt for the $4,500 crib. The third slide was a screenshot of the HOA payment portal for the luxury condo at The Belvedere. Payer: Bradley Kingston. The entire ballroom erupted into chaos.

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My boyfriend was our high school’s designated slacker. “It’s okay,” I’d told him, trying to soften the blow of his failing grades. “I’m not great at this either. But if we study hard, we can get into the local community college together.” On the day the results of our third mock SAT came out, I stared at the roster and let out a breathless, excited scream. Our names were right next to each other. With those scores, our dream of going to the same community college was practically a guarantee. I practically ran down the hallway to find him, eager to share the news, but stopped short just outside the boy’s locker room when I heard his voice filtering through the cracked door. “Zack, man, don’t tell me you’re actually serious about this,” one of his friends was saying. “Your actual scores aren’t even that bad. Are you really going to throw away a four-year university just to go to a community college? Are you seriously willing to tank your future for that idiot?” I looked through the gap. Zack was idly spinning the study guide I’d spent weeks meticulously writing out for him, a dismissive, bored smirk playing on his lips. “Are you kidding?” Zack sneered. “I’m easily tracking for a decent state school. Why would I ever actually settle for community college?” “Then why have you been lying to her this whole time?” Zack’s voice carried a smugness I’d never heard from him before, smooth and dripping with condescension. “If I didn’t hold back my scores and play dumb, how would I make her believe we have a future? How else am I going to convince her to go out with me the night after graduation?” He laughed, a dry, grating sound. “This is girl number ten for me. Gotta make it a perfect ten-out-of-ten streak.” “But Zack, aren’t you going to dump her once you get what you want?” “Think about it. She’s community college material. Once I’m at a real four-year university, she’s going to be way too insecure to cling to me anyway. We won’t even be in the same social class.” Their raucous, mocking laughter echoed in my ears. I looked down at the heavy prep book clutched against my chest. The rose-colored glasses of my first love shattered instantly, leaving behind nothing but cold, sharp clarity. So that was his game. In that case, I guess I didn’t need to hold back my own scores anymore either. … I had just sat down at my desk when Zack walked into the classroom, casually tossing my study guide onto my lap. “Elaine, I just saw our mock scores!” he said, flashing a warm, innocent smile—the exact smile that had once made my heart race. “If we keep this up, we’re definitely getting into our dream school.” He looked so completely earnest, as if this were truly the future he had been praying for. When I didn’t reply, he reached out and playfully ruffled my hair, teasing me. “What’s wrong? Happy-shocked?” “Honestly, I think if we push just a little harder, we can squeeze out another fifty points on the next practice test.” He was in the middle of painting this beautiful, tragic picture of our shared future when his buddies strolled over, wearing sly, knowing grins. “Man, you two are so inspiring,” one of them said, throwing an arm around Zack’s shoulder. “Bottom of the class together, rising up together. Going to the same community college is going to be so romantic.” “Seriously, Elaine,” another added, looking at me with mock sincerity. “You’re lucky to have found a guy as dedicated as Zack. You hit the jackpot.” “Cut it out, guys,” Zack said, waving them off with a humble chuckle. “If it weren’t for Elaine, I would’ve given up on school a long time ago. I’m the lucky one.” They laughed and joked, every word dripping with praise for Zack’s deep devotion. If this had been any other day, I would have been moved to tears. But now, I just looked at Zack with a completely blank expression. “Zack,” I said, my voice dead calm. “Your friends already told me the truth.” The laughter in the group died instantly. Zack’s smile froze. “Instead of spending all your energy pretending to be a slacker just to get into my pants,” I continued, leaning back in my chair, “maybe you should actually hit the books. Otherwise, you won’t even make it into a third-rate state school, and you’ll have nowhere to cry.” I turned my head to look at his friends, who were standing there completely paralyzed, and let out a cold laugh. “And you guys must be exhausted. Talking trash about how fake he is behind his back, only to kiss his ass to his face. I can’t stand two-faced people. Stay the hell away from me.” The entire classroom fell into a suffocating silence. Every single eye in the room turned toward us. Zack finally snapped out of his shock. His face flushed a dark, angry red. He snatched my study guide, slammed it onto the floor, and threw a hard punch right at the classmate who had been teasing him the hardest. “Fuck! I must have been blind to call you guys my friends!” Zack screamed, throwing his entire weight into another punch. “You backstabbed me! I’m going to kill you!” The guy took the blow to the jaw and stumbled backward, hands up. “We didn’t! We swear we didn’t say anything—” But Zack wasn’t listening. Within seconds, the three of them were a tangled, thrashing mess on the floor, kicking and tearing at each other. Groans, curses, and the sound of colliding bodies echoed through the room. It was a chaotic, beautiful symphony. Music to my ears. I stood a few feet away, watching the brawl unfold in silence. A slow, cold smirk spread across my lips. Get into my pants? Now, it was my turn to set the trap. The chaos was finally broken up by our homeroom teacher, Mr. Cooper. All of them were given detention and forced to stand out in the hallway for the rest of the period. When they returned, Zack’s friends glared at me with pure hatred. I didn’t care in the slightest. Zack shot them a suspicious look, then turned to me, his brow furrowed with annoyance. “Since when did you get so close to them?” I looked at the ugly purple bruise forming on his jaw and smiled. “Oh, you can thank yourself for that. Slackers always find a way to bond with other slackers.” Zack’s face darkened, but he forced himself to swallow his anger, trying to play the victim. “Elaine, look at me,” he pleaded, his voice trembling as if he were the one who had been deeply wronged. “I swear I didn’t mean any of that. I never called you an idiot. They made all of that up to tear us apart.” I watched his performance, listening to his honeyed words. Once upon a time, hearing things like this would have kept me giddy and sleepless for days. Now, it just made me sick to my stomach. “Zack, you say they’re lying,” I said. “But are you really going to community college with me?” “I…” Now that his cover was blown, Zack apparently didn’t want to play the dumb slacker anymore. But he still tried to spin it to his advantage. “Back then, you said you wanted an equal partner. You weren’t doing well in school, so of course I adjusted my scores to make you comfortable. But if we both go to community college, what kind of future do we have? How are we going to build a life together?” He reached out to grab my hand, his voice dropping to a soft, intimate whisper. “Just trust me. Once I get into a state university and secure a good job after graduation, we’ll get married. I promise I won’t care that you only have an associate’s degree.” If I hadn’t overheard him earlier, I would have thought I had found a saint. Instead, I reached down and calmly pried his hand off my wrist. “But I care.” Zack frowned, genuinely bewildered. “What is that supposed to mean?” “It means I actually look down on slackers like you.” “Elaine!” Zack gasped, clearly blindsided by my reaction. He pointed a finger at his chest, then at me. “You’re calling me a slacker?” “Obviously.” Zack slammed his fist onto the desk, his face twisting in rage as he practically spat his words at me. “You’re a community college failure! Who the hell gave you the nerve to call me a slacker? You’ve been at the absolute bottom of every single class roster, and you’re looking down on me? If you weren’t pretty, do you think I’d ever lower myself to be with an absolute idiot who can barely pass her classes?” The contrast between his sweet lies and this ugly reality was almost comical. The old saying is true: you never truly know a person’s character until you break up with them. I gave him one final, cold look, picked up my backpack, and walked out of the classroom. Zack’s furious roar echoed behind me. “You’re making a huge mistake! You’re going to regret this, you idiot!” Regret? Maybe a little. I regretted almost throwing away my entire future for a guy like him. But thankfully, there was still time to fix it. Over the next few days, Zack didn’t give me a single pleasant look. Every time our paths crossed, he made sure to drop a mocking comment. “I saw your practice test. You didn’t even attempt the free-response questions. Do you seriously think you can even get into community college with that kind of brain?” “You want to get into Jefferson Community College, right? What a coincidence—my uncle is the head of admissions there. If you beg me, maybe I can pull some strings for you. Otherwise, you won’t even be allowed to set foot on that campus.” I watched his mouth move, finding the sound of his voice incredibly grating. “Zack, aren’t you afraid of choking on your own ego? You’re scraping by for a third-rate state school and acting like you got a full ride to Harvard. Do you want the school to throw you a parade?” I retorted. “Instead of wasting your breath on me, why don’t you worry about whether you’ll end up at the bottom of the next mock exam?” “You—” Zack’s face turned a violent shade of green. He slammed his binder shut and walked away. The surrounding classmates, who had been watching the drama, immediately began whispering. “Elaine is so ungrateful. Zack was literally offering to secure her future, and she’s still acting like she’s too good for him. At this rate, she’s going to fail out entirely.” “Right? I heard Zack has been holding back his scores this whole time. He’s easily a 1150 student, but he dragged himself down to the 900s just to stay close to her. And even with him holding back, she still scored lower than him.” This sparked a wave of laughter across the room. People pointed and snickered, throwing around words like “failure” and “brainless.” I was long past caring about their gossip. I had fallen for Zack at first sight. During freshman year, he casually mentioned that he found “nerdy girls” incredibly boring. From that day on, I made sure to only bubble in a few correct answers on my multiple-choice sheets, firmly securing my spot at the very bottom of the class. In sophomore year, he said he didn’t like having a girlfriend who scored higher than him. So, I stopped trying altogether, deliberately keeping my score exactly one step behind his. When he was in a bad mood and wanted to skip school, I skipped with him. When the principal caught us, I took the entire fall, claiming I had lost an expensive piece of jewelry and begged Zack to help me look for it. I was forced to read a public apology in front of the entire student body. Zack got off without a single scratch. Our guidance counselor had even scolded me in front of the class: “You’re already at the bottom of the grade. Stop dragging down students who actually have a shot at a future.” I became the school’s laughingstock. Zack never defended me. He just offered a detached, casual suggestion that I should study harder so I could “catch up” to him. I had mistaken his calculated manipulation for love. And in the end, the joke was on me. I ignored the rumors and focused entirely on the practice tests on my desk. With the actual SAT looming, the school scheduled a few more official mock exams. On the day the results of the fourth mock came out, Zack decided to play the magnanimous savior one last time. “They say this practice test is the most accurate predictor of our actual score,” he said, leaning over my desk with smug confidence. “I’ll give you one last chance. Apologize to me in front of everyone, and I’ll take you back. Even if I go to a four-year university, I won’t dump you. Deal?” I looked at his smug face and asked calmly, “Is there no bathroom in your house, or do you just not know what a mirror looks like?” “Elaine, don’t come crying to me when you’re desperate!” The teacher arrived to hand back the score reports. Zack glared at me, a venomous smirk on his face, as if waiting to see me break. Mr. Cooper began calling out names and scores. “Zack. A total score of 1150. I want to highlight Zack’s performance today. Going from the bottom of the class to a solid 1150 is an incredible achievement. Well done.” A collective gasp went through the classroom. A jump of that magnitude was almost unheard of in our average public school. Zack had kept his scores artificially low not just to manipulate me, but also to stage a grand “glow-up” at the very end to impress everyone. He loved being the center of attention. Sure enough, the praise came pouring in. “Holy crap, Zack! You were a hidden genius this whole time!” “Dude, with that score, you could easily get into a decent four-year university. Stop being so modest!” Zack smirked, shooting a triumphant look in my direction. Seeking to humiliate me, he called out to the teacher. “Mr. Cooper! My desk partner said she’s made massive progress too. She told me she was going to blow my score out of the water. What did she get?” The classroom erupted in laughter. Someone shouted, “Yeah, let’s see her miracle transformation!” Zack chuckled, shaking his head. “Hey, be nice. She definitely did great. After all, she said she looks down on slackers like me.” He crossed his arms, waiting for the punchline. Mr. Cooper adjusted his glasses, looking at my score sheet. When he looked up, his expression was incredibly strange. Confused by his silence, the class urged him on. “Come on, Mr. Cooper! She’s used to being at the bottom. Did she get a zero this time?” Mr. Cooper cleared his throat and read clearly, “Elaine. 1160.” “What?” The room went dead silent. Zack’s jaw dropped. He stared at me, utterly speechless. When he finally recovered, his immediate reaction was denial. “Elaine, you cheated! It’s easy to cheat on a practice test, but what are you going to do on the real SAT?” The rest of the class instantly latched onto his theory. “Of course! She got exactly ten points higher than Zack. She must have copied his answers and got lucky on one guess!” “What is she trying to prove? That she’s a good thief? She’s only ruining her own future.” Mr. Cooper tapped the whiteboard to quiet the class down. He shot a cold, warning look in my direction. “The actual SAT is just around the corner. I expect everyone to show their true abilities. Hard work is the only way to succeed.” From that day on, I had a new nickname in school: “The Cheat Code.” I didn’t care. I kept my head down and continued working through my prep books. Every practice test, every official mock—I completed them all. If you’re going to slap someone in the face, you have to do it thoroughly. For the remaining mock exams, I made sure to score exactly ten points higher than Zack every single time. Controlling test scores wasn’t a trick only he knew. And my precision was flawless. Zack finally lost his mind. He confronted me after class, practically shaking with rage. “Elaine, what is your problem? Do you dare to score higher than me on the actual SAT?” I looked at his furious face and nodded. “Yes.” “Fine! Let’s make a bet. If your actual SAT score is higher than mine, I will literally eat dirt in front of the whole school. But if your score is lower, you will get on your knees and apologize to me.” “Deal.” Terrified that I would back out, he made me sign a written agreement in front of the entire class, complete with our thumbprints. Before we knew it, the SAT was over. The class agreed to gather in our homeroom to check our scores online together, which would also serve as the ultimate judgment day for our bet. The classroom was packed early in the morning. Zack was standing in the center of a crowd, loudly bragging about his performance. “I’m telling you, I felt like I was in the zone. I answered every single hard math question perfectly.” “Zack, you’re a beast! We’re waiting on that high score!” “I’ve got my phone ready to livestream. Elaine on her knees apologizing is going to go viral.” When I walked in, they were actively debating whether they should pay to promote the video. Seeing me, their eyes lit up with malicious excitement. Zack gestured to the computer on his desk, oozing arrogance. “I’ll go first. Once my score pops up, you might not even have the courage to log in.” “Yeah! Zack first!” Zack sat down with a flourish. As he hit enter on his registration number, the screen loaded, displaying three digits. “What… how…” 980. It was indeed a “shocking” score. Zack’s face turned a sickly pale green. He refreshed the page three times, but the number remained stubbornly the same. He whipped his head around to look at me. Seeing the faint smile on my lips, he lashed out. “What are you smiling at? You think you did any better? An idiot is still an idiot. Even if you got lucky on a practice test, you’re still community college trash. Do you really think you can bridge the gap and get into a real university?” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “You’re barely scratching a community college score yourself, yet you’re still trying to look down on me.” “You—” Zack gnashed his teeth, pulling out our signed bet. “I’m going to watch you crawl on your knees.” I sat down in front of the screen and typed in my credentials. The screen flashed, loading my results. When the page loaded, the room went dead silent for a second, followed by a burst of hysterical laughter. “Oh my god! N/A! No score! This is legendary! My dog could bubble in a sheet and get a better score than that!” “Elaine, Zack warned you not to cheat. Now look. They caught you and threw out your score. Do you have any shame left?” Zack walked up to me, chin tilted high, a sneer plastered on his face. “Are you going to start kneeling now, or do you need a minute to prepare? Tell you what, since you literally failed the entire exam, if you beg me right now, I’ll ask my uncle to get you into that community college with me.” I looked at his triumphant face and asked softly, “Zack, even if you are an idiot, shouldn’t you have basic common sense? When a high school senior checks their standardized test score and it shows ‘N/A’ during release week, there’s only one reason…” “What reason? It means you didn’t get a single question right!” Zack cut me off, prompting another round of roaring laughter from his friends. “Get on your knees!” But before Zack could say another word, the classroom door was violently pushed open, and a crowd of reporters carrying cameras and microphones rushed into the room. “Excuse me, is Elaine here?”

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Everyone in Atlanta knew how much I loved Garrett Cross. When he ditched class, I sat in the lecture hall and took meticulous notes for him. When he broke his arm in a motorcycle accident, I spent three sleepless nights sitting by his hospital bed. When he said he didn’t want to go to college up north, I secretly changed my own enrollment forms to match his. My mother used to tell me, “Isla, you’re the biological daughter the Mercer family spent seventeen years looking for. Stop making yourself so small for him.” But back then, I believed that being close to him was worth any sacrifice. On the night of our graduation party, I clutched a confession letter I had rewritten thirty-seven times and went looking for him. Through the glass doors of the patio, I heard his voice rise above the music, laughing with his friends. “You mean Isla?” Garrett was saying, his tone dripping with mild annoyance. “Please. She smothers me more than my own mother. She’s as stiff as a board. If I actually got together with her, it’d be like marrying a chaperone.” Kimberley, who was sitting next to him, laughed and gave him a playful nudge. “Don’t be mean, Garrett. She is my sister, after all.” He reached over, pinching her cheek with a soft, indulgent smile. “So what? She might have the Mercer blood, but you’re the one who actually fits in. If I were going to fall for a Mercer girl, Kimberley, it’d be you.” The summer wind caught the edge of my letter, ripping the first page from my fingers. I didn’t reach down to catch it. I just turned around, walked away, and changed my college choice from the local university to a small school in Boston, trading the humid Atlanta heat for freezing northern snow. For eight years, I never saw Garrett Cross again. Until he walked into my private practice. 1 Garrett stood in the doorway of my consultation room, a printed booking confirmation crumpled in his hand. “Isla. This is what you do now? Listening to people complain for a living?” I flipped the wooden hourglass on my desk and checked the wall clock. “Mr. Cross, your appointment is at two. You have six minutes.” His eyes dropped to the acrylic nameplate pinned to my blouse. Isla Mercer, LMFT. “You saw my name on the schedule,” he said, taking a step inside. “You weren’t surprised?” “The platform automatically routes bookings. Client profiles only unlock ten minutes before the session.” I slid the standard intake forms across the desk. “First session. I need you to sign the consent forms.” Garrett didn’t move. His gaze swept over my modest office, eventually landing on the stack of discounted session vouchers sitting near the edge of the desk. “Eighty-eight dollars a session. Buy three, get one free.” He let out a low, humorless laugh. “The Mercer family’s oldest daughter is working for pocket change? You went to a lot of trouble to set up this little reunion, Isla.” I gave him the same polite, professional smile I reserved for difficult clients. “You’re mistaken, Mr. Cross. This is just a standard platform referral.” “Atlanta is massive. I just got back to the city, and you happen to have an office right down the street from my hotel. You expect me to believe that’s a coincidence?” “I’ve leased this space for three years.” “My assistant only found your listing yesterday.” “Then it sounds like your assistant doesn’t utilize mental health services very often.” Garrett finally picked up the pen, but his hand hovered over the signature line. “You used to hate seeing anyone in pain. Now you sit here all day, asking strangers about their sleep, their appetite, and if they feel like crying.” I tapped the paper. “Those are standard diagnostic questions.” “Isla.” He looked up, his dark eyes searching mine. “You used to be different.” I kept my focus on my clipboard, organizing the intake sheets. “People change.” “In the past, if I so much as frowned, you’d ask me what was wrong for hours. Now I’m sitting right in front of you, and you won’t even ask how I’ve been?” I clicked my pen shut. “We cover that in the intake process, if you’d like to begin.” Garrett stared, his voice dropping an octave. “You used to worry so much about keeping me happy. Now you’re talking to me like a customer service agent, threatening to issue a refund.” I didn’t look up. “It’s just professional boundaries.” His eyes traveled around the small room again, lingering on the slightly shrunken linen curtains by the window, then down to my worn-out canvas sneakers. “Is this really how you’ve been living all these years?” I followed his gaze. The curtains were indeed cheap—they’d shrunk a few inches after the first wash, leaving a gap at the bottom. “They block the light. That’s all they need to do.” Garrett’s brow furrowed. “Don’t act like this doesn’t bother you.” I placed my pen back into the ceramic holder. “Mr. Cross, if you aren’t here for a consultation, you are free to cancel. The platform will refund seventy percent of your booking fee.” “Do you think I care about eighty dollars?” “No, but it is the policy.” He leaned back into the chair, falling silent. The fine white sand in the hourglass trickled down, grain by grain. Through the thin walls, we could hear the faint sound of a mother in the neighboring office helping her child recite multiplication tables, occasionally raising her voice when he got one wrong. Garrett’s jaw tightened. “The walls are paper-thin. You can hear everything from the street, and there’s a loud aerobics class downstairs in the evenings. How do you work in a dump like this?” “The classes end by eight. It doesn’t interfere with my evening clients.” “Isla, do you hear yourself? You’re a Mercer. You should be living in a home where you’re taken care of, not locked in a shoebox, eating cheap takeout.” “The life you’re describing is one I never actually got to experience.” The words seemed to lodge in his throat. For a second, he looked like he finally remembered what my life in the Mercer house had actually been like—always playing second fiddle to Kimberley. I didn’t want to linger on the past. I flipped to the second page of the assessment. “Mr. Cross, let’s get back to the matter at hand. What brings you to therapy today?” Garrett stared at me for a long moment, realizing I wasn’t going to engage. His shoulders sank, and the tension in his posture gave way to a quiet fatigue. “I can’t sleep.” “How long?” “Almost eight years. It’s gotten worse since I moved back.” “Any specific triggers?” His knuckles tightened against his knee. “Being back in Atlanta. I keep seeing you everywhere.” I wrote on the pad: Chronic insomnia, recently exacerbated. Patient attributes onset to returning to hometown and intrusive memories of a former acquaintance. He suddenly reached out, his hand pressing down on the corner of my clipboard. His voice was raw. “To you, am I really just a ‘former acquaintance’?” 2 I gently pulled my clipboard back from his touch. “I’m just keeping objective records.” The sharp defensive edge in his eyes gradually faded, leaving only a deep, exhausted vulnerability. “If you need money, Isla, you just have to ask. This place… the rent might be cheap, but you can’t be making enough to survive.” “It covers my expenses.” “Don’t do this to yourself, Isla.” There was a soft knock at the door, and the receptionist poked her head in. “Hey, Dr. Mercer, the printer is jammed again. If you have a minute after your session, could you take a look?” I stood up. “Sure, give me ten minutes.” Garrett watched in disbelief as I pulled a small screwdriver from my desk drawer. “You know how to fix a printer?” “A little. You learn when things break often enough.” I paused at the door and looked back. “Mr. Cross, we’ll take a five-minute recess. This won’t count against your session time.” In the small copy room, I carefully cleared the jammed rollers, getting a smudge of black toner on my fingertip. Garrett appeared in the doorway behind me. “Isla, your hand is bleeding.” I looked down. There was a tiny scrape on the side of my index finger, a bead of dark blood mixing with the black ink. “It’s nothing.” “Come here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small adhesive bandage, gesturing for me to step closer. I shook my head. “There’s a first-aid kit at the front desk. Please, go back to the office, Mr. Cross.” He stood his ground, a flash of anger crossing his face. “Do you have to treat me like a stranger?” He set the bandage on the copy machine. “Those years in college… how did you actually live?” I tightened the final screw on the printer casing. “I went to class, did my clinical hours, studied, and worked part-time.” “Did the Mercers stop sending money?” “At first they did. Then I figured out how to support myself.” He looked at me as if he didn’t believe a word. I didn’t feel like explaining. Boston winters were long and brutal. During my freshman year, I used to stand in the university dining hall, calculating if I had enough to add a side of fries to my cheap soup. I worked my shift until ten at night, and when the transit shut down during snowstorms, I’d walk back to my dorm through the freezing slush. My boots would leak, my socks would freeze stiff, but I’d still get up for my eight o’clock lecture the next morning. That was when I realized how many things in life you can get used to simply because you have no other choice. Garrett spoke quietly. “Let me transfer you some money. Fifty thousand. Get out of this place, lease a proper office in Buckhead.” I closed the printer’s rear panel. “No, thank you.” “A hundred thousand, then.” I looked him in the eye. “Mr. Cross, are you here for therapy, or are you trying to write a charity check?” “Isla.” The way he said my name carried the exact cadence of his voice from years ago. Atlanta summers were sweltering. I remembered him falling off his motorcycle, scraping his knee, and me kneeling on the hot asphalt to clean the cut. He’d wince, trying to act tough, insisting it didn’t hurt. I had just been brought back to the Mercer house back then. My mother had held me, crying until she shook, while my father stood in the foyer with a look of belated guilt. But Kimberley had cried louder. She wept about how she had stolen my room, my parents, my entire childhood. Everyone ran to comfort her. I stood at the bottom of the stairs, clutching the brand-new school bag they’d bought me, feeling like an uninvited guest who didn’t know the house rules. Then Garrett had walked in. He looked at me and said, “Isla, don’t just stand there. Come have some cake.” The cake had been sweet. So sweet that I foolishly believed he would always be the one standing by my side. Back in the consultation room, Garrett slid a sleek black titanium card across the desk. “The PIN is your birthday.” I looked at the card. “Do you know when my birthday is?” His tense expression softened slightly. “Of course I do. October fifteenth.” “You’re mistaken.” I slid the card back to his side of the desk. “Mr. Cross, that was simply the day the Mercers legally brought me back.” His hand froze over the card, his face falling into a state of sudden confusion. “But… Kimberley told me you celebrated that day as your birthday ever since.” “Do you believe everything she tells you?” “Isla…” “Mr. Cross, I prefer we stick to formal terms during our session.” He looked up, a faint redness rimming his eyes. “You’re still angry with me.” I didn’t answer. “If you’re willing to listen, I can explain what happened back then.” 3 I turned to a fresh page on my notepad. “If that is the core stressor keeping you awake at night, please go ahead.” Garrett kept his head down, tracing the edge of his card. His voice was thick. “The night of the graduation party… I’d had a few drinks. I said some stupid things. I never meant for you to hear them. Kimberley was so insecure back then, and I was just trying to calm her down.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “When you left for Boston, Robert was furious. He thought you were being rebellious and ungrateful. Kimberley cried every day, blaming herself for driving you away, so I felt like I had to look out for her. You sent me a few texts. I saw them.” I looked up. Garrett avoided my eyes. “But Kimberley was in a really dark place then. She ended up in the hospital after a self-harm attempt. I was terrified of triggering her again, so I didn’t reply.” My mind drifted back to my freshman winter break. I had taken a grueling twelve-hour bus ride back to Atlanta, dragging my heavy suitcase to the front door of the Mercer estate. The housekeeper had spoken to me through the intercom, telling me that Mr. and Mrs. Mercer had taken Kimberley to the Cross family home for dinner. It was freezing, but I sat on the porch steps until ten that night. Kimberley got out of the car first, wearing a plush white cashmere coat, holding a warm cup of hot cocoa Garrett had bought her. When she saw me, she gasped and shrunk back behind him. Garrett had frowned, looking at me with annoyance. “Isla, don’t start drama the second you get back.” “I just wanted to come home,” I had said. “No one’s keeping you out,” he replied. “You’re the one who threw a tantrum and moved halfway across the country.” He reached into the car and pulled out a shopping bag. “I bought you this scarf. Keep yourself warm.” I opened the bag. It was a bright pink scarf with the tags still attached. Kimberley had murmured quietly, “Garrett, isn’t that the one I tried on and decided I didn’t want?” He had hesitated for a second. “Your sister isn’t picky.” I ended up burying that scarf at the very bottom of my suitcase. The next morning, I overheard them talking in the living room. Kimberley was crying, saying I had terrified her. Garrett’s voice was quiet: “Isla’s stubborn. She needs to face the real world a bit to realize how good she has it at home.” Shortly after that, my allowance was cut off. My mother tried to wire me money once, but my father found out, and they argued over the phone all night. Clutching my receiver in the dorm hallway, I heard my father shout, “Ever since we brought her back, this house hasn’t had a single day of peace!” Then my mother fell ill. When I wanted to catch a flight back, Garrett told me over the phone, “Don’t come back right now, Isla. Kimberley will have a breakdown if she sees you.” I asked, “What about my mother?” He replied, “I’m taking care of your mom. Don’t make things more complicated.” When my mother passed, the Mercers didn’t wait for me. By the time I managed to get to Atlanta, the flowers at her grave had already begun to wilt. Garrett stood at the base of the cemetery steps, holding an umbrella over Kimberley. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Isla,” he had said. Watching the rain drip off the edge of his umbrella, I had felt a sudden, heavy exhaustion wash over me. In the quiet of my office, Garrett murmured, “Those years… they weren’t easy for me either.” I nodded politely. “I understand.” “You don’t believe me?” “I do.” “Then why are you acting like this? Like it doesn’t affect you at all?” “Mr. Cross, adult regrets don’t require a performance from others to be valid.” Garrett’s face drained of color. He pushed the black card toward me again. “Let me make it up to you. I can buy out this lease and set you up with a proper, state-of-the-art clinic.” “That won’t be necessary. This office is perfectly fine.” “Why are you being so stubborn?” His voice cracked, though he tried to keep his tone level. “You aren’t living here, Isla. You’re just punishing yourself.” I looked at him calmly. “Garrett, I’m actually doing very well. I have my own practice, my own health insurance, and clients who trust me with their lives.” “But this isn’t what you wanted back then.” “Back then, I wanted you.” The confession hung in the air, thick and heavy. Garrett’s throat moved, a sudden spark of hope catching in his eyes. I closed my water bottle with a quiet click, finishing my thought with complete calm. “But I don’t anymore.” At that moment, the door creaked open slightly. A little girl with a small ponytail peeked in, holding a pink thermos. “Mommy!” she called out in a sweet, high voice. “School’s out! I learned how to draw a sun today!” Garrett whipped his head around, his eyes locking onto the child. 4 Garrett stared at the little girl, looking as though he had forgotten how to process the word “Mommy.” “Maisie, sweetheart, give Mommy just two more minutes, okay?” The little girl nodded obediently, but she cast a wary glance at Garrett. “Mommy, that mister looks really sad.” I couldn’t help but smile. “He just hasn’t been sleeping well.” Garrett’s voice sounded dry, like paper scraping against stone. “What did she call you?” “Mommy.” “You’re married? Since when?” “Six years ago.” He sat perfectly upright, but his hands slowly dropped to his sides. “In Boston? Is he… does he treat you well?” “Very well.” Garrett let out a hollow laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “What does ‘very well’ even mean?” I neatly gathered the documents on my desk. “He remembers that I hate cilantro. He leaves the porch light on when I work late. When Maisie gets sick, he takes time off to wait in line at the clinic so I don’t have to navigate a crowded hospital corridor alone.” Garrett’s face grew even paler. “That’s it?” “That’s more than enough.” “Isla, you didn’t use to be someone who settled so easily.” “Back then, I didn’t know what a healthy life looked like.” “Every word you say sounds like you’re blaming me.” I slipped the consent forms into a folder. “Our session is concluded, Mr. Cross. If you wish to continue, you can book another slot through the system.” He spoke abruptly. “I never married Kimberley.” My hands paused for a fraction of a second. “You don’t need to explain your personal life to me.” “She’s been the only one because of her health. She relied on me. But I never married her.” I looked at the clock on the wall. “Mr. Cross, we are three minutes over.” He looked as if he’d been physically stung. “Isla.” Just then, the sharp click of high heels echoed down the hallway. Kimberley pushed the door open, her eyes already brimming with tears. “Isla… it really is you.” I frowned, my professional composure tightening. “Kimberley, this is a private therapy office. You can’t just walk in.” She bit her lower lip, looking fragile. “I was just worried about Garrett.” Garrett stood up, his jaw tense. “What are you doing here?”

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Before they wheeled me into the operating room, the nurse kept pressing me to contact my family. Eventually, a courier from a local delivery app arrived at my room, panting and out of breath. “Hi, are you Camille? Alan Lockhart hired me to sit with you through your surgery.” My phone buzzed twice in my hand. I looked down. It was a notification from Instagram. Crystal had just posted a new photo. A scratchy throat from a cold and Alan noticed immediately. He insisted on taking me to the clinic and even brewed hot ginger tea for me. So spicy, but so sweet! The attached photo showed a tall, lean man with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, carefully pouring ginger tea from a stainless steel saucepan into a thermos. His gaze was focused and incredibly gentle. I stared at the image, my mind drifting. I had been in the hospital for five days, and my husband of five years, Alan, hadn’t visited once. He told me he was buried under work. Yet, here he was on Crystal’s feed again. The attentive, tender, deeply loving Alan. Just before they rolled me into the operating room, I sent an email to HR with my resignation. Then, I dialed a number. “Mr. Davis, please draft the divorce papers.” 1 I was discharged at eleven in the morning. The anesthesia had entirely worn off, leaving a suffocating tightness in my chest. It felt like a heavy weight pressing down on my lungs, making every breath a struggle. I had to lean against the hallway wall for several minutes before I found the strength to unlock the apartment door. The rich aroma of simmering broth hit me immediately, accompanied by Alan’s familiar voice. “Don’t rush it. You need real patience to draw out the flavor of a good soup.” A second later, Crystal’s giggly voice drifted out. “But you know I’ve never had any patience! Alan, from now on, whenever I want soup, can I just come to you?” Alan’s voice carried a warm, easy smile. “Of course.” I placed my medication on the entryway table and leaned against the wall to slowly slide into my slippers. Hearing the rustle, Crystal emerged from the kitchen. When she saw me, her face lit up. “Hi, Camille! I heard you were getting discharged today, so I begged Alan to let me tag along. I wanted to help him make some comforting soup for you!” Alan followed her out, wearing a linen apron, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her. “You’re back. You look incredibly pale. Have some of this slow-simmered herbal chicken soup in a bit to regain your strength.” I had told him at least twenty times over the years that I don’t eat poultry. This time, I didn’t bother saying it. I watched them turn back into the kitchen together. Crystal’s excited whisper drifted through the door. “Is it ready?” “Here, taste.” Her voice rose in surprised delight. “Wait, you’re letting me have the first sip? Is that really okay?” Alan’s tone was incredibly soft. “It’s fine. Tell me if it needs more salt.” I looked down at my leather tote bag. The unsigned divorce papers were tucked inside. When I finally walked into the dining room, Crystal was standing quietly beside Alan, her eyes rimmed with red. Alan looked at me, his brow furrowed with irritation. “Crystal went out of her way to buy all these groceries and wanted to welcome you home. Why do you have to ruin the mood with that face?” I glanced at the dining table. Aside from the chicken soup, there was sautéed sweetbreads, pan-seared calves’ liver, bone marrow, and a heavy arugula-cilantro salad. Every single dish was buried under a thick layer of chopped cilantro. When we were dating, Alan remembered that I couldn’t stand offal or cilantro. He used to tease me about how picky I was, joking that it would take serious effort to feed me. Five years of marriage, and he had forgotten entirely. Or perhaps, he simply didn’t care to remember anymore. After all, he had been completely absent during my week-long hospital stay. He had promised to pick me up today, but instead, he spent the afternoon playing house with Crystal in our kitchen, leaving me to find my own way home to a table full of food I couldn’t touch. As for who actually liked these dishes… Crystal did. “You guys eat,” I said quietly, turning toward the study. “I don’t have an appetite.” “Alan…” Crystal’s voice trailed behind me, thick with unshed tears. Alan’s gentle murmurs of comfort followed. “Don’t let it get to you. Camille has always had a difficult temper; it’s not about you. Let’s eat, just ignore her.” “But…” Alan’s voice took on a teasing, mock-stern quality. “I made this entire spread specifically for you. I’ll be very angry if you don’t finish it.” Crystal let out a soft giggle. “I’m not a pig, Alan! I can’t eat all of this.” I closed the study door, shutting out the sounds of their laughter. I pulled the divorce agreement from my bag and signed my name on the dotted line: Camille Lockhart. Looking up, my eyes fell on our wedding photo sitting on the desk. He had his arm wrapped tightly around my shoulder, holding me close. I couldn’t comprehend how we had drifted so far apart, so quickly. The study door was suddenly pushed open. Alan stood there, his forehead creased with frustration. “Camille, what kind of tantrum is this? You’re twenty-nine, not nine. Can you please grow up?” 2 I stared at him, momentarily dazed. “Grow up.” Those were the two words Alan had used most frequently during our five years of marriage. Whenever I sent him photos of a stray cat I found on the sidewalk, or the camellias blooming outside, or a strange tree I couldn’t identify… he would tell me to grow up and stop acting like a schoolgirl. Whenever I shared a song I loved, a funny meme, or a story that made me sad… he would tell me to grow up and stop cluttering his inbox with trivialities. Later, when the pilot light went out on the stove or a pipe burst in the basement… his impatient response over the phone was always to grow up and learn to handle basic life issues without running to him. And finally, it had come to this. Getting stranded in torrential rain, landing on a late-night flight, being hospitalized for surgery… it was always the same refrain: Grow up and deal with it yourself. I snapped back to the present. Alan was tapping his fingers impatiently against the mahogany desk. “Camille, speak to me. What are you actually throwing a fit about?” A fit? I looked at him, my voice entirely flat. “Was that dinner really made for me? In five years, we’ve never had sweetbreads or bone marrow on this table. You pour your heart into cooking for someone else, and I’m not even allowed to say I don’t want it?” His expression shifted slightly, and then he let out a heavy, disappointed sigh. “Crystal paid for the groceries. She bought a couple of things she liked. Do you really have to be this petty and make everyone miserable?” The tightness in my chest flared up, making it hard to draw a full breath. I looked down, too exhausted to say another word. “Alan, let’s get a div—” Slam. The heavy oak door shut. He was gone. The study was left in a suffocating silence. My phone chimed. It was an email from HR, confirming my resignation and requesting that I complete my hand-off within three days. I opened my airline app and booked a one-way ticket to Portland, Oregon, departing in three days. Then, I ordered some delivery. When it arrived, I walked slowly to the dining room to eat. My phone buzzed again. Crystal had updated her Instagram feed. Happiness is sharing a quiet moment and incredible food with someone who gets it~ The photo showed two hands clinking foil containers of roasted bone marrow, heavily garnished with cilantro. I stared at the hand on the left, noting the elegant, long fingers. Alan had beautiful hands, the kind that could easily do hand modeling. I would recognize them anywhere. We used to spend rainy afternoons curled up on the sofa, with me tracing the lines of his palm. Looking out the window at the bright autumn sunshine, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time we had been that close. And then my eyes drifted to his ring finger. The simple silver wedding band was missing. His finger was completely bare, leaving no trace of the past five years. Just like our marriage. I locked my screen, finished my lukewarm lunch in silence, and went to the office to start wrapping up my work. My coworker looked at me with deep concern. “Camille, you look awful. Was the surgery that bad?” I shook my head. “The procedure was successful. I just need some rest.” At the end of the day, she insisted on driving me home and handed me a beautifully wrapped box. “I bought these premium red ginseng extracts for you. Please take care of yourself. If you’re feeling weak, we can handle the rest of the transition online.” My throat tightened. My colleagues had visited me in the hospital. My coworker had immediately noticed how pale I was and offered to help. Yet my husband—the man legally bound to protect me—had nothing but criticism and resentment. Not a single word of care. 3 When I got home, the apartment was dark and cold. Alan wasn’t there. I was almost used to it. I changed into my loungewear, prepared a simple dinner, and took my medication. After finishing my remaining work in the study, I began mapping out a solo road trip through the Pacific Northwest. As I searched, the algorithm began flooding my feeds with scenic routes, towering pines, and misty coastlines. I clicked on a video—lush green forests, the sound of the wind, and a girl’s free, joyful laughter filled the room. Hearing a noise in the hallway, I stood up and opened the study door. Alan was sliding his leather shoes off, frowning at the tablet in my hand. “Camille, I told you, I’m buried at work. I didn’t have time to stay at the hospital, and I definitely don’t have time for a vacation right now.” “I haven’t forgotten about the Pacific Northwest trip we talked about. You don’t need to drop passive-aggressive hints. We’ll go when I have time.” I froze. I had completely forgotten that when we first got married, we had promised each other a road trip through the Pacific Northwest. When had I stopped expecting it? Probably after his hundredth “when I have time.” Five years of waiting. Yet, he could find three hours to slow-cook herbal chicken soup for his young assistant; he could spend an entire afternoon taking her to a specialty market for bone marrow just to make her smile. He was never short on time. He was only short on time for me. I closed the video. I didn’t tell him that I had quit my job, or that I was leaving in three days to live out that dream alone. Instead, I said calmly, “Could you come into the study for a second? We need to talk.” I wanted to lay out the terms of our divorce. He followed me in, his eyes immediately landing on the open notebook on my desk. The top line read: Pacific Northwest Road Trip Itinerary. He stopped in his tracks, his voice dripping with irritation. “Camille, for God’s sake, grow up. I told you I don’t have time for a vacation!” “I have a major meeting tomorrow. I’m going to bed.” He turned and walked away without a backward glance, heading to the master bedroom to shower and sleep. I looked at the unsigned divorce papers resting right next to the notebook. I let out a soft, bitter laugh. Even knowing he didn’t love me, his absolute lack of patience to even hear me speak still stung. But the pain was duller now. In three days, I would be gone. The next morning, I woke up to find Alan busy in the kitchen. I was surprised. He walked out holding a thermal lunchbox. “There’s extra breakfast in the pan. Help yourself. I’m in a rush.” As I walked into the kitchen, my eyes landed on the torn packaging on the floor. It was the box of red ginseng extract my coworker had given me. I whipped around, my voice rising. “Alan! You took my things without even asking?” He stopped adjusting his collar and turned to look at me. His gaze was cold and dismissive, as if he were looking at a hysterical, unhinged woman. “Camille, I get that you’re mad I’m bringing Crystal breakfast. But I left some for you, didn’t I? There’s a limit to how unreasonable you can be.” He threw the accusation at me, picked up the lunchbox, and slammed the front door behind him. I looked at the cold, watery oatmeal left in the pot. It was laughable. Ten minutes later, as expected, Crystal’s Instagram updated. She was sitting at Alan’s desk, eating a gourmet breakfast he had hand-prepared. Before we got married, Alan had told me one of his absolute rules was never eating inside the office. For five years, I had respected that rule religiously. But for Crystal, his rules didn’t exist. I stared at the photo and smiled faintly. I dialed my mother’s number. “Mom, I’m getting a divorce. I’m going to ship some boxes to your place over the next couple of days. Tell Dad to keep an eye out for them.” My mother didn’t sound surprised at all. “Understood, sweetheart. Just come home. Your father has been worrying about you anyway.” 4 I returned to the office to finish my handover and pack my things. At noon, I took my close coworkers out for a farewell lunch. I picked an upscale, highly popular bistro downtown. I had only managed to book a private dining room because I was good friends with the owner. But when we arrived, the private room was already occupied. By Alan and Crystal. “Camille, Crystal really wanted to try this place,” Alan said smoothly, completely unbothered. “I knew you were friends with the owner and must have reserved the private room, so we took it. Do you mind eating in the main dining area tonight? I’ll cover your tab.” My coworkers exchanged stunned, uncomfortable looks behind me. I stared at the two appetizers already sitting on their table. I couldn’t make a scene and kick them out. It would be incredibly humiliating for everyone involved. “No, thanks.” As the words left my mouth, that post-surgery tightness gripped my chest again, making it hard to draw a breath. But I kept my expression blank, smiled at my coworkers, and led them to a different restaurant down the street. During lunch, one of my coworkers asked quietly, “Who was that guy?” “Just an acquaintance,” I replied. She scoffs. “I’ve never seen anyone hijack a reservation so shamelessly. And with another woman in tow? Unbelievable.” When I chose to marry Alan, I never envisioned it ending like this. I couldn’t even remember why I had once thought he was the man I wanted to spend my life with. After lunch, my coworker dropped me off. The apartment was dark. I turned on the lights, took my medication, and finalized my road trip plans in the study. Tomorrow afternoon, I would fly to Portland. This would be my last night here. I cleaned the study until there wasn’t a single trace of my existence left. Alan didn’t come home. At 12:30 AM, Crystal posted another photo: “So grateful to have you by my side, Alan.” It was a photo of her in a white lace nightgown. In the background, a man in a damp bathrobe, his wet hair glistening, looked out over the city skyline. I looked at the photo for a long time, then smiled. I had wanted to sit down with him, to end this five-year chapter with some dignity and closure. I thought we owed each other that much. But to him, it would just be a waste of time. There was no need to talk. The next morning, he was still gone. I didn’t try to call. I packed my life into a few suitcases. Around noon, Alan rushed back. He didn’t even notice the packed suitcases and taped boxes in the living room. He went straight to the pantry and grabbed the remaining boxes of my red ginseng extract. “Crystal said the red ginseng worked wonders for her yesterday. I’m taking the rest to her. I’ll buy you a new box later.” I opened my mouth to stop him, but he didn’t give me the chance. He grabbed the boxes and hurried back out. I let out a quiet, self-mocking laugh. The movers arrived and took my packages. I opened our text chat on my phone. Five years of messages, stretching back to a time when he used to send me sweet photos and late-night check-ins. The last loving photo was from three years ago. I look at it for a long, quiet moment. Then, I backed out of the chat, uploaded a photo of the signed divorce papers, and pressed send.

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For as long as I could remember, my parents painted our lives in shades of gray. Money was a ghost they were always chasing, a constant source of quiet desperation. They claimed to work back-to-back double shifts just to keep the heat on, always reminding me to be sensible, to understand the weight of our poverty. So, I buried myself in my books. I studied until my eyes burned, driven by a singular, desperate promise to pull us out of the mud and give my exhausted parents the comfortable retirement they deserved. But on Thanksgiving—a night meant for family gratitude—the elaborate lie they had spun for sixteen years finally fell apart. A classmate had hooked me up with a gig as a temporary server at the Grand Horizon, a six-star luxury hotel downtown. That was where I saw them. My parents, walking into a private VIP dining room with my younger sister, Zoe. The hotel’s general manager shadowed them, his posture practically bent in half, wearing an obsequious smile that made my stomach turn. I froze, convinced my eyes were playing tricks on me. Suddenly, the floor captain smacked the back of my head. “Hey, kid, what are you gaping at? If the VIPs catch you slacking on your shift, it’s my neck on the line!” “Who… who are they?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “The couple the manager is escorting? That’s the CEO of Summit Holdings and his wife. And that little girl next to them is Zoe, the heiress to the entire family fortune. Born with a platinum spoon in her mouth.” The world tilted on its axis. My parents. The people who claimed to work double shifts, whose clothes were patched and mended until the original fabric was lost. They were the wealthiest tycoons in Boston? … I stood frozen, my eyes wide, a violent tremor starting in my chest. They had been playing poor. The entire city, even a hotel captain, knew Zoe was the golden child of the family. I was the only one kept in the dark. “Get moving or get out!” the captain hissed. Beside me, my classmate nudged my shoulder, whispering to ask if I was okay. I shook my head, swallowing the lump of glass in my throat. “I’m fine,” I managed. “We’re serving their suite next,” he warned quietly. “Stay sharp. If we upset people that powerful, nobody’s going to save us.” “Okay.” Soon, we were lined up to serve. When I carried the heavy silver platter of imported seafood—a dish that cost more than my entire monthly allowance—into the suite, I kept my head bowed, staring at the polished mahogany floor. I couldn’t let them see me. Just as I set the platter down, Zoe’s bright voice cut through the soft jazz playing in the background. “Mom, Dad, it’s Thanksgiving. We’re out having this amazing dinner, but we left Elliot home alone with a frozen meal. Isn’t that a little mean?” Her words sent a fragile spark of warmth through my numb chest. For a split second, I thought someone in that house actually cared about me. But my mother laughed, a sweet, musical sound. “Oh, honey, don’t worry about your brother. Elliot is used to being on his own. He’s always spent the holidays by himself, hasn’t he?” My father didn’t even look up from his phone. His fingers tapped away as he muttered indifferently, “Your brother isn’t like you, sweetie. As long as he’s fed, he’s fine. But you’re different.” He finally set his phone down, his gaze shifting to Zoe. The tenderness in his eyes was absolute, a raw, protective adoration I had never once received. “You’re our princess. We would never dream of letting you experience the kind of hardships your brother has to go through.” No one noticed how hard I was shaking, or how the color had completely drained from my face. To them, my existence was negligible, a stray weed that could survive on rainwater and dirt. I was meant to suffer, to be molded by deprivation, while Zoe was a delicate orchid to be shielded from the slightest breeze. We shared the same blood, the same parents. Why was there such a vast, cruel gulf between us? A cold, sickening thought crept into my mind: Am I even theirs? “You guys are the best,” Zoe giggled, wrapping her arms around my mother’s neck. “I love you so much!” The hotel manager stood by the door, chiming in with practiced flattery, while my parents beamed with pride. “Eat up, sweetheart,” my mother said, spooning more lobster onto Zoe’s plate. “Don’t be like your brother. He’s so terribly picky, even at his age.” My father nodded in agreement. “I don’t know where he picked up that stubborn habit. He ignores the meat and only eats the roasted greens.” “Well, that’s your doing,” my mother teased playfully, rolling her eyes. As course after course of extravagant food was laid out, I stared at a dinner that easily cost more than ten thousand dollars. For years, I had believed we were drowning in mortgage debt, that we could only afford meat once a week. I had starved my own cravings, pretending I hated steak and pork chops just so my parents and Zoe could have larger portions. I wanted my parents to be healthy; I wanted my sister to grow up strong. My quiet sacrifices, my desperate attempts to be a good son, had been filed away in their minds as nothing more than “picky eating.” I didn’t confront them. I didn’t raise my head to demand why they were doing this to me. Instead, I swallowed my tears, turned on my heel, and walked out. I stripped off the uniform, changed into my worn-out jeans, and left the hotel into the biting autumn air. As I reached the street, my phone buzzed. It was Sarah, the owner of the local bakery where I worked part-time. “Hey, Elliot. That custom cake you ordered is ready. When do you want to pick it up?” I hesitated. My first instinct was to tell her to throw it away. But then I stopped myself. I had worked thirty grueling hours on my feet to pay for that cake. Why should I leave it behind? When I unlocked the door to our drab, cramped apartment, carrying the pink bakery box, I looked around. The living room was sparsely furnished, but the walls were covered with my academic certificates and honor roll plaques. The dam broke, and the tears finally poured down my face. My whole life, they told me we were poor. They told me education was my only ticket out. And I had never let them down. I was valedictorian every year since grade school, eventually scoring at the very top of the state in my SATs. While other kids had weekends, summer camps, and sleepovers, my life consisted of only two things: studying and working odd jobs. At ten o’clock, the door clicked open. They had already changed out of their designer suits and Zoe’s boutique dress, returning in their faded, second-hand clothes. They walked in to find me sitting at the kitchen table, silently eating a slice of cake. “Elliot?” my mother asked, setting her keys down on the counter with a frown. “Where did that cake come from?” “I bought it,” I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. It was supposed to be a Thanksgiving surprise for Zoe. But after a ten-course luxury meal, she didn’t need my cheap bakery cake. “How many times do I have to tell you?” my father snapped, his tone sharp with disappointment. “Every dollar you make should go toward your college fund. Your mother and I work ourselves to the bone so you can have a future. Don’t waste our sacrifices.” “Yeah, Elliot, you’re being irresponsible,” Zoe chimed in, mimicking his disapproval. I ignored her. I slowly put my fork down and looked up, taking in the three of them standing there in their carefully curated poverty. After a long pause, I spoke. “Dad, Mom. I need an iPad. It would make studying and accessing research databases a lot easier.” It was the first time in eighteen years I had ever asked them for anything. And it was directly tied to my education. The moment the words left my mouth, their expressions hardened. My father marched over, towering over me. “Are you asking for a toy to play video games?” he demanded, his voice echoing in the small room. I looked him dead in the eye, my face a mask of calm. “No. I need it for school research.” He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “You can use the computers at the public library. You don’t need an iPad.” “I’ve told you a thousand times, those devices ruin minds. Don’t look at the kids who have them; they’re wasting their lives away. Besides, your mother and I work day and night, and the rent is suffocating us. We don’t have spare cash to throw away on luxury gadgets.” Under normal circumstances, I would have apologized immediately and told them to forget it. But this time, I didn’t back down. I stood up, meeting his angry glare head-on. “You pay for Zoe’s private ballet lessons,” I said quietly. “You could pause her classes for a month. That would easily cover the cost of a tablet for my studies.” The words acted as a catalyst. My father’s hand flew out, delivering a stinging slap across my face. Crack. The sound echoed, leaving a suffocating silence in its wake. My mother rushed over, placing a hand on my father’s arm. “Elliot, stop provoking your father. You don’t need distractions at your age. Besides, Zoe’s ballet instructor says she has real talent. If she stops her training now, she’ll fall behind. Her future depends on it.” I stared at her, and a dry, humorless laugh escaped my throat. “So in this house, Zoe’s dance classes are more important than my actual education. Is that it?” My mother blinked, taken aback. Then, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Elliot, why are you acting so strange tonight? And of course her dancing is vital. It’s her dream.” Her words settled in my chest like liquid nitrogen. My father scoffed. “Don’t use teenage rebellion as an excuse to talk back to us.” With a violent sweep of his arm, he knocked my birthday cake off the table, sending it crashing to the floor in a ruined heap of pink frosting and cardboard. “Go to your room and study,” he barked, pointing a finger toward the hallway. “You stay in there until I say otherwise. Understood?” I gave them one last, lingering look. Then, without a word, I turned and walked into my bedroom. As the door clicked shut, his angry voice still bled through the wood. “He’s getting out of hand! Completely ungrateful for everything we sacrifice. If he keeps obsessing over screens and games, he’s going to ruin his life. Nobody will be able to save him.” I slid down against the back of the door, the hot tears finally spilling silently over my lashes, soaking my face in the dark. The truth was, I didn’t care about the iPad. I had enough academic resources. It was a test—a final, desperate gamble to see if they would choose me, just once. But the experiment had failed. The last shred of hope I held for my family died right there on the linoleum floor with that ruined cake. My compliance, my perfect grades, my years of self-denial—it all amounted to nothing. Their love was a spotlight, and it only shone on Zoe. After a long while, I wiped my eyes. A cold, absolute resolve settled deep in my bones. I pulled out my old, cracked phone—the one I’d repaired myself three times—and typed a message: I’m accepting the offer. I want to join the classified research program. Within seconds, the phone buzzed. Elliot, are you absolutely certain? Yes. Once you join, you will be unable to contact or see your family for the next five to ten years. You will be entirely off the grid. That’s fine. There’s no one here who cares anyway. The line went quiet for a few agonizing minutes. Finally, a response popped up: A transport team will pick you up tomorrow morning. Keep this entirely confidential. No goodbyes to anyone. Especially your family. Understood. I deleted the thread. Looking up at the wall of achievements, I felt absolutely nothing. At sixteen, my academic performance had caught the attention of a highly classified university recruitment program. Dr. Charles Mercer—a legendary figure in advanced physics—had quietly taken me under his wing as a research assistant. Within six months, I had single-handedly solved a thermal dynamics equation that had stalled his team for five years. To protect my safety and intellectual property, Dr. Mercer had kept my involvement completely off the record. He had tried to recruit me into a state-sponsored, deep-security research initiative, but I had refused back then. I wanted to build a career, yes, but my family had been my anchor. I couldn’t bear the thought of vanishing from their lives. Now? That anchor had rusted away. If they viewed me as a ghost, then I would become one. The next morning, my parents woke me up at dawn to make breakfast, exactly as they did every day. I didn’t show a hint of resentment. I fried the eggs, toasted the cheap white bread, and set the table. Seeing that I was behaving normally, my father’s expression softened slightly. As he reached for his coat, he gave me one last warning: “Keep your head in the books. If I catch you slacking off, there will be consequences.” Then, they left. I didn’t go to school that morning. Instead, I waited five minutes, slipped out of the apartment, and followed them. They started their commute on an old, squeaking bicycle they supposedly shared. But barely two blocks away, in a secluded alley, they tossed the bike behind a dumpster. A sleek, midnight-black Rolls-Royce Phantom was waiting for them. A uniformed chauffeur opened the door, and my parents, along with Zoe, stepped inside. I followed them in a cheap cab, paying with the last of my bakery cash. They had always told me Zoe went to a neighborhood public school funded by state grants. But the Rolls-Royce pulled up to the gates of Oakridge Academy—a private boarding school where tuition cost more than a high-end sports car. I watched Zoe, dressed in her tailored uniform, laugh and wave goodbye to them. Seeing her so happy, so effortlessly wealthy, cemented my decision. There was no room for me in their glittering, secret life. As the Rolls-Royce glided away into the morning traffic, I turned back toward our rundown apartment. I packed my worn backpack with a few changes of clothes. Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed. The transport coordinator was waiting at the curb. Before stepping out, I took one last look at the apartment—the cramped kitchen, the walls of meaningless trophies. “Goodbye, Mom. Goodbye, Dad. Goodbye, Zoe.” No, I thought, pulling the door shut behind me. Not goodbye. Farewell. I set my keys gently on the kitchen counter, closed the door, and walked down the stairwell without looking back. From this moment on, they would never have to pretend to be poor for my sake again.

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My father called to ask about the wedding details. I recited them effortlessly. What time the walk down the aisle started, when the vows would be read, when we would toast the tables—I had memorized the schedule better than any quarterly report I’d ever delivered. Then, out of nowhere, he asked, “What does Denis say?” I went quiet for three seconds. “He says it’s all up to me.” After hanging up, I stared at the thick stack of invitations on my desk. Three months ago, when I asked Denis what kind of wedding he wanted, he was staring at his phone, texting. He didn’t even look up. “You’re good at this kind of thing. Just do whatever you want.” What exactly was I good at? I was good at visiting eight different venues by myself to compare rates and layouts. I was good at tasting a dozen different artisan chocolates alone to pick the favors. I was good at staying up until 2:00 AM finalizing a last-minute seating chart, while he was “working late” at the office. I had forced myself to be good at everything. But during the rehearsal tonight, he still didn’t show up. I ended up having his best man stand in for him so we could walk the cues. When it was over, the best man looked at me, a flash of pity in his eyes. “Actually, Lauren… I saw Denis on the highway earlier. He was with Cora.” My heart skipped a beat, but I kept my smile perfectly intact. “Okay. Thanks for letting me know.” There was no point in waiting around for a miracle in this relationship anymore. …… “How did the rehearsal go?” Denis’s voice came through the line shortly after I got home. “Fine,” I said. “I knew it. You always handle things so well without me.” He chuckled, a casual assumption wrapped in praise. “I picked up that chestnut cake you love from the bakery downtown. Just parked the car, I’ll be up in a minute.” The call disconnected. The lock clicked. Denis walked in holding a neat little paper bag. He hung his suit jacket on the coat rack. “Today must have been exhausting,” he said, setting the bag on the coffee table. “Your best man filled in for you,” I said, leaning back against the sofa, watching him. He reached out, instinctively trying to ruffle my hair, but I tilted my head away. His hand froze in midair, his brow furrowing slightly. “Lauren, are you still mad at me?” He sighed, dropping his hand. “I didn’t skip out on purpose.” “No?” “Cora’s car broke down on the expressway loop.” His tone was entirely earnest, devoid of any guilt. “She has severe claustrophobia. She was trapped in the middle of traffic, sobbing hysterically. I couldn’t just leave her there.” “So you went to rescue her.” “Lauren, it was a dangerous situation. She was panicking on a busy highway. What if something had happened to her? The rehearsal is just a formality anyway. You know the run-of-the-play by heart, you didn’t need me there. Besides, the best man was there, wasn’t he?” He spoke with such absolute conviction, as if my silence were the unreasonable part. I opened the paper bag. It wasn’t chestnut cake. It was a slice of matcha crepe cake. “Why is this matcha?” I asked. Denis blinked, glancing at the box. “Oh. Cora mentioned earlier that their matcha crepe is their best-seller, so I just grabbed it. Give it a try. It’s good to change things up occasionally.” I stared at the green cake. “Denis, I am highly allergic to mangoes. This bakery uses a mango puree filling in their matcha crepes.” Silence fell over the room. A flash of panic crossed his face, but he quickly smoothed it over with his usual gentle demeanor. “I’m so sorry, I honestly didn’t think. Things have been so chaotic at the office lately, I must have gotten things mixed up.” “Gotten things mixed up? Or is your head just so full of Cora’s preferences that there’s no room for mine?” “Lauren, don’t be so sensitive,” he said, his brow tightening. “I apologized. It’s just a piece of cake. If you don’t want it, throw it out.” With a swift, clean motion, he swept the cake, box and all, into the trash can. It was efficient, like he was sweeping away my “unreasonable” attitude. “The best man said he saw the two of you at a coffee shop,” I remarked. Denis’s hand hesitated as he poured a glass of water. “We had to wait for the tow truck. I took her to grab a hot drink to calm her nerves.” He turned around, holding the glass. “You’ve always been so independent, Lauren. I knew you’d understand.” Independent. That was the word I had heard most over our four years together. Because I was independent, I could go to the ER by myself at midnight for an IV drip. Because I was independent, I could fix a blown fuse in the pouring rain. Because I was independent, he felt entirely justified in showering all his attention on the fragile, helpless Cora. The phone on the coffee table lit up with a video call from Cora. He didn’t even try to hide it. He answered right in front of me. “Denis!” On screen, Cora’s eyes were red and puffy. She was clutching a white cat. “What’s wrong?” Denis’s voice softened instantly. “I just wanted to say thank you again. If you hadn’t called the tow truck, I don’t know how long I would’ve been crying on that highway.” “It’s fine. Did the car get to the shop?” “Yes. But… I’m terrified of sleeping alone tonight. Every time I close my eyes, I feel like I’m suffocating again.” Her voice trembled. “Is Lauren there? Does she hate me for taking up your time today?” Denis glanced at me. “No, she’s very understanding. She doesn’t mind.” Listening to them, a wave of nausea washed over me. It was sickening. “Denis, could you come with me to pick up the car tomorrow? I’m scared to go to that auto yard by myself. I heard that part of town is really sketchy.” “Tomorrow?” Denis hesitated. Tomorrow was our appointment to try on my wedding gown. “I’m fitting my wedding dress tomorrow,” I said quietly. On the screen, Cora immediately gasped, covering her mouth in mock horror. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! Lauren, I had no idea you guys had plans. I really didn’t mean to. I can go by myself. It’s fine if something happens…” Tears began to spill down her cheeks. Denis’s expression darkened. “Lauren, why do you have to be so hostile?” he muttered, looking at me. I said nothing. He turned back to the screen. “Don’t cry, Cora. I’ll go with you to pick up the car tomorrow morning.” “But Lauren’s dress…” “She can handle it. The shop assistants are there to help her.” Just like that, he made the decision for me. He hung up. “Are you happy now?” I asked. “Lauren, she’s sick. She has psychological trauma. Do you really have to pick a fight with someone who is suffering?” He sighed. “You never used to be like this.” I was too tired to argue. “Fine. I’ll go by myself.” I stood up and walked toward the bedroom. “Lauren, I’ll help you double-check the seating chart later,” he called out behind me. “No need. It’s done.” The next morning, I was sitting at my vanity, putting on makeup. Denis was already dressed in a sharp suit. “I’ll head over to help Cora with the car first. The shop is in the north suburbs, so it might take about two hours.” He adjusted his tie in the mirror. “My appointment at the bridal salon is at ten,” I said. “I know. Go ahead and start without me. Pick a few you like, and I’ll meet you there as soon as I’m done.” He laid out the schedule as if it were perfectly reasonable. “What if I can’t choose without you?” “Your taste is always perfect. You’ll look beautiful in whatever you wear.” He turned and walked to the door. “Be good. Wait for me.” The door clicked shut. I arrived at the bridal salon. The consultant greeted me warmly. “Ms. Mercer, is Denis not here yet?” “He’ll be late.” I followed the consultant into the VIP fitting room. The haute couture gown I had waited three months for was draped elegantly on the display rack. It was heavy, intricate, and stunning. She helped me slip into it, but as she tried to pull up the zipper halfway, it stuck. “Take a deep breath, Ms. Mercer. You might be a bit tense—maybe from the wedding stress.” I felt a dull, familiar ache in my lower abdomen. The heavy, dragging sensation hadn’t let up since last night. Looking at my pale reflection in the mirror, I felt a wave of exhaustion. “Mr. Ross really should be here,” the consultant murmured. “This train needs to be adjusted properly from the back to see the full effect.” I pulled out my phone and dialed Denis. It rang six times before he picked up. “Lauren? What’s up?” The background was noisy, filled with the loud hum of machinery. “It’s ten-thirty, Denis. You’re not here.” “I’m sorry. Cora’s car has some undercarriage damage. The mechanics are going over the repair list with us, and she’s panicking because she doesn’t understand any of it. I need to make sure they aren’t ripping her off.” “So you’re leaving me here to wait for you while wearing a thirty-pound wedding dress?” “Lauren, can you please show some empathy? This place is filthy and noisy, and Cora doesn’t even have a place to sit. She’s miserable.” He was worried about Cora not having a chair. But he didn’t care that I was standing alone in a bridal salon, abandoned on the day of my fitting. I closed my eyes, and a memory from a snowy night a year ago flashed through my mind. I had a 103-degree fever. Denis told me he had an urgent board meeting and couldn’t take me to the hospital. I had to bundle up in a heavy coat and walk through the snow for thirty minutes just to hail a cab. When I finally reached the ER, I texted him to let him know I was safe. No reply. The next morning, I saw a post on Cora’s social media. A photo of her wearing Denis’s winter coat, holding a warm cup of cocoa. The caption read: My first real snow. So glad I had my favorite senior to keep me safe. Only then did I realize that his “urgent board meeting” was actually Cora wanting to see the snow, and being afraid of getting lost in the dark. He had stood by the river with her for two hours in the freezing cold, while I spent the night hooked up to an IV on a hard plastic chair in a crowded hospital hallway. When I confronted him, he said, “You were already at the hospital, Lauren. You had doctors and nurses. Cora was out in the cold all by herself.” He always had a seamless, unshakeable logic. He packaged his cruelty as chivalry, his neglect as mere responsibility. “Lauren? Are you listening?” his voice cut through the line, laced with impatience. “I’ll get there as fast as I can. Just have the staff make you comfortable.” “Don’t bother,” I said. My voice was eerily calm as I opened my eyes. “Don’t come.” I hung up. “Ms. Mercer?” the consultant asked, her eyes filled with concern. “Please help me take it off.” “But we aren’t finished… you waited three months for this to be imported…” “We’re done. I won’t be renting this.” I changed back into my clothes, pulled a credit card from my purse, and handed it to her. “Keep the deposit. Just cancel the reservation.” Stepping out of the salon, the crisp morning air cleared my head. I opened my phone and pulled up my chat with the wedding coordinator. Cancel everything. The venue, the catering, the flowers. She immediately replied with a string of shocked emojis. Ms. Mercer, the wedding is next week! The cancellation fees are astronomical! I know. I’ll pay whatever the penalty is. Just send over the cancellation agreement. I caught a cab to the hospital. The cramping in my stomach was getting sharper, and I needed to see a doctor. I waited in line, surrounded by expectant mothers accompanied by their husbands, clutching my clinic slip alone. “Lauren Mercer?” I stood up and walked into the exam room. The OB-GYN looked over my charts, her face grave. “Ms. Mercer, you’re pregnant. About five weeks.” She paused. “We need to discuss your options immediately. Did your partner not come with you?” “No.” “I suggest you call him. This is something you should decide together.” I reached into my bag, my fingers trembling against my phone. For four years, Denis and I had been careful. He always insisted that Cora’s mental health was too fragile, that he had to divide his energy to care for her, and that it wasn’t the right time for a baby. This pregnancy was an accident. “Your progesterone levels are incredibly low, and you’re showing signs of an impending miscarriage,” the doctor explained, pointing to the numbers on the screen. “Have you been under extreme physical or emotional stress lately?” I let out a bitter, silent laugh. Planning a wedding entirely on my own, working late nights to coordinate every detail, all while enduring Denis’s emotional absence and constant gaslighting. How could I not be stressed? “You need absolute bed rest and progesterone supplements immediately. Any strenuous activity or severe emotional upheaval, and you will lose this pregnancy,” she warned strictly. I walked out of the clinic with a prescription in hand as a light drizzle began to fall. I didn’t call Denis. I knew exactly where he was—comforting a shaken Cora. My child didn’t weigh as much as one of her sighs. I took a cab back to our apartment. It was a beautiful place we had bought six months ago. I had spent four months painstakingly decorating every inch of it. The digital lock beeped, and the door swung open. In the entryway sat a pair of pink heels. The ones Cora had worn yesterday. My chest tightened. I walked inside. In the living room, Cora was curled up on my sofa, wearing my silk robe, watching TV. Denis was in the kitchen, slicing fruit. Hearing the door, Denis walked out with a fruit platter, his face completely untroubled. “Lauren, you’re back. How did the fitting go?” He didn’t even ask why I was home early, or why I was alone. I stared at the robe Cora was wearing. It was a designer piece Denis had bought me during a business trip last month. I hadn’t even worn it yet. “Why is she here?” I pointed at her. Cora scrambled off the sofa, clutching the silk fabric tightly around herself. “Lauren, please don’t be mad. The mechanics at the shop were so aggressive today, and I had a panic attack. Denis saw how shaken I was, so he brought me here to rest.” “The mechanics were rude, so you decided to put on my clothes?” I asked, my voice cold. “I’m sorry…” Cora’s eyes instantly welled with tears. “I spilled water on my dress, and Denis told me to find something to change into. I didn’t know this was… off-limits.” “Lauren, it’s just a robe. We can wash it,” Denis intervened, his brow furrowing as he set the fruit down. “Stop being so hostile.” Just a robe. To him, my personal space, my belongings, and my dignity were always secondary to Cora’s comfort. “This is our home,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “And you brought another woman here, and let her wear my clothes.” “Can you be reasonable for once?” Denis sighed, looking at me like I was a difficult child. “The guest room was empty. Look at her state—did you want me to send her back to that cold, damp apartment of hers? What if she has another depressive episode and does something drastic?” “And what about me? Are you trying to drive me insane instead?” “You’re being hysterical.” He stepped closer, trying to take my hand. “Lauren, you used to be the kindest person I knew. When did you become so bitter?” Kind? Bitter? I yanked my hand away from his touch. A sudden, sharp pain flared in my lower abdomen, making me gasp and take a step back. Denis didn’t even notice. He turned to Cora. “Go rest in the guest room for a bit. I need to talk to Lauren alone.” Cora nodded meekly, looking like a kicked puppy, and slipped down the hallway. “Denis,” I said, swallowing down the physical pain. “Make her leave. Now.” “No,” he said flatly. “It’s pouring rain outside. Where is she supposed to go? You’re crossing a line, Lauren.” I stared at him. This was the man I was supposed to marry. This was the man I had loved for four years. “Fine,” I whispered. My voice felt as fragile as glass. “Do whatever you want.” I turned and walked into our bedroom, locking the door behind me. From the hallway, Denis’s muffled, exasperated voice drifted through the wood. “Calm down first. I have some work emails to finish. Did you get everything ready for our appointment at the courthouse tomorrow?” I didn’t answer. I pulled my suitcase out of the closet and began packing. My clothes, my jewelry, my skincare products. It was shockingly little. I had lived here for months, yet everything I owned fit into a single suitcase. I printed the cancellation receipt from the wedding venue and placed it on the nightstand, laying my engagement ring right on top of it. Tomorrow was the day we were supposed to get married. My phone buzzed. It was a message from HR. Lauren, the legal department has signed off on your transfer to the London office. Do you have your flight booked? Yes, I replied. I fly out tomorrow morning. The next morning, I wheeled my suitcase out of the bedroom. Denis was in the kitchen, setting a warm breakfast on the table. Cora sat nearby, wearing an oversized white button-down. It was Denis’s shirt. She smiled as she took a glass of milk from him. “Thanks, Denis. Your breakfast is still the best.” Denis froze when he saw me walk out with my luggage. “Where are you going?” “We’re going to the courthouse today, aren’t we?” I said calmly. “I’m just taking some clothes to the dry cleaners on the way.” “Oh.” He relaxed, taking off his apron. “Actually, Lauren… about the courthouse…” He hesitated. I stopped and looked at him. “Cora has a follow-up evaluation for her depression today. The clinic requires a family member or a close contact to sign off on her files.” “And?” “Could we postpone the courthouse by just a day? We can go tomorrow. It’s the same thing.” He looked at me, his tone carrying that familiar, unyielding expectation that I would understand. “Today is the date we chose. The invitations have already been sent.” “Lauren, it’s just a piece of paper. What difference does twenty-four hours make?” He stepped toward me, reaching out to pat my shoulder. “You’re the organized one. You always know what’s important. I promise, the second I get back this afternoon, we’ll go.” “Denis…” Cora piped up from the table. “Maybe we shouldn’t. I can go alone. I don’t want Lauren to be mad at me…” “She won’t be,” Denis cut her off. “Lauren isn’t petty.” I looked at him. I looked at his confident face, so certain that I would yield, as I always did. The dull ache in my belly was a constant reminder that this man didn’t care if I lived or died. “Okay,” I said softly. “I knew you’d understand.” He smiled, visibly relieved. He grabbed his car keys. “I’ll take her to the clinic first. Get some rest, you looked pale yesterday.” “Don’t worry about it.” “What?” “Nothing. Go.” The front door shut, and the apartment fell into a dead silence. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even have the energy for anger. There was only a profound, hollow sense of relief. I pulled out my phone and dialed the moving company. “You can come up now.” Two hours later, the movers took the last of my boxes down to the truck. I stood in the empty bedroom, looking around. Without my things, the room looked cold and sterile. I walked over to the coffee table and laid down a note. It wasn’t even a letter. Just a single sentence. The wedding is cancelled. Do not contact me again.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “497697”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

To save myself from a lot of unnecessary drama, I always pretend I’m married. It started out as a simple shield. One afternoon, while out shopping with my coworker Rachel, I spotted a coat that I absolutely fell in love with. It was gorgeous, but the price tag was steep—nearly four thousand dollars. The sales associate was laying on the charm, practically begging me to try it on, when I waved my hand and let the lie slip naturally: “Oh, thank you, but I’d better not. My husband would lose his mind if I bought this. Even if I took it home, I’d just end up having to return it.” I didn’t think twice about it. But the very next morning, a courier package arrived at the office. When I tore open the box, my heart stopped. It was the exact coat. Rachel’s eyes went wide. She snatched the card tucked inside the tissue paper and read it aloud: “To my beautiful wife: If you love it, you should have it. You deserve every beautiful thing in this world. —Your loving husband.” I stood there, completely frozen. My husband was a ghost. A phantom. A convenient excuse. I’ve never even been in a serious relationship, let alone walked down an aisle. Where on earth did this husband come from? 1 For a second, I thought Rachel was playing a trick on me, making up the words on the fly. I snatched the card from her hand, but there they were—two lines of elegant, flowing handwriting, staring back at me. “Natalie, look at you, playing the humble wife!” Rachel nudged me, grinning. “Here you are, always complaining about how strict your husband is, and then he goes and drops four grand on a coat without blinking!” A few other coworkers started drifting over to my desk. “Wow, Natalie, I had no idea your husband was this loaded!” “Seriously, talk about low-key.” I forced a stiff smile, my mind racing so fast I couldn’t find my voice. I had been at this marketing firm for three months, and my “married” persona was airtight. Whenever there was a happy hour I wanted to skip, or a tedious weekend project I wanted to dodge, I’d sigh and say, “I’d love to, but my husband has plans for us.” It was the perfect boundary. But the reality was that I was a textbook case of a late bloomer. I hadn’t even held a man’s hand, let alone built a life with one. I peeked into the box. Even the size was correct. Who could have sent this? A tiny, narcissistic part of me wondered if I had a secret admirer. But the only person who had been there when I saw the coat was Rachel. I watched her closely as she gushed over the fabric. She seemed entirely genuine, completely devoid of any secret, knowing looks. I spent the rest of the day in a haze of anxiety. As soon as I got home, I called the boutique’s customer service line. An order of that size had to have a paper trail. But after a few moments of typing, the representative sighed. “I’m sorry, ma’am. This purchase was made anonymously. The buyer requested full privacy protection, so we don’t have any billing details on file.” Anonymous. I stared at the coat hanging on my door for a long time before finally shoving it into the darkest, deepest corner of my closet. The next morning, Rachel eyed my plain knit sweater. “Natalie, where’s the coat? I was dying to see you style a four-thousand-dollar piece today!” “Oh,” I laughed nervously, “it’s way too nice for a regular Tuesday at the office. I don’t want to ruin it.” I certainly wasn’t going to wear something when I didn’t know who bought it. I tried to lose myself in my spreadsheets, but an hour later, the receptionist buzzed my line. “Natalie, there’s a package for you at the front desk.” A cold prickle of dread washed over me. Sure enough, when I opened the small, heavy parcel, it was a limited-edition designer vault containing every single shade of a luxury lipstick line. The card inside bore the same message: Your loving husband. Rachel gasped from the desk next to mine. “Oh my god! Isn’t this the vault we were looking at online last week? The one you said you wanted so badly?” She was right. And I remembered exactly what I had said to her: “I’d buy the whole set in a heartbeat, but my husband would roll his eyes. He constantly tells me my vanity is already overflowing.” Rachel shook her head, green with envy. “He tells you no, and then he buys the entire collection anyway? Natalie, what kind of fairy-tale marriage are you hiding?” Fairy-tale. That was one word for it. Another word was terrifying. I didn’t even know who this person was. My head throbbed as I shoved the lipsticks into my desk drawer. “Hey, are you okay?” Rachel asked, her tone shifting to concern. “You look pale. Did you and the mister have a fight?” I leaned into the excuse, offering a weak, miserable nod. “Ah, that explains it,” Rachel said, satisfied with her own deduction. “He’s trying to buy his way out of the doghouse. Honestly, with peace offerings like these, you should let him stay there a bit longer.” I didn’t answer. I quietly noted the tracking number on the shipping label, logged onto the courier’s website, and initiated a live chat with customer support. Ten minutes later, the prompt popped up: 【We apologize, but this shipment was dispatched under an anonymous corporate account. No sender information can be disclosed.】 Can you even do that with standard mail? I was still staring at the screen when the receptionist’s voice echoed through the office. “Natalie! You’ve got flowers!” 2 Flowers? I stood up slowly, my legs feeling like lead. A delivery guy was standing by the glass doors of our lobby, holding an enormous, breathtaking arrangement of white roses and delicate hydrangeas. “Are you Natalie?” the guy asked, checking his clipboard. “These are from your husband.” I stood there like a statue. By the time I snapped out of it, the courier was already halfway down the corridor toward the elevators. I ran out after him. “Wait! Please, wait!” He stopped, turning around with a look of mild amusement. “Yes, ma’am?” “Who placed the order? Do you have a name?” “Your husband,” he said slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “No, I mean—can I please see the account details on your tablet? Just the username, or a phone number?” The courier looked hesitant, but when he saw the sheer panic in my eyes, he relented and scrolled through his delivery app. The sender’s profile was entirely blank. “Look, all I know is the order came through our premium dispatch. The arrangement was five hundred dollars, and the guy left a three-hundred-dollar tip for a direct hand-delivery. Your husband is incredibly generous, ma’am.” I handed his tablet back, my hands trembling. I managed to murmur a thank-you before retreating back to the office. Naturally, my coworkers swarmed. “That bouquet must have cost a fortune!” “First the coat, then the vault, now this? Your husband is setting the bar impossibly high.” “Look, there’s a card. What does it say?” I looked down at the small piece of cardstock nestled in the blooms. Please don’t be angry anymore, sweetheart. My fingers shook so hard I nearly dropped the arrangement. “Natalie, you have to forgive him now,” Rachel teased. “I don’t care what he did. A man who loves you this much deserves a clean slate.” I couldn’t hear her over the roaring in my ears. The coat. The makeup. The flowers. The only person who knew about those exact conversations was Rachel. And the moment I let her believe I was “fighting” with my husband, a bouquet arrived asking for forgiveness. Was she doing this? Was it some elaborate, incredibly expensive prank to expose my lie? But Rachel was a junior copywriter living in a studio apartment with two roommates. She didn’t have thousands of dollars to throw away on a psychological game. None of it made sense. My mind was a chaotic mess, and by the time five o’clock rolled around, I felt a desperate need to ground myself. I decided to visit my grandfather. Grandpa’s house was always my sanctuary. He cooked a massive dinner, and I sat beside him on the sofa, wrapping my arm around his shoulders. It was only then that I realized he wasn’t wearing his hearing aid. “Grandpa,” I said, raising my voice. “Where is your hearing aid?” He turned his good ear toward me, blinking. “Oh, that old thing? It fell right into the lake yesterday while I was casting my line. Don’t worry about it. I can get by just fine without it.” “Of course you can’t,” I insisted, pulling out my phone to search for the best models on the market. “Don’t go spending your hard-earned money on me, Natalie,” he muttered, patting my hand. I ended up staying the night in my old bedroom. The next morning, a sharp knock at the front door woke me from a restless sleep. I rubbed my eyes and padded down the hallway. Grandpa was already opening the door to a delivery driver holding a small cardboard box. “Sign here, please.” Grandpa looked at the label, confused. “Natalie, did you order something? It’s already here?” I froze, the last remnants of sleep instantly vanishing. I rushed forward. There, in the courier’s hand, was a box from a high-end medical supply company. Inside was the exact top-of-the-line hearing aid I had been researching the night before. But I hadn’t placed the order. I had only added it to my cart. A cold sweat broke out across my back. 3 “Ma’am? Can you sign for this?” the driver prompted. Grandpa reached for the pen, but I grabbed his wrist. “Actually… I think there’s been a mistake. We didn’t order this. I need to refuse the delivery.” This was for my grandfather. I couldn’t risk him using something that came from an unknown, potentially dangerous source. As I pushed the box back toward the driver, my eyes caught the shipping label. Tucked under the plastic sleeve was a small, familiar note. Only the best for Grandpa. —Your Grandson-in-law. The breath left my lungs in a sharp gasp. After sending the confused driver away, I took half the day off, drove my grandfather to a local clinic, and bought him a certified hearing aid in person, using my own savings. On the drive back, I held his hand. “Grandpa, if you get any packages over the next few weeks—anything at all—promise me you won’t open them. Call me immediately.” He didn’t quite understand the urgency, but he nodded, sensing the terror in my voice. “Alright, sweetheart. I promise.” When I finally went into the office that afternoon, I was running on pure adrenaline. How did this person know my grandfather’s address? More importantly, how did they know about the hearing aid? I had only researched it on my phone the night before, while sitting in Grandpa’s living room. Could my phone be tapped? It was the only logical explanation. Someone was monitoring my search history, my location, perhaps even my microphone. I left work early, went straight to an electronics store, and bought a brand-new phone with cash. I did a factory reset on my old device and sold it to a refurbished tech kiosk. It was a massive hit to my bank account, but the peace of mind was worth every penny. For the next four days, the silence was deafening. No packages. No flowers. No notes. I finally began to breathe again. But on the fifth night, I fell into a deep, vivid dream. I was standing in a room filled with soft, golden light. A man was standing in front of me. He was tall, with dark hair and eyes so expressive they made my throat tight. He looked at me with an expression of profound, aching sorrow. “Wife,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “You won’t wear the coat. You won’t touch the makeup. You even sent back the hearing aid for your grandpa. Do you hate my gifts? Or do you just not want anything to do with me?” He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush my cheek, though I couldn’t feel his touch. “It’s your birthday today. If you don’t like my choices, I’ll just give you money. Buy whatever makes you happy.” I bolted upright in bed, gasping for air, my chest heaving. It was morning. The alarm on my phone was blaring. I pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream. Today was indeed my birthday. I forced myself to get ready and head to work. I sat at my desk, chewing on a piece of toast while reviewing a marketing proposal, when my phone vibrated in my palm. I tapped the screen, and my heart stopped. It was an alert from my banking app. Deposit Received: $1,000,000.00. One million dollars. I stared at the screen, convinced it was a glitch, a decimal point error. I logged out and logged back in. The balance was real. The available funds were there. Under the transaction details, there was a single memo: Happy Birthday, my love. The words from my dream echoed in my head: I’ll just give you money. Buy whatever makes you happy. My hands began to shake violently. I sat there, paralyzed, as my entire understanding of reality began to crumble. “Natalie? Are you okay?” Rachel asked, waving a hand in front of my face. I slammed my phone face-down on the desk. “Yes! Yes, I’m fine. Just… a headache.” My god. What was happening to me? Where did one million dollars come from? Was it possible to have a husband I had somehow completely forgotten? “Hey, I saw your calendar,” Rachel said gently. “It’s your birthday today. What are your plans?” I picked up the phone again, staring at the impossible number of zeros. None of the physical gifts had been fake. The coat was real wool. The lipsticks were real wax and pigment. Was this money real, too? Could I actually spend it? I took a deep, shaky breath. “You know what? It’s my birthday. Dinner and drinks are on me tonight. Everyone is invited.” The office erupted into cheers. “Natalie, seriously?” Rachel asked, her eyes wide. “Are you sure? We have a pretty large team.” “I’m sure,” I said, a strange, reckless confidence washing over me. “My husband is traveling for work, so I have some extra cash to burn.” I sent a reservation link to our group chat—a high-end French restaurant downtown. Rachel gasped when she saw the menu prices. “Natalie, are you insane? This place is incredibly expensive!” I just smiled. But deep down, I was terrified. What if my card declined? 4 But the transaction went through effortlessly. When the waiter returned my card after processing a fifteen-thousand-dollar bill, my coworkers looked at me as if I were royalty. “Natalie, seriously, what does your husband do?” Rachel whispered, leaning in over her empty champagne glass. “This is insane.” “He’s just… in finance,” I lied, my voice hollow. “Lots of international travel.” I barely heard the rest of their chatter. I was too busy staring at my hands. We went back to my place for cake. As Rachel lit the candles, she urged me to make a wish. I closed my eyes. If this was some bizarre, inexplicable superpower where whatever I thought of manifested into reality, I wanted to test the limits. I want more, I thought fiercely. Give me enough money to never have to worry again. I blew out the candles. Later that night, after everyone had left and the apartment was quiet, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I snatched it up, my heart hammering against my ribs. It was another bank notification. Deposit Received: $100,000,000.00. One hundred million dollars. And the memo: I will always give you everything you want. I got out of bed, pacing the floor of my tiny apartment. This wasn’t a dream. This was terrifying. If the government saw this kind of money appearing in a middle-class girl’s account, they’d think I was funding a cartel. I needed to go to the police. Even if they locked me up, at least I’d be safe from whatever supernatural force was tracking my every thought. I resolved to go to the precinct first thing in the morning. But as I reached to put my phone down, my finger accidentally swiped open my photo gallery. My breath caught. There were new photos in my camera roll. Dozens of them. And they weren’t of me alone. They were candid, beautiful photos of me and the man from my dream—the dark-haired man with the sorrowful eyes. We were laughing on a beach, sharing coffee in a diner, holding hands under a canopy of autumn leaves. I had no memory of these moments. I had never seen this man in my waking life. I kept the lights on all night, sitting in the corner of my living room with a kitchen knife in my hand, waiting for the sun to rise. At 6:00 AM, I took a cab to the local police precinct. The station was quiet, smelling of stale coffee and floor wax. A young officer at the front desk looked up at my pale face and dark circles. “Can I help you, ma’am?” “I… I need to report something,” I stammered, gripping the edge of the desk. “My phone has been compromised. Someone is adding photos to my gallery, and I’ve had… a large amount of money deposited into my account from an untraceable source.” The officer frowned, pulling over a notepad. “How much money?” “One hundred and one million dollars.” He stopped writing. “Excuse me?” From the back room, another officer walked out, holding a clipboard. “What’s going on, Briggs?” I froze. Briggs. The name struck a chord deep in my chest. I stared at the second officer’s face—the sharp jawline, the slight scar over his left eyebrow. Suddenly, my head exploded with pain. Memories—sharp, violent, and fragmented—flooded my brain. I saw a crowded street, the screech of tires, the smell of burning rubber, and then… nothingness. My vision blurred, the room began to spin, and before I could call out, the world went completely black.

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The building’s WhatsApp group chat was usually a boring feed of package-delivery complaints and noise warnings. But that night, a message popped up that made me stop scrolling. It was from Derrick, the guy who lived directly across the hall from me on the eighth floor. He tagged the entire building. “Looking for someone to keep my wife company. Duties include chatting and cooking dinner every night. I’ll pay $3,000 a month cash, plus a brand-new bottle of Hermès Terre d’Hermès cologne.” The chat went dead silent. No emojis, no thumbs-up. Just absolute, stunned silence. Then came the second notification. This time, he tagged me directly. “@Lewis, I think you’d be perfect for this. You’re single, and I see you heading to the gym all the time. I’ve already left the cologne outside your door. Just come on over tonight.” I walked over to my front door and opened it. Sure enough, sitting on my welcome mat was a perfectly wrapped orange Hermès gift box. A dry, disbelief-fueled laugh escaped my throat. I picked up the box, walked it straight to the trash chute down the hall, and tossed it in. Then I opened the app and replied to the group thread: “You’re out of your mind.” I thought it was just a bizarre, isolated stunt. A joke in poor taste. I was wrong. It was the first quiet creak of a door opening into a nightmare. … The next morning at seven, I grabbed my briefcase and opened my door, ready to head to the office. “Lewis. You took the cologne. Why didn’t you show up to keep my wife company last night?” Derrick was already standing there, blocking the hallway. He was wearing a silk pajama set, his hands planted firmly on his hips, glaring at me like a disappointed boss. I frowned, taking a step back. “Are you seriously out of your mind?” Derrick’s eyes went wide. “Why are you being so hostile? I went out of my way to buy you an expensive designer cologne, and you take it but don’t do the job? Where’s your integrity?” I pointed toward the trash chute at the end of the hall. “The box is in the garbage. Go dig it out yourself if you want it back. And get out of my way.” I tried to squeeze past him toward the elevator, but he took a sharp step forward, grabbing the strap of my messenger bag. “Hold on! Is it the money? You think three grand isn’t enough?” Derrick held on tight, his fingers sinking into the canvas strap. “Let me tell you, three thousand dollars is a lot of cash! How much do you even make at your little design firm anyway? Just cook some dinner for my wife, talk to her for a few hours. It’s not going to kill you!” My face went cold. I knocked his hand off my bag. “Derrick, I’m going to say this exactly once. I have zero interest in your wife, and I don’t want your money. If you touch me or harass me again, I’m calling the police.” “Go ahead! Call them!” Instead of backing down, he pressed closer, his breath smelling faintly of stale coffee. “My wife is pregnant! What are the cops going to do to me? You touch me, even a finger, and I’ll sue you for everything you have!” Our voices had been echoing down the concrete hallway, and the racket finally drew attention. The door to the apartment below us clicked open, and Jerry, an elderly neighbor who lived on the seventh floor, poked his head out, clutching a reusable grocery bag. “Oh, Lewis, what’s going on up there? Quite a loud morning, isn’t it?” Derrick immediately pointed a finger at me and shouted down the stairs. “Jerry! You be the judge here! This guy took my gift, agreed to keep my wife company, and now he’s backing out of the deal!” My hands began to tremble with pure rage. How could someone distort reality so seamlessly? I pulled out my phone and swiped open the building’s group chat, showing the screen to Jerry as he walked up the stairs. “Jerry, look at this. He posted this crazy proposal in the group chat last night. I didn’t even let him in. I threw his box straight into the trash chute.” Jerry squinted at my screen, then shifted his gaze to Derrick. His expression warped into deep embarrassment. “Derrick… come on, man. This is… it’s a bit much. Who looks for a ‘companion’ for their own wife like this?” “How is it a bit much?” Derrick’s voice grew even more shrill. “My wife is pregnant! She’s hormonal, she’s stressed, and she can’t stand the sight of me right now. Why shouldn’t I find someone to keep her happy? That’s what a good husband does!” He sneered at me, looking me up and down. “Look at him. A single guy, always showing off his muscles at the gym. He’s practically begging for female attention. I’m giving him an opportunity, and he’s acting like he’s too pure for it!” I took a slow, deep breath, dialing the building’s property management office. “Yes, this is Lewis Matthew in Unit 802. There’s a resident harassing me outside my door. Send security up right now. If they aren’t here in three minutes, I’m calling 911.” Hearing the word security made Derrick’s expression flicker. “Call them! You think I’m scared? My wife’s family has real money, Lewis. They could crush you like a bug!” Five minutes later, two security guards rushed out of the elevator, panting. I pointed at Derrick. “Get him away from my door. I have to go to work. If he blocks my path again, I will file a formal complaint against management for failing to maintain a safe environment.” The guards looked uncomfortable, offering placating smiles. “Uh… Mr. Collins, let’s calm down. Why don’t we head back inside your apartment?” Derrick shoved one of the guard’s hands away, pointing his finger right at my nose. “You think this is over, Lewis? It’s not. You reject me, you humiliate me, I will make sure you can’t show your face in this building again!” I kept my expression entirely blank, walked past him, and stepped into the elevator. I truly believed that if I just ignored him, he’d get tired of the drama and stop. But I had severely underestimated how low he was willing to go. I got back from the office around eight that night after pulling a long shift. The moment I stepped out of the elevator, a sharp, chemical stench hit my nose. It smelled like fresh paint, heavy and toxic. I walked down the corridor to my door and stopped dead. My door was covered in thick, dripping crimson paint. Scrawled across the center in jagged, mocking letters were the words: DIE, BOY TOY. And hanging from the doorknob by a bright red string was a dead, blood-smeared rat. I stood there, the air leaving my lungs. My stomach violently churned. Before I could even process the horror, my phone vibrated in my palm. I swiped to answer. Derrick’s voice, smug and dripping with satisfaction, filled my ear. “Hey, Lewis. Do you like my little housewarming gift?” My voice was a frozen whisper. “Did you do this? Are you admitting you vandalized my door?” On the other end, he let out a sharp, arrogant laugh. “What door? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just happened to walk past your place and saw a mess. Thought I’d call and check in on my neighbor.” He paused, his tone shifting into something darker. “But honestly, plenty of people in this building are sick of looking at your smug face. Maybe some good Samaritan decided to do something about it.” I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. “Derrick, do you honestly think because there isn’t a working camera in this hallway, you’re going to get away with this?” “Go ahead and try to prove it! Management hasn’t fixed those hallway cameras in months,” he sneered. “Listen to me, Lewis. You wash up, clean yourself up, and go knock on my wife’s door tonight. We can let bygones be bygones.” “And if I don’t?” “Then tomorrow, it won’t just be paint on your door.” I hung up on him, instantly blocking his number, and dialed 911. Ten minutes later, two police officers arrived at the scene. I laid out everything—the screenshots from the building’s WhatsApp group, the context of our morning confrontation, and the audio recording of the phone call I had just received. The two young officers stared at the dripping red door, their brows furrowing deeply. “I’ve got to admit, this is a first,” one of them said, before walking over and knocking on Derrick’s door. The door swung open. Derrick stood there in his silk pajamas again, holding a bowl of freshly washed green grapes. Seeing the police, his face instantly morphed into a picture of innocent concern. “Officers? Oh my goodness, what happened?” The officer pointed at my door. “Did you do this?” Derrick gasped, covering his mouth. “Oh, that’s horrible! Who would do such a thing? Lewis, have you been getting involved with the wrong crowd? Is someone after you?” I stared at him. “That’s not what you said on the phone five minutes ago.” The officer pulled out my phone and played the call recording right in front of him. When the audio finished, Derrick squeezed his eyes shut, looking like a victim of a grave injustice. “Officers, listen to that. Did I confess to anything? Not at all.” He wiped a fake tear from his eye. “I was just frustrated because this guy is always trying to hit on my wife. I was throwing some shade. Is it a crime to talk trash to a guy who’s eyeing your pregnant wife? I’m a respected tenant here. I wouldn’t touch paint.” The officers exchanged a look of frustration. Without direct eyewitnesses or functional hallway cameras, and with Derrick’s clever wording in the recording, their hands were legally tied. “Mr. Collins, your behavior and statements are bordering on criminal harassment,” the officer warned, his voice stern. “Watch your step. If we receive another call regarding your conduct, you will be brought down to the station.” Derrick nodded quickly, his head bobbing like a toy. “Of course, officer. Absolutely. I understand.” Once the police left, the hallway fell silent again. Derrick’s fake remorse evaporated instantly. He leaned against his doorframe, a nasty, victorious smirk spreading across his face. “See that, Lewis? Even the cops can’t touch me.” He stepped closer, dropping his voice to a low, venomous whisper. “My wife is carrying the sole heir to the entire inheritance of her family. You want this to stop? You do what you’re told. Go keep her happy.” I looked at him, and to my own surprise, a quiet laugh slipped out. “Is that so? We’ll see about that.” I didn’t waste another word on him. I called a locksmith to change my locks, and hired an emergency cleaning crew to power-wash the crimson paint off my door. The next morning, the moment I stepped into the lobby of my design firm, the young receptionist, Toby, rushed over and grabbed my arm. “Lewis, man, you need to check the company-wide Slack channel right now.” My stomach dropped. I pulled out my phone. An anonymous user had posted a long, detailed thread in the main channel. The headline read: The Secret Life of a Star Designer: The Self-Righteous Lewis Matthew is a Home-Wrecker Preying on Pregnant Women. The post included my headshot from our company website, alongside a cropped screenshot of the message Derrick had sent in the building’s chat. The text underneath was pure venom: “This man will do anything for money—even target a pregnant woman. He accepted expensive designer gifts from her husband, but when he realized the cash wasn’t enough, he backed out of the deal and tried to frame the husband by calling the police. This is the kind of predator we work with.” The office was already a hornets’ nest. When I walked past the open cubicles, the whispering started. People turned away, pointing, murmuring behind their hands. I gripped my phone and walked straight into the creative director’s office. My boss, Richard, was a no-nonsense man in his late forties. He looked up as I entered, then closed his laptop. I handed him my phone, showing him the full, uncropped chat logs and the police report from the night before. His expression grew incredibly grim. “Lewis, I’ve known you for five years. I know your character,” Richard said, his voice measured but serious. “But this post has already circulated. We’ve got clients calling, asking what’s going on with their lead designer.” “I know,” I said, taking a steadying breath. “I’ll handle this. Completely and legally. If I can’t resolve it within the week, I’ll resign.” Richard gave a slow nod. “Go handle it. I’ll have IT scrub the post and block the IP.” Leaving his office, I immediately called an attorney friend of mine. Defamation. Stalking. Sexual harassment. I packed a bag and checked into a boutique hotel near the office, refusing to go back to my apartment. For a few weeks, Derrick went quiet. No more messages, no more online posts. The silence was a relief. I started to think they had finally realized they had crossed a line. I thought they were scared. But I was incredibly naive. A month later, on a chilly Friday afternoon, I stepped out of the office building. Before I could even reach my car, a figure stepped out from the shadow of the parking garage, blocking my path. It was a woman in a designer maternity dress, wearing gold-rimmed glasses. She was visibly pregnant. She looked at me, a tight, apologetic smile plastered across her face. “Mr. Matthew. Hello. I’m Aurora, Derrick’s wife.” I stopped, my guard immediately going up. “What do you want?” Aurora sighed, reaching into her Chanel bag to pull out a beautifully wrapped package, holding it out to me with both hands. “I came here to apologize to you in person,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “My husband… since we found out about the pregnancy, his mental state has been incredibly fragile. He does erratic things. I’ve been staying at my parents’ estate upstate to rest, and I had no idea he was causing you so much trouble. I am truly, deeply sorry.” I didn’t move to take the box. “Save your apology. I’ve already hired a lawyer. We’ll settle this in court.” At the word lawyer, a sharp flash of calculation crossed Aurora’s eyes. She slowly retracted the gift box, took a step closer, and lowered her voice. “Lewis, a lawsuit is so tedious, don’t you think? It takes forever, and honestly, a public court battle won’t do much for a handsome, single young man’s reputation.” She pushed her gold-rimmed glasses up her nose, her eyes scanning my chest and shoulders with a slow, predatory appraisal. “Besides… Derrick’s idea might have been poorly phrased, but that doesn’t mean it’s a bad opportunity for you.” I froze, wondering if I was actually losing my mind. “What did you just say?” Aurora smiled, a cold, empty expression. “Come on, Lewis. You’re a talented guy, but working this hard to pay rent must be exhausting. Derrick… well, his physique isn’t exactly thrilling, and he certainly can’t satisfy me.” She reached out, her fingers hovering just inches from my jawline. “If you agree, we can forget about the three thousand. I’ll pay you thirty thousand dollars a month. All you have to do is come over and spend a few nights a week with me.” She gave a soft laugh. “Derrick is a bit simple-minded. He actually believes this is his duty as a husband to keep me happy. You see? My entire household is welcoming you with open arms. Why be difficult?” A cold shiver raced up my spine. This couple was a nightmare of epic proportions. One was a self-righteous pimp; the other was a casual solicitor. The sheer disgust boiled over. I violently slapped her hand away. Slap! My hand caught the side of her face. Aurora’s head snapped to the side. She stumbled back, clutching her cheek, her polite facade crumbling instantly. Her eyes turned black with venom. “Lewis Matthew, don’t play hard to get. I offered you a golden ticket.” She spat on the pavement next to my shoe. “Believe me, I have a hundred different ways to make you crawl to my bed on your knees.” Her voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of a threat. I met her gaze, a cold smile touching my lips. “Then I suggest you try them. Let’s see who breaks first.” I turned on my heel and walked away. The moment I got back to my hotel room, I called my lawyer to document the encounter. But the storm hit sooner than I expected. At two in the morning, I was dead asleep when a deafening racket shattered the quiet of my hotel room. Bang! Bang! Bang! “Lewis! Open the door, you pathetic piece of trash!” It was Derrick. I sat straight up in bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. How did they find out which hotel I was staying at? “Open the door! You try to steal my wife? You lay your hands on her? Get out here!” The pounding on the door grew more violent, shaking the frame. Derrick’s slurred, hysterical insults echoed through the hallway. I grabbed my phone, immediately dialed 911, and then patched through to the front desk. “This is room 802. There is a man trying to kick my door down. Send security up right now!” Outside, the shouting escalated. I heard Aurora’s voice join in. “Lewis, open up! You think you’re so high and mighty? You had the guts to hit me, but you don’t have the guts to face us?” Her voice sounded thick, slurred with alcohol. I pressed my back against the locked door, my hand trembling as I gripped the can of pepper spray I kept in my bag. Five minutes felt like five hours. Finally, the muffled voices of security guards echoed in the hall, followed by the heavy, authoritative footsteps of police officers. I let out a long, shaky breath and turned the lock, stepping out. The hallway was a scene of pure chaos. Derrick was thrashing wildly, trying to tear himself away from two police officers who were attempting to cuff him. Aurora stood to the side, trying to smooth things over with a third officer. “Officer, please, this is all just a misunderstanding. My husband is just incredibly protective. He thought his wife’s lover was in there, that’s all.” I stepped forward, pointing at them. “Officers, this isn’t a misunderstanding. This is criminal harassment. They’ve been stalking and harassing me for over a month.” The officer dealing with Aurora looked at Derrick, recognition dawning on his face. “Wait. Are you the guy from the paint vandalism call last month? And now you’re bringing the drama to a hotel?” Derrick’s face flushed a deep, violent purple. He lunged toward me, spit flying from his mouth. “You home-wrecking coward! You hit my wife! I’ll kill you!” The officers slammed him against the wall. “Stop resisting! Calm down!” But then, Derrick suddenly went limp. He stared down at Aurora. My eyes followed his gaze. A dark, crimson pool of blood was rapidly spreading down the fabric of Aurora’s maternity dress, staining her shoes and the carpet. “Oh my god…” Derrick whispered, his voice cracking. “My baby… Aurora…” The entire hallway froze. Aurora’s face drained of color. She collapsed against the wall, clutching her stomach. “My baby… it hurts… oh god, it hurts…” The officers immediately radioed for an ambulance. The hallway dissolved into a frenzy of shouting and medical jargon. As the paramedics arrived and loaded Aurora onto a gurney, Derrick turned back to me. His eyes were bloodshot, filled with a primal, terrifying hatred. “Lewis Matthew,” he hissed, his voice trembling with a terrifying promise. “If my baby dies, I will take your life.”

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