Author: Momo Chan

I am Ethan’s wife. He stole me from his best friend Ryan. A man who took another man’s woman watches every male around her. When I started feeding a stray on our block, he confirmed the dog was female and that its owner was also female before he relaxed. Then a new intern started at the office. Some kid who brought me coffee for a few days. Ethan said he didn’t care. That night he scrolled through my phone until three in the morning and broke out in hives. On the way to the ER, face flushed and burning, he pulled up the intern’s Instagram and shoved it in my face. “Those pecs are obviously photoshopped.” “And this height? He’s five-eight in lifts, max. No way he’s six feet.” The doctors around us were biting back laughter. I squeezed his mouth shut and pushed him into the exam room. On the way to pick up his prescription, the doctor mentioned it casually. “For contraception, we recommend the pill or condoms. This male contraceptive just hit the market and the side effects are severe. The rash is the least of it.” “He’s taken it three times in one week. I understand not wanting to put the burden on his partner, but this is reckless.” I stopped walking. I was three months pregnant. … He was asleep when I picked up his phone. The passcode was my birthday. His photo gallery was all me. His search history was all me too. “How to get your wife’s attention back” “Wife thinks I’m too clingy. Does she have someone else?” “How to help wife who misses her dead mother” His notes app. All me. “March 20. She had a nightmare about her mom again.” “March 21. She can’t keep anything down. Morning sickness getting worse.” “April 1. Tracked down her old nanny. Learned her mother’s pot roast recipe. She cleaned her plate.” My eyes burned. I told myself it was the hormones. Then a notification popped up from the navigation app. “Based on your frequent routes, we’ve planned your trip home. Estimated arrival: 30 minutes.” The destination was Unit 7B, 280 Park Avenue. We lived in Unit 3A. My fingers opened the route history before my brain caught up. For the past three months, every day at noon, he drove to that address and stayed for roughly two hours. The morning sickness had hollowed me out. Fifteen pounds gone in three months. The only food I could keep down was whatever Ethan cooked. The office was far. Between taking care of me and dealing with the sharks at the company, working until two in the morning was normal for him. I felt bad. I told him to eat lunch at the office and rest. He took it as me not needing him anymore. We had a huge fight. No matter what I said, he refused to stop making me lunch. I had to pretend the morning sickness was getting better and swear I’d take care of myself before he finally agreed to stay at work. Except he hadn’t stayed at work. Every day, for three months, he’d been one door down in another unit with someone else. My hands shook around the phone. A message came in. “Babe, I left a pair of panties at your place yesterday. She didn’t find them, did she? I left them on purpose. Unwashed.” “They’re my favorites. Bring them for my birthday?” I stared at the profile picture. My hands were trembling when I tapped it open. Bianca. My father’s bastard daughter. The girl whose mother drove my mother to her grave and moved into our house before the funeral flowers had wilted. She spent her whole life grabbing everything I had. My clothes, my jewelry, my father’s love. Even my ex-husband. I caught them in our bed. That’s how that marriage ended. The day the divorce went through, I wanted to die. Ethan held me and said it word by word. “Babe, I will only ever love you. I don’t care what she does. I won’t give her a second look. Believe me.” And he’d proven it. When Bianca sent him nudes, he went straight to the police. She got seven days in a holding cell. He made sure her university found out. They expelled her. Her future, gone. I thought leaving that swamp and finding Ethan was the luckiest thing that ever happened to me. So why her. Why was it always her. I opened their messages. Ethan calling her babe. Bianca threatening to tell me everything and Ethan shutting her down cold, blocking her, punishing her, taking the punishment to bed. Me in the hospital, crying over a bad prenatal result, and the two of them in the room I’d decorated with my own hands, Bianca wearing my pajamas… My whole body shook. Nausea hit the back of my throat. Behind me, the bed shifted. “Babe?”

He saw my red eyes and reached for me. I smelled it on him. Something faint and sour. I shoved him back and ran to the bathroom, doubled over the sink. “Babe!” He was right behind me. The second his hand touched my back I flinched, grabbed the glass ashtray off the counter and hurled it at him. “Get away from me!” The ashtray caught him on the temple. Blood ran down along his brow. He didn’t touch it. He just looked at me, eyes full of panic. “Is it the baby acting up again?” “Or does something hurt?” I sat on the floor and watched him bolt out of the bathroom. He came back with water and pills. Blood dripped onto his white collar and spread into a small red bloom. He didn’t notice. He just held out the pills. “Open up, babe.” “Why?” I looked into his eyes. The tears came before I could stop them. Days ago we were picking out names. We were talking about the future. The three of us. Taking her to the coast and the mountains and every place we’d been when we first fell in love. Minutes ago he was raging jealous over some kid bringing me coffee. “Why did you betray me?” I stared at him through the blur. Ethan froze. His hand tightened around the pills. “You know.” I waited for him to explain. I told myself I would believe anything he said. As long as he said it, I could forgive him. “I’m sorry.” He stepped closer, voice shaking. “I know having the intern fired behind your back will upset you. But I can’t stand another man being near you every day, seeing you smile.” He crouched down and looked up at me. “You have no idea what it took to take you from Ryan. How hard I fought just to stand beside you. And some nobody gets to walk in and hand you coffee like it’s nothing.” “I know I’m obsessive. I know I’m not normal. But I don’t regret it.” “Babe, hit me, scream at me, punish me however you want. Just don’t hurt yourself. Don’t leave me. I’ll die.” He looked up at me with red eyes, like an abandoned dog. I looked at him and knew I should turn around and walk out. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t give up his tenderness. I couldn’t give up these happy days. So as long as I didn’t see it with my own eyes, I could pretend none of it was real. As long as I didn’t see it. I looked at him and smiled. “I want pot roast.” His eyes lit up and he turned toward the kitchen. But his phone rang. He glanced at it, face apologetic. “Sorry, babe. Something urgent at the office. I’ll make it for you when I’m back.” He was out the door before I could answer. I got in my car and followed him. 812 Sutton Place. I stood under the trees and watched Bianca take his arm and walk him through the front door. The second it closed, I took out my phone and called him. Through the living room window I saw him stand up and reach for his jacket. Then Bianca rose on her toes and pressed her mouth to his. Through the phone I heard wet sounds and his breathing. My grip on the phone turned my knuckles white. “Ethan. My stomach hurts.” He shoved Bianca away and grabbed his coat and headed for the door. “Babe, don’t be scared. I’m coming right now.” Then a muffled sound came through the line. Bianca doubled over. The call went dead. Ten seconds later, a text came in. “Babe, emergency meeting at the office. I have to be there. I’ve already called the doctor, he’ll be at the house any minute. Don’t be scared.” I looked up. Through the window, I watched him carry Bianca toward the bedroom. Something in my chest died. I took out my phone and called the clinic. “I need to schedule an abortion.”

I was pulling out when I saw someone standing in front of my car. My father. We looked at each other. Then I followed him into the house I’d grown up in. The living room was the same room. But nothing in it was mine anymore. The photos of me and my mother on the wall had all been replaced with Bianca and her mother. My mother’s orchids were gone. Stiff red roses in their place. I stood in the middle of the room like I’d walked into the wrong house. My father pointed at the sofa. I sat down and he got straight to it. “Leave Ethan.” “No. Ethan can’t live without me.” Once, when I found Bianca’s number in his phone, I packed a bag and headed for the door. He got there first. Didn’t say a word. Just grabbed a knife from the coffee table and drove it into his own stomach. Blood poured out and he didn’t move. He just stood there between me and the door. “You want to leave? Then I die first.” My father said nothing. He just looked at me. Then he pointed at the wall behind me. A photo wall. All Bianca and Ethan. Cuddled on a gondola in Venice. Holding hands under cherry blossoms in Kyoto. Kissing beneath the Eiffel Tower. “He wasn’t on a business trip last week. He took her around the world.” He stood up and walked to the wall and pointed at the photo in the center. A wedding photo. “They got married overseas. Had a ceremony. Invited everyone.” “Including his parents.” “To get his parents to accept her, he knelt outside their door for seven days.” “Remind me, did anyone come to your wedding?” My mouth opened but nothing came out. Ethan’s parents despised me. They thought I’d seduced their son and made him break up a friendship and ruined his reputation. They didn’t come to the wedding. They refused to see us after. But in the photos, they were smiling and accepting tea from Bianca’s hands. “I heard you had a car accident a few days ago.” “You didn’t tell Ethan because you didn’t want him to worry.” My father let out a short laugh. “You know where he was?” “Right down the block from you. Shopping for a diamond ring with her.” My skull buzzed. “He watched the whole thing. Watched the other driver get in your face. Watched that man shove you to the ground. Watched you lock yourself in your car and cry. Watched them bang on your window and scream at you. Watched you sit there shaking and call the police.” “He didn’t move. Because she was thirsty and he wanted to get her a drink.” “That’s a lie!” I was on my feet, shaking. I refused to believe that the man who agonized over a scratch on my finger could watch me get pushed to the ground and do nothing. “You’re making this up because you want me away from Ethan.” My father looked at me in silence. The look in his eyes made my skin crawl. After a long time, he spoke. “Bianca’s pregnant.” “The baby’s name is Julian.” Julian. Something inside my head snapped. That name. Ethan and I spent a whole month on it. We went through every baby name book and argued and laughed and finally agreed. It was our baby’s name. Only our baby’s name. “A man knows a man.” My father’s voice came again. “All he has left for you is obligation. Keep going like this and you’ll end up exactly like your mother.” My mother. When she found out about the affair, she refused to leave. My father brought the other woman into our home and kissed her in front of my mother. My mother couldn’t take the humiliation. She killed herself. Would I end up the same way? I didn’t know. I just felt tired. I stopped listening to the man in front of me. I pushed the door open and walked out. The sun hit my skin and I couldn’t feel it.

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“I told you to SEDUCE Prince Alaric, not let him fuck you!” The whole kingdom knew Lycan king’s only son, Prince Alaric, was savage, bloodthirsty and coldly indifferent to women. Alpha Rowan feared his precious Seraphina would suffer if she married Alaric, so he forced me to pretend to be Seraphina and seduce him. “Just act slut enough, and Alaric will be so disgusted and dissolve the arrangement. Then I’ll come bring you home.” The morning after that one feral, ruinous night, I walked out of the Lycan Prince’s palace with one hand pressed flat against my lower back just to stay upright. Rowan rushed up to check my neck—no claiming mark, but covered in dark red bruises—and he exploded in rage. “I told you to perform,” he snarled, shaking where he stood. “Who told you to actually give yourself to him?!” “Are you that desperate for a male? You’d bait a man who kills without blinking?!” I met his fury with quiet, smoothing my collar back into place. “Alpha Rowan, you are wrong.” “Prince Alaric was…” I held his gaze. “…quite gentle.” Rowan lunged. His hand locked around my throat, grip designed to crush. “Gentle?” His voice cracked apart. “The man who put three Fated Mates in the ground—and you call him GENTLE?” “I sent you there for Blackwood Pack’s future. Not so you could offer yourself like some willing sacrifice!” “You belong to me. How DARE you let him touch you?!” I was forced to tilt my head back, face flushing red from the pressure building at my throat. But I didn’t fight him. I simply lowered my lashes and watched the rage consuming his face. “Alpha Rowan…” My voice stayed level. “Since the task is complete… the money you promised me…” He released me like I was something rotten, a sharp fling of his wrist. My legs buckled and I stumbled backward, colliding hard with the storage shelves behind me. He pulled a cloth from his pocket and wiped his fingers. Then dropped the cloth into the fire basin at his feet—watched the fabric curl, blacken, dissolve. Three years ago, when my family was convicted of treason, it was him who had knelt in the snow outside the Council Hall for three days and three nights, begging his father to spare my life. He had promised—no title, no formal bond, none of that mattered. He would protect me for the rest of my life. And now he had sent me into another male’s bed—and wouldn’t honor the money he’d promised. He stared at me, pain and jealousy churning raw in his eyes. “If Grandfather hadn’t demanded the Alliance, and if Seraphina hadn’t been too terrified of Alaric to go herself, I never would have—” He caught the blankness on my face. Saw I was looking only at the purse at his belt. The guilt in his expression curdled immediately into rage. He ripped the purse free and hurled it at me. “You only want money? Fine. Consider it a reward.” Coins exploded across the floor, rolling into the dust at the room’s edges. “Take it and go scrub yourself clean.” “Alaric is dangerously perceptive. If he suspects the deception, don’t come crying to me.” He turned to leave. I braced against the shelves and slowly lowered myself to the floor. My fingers moved across the cold stone. One coin. Two. I gathered each coin, blew the dust from them, and pressed them carefully against my chest. Rowan stopped at the door. Looked back. The contempt on his face sharpened into something vicious. “Of course. A traitor’s daughter—even if it’s money earned from selling yourself, you still treasure it.” It does. Because this gold keeps Caden breathing. I looked at him steadily and said nothing else. “Alpha Rowan. The birth control pill—” Rowan went still. He turned. Something complicated moved through his eyes. Fleeting. As if remembering the ghost of the girl I used to be—who once dazzled the kingdom at banquets with a single look. Then my poverty stabbed him, and the flicker hardened into deeper revulsion. “What—afraid you’re carrying the Lycan Prince’s pup?” He almost laughed. “Relax. The pack healer said your body ran cold too long in captivity. You’ll never carry a pup. Not in this lifetime.” “Stop worrying about impossible things.” The den curtain slammed shut behind him. Cold wind flooded in. I clutched the gold tighter against my chest. This amount—added to what I’d saved before—was just enough for one month of Caden’s medicine. I pulled myself to the small table, poured a cup of tea that had long gone cold, pressed a pinch of cheap pain-dulling herbs to my tongue, and swallowed both together. Bitterness spread across my throat. I didn’t care what Rowan thought of me. As long as Caden survived, I would gladly spend the rest of my life as Alaric’s unseen slave.

Before dawn had even broken, rough hands were dragging me off my bed. “Leah. Alpha Rowan’s orders—there’s a Royal Banquet at the Royal Palace today. You’re to attend as the Miss Seraphina.” The servant’s grip was steel. It bruised. I held down the discomfort rising from yesterday’s injuries and let them paint my face. Seraphina was Rowan’s treasured childhood sweetheart—delicate and easily overwhelmed. She couldn’t endure the pressures of a Royal Banquet. Rowan had long used me as her stand-in—we were close enough in build that behind a veil, no one looked twice. In the carriage, Rowan sat with his eyes closed and gave me nothing—not a look, not a word. Only when we reached the royal palace’s gate did he speak, cold and precise. “Alaric will be there. Keep your head down and your mouth shut.” “If you let him see through the deception, you can start preparing a grave for your father.” At the mention of my father, my body went rigid. Father had been dead in prison for half a month—Rowan knew it, yet still used it to threaten me. I couldn’t tell him the truth. Caden still needed medicine. The fiction had to hold. “Yes,” I said quietly. The royal banquet was a sea of wine and conversation. I sat beside Rowan, eyes downcast, peeling grapes from the plate. A burning gaze never left my skin. I didn’t need to look up to know whose it was. Lycan Prince Alaric sat at the hall’s head—black robe, dark hair, an untouchable ferocity that his handsome did nothing to soften. He turned his goblet in slow circles. His eyes tracked every inch of me, without shame and without apology. He raised the goblet toward Rowan in a languid toast, but his gaze dragged across my body like a slow deliberate touch. “Alpha Rowan has excellent taste,” he said, faintly amused. “Your female companion may be fragile—but this figure…” “I feel as though I’ve encountered it before. Quite… memorable.” Rowan’s jaw turned to iron. He raised his cup and drank anyway, smiling through the humiliation. Under the table, his fingers drove a brutal pinch into my thigh. The pain jolted through me; my hand jerked and the grapes scattered to the floor. “Useless,” Rowan hissed under his breath. Three rounds of drink in, Lycan Prince Alaric rose from his seat. When he passed our table, his steps slowed almost imperceptibly. A jade pendant slipped from his sleeve—smooth, warm-toned, carved with a wolf sigil—and dropped precisely at my feet. Rare jade. Worth a year of medicine. The surrounding guests were all engaged in pleasantries, no one paying attention. I bent without thinking. The moment my fingertips touched the pendant, it was still warm from his skin. Alaric hadn’t moved on. His fingers lifted my chin, his thumb traced ambiguously across the corner of my lips. “These hands know exactly how to please a man.” “Keep this as your reward. Take it back and practice well.” Rowan’s grip on his goblet shattered the stem. Wine bled down his wrist. I kept my eyes down and said nothing. That jade could cover three years of Caden’s medicine. On the ride back, I tucked the pendant into my sleeve with care. “Hand it over.” Rowan’s voice cracked the silence. I stilled. I had no choice. I placed it in his open palm. Rowan held the jade pendant, then let out a cold laugh. “A jade pendant? Alaric’s being generous.” He glanced at me sideways. “You think this is a declaration? It’s how he collects females. A trick. You’re naive enough to treasure it.” He flicked his wrist. The pendant arced through the open carriage window and vanished into the dark drainage channel below the road. “No—that was—” I lurched for the window before I could stop myself, and Rowan caught me, yanking me back against his chest. “Shut up! It’s just a broken stone. Now it’s in the gutter where it belongs.” I pressed against the window frame, staring at the dark below. Cold flooded from my feet straight up through my skull. That wasn’t jade. That was Caden’s medicine. That was Caden’s last thread—the rope he was white-knuckling at death’s door. Rowan watched my devastation with something that looked like satisfaction. “Remember what you are,” he said quietly. “you’re just a substitute.” “Alaric wants Seraphina—the Pack Princess, the Alliance contract. Not you, Leah.”

By the time we returned to the Blackwood packhouse, it was the dead of night. Before I’d even reached my room, I heard it—the low, suppressed coughing from inside. Caden. My chest seized. I pushed the door open and was at his side in four steps. He was curled into himself on the narrow cot, his frame skeletal, cheeks blazing with fever-flush. “Leah…” he whispered, half-conscious, reaching for nothing. I pressed my palm to his forehead. Burning. The medicine was gone. The healer had been clear—without Moonflower to sustain him, he would not survive the winter. I turned out every pocket, every fold of my clothing. Only the few coins Rowan had thrown at me. Not enough to buy even a shred of Moonflower. I stood up, set my teeth together, and walked directly to the main house. Seraphina’s chambers blazed with lamplight. I knelt on the cold stone outside, forehead toward the door. “Alpha Rowan. I beg you. Caden won’t last the night—” “You promised me. You said if I followed your orders and went to Prince Alaric, you would keep Caden safe.” “Please. One Moon flower. Just enough to keep him breathing.” “As long as Caden lives, I will do whatever you ask of me—without a word of complaint.” Laughter and conversation drifted from inside the room. After a long silence, the door finally opened. Rowan walked out with Seraphina on his arm. Seraphina wore a thick fur cloak, her face rosy—where was there any sign of illness? “Leah. What scene are you making now?” I moved forward on my knees and caught the hem of Rowan’s coat. “Alpha Rowan. My brother is critical. He needs Moon flower to survive.” “I beg you—for the sake of how many times I’ve taken Miss Seraphina’s place—please save him!” Rowan’s brow creased faintly. “The storehouse does have several stalks of moonflower…” Seraphina cut him off with a soft, well-timed cough, pressing one hand to her chest. “Alpha Rowan, the healer said I must keep the moonflower tonic for my own strength.” Rowan’s attention snapped to her immediately. His hand steadied her elbow. “Seraphina’s health comes first. Naturally those Moonflower are reserved for her.” He looked back down at me, his tone turning almost gentle—the cruelty pressed beneath reason. “Caden’s illness is a bottomless pit, Leah. Moon flower only delays it. It’s a bottomless well.” I stared at him, unable to speak. I stared at him in disbelief. Seraphina only had a few coughs, while Caden was dying. “Alpha Rowan—Seraphina only needs the moonflower for recovery. My brother needs it to stay alive—” Rowan waved one hand without looking at me. “Seraphina’s worth cannot be weighed against your brother’s cursed life. Not one Moonflower—even if it’s the entire pack’s supply of medicine, as long as Seraphina needs it, she gets priority!” Seraphina leaned into his arm, tilting her gaze down at me. That small, winning smile. “Leah. it’s not that I won’t help you, but I truly cannot go without the moonflower tonic.” “How about this—I’ll have the kitchen save the used herb dregs for you, they should still have some medicinal properties.” Humiliation. Cold, deliberate, total humiliation. I pulled myself to my feet and wiped the tears from my eyes. “Don’t bother.” Rowan wouldn’t give me a way to survive—someone else would.

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My dead mother’s necklace showed up as the grand prize at tonight’s street race. Marcus promised he’d win first place and get it back for me. He broke his promise. He deliberately slowed down before the finish line to let Cole Montgomery win, just so he could take second place—and that Valentino gown. Charlotte had been eyeing it for months. Marcus looked at me, helpless but indulgent. “Charlotte’s twenty-first birthday is coming up. She only wants this gown. I promised I’d get it for her.” Charlotte twirled in the Valentino, smug and sweet. “Ophelia, isn’t it bad luck to keep a dead woman’s things?” Marcus tried to smooth things over. “When I propose, I’ll have a custom necklace made for you at Cartier. Better than your mother’s. How about that?” Too late. Because I’d sworn—whoever won back that necklace for me, I’d marry him. Three days from now, I’ll be Cole Montgomery’s wife. …… “Second place—Marcus Ashford. Prize: one Valentino limited-edition gown.” The crowd roared. Engines still rumbling. Tire smoke hung in the night air. I stood behind the crowd, watching someone hand Marcus the Valentino gown. My hands went cold. He’d actually done it. Broken his word. The scene before the race kept replaying in my head. Charlotte had cornered Marcus by his car at the starting line, dressed in a tight crop top and short skirt. Her eyes were wet, pleading. “Marcus, my birthday’s in three days. Could you win me that Valentino?” “Ophelia’s the legitimate heir—she got this huge party for her twenty-first. I’m just the stepdaughter. I can’t compete with her. But I want something beautiful too.” “My mom’s just her father’s mistress. Everyone looks down on us. But if I wear a beautiful gown won by you, people will finally respect me.” “I’m only asking this once. Please, Marcus.” Tears slid down her cheeks, landing on Marcus’s hand as he reached to brush them away. “Don’t cry, Charlotte. I’ll do it.” “But I promised Ophelia I’d win back the necklace. She said it was her mother’s.” Charlotte wiped her eyes fast, smiling. “It’s fine. The other racers all know you. We can buy it back for her.” “I’ll use all my savings to buy it for Ophelia.” She looked so small and careful it made Marcus ache. “Alright. I’ll win you that gown.” I closed my eyes. Hands in fists. I’d heard them talking before the race but couldn’t stop it. I’d held onto hope. Marcus and I grew up together. Our families had a verbal agreement about marriage. Three days from now, the Ashford Family were supposed to come propose. I thought—being his fiancée—he’d do this one thing for me. I was wrong. He threw the race to Cole Montgomery for Charlotte’s gown. “Oh no, Ophelia. Marcus lost. Cole Montgomery got your necklace.” “Wasn’t that your mom’s? What are you going to do? Cole hates Marcus—he’ll never sell it back.” So she knew. She’d suggested buying it back, already knowing Cole would refuse. I looked at her. “Charlotte, does Marcus know how vicious you are?” Her face changed. Before she could speak, Marcus walked up with people carrying the gown. Charlotte threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Marcus.”

The racing girls and other racers swarmed them. “That Valentino is limited edition. Can’t believe Marcus won it for you, Charlotte.” “Marcus is so good to you.” “I heard the Warren and Ashford Family are family friends. They’re arranging a marriage.” “So Marcus is marrying Charlotte? Lucky girl.” Charlotte smugly took the gown and headed to one of the cars to change. Marcus watched her go, indulgent, then turned to me. “Ophelia, I know I let you down. Charlotte said she only wants this gown for her birthday. I had no choice.” “You want the necklace—Cole won’t budge for some reason. But it’s fine. When I come to propose, I’ll have Cartier make you the same one. Better than your mother’s.” I blinked back tears. “I don’t think you’ll get the chance.” Marcus looked regretful, mumbling, not knowing what to do. Charlotte came back in the Valentino, tugging his sleeve and laughing. “Thank you, Marcus. This is the best birthday gift.” Then she tilted her head at me. “Ophelia, why hold onto the past? That necklace is pretty, but isn’t it creepy to keep a dead woman’s things?” “You wouldn’t actually make Marcus order a replica of a dead woman’s necklace for the proposal, would you? Isn’t that bad luck?” Marcus played mediator. “Alright, this is my fault. It’s just a necklace. I’ll get you several more. I’ll bring them when I propose. That should make up for it.” Marcus saw me staying quiet. His patience snapped. “How long are you going to sulk over a dead woman’s jewelry?” “Is your mother’s old necklace more important than Charlotte’s birthday? She’s your sister. Aren’t the living more important?” “You’re acting like a spoiled child. Where’s the grace of a Warren heir? Think about it.” “If you keep being this petty, you’re not fit to be a Marcus’s wife. I’ll have to reconsider this marriage.” After saying that, he opened the car door for Charlotte and drove off, tires screeching down the street. …… Three days later was Charlotte’s twenty-first birthday. Victoria had been planning it for months. After my mother died, Dad’s mistress Victoria moved into Mom’s bedroom. Charlotte was treated just like the legitimate heir. If it weren’t for my Grandfather, Dad would’ve made Victoria his official wife years ago. Charlotte’s birthday party had invited every socialite and heiress in New York. And this was also the day the Ashford Family were supposed to come to discuss the wedding date. Guests filled the house. Someone joked about when they’d get to attend our wedding. Marcus looked at me, uncomfortable, forcing a smile. “There will be a wedding. Just… the timing is a bit complicated.” A family friend spoke up. “Complicated? Wasn’t it supposed to be in one month? Is something wrong?” Marcus lowered his head, looking embarrassed. “Ophelia, we have discussed this. Your grandfather won’t let Victoria become your father’s official wife unless Charlotte marries well.” “Charlotte’s had it rough. I feel for her.” “So… I’ll marry Charlotte first. In one month.” The room went silent. Someone gasped. “Wait, you’re marrying Charlotte? What about Ophelia?” I stared at Marcus. “Is this the Ashford Family’ decision? And my father’s? You marry Charlotte instead?”

Marcus waved his hands quickly. “Charlotte needs me. She can’t survive without support. I have to marry her.” He stepped forward, urgent. “But Ophelia, you can still be with me. You’re the Warren Family’s heir. You’re Abel Sterling’s granddaughter. You don’t need a title to prove your worth.” “Charlotte said she won’t fight you for anything. She knows her place. She just needs the protection of being Mrs. Ashford.” “You’ll have everything you want. My love, my resources, everything. The only difference is Charlotte will have the legal title.” He said it like he was being generous. Like I should be grateful. The guests’ faces were priceless. “Is he suggesting she be his mistress?” “How could Robert Warren agree to this? His daughter becoming the mistress?” “If Abel Sterling finds out, he’ll tear the Ashford Family down.” Marcus’s face went red and white. Charlotte walked up in the Valentino, voice soft. “Ophelia, please forgive me.” “I need Marcus. I can’t make it on my own. But I promise I won’t take anything from you. You’ll always be special to him.” I laughed. “You’ve had it so hard, Charlotte? Victoria moved into my mother’s bedroom three days after she died. She took all of Mom’s jewelry.” “And you claimed my room because you said it had the best natural light. You live in the best suite in the Warren Family.” “Your clothes cost more than mine. You get first pick of jewelry and designer clothes. Where exactly have you suffered?” Everyone looked. Charlotte’s Valentino gown was from the street race—Marcus had won it for her. The worth of that gown spoke for itself. The crown on her head was from Cartier’s vault collection. Worth $500,000. Her shoes were Manolo Blahnik with rare pearls embedded in them. Compared to her,I wore something simple. Hearing this, the guests started whispering. “That outfit costs over a million dollars. Not even the heiresses in this city dress that extravagantly. How dare you say you are unloved?” “Just that crown is worth $500,000.” “That mistress’s wearing designer too. Those two dress better than most of us.” “Ophelia doesn’t even look as expensive as them.” Charlotte’s eyes filled with tears. She stepped back, looking at Marcus. “It’s not like that, Marcus. Today’s my birthday. Dad said I couldn’t lose face in front of everyone. That’s why I’m dressed like this.” “This crown and jewelry—Dad ordered them for Ophelia, not me.” I smiled slightly. “Dad ordered them for me? Pearl, make a note. After the party, go get all this jewelry and the crown from Charlotte’s room and bring it to mine.” My maid Pearl suppressed a smile. “Yes, Miss Warren.” Marcus snapped. “Enough, Ophelia. It’s just a crown. Why are you pushing your sister this far? You’re being petty. Where’s your grace as the Warren Family’s heir?” “I didn’t believe you’d treat Charlotte badly, but now I see it. When I’m not around, you must bully her constantly.” He stepped in front of Charlotte, gripping her hand tight. “She’s going to be Mrs. Ashford. She doesn’t need these things.” “Besides, when Charlotte marries me, your father said he’d transfer her share of the Warren assets—company stocks and cash worth a hundred million dollars. She won’t care about one or two pieces of jewelry.”

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Three years after our divorce, my ex-husband shows up at my door with roses — smiling like he’s already won me back. “Babe, I kept my promise. Three years on the dot. I’m here to remarry you.” Three years ago, he lost a game of Truth or Dare to his childhood best friend, Sophie. Sophie’s dare: “I want to see if you and Claire are really in love.” “So you divorce — and you don’t see each other for three years.” “If she takes you back after that, I’ll admit it’s real.” He and Sophie never had boundaries. The flirting was constant — sometimes subtle, sometimes not. We fought about it all the time. I thought he’d say no. Instead, he agreed without blinking: “Deal! A bet’s a bet!” His friends tried to talk him down. “Think about this — divorce isn’t a joke!” He looked right at me, completely sure of himself: “I trust what we have. My wife would never leave me — not in this lifetime.” “She’ll take me back. I know it.” I said nothing. What he didn’t know was that I was giving him one last chance. I snap back to the present. He pushes the roses toward me. I don’t take them. I step back and say calmly: “My husband doesn’t let me accept flowers from other men.” … Ethan’s lips curl into that confident little smirk. “You mad?” “Come on, I’m here now, aren’t I?” “Don’t be like that, babe.” His voice is soft, coaxing , like he thinks I’m just throwing a tantrum. He moves toward me, arms open, the way he used to. I take another step back. My face hardens. “Back off, Ethan.” His hand freezes in air. His eyes stay locked on my face, gentle, searching. “Oh, so you’re really mad this time?” “Tell me what I have to do. I’ll do anything to make it up to you.” He still thinks a few sweet words will fix everything. Just like before. He steps closer. Every step he takes forward, I take one back. The look in his eyes grows hungrier — like he’s enjoying the chase. “Ethan, three years is enough to change everything.” He nods, almost amused. “True.” My back hits the wall. Nowhere left to go. He plants both hands on either side of my head, caging me in. He used to do this when we were dating — pin me against the wall and kiss me under the moonlight. “So — did you have a boy? Or a girl?” He strokes my cheek with one hand, feather-light. The memory of that baby hits me like a knife to the chest. Three years ago, he knew I was pregnant. He knew — and he still divorced me over a stupid dare. Because Sophie asked him to. Three years. Not a single call. Not one text. And now he stands here, so sure of himself, assuming I carried his child and waited like a good little wife for him to come collect me. A bitter smile pulls at my lips. I’m about to tell him I lost the baby — but his phone rings. He pulls it out. The screen lights up with a contact name: My Princess 👑 That’s Sophie. I’ve seen it a hundred times before — him petting her hair, calling her his princess since they were kids. Never once caring how that made me feel as his wife. He picks up immediately. “Ethan—” Sophie’s whiny voice crackles through the speaker, half-crying. “Come back, please, my cramps are so bad, I’m dying—” Worry floods his eyes instantly. “Hey, hey — don’t panic. I’m coming right now.” He hangs up. Then he reaches over and pats the top of my head — like I’m some docile cat with no feelings. “Let me go check on Sophie. I’ll come back later, okay?” And just like that, he’s gone.

Sophie does what she always does — posts on Instagram like clockwork. In the photo, she’s drenched in sweat, curled up in Ethan’s arms. His hand rests on her lower belly, rubbing gently. Her caption: He’s been the one who loves me most since we were kids. No matter what’s going on — no matter who he’s with — the second I’m not okay, he drops everything and comes to me. He gives me all his care and love. He is literally the best man in the world!!! I hit “like.” Not just once. Every single day for three years, Sophie has posted couple content. Three years. 1,095 posts. I liked every single one. She flaunts it in a different way each time. Like the fact that she doesn’t work — Ethan gave her his black card, no spending limit. Like how she lives in the house that used to be mine and Ethan’s. My things — she uses what she wants, throws away what she doesn’t. For three years, she and Ethan did everything a couple does. I know she posts it all for me to see. Every ‘like’ I leave is a warning she’s too dumb to read. ‘I see you. Sleep well — while you still can.’ But Sophie? She thinks I’m jealous. Seething. Desperately trying to stay relevant. The next time I see Ethan, he walks into my coffee shop with Sophie. They’re wearing matching brown outfits. Ethan — a man who only ever wore classic, buttoned-up suits , is dressed in something trendy and casual today. I used to suggest matching outfits. Every time, he’d say he was too used to suits. Didn’t want to change his style. Sophie looks around my shop, scanning it up and down. She seems surprised. Ethan frowns at me, confused. “I gave you all that money. Why are you working yourself to death like this?” When we divorced, I asked for half. He handed it over without blinking. I set down the coffee I’m making. I look at him, expressionless. “Because I want to. And it’s none of your business.” His expression doesn’t change. He still thinks I’m throwing a tantrum. Sophie smiles at me — fake as ever. “Claire, it’s been three years! How have you been?” “Fine.” My calm catches her off guard. Ethan’s phone rings. He steps outside to take the call. The second we’re alone, her mask drops. That sweet smile twists into something smug, taunting. “Relax, sweetie. You’re not his type. And don’t get too excited — it’s embarrassing.” She looks down at me like I’m beneath her, a smirk pulling at her lips. “Even if Ethan takes you back — so what?” “His mother can’t stand you. She’s always wanted Ethan to end up with me.” “The only reason he’s here is obligation.” “He even asked my permission before coming to find you.” “Oh — and you’ll have to sign a prenup.” “One I wrote myself, by the way.” She pulls a document from her bag and slides it in front of me. I glance down, barely interested. First line: All Graves family assets are excluded from the marriage. After marriage, I’m not allowed to take the Graves name. Legally, socially — I stay Claire Bennett. In public, I cannot introduce myself as his wife. If anyone asks, I’m to say I’m his ex. At family events, I’m a guest , not a member of the family. I actually laugh. It’s that insulting. I push it back toward her. “If his mother loves you so much — how come you’re still nobody to him?” “Three years, Sophie. He slept with you and still won’t claim you. That’s just sad.” Her face goes scarlet. Humiliation, fury — her hand flies up instinctively, about to slap me. Then — footsteps. Ethan’s, getting closer. She flips like a switch. Tears streaming, voice trembling — wounded but gracious. “Claire, I really do hope you’ll remarry Ethan.” “As his oldest friend, I just want him to be happy.” “The prenup is just a formality. Please don’t be upset, okay?” Same act. Three years later, and she hasn’t changed. The second Ethan sees her crying, his brain turns to mush. He can’t tell right from wrong when she’s in tears.

“Sophie? What happened?” Ethan pulls Sophie into his arms, eyes swimming with concern. Sophie shakes her head, all wounded innocence. “It’s nothing. It’s my fault. Don’t blame Claire.” The more she says that, the more convinced he is that I’m the bully. “Claire!” His voice goes cold. Commanding. “Apologize.” He says it like he’s ordering a servant. A bitter smile tugs at my lips. He frowns, irritated. “Sophie’s been in my life way before you. She’s family. You need to get over yourself and stop acting so threatened by her.” “If not for her sake, then for mine. Just be nice. Is that so hard?” I keep my face blank. I’ve seen this exact scene a hundred times before. I’m so over it. I’m about to tell them both to get out — when my phone rings on the counter. Video call. The screen lights up: My Baby Boy 💙 Ethan sees the name. His eyes go wide, electric. His hand shoots out to answer it before I can. I grab the phone first. My two-year-old’s round little face fills the screen. “Mommy, I miss you.” The second Ethan hears that word — Mommy — he’s buzzing. Certain now. Absolutely certain I gave him a son. I say a few quick words to Leo. The moment Ethan reaches for my phone, I hang up. “Let me see my son!” He’s grinning ear to ear. All that anger from a minute ago — gone, like it never happened. Sophie’s face darkens behind him. “He’s not your son.” I look Ethan dead in the eye, voice flat and final. “Stop coming here. Both of you. You’re delusional, you know that? Completely out of your mind.” He doesn’t even flinch. Still smiling, still coaxing. “Come on, don’t be mad.” “I really missed you and our boy.” And just like that, I realize — a man this deluded won’t believe I’ve moved on until he sees my husband with his own eyes. Then he shifts gears, casual as anything: “Mom’s birthday is coming up.” “You’re a great cook. Make a few of her favorites.” “Use it as a chance to patch things up between you two.” “Now that you’ve given her a grandson, she won’t give you a hard time anymore.” So he knows. He’s always known. Three years of marriage — and his mother tormented me the entire time. Mrs. Graves looked down on me because I didn’t come from money. Even though Ethan married me properly, she never let me attend a single family dinner. If she was in the room, I wasn’t allowed at the table. I didn’t like her either. Our relationship was ice — we simply pretended the other didn’t exist. And through all of it, Ethan stayed silent. Never once took my side. A mocking smile pulls at my mouth. I ask deliberately: “Ethan, hypothetically speaking —” “What if I cook her an entire five-course dinner and she still won’t say a single word to me?” He hesitates before answering: “Just say something nice to her. Butter her up a little. You know how she is — her bark’s worse than her bite.” Sophie chimes in, voice dripping with fake sympathy: “Claire, there’s no shame in a younger woman showing respect to her elder. You know what really works on her? When someone swallows their pride and apologizes. On their knees, even.” She’s telling me to kneel. With a smile on her face. I let out a dry laugh. Then I look Ethan straight in his dark eyes, dead serious. “Ethan. Three years changes everything.” “I’m married. And the child isn’t yours.” I turn to Sophie. “Maybe you should try kneeling. Might be your only shot at getting through that door.”

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Five years later, I returned to Harbor City. The invitation to Mrs. Shaw’s birthday gala had arrived at my hotel three days prior—cream-colored card stock, the Shaw family crest pressed into the seal. I almost threw it away. But Julian had raised an eyebrow when he saw the name, and something in his expression told me he already knew I’d go. Because can not hide forever. But also not for Adrian Shaw’s shameless love acting. So I went. — The Shaw estate hadn’t changed. Crystal chandeliers, white roses, the same old money perfume that clung to the drapes.Every major family in Harbor City was in attendance. I stood near the terrace doors, a glass of champagne in my hand. I recognized most of the faces. They recognized mine. The whispers started before I’d made it past the foyer. I ignored them. Then Adrian Shaw walked toward me. He was still handsome. He wore a charcoal suit that fit him like a second skin. His jaw was sharper than I remembered. In his hands, he held a garment bag. And even before he unzipped it, I knew what was inside. The wedding suit. The one I had designed for him with my own hands, twenty years of love stitched into every seam. The one he had ripped off and ground beneath his heel on our wedding day—in front of cameras, in front of reporters, in front of every person who had ever watched me love him. The room went quiet. “Elara.” His voice was low. Controlled. The voice of a man who’d rehearsed this. “I know I have no right to stand here. But I’ve carried this with me for five years, and I need you to hear what I have to say.” He held the suit out like an offering. “Marry me.” A gasp rippled through the crowd. Then whispers. I looked at the suit. At his face. At the tremor in his hands. And I felt—nothing. “Oh my God. He’s proposing. Adrian Shaw is proposing to Elara Su.” “After everything that happened? After the scandal? He must be losing her mind right now.” “Are you kidding? She loved him for twenty years. She’ll say yes. Of course she’ll say yes.” They remembered. Everyone remembered. This is the woman who spent ninety million dollars on a fireworks proposal over Harbor Bridge. The drones that spelled his name across the night sky. The LED screens on every building in the financial district—*I love Adrian Shaw*—for an entire month. Twenty-five-year-old Elara had loved with her whole chest. I had wanted the entire world to witness our love story. And the entire world had watched it burn. I set down my champagne glass. The clink echoed in the sudden silence. “Thank you for the kind gesture, Mr. Shaw,” I said. My voice was calm. Almost bored. “But I was young and foolish back then. I don’t have those feelings anymore.” The crowd went absolutely still. Adrian’s face flickered—shock, then disbelief, then something that looked almost like panic. “Elara, don’t joke with me. I know you’re still angry about what happened, but I can explain—” “There’s nothing to explain.” I smiled. Not warmly. “Five years is a long time. People will change. And I don’t have a habit of recycling trash.” He stepped closer, the wedding dress still hanging from his hand. ““You don’t mean that. You loved me. You followed me everywhere. You—” “I also forgave you once for wearing my wedding dress on someone else,” I cut in. “And I forgave your sister calling me a fraud. And I forgave you choosing her over me on our wedding day.” His jaw tightened. “Lily was my family. I had to protect her.” “You had to protect her from what? The truth?” The whispers turned sharper. “She’s really saying no. Elara Su is saying no to Adrian Shaw.” “After all that?” “Maybe she may has love another man.” Adrian’s expression hardened. He lowered the dress. “You’re still angry. I understand. But Elara, we had something real. You can’t just—” “I can,” I said. “And I did.” He stared at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he lowered himself to one knee. The room gasped again. “Elara Su,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I love you. Five years I’ve regretted what I did. I know I don’t deserve a second chance. But I’m asking for one anyway.” He held up the wedding dress. “Elara Su—will you marry me?” I opened my mouth and ready to refuse. And then a small voice cut through the silence like a bell. “Mommy!”

The entire room froze. A tiny figure in a white lace dress broke through the forest of adult legs, dark hair bouncing, eyes locked on me with the single-minded determination that only small children possess.She crashed into my legs and wrapped her arms around my knees. Sienna. I caught her automatically, my body responding before my brain caught up. She smelled like baby powder and strawberries. “Mommy, Mommy! Daddy said to wait in the car, but I missed you!” Every eye in the ballroom was locked on us. On her. Adrian stared at my daughter like he had seen a ghost. His face went from white to gray. The wedding dress slipped from his fingers and pooled on the floor. “You… you have a daughter?” His voice was barely audible. I picked up my daughter and settled her on my hip. “She’s four,” I said calmly. “Born in April 2020.” Whispers exploded like a bomb. “A daughter? Elara Su has a daughter?” “Who’s the father? She never announced any wedding.” “She’s bluffing. Probably hired a child actress—” Adrian heard them too. Something desperate shifted behind his eyes—the first flicker of real fear. He squared his shoulders, and for the second time that night, lowered himself to one knee. “Elara Su.” His voice rang out—pitched deliberately for the room, for the witnesses, for the record. “I was wrong. I lost you through my own stupidity. But I am asking—in front of every person here tonight—for one more chance.” “Will you marry me?” The hall held its breath. I looked down at him. At the suit I had once stitched with trembling, lovesick hands. At the face I had once believed I would grow old beside. I didn’t answer right away. I felt Sienna’s small fingers curl into my collar. Her weight on my hip—warm and real. I kissed Sienna’s forehead, then looked at him. “March 2020. I held the ceremony overseas.” Adrian rose slowly to his feet. Whatever remained of his composure lay in ruins. His jaw was locked tight, his knuckles white around the wedding suit’s fabric. He stepped closer. His voice dropped—as though lowering the volume could somehow erase the audience of two hundred. “Elara, whatever game this is—whoever you married to punish me—it doesn’t matter. I’ll wait. However long it takes.” He lifted the suit again. The gesture that had seemed grand fifteen minutes ago now looked desperate. Fraying at the edges. “This was made for me. By your hands. That means something. That doesn’t just easliy disappear.” Sienna chose to look up at Adrian with the kind of withering disdain only a four-year-old could deliver with total sincerity. “Mommy,” she announced, loud enough for the nearest fifty guests to hear, “why is that man still talking? He’s very annoying.” A strangled laugh escaped someone nearby. Adrian’s jaw clenched. “Elara, I don’t believe you’ve moved on. I know you. I know what we had.” The crowd was watching us like a tennis match—heads swiveling, breaths held, waiting to see who would break first. Before I could respond, another voice cut through the murmur. “She doesn’t want to.” Every head turned. The crowd parted. Julian Sinclair walked through the gap like he owned the room. Navy suit. Cufflinks gleaming. His face was calm, but his eyes were cold—radiating the kind of cold fury that made people instinctively step aside. He came to my side and wrapped an arm around my waist. Possessive. Unapologetic. “Julian Sinclair.” He extended his hand toward Adrian, but his voice perfectly polite and perfectly lethal. “Her husband.” A collective gasp. “Apologies for the interruption, butI believe my wife already said no.”

Julian’s presence hit the room like a cold front. The whispers didn’t just die—they evaporated. Two hundred guests stared at the man who had materialized beside me, his arm around my waist, his gaze fixed on Adrian Shaw with the kind of quiet contempt that didn’t need volume to be devastating. Adrian was still stood there. The wedding suit pooled across his arms. His face had gone from white to gray. “Sinclair?” someone breathed. “Julian Sinclair is her husband?” ““Heir to the Sinclair Group?—that’s who she married?” “How is that possible? He’s been off the radar for years—” Julian didn’t acknowledge any of it. His attention shifted to Sienna, who was tugging at his sleeve with practiced urgency. “Daddy.” She pointed at Adrian with one small, accusatory finger. “That bad man tried to steal Mommy. He got on his knees and everything.” Julian crouched to her level. His expression was grave—the kind of seriousness he reserved exclusively for their daughter’s reports on injustice. “Did he scare you?” “No.” Sienna crossed her arms. “But he’s very annoying. And he made Mommy talk to him for a really long time.” “I see.” Julian straightened, one hand still resting on my waist. He looked back at Adrian. Adrian rose slowly. He stared at Julian—not with the hostility of a rival, but with the bewilderment of a man whose entire reality had shifted beneath his feet. “You—” Adrian’s voice was hoarse. “You’re her husband?” “And also the father of her daughter, her legal husband” Julian said smoothly. “Would you like to see the certificate? I carry it everywhere.” He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a small booklet. He set it on the nearest table with a sharp *clap* that echoed through the silent hall. Adrian’s face went gray. Sienna—clearly sensing the moment required her participation—climbed down from my arms, marched to the table, and patted the marriage certificate with her small palm. “See?” she announced to the room at large. “Mommy and Daddy. It’s real. It has stamps and everything.” The tension fractured. Nervous laughter rippled through the crowd—disbelieving, unable to look away. Adrian stood frozen in the wreckage of his grand gesture. The suit lay at his feet like a shed skin. “This is—” His voice cracked. “This isn’t possible. You left the country and immediately—” I said flat. “Julian proposed. I said yes. It was remarkably uncomplicated.” “But—twenty years.” Adrian’s composure was in free fall. “Twenty years, Elara. The fireworks, the billboards, the chapel—everything we promised each other. You don’t just erase that.” Julian’s arm tightened around my waist—barely perceptible, but I felt it. I glanced up at him. His face hadn’t changed: cold, composed, utterly controlled. But his jaw was set in that particular way that meant he was approximately two sentences away from doing something that would require legal counsel. I turned back to Adrian. “The past,” I said. “It’s the past.” “Mr. Shaw, I designed that suit when I was twenty-four years old and very much in love with someone who no longer exists in my heart.” My voice was pleasant. Almost conversational. “If you’d like to keep it as a souvenir, you’re welcome to. But proposing with it in front of my husband is rather tasteless, don’t you think?” Adrian flinched as if the words had physical weight. Julian heard it. Something flickered at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, but close. He picked up the marriage certificate from the table, slipped it back into his pocket, and turned to me. “Ready to go?” I nodded. He offered me his left hand. His right scooped up Sienna, who immediately wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his collar. On the whispers, the staring eyes, on Adrian Shaw standing alone in the center of a room that had, five years ago, watched him destroy me. We turned toward the exit. My heels clicked against the marble. Julian’s stride matched mine—unhurried, deliberate. Sienna hummed tunelessly against his shoulder. Behind us, Adrian’s voice followed—cracked, desperate: “Elara—” My footsteps didn’t falter. Julian’s hand found mine. Very Warm. We walked out together. The night air hit my face—cool, salt-edged, carrying the distant scent of the harbor. The valet had already brought the car around. Julian helped Sienna into her car seat with the practiced efficiency of a man who had done it a thousand times. Then he held the passenger door open for me. “You okay?” I nodded and slid in. He closed the door, rounded the hood, and settled into the driver’s seat. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The engine hummed. City lights blurred past the windows—amber and white, streaking through the dark like falling stars. Then Julian reached across the console and took my hand. His thumb traced slow circles across my knuckles—a gesture so familiar, so achingly gentle, that something in my chest unclenched. “Elara,” he said quietly. He didn’t look at me. His eyes stayed on the road, on the lights. “Those things—everything that happened back then.” His thumb paused on my knuckle. “Those things… from before…” He paused, searching for words. “You really let them go?” I didn’t answer right away. I looked at his profile—the sharp jaw, the dark lashes, the faint tension at the corner of his mouth that he thought he was hiding. “I don’t know,” I whispered. I looked down at our joined hands. “Tonight, when he knelt in front of me with that dress, I didn’t feel anything for him. Not love. Not hate. Just… tired.” He was quiet for a moment. Then he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles. “It will be fine,” he said. “I’m not asking you to delete them. I’m just suggesting if you’ve buried them deep enough that they can’t hurt you anymore.” I met his gaze. The sincerity there made my chest ache—not from pain, but from gratitude. “Yes,” I said. “I think so.” He smiled. “Good girl.”

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I lay on the delivery bed in the private clinic, each contraction threatening to rip my body apart. My husband, Dante Corsetti, held my hand, his eyes so tender they could melt. “Just a little longer, Valentina. We’re about to meet our baby.” I was drenched in sweat from the pain, but I still managed to squeeze out a smile for him. Then the nurse walked in carrying a syringe. I assumed it was the epidural. But Dante suddenly let go of my hand and stepped back. The instant the needle pierced my skin, I heard him give the order: “Eleanora wants her baby born first. Get the dosage right—she has to wait until Eleanora delivers.” I stared at him wide-eyed, but he simply glanced down at his watch. “Eleanora’s already six centimeters dilated. Just stall for two more hours.” I wanted to scream, to fight back, but the drug was already flooding my bloodstream. The violent contractions in my abdomen were suddenly strangled— Cut dead. …… …… I was wheeled into a makeshift cell converted from the clinic’s basement. Dante’s sister, Bianca, stood in the doorway, toying with a scalpel. “Valentina, don’t blame my brother.” “The baby in Eleanora’s belly is my eldest brother’s child—the only male heir of this generation of the Corsetti family. The future Don.” “No matter how early you deliver, it’s just a girl. Useless.” I clutched my stomach. A new wave of contractions was battling the drugs, and the pain was blinding. “Get the doctor. I’m about to deliver, I really am—” Bianca let out a soft laugh, walked over, and crouched in front of me. “Deliver what?” “The drug’s good for another three hours. Eleanora’s already gone into the delivery room.” “Just sit tight like a good girl. Once her son is safely born, you can push all you want.” She stood up and called to the guard at the door: “Keep an eye on her. If she starts screaming, gag her.” The door slammed shut. I lay on the freezing concrete floor, the blood beneath me already soaking through my skirt. My phone had been taken the moment I entered the clinic. Dante said the radiation was bad for the baby. Now I realized it was just to stop me from calling for help. I curled into myself, trying to breathe through the pain, but all I could see was the look in Dante’s eyes. Cold. Calculating. Like he was appraising a tool. Not a wife. Not the woman about to bear his child. Three months ago, his older brother Nico had died in a car accident, leaving behind a widow three months pregnant—Eleanora. At the funeral, Dante’s father, the old Don, had clutched Eleanora’s hand, tears streaming down his weathered face. “You must carry this baby to term safely. The Corsetti bloodline cannot end.” I’d felt sorry for Eleanora then. I’d stepped forward and offered: “Dad, don’t worry. My baby with Dante will protect this family too.” The old Don had looked at me once and said nothing. So from that moment on, my child had already been written off. “Ahhh—” Another contraction hit, fiercer than the last. The drug was wearing off. The baby was coming. I clawed my way upright and pounded on the door with everything I had. “Someone! I’m in labor! Save my baby!” Dead silence on the other side. I screamed until my voice gave out before the guard’s irritated reply finally came: “Shut up. The young miss said to wait.” “But the baby—” “If it dies, that’s fate. Shouldn’t have been a girl. A daughter can never be the Don’s heir.” I slid to the ground, cold to the bone. But someone wanted my child dead. Death should not be this baby’s destiny.

I don’t know how long I lasted in that basement. The blood kept coming, pooling beneath me until everything was soaked through. Just as consciousness began to slip away, the iron door swung open. It wasn’t Bianca. It wasn’t the guard. It was the family’s private physician, Dr. Bianchi. One look at me and the color drained from his face. “Valentina? What are you doing here?” “The Don told me you were resting in the VIP suite, ready for delivery—” I tried to speak but couldn’t produce a sound. All I could do was point at my belly, tears streaming endlessly. Dr. Bianchi rushed over and knelt to examine me. The moment his hands touched my abdomen, he sucked in a sharp breath. “Fully dilated! Her water’s broken! And she’s hemorrhaging!” “We need surgery immediately!” He tried to lift me, but the moment I moved, a hot surge gushed between my legs. Blood. So much blood. Dr. Bianchi’s hands were shaking. He shouted toward the door: “Help! Someone help! The patient is hemorrhaging!” The corridor was empty. Not a soul answered. This private clinic was wholly owned by the Corsetti family. Tonight, for Eleanora’s delivery, the entire building had been cleared—every last nurse and doctor reassigned to the third-floor delivery suite. Dr. Bianchi pulled out his phone to call for help, only to find there was no signal in the basement. He gritted his teeth. “I’ll carry you upstairs. Hold on!” He heaved me into his arms and staggered toward the exit. The stairwell was steep and dark. Every step jolted through me like a knife. I could feel the baby descending, but the drug’s lingering effects made the contractions erratic—surging one moment, vanishing the next. That agonizing limbo made me want to die on the spot. “Dr. Bianchi…” I clutched his collar, barely a whisper. “Save my baby. Please.” “Don’t worry—you’re both going to be fine!” He finally reached the first floor and sprinted toward the operating room. But at the door, we both froze. The operating room stood wide open—and completely empty. The surgical lights, the operating table, the monitors, the oxygen machine—every piece of medical equipment was gone. Nothing remained but a bare room and a few power outlets on the walls. Dr. Bianchi stood rigid. I heard a strangled sound rise from his throat, like someone had seized him by the neck. “How is this possible…” “I checked the equipment this afternoon…” Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor. Bianca approached with two nurses in tow. Spotting us, she raised an eyebrow. “Dr. Bianchi, what are you doing down here?” “Eleanora is on the third floor, about to deliver. Why did you wander off?” Dr. Bianchi pointed at the gutted operating room, his voice trembling: “The equipment—where is the equipment?” Bianca’s expression was pure innocence. “Moved to the third floor.” “Eleanora’s carrying the family heir. She needs a C-section—only the best equipment will do. What if there’s an emergency? A standard OR would never cut it.” Her gaze drifted to me, and she smiled. “Oh, is Valentina in labor?” “She’ll have to wait. Eleanora isn’t finished yet.” “Just hang in there a bit longer. It won’t kill you.” I stared at that perfectly made-up face and suddenly remembered how, six months ago, she’d looped her arm through mine while shopping, cooing: “Valentina, you’re so wonderful—even better than a real sister. I’m going to take such good care of you.” I’d felt sorry for her then, growing up without a mother. I’d bought her a custom bracelet worth over a hundred thousand. Looking back now, what a colossal joke.

Dr. Bianchi tore into the adjacent nurses’ station like a man possessed, ripping open cabinets in search of emergency supplies. Every shelf was bare—not even a basic hemostat or roll of gauze. “The medications! Hemostatics! Oxytocin!” He roared at the two nurses. One of them answered in a near-whisper: “They’ve all been sent to the third floor.” “Mr. Dante ordered that all medical resources be prioritized for Ms. Eleanora.” Dr. Bianchi slammed his fist against the cabinet. He looked at me with bloodshot eyes, his lips quivering: “I’m sorry, Valentina. I’m so sorry…” “There’s nothing I can do…” Bianca strolled over and patted his shoulder. “Relax, Doctor.” “Valentina hasn’t actually delivered yet, has she? Once Eleanora’s done, we’ll bring the equipment and meds right back down.” She glanced at the blood still streaming between my legs and added: “Even if it does come out, it’s just a girl. Lose it and move on.” “The Corsetti family is not short of heirs.” I fixed my eyes on her. On this woman I’d loved like a little sister for three years. Then, with every ounce of strength I had left, I forced out two words: “You’re. Vile.” Bianca’s expression hardened. She bent down, brought her lips close to my ear, and dropped her voice low: “Go ahead and curse. Knock yourself out.” “Once you’ve delivered and your body’s wrecked, I have plenty of ways to shut you up.” “When that happens, the title of Donna will belong to Eleanora.” “As for you—” She straightened up, flashing a smile so radiant it was blinding. “For my brother’s sake, we’ll let you keep your life. You can serve the household as a maid.” Dr. Bianchi couldn’t take it anymore. “Bianca! This is murder!” “Murder?” Bianca scoffed, her eyes like ice. “Watch your mouth, Doctor.” “Women die in childbirth all the time. It’s perfectly ordinary.” “Besides, which member of this family hasn’t seen a dead body?” She turned to the guards at the door and waved her hand. “Escort Dr. Bianchi to the break room.” “I’ll look after Valentina myself.” Two guards stepped forward immediately, seizing the struggling doctor and dragging him away. Dr. Bianchi fought against them, shouting: “Valentina! Press the pressure point below the carotid artery! And the median nerve on the inside of your wrist! Press them repeatedly! It can stimulate contractions!!” “Don’t give up! You have to hold on!” His voice faded into the distance. Bianca shut the nurses’ station door. She turned, pulled out her phone, and placed a video call. “Hey, big brother. Valentina’s about to give birth. She’s bleeding a lot—want to take a look?” Dante’s face appeared on screen. He was standing outside the third-floor delivery suite, medical staff bustling behind him. “Valentina, stop making a fuss.” His voice was thick with irritation. “Eleanora’s in trouble—the fetal heart rate is dropping. I can’t leave.” Bianca angled the camera at the blood pooling beneath me and deliberately zoomed in. “Look at Valentina like this—think she might die?” Dante glanced briefly, then quickly looked away. “Tell her to wait.” “Once Eleanora’s delivered, the doctors will go down.” “Bianca, just keep an eye on things for now. I really can’t step away.” The call ended. Bianca shrugged and tucked her phone away. “You heard him.” “In my brother’s heart, there’s only Eleanora and the heir in her belly.” “You? You’re just a breeding tool.” “And once the tool’s served its purpose, it gets tossed.” I closed my eyes. I refused to look at her anymore. My hand crept silently behind me, finding a button-sized metal device sewn into the lining of my skirt. A gift from my father. He’d told me: “Valentina, the waters in the Corsetti house run deep. If anything ever goes wrong, press this.” I’d laughed at him then, called him paranoid. Told him Dante treated me beautifully and the whole Corsetti family had been nothing but kind. Looking back, I’d been an inexcusable fool. I pried open the device’s protective cover with my fingernail and pressed down. No sound. No light. But I knew the distress signal had been sent. My father had promised: once I pressed it, someone would come within thirty minutes. But thirty minutes… Could my baby last that long?

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My mother’s labor had nearly torn her apart, but before she could even hold me, a servant smuggled me from her side. When I opened my eyes, night had already fallen. The grand stone halls of House Theron were gone, replaced by the dense forest at the foot of Mount Olympus. Wind howled through broken crags, and the cries of beasts drew closer. A man with a pockmarked wreck of a face hurled me into a swamp. The impact nearly shattered my fragile bones. “Don’t blame me, child. Blame Lady Seraphine. She’s the one who wants you dead.” Seraphine. I would remember the name. The man scrambled away into the darkness. I was an infant, alone, crying until my throat was raw. The only answer was the howling of wolves, circling ever nearer. Just as I thought my life was over, a pair of worn leather sandals stopped before me. A weathered old man bent down, a tarnished bronze amulet hanging from his neck. He grinned at me. “The gods whispered that I would find her in the mire.” He lifted me, and held me close against the night. He raised me for fifteen years. Now, perched high in the branches of a laurel tree at the cliff’s edge, I looked down at the ruined sanctuary that had been my home.

The carriage slammed into a boulder and burst apart. A nobleman, soaked in blood, tumbled from the wreck. I went to him and checked. No heartbeat. A pity. His belongings were excellent. At his waist hung an engraved seal bearing a noble crest. It would fetch a price. The signet ring on his thumb was even better. I worked it free, then searched his robes and found two coin pouches, a smaller pouch of gold staters, and a thick sheaf of merchant notes. “I’ll take these as payment for your funeral.” “My lady, I am not dead yet.” I nearly dropped the pouch. I steadied myself and checked his pulse and body heat again. Somehow, both had returned. I pressed down on the wounds at his shoulder and below his ribs to slow the bleeding, then took out one of Thales’s healing pellets. “It is expensive. Consider yourself fortunate.” He swallowed it, though wariness flickered in his eyes. Below us, I heard voices—men already combing the forest. No time. I kicked the shattered frame of the carriage over the cliff to make it look like he had gone down with it, and hauled him over my shoulder. “You—” “Shut it,” I said without looking back. “Say anything else and I’ll leave you for the wolves.” At the ruined sanctuary, I kicked the door open and shouted for Thales. He stumbled out from a back room stacked to the ceiling with wine jars, hair wild, and demanded to know why I wasn’t treating the man myself. “He’s a man. The wound’s in an awkward place.” That did it. Thales grabbed a pair of shears and took over, grumbling the whole time that a girl of virtue had no place handling a man’s injuries. That night, the stranger woke to find everything below the waist exposed to the open air. His face burned scarlet. I came in with a bowl of barley porridge, straightened the blanket without a glance. “Don’t flatter yourself. There was nothing worth seeing.” He was so outraged he passed out again. But I had noticed something. Even while unconscious, his hand never loosened from the inside of his belt, pressed tight against one small hidden place. Whatever he had concealed there mattered to him more than his own survival.

“Lyra,” he said, spooning idly at his stew beside the fire, “you carried him back here, and you touched his oath mark. That mark is not meant for just anyone’s hands.” I nearly spat out my soup. “I was looking for gold.” “How did I raise a girl with nothing in her head but money? Don’t you want a husband? Or if not that, a slave?” His name was Cassian. He was badly hurt, so badly that the last trace of divine blood in him had nearly burned away. He could barely manage the simplest tasks on his own. The worst of it was that he was noble to the core. One night, I found him flushed scarlet, both hands twisting in the linen sheets. “What now?” He clenched his jaw. Even the tips of his ears had gone red. “Fetch Thales.” “He’s off drinking. Is it urgent, or just embarrassing?” “…The latter.” I said nothing. Just set the chamber pot beside the bed. I heard the faint sound of water behind me. I turned and walked out. Leaning against the doorframe, I let a slow, wicked smile take hold. A few days later, Thales finally made his move. Cassian was sitting in the low wheeled chair we used to move the wounded into the sun. Thales wandered over with a cup of wine and a look I knew far too well. “How do you find Lyra’s cooking?” Cassian answered with perfect sincerity. “Her skill would honor a temple feast.” “Then would you like to marry her?” Cassian nearly choked on his wine. “Seer, I could repay her with my entire fortune…” “Your entire fortune?” Thales’s eyes lit up at once. “Excellent. It can serve as Lyra’s dowry.” “Thales.” I hurled a head of garlic from the kitchen. It struck him square in the forehead. “Peel that. And if you say one more foolish thing, I’ll sew your mouth shut.” He fumbled to catch it, rubbing his brow and muttering that I grew sharper every day. Once he scurried off, Cassian reached out to stop me. “If you do not wish it, I will not force you.” I was already past him, bow slung across my back. I didn’t break stride. “You owe me three thousand gold staters. If you can’t pay in coin, you’ll pay in kind. With yourself.” He went utterly still.

That morning, Cassian was still sitting in his low chair, lost in thought, when Thales appeared from nowhere and slapped two scrolls of parchment down. They were sealed with the emblem of Hera. At the top of each, names had been inscribed: Lyra Theron and Cassian Kallistrate. “Is this a bridal oath, witnessed at Hera’s altar?” Cassian’s face lost all color. “When did you take my oath-token?” Thales just smiled, said it was nothing, and told him the name had better be real. Otherwise, Cassian would never see the sun again. Cassian took a sharp breath, and in a low voice, admitted it was his. When I returned from gathering herbs and saw those two scrolls, I nearly tore the ruined sanctuary apart. I screamed for Thales to come out, my voice rattling the wooden shutters and sending every bird in the forest scattering into the sky. No one answered. I stormed into his room. The place, usually a sty, had been swept clean and emptied. On his pillow lay a single letter and a stack of merchant notes. The letter contained one word. Leave. I searched the hillside behind the sanctuary. The damp earth held a few bootprints, the soles stamped with the strange impression of a laurel wreath. Thales, what in the name of the gods are you? I seized one of the oath scrolls, ready to rip it to shreds, but Cassian was faster. He snatched it from my grasp. He told me that once an oath has been witnessed by Hera, tearing the parchment changes nothing. Should we ever need to dissolve the bond, we would need these scrolls to do it. I stared at him. “If this bond is ever to be broken, it will be my hand that breaks it.” Cassian was quiet for a moment. Something I could not name flickered in his eyes. But I had understood certain things long before this moment. Being abandoned once in a lifetime is enough. If there was ever to be a next time, I would be the one to decide it. That night, I stood before him with a bag of herbs. I told him to gather his things. We were leaving at dawn. Cassian asked where we were going.

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Five years ago, my wife and my best friend sent me to prison. Five years later, I picked up a designated driver order from them. My wife stared at me, stunned, “Luke, you’re released. Why didn’t you come find me?” Before she could finish, the drunk guy next to her pulled her in and kissed her. When she finally steadied the man, I recognized him—my old best friend who’d testified against me for sexual assault and sent me to prison. I pulled my cap lower and took the keys like a pro, “Ma’am, get in. Five-star rating when we’re done, please.” Vanessa slapped the keys out of my hand. Tears streaming, she grabbed my shoulders, “Luke, come home with me right now! Do you know how much Mom, Dad, and I missed you all these years?” I shook her hands off and bent down to pick up the keys. My prosthetic banged against the bumper. Vanessa’s eyes locked on my missing leg. Tears fell. I didn’t get why she was crying. After all, she was the lawyer who believed I’d raped her best friend and personally sent me to prison. …… “Luke, what the hell happened to your leg?” Vanessa’s voice woke up the drunk Greg. He sneered at me, “Well, well, if it isn’t Luke.” “When’d you get out? Should’ve told your boy. I’d have picked you up.” Greg leaned on Vanessa’s shoulder, half-lidded eyes on me. Vanessa wiped her tears and glared at Greg, “Greg, you’re drunk. Watch your mouth.” Greg shrugged and pulled Vanessa’s waist, dragging her into him, “I’m not talking shit. Luke here fucked up and went inside. I’ve been praying every day he’d turn his life around.” Vanessa gasped, “Greg, you’re wasted. Don’t move.” The concern in her voice—exactly like how she used to talk to me. After calming Greg down, she looked at my prosthetic again, “Your leg… what did you go through in there these five years?” Her eyes were bloodshot, but I ignored her. I walked straight to the driver’s seat. “Excuse me. Move.” My movements were clumsy. The wind lifted my pant leg, exposing the cheap metal frame. Vanessa covered her mouth. Tears kept falling. “Luke, don’t be like this. Come home with me. Let’s talk this through…” She reached for me. I dodged. “Ms. Attorney, are you taking this ride or not? If not, I’m canceling.” I pulled out my phone, all business. Greg laughed and yanked Vanessa into his arms. “Babe, why bother with this rapist?” “He didn’t even spare your best friend back then. He’s getting what he deserves now!” “If you ask me, losing one leg’s too light.” Greg reeked of alcohol. Every word stabbed my chest. Five years ago, this so-called best friend got me drunk and threw me into a hotel room. When I woke up, Mia was crying and running out half-dressed. My wife Vanessa burst through the door with the cops. She didn’t listen to a single explanation. Slapped me right there. Even more pathetic—she was a top attorney, and she personally represented Mia and sent me to prison. I pulled my thoughts back and looked at Vanessa. Greg had his arm around her. She frowned but didn’t push him away. “Greg, stop it.” She turned to me, “Luke, let’s continue the ride.” “Money’s tight for you now anyway.” I didn’t say anything. She was right—I was broke. After adjusting the seat, Vanessa helped Greg into the back. The whole drive was dead silent. Only Greg’s occasional mumbling broke the quiet. “Babe, my head hurts. Rub it for me…” Vanessa cooed at him softly. I stared ahead, foot steady on the gas. Half an hour later, we pulled up to a luxury villa complex. This place used to be home for Vanessa and me. “We’re here.” Greg pulled out several hundred dollars and threw them at my face, “Keep the change. Use the rest to buy a decent prosthetic.” “Stop limping around embarrassing yourself.” Smirking, he got out with Vanessa. Vanessa stared at the cash on the floor, frowning, “Luke, don’t take it personally. Greg’s drunk.” “Take the money. Tomorrow… come to the firm tomorrow. I’ll get you a real job.” I opened the door and only picked up exactly the fare. “I don’t take his dirty money.” “Ms. Attorney, don’t forget that five-star rating.” Greg lunged to hit me, but Vanessa stopped him. I walked into the night without looking back.

I went back to my rental. When I unstrapped the prosthetic, the skin beneath was chafed to a bloody ruin. Five years ago, right after I got locked up, Greg visited. He laughed like a maniac, “Luke, you know how wild Vanessa is in bed?” “Don’t worry. Stay inside. I’ll take real good care of your wife, your house, even your company.” I lost it and slammed the glass, screaming. That same night, some inmates dragged me into a blind spot with no cameras. They used metal rods to smash my leg inch by inch. “Someone paid good money for this leg.” I was bedridden for six months. The infection got so bad they had to amputate. Back then, I hated. But five years in prison turned that hate into nothing. The next morning, urgent knocking woke me up. I thought it was the landlord chasing rent. It was Vanessa. “Luke, I made you chicken soup and mashed potatoes.” She walked right in, “Don’t take Greg’s words to heart yesterday. That’s just how he is.” “I came to talk about your future.” I leaned against the doorframe, staring coldly, “What future does a designated driver have?” “Ms. Attorney, go home. Don’t dirty your designer clothes.” Vanessa turned around and sighed, “Luke, don’t talk like that. Just apologize to Mia and get her forgiveness. I’ll let you come back to the firm.” “You can’t practice law, but there’s a cleaning position available.” “30 grand a year. Enough to live on.” She lifted her chin slightly, waiting for me to be grateful. I couldn’t help but laugh, “Vanessa, you want me to apologize to someone who framed me?” Vanessa’s face darkened instantly, “Luke! You still won’t admit your mistake?” “If I hadn’t pulled strings for leniency as your wife, you think you’d only get five years?” She got more worked up and stepped forward to drag me out. I shoved her hand away, “Vanessa, did you actually read the case file back then?” “Why did the hotel hallway cameras conveniently break?” “And what drug was in the drink I had that night?” My questions made her freeze for a second. But quickly, she cut me off impatiently, “Enough, Luke! Are you saying Greg and Mia teamed up to frame you?” “I came here to help you. Don’t be ungrateful!” I pointed at the door, voice ice-cold, “I don’t need your help. Get the fuck out.” Vanessa’s eyes widened. She couldn’t believe I’d talk to her this way, “Luke, you’re delusional! Think you’re still that hotshot lawyer from before?” “You’re a cripple now! An ex-con!” She slammed the door and left. That afternoon, as I was about to take an order, the platform sent a notification. My driver account was permanently banned due to customer complaints. The complaint: disabled pervert driver attempted to assault female passenger. Didn’t need to guess who did it. Greg, you really couldn’t wait.

Before I could even lock my door, the landlord showed up with some thugs blocking the entrance, “Luke, someone’s paying ten times the rent for this place. Get the hell out now!” Before I could react, they threw me onto the street. My clothes and belongings landed all over me. Outside, it was pouring rain. My prosthetic throbbed in the water. A Maybach pulled up, splashing mud all over me. “The great attorney reduced to a dead dog? Luke, you’re pathetic.” Greg blew out a smoke ring. Vanessa rushed out of the car with an umbrella over my head, “Luke, stop being stubborn. Just admit your mistake and bow your head.” “I’ll not only give you a job, I’ll help with housing too. Why push yourself this far?” I braced myself on the ground and stood up. “I don’t need it. So can you two lovebirds fuck off?” Vanessa’s face went stiff. “Luke! When you went to prison, if Greg hadn’t been there for me, I would’ve killed myself!” “I’m trying to help you out of kindness. Do you have to be a porcupine about it?” “Even if you won’t accept my help, don’t break your parents’ hearts. They’ve been looking for you.” Right after she said that, two figures ran over from the distance. Mom and Dad didn’t even have umbrellas. They rushed over frantically. What I didn’t expect—the first thing my parents did when they saw me was slap me across the face. “You bastard, you actually got out! We don’t have a son like you!” “Greg’s our godson now. You rapist should’ve died in prison!” After getting out, I didn’t dare see my parents. I was afraid they’d be hurt by gossip. Never expected they’d already claimed Greg as their son. Greg quickly got out to help them into the car. “Godfather, Godmother, Luke still won’t admit his mistake. Won’t even apologize to the victim.” “Let’s just forget about him. You’ve got me and Vanessa at the firm now. You can retire in peace.” Mom and Dad looked at me with disgust, “Luke, if Greg hadn’t managed the firm all these years, our life’s work would be gone.” “If you still won’t admit your mistake, you’re on your own from now on!” The Maybach drove off. I limped into the night. Even my parents didn’t believe me. I really was a failure. But to survive, I went to a construction site for labor. The foreman looked at my prosthetic and waved me off. “Get lost. We don’t hire cripples. Who’s liable if something happens?” I grabbed his arm tight, “I’m strong. I’ll take half the pay. Just give me meals.” The foreman was getting annoyed and about to push me off. A cleaning lady nearby suddenly gasped, “You… you’re Mr. Luke?” I froze. I looked closely at the woman. The cleaning lady glanced around and pulled me to a corner. She took out a voice recorder from her pocket. “Mr. Luke, I’m so sorry. Greg gave me a hundred grand back then to break the cameras.” “But I secretly recorded audio. It’s got him and Mia plotting to frame you for assault.” “Don’t tell anyone I gave this to you. My conscience just couldn’t take it anymore, so I kept this hidden.” So that was it. Five years wrongfully imprisoned. My leg gone. Finally, the truth.

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I am Dominic Vane’s Dona. He took me from his underboss Killian. A man who stole another man’s woman doesn’t sleep easy. He watched every man who came near me. Once I fed a stray on our block. He had someone confirm the dog was female and its owner wasn’t a man in disguise. Then the family promoted a young guard. Twenty-two, still carrying that fresh-out-of-training look. One morning he opened my car door at the estate gate and I smiled at him out of politeness. Dominic said he didn’t care. That night he had the kid handled. He didn’t break out in hives or throw a fit like some jealous boy. He just sat by the fireplace, cleaning his Beretta with slow, deliberate strokes, his eyes cold and flat. “Kid’s muscles were all needles. Couldn’t even handle the recoil on a .45. Pathetic.” He flicked something onto the table. A bloody strip of cloth. The guard’s tie. “And that height he reported? Six-one. Maybe if you count the bones they stuffed under his feet after.” His private physician came by later to bandage the cuts on his hands. In the hallway, the doctor pulled me aside. “Mrs. Vane, your husband has been taking that new male contraceptive. The one that just hit the market. The side effects are severe—extreme paranoia, mood instability. He’s taken triple the dose in one week. He seems… obsessed with making sure you never have to bear the risk of pregnancy.” I stopped walking. I was three months pregnant. … He was asleep when I picked up his phone. The passcode was my birthday. His photo gallery was all me. Candid shots, screenshots of my texts, surveillance stills of him watching me sleep. His search history: *”How to install covert GPS tracker on spouse’s car”* *”Best undetectable phone cloning software”* *”How to make a grieving wife emotionally dependent”* His notes app: *”March 20. She dreamed about the old man again. Cried hard. I need to cut off all contact with her father’s people.”* *”March 21. Morning sickness getting worse. Made her dinner myself. She ate a little. She can only eat what I give her.”* My eyes burned. Then a notification from the navigation app: *”Based on your frequent routes, we’ve planned your trip to 812 Sutton Place. Estimated arrival: 15 minutes.”* Our safe house was at 814. —

My fingers opened the route history before my brain caught up. For three months, every day at noon, he drove to that address and stayed for two hours. The morning sickness had hollowed me out. Fifteen pounds gone in three months, and the only food I could keep down was whatever Dominic cooked. He ran the whole operation and still came home every day to make me lunch, up until two or three in the morning handling business. I told him to stop. To rest. We fought. He said he’d rather die than let me eat alone. I had to fake feeling better before he finally agreed to stay out through lunch. Except he hadn’t stayed out. Every day, for three months, he’d been two doors down with someone else. A message came in. “Dom, I left a pair of panties at your place. She didn’t find them, did it? I left them on purpose. Unwashed. Bring them for my birthday?” I tapped the profile picture. Bianca. My father’s bastard. The girl whose mother destroyed mine, who moved into my house before my mother’s grave had settled. She spent her whole life grabbing everything I had—my clothes, my father’s love. Even Killian. I found them in our bed. That was the crack Dominic walked through. He didn’t comfort me. He collected me. He held me and said it to my face, slow enough that I’d remember every word: “I will never want anyone but you. I don’t care what she does, what she tries. She doesn’t exist to me.” And he’d proven it. When Bianca sent him nudes, he forwarded them to the police. She got seven days in holding and he made sure her university expelled her. Career over before it started. I thought leaving that wreckage and finding Dominic was the luckiest thing that ever happened to me. So why her. Why was it always her. I opened their messages like pressing a finger into a wound. Dominic calling her *babe*. Bianca threatening to tell me everything, and Dominic shutting her down, blocking her, punishing her—then taking the punishment to bed. Me in the hospital, crying over a bad prenatal result. And the two of them in the room I’d decorated with my own hands, Bianca wearing my robe. Behind me, the bed shifted. “Sera?” —

He saw my red eyes and reached for me. I smelled it on him. Purfume faint and sour underneath his cologne. I shoved him back, grabbed the glass ashtray off the counter and hurled it at him. “Get away from me!” It caught him on the temple. Blood ran down his brow. He didn’t touch it. He just watched me with something close to panic. “Is it the baby? Are you in pain?” I sat on the floor and watched him bolt out, then come back with water and pills, blood dripping onto his white collar. He held out the pills like I might shatter if he moved too fast. “Why?” I looked at his face and the tears came. Days ago we were picking out names. We were talking about the future, the three of us. Minutes ago he was mutilating a guard because I smiled at him. “Why did you betray me?” Dominic went still. His hand tightened around the pills. “You know.” I waited for him to explain. I told myself I would believe anything. Anything at all. “I’m sorry.” His voice almost cracked. “I know you’ll be upset that I had the guard handled behind your back. But I can’t stand the idea of another man looking at you.” He stepped closer. “You have no idea what it took to pull you away from Killian. What I had to destroy just to stand next to you. And some kid gets to open your door like it’s nothing.” “I know what I am. I’m not apologizing for it.” “Hit me. Scream at me. Just don’t leave. You leave, and I’m done.” I looked at him and knew I should walk out. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t give up the way he held me. I couldn’t give up these days that felt like the only good thing left. So as long as I didn’t see it with my own eyes, I could pretend none of it was real. I smiled. “I want your mother’s pot roast.” His eyes lit up and he turned toward the kitchen. Then his phone rang. He glanced at the screen. “Something came up. I’ll make it when I’m back.” He was out the door before I could answer. I got in my car and followed him. —

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I was carrying my father’s best friend’s baby. Not Victor’s — at least, that’s what I thought then. It started two months ago. My name is Ella Whitley. On a rainy night, Anthony — my boyfriend of three years — threw all my things out of the apartment. His new girlfriend Vivian stood in the doorway wearing my Jimmy Choos. “Stop bothering me, We’re done. You’re nothing to me.” I didn’t cry.”When did you fall for someone else?” He laughed. “Go ask your daddy for money.” I’d spent everything on Anthony. The apartment was mine. The wool rug, the Dyson — all mine. But he and Vivian didn’t hesitate. One suitcase. A few clothes. That was it. The rain was cold. I had no umbrella. I was soaked and shaking. I called my father, Alexander. It took several tries. When he finally picked up, I heard music, women laughing — some party. His voice was drunk. “Baby? What’s wrong?” “Anthony threw me out.” He said something. Probably flirting with whoever was beside him. Then: “Sweetheart, find a hotel. Use my card. I can’t get away right now.” Since Mom died, there had been a parade of women. I never kept track. I waited, hoping he’d help. He said “I’m busy” and hung up. Three men came out of the alley. Hoodies. Hats pulled low. One blocked my path. “Hey, got a light?” “I didn’t smoke.” “Then give us something else.” They came up behind me and snatched my bag. My phone was inside. I screamed. A hand clamped over my mouth. They dug through my bag — wallet, phone. The screen lit up. He jabbed at it a few times. I don’t know what he pressed. The phone let out a sharp, piercing alarm. An emergency signal. He flinched, threw it — it skidded across the wet pavement. Across the city. Lower Manhattan. An abandoned warehouse. Victor Moretti was holding a man’s head underwater in a bucket of ice. His boots stood in a puddle of blood on the concrete floor. Water torture. Old mob tradition. Victor had just led his crew to victory. His men watched him in silence. He was expressionless. Covered in blood. His shirt clung to his body, sleeves rolled up, soaked dark red. Then his phone buzzed. He nodded to one of his men, released his grip, and pulled out the phone. An auto-sent emergency text. One new message. Sender: Ellie. He stared at it for three seconds. Then he turned and walked out. “Sir — what do we do with him?” someone called after him. No answer. He was already at the door. He got into the black Pagani parked in the alley. The engine roared like something alive. He’d never driven this fast. He called the number — Ellie — as he drove. Straight to voicemail. He tried Alexander. No answer. Damn it. He said it quietly. He knew. Alexander was busy. Too busy to notice his daughter’s SOS. Victor floored it. The car cut through the rain. He made it in time. He found me being dragged into an alley by all three of them. The black Pagani came roaring around the corner and jumped the curb. The headlights hit us. Blinding. The men let go and squinted at the light. The door opened. Victor stepped out. Rain soaked through him. Dark shirt, sleeves rolled up, bare forearms wet. He walked toward us. His face was stone. He looked at me. Then at the three men. The leader said, “Hey, brother — we were here first.” Victor didn’t look at him. He said my name: “Ellie.”

Only Victor called me that. My father called me Ella — like a stranger’s name. Victor said it differently. “Ellie” came from somewhere deep in his throat. Low. Short. One of the men decided to push back. “Who the hell do you think you—” Victor turned. The headlights caught his face. Rain dripped from his jaw. The man’s hand froze in midair. His eyes went wide. “M-Moretti… Mr. Moretti…” The man’s voice collapsed from threat to trembling. “I’m sorry, sir, we didn’t do anything, please—” Victor wasn’t listening. He was looking at me. “Get in the car.” I got in. The man kept apologizing behind us, one word after another. Victor shut the door. The engine swallowed everything else. Silence inside the car. The heat was on full. I was still cold. My wet dress clung to my skin. Water ran from my hair down my neck and into my collar. I held Victor’s coat. It smelled of blood — iron and rain. “Did my father send you?” I asked. No answer. “Where is he? Still at the party?” Victor reached into the side pocket and tossed a pack of tissues onto my lap. Casual. Almost rough. “Dry off,” he said. “You’ll get sick.” Not concern. A command. I pulled out a tissue and started on my face. It soaked through immediately, falling apart in my fingers. Then I saw his arm. His right sleeve had been sliced open — wrist to elbow. The edges of the tear were dark red. Blood ran down his forearm and dripped onto the steering wheel. Onto his trousers. “You’re bleeding,” I said. He didn’t look. Just kept his eyes on the road. The wipers swept back and forth. “Yeah.” “Shouldn’t you do something?” “Help me clean it,” he said. Simple as that. I hesitated. Then I pulled a few clean tissues and leaned across to press them against his arm. The moment the tissue touched his skin, his muscle tensed. He didn’t pull away. I started at the elbow. The blood was warm, thinned by rain, dripping from his fingers. I worked upward. The tissues soaked through fast. Then my fingers touched skin. His sleeve was torn all the way up. The tissue slipped. My fingertips pressed against his arm — bare skin, hard and burning hot, like heated stone. His wet shirt was still plastered to his shoulder. The fabric was thin. The lines of his body were very clear. My face went warm. My heart rate jumped. Not from the heat. I kept going — across his upper arm, down the inner side. The muscle there was sharper. A vein traced faintly beneath the surface. My fingers slipped lower, further in— “Ellie.” His hand covered mine. “It’s dry there.” I stopped. Two seconds passed before I understood. My fingers were on the inside of his arm, inches from his chest. The tissue was gone. Just my hand — bare, cold — against his skin.

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