Author: Momo Chan

After five years of marriage, I ghostwrote twelve bestselling novels for my husband and built his success with my own hands. At the launch party for his new book, he walked in with a rising celebrity on his arm and announced he’d found a new “muse.” When a reporter asked about my contribution, he smiled and cut them off. “Her? Without me, she’s nothing.” I just smiled back, calm as ever. Because from the very first book, he was never really my husband — He was an investment. One I’d spent five years carefully building up. And tonight, at the peak of his arrogance, his biggest rival would buy him out — contract and all — at the price I’d already set. The lights at the book launch were blazing, and they made Rowan Sterling look handsome and successful. Elara Vance stood beside him — a hot celebrity in an expensive gown, her arm looped through his. They were the stars of the night. I sat in the most invisible corner of the audience, holding a guest pass between my fingers. Rowan’s assistant had shoved it into my hand just to check a box. “Evelyn, tonight is really important for Rowan. Just watch from down here — don’t come up on stage. We can’t have you saying the wrong thing.” Her words were still ringing in my ears. Up on stage, the host introduced Rowan’s thirteenth book with barely contained excitement. “Rowan, congratulations on your upcoming release, Light in the Dust! Critics are already calling it the pinnacle of your career. Can you walk us through the creative journey behind this one?” Rowan picked up the mic and glanced at Elara. “This book wouldn’t exist without my muse — Elara Vance.” Every camera in the room swung toward her. She smiled for the lenses with the ease of someone who’d already won. “Every single day with Elara fills me with the drive to create. She’s like a beam of light cutting through the darkness inside me — a darkness I thought had run dry.” Applause and camera clicks filled the room. My heart was completely still. Like standing water that hadn’t moved in years. Light in the Dust — I came up with that title after three consecutive all-nighters in the attic, staring out the window at the faint glow of early morning. Rowan had been in another city at the time, attending some business event with Elara. He told me it was all for our future together. A reporter stood up. “Rowan, we all know you’re married. How has your wife supported your career? Was she involved in this new book at all?” It was a pointed question. Every eye in the room landed on Rowan. I watched his brow twitch — just barely, just for a second. Then it smoothed out, and he flashed that perfect smile. “My wife has always been my quiet support system at home. She takes care of everything so I never have to worry.” He paused, and his tone went flat. “As for the writing itself — that’s a specialized craft. It takes talent and inspiration. It’s not something you can compare to keeping house.” Five years of my life. Twelve books. Tens of millions of words. And he’d just filed it all under housework. Elara stepped in right on cue, her voice honeyed and smooth. “Rowan is such a dedicated writer. He locks himself in his study for hours — sometimes a whole day at a time. The best thing the people around him can do is stay out of his way and let him work.” She’d placed herself firmly in the category of the people around him. The reporter wasn’t done. “So, Rowan — does that mean your wife had nothing to do with the massive success of your previous twelve books either?” A flicker of irritation crossed Rowan’s face. He raised the mic, and his voice cooled. “My wife has given a lot to this family, and I’ve always been grateful for that. But the writing is mine. My work. My talent.” He said it without a moment’s hesitation. As if all those sleepless nights meant nothing. As if the pages covered in my handwriting had never existed. The young reporter sitting next to me — clearly new to the job — leaned over and whispered to her colleague. “Who even is his wife? I’ve never seen her before.” “Probably just a housewife,” the other one murmured back. “He keeps her so hidden — she must not be much to look at.” I looked down at my hands. At the knuckles that had bent slightly out of shape from years of holding a pen. Then another reporter stood up. “Evelyn — are you here tonight? As Rowan’s wife, do you plan to keep supporting his career? And what do you think about him finding a new muse?” Heads began turning all across the room, searching for me. Rowan’s gaze cut through the crowd like a blade, landing on me with a clear warning. He jumped in before I could say a word, his voice loud and carrying the easy condescension of someone doing a favor. “Of course she supports me. “ ”She’d be nothing without me.”

The room fell completely silent. Then came an even bigger uproar. Those words were captured by countless cameras and spread across the entire internet. I became what everyone was talking about — a worthless woman who could only survive by clinging to her husband. I slowly lifted my head and looked up at Rowan on the stage. He was basking in the spotlight, not sparing me a single glance. He thought I would swallow every humiliation and injustice, just like I had for the past five years. I took out my phone. The screen’s glow lit up my face. I found a number — one I had saved a long time ago but never once called. Elias Thorne. Rowan’s biggest rival in the literary world. I opened the email attachment. Inside was a complete document. The file was titled: Light in the Dust. Recipient: Elias Thorne. I hit send. Then I stood up and walked out of that place that made me sick to my stomach. My phone buzzed. A new email. From Elias. Just one word. “Yes.” I went back to the place that was supposed to be called “home.” It was quiet. Our wedding photo hung on the wall. The woman in that picture was smiling — genuinely happy. Back then, I believed I had married for love. I pulled out my suitcase and started packing my things. I didn’t have much. A few clothes, some books, and an old laptop. That laptop held every single word I had written over the past five years. Every word had been published under Rowan’s name, turned into the halo that crowned his head. I placed the laptop gently into the suitcase. I didn’t cry. I wasn’t angry. My heart was calm. When a person has been completely let down, there’s nothing left to feel. The door opened. Rowan walked in with Elara. He’d been drinking — the smell of alcohol clung to him. Elara had her arm around him. When she saw me packing, her eyes went wide with exaggerated surprise. “Evelyn, what are you doing?” Rowan shoved Elara aside and stormed over to me. He snatched the clothes out of my hands and threw them on the floor. “Evelyn, what the hell is wrong with you?” His voice was full of rage. “You already embarrassed me at the launch. Now you’re pulling some dramatic walk-out?” I ignored him. I bent down, picked up the clothes, and folded them again. “I’m not being dramatic, Rowan. I want a divorce.” My voice was steady. Rowan looked at me like I’d just told the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “Divorce? Evelyn, do you even know what you’re saying?” He jabbed his finger at me. “You eat my food, wear clothes I pay for, live in my house. If you leave me, where are you going to go? What are you going to do?” “Don’t forget — without me, you’re nothing.” He said it again. The same words. Elara walked over and tugged at his arm, putting on a show of trying to calm him down. “Rowan, don’t say it like that. Evelyn’s probably just not thinking straight right now.” She turned to me, her eyes full of gloating dressed up as pity. “Evelyn, I know you’re hurting. But you can’t force feelings. Rowan loves me now. You should let us be happy.” “Besides, a woman needs stability. Throwing a fit is one thing, but don’t throw away your whole future over it.”

She said it all so matter-of-factly. Like I was some child who didn’t know any better and needed to be set straight. The alcohol was hitting Rowan harder now. He dropped onto the couch and pressed his fingers to his temples. “Evelyn, I’m exhausted. I’m not doing this with you tonight.” “Right now, you’re going to apologize to Elara.” He said it like an order. “She had a rough night at the launch, and it’s because of you. You made her look bad.” I stared at him. It almost made me laugh. I was the one who’d been humiliated. I was the one who’d been publicly shamed. I was the one who’d been stripped of everything. And now he was telling me to apologize to the woman who had taken it all. “And if I don’t?” I asked. Rowan’s eyes narrowed. Something dangerous flickered in them. “Don’t push me.” “I’m telling you right now — I run this house. You either apologize and go back to being the way you were, or you get out.” “I’ll give you three seconds.” “One.” “Two.” Elara leaned against Rowan, watching me like she had a front-row seat to a show. I didn’t wait for three. I zipped up my suitcase and stood up straight. “You’re right, Rowan.” “This is your house. You make the rules.” “So I’m done here.” I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and walked toward the door. Rowan froze. He probably never expected that I — always so obedient — would actually leave. “Evelyn, you dare!” He roared at my back. I didn’t turn around. As I opened the door, I heard Elara say behind me: “Rowan, don’t be mad. She’s just throwing a tantrum. Give it a few days — once she runs out of money, she’ll come crawling back on her own.” Rowan’s voice dripped with contempt. “She won’t last three days before she’s crying and begging me to take her back.” I closed the door. Shutting the two of them — and my past — inside. The air outside was cold. I dragged my suitcase through the streets in the dead of night. I had nowhere to go. My parents were long gone, and my friends had all drifted away because Rowan didn’t like them. For five years, my whole world had been him. I checked into a hotel. The room was small, but clean. I set my suitcase in the corner and sat on the edge of the bed. My phone rang. It was Elias. I answered. “Hello?” “It’s me, Elias.” His voice was low, carrying a trace of surprise. “The manuscript you sent me — you wrote this?” “Yes,” I said. A brief silence on the other end. “All twelve of Rowan’s books — you wrote them?” “Yes.” Another silence. I could picture the shock on his face. The entire literary world had been fooled by Rowan. “Where are you right now?” Elias asked. “A hotel.” “Would you be okay meeting in person? I’d like to talk face to face.” “Sure.” We arranged to meet at the café downstairs. Elias was younger than I’d imagined. He was dressed casually, and he looked less like a successful businessman and more like an academic. When he spotted me, he stood up. “Mrs. Sterling.” “Just Evelyn is fine.” We sat down, and he ordered me a warm glass of milk. “I read the manuscript. It’s exceptional.” Elias got straight to the point. “The story structure, the prose — it’s far beyond anything Rowan is capable of now.” “He hasn’t produced anything this good in a very long time.” I said nothing, just stirred the milk in my cup. “I want to know — what are your plans?” Elias looked at me, his gaze direct. “I want to take back everything that belongs to me,” I said. “My name, my work, and my life.” Elias smiled. “Good.” He reached into his briefcase, pulled out a document, and slid it across the table. “Sell it to me.” “We want to purchase the rights to your manuscript, Light from the Dust, and promote it with everything we’ve got.” “The author’s name on the cover — your name.” I looked at the contract. The terms they were offering were even better than what Rowan currently had. “Why?” I asked. “Rowan is your rival. Helping me means going up against him. What’s in it for you?” Elias leaned back in his chair. “First — I respect your talent. Work this good shouldn’t be buried, and it sure as hell shouldn’t be stolen by a fraud.” “Second — taking down the competition is just business. Rowan has dominated this market for too long. It’s time for a change.” “Third,” he paused, “I think you deserve it.” I looked into his eyes. There was no pity there — only admiration and respect. In five years, no one had ever looked at me that way. “I have one condition,” I said. 4 “Go ahead.” “I want Rowan completely destroyed.” The corner of Elias’s mouth curved into a smile. “That’s not a condition. That’s just what happens when we work together.” I picked up the pen and signed my name at the bottom of the contract. Evelyn. Not Rowan’s wife. Not anyone’s shadow. Just myself. After signing, I went back to my room. There was an unread message on my phone from Rowan. “When you’re done with this little act, come home. I’ll pretend none of this ever happened.” I deleted the message, and typed back with a thrill I’d never felt before: “Don’t rush. The show has only just begun.” I signed a deal with Elias’s publishing house. They gave me an apartment to use as a temporary workspace. It was quiet, with a large floor-to-ceiling window. I could write there in peace. Elias’s team moved fast — they wasted no time getting my new book ready. Meanwhile, Rowan didn’t seem to sense the storm coming. He probably still thought I was just sulking. I spotted him in a business news segment. He had taken Elara to a major film and TV adaptation conference. The photo showed him looking confident and full of life, his arm around Elara’s waist, smiling at the camera. The report said that “Stellar Pictures” the country’s largest film and television company, was interested in adapting his next work, Light in the Dust, into a major production. Stellar Pictures was one of Elias’s business partners. My lawyer told me everything was going according to plan. A few days later, I got a call from Elias. “There’s a meeting with Stellar Pictures. You should come.” “In what capacity?” I asked. “As the original author.” The meeting was scheduled at the conference center of a five-star hotel. When I arrived, Rowan and Elara hadn’t shown up yet. I was directed to wait in the lounge area. It wasn’t long before I heard those familiar, grating voices. “Rowan, if this deal goes through, I have to play the female lead.” That was Elara. “Don’t worry. I’m on good terms with the CEO of Stellar. This project is as good as ours.” That was Rowan. They walked in. Rowan spotted me the moment he stepped through the door. His face flashed with surprise, then quickly shifted to contempt. He probably thought I had followed him here, or was looking for a job. “What are you doing here?” He walked up to me, looking down at me like I was beneath him. Elara followed close behind, arms crossed, wearing the expression of someone who couldn’t wait to watch a scene unfold. “Evelyn, are you here to beg Rowan for forgiveness?” I didn’t bother responding to either of them. Rowan’s patience ran out fast. “I don’t care how you got in here. Leave. Right now. Don’t embarrass me.” His eyes landed on the coffee machine in front of me, and something seemed to click. He pushed an empty cup toward me and spoke like he was giving an order. “Pour me a cup of coffee.” I looked at him. Elara laughed out loud. “Evelyn, weren’t you always so good at taking care of people? Don’t tell me you can’t even pour a cup of coffee anymore.” Rowan let out a scornful snort. “Without me, this is all she’s good for anyway.” His eyes were full of contempt. He thought I was still the same Evelyn he could walk all over whenever he felt like it. He thought that without him, I was nothing. I slowly stood up. I didn’t touch the coffee machine. I just looked at him and said, calmly: “Rowan, you’re going to find out very soon — which one of us is nothing without the other.” He looked at me like I’d just told the world’s worst joke. “You? Really? You?” Just then, the door to the lounge swung open.

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Late at night, I sat alone in our newly finished wedding suite, facing the antique Western mirror I’d won at auction for a small fortune, trying on the diamond crown I was meant to wear for the wedding tomorrow. The woman in the mirror was lovely, her eyes sweet with the joy of a bride about to walk down the aisle. Victor had booked out an entire private island for this wedding. Everyone said I was the happiest woman in our circle. My parents had died young, leaving me a fortune worth billions. Not only had I held the family business together, I’d also found a man who loved me down to the bone. Just as I was lost in that happiness, the surface of the antique mirror suddenly rippled like water. My once-clear reflection began to twist and blur. Then a woman appeared in the glass — skeletal, her hair gone gray, wearing a psychiatric hospital’s restraint jacket. She was strapped to a rusted iron bed, her eyes hollow and sunken, her cheeks covered in festering sores. And that face was my own.

The woman in the mirror slowly turned her head, those ash-gray eyes fixing on me. “Blair, look at me.” Her voice was hoarse, like sandpaper grinding. “I’m you, ten years from now.” In that instant, the blood in my veins seemed to freeze. Ten years from now? How could I ever turn into something this ghastly? “V… Victor is a monster!” The woman in the mirror suddenly grew frantic, thrashing against her restraints, the chains clashing with an ear-splitting screech. “He never loved you! He loves your money!” “You think you have the early-onset Alzheimer’s that runs in your family?” “No! He’s been poisoning you!” “Those imported ‘miracle pills’ he hands you every day — they’re hallucinogens that destroy your nervous system!” “He turned you into a madwoman who can’t even remember her own name, then took legal guardianship of you and seized Kensington Group!” I shook my head desperately, tears spilling out. “Impossible! Victor would lay down his life for me — how could he ever hurt me?” Years ago, when I was in that car accident, he’d shielded me with his own body, his back torn bloody by the glass. How could he be a con artist? “You fool!” The me from ten years later laughed, a shrill, ghastly sound. “That accident was staged — he hurt himself on purpose to win you over!” “And your best friend Chloe — she’s been sleeping with Victor for ages!” “While you’re locked in a psych ward eating slop, the three of them — him, her, and the baby — are living in your villa, spending your money, sleeping in your bed!” “Before the wedding tomorrow, he’ll bring out a full power-of-attorney document for you to sign.” “Don’t sign it! If you do, there’s no coming back!” The image in the mirror began to flicker, the woman’s voice growing fainter and fainter. “Check his second phone… the passcode is Chloe’s birthday…” “Remember — don’t drink anything he gives you…” The glass abruptly went still. In the reflection was only my own face, pale and terrified.

“Blair, why are you sitting on the floor?” The bedroom door opened, and Victor walked in wearing silk pajamas, carrying a delicate porcelain bowl. He hurried to my side and helped me up, his eyes full of concern. “Did you get dizzy again?” He gently touched my forehead, then picked the crown up off the floor and set it on the vanity. “Here, take today’s medicine first. The doctor said it slows down your memory loss.” He scooped up a spoonful of the dark, murky liquid, blew on it, and held it to my lips. “Good girl. Drink it and get to bed early — tomorrow you’ll be the most beautiful bride in the world.” Ten minutes earlier, I’d have swallowed it without hesitation and been moved to tears by his tenderness. But now, looking at that impossibly gentle face, my stomach just churned. The medicine gave off a strange, bitter-sweet smell. That festering face from ten years later wouldn’t leave my mind. “I… I feel a little nauseous. I’ll drink it later.” I turned my face away, fighting to keep from trembling. Victor’s eyes darkened almost imperceptibly, then quickly softened again. “The best medicine tastes the worst. You’ve been so forgetful lately — you can’t skip your doses.” There was a faint, hard edge under his tone. “Be good. I’ll feed it to you.” I clenched my fists so hard my nails nearly cut into my palms. “Victor, I really can’t drink it right now. I want to take a shower first.” I stood, not daring to meet his eyes, and all but fled into the bathroom. The second I locked the door, I leaned back against it, gasping for air. I heard Victor moving around outside, and after a while his footsteps left the bedroom. I turned on the faucet, letting the running water cover everything. Then I quietly eased the bathroom door open a crack. Victor wasn’t in the bedroom. Barefoot, I crossed to the nightstand and pulled open the bottom drawer. There was a hidden compartment there. Victor thought I didn’t know about it, but I’d found it long ago while cleaning — I’d just never opened it, because I trusted him. I fished out a black backup phone. With shaking fingers, I typed in Chloe’s birthday: 0912. The screen lit up. The phone had only one hidden messaging app. The pinned contact was named “Babe.” The profile picture was Chloe’s beloved ragdoll cat. I opened the chat history, and a wave of disgust drowned me instantly. [Honey, the baby kicked me again today. I can’t wait for him to be born.] Attached was a photo of a pregnant belly — and the background was the sofa in mine and Victor’s wedding suite! Victor replied: [You’ve worked so hard, love. Once that stupid woman signs the power of attorney tomorrow, Kensington Group is ours. Then I’ll send her straight to a sanatorium and bring you in to live here out in the open.] Chloe: [Should we up her dosage? I’m scared she’ll come to her senses tomorrow and refuse to sign.] Victor: [Relax, I doubled tonight’s dose. By tomorrow her brain will be total mush. She’ll do whatever I tell her.] Chloe: [You’re so smart, honey. I love you to death. That frump still thinks she’s dying of some terminal illness — it’s hilarious.] I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood, just to keep from screaming out loud. Ten years of friendship. Five years of love. All of it a carefully built con to bleed me dry and slaughter me! They didn’t just want my money — they wanted to turn me into a total madwoman, to make me wish I were dead! I quickly forwarded all the chat logs and the photo of the prenatal report to my private encrypted email. Then I deleted the forwarding records and put the phone back in the compartment exactly as it had been. The moment I finished, footsteps approached the bedroom door. I rushed back into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. When Victor pushed the door open, I was just coming out, drying my hair. “All done?” He walked over smiling, still holding that bowl of medicine. “It’s the perfect temperature now. Drink up.” I looked at him and suddenly smiled. “Okay.” I took the porcelain bowl and walked to the windowsill. “Victor, you’re so good to me.” “For you, I’d do anything.” The instant a satisfied smile crossed his face, I flipped my wrist. Every last drop of the dark liquid poured into the prized clivia plant on the sill. “Oops, my hand slipped.” I looked at him with fake alarm. Victor’s face went instantly ugly, a vein jumping at his temple. But he quickly choked down his anger and forced out a smile. “It’s fine. I’ll go make you another bowl.” “Don’t bother.” I cut him off, walked over, and wrapped my arms around his waist, burying my face against his chest. “It’s too late. I’m tired, and I have to be up early tomorrow.”

The next day, at the seven-star hotel owned by Kensington Group. Everyone of note in our circle had gathered for the wedding of the century. In the dressing room, I looked at my flawlessly made-up face in the mirror, my eyes clear and cold. “Blair, you look stunning today!” Chloe walked in wearing her bridesmaid dress, lightly made up, a designer bag on her arm, beaming as she came up behind me. “This gown is couture. Victor really spared no expense for you.” As she spoke, she very naturally touched her slightly rounded belly. If I hadn’t seen those messages, I’d never have noticed that unconscious, protective little gesture. “He really did put a lot of ‘thought’ into me.” I watched her reflection with a faint, knowing smile. Chloe froze for a beat, as if my gaze cut a little too sharp. But she covered quickly and pulled a red gift box out of her bag. “Blair, I went to the church and had this cross blessed especially for you.” “You haven’t been well lately, always forgetting things. The pastor said this will keep you safe and keep your mind clear.” She pressed the cross into my hand, her smile all sincerity. “You have to keep it on you at all times.” I looked at the cheap little cross in my hand. Inside, I was sneering. Giving me a cross? Was she afraid I wasn’t dying fast enough — or testing whether I’d noticed something was wrong? “Thanks, Chloe.” I casually tossed the cross into the trash can beside me. “But I don’t believe in any of that. Besides, with Victor around, what could possibly happen to me?” Chloe stared at the cross in the trash, her face stiffening. “Blair, you… why would you throw it away? That was a heartfelt gift.” “Sorry, I’m a hard-nosed realist.” I shot her a cold glance. Just then, the dressing room door opened. Victor walked in wearing a sharply tailored white tuxedo, every inch the storybook prince. “Blair, are you ready? The ceremony’s about to start.” He came to my side, his eyes flicking between me and Chloe. Chloe instantly put on a wounded expression and shot him a hesitant look. Victor gave her an almost invisible signal, then turned to me. “Blair, before the ceremony starts, there’s a small document I need you to sign.” He pulled a folded document from his inner pocket and held it out to me. “What is this?” I asked, though I knew full well. “It’s a full power of attorney.” Victor’s voice was dripping with tenderness. “You haven’t been well lately, and the doctor says you need a long rest — you can’t overexert yourself.” “Running Kensington Group is exhausting. I don’t want you wearing yourself out.” “Just hand the company over to me for a while. You can simply relax and be my Mrs. Thorne, all right?” He pressed a diamond-studded pen into my hand. “Sign it. We’ve got hundreds of guests and the press out there waiting for us.”

I looked down at the document. It was all spelled out in black and white. The moment I signed my name, every share of Kensington Group, all decision-making power, even the real estate in my name, would be Victor’s to do with as he pleased. This was the trap he’d so carefully laid. “Blair, just sign it.” Chloe chimed in from the side. “Victor only wants what’s best for you. Look at yourself lately — you fall asleep in meetings. Hand the company to him. What’s there to worry about?” Watching this pair of dogs sing the same tune, I suddenly found it absurdly funny. “Victor.” I lifted my head and stared straight at him. “Do you think I’ve gone so mad I can’t even read anymore?” The smile on Victor’s face froze. “Blair, what are you talking about? You’re just sick…” “Sick?” I shot to my feet and flung the power of attorney into his face. The sharp edge of the paper sliced across his cheek, leaving a thin line of blood. “Victor, those hallucinogens you’ve been dosing me with — did you really think I didn’t know?” The instant the words left my mouth, the air in the dressing room froze. Victor’s pupils contracted violently, but he was an old fox — he forced himself calm in a heartbeat. “Blair! Are you having another episode? You’re babbling nonsense again!” He rushed forward to grab my hands. “Chloe, quick, get her medicine!” Chloe panicked too, scrambling a pill bottle out of her bag and shaking out two white tablets. “Blair, stop this, just take your medicine!” She lunged over, trying to help Victor pin me down. “Get away from me!” I swung my hand around and delivered a deafening slap straight across Chloe’s face. Crack! I put everything into it. Chloe shrieked, crashing to the floor, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. “You dare hit me?!” Chloe clutched her face, screaming in disbelief. “I’m hitting you precisely because you’re a shameless slut!” I looked down at her from above. “Carrying another man’s bastard and playing my bridesmaid — Chloe, aren’t you afraid you’ll give birth to a monster?” The words landed like a bomb, blowing Victor and Chloe to pieces. Victor completely lost his composure. He stared at me in disbelief, the devoted mask he’d worn ripping away to reveal the vicious face beneath. “You… how could you know?” “If you don’t want something known, don’t do it in the first place.” I gave a cold laugh, pulled a stack of photos from my bag, and hurled them in their faces. The photos rained down like snow. Every one was their vile chat logs and that prenatal report. “Victor, you thought you’d pulled it off without a trace?” “That poison you fed me every day — I never drank a single drop!” “Did you really think I’d hand Kensington Group over to a backstabbing snake like you?”

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“You were born with an extreme sensitivity to electromagnetic radiation. Touch a phone and your skin will peel right off. Your heart will stop.” That’s what my mom drilled into my head from the time I was a little girl. To survive, I went twenty years without ever touching electronics. I was locked in a dark room covered in tin foil, like a caveman, spending my days gluing matchboxes and washing bloodstained sheets. And on the other side of the wall, my brother had the latest gadgets, a top-of-the-line gaming PC, and all the love and money my parents could pour on him. Until one day, a drone spiraled out of control and slammed straight into me. Its spinning blades sliced my arm, and its glowing indicator light pressed against my skin. I shut my eyes and waited to die. But nothing happened — nothing except the gash on my arm. In that moment, I finally understood. There was no such rare, incurable disease. It was all a lie—a monstrous scam to drain me dry and hand everything to my brother.

Shoreline City. Hightide Grand Hotel. Laundry room, three floors underground. The sun never reached this place. The air was always thick with the sharp reek of bleach and the damp smell of mold. The dim explosion-proof light overhead buzzed with a steady electrical hum, like a countdown to death. This was the dream job my mom, Claire, had pulled every string she had to get me. She said, “Sally, the basement walls are thick. No cell signal. It’s perfect for your condition. You should be grateful. If it weren’t for your illness, your brother would already have the newest VR gaming system. Work hard and pay the family back.” I believed her. For twenty years, I wore heavy anti-static cotton clothes and thick rubber gloves, day in and day out, washing mountains of reeking sheets and tablecloths. My monthly salary of three thousand—I handed every cent over to my mom. I didn’t even dare glance at the neon signs on my way home, terrified that the deadly radiation would kill me. Then today, the heavy iron door of the laundry room swung open. A group of sharp-suited executives swept in, flanking a man who walked like he owned the room — because he did. The man was tall—well over six-foot-two—with cold, sharp features and a jawline carved like granite. His perfectly tailored black suit stretched across a body coiled with explosive power. He stood there with casual indifference, yet the air around him seemed to drop to freezing. Hank Graves. Absolute ruler of Hightide Incorporated. The youngest and most ruthless titan in Shoreline City’s business world. I shrank into the corner by the washing machines, trembling so hard I couldn’t lift my head. Because the executives with him were holding tablets glowing with blue light. Some were even recording with their smartphones. “Stay away… please… stay away…” My voice shook violently as I pressed myself into the corner, both hands clutching my throat. The radiation would kill me. My mom said that if I got too close to any glowing screen, my skin would erupt in red welts, my throat would swell like I’d been scalded, and I’d die gasping, in agony. Hank stopped. His gaze—cold and sharp as a hawk’s—swept over me, this strange creature cowering in the shadows. “What’s going on?” His voice was low and smooth, but carried an authority that didn’t tolerate questions. The hotel manager broke into a sweat, mopping his forehead and stammering, “M-Mr. Graves, this is the laundress, Sally Reed. She… she has some issues. Severe electromagnetic radiation phobia. Can’t be near electronics…” Hank narrowed his eyes, a flicker of scrutiny passing through them. Just then, one of the assistants, too nervous to hold steady, let the latest model tablet slip from his hand. It hit the tile floor and slid straight toward me, slamming into my rubber shoe. The screen blazed at full brightness, playing a high-definition promotional video of the hotel in flashing, vivid color. “AHHH—!” I let out a scream so sharp and desperate it sounded like a feral cat with a broken spine. I lurched backward, my back slamming against the cold tile wall with a dull thud. My fingers clawed at my collar as I gasped for air, cold sweat soaking through my coarse uniform. “Take it! Take it away! I’ll die! I’ll actually die!” I shook like a leaf in a storm, squeezing my eyes shut, waiting for the end. One second. Two seconds. Three… Half a minute passed. The choking stranglehold on my throat never came. No searing pain, no melting skin. My ragged breathing began to slow. Hank stepped forward, his expensive custom leather shoes splashing through the puddles on the laundry room floor. He bent down, picked up the tablet, and walked straight over to me. “Look at me.” His voice bore down on me like a physical weight, pressing into my soul. I couldn’t move. I was frozen solid. He let out a cold laugh, then reached out and gripped my chin with his long, powerful fingers, forcing my head up. His knuckles were cool, calloused from years of writing and training—solid and real. “Sally Reed,” he said, looking down at me, “what are you shaking for?” I bit my bloodless lip so hard I tasted copper. “Afraid… afraid of dying…” Hank let out a short, cutting laugh. Something shifted in his eyes — open, undisguised mockery. Then he flipped his wrist and shoved the blazing screen right up to my face. Less than four inches away. “Then open your eyes and watch closely. See if you die.” The cold blue light stung my eyes, long accustomed to darkness. I wanted to scream, but the sound died in my throat. Because what I saw, what I felt, was beyond the sheer terror in my head, my body felt nothing. No rash crawling across my skin. No shock. No cardiac arrest. My breathing stayed steady. My heart pounded, sure—fast enough to break my ribs—but that was fear. Not a medical reaction. Hank let go and pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket, wiping his fingers with slow, deliberate care, like he was cleaning himself of something filthy. “Find somewhere else to play your little games. Hightide Incorporated doesn’t keep dead weight.” He dropped the handkerchief on the floor and walked out, his entourage of silent executives trailing behind. The basement fell back into silence, broken only by the roar of the washing machines. I collapsed onto the wet floor like a ragdoll, staring blankly at my reflection in a puddle of gray water. Gaunt face. Brittle hair. Eyes wide with terror. I looked like some medieval creature that had crawled out of a tomb. A complete joke. I hadn’t died. I’d been inches from a high-intensity screen and I hadn’t died. A thought—cold, slithering, poisonous—began to coil around my brain, squeezing my heart tight.

After work, I didn’t take my usual route home—the darkest alley, the one with no streetlights. Instead, I wandered through Shoreline City’s busiest commercial street. It was the first time in twenty years I’d walked down a main road at night. Massive LED billboards blazed everywhere in blinding colors. People walked past with their heads down, glued to phones, Bluetooth buds in their ears. Cars with smart sensors whizzed by. In my mind, this place was a gas chamber. The deepest circle of hell. And here I stood, breathing air thick with exhaust fumes, completely fine. I walked to a brightly lit phone store. Through the glass doors, shelf after shelf of electronics glowed with soft light. I clutched the only two hundred dollars I had—the bills I’d found in a corner of the laundry room today, not yet handed over to my mom. I took a deep breath and pushed open the door to what felt like a whole new world. The salesgirl took one look at my faded cotton clothes and the faint smell of bleach clinging to me, and her eyes turned dismissive. Still, she came over with a fake smile. “Buying a phone? We’ve got the latest models. Starting at six thousand. Refurbished section is in the back corner. Help yourself.” I ignored her and walked straight to the used counter, pointing at the cheapest smartphone—a scratched-up screen, nothing fancy. “How much is this one?” My voice scraped out like sandpaper. “One fifty. No haggling. No returns.” With shaking hands, I pulled out the crumpled bills and handed them over. The cold metal rectangle felt like a live bomb in my palm. I could barely hold it. I ran—sprinted—into an empty dead-end alley. The night wind was cold against my thin clothes. I leaned against a brick wall crusted with moss, and followed the salesgirl’s impatient instructions: hold down the side button. The screen lit up. White light flooded my face, streaked with tears and grime. I reached out one rough finger—tentative, painfully slow, just barely grazing the glass. Cool. Smooth. The screen glided under my touch. No welts. No trouble breathing. I was alive. Perfectly, absolutely alive. “Ah… ahhh…” A sound came out of me—raw, broken, hopeless. I slid down the rough wall and collapsed into the muddy dirt, clutching the cheap phone to my chest, and I sobbed. Twenty years. The best years of my life. Locked in an attic covered in tin foil. No friends. No school. No world outside. Not even a glimpse of a TV screen. I thought my parents were protecting me. I thought they loved me. I thought I was a burden dragging the whole family down. My mom always cried and said, “Sally, Mom doesn’t want to lock you up, but the radiation outside will kill you! For your sake, your brother has to hide under the covers just to play on his phone! We’ve all sacrificed so much for you! You have to be grateful!” My dad would sigh through his cigarette smoke and say, “Your illness is a bottomless pit. You have to be sensible. Work hard. Make money. Pay the family back for saving your life.” And my brother Lucas would look at me with that smug, pitying superiority. “Stay in your cave, sis. The high-tech world belongs to me. You’re just a caveman.” It was all a lie. All of it. They used one absurd, monstrous lie to strip away every right I had as a human being. They turned me into a slave—a money-making machine—to feed their precious son. Rage. Like wildfire, it burned through my chest. It dried my tears. It burned away the last scrap of feeling I had for that family. “Done crying yet?” A low, cold voice came from the mouth of the alley. I jerked my head up. Hank stood in the shadows, a cigarette burning between his long fingers, the red glow casting his sharp features in stark relief. What was he doing here?

Hank walked toward me, his long legs eating up the distance. In the narrow alley, his presence pressed down like a weight—the absolute authority of someone who owned every room he walked into. He stopped in front of me, looking down at the cheap phone still glowing in my hand, and the corner of his mouth curled into a mocking smile. “I had my assistant looking through your file,” he said, blowing out a thin stream of smoke. His voice was flat, like he was reading a verdict. “Sally Reed. Twenty-two. Dropped out of elementary school. Medical history: severe electromagnetic radiation allergy. Contact triggers anaphylactic shock.” He bent down, suddenly close. The clean scent of tobacco mixed with his expensive cologne wrapped around me. “Liar.” His voice was low, his eyes sharp as knives. I looked up, meeting that aggressive stare head-on. “I’m not lying!” My teeth were clenched, my eyes bloodshot. “I was the one who was lied to—for twenty years!” Hank’s eyebrow lifted slightly. My defiance seemed to surprise him. I don’t know where I found the courage. I grabbed the hem of his expensive suit like it was the last lifeline in the world. “Help me,” I said, staring up at him. “Take me to a hospital. I need a full checkup. I need proof.” Hank stared at me for a full ten seconds. I didn’t flinch. There was no submission in my eyes—just burning hatred and resentment, so thick it was practically spilling out. That pure, raw hatred seemed to interest him. “Why would I help you?” His tone was casual, dismissive. “Hightide Inc doesn’t take on problems.” “Because you find me interesting.” I held onto his jacket, refusing to let go. “You looked into me. You followed me. You want to watch the show, don’t you? I’ll give you one—a real one. Blood on the floor.” Hank smiled. It was a cold, dangerous smile. He grabbed my wrist and yanked me up out of the mud. His grip was brutal—like he could snap my bones without trying. “Sally Reed,” he said, pulling me closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, his voice like ice. “Remember what you just said. My shows aren’t easy to watch. Mess it up, and you won’t like what it costs.” “I’ve already got nothing to lose.” I met his eyes without fear. Half an hour later, I sat in the back of Hank Graves’ extremely fancy Maybach. The cabin was climate-controlled, comfortable. The dashboard was a wall of high-tech screens. Even the seats had smart massage functions. I drank it all in—the “radiation” I’d been taught to fear like poison. Hank sat beside me, legs crossed, scrolling through international emails on his tablet. “Dizzy?” he asked without looking up. “No.” “Nauseous?” “No.” He set the tablet down and turned to look at me, his gaze deep and unreadable. “Tell me about your wonderful parents. How they ‘treated’ you.” A pause. “I’m curious what kind of lie can keep someone locked up for twenty years.” I took a breath and closed my eyes. The memories came flooding back—dark, moldy, suffocating. “My room had no windows. The walls, the ceiling—all covered in thick tin foil. Even the cracks around the door were sealed. The only light was a dim five-watt bulb.” “I couldn’t go outside. I spent my days gluing together matchboxes, stringing plastic beads. When I got older, my mom pulled strings to get me the hotel basement job. No cell signal down there.” “When I was ten, I found a broken digital watch someone had thrown away. I was curious—I just pressed one of the buttons.” I stopped. My voice started to shake. “My mom found out. She went nuts. She grabbed me by the hair and shoved my head into a bucket in the yard. Said she had to wash the radiation off me. I swallowed so much dirty water I almost drowned.” “Then she locked me in a dark metal cabinet for three days and three nights. No water. No food. She said it was ‘detox.’ I cried and begged and clawed at the door until my fingers were raw. She just stood outside and told me it was for my own good.” “After that, I couldn’t even look at something that glowed without shaking. I really believed I’d die. I was even grateful to them—I thought they were saving me.” The car fell dead silent. I opened my eyes. Hank’s face was dark—darker than I’d ever seen it. The mockery was gone, replaced by something that made my blood run cold. “Stop the car.” His voice was sharp. The driver hit the brakes and pulled over immediately. Hank pushed open the door and pulled me out after him. “Where are we going?” I asked, flustered. “Hospital.” He pulled me toward a brightly lit private clinic without looking back. “Time to get your evidence.”

The hospital was owned by Hightide Incorporated. Top of the line. Because Hank Graves had personally vouched for me, the director himself came in from home in the middle of the night to arrange the most thorough, most comprehensive checkup money could buy. Blood work. Allergy tests. EEG. MRI. Even genetic screening. I lay inside those cold, precise machines, listening to their whirring hum, watching the blinking indicator lights, and felt nothing but calm. This was the first time in twenty years I’d encountered real medicine. Before this, my mom had only ever fed me bitter, foul-smelling “herbal remedies” from god knows where. Two hours later, I sat in Hank’s private lounge—opulent and execlusive only for him. The hospital director walked in with a thick stack of reports, sweating under his collar. “Mr. Graves. Miss Reed.” The director adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his expression complicated and stunned. My heart shot into my throat. My hands clenched together. “Well?” Hank lounged on the leather sofa, legs crossed, his voice lazy but carrying the weight of absolute authority. “Miss Reed’s health…” The director swallowed hard, looking at me with a mix of sympathy and disbelief. “Aside from severe malnutrition, significant calcium deficiency, and extreme vitamin D deficiency from prolonged lack of sunlight—there are no other medical issues.” “As for the so-called severe electromagnetic radiation allergy…” He shook his head. “It’s complete nonsense. We ran Miss Reed through hundreds of physical allergy tests, including electromagnetic waves and UV radiation. All results came back negative.” “Miss Reed, you are a perfectly healthy, normal human being.” *BOOM*— Even though I’d already guessed the truth, hearing it confirmed by an authority figure hit me like a freight train. My brain went blank. Normal. I was normal. I wasn’t sick. I didn’t need to live like a rat in a lightless tin-foil room. I could have gone to school. Made friends. Run in the sunlight. Lived a real life. They—my own parents—had clipped my wings and shoved me into a cage they called “love,” bleeding me dry day after day. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood again. Tears fell like broken beads, silent, one after another, landing on the back of my hand. Hank waved his hand. The director took the hint and left, closing the door quietly behind him. We were alone. Hank stood up, walked over, and handed me a white silk handkerchief. “Wipe your face. You’re a mess.” His tone was still his usual disdain, but the gesture wasn’t harsh. I didn’t take it. Instead, I reached out and wrapped my arms around his waist. Hank froze. Every muscle in his body tensed. “Just let me…” I buried my face in his tailored suit jacket, and twenty years of suppressed pain, rage, and despair exploded out of me. I cried like a wounded animal. Ugly. Loud. Completely wrecked. Hank didn’t push me away. He stood there, stiff and uncomfortable, letting my tears and snot ruin his extremely expensive tailor made suit. After a long time—so long I was nearly dizzy from crying, my throat raw and silent— A warm hand came down on the top of my head. He rubbed my dry, brittle hair, gently. “Cry all you want,” his voice came from above me, hypnotic. “Then go get what’s yours. With interest.” A pause. “Need me to kill anyone?” Half-joking, half-serious—but there was a dangerous glint in his eyes. I lifted my head. My swollen eyes burned with cold fury. “No.” My voice came out in a rasp, each word deliberate. “Death is too easy. I want them to suffer. I want them to lose everything they care about.” Hank looked at me, and a deeply satisfied smile spread across his lips. “Good. That’s what I like to see.” He turned and picked up a document from the table, tossing it in front of me. “Sign it.” I looked down. *Employment Contract — Special Assistant to the CEO of Hightide Incorporated Group.* “You never went to school, did you?” Hank looked down at me like a king bestowing a decree. “I’ll teach you myself. From now on, you’re mine. I’ll give you an identity, resources, and the whatever you need for revenge.” “And the price?” I asked. I didn’t believe in free gifts. Twenty years had taught me that everything came with a hidden cost. Hank bent down, planting his hands on either side of the sofa arm, caging me in. Our noses almost touched. Our breath mingled. “The price,” he said, “is your life. It belongs to me now. I want absolute loyalty.” I looked into his deep, dark eyes, picked up the pen, and signed my name. “Deal.”

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My oldest brother’s rich fiancée — the one in the wheelchair — drank a cup of the calming herbal tea I’d brewed, then died in the guest room with blood seeping from her eyes, nose, and mouth. The medical examiner found a high concentration of poison residue in the tea leaves, and the police pinned me down hard against the cold tile floor. I thought my parents, who’d always doted on me, would fight to defend me. Instead, my mom stared down at the body on the floor, let out a long breath, and burst into tears of joy. “Thank God! Officer, well done! Lock this lunatic up right now!” My dad was even worse — shaking all over with excitement, his face wild with glee as he rushed over and screamed, “It was her! She did it! Take her away!” Six feet away, Claire— my brother’s bride-to-be — lay under a white sheet. Black blood seeped out from the edges, mixing with the spilled calming tea, giving off a sharp, rotten stench. A cop had my arms twisted behind my back, the side of my face pressed hard against the cold tile. I strained my neck, looking toward my parents standing a short distance away. “Dad, Mom… have you lost your minds? What are you talking about?” I twisted toward my mom. “Mom, explain it to the police! You mixed that herbal tea yourself. I was out in the yard chopping wood the whole time — I never even set foot in the kitchen!” I thought she would clear my name. Instead, she suddenly dropped to her knees with a thud, kneeling bolt upright in front of the officer in charge. “Oh God, oh God! What a disgrace to this family, what a disgrace!” My mom slapped both hands against her thighs, sobbing until her voice went hoarse, snot and tears running down her face. She beat her chest and clawed at the cop’s pant leg. “Officer, it’s my fault! Every bit of it is my fault, as her mother! Arrest me instead — I didn’t keep an eye on this crazy girl, and now she’s killed my poor daughter-in-law!” I froze completely. Before my brain could catch up, the woman who’d been wailing on the floor a second ago shot to her feet and crossed to me in two strides. Crack! A hard slap landed full across my face. My head snapped sideways, the corner of my mouth split open, my whole mouth filling with the taste of iron. “You little wretch! Still lying with death staring you in the face!” My mom jabbed a finger at my nose, spit flying across my face. “Yes, I brewed the tea — but I went out back to take in the laundry, and you took your chance to dump poison into the pot! Claire couldn’t walk well, but she was always generous with you. No matter how sick in the head you are, how could you do something this vicious?” My ears were ringing. That tea had been simmering on the stove for two full hours. She’d been sitting on a little stool right in front of it the whole time, peeling garlic — she never moved an inch! “Mom, why are you lying?” My voice was shaking, the tears breaking loose. “You poured that tea out yourself and handed it straight to me!” “You dare talk back!” My dad rushed over and kicked me hard in the shoulder. I sucked in a sharp breath of pain and curled up on the floor, dry-heaving. Before I could recover, my dad pulled a folded sheet of paper from an inner pocket against his chest and handed it respectfully to the officer in charge. “Officer, don’t listen to her nonsense. This girl had a breakdown when she was fifteen, and her head’s been wrong ever since — severe mania and persecution delusions.” He pointed at me, grinding his teeth, as if I weren’t his daughter but some mortal enemy. “She’s been off her meds for half a month. Almost thirty and no boyfriend, sitting at home all day glaring at everyone. Yesterday Claire just said the floor wasn’t swept clean, and today the madness took her and she poisoned somebody!” My mouth hung open. I forgot to argue back. I’d worked an honest job at the packaging plant in this town for eight years, clocking out on time every day to go home, cook, and do the housework. When had I ever taken psychiatric medication? “I’m not sick! I’m not sick at all!” I knelt on the floor, shouting at the police. “That paper is fake! Go ask the packaging plant — go check! I never touched any poison!” The officer in charge ignored me. He took the paper from my dad, glanced at it, and his face darkened further. “Jane Hayes, save your breath. We go by evidence.” He cut me off coldly. He turned aside, and a younger officer behind him stepped forward holding a clear evidence bag. Inside was a torn-open pink packet. “Five minutes ago, we found this empty packet in a shoebox under your bed.” The officer looked down at me. “Your fingerprints are the only ones on it.” I stared at the bag, stunned. “Impossible… that’s impossible…” “And there’s this.” The officer pointed at my right pocket. “Initial testing shows a high concentration of poison residue around the edge of your right jacket pocket. We have witnesses, we have evidence. Take her away.” Two officers grabbed my arms and hauled me up off the floor. I looked down at my pocket. Around the edge of the right pocket, there really was a faint trace of pink. An image suddenly flashed through my head. That morning, my mom had carried the steaming bowl of “medicine” toward me, and as she pressed it into my hands she stumbled, her whole body bumping into me, her hand clawing hard at my right pocket. She’d said over and over it was nothing, then hurried me along. “Go on, take it to your sister-in-law while it’s hot — the medicine won’t work as well once it cools.” Staring at that smear of pink, a wave of nausea rose in me. Outside, tires screeched in the yard. “What’s going on? What happened to Claire?” My oldest brother Leo’s voice exploded from beyond the gate, and the yard door was shoved open. Leo, my aunt, my uncle, and my younger brother Max — a whole crowd of them, eyes red, came pouring into the yard.

Leo, charging out in front, didn’t even glance at the white sheet on the floor. He lunged straight at me. The cop holding me didn’t have time to stop him before Leo’s leather-shoed foot slammed into my stomach. I toppled over, the handcuffs clanging against the floor with an ugly metallic clatter. “You poisonous bitch!” Leo stood over me, finger jabbing down, the veins in his neck bulging. “Claire was about to marry me! You give me my wife back!” “I didn’t poison her! Leo, you have to believe me!” I lay on the floor, shaking my head desperately, ignoring the churning in my gut. “Still making excuses!” Max stepped up from behind, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and wrenched my upper body off the ground. “Jane, fine, you sulk and snipe around the house — but how could you actually kill someone? At dinner yesterday, Mom gave Claire an extra bowl of soup, and you were in the kitchen slamming things around, saying why does she get all the good stuff. I thought you were just grumbling. I never knew your heart was this black!” “I didn’t! I was in my room folding cardboard boxes all yesterday — I never went near the kitchen!” My mouth was full of the taste of blood, and I looked in despair at the relatives filing in behind. “Auntie, you came by yesterday afternoon to borrow some sugar. You saw me in my room, didn’t you?” My aunt shrank back and covered her mouth, her eyes darting away. “I… I’m old, my eyes aren’t good. All I saw was you standing there staring blankly, holding a pair of scissors. Gave me a fright…” My uncle clasped his hands behind his back and gave a cold snort. “Never right in the head, even as a kid. Just like I always said — an ungrateful thing you can never feed enough.” I lay on the cold tile, looking at these people — the same relatives I brought armfuls of gifts to every holiday. The cops dragged me up off the floor, twisted my arms behind me, and hauled me toward the squad car outside. The handcuffs cut into the bone of my wrists, but I didn’t struggle anymore, and I didn’t cry out that I was innocent. At the gate, I stopped and turned my head. In the yard, the relatives were crowding around to comfort my parents. Leo had already turned away and was murmuring something to the deputy sheriff who’d taken the money, his shoulders shaking slightly, as if he were laughing. Max brushed the dust off his pants and walked into the kitchen. My mom and dad stood under the eaves of the main house and didn’t spare me a single glance. The white sheet over Claire’s body lay alone in the middle of the living room. They put me in the squad car. The door shut, and the car started, rolling a long way down the muddy dirt road. Not one of my heartbroken family members turned to look toward the car. Because of the psychiatric diagnosis my dad had handed over, I wasn’t sent to the county jail. Instead I was held for the time being in an abandoned holding room at the town police station. The single room had only one rusted iron bed. Two rough canvas straps fixed my hands to the rails on either side. I stared at the blackened ceiling, listening to the thunderstorm outside, my mind strangely clear. I wasn’t going to run. I just had to hold on until morning, when the medical examiner from the city would do the formal assessment and pull the traces from the kitchen — then I could prove I’d never touched the poison. Two in the morning. Someone cut the iron bars outside the room with bolt cutters. The old wooden window frame was forced open, and a figure climbed in with effort, dropping hard onto the concrete floor. Then a second one. By the faint light spilling in from the hallway, I made out the two faces. It was my mom and dad. My mom’s hair had come completely undone, and there was a gash split open on her forehead, dark red blood running down her brow and matting half her face. One of my dad’s legs dragged unnaturally along the ground, his clothes covered in muddy boot prints from being kicked. My mom stumbled to the bedside and reached out with trembling hands to undo the straps. “Jane, hurry, go,” she whispered, coughing bloody spit. I froze. Looking at the hands reaching toward me, I instinctively pressed myself back hard against the wall, watching them warily. The scene from that afternoon was still vivid — my dad yelling for the police to take me away, my mom slapping me across the face. “What are you doing here?” My voice shook badly, thick with suspicion. “Weren’t you both dying to have the cops haul me off this afternoon?”

Hearing that, my mom’s hands stopped on the straps. She wiped her tears with the back of a mud-caked hand, then suddenly covered her mouth and broke into stifled, wretched sobs. “Jane, this afternoon I was saving your life!” She grabbed the hand I’d pulled back and clutched it tight, gasping through her tears. “Leo came charging in with a whole gang of them — they looked ready to tear you apart! If we hadn’t played along and said you were crazy, gotten the cops to take you, Leo would’ve beaten you to death right there with a shovel! Even the town sheriff is on his side. Your dad and I had to give in to them first, just to keep you alive, so we’d have a chance to come for you tonight!” Looking at the blood smeared across half her face, and my dad’s leg that couldn’t even hold him straight, my throat tightened. “Then how did you end up like this… what happened to your head?” “That animal Leo did it.” My mom kept fumbling at the straps, hissing through the pain. “He was afraid we’d come for you in the night, so he locked the main-house door with an iron lock. Your dad smashed the back window glass and pulled me out — and Leo caught us. He swung a shovel at us. Your dad took the handle across his leg shielding me…” Her voice grew hoarser, almost despairing. “Jane, they mean to kill you! If you don’t run now, you really won’t make it!” “I’m not running! Mom, if I run, that makes me a fugitive admitting guilt! I didn’t kill anyone. When the city police come tomorrow—” “You won’t live to see the city police!” My dad leaned against the wall, dragging his broken leg, panting hard and shaking. “Leo did the poisoning. He secretly bought Claire a one-million-dollar accidental-death insurance policy, and the cop who took the bribe gets the biggest cut. The man escorting you tomorrow is his crony. Somewhere on the road, he’ll just stage it — ‘psychiatric patient jumps from the car, suicide’ — and you’ll never even reach the city police station!” Outside, a low roll of thunder passed. The storm had sealed off the hills; there was no getting out, not even down the dirt road. In this village ringed by mountains on three sides, waiting for the people from the city really was no different from waiting to die. Seeing me hesitate, my mom dropped to her knees beside the bed with a thud. Big, heavy tears splashed onto the back of my hand. “Jane! Just go! If you won’t, I’ll smash my head open right here and let you watch me die in front of you!” I looked at the blood dripping from her forehead. And suddenly I remembered the winter I was fifteen, when my hands were covered in chilblains, aching so badly I cried under the covers at night. She’d sat up with a coat over her shoulders, tucked my cold, oozing hands into her armpits to warm them, and hushed me to sleep, breathing warm air over them. The tears came down without warning, blurring everything. I stopped fighting it. “Mom, I’ll go…” I nodded, my voice ragged. The straps came fully undone. My mom swiftly pulled a black waterproof bag from behind her and pushed it into my arms. My dad gripped my arm and shoved me toward the window. “There’s five thousand dollars in the bag and my old phone. Follow the back hills south — once you’re clear of the mountains, call the police! Hurry!” “What about you two?” I clung to the bag’s strap. “We’ll hold them off!” My mom pushed me out the window, her voice gone completely hoarse. “Run! Don’t look back, not even if it kills you!” In the pouring rain, I looked at my blood-soaked parents, bit my lip until it bled, and plunged into the dark of the back hills. I stumbled all the way to an abandoned little hillside chapel halfway up the slope, shivering, hugging the waterproof bag tight. This was the way out my parents had risked their lives to buy me. Leo had raised his hand against his own father — if he found out I’d escaped, would my parents, left behind in that den of wolves, even survive? I unzipped the bag and pulled out the chipped old phone, hoping to find evidence for the police or send a message that I was safe. The photo album was empty. But in the “Recently Deleted” folder sat one unnamed video file. The timestamp below it read: April 12, 8:00 PM. That was the night Claire drank the poison — three full days ago. I tapped the video open. The instant I saw what was on the screen, the color drained from my face.

The screen was dark, the picture grainy, the edges tinged with the green glow of an aging lens. It opened on meaningless shaking, with the harsh hiss of fingers rubbing against the microphone. “This junk phone keeps freezing… fine, the locator light’s on, that’s all we need.” Max’s voice came through right against the mic, grating. Then someone set the phone down to one side. The picture tilted, half a table coming into view. Blurry as it was, I recognized the pink plastic packet on the table at a glance — the poison. My mom sat with her back to the camera, a few paper insurance policies gathered in her hands. “…We move the morning after tomorrow. I’ll brew the herbal tea,” she said, her heavy accent woven through the static. “Once that crippled girl Claire stops breathing, we say Jane did it in one of her crazy fits. The fake diagnosis is already taken care of — and dead, Claire can’t testify against anyone.” Leo’s face never appeared — just a hand with a cigarette wedged between the fingers, drifting across the edge of the frame. “Good. Once she’s locked in the holding room, you and Dad go in the middle of the night, smash your own heads open, play it pitiful, and slip her this junk phone. As long as she runs into the deep mountains carrying that locator… then the insurance money is locked in.” The video was only fourteen seconds long. The screen went black and cut off. In the ruined chapel there was only the thunder outside. I doubled over the dusty altar table and dry-heaved up the last sour dregs in my stomach, tears all over my face. They didn’t just want me to take the fall — they wanted to wring the last drop of life out of me for money. Claire’s death, the beating in the yard that afternoon, the gash on my mom’s forehead tonight… all of it was an elaborate chain of death they’d designed three days ago. Just then, I noticed a tiny “location sharing” icon blinking at the very top of the screen. The battery in the corner showed only ten percent left. Almost at the same moment, there came the snap of a dry branch breaking outside the chapel. “The locator says she’s right around here. Move fast, don’t let her get away.” It was Leo’s voice. A blinding flashlight beam swept across the cobwebbed wall through the gaps in the chapel’s drafty wooden door. “Leo, I tied the rope into a good slipknot — we’ll just loop it around her neck.” That was Max. Less than thirty feet away. I clamped a hand over my mouth, refusing to let out the faintest heavy breath. There was no running. Leo and Max were right outside. To bolt now would be to throw myself onto a blade. By a flash of lightning, I scanned the tiny chapel — barely a hundred and fifty square feet. No cabinet to hide in, no iron tool to defend myself with. The only way out was a half-collapsed hole in the wall behind the base of a statue. I pulled the five thousand dollars from the bag and stuffed it tight against my body, inside my underclothes. Then I hurled the old phone with its blinking locator hard through the wall hole, into the bottomless weed-choked gully behind the chapel. A heartbeat before the flashlight beam shoved the chapel’s wooden door open with a bang, I bent low and scrambled out through the wall hole on my hands and feet. Outside the hole was a brutally steep slope. At the bottom of it was the pit the village used to use for dumping dead pigs, dead dogs, and stove ash. These days of storms had turned that garbage pit into a reeking pool of rotten mud. Without a second’s hesitation, I slid straight down the slope into the muck. The freezing, foul water swallowed me to the waist in an instant. I lay flat in the mud, frantically raking the rotting leaves and stinking dead branches around me up over my head and body, layer after layer. “Nobody in the chapel!” Max’s voice came from above. “Impossible — the locator’s still moving. She must’ve gone out the back. After her!” Heavy boots came pounding closer through the mud. I buried myself fully in the muck, only my nostrils barely above the surface to breathe. The stink of mud and rotting animal carcasses jammed up my nose, my eardrums swollen from the soaking rain. Some insect crawled across my eyelid, and I didn’t dare so much as twitch a lash. “She’s down there!” Leo’s voice burst out, terrifyingly close. My whole body went rigid. Leo was standing right at the edge of the slope, less than two feet above my head. The flashlight’s ghastly white beam split the dark like a knife, falling straight onto the mud pool where I hid. Rainwater dripped off the toe of Leo’s shoe, tapping onto the rotten leaves I’d used to cover myself. I kept my eyes shut tight, my lips pressed into a thin line, breathing with the greatest care. If he poked down with the hatchet in his hand, or if the rain washed away a bit of that leaf cover, I was finished. “Leo, look over there!” Max suddenly shouted. The flashlight beam jerked away, swinging toward the weed-choked gully. “Damn it! The little wretch slid down toward the cliff!” Leo swore. That was where the old phone had tumbled. “That spot’s steep as hell, and there’s a fast current at the bottom. If she went down there, she’s definitely dead.” Max’s voice wavered. “Living, we need a body; dead, we need a body! No corpse, no money. Get down there and find her!” The footsteps hurried off along the gully, until I couldn’t hear them anymore. I stayed in the mud, not moving. Only once I was sure there was nothing but rain around me did I slowly lift my head out of that pile of stinking leaves.

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I spent seventy thousand dollars on an unlimited annual membership at an ultra-luxury wellness spa. But after only two weeks of going there, the lead therapist publicly humiliated me in front of everyone, calling me a “broke leech” who was just trying to abuse the card to get his money’s worth. When I tried to confront him, I realized he had already blocked my number and Snapchat. I went to the owner for a refund, but she turned the tables on me. She claimed that if I cancelled early, every single session I had would be billed at a walk-in rate of four thousand dollars. According to her math, not only was my seventy thousand dollars completely gone, but I also owed them an extra three thousand. Looking at the smug, arrogant faces of the owner and the therapist—both wearing an expression that practically screamed “What are you going to do about it?”—I smiled. I turned around and called the property management office. “Hey, Mr. Miller. Don’t renew the lease for ‘Luxe Haven Spa’ next month. Give them three days to pack their trash and get out.” Oh, I forgot to mention. This entire luxury shopping plaza? My family owns it. 01 The moment I realized I was blocked on Snapchat and iMessage, a nerve in my brain snapped. I couldn’t stand it for another second. I stormed straight to the third floor of the plaza, heading right for Luxe Haven Spa. Before I could even push open the heavy, ornate glass doors, the sound of loud, mocking laughter drifted out. “This guy, Ethan, is honestly pathetic,” Marcus’s voice echoed. “Just because he bought that unlimited Black-Card VIP pass, he thinks he owns the place. He basically lives here.” “I know, right?” another receptionist chimed in. “I’ve seen plenty of guys like him. He probably maxed out his credit cards or emptied his entire savings just to scrape together that seventy grand. All so he could play the big shot in front of us.” “It’s exhausting,” Marcus groaned, his tone dripping with undisguised disgust. “I get a headache the second he walks in. He demands a deep-tissue massage every single day. My hands are literally going to fall off because of this loser.” My blood began to boil. Marcus was the lead therapist, and yet here he was, gossiping about a paying customer with absolute contempt. Several junior therapists giggled and added fuel to the fire. “You’re so right, Marcus. His neck and shoulders are as stiff as rocks anyway. Even our premium essential oils are a waste on him. He should just stop embarrassing himself.” “Honestly, he probably doesn’t have a girlfriend to touch him, so he comes here just to feel some human contact.” “Hahaha! Exactly. He’s just a broke loser trying to abuse the system.” Their sharp, mocking laughter pierced my ears like needles. Rage surged straight to my head. I couldn’t take it anymore. I kicked the door open and stormed in. *BANG!* The heavy glass door slammed against the wall. The laughter inside stopped instantly. The temperature in the lobby seemed to drop to freezing point. Everyone stared at me as if they had just seen a ghost. “Who gave you the right to talk trash behind my back? Apologize to me. Now,” I growled, my eyes locked onto Marcus. Several junior therapists quickly looked down, their faces turning pale with panic. But Marcus only froze for a second. Then, he rolled his eyes, let out a cold sneer, and crossed his arms. “Nobody was talking about you, dude. Why are you losing your mind?” “Cut the crap. I heard every single word outside the door!” “Oh, really? No one else heard anything. Just you?” Marcus stepped closer, looking completely unbothered. “Maybe you’re hallucinating from too much steam in the sauna. Do you need a doctor?” Hearing this, a few receptionists couldn’t help but cover their mouths to stifle their giggles. Marcus puffed out his chest, looking incredibly proud of himself, like a soldier who had just won a grand battle. I clenched my fists so hard that my fingernails dug into my palms. “Then why did you block me?” I demanded, staring him down. Marcus looked me up and down with sheer disdain. “Look, buddy. I’m a very busy man. I deal with multi-millionaires every day.” “You keep spamming my Snapchat trying to book appointments. I’m a lead therapist, not your personal texting buddy.” “Then what did you mean by that post on your story? What ‘broke leech’ were you talking about?” “My membership is explicitly advertised as unlimited. Why are you complaining about me coming here?” “And didn’t you text me saying you were fully booked today? Why are you standing here gossiping if you’re so busy?” Marcus let out a mocking laugh, stepping right into my personal space and looking down at me. “Am I not allowed to take a break?” “Get a grip, dude. I’m a professional, not your slave.” “Did buying a membership really give you this much of an ego? Do you actually think you’re someone special?” He tilted his chin high, wearing a sickeningly arrogant expression. The other employees didn’t bother hiding their amusement anymore. They all stared at me with mocking grins, waiting to see me humiliate myself further. My temples throbbed with anger. I didn’t want to waste another breath on this garbage. I turned on my heel and walked straight toward the back office to find the owner, Cheryl. 02 Cheryl’s office was at the end of the hallway. She was a woman in her late forties, wearing heavy makeup and caked-on foundation, smelling of cheap perfume and sharp, greedy calculations. After listening to my complaint, she slowly took a sip of her tea. Then, with an agonizing slowness, she pulled a contract out of her drawer—one I had never seen before. “Mr. Sterling, please calm down,” she said smoothly. “But according to our policy, if a client requests a premature refund, all completed sessions must be billed at our maximum single walk-in rate.” “You have visited us fifteen times. Our premium walk-in rate is four thousand dollars per session. That comes out to sixty thousand dollars.” “Add in a two-thousand-dollar fee for premium oil consumption, one thousand for facility utility usage, one thousand for equipment wear-and-tear, and a one-thousand-dollar service fee.” “So, mathematically speaking… not only can we not refund you, but you actually owe us an additional three thousand dollars.” I laughed out of sheer shock. I slammed the ridiculous contract onto her desk. “Are you out of your mind, Cheryl? This is highway robbery! I never signed or saw this contract when I bought the membership.” Cheryl’s face darkened, her polite facade slipping away. “Mr. Sterling, this is standard industry practice. Feel free to ask around. Which high-end spa in this city doesn’t operate this way?” “Fine,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. “I won’t refund it. But I want to change my therapist. I don’t want Marcus anymore.” According to their own store rules, if a client blacklisted a therapist, Marcus would lose all his monthly commissions and bonuses, and he would face a heavy fine. Cheryl’s expression turned incredibly sour. “All our other therapists are fully booked for the next three months.” “Marcus is our star therapist. No one has ever complained about him before. Clearly, the communication issue lies with you.” “Tell you what. I’ll talk to Marcus and ask him to keep treating you. But you need to check your attitude, too. Don’t act like you’re above everyone else just because you bought a card.” My brain felt like it was about to explode. So, in the end, everything was my fault? I took a deep breath, fighting the overwhelming urge to smash her office to pieces. Without another word, I pulled out my phone, snapped a crystal-clear photo of the fraudulent contract, and walked out. Behind me, I heard Cheryl mutter with absolute disgust, “What a loser. Acting like a king when he’s probably living paycheck to paycheck.” 03 Over the next few days, I purposely didn’t ask for a refund. Instead, I kept booking appointments. Since it was unlimited, I wanted to see exactly what kind of games they were planning to play. Marcus pretended to be professional and took me back for my sessions, but he was actively looking for revenge. Under the guise of a “deep tissue detox session,” he locked me in the steam room at the absolute highest temperature setting. Normally, a steam session lasts twenty minutes max. He forced me to stay in there for an hour. He also brought me a cup of boiling hot “detox tea,” forcing me to drink it. When the heat became too suffocating to bear, I stood up to leave. But when I pushed the door, I realized it was locked from the outside. I banged heavily on the glass door, shouting for help. Marcus was standing right outside. Through the glass, he was casually sipping an iced energy drink, staring at me with a malicious smirk. “Come on, Ethan. You have too many toxins in your body. You need to sweat it out,” he mouthed through the glass, mocking me. “Didn’t you demand to have your daily sessions? Deal with it, or get lost.” I felt incredibly dizzy. My vision started to blur, and my heart was pounding wildly against my chest. Outside, he flipped me the middle finger. “You broke leech. I’m doing this for your own good. Sweating the poor out of you.” By the time the timer finally buzzed and the door unlocked, I had completely lost all strength. I collapsed onto the wet tile floor, unable to pull myself up. Just then, a few wealthy male VIP clients walked into the locker room. “Hey… please, help me up…” I gasped. But they were Marcus’s regular clients. They already despised me because they believed the rumors that I was “abusing” the membership and taking up Marcus’s time. They looked down at me with cold, disgusted sneers, making no move to help. “Oh, look, it’s that guy Ethan who clings to Marcus every day. Talk about desperate. Just because you have a yearly pass doesn’t mean you have to behave like a parasite.” “Seriously. Because of you, Marcus has been in such a bad mood lately. He barely talks to us during our massages.” “He deserves it. Broke loser.” Laughing, they stepped right over me and walked into the changing area. I clenched my teeth, dragging myself up off the floor using the wall. *Fine. Just wait.* 04 A few nights later, Marcus claimed he was too busy during the day and purposely scheduled my appointment for 10:00 PM. That was right before closing time. By the time the session ended, I was exhausted. I dragged my sore body into the shower room to wash off the massage oil. Just as I covered my hair in shampoo, the water suddenly cut off. Then, *click*. The lights in the shower room went out. The entire space was plunged into pitch-black silence. “Hey! Is anyone there? The water shut off!” I yelled. No one answered. I had no choice but to wipe the soap suds off my face with a dry towel, scramble into my clothes in the dark, and stumble out. The massive lobby was completely dark and empty. Marcus was standing outside the main glass doors of the spa. Under the dim hallway lights of the mall, he looked like a demon, smiling creepily at me. A terrible feeling washed over me. I rushed toward the exit. Suddenly, my foot slipped. I lost my balance and slammed heavily onto the hard marble floor. “Ugh—!” An agonizing, sharp pain shot through my body. I let out a choked scream, cold sweat breaking out over my forehead. I reached out to feel the floor in the dark, only to find it covered in thick, slippery massage oil. But that wasn’t the worst part. A sharp, stabbing pain shot through the palms of my hands. I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight. The floor wasn’t just covered in oil—it was covered in hundreds of sharp pushpins and thumbtacks. My palms and knees were dripping with blood, punctured by dozens of needles. Shaking with pain and fury, I looked up. Marcus was standing outside the glass door, watching my agony with pure glee. He mouthed two words to me: “Die, loser.” With a smirk, he pulled down the heavy metal security shutter, locked it, and walked away. My chest rose and fell as rage consumed me. I dragged myself up, ignoring the agonizing pain in my hands and knees. I screamed for help, but only my own echo answered. I tried to call 911, but my phone had zero service. They had installed a signal jammer near the lobby. Left with no choice, I limped over to the reception desk. I picked up a heavy metal barstool and slammed it with all my remaining strength against the expensive glass doors. Once. Twice. Three times. *BANG! BANG! CRASH!* The glass shattered into a million pieces, rain-showering the hallway. Dripping with blood and sweat, I crawled out of the ruined spa. Once I reached the mall parking lot, I immediately dialed 91

The extraction process at the ER was pure hell. The doctor shook his head in disbelief as he pulled dozens of thumbtacks out of my skin. By the time I left the hospital, the sun was already rising. Without even changing out of my hospital gown, I went straight to the police station. “Officer, I want to report a crime. I was locked inside a business, assaulted, and intentionally poisoned and injured.” 05 Half an hour later, Marcus was brought into the precinct. The moment he saw me, he pointed at my face and started screaming. “Are you insane? Why the hell did you call the police on me in the middle of the night?” “You slipped and fell because you’re clumsy, and now you’re trying to sue me? People have to sleep, you psycho!” Cheryl arrived shortly after. Her hair was a mess, and she looked exhausted, but she immediately took Marcus’s side. “Officer, this man has been harassing my staff for weeks. He’s incredibly rude and constantly demanding. Marcus has been nothing but patient with him.” “And now, he makes up this ridiculous story and calls the police over a minor slip-and-fall? He literally destroyed our front entrance! I should be suing him for property damage!” I stared at them coldly. I pointed to the medical report on the desk, then pulled up my sleeves to reveal my bandaged arms and knees. “A minor slip-and-fall?” “Just because I used my unlimited membership, this psychopath locked me in a high-temperature steam room. And last night, he locked me inside the dark spa, covered the floor in oil and thumbtacks, and laughed while I was bleeding.” “You call that a minor issue? That is attempted murder!” Cheryl looked at me with a blank, mocking expression. “And do you have any proof of this?” “The security cameras are the proof! Officer, please review their security footage,” I demanded. Cheryl rolled her eyes. “Oh, what a shame. Our security cameras actually broke yesterday afternoon. We’re still waiting for the technician to fix them.” “You…” My jaw clenched, veins popping on my forehead. Marcus stood behind Cheryl, giving me a smug, triumphant wink. The next second, he pulled out his phone. Right in front of me, he started sending voice notes to their elite VIP Snapchat group, crying about how he was the victim. “Hey guys, please help me out. This crazy guy, Ethan, completely lost his mind, smashed our storefront, and now he’s trying to get the police to arrest me. Please tell them the truth!” The wealthy clients in the group immediately started replying: “He’s lying! Ethan has been obsessed with Marcus. He probably got rejected and decided to ruin the business.” “Exactly! He probably stayed in the spa on purpose so Marcus couldn’t leave, and got himself locked in. And those tacks? He probably stabbed himself to play the victim. What a creep!” “Marcus is literally the sweetest guy. He always gives us free fruit and snacks. Ethan is an ungrateful snake. Lock him up!” Listening to those voice messages, my blood ran cold with rage. I wanted nothing more than to smash Marcus’s phone into his face. Cheryl patted my shoulder, her voice dripping with triumphant malice. “Mr. Sterling, stop trying to play the victim. You’re going to pay for that glass door.” Marcus leaned in, whispering in a voice only I could hear: “This is just a warning, little boy. If you ever show your face in my spa again, I’ll make sure you never walk again.” I glared at him. If looks could kill, he would have been sliced into a million pieces. Because of the lack of evidence—the security cameras being “broken” and the crime scene being messed up when I smashed the door—the police couldn’t file criminal charges immediately. They treated it as a civil dispute, warned us to keep the peace, and told me to settle the glass door damage with the owner. Outside the station, Marcus and Cheryl stood side by side like victorious partners. They gave me one last mocking laugh before getting into Cheryl’s BMW. I stood in the cold morning breeze, my body aching and my eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. But I didn’t lose my mind. I took out my phone and dialed a number. “Hey, Mr. Miller. Regarding the lease renewal for Luxe Haven Spa on the third floor… cancel it.” 06 That’s right. I am the actual owner of this entire luxury shopping plaza. The plaza was an inheritance left to me by my father. Cheryl and her spa had been leasing the space for almost three years. I’ve always kept a low profile and didn’t like showing off my wealth. Plus, I had been studying business in Europe for the past few years, only returning recently to take over the family estate. Knowing how hard it is to run a physical business these days, I had actually given them a twenty percent discount on their rent. I never revealed my identity to them, so they had absolutely no idea that the ground they walked on every day belonged to me. Mr. Miller panicked on the other end of the line. “Mr. Sterling? Why so suddenly? Did someone offer a higher rent? We can negotiate! Cheryl was actually planning to sign a five-year renewal lease today.” “It’s not about the money.” I took a deep breath and explained everything that had happened to me over the past few weeks, including the incident last night. By the time I finished, Mr. Miller was sweating through the phone, apologizing profusely. “Mr. Sterling, I had no idea they were behaving like thugs on your property! Don’t worry, I’ll serve them eviction papers immediately.” “No, wait,” I said, my voice turning icy. “Find me a new tenant first. I don’t care about the rent. But I have one condition: the new tenant must be loud, obnoxious, and extremely difficult to deal with.” “And keep this a secret from Cheryl for now. Let them think everything is fine. I want to teach these people a lesson they’ll never forget.” Mr. Miller immediately understood. “Understood, Mr. Sterling. Consider it done. I’ll make sure they get exactly what they deserve.” After hanging up, I looked at the rising sun, a cold smile forming on my lips. Their lease had less than twenty days left. To celebrate their three-year anniversary and attract new clients, Cheryl had just spent three million dollars on a massive luxury renovation. She had imported state-of-the-art equipment from Europe. Forget about the massive loss from shutting down. Just that three-million-dollar renovation alone would take them at least two years of profit to recover. And this was only the beginning.

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“Congratulations, you’re pregnant!” I gripped the positive pregnancy test. After five years of failed IVF, I finally had the news Julian, my surgeon husband, dreamed of. Just as I reached the corner of the surgical wing, my phone buzzed. It’s a text from Julian: “Hey babe, I know you’ve had a long shift in Peds. Go home and get some rest. I’ve got an emergency surgery tonight. Don’t wait up.Love you.” Through the small rectangular window of OR 3, I see Julian—the man who just sent that “loving” text—grab an intern by the waist and pull her into the dark room. It’s Chloe Reed, the girl who’s been shadowing him for three months. The pregnancy report slipped from my fingers and hit the floor. Heavy, rhythmic grunting echoed from the room. “You’re so reckless, Julian,” Chloe’s voice giggles, breathless and sharp. “It’s broad daylight. What if someone sees us? You’re up for that Senior Attending promotion. You could lose everything.” “God, you’re such a brat,” Julian groans, his voice thick with a lust I haven’t heard in years. “You know exactly what you’re doing to me. Besides, I’ve got this room locked down. Nobody comes here. Now, shut up and give me what I want.” “Oh, like last time?” she taunts. “When you couldn’t even wait for the patient to be stitched up before you pinned me against the instrument table? I want you now, Julian. Right now.” I look down at the pregnancy test. This baby was supposed to be our miracle. Instead, its father is using the very table where he saves lives to betray his wife. I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I went numb. If they want excitement, I’ll give them a show the whole hospital will never forget. I pull out my phone and open the hospital’s main group chat—the one with over five hundred doctors, nurses, and administrators. My fingers are steady as I type. “Security alert: Thief in OR 3. Multiple suspects. Send everyone now!” The responses are instantaneous. “On my way! I knew it! Half the inventory of ultrasound probe covers went missing last week!” “I’m in the lounge, coming now!” “Don’t let them get away! Those new laparoscopy kits are worth a fortune!” I lean against the wall, watching the “Seen” count climb. Inside the OR, the sounds of their passion continue, oblivious to the storm gathering in the hallway. Then, Chloe’s voice drifts out again, slightly confused. “Julian, why is my phone blowing up? It hasn’t stopped buzzing for a minute.” “Forget the phone,” Julian snaps, his voice ragged with frustration at being interrupted. “It’s probably just the Director calling another pointless board meeting. He’s obsessed with the hospital’s new accreditation. Let the old man rot in his office. Focus on me.” He was talking about my father—the Director who fast-tracked Julian’s career. “Good,” I whisper to the empty hallway. “Keep talking, Julian.” I pull up my contacts and find my mother-in-law’s number. Julian’s parents are in town, visiting from their small rural village. They’re obsessed with their “doctor son” and his prestige. “Mom, Dad, come to OR 3 quickly!” I text. “Julian collapsed in the surgery wing! Hurry!” They reply instantly. They’re already downstairs in the lobby with a thermos of homemade soup. They’ll be here in five minutes. I turn and walk toward the nurses’ station, my heels clicking sharply on the linoleum. The Head Nurse looks up, startled by my expression. “Sophie? Are you okay? You look pale.” “I’m fine,” I say, my voice a flat line. “The security feed for OR 3. Send the last ten minutes of footage to my personal email.” The nurse whispered, “The cameras in OR 3 are down, Sophie. Julian specifically requested this room for ‘private study.’ We thought he was being dedicated.” I almost laugh. Dedicated. High-minded. What a joke. I look back at the heavy double doors of OR 3. The hallway is starting to fill with the sound of running footsteps. Security guards, curious residents, and nurses are all converging on the spot. Julian, you wanted excitement? You’re about to become the biggest star this hospital has ever seen.

Chief Miller and twenty staff members reached OR 3. “Is the thief inside?” the Chief asked, hand on his holster. I pointed at the door. “I heard furniture moving and heavy breathing. There are multiple people in there.” “Secure the exit!” the Deputy Director ordered. “Get in there now!” Two guards slammed their shoulders against the door. The lock snapped. The door flew open. Julian stumbled out, his white coat haphazard. His hair was messy, and his face was flushed. “What is this?” he shouted. “I was taking a nap!” The crowd snickered. Visible hickeys covered his neck. His shirt was misbuttoned. ” One hell of a nap,” a resident laughed. “You’ve got bite marks on your throat.” Julian grabbed my arm, his grip tightening. “Sophie, stop this drama,” he hissed. “Tell them to leave. I’ll explain at home.” I wrenched my arm away. “Explain what? The hickeys? Or the intern?” The elevator doors dinged. Julian’s parents, Martha and Silas, rushed out. “Sophie said you collapsed!” Martha cried, patting Julian’s face. She turned on me. “What is wrong with you? You nearly gave us a heart attack!” “She’s stressed,” Silas added dismissively. “Pregnancy hormones mess with a woman’s head.” Julian tried to regain his composure. “Everyone, please. My wife hasn’t been herself. There’s no thief. Go back to your stations.” The crowd didn’t move. Then, my father, Director Miller, walked into the wing. The crowd parted for him. He looked at the guards, then at Julian. “What is going on in my surgical wing?” he boomed. “It’s a misunderstanding,” Julian stammered. “Sophie got confused.” “Dad,” I said, my voice was cold. “Julian says he was sleeping. But the room is a mess and equipment is missing. As Director, you should verify the safety of the OR.” My father turned to Julian. “Step aside. If the room is empty, you have nothing to fear.” “It’s a sterile environment!” Julian’s legs started to shake. “You can’t let a mob in!” “Move,” my father commanded. I shoved Julian aside and kicked the door wide open. The surgical bed was stripped, sheets balled up in the corner. Empty probe cover packets littered the floor. “Do you usually sleep with your belt unbuckled, Julian?” I asked. The crowd poured in. “Look at the floor,” a nurse said, pointing at discarded, damp gauze. “That’s disgusting.” Julian scrambled to block the corner. “That’s waste from the previous surgery! Sophie, stop! You’re embarrassing yourself!” I walked toward the stainless steel sterile supply cabinet. Julian lunged for me. “Stay away! Those are imported instruments! If you break the seal, it’s hundreds of thousands in damages! You’ll be fired!” “I’ll take the hit,” I said. My father stepped forward. “Let her go, Julian. I’ll cover the damage. Open it, Sophie.” Julian’s hands dropped. Martha shrieked from the doorway, “Sophie, don’t be a fool! You’re ruining his career!” I grabbed a heavy metal IV stand and swung it. The glass shattered. I ripped the doors open. It was empty. Julian exhaled, his arrogance returning instantly. “Are you satisfied?” he barked at my father. “She’s had a psychotic break! She destroyed half a million dollars of equipment! She’s unfit for duty!” Martha rushed over. “You monster! Look what you’ve done to his reputation!” “I told you, she’s lost her mind,” Silas shook his head. “Julian, we’re taking you home. You shouldn’t deal with this crazy woman.” Even my father looked shaken. “Sophie… what were you thinking?” Julian smirked at me. He thought he had won. But I noticed his eyes darting toward the Biohazard Compactor. He was standing in front of it, blocking the view. The machine was humming, its power light glowing green. “The cabinet was a diversion,” I whispered. Julian’s smirk faltered. I walked toward the compactor. “Stay away from that!” Julian yelled, his voice high-pitched. “That machine is dangerous!” I turned to my father. “Dad, Julian says the janitors haven’t cleaned up yet. Let’s be helpful. Let’s run a cycle.” I reached for the green START button. “NO!” Julian screamed. He tackled me, trying to pull my hand away. “Julian! Get off her!” My father roared, hauling Julian back by his collar. Martha and Silas rushed forward, trying to pull Julian away from the fight. “It’s just a machine!” Silas grunted, shoving Julian aside to show off his own authority. “Here, I’ll do it! Let’s get this trash compacted so we can all go home!” Julian let out a terrified howl. “DAD, STOP!” Silas slammed his thumb down on the START button and hit the High-Pressure Override. The machine groaned. The heavy hydraulic plates began to slide. A blood-curdling scream erupted from inside the steel belly of the machine. “HELP! STOP THE MACHINE!”

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I finally got a bone marrow match for my mom while my surgeon boyfriend booked a flight to the World Cup with my best friend. I’m standing outside the break room when I hear it. I came to tell Drew the good news. The match. The surgery date. Everything we’d been praying for. Then his buddy’s voice cuts through the door. “Drew, man—you’re really flying out with Sienna for the Cup? What about Sloane’s mom? Her surgery?” Drew’s voice comes back, easy and bored. “Her mom waited three years. Sienna and I have waited four.” “A surgery can be rescheduled. The Cup happens once. We’re not skipping now.” “You’re not worried Sloane’s gonna lose it?” Drew actually laughs. “I’m the only surgeon in the country who can do this operation. What’s she gonna do?” My back hits the wall. My face goes ice cold. Drew and Sienna can barely stand each other on a normal day. They snipe, they roll eyes, they pretend to hate each other’s guts. But the second anyone says the word soccer, something shifts. Their eyes lock like they share a secret language. And me—I’m the one who doesn’t speak it. For two years I’ve stayed up till 3 a.m. watching match replays. I read sports columns. I memorized player stats. All so I could squeeze one sentence into their conversations. And every time I did, the room went dead quiet. They’d glance at each other and shake their heads like I’d embarrassed myself. “Sloane, honey. You really don’t get soccer.” I don’t get it. And I don’t want to anymore. … Drew gets home around eight. I’m already at the table eating. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” I sniff the air instead of answering. “You had garlic fries? You never eat that stuff.” Drew is the pickiest man alive. Since we moved in together, I cook from a nutritionist’s meal plan—different recipe every night, all of it organic, all of it perfect. He pauses. Then his face smooths over. “Passed a place on the way home. Thought of you. You love them, right? I tried a few.” I grip my fork tighter. “When have you ever seen me eat garlic fries?” Drew has a thing about smells. I stopped wearing perfume for him. He blinks. “Guess I mixed you up with someone.” I don’t say a word. Because I know exactly who loves garlic fries. Sienna does. Sienna inhales them. She changed his whole personality in a weekend. That’s what makes me feel like the joke. Drew sighs and drops into the chair next to me. Slides an arm around my shoulders. “Are you still mad about the trip? Babe, I don’t want to go. The hospital keeps shoving these conferences down my throat.” I stab at my food. I don’t answer. This afternoon, after I overheard him, I went into his locked office. The one I’m “not supposed to touch.” I found a photo album shoved between his medical textbooks. Hundreds of pictures. All of them him and Sienna. At stadiums. At sports bars. At away games in three different countries. The most recent one is from last week. Last week my mom had her pre-op screening. I was so anxious I ran a fever. Drew said he was on call. He was at a riverside grill with Sienna. Eating burgers. Watching the game. That was supposed to be our date. He’d promised me for months. He didn’t forget. He just left me out of it because I’d ruin the mood. His phone buzzes against the table. He glances at it and his mouth tugs up, completely unconscious. “It’s Sienna. Sending me match clips again. She’s so annoying.” He says annoying like it’s a love letter. I push my chair back and head for the bedroom. He doesn’t even ask where I’m going. I sit at my desk and pull up my laptop to message Mom about the surgery date. A minute later, Drew comes strolling in, talking about the game like I asked. I don’t look up once. He doesn’t notice. When I finally stand to leave, the chair scrapes the floor and his eyes snap up—to the screen behind me. “What’s that?” I turn. My stomach drops. I’d accidentally clicked over to my sports forum account. The one where I log every game, every player, every stat. The one I built so I could keep up with them. Drew leans over and scrolls. “Damn, this is solid work. This is Sienna’s account, right?” I stare at him. “It’s mine.” He laughs. Actually laughs. “Babe. Your brain is full of restaurants and shopping. There’s no way you wrote this.” My fingers curl into my palm. If Sienna had shown him this, he’d call her brilliant. For me, it’s a lie. “You’re right,” I say quietly. “It’s hers. I logged into her account.” He flicks my forehead. Hard. “Stop pretending to be something you’re not. It’s exhausting.” He didn’t pull the hit. My eyes water before I can stop them. I’ve told him a hundred times to be gentle. He never listens. Maybe it’s time I stopped trying too.

The next morning I go see Mom. I mention the surgery date, casual as I can. Her whole body tenses. “Did something happen? With Drew?” “I didn’t say anything weird, baby. Don’t let others find out we’re related. It’ll look bad for him.” She actually glances around the room like someone might be listening. I follow her eyes. The cramped six-bed ward. The thin curtain barely pulled around her cot. The woman two beds over moaning in her sleep. My throat closes up. The day Mom got admitted, Drew sat me down with that calm doctor voice. “It’s fine if she comes to my hospital. But no one can know she’s your mom. You know how many people are gunning for my spot. I can’t be seen pulling strings.” So she got dumped in a six-bed ward. She knows he’s picky about food, so she brought fresh vegetables from her garden. But he let them rot on the counter. I swallow hard and force a smile. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m getting you moved to a private room this week.” In the hallway I lean against the wall and wipe my face. Then I look up and freeze. Drew and Sienna are walking toward me. Laughing. His hand on the small of her back. The second they see me, they spring apart and start fake-bickering like they always do. Sienna loops her arm through mine. “Sloane! Babe, I ate something bad, came to get checked out. I was just about to go say hi to your mom.” I’m so trained to care about her, the words come automatic. “Are you okay?” She nods sweetly. “Drew was a lifesaver. Personally examined me and everything.” Drew shrugs. “If it weren’t for Sloane, you think I’d make an exception?” I stiffen. “Then can you make one for my mom? Move her into a private room?” Drew’s eyes are still on Sienna, soft and entertained. They cool the second they land on me. “That’s different, Sloane. How would it look to the other patients?” I laugh under my breath. He can publicly run a stomach exam on Sienna. But my mom has to stay invisible. I don’t fight him. I just pull my arm out of Sienna’s grip and walk away. She calls after me. I walk faster. She keeps calling. I’m almost at the elevator when I hear it— A loud thud. Then a scream. I stop. I turn around. Drew is already crouched on the floor, scooping Sienna into his arms. His face is white with panic. He doesn’t even try to hide it. I follow them to the exam room because I don’t know what else to do. Drew is running around like she’s bleeding out. I step forward to help roll up her pant leg. “Get out,” he snaps. “You’re in the way.” My hand stops mid-air. I let it drop. I stand in the hallway for twenty minutes. When he finally comes out, his jaw is locked. “She tore a ligament when she fell.” I exhale. “Okay. As long as she’s all right.” Drew rips off his gloves and throws them in the trash. “All right? You think everyone’s as lazy as you? How is she supposed to play now?” “What is wrong with you today? You throw a fit at home, you throw a fit in public—” I stare at him. I open my mouth to say she’s the one who chased me down. But he’s looking at me like I’m something stupid. Something exhausting. Every word I had dies in my throat. From inside the exam room, Sienna calls my name, soft and pitiful. I start to go in. Drew grabs my arm. He pulls out a tissue and gently—gently—wipes a tear I didn’t know I’d cried. Then he says it. “Don’t let her feel sorry for you and take your side. You’re not a child anymore.” He turns toward the exam room, already done with me. Two steps in, he realizes I’m not following. “What are you standing there for?” he asks. I look up at him. “Drew. Let’s break up.”

Something flickers across Drew’s face. Surprise. Then it’s gone, replaced by that pinched, irritated look. “Sloane. I’m swamped right now. I don’t have time for your drama.” I hold his stare. His voice drops, soft and cruel. “You really want to break up this week? You don’t want your mom to have her surgery?” My eyes go wide. I can’t believe he said it out loud. He squeezes my shoulder like nothing happened. “Come on. Quit pouting. Go sit with Sienna. She got hurt because of you—it’s the least you can do.” My stomach turns. I shove his hand off and run. I make it as far as a stairwell before my knees give out. I crouch in the corner and try not to sob loud enough to be heard. Two nurses pass by in the hallway, gossiping. “Dr. Langston is so sweet with his girlfriend. I’ve never seen him freak out like that.” “You know her uncle is Deputy Chief? The Chief loves Drew. Set for life.” The pieces click into place so fast I feel sick. Sienna’s uncle is the Deputy Chief of Medicine. That’s why Drew changed. Sienna’s the golden girl with the right family. Drew’s the rising star with the perfect résumé. From the very beginning, I was the ugly stepsister wedged in between. I don’t know how long I cry. Then my phone rings. Drew. “Where are you?” His voice is heavy. My stomach drops. “What happened? Is it Mom?” Today was her dialysis appointment. He pauses. “Just come home. Now.” I’m up before my legs are ready. I almost fall down the stairs. I call Mom three times—straight to voicemail. I call Drew back—straight to voicemail. My heart is hammering against my ribs. I run the whole way home and pound on our door. Drew opens it. Completely calm. I push past him into the living room. Sienna is curled up on my couch, swinging one foot, perfectly relaxed. “Where’s my mom?” I gasp. “Your mom’s fine,” Drew says. He nods toward the guest room. “Sienna’s gonna recover here. Go clean out the guest room for her.” My mouth falls open. Sienna giggles. “Drew said if I told you it was an emergency, you’d come running.” Drew’s lips twitch. He hands her a glass of juice without looking at me. “Drink your juice, princess.” Then, he tosses over his shoulder, “Game’s on in an hour. Finish the room and you can watch with us. Don’t say we never include you.” I’m still trying to breathe. My phone buzzes. [Mom: Sorry honey, was in my appointment. What’s up?] I look down at the message and laugh. Quietly. To myself. She’s fine. That’s all that matters. I walk into the guest room and shut the door. The TV blares to life behind me, two voices already arguing about lineups. I don’t pick up a vacuum. I don’t change the sheets. I pull a bag out of the closet and start packing. They’re so wrapped up in the game they don’t notice a thing. … The next few days, life carries on. Drew and Sienna eat the same meals. Sleep on the same schedule. Watch matches at 2 a.m. and ice her ankle together at sunrise. For two years he complained every time I got home late from sitting with my mom. Now? He’s all smiles. Whistling around the kitchen. Bringing Sienna smoothies. The less I come home, the more of her things appear in the apartment. Her shampoo in our shower. Her sweater on our chair. Her toothbrush in the cup next to his. When Sienna sees the matching mugs Drew and I bought on our anniversary, she throws a tantrum until he buys her an identical set. “Sloane and I have been best friends since we were six,” she pouts. “If anyone gets matching anything with her, it’s me. Who are you, exactly?” Drew rolls his eyes and calls her impossible. Then he drives across the city all day to buy her every matching thing she points at. When I get home that night, I find my slippers shoved to the very back of the closet. His and hers slippers sit neatly by the door, side by side. Like a set. I stare at them for a long moment. Then I reach into the closet, pull out a pair of cheap guest slippers, and drop mine in the trash. It doesn’t matter. Mom and I are leaving soon anyway.

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Daniela’s proudest achievement is fucking the Don of the Vitale family behind his wife’s back. That wife is me. Back then, I’m scrolling through the thread after work, half-numb from a fourteen-hour day, when the top reply catches my eye. Question: What’s the proudest thing you’ve ever done? Answer: Stealing my son’s classmate’s father straight into my bed. “Two years ago my son pulled a little prank on the girl sitting in front of him at school. Carved his initials into her back with a pocket knife. Cute, right? Her mom found out and came screaming into the headmaster’s office calling me trash. Said I raised an animal.” “And she made some calls. Used her family’s money. Got my son expelled and blacklisted from every elite academy in the city.” “That’s when I met her husband. A real man. Gorgeous. Powerful. He told me she was a vulgar, mouthy bitch — and I was hooked.” “We ended up in bed. Easy. He paid to put my son into a private school overseas — she still has no idea.” “Cheating tastes so good, girls. Highly recommend.” “And the best part? I’m carrying his baby right now. If it weren’t for the bump, I’d shove it in her face. But I can wait. When my kid’s older, we’ll come back for her daughter’s inheritance. I want to see her face then.” Underneath the words, a photo. A man’s face pressed into a woman’s chest. Neither of them showing. They don’t have to. Because right there, on his forehead — just above his eyebrow — is a two-inch scar. Clean white line. Hair never grew back. My palm goes cold around the phone. I zoom in. Two centimeters of dead follicles in a perfect stripe. The kind of scar you only get when someone splits your skull open with intent. I should know. I gave it to him. Two years ago. The night our daughter came home from school with her back carved up by a six-year-old with a pocket knife. The night I broke a whiskey bottle over Lorenzo’s head. I keep scrolling. The comments are a war zone. Half the thread is calling her a shameless whore. She’s loving it. She drops another photo to shut them up — a man shirtless, arms wrapped around a swollen pregnant belly, a box of strawberry-flavored condoms tossed on the nightstand. Lorenzo’s brand. Lorenzo’s size. “The mistress is the one who isn’t loved, sweetie. He only has eyes for me now.” “Not my fault, she couldn’t hold onto her man.” I know that voice before I see the name. Daniela Rossi. Nico Rossi’s mother. The woman who stood in the headmaster’s office two years ago and screamed at me in front of every parent on the board. I tap into her profile. Two years of daily posts. Every single day. Every single one of them about her and Lorenzo. The first one — a coffee shop, the week after Mia came home bleeding. Lorenzo’s hand resting on the table, wearing the watch I bought him for our anniversary. I scroll. A trip to the Maldives the weekend of our wedding anniversary, while I sat in a hospital room holding Mia’s hand through a fever. A black-tie auction in Monaco the night I called him crying because Mia wouldn’t stop asking where Daddy was. Every post. Every receipt. Two years of my marriage, livestreamed by the woman fucking my husband. I stop on a post from last month. The fifteenth. “My king took me to my prenatal check-up today. Cried when he heard the heartbeat.” I remember the fifteenth. I had a meeting I couldn’t push. I called Lorenzo and asked him to pick Mia up from school. He grunted something into the phone. I thought that meant yes. It was the first time we’d spoken all year. I came home at midnight. Mia wasn’t there. Lorenzo wouldn’t answer. The school said she’d left at three. I called the police. I sat on the kitchen floor in a blood-pressure spiral, waiting for the worst news of my life. They found her the next morning. She’d tripped on the way home, scraped her knees raw, and a baker on the east side took her in because she was too scared to walk in the dark. Lorenzo walked through the front door at 8 a.m. like nothing happened. I slapped him so hard his lip split. He told me he got busy and forgot. Told me Mia was fine. Told me I was overreacting like always. We had the worst fight of our marriage that night. He slammed the door behind him and didn’t come back. Three weeks. No call. No text. Nothing. And now I know where he’s been. I lock the phone. Set it face-down on the table. This isn’t the first time Lorenzo has chosen someone else over us. It’s just the first time I’m done pretending I didn’t see it coming. Our marriage was rotting long before Daniela Rossi ever walked into it.

The Vitale family runs half this coast. Old blood, old money, the kind of power that makes governors return calls within the hour. My family built the other half. The Castellanis have been moving cargo through these ports since before the Vitales picked up their first gun. By the time it came down to me, I’d taken the business global. Our grandfathers shook hands across a dinner table sixty years ago. Our parents bought houses next to each other. Lorenzo and I grew up climbing the same fence. The first time I got my period, I was thirteen and crying in the school bathroom. He was the one who showed up. Tied his jacket around my waist. Walked down to the corner store and came back with an entire bag of pads. “Take it. Don’t ruin my jacket.” The words were sharp. The hand shoving the bag into mine wasn’t. He cussed me out every time I cried, then slipped painkillers into my desk before class. “Take them. I’m not carrying your ass home if you pass out again.” When he couldn’t say what he meant, he wrote it down. I found the poem folded into my locker when we were sixteen. I laughed at how cheesy it was. He ripped it out of my hand, shoved it back into my chest, and kissed me under the streetlight outside my house. That was the night I knew. We grew up tangled in each other. Got married the year I turned twenty-four. Had Mia two years after that. And then everything started to crack. He wanted me home. Wanted me to step back from the business. Be a wife. Be a mother. The kind of woman his world expected. I wasn’t built for that. I’d spent my whole life clawing my way to the top of the Castellani empire — I wasn’t about to hand it off so I could pour wine for his capos at Sunday dinner. “Why is the business always more important than me? Than this family?” “They’re not more important. They’re equal. I’m not choosing between them, Lorenzo.” “That’s the problem. You should be.” We fought like that for years. He’d slam doors. I’d work later. He’d disappear for a week at a time. I’d disappear for two. He still played the husband. Still played the father. Until he didn’t. The fights got uglier. My deals took me overseas for months. His patience ran out somewhere along the way, and I was too busy holding two empires together to chase him back. Then Mia came home with her back sliced open. Lorenzo and I had screamed at each other two nights before that. He was still angry when he showed up to the headmaster’s office — late, hands in his pockets, like he’d been pulled out of something more important than his daughter bleeding through her uniform. Daniela was already there. Already screaming at me. Calling me trash. Calling Mia a brat who probably deserved it. I was about to break her jaw. Lorenzo walked in. Looked at his daughter’s blood-soaked shirt. Looked at me. And took Daniela’s side. “Kids play rough. You don’t have to come at her like an animal, Sera.” I slapped him. In front of every parent on the board. In front of Daniela’s smug, lipsticked grin. Then I made my calls that ended Nico Rossi’s name in every elite school on the coast. I made sure that little monster wouldn’t sit next to another child until his mother begged on her knees. She never did. But apparently her husband — soon to be ex — couldn’t pay to undo it, and that’s where Lorenzo stepped in. That night Lorenzo came home drunk and louder than I’d ever heard him. “You humiliated me. In front of half this city.” “You humiliated yourself. Our daughter was bleeding and you defended the woman whose son did it.” He grabbed my wrist. I grabbed the whiskey bottle off the bar. The glass came down on the side of his head before he could finish the next sentence. Amber liquid and blood ran down his face together, soaking the collar of his white shirt. My voice didn’t shake. “Lorenzo. Now you know what our daughter felt.” After that, the marriage was a corpse. We just kept dressing it up for the family. … My hand is locked around the phone so tight my knuckles ache. Daniela’s profile refreshes. New post. “Thank you to my king for cooking for me tonight.” A photo of a man in an apron. Standing at a stove. Smiling like he means it. I’ve been married to him for eleven years. He has never once cooked for me. I dial his number before I can stop myself. It rings. And rings. And rings. Right when I think it’s going to voicemail, his voice slides through, slow and lazy. “What?” “You promised our daughter you’d come home for her birthday yesterday. Where the hell are you?” A pause. Then, quieter — almost amused — “Sera. Beg me. Tell me you miss me.” “Apologize. Soften up a little. And I’ll come home.” I can’t speak. Then a soft female voice in the background. “Lorenzo, who is it?” The last flickering thing inside me goes out. I hear my own voice answer, calm as a blade. “In your fucking dreams.” I hang up.

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My husband said the signal at sea was too weak to text me back — until his ex posted thirty-one screenshots of their nightly video calls. *** My husband worked as a communications operator on an oceanic research vessel — and I could never reach him. Every time he shipped out, he’d say the same thing: signal’s unstable at sea, totally normal if it takes three to five days to reply. I believed that for two whole years. Until his ex, Molly Fuller, started posting screenshots of their video calls. Thirty-one calls in a single month. The shortest one — forty minutes. The image was so crystal clear I could see the deck behind him and the stars in the sky. I scrolled back through my own chat history. The longest I’d waited for a reply? Fourteen days. Two words: Mm-hmm. After that, I learned my lesson. No more staying up late, staring at my phone, waiting for the screen to light up. No more sending long paragraphs about how much I missed him. My messages shrank from three lines to one: [Stay safe.] Then two words: [Be well.] Then just a single period. And then — nothing at all. The next time he docked and came home, he frowned at me. “How come you never text me anymore?” I smiled. In three days, our divorce hearing was scheduled — and he didn’t even know. ··· Declan Reid stood in the doorway, duffel bag still in hand. I used to change the sheets in advance, drive down to the pier to meet him, even line up his slippers facing outward so he could step right in. Today I was just sitting at the dining table, sorting through paperwork. He stared at the thick stack of documents, brow furrowed. “Izabella. I’m talking to you.” I pressed down on the stapler. A soft click. “How many days are you staying this time?” That caught him off guard. His tone softened slightly. “A week. Heading back to the ship next week. Tomorrow night there’s a banquet for the crew.” For the past two years, every time he came ashore, he said he was exhausted — walked in the door and collapsed into bed. But on Molly’s Instagram, he was strolling along the pier with her, helping her pick out equipment, staying on video calls until two in the morning. I kept my head down, organizing files. Said nothing. Declan set a gift box on the table. “This is for you. I missed our anniversary — I was at sea. Making up for it.” My fingers froze. I opened the box. Inside was a seashell bracelet. The edges were rough, barely sanded down. The tag under it read: 50% off. Before I could even open my mouth, my phone buzzed. Molly had posted on Instagram. In the photo, she stood on the pier, a deep-sea blue pearl necklace around her neck. In the corner of the frame was Declan’s sleeve. [Someone remembers I’m afraid of the dark, so he gave me a piece of the ocean.] I slid my phone across the table to Declan. He glanced at it. His expression shifted — then smoothed over just as quickly. “That necklace is a prop for her documentary. She’s just borrowing it. Yours is more of an everyday thing — more your style.” I nodded. “Oh. So Molly gets deep-sea blue pearls. I get seashells on discount.” He seemed thrown by that. Before he could respond, his phone rang — a video call, with Molly’s name on the screen. Declan answered almost on instinct. On camera, Molly was wearing a black windbreaker. I recognized it. Declan had bought it last year before shipping out. He said the windproofing was top-notch, couldn’t go to sea without it. Molly’s voice was hoarse. “Declan, I think I have a fever. The pharmacy’s closed and I’m all alone here. I’m kind of scared.” Declan looked at me. In that one look — I saw the conflict. And the apology of someone who’d already made up his mind. “Izzy, she just got to port. She doesn’t know anyone around here. I’ll drop off some medicine. I’ll be right back.” I watched him grab his car keys. “You just got home. We haven’t seen each other in months.” He frowned. “Don’t be like that. She’s sick.” The door closed. The apartment went silent again. I sat at the dining table and placed the seashell bracelet into a plastic evidence bag. Labeled it. [Difference in gifts.] Then I texted Milo Mainse, my lawyer. [Add one more item.] Milo replied almost instantly: [Got it.] Half an hour later, Molly sent me a photo. A box of medicine. A glass of hot water. Declan’s hand on hers. [You don’t mind, right, Izabella?] I replied: [Not at all.] After I hit send, I plugged in the voice recorder to charge. The next evening, Declan sent me a location pin. [Welcome banquet at seven. Don’t be late. My boss and colleagues will all be there. Don’t embarrass me.] I stared at the message, then dropped the voice recorder into my bag.

The welcome banquet was at a hotel near the port. By the time I walked into the private dining room, it was already packed. Declan was in uniform. Molly sat right next to him, draped in his crew jacket, his comms badge pinned to her chest. I knew that badge. Before his last deployment, I’d asked if I could keep one as a memento. He said shipboard equipment was strictly regulated — family members weren’t allowed to take anything. So I didn’t talk about it anymore. But now… it hung on Molly’s chest, like some kind of unspoken claim. Declan spotted me and pointed to a seat by the door. “Sit over there. The main table’s all crew. It’d be awkward if you sat here.” Molly looked up with a little smile. “Oh, Bella’s here! Declan, why don’t you let her sit next to you? I can move to that seat.” She said the lines, but didn’t budge an inch. Declan muttered under his breath, “It doesn’t matter where she sits.” I sat down by the door and quietly switched on the voice recorder in my bag. The dinner hadn’t been going long before the teasing started. “Molly and Declan — best team on the ship. One films the ocean, the other connects it.” “Honestly, back when you two were together, we all said you were perfect for each other.” “Declan really takes care of Molly, huh? Signal’s garbage out there, but her video calls never drop.” Declan just laughed it off. “Come on, knock it off.” He didn’t look at me. Molly ducked her head, the tips of her ears turning pink, like someone had touched on something she wasn’t supposed to admit. The food arrived. Declan picked the belly meat off the fish and placed it on Molly’s plate. “Stay away from the bony parts.” Then he swapped her iced drink for hot tea. “Your stomach’s bad enough — why are you drinking something cold?” I stared at the dressed crab in front of me. He knew I had a weak stomach. He knew I couldn’t handle too much seafood. The first year we were dating, he used to call ahead to restaurants and ask them to prepare hot soup for me. At which point, the person he remembered became Molly? Molly picked up her glass and walked over to me. “Bella, let me make a toast. Actually, I’ve been wanting to apologize to you. Declan gets so lonely out at sea. Sometimes I’d reach out just because I was worried the pressure was getting to him.” A few people chimed in right away. “Izabella, you’ve gotta understand his job. The mental toll on a communications operator — most people can’t even imagine.” “Don’t take it personally, Izabella. Molly’s an old friend, not some stranger.” “Declan’s a good husband overall, right? You guys are young — don’t blow this out of proportion.” I looked at their faces, one after another, all so matter-of-fact. I almost laughed out loud. “31 video calls in one month. The shortest was forty minutes. Is that part of the job too?” The room went dead silent. Declan’s face darkened. “Izabella. You really have to do this here? In front of all of them?” Molly’s eyes turned red instantly. “Izabella, you… you’ve got it wrong. I’m making a documentary — I needed to understand conditions on the ship. Declan was just helping me verify technical details…” I pulled out my phone and lit up the screen. “‘Verifying technical details’ requires singing ‘Happy Birthday’ at two in the morning?” Molly’s composure cracked for a split second before softening again. “I was in a really dark place that night. He was afraid something might happen to me.” Declan jumped in. “Izzy, Molly really was struggling last year. I couldn’t just watch my friend fall apart.” My friend. Those two words were like the ultimate cover-up. I didn’t push it further. I set my teacup down. The mood was ruined. No one cracked another joke at my expense for the rest of the night. Declan glanced over at me several times, his eyes full of irritation. Halfway through, I went to the restroom. Molly followed. She stood in front of the mirror reapplying lipstick, a faint smile on her lips. “You’re recording, aren’t you, Izabella?” I didn’t deny it. She twisted the cap back on. “You really don’t need to be this guarded around me. If Declan actually cared about you, nothing I said would matter.” I turned on the faucet. Water ran over my fingers. “You know, he always reaches out to me first when he’s at sea.” “The stars, the storms, when they’re pulling into port — I always know before you do.” The water kept on running. “You know he’s married.” Molly looked at me through the mirror. “I do. That’s why I never made a move. He’s the one who can’t let go.” She pulled out her phone. On the screen was a screenshot. [She stopped messaging. Peace and quiet.] The date was the exact day I stopped sending him a single period. Molly’s voice dropped low. “Izabella, the thing men fear most isn’t a woman who makes a scene. It’s a woman with nothing to offer who still won’t withdraw gracefully.” I dried my hands. “Save that line for court.” When I walked out, Declan was standing at the end of the hallway, waiting. He looked at me, visibly annoyed. “The second you show up, everyone’s uncomfortable. Izabella, can you please stop dragging our personal problems into public?” I looked up at him. “I’m going to my parents’ tomorrow.” His brow furrowed tight, his eyes full of impatience. “I barely have any days off. How long are you going to keep this up?” I walked past him toward the dining room. The red light on the recorder was still on.

Back home, I started packing my clothes. Declan stood in the bedroom doorway. His face was dark. “If you move out now, our parents are going to know we’re fighting.” I folded my everyday clothes into the suitcase. “Not a fight. It’s a separation.” “Izabella Lane.” When he used my full name, it always came with this forced patience — like he was trying very hard not to lose his temper. “I’ll admit I’ve been in touch with Molly too much. But you can’t twist a normal friendship into something dirty.” I stopped putting my dress into the suitcase.”I texted you at three a.m. with stomach cramps. You took fourteen days to reply. That same night, you were on a video call with her for an hour.” Declan frowned. “There are rules about communications on board. You can’t just reply to personal messages whenever you want.” I laid a stack of printed screenshots on the bed. March 15th. I had a 102-degree fever and asked if he could just send me one word back. That same night, Molly posted a call screenshot — 63 minutes. April 20th. A pipe burst at home. I rushed back from work and dealt with it alone until past midnight. Molly posted a reel — Declan showing her the moonlight over the ocean on video. May 9th. My dad had a sudden heart attack and was rushed to the hospital. I stood at the billing counter, hands shaking so badly I kept typing the wrong PIN. Declan was singing “Happy Birthday” to Molly. Someone was whistling in the background. … He stared at those pages for a long time before opening his mouth again. “Molly was depressed during that period. Her family situation was bad too. I was afraid she might do something to herself.” I let out a small laugh. “The day my dad went into surgery, I was afraid too.” He looked up at me. Something in his expression cracked, just for a second. His phone cut through the silence. Molly’s special ring tone. Declan picked up and hit speaker. On the other end, Molly was crying so hard she could barely breathe. “Declan, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come to the banquet. Izabella cornered me in the bathroom — she said she’d expose me, said she’d make sure I never work in this industry again.” Declan’s head snapped toward me. “…you threatened her?” I kept packing. “The hotel has security cameras.” “No need to check.” His voice hardened. “Molly wouldn’t lie about something like this.” I stared at him. Two years. Every time I was hurt, I needed evidence to prove myself. Meanwhile, all Molly needed was tears, and he took it as fact. Molly was still weeping: “Am I causing too much trouble? I just didn’t want you to be alone out there with no one to talk to…” Declan lowered his voice. “Don’t cry. It’s not your fault.” After he hung up, his eyes locked onto me, heavy and cold. “Why do you have to go after someone who’s already struggling?” I snapped back calmly. “Does she have a diagnosis?” “Izabella, do you have to be this heartless?” I pulled another file from the drawer. It was a message from last winter. [Declan, I can barely hold it together. The apartment’s freezing, my stomach’s killing me. I’m not trying to bother you. I just need to hear your voice.] I’d sent that message to him and only him. But that afternoon, Molly had forwarded me a screenshot with a note attached: [Izabella, you REALLY need to see a doctor:)] I held the screen up to his face. “You forwarded my message to her?” Declan’s face changed. “I just wanted her opinion on whether you’d been emotionally unstable. She took a few psychology courses back then.” The glass on the nightstand slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor. A shard sliced across my palm. Blood came fast. Declan saw it. But his first move was picking up his phone and texting Molly. [She’s losing it. Don’t be scared.] I looked down at my hand. Turns out, when you hit a certain point, even pain could be on a delay. I pressed a tissue against the wound, grabbed my bag, and walked out. … The lights in the ER hallway were blinding white. Milo Mainse was waiting by the entrance, holding a copy of the court summons. He saw my hand, went to the nurse’s station for antiseptic cotton, then handed me the paperwork. “Court date’s confirmed. Three days from now, 9 a.m.” I took it. Milo hesitated. “You sure you don’t want to try mediation?” I looked at the thin cut across my palm. “I’m sure.” My phone buzzed. A text from Declan. [you really freaked Molly out. i’m going to check on her tonight. calm down first.] Milo glanced at it but said nothing. I screenshotted the message and saved it. The next morning, Declan called. “I’m taking Molly to the lighthouse today to shoot some footage. Your mom’s follow-up appointment — just go by yourself.” I looked at the appointment slip in my hand. “You promised you’d come with me.” His reply was instant. “It’s a follow-up, not surgery. Don’t use my family to pressure me.” And my mom heard every word.

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The affair photos hit the trending page forty minutes ago, and my in-laws are already begging me to save the man who ruined my life. My husband’s steamy pictures with his assistant leaked online while they were on a “business trip.” His devoted-CEO image? Shattered overnight. The company stock tanked. His family showed up one by one to guilt-trip me. [Think about the big picture, Melissa. Do the right thing.] So I did what they asked. I clicked the button and posted seven clarification statements: “There is no so-called mistress in my marriage to Mr. Francis. The rumors about him and his assistant Ms. Amy Turner maintaining a love nest at Moristero Manor are simply that — rumors.” “My three miscarriages over five years were pure bad luck. They were absolutely NOT the result of a bet Mr. Francis lost to Ms. Turner.” “Mr. Francis traveling to Japan with his assistant on our wedding anniversary was strictly for business purposes.” “The monthly Porsches and Hermès bags purchased for Ms. Turner were standard corporate gifts. Nothing more.” “My family’s heirloom being given to Ms. Turner was entirely my idea. I volunteered.” “As for the viral intimate photos online — they were personally photoshoped by me.” “I owe Ms. Turner a sincere apology.” Three minutes after I posted the video, my phone buzzed. Corey — radio silent for days — finally decided to show up. In my Message. [Melissa. Take it down. NOW!] [Do it before I get back, or you know what happens.] I laughed softly and typed back: [Then I won’t wait for you to come back.] … I barely set my phone down before a voice beside me spoke. “Ms. Wood, your reinstatement request has been approved. Given the nature of the position, we’ll need confirmation that you are currently unmarried and not pregnant before departure.” I nodded. “Understood. Thank you.” After the officer left, I sat alone in the empty walk-in closet. An open suitcase lay in front of me — a few changes of clothes and an old photo album. That was it. Outside the window, the sky was fading to dark. But my phone screen kept lighting up. That “clarification” video had been live for forty minutes, and the comments had already blown past a million. Seven of the top ten trending topics were about my statement. #CoreyFrancis_AmyTurner_MoristeroManor #A_Bet_Caused_Miscarriages #MelissaWood_Apologizes_AmyTurner #CoreyFrancis Every single one — top viral. I scrolled through the comments. My fingers barely had the strength to swipe. [wasnt Corey Francis supposed to be the most devoted husband in the city? what the hell happened?] [Monthly Porsches and Hermès bags as standard corporate gifts? is the Francis Global a company or a charity?] [Francis Global doesn’t even have an office in Osaka. What kind of business trip was this exactly?] [lol someone in reddit dug up the hot spring resort they went to — it’s a couples-only spot with some VERY adult packages. ‘Business trip’ my ass.] [volunteered to give away my family heirloom? Melissa, blink twice if someone’s holding a gun to your head.] [I’ve been a paparazzi for 10+ years and this is the first time I’ve seen someone write ‘my husband is trash’ in a PR statement and disguise it as an apology. Melissa — are you asking for help?] I stared at the screen for a moment, then let out a quiet laugh. They were right. I was asking for help. Just not from them. Every single line in that statement — the public wouldn’t catch the full meaning. But Corey would. The moment I posted it, there was no going back. Not for him. Not for us. My phone buzzed again. A message without a profile picture. [Ms. Wood — the marriage certificate held by you and Mr. Corey Francis has been verified as a fake document.] I froze. I thought I’d already made peace with it — back when I first found the clues myself. But hearing it confirmed out loud, my eyes still stung.

The next morning at six, I was jolted awake by a knock on the bedroom door. It was Jody, the housekeeper. “Mrs. Francis, your husband is home.” I blinked. He wasn’t supposed to be back today. Before I could react, Corey was already standing in the doorway. Behind him — Amy Turner and Carol Sharp, the company’s PR manager. Amy was dressed in a crisp blazer, eyes red-rimmed and glistening. “Melissa, how could you post something like that? Do you have any idea what people are saying about me online? I…I can’t even leave my house…” I leaned back against the headboard, watching her trembling-lip routine, and let out a quiet laugh. “Oh, that statement? I just threw it together. Didn’t expect you to take it so personally.” “Melissa!” Corey’s voice was barely contained fury. “You’re going to delete that statement right now. Then you’re posting a new one — say the account was hacked. Say none of it came from you.” I didn’t respond. Carol pulled a document from her briefcase and handed it over. “Mrs. Francis, the PR team drafted a new statement. You just need to sign.” I took it and skimmed through. Professional wording. Pinned everything on a hacked account. “Get yourself ready,” Corey said, his voice dropping another degree. “The company’s holding a press conference at two. You’ll be there with me. You don’t have to say a word — just stand next to me and smile. The rumors will die on their own.” I looked up at him. “You want me to pretend none of this ever happened?” His expression darkened. “I’m not asking.” “I know,” I said, the smile fading from my face. “But I’m done performing for you.” I thought saying that would shake something loose in him. Guilt. Shame. Anything. But he just stood there, looking down at me with something close to impatience. Like I was the one being unreasonable. I thought about how he got me here. Step by step. Lie by lie. In the beginning, it was “Amy’s just a fresh grad, don’t overthink it.” Then it became “She’s good at her job. It’s normal for me to look out for her.” And then — she had a key to Moristero Manor. My grandmother’s jade pendant showed up around her neck. And I lost three babies. He played both sides flawlessly. Not a single crack I could find. Until the week before his trip — the company’s anniversary gala. I went upstairs to the lounge to find him. The door wasn’t fully closed. I heard him inside, drinking with his buddies. “Corey, you lost another bet to Amy? What was it this time?” His voice, careless and loose: “Bet on how long it’d take Melissa to forgive me for skipping her birthday. I said one day. Amy said one hour. I lost.” He took a drag of his cigarette, voice lazy with alcohol: “Melissa’s great, just… boring as hell. Feed her a couple sweet lines and she buys every excuse I give her. Nothing special in bed either… Last time I took her family’s jade pendant — told her some bullshit about a business partner who’s obsessed with occult, said wearing it would ward off bad luck — and she actually believed me.” Laughter erupted around him. “Good thing you never actually filed that marriage certificate. You’d be kicking yourself right now. But seriously — Amy’s way more fun. You’re not going to make it official with her?” “…maybe. Mrs. Francis? That spot fits someone like Melissa better. Doesn’t make waves, doesn’t make a fuss.” The laughter died down, and then he lowered his voice. “But this time — we can’t mess with her body again over a lost bet. Three miscarriages because of me losing to Amy… one more and her body’s really going to give out.” I stood outside that door, and the cold seeped straight into my bones. In that one moment, everything clicked into place. … The memory faded. I watched Corey walk slowly toward me. Then he smiled. “Melissa, your parents’ ashes — they’re at Rosendale Cemetery, aren’t they?”

He leaned in close, his lips almost brushing my ear. “If you don’t show up at that press conference and say exactly what you’re told to say — next time you visit them, that spot will be empty.” He straightened up and adjusted his cuffs. “Some things, Melissa, you can’t afford to lose.” My fists clenched at my sides. “Corey.” I stood up and looked him dead in the eye. “I’m done.” His steps halted. I took a deep breath. “I’m leaving. Mrs. Francis — that title, the position, all of it — give it to her. Is that enough?” The room went dead silent. Nothing but the sound of heartbeats. I waited for his reaction. Rage. A sneer. Some vicious remark designed to gut me. Any of it would have been fine. After all, this was the result everyone wanted. He’d get what he always wanted. Amy would get what she’d been scheming for. And I’d finally stop pretending. But he just stared at me for a few seconds. Then he laughed. “Leave?” He repeated the word slowly. “You have no friends. No family. No job. Where exactly are you going to go?” He reached out and gripped my chin, tilting my face up. “Isn’t this good enough? Just turn a blind eye to a few things, and we’ll call it even.” EVEN? There was nothing even between us. There never would be. I’d been counting down the days. One more month — just one — and the classified file from my old unit would be declassified. I could have laid the truth out in front of him. Proved that I never betrayed him. That what he saw that night was a cover operation, not what he thought it was… But now? I didn’t want to explain anymore. Five years. 1825 days. And this was all I had to show for it — absolutely nothing. Amy sniffled softly from behind him. Her voice came out thin and delicate. “Corey, please don’t be like this…” “Melissa.” Then she looked up at me with those wide, watery eyes. “I really never meant to come between you two. Could you please take that statement down? The comments online are so awful… My parents are terrified…” “Take it down?” I looked at her. “Without that statement, you’d still just be ‘Corey Francis’s assistant.’ Now the whole world knows your name. Isn’t that what you always wanted?” Amy’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Corey pulled her behind him in one swift motion — that instinct to shield her, to protect her at all costs. More real than anything he’d shown me in five years combined. “Melissa!” His voice was low thunder before a storm. “I’m saying this one last time. It’s an announcement, not negotiation. Figure it out yourself.” He wrapped his arm around Amy’s shoulders, turned, and walked out. The door clicked shut. I stood there, staring at it, and felt something heavy settle over me — the kind of tired that sleep couldn’t fix. When I married him, I thought he was my safe harbor. In the end, even my dead parents became leverage in his hands. Turns out the storm was never outside. The harbor was indeed the storm itself.

Before the press conference, I was forbidden from leaving the house. I didn’t fight. Didn’t scream. I just kept telling myself — get through today. Just get through today. That afternoon, I sat next to Corey on stage and read the script, word for word. Camera flashes popped like firecrackers beneath us. Corey smiled and held my hand the whole time. To everyone watching, it looked like a perfect couple. But my palm was drenched in cold sweat. The second the press conference ended, Corey stood up and walked straight to Amy, who was waiting in the wings. I didn’t watch them. I went to a flower shop and bought a bundle of chamomile and drove to Rosendale Cemetery. It had been too long since I’d visited Mom and Dad. I kept telling myself I’d go once things calmed down. That I’d sit with them and talk, the way I used to. I kept putting it off. Almost waited too long. When I got to their spot, I froze. Where were the jade urns? In their place sat a pot of bright red roses, blooming like blood. Blooming like they owned the space. I thought I’d gone to the wrong spot. I checked the number three times. No mistake. No. No. My parents’ ashes had been here for ten years. I knew every inch of that shelf. My head started buzzing. I’d known Corey long enough to understand him. When he couldn’t do something, he’d rather watch me cry than pretend otherwise. Like the time I found traces of his affair with Amy and asked him to fire her. Just let it go, I said. Pretend it never happened. He didn’t say a word. His face just said, I can’t — he wouldn’t even bother lying about it. So when he promised that if I cooperated at the press conference, he wouldn’t touch my parents’ ashes — I believed him. I actually believed him. I stood there for a long time before I went to find the staff. “Excuse me — the urns that were here. Where… where are they?” The man at the front desk didn’t even look up. “Oh, that spot? Boss reserved it for her flowers. The ashes? Moved somewhere, I guess.” “…moved?” My voice cracked. “I paid the maintenance fees. You moved them without telling me? Get your boss here. Now.” He finally glanced up, smirking. “Our boss is Mrs. Francis — wife of the CEO of the Francis Global. And who exactly are you?” Mrs. Francis? But when did I ever— The chamomile slipped from my fingers and hit the ground. I rushed back to the spot and searched frantically. Nothing. Nothing left. My eyes burned. I turned to leave — and tripped over the flower pot. Dirt scattered across the floor. Something white peeked through the soil. I crouched down and picked it up. A shard of white jade. Engraved with the letter W. …it was a piece of my father’s urn. A hand shoved me aside. “What do you think you’re doing? That’s Mrs. Francis’s flower! You break it, you pay for it!” I stumbled back. I watched him scoop the dirt back into the pot — dirt mixed with fragments of my father’s ashes — and my whole body started shaking. “My parents’ ashes… were used as fertilizer for that flower?” He wouldn’t look me in the eye, just mumbled something about how people should focus on being good to their parents while they’re alive instead of obsessing over ashes after they’re dead. “What difference does it make where they end up?” I didn’t hear the rest. I turned and walked out. My mind was blank the entire drive back. It stayed blank until I pushed open the bedroom door and saw Amy Turner lying in my bed. That was when my brain snapped back on. Corey glanced at me, casually tucking the blanket around Amy’s shoulders. “The press conference didn’t work. The comments are brutal. She’s a mess, so I brought her here to keep an eye on her.” I stared at that look on his face — like this was the most natural thing in the world. “Corey.” My voice came out calmer than I expected. “Where are my parents’ ashes?”

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