Author: Momo Chan

Lola and I had been at each other’s throats for as long as I could remember. She said I was too pale, too soft—a pretty boy who didn’t belong in a fistfight. I told her she was a menace, a loudmouthed tomboy who didn’t know how to shut up. We traded insults for over a decade. Until senior year, when the new transfer kid confessed to her. She threw a sideways glance at me, smirked, and said, “Sorry, but you’re just not my type.” The crowd of classmates started chanting, “Oh, come on! Let me guess—you only have eyes for guys like Dan?” Lola let out a soft, lazy laugh, leaning back. “Yeah, actually. I like them with a bit of muscle, a bit of an edge. What of it?” Later, we went to college together, got married, and spent a lifetime bickering. Just before she passed away in that sterile hospital bed, she held my hand, laughing like a little girl. “Look at you. Still so scrawny, and your cooking is still terrible. Next time around, I’m definitely finding myself a handsome, built guy.” With tears burning my eyes, I gave her shoulder a gentle nudge. “Fine. Go find your muscle man. I’ll find someone who actually lets me live in peace.” Then I opened my eyes. And I was right back to the day the transfer kid confessed to her. “Lola, I… I really like you. Would you give me a chance?” Lola raised her eyes, spared me a brief, unreadable glance, and looked away. A slow smile curved her lips. “Sure. Let’s give it a shot.” 1 Zack’s eyes went wide, instantly shiny with disbelief. “Really… seriously?” Lola gave a careless shrug. “Yeah. You’ve got great abs, you’re handsome. Definitely my type.” I clenched my fists in my pockets, my fingers trembling. The crowd around us erupted. “Whoa, Lola! You actually like guys like Zack? We all thought you and Dan were a thing.” Lola lazily raised her eyelids, her lips twitching with amusement. “Who’d want him? He’s like a pretty boy. Too soft, too fragile.” The classroom exploded into laughter. “Dan’s good-looking, sure, but there’s nothing to him. No meat on those bones.” “Exactly. Girls want a real man. Someone strong.” I stood there frozen, the air turning to ice in my lungs. In my last life, at this exact moment, Lola had turned Zack down. Right in front of everyone, she had declared her feelings for me. My teenage heart had pounded so hard I thought it would burst out of my chest. That night, I tossed and turned under my covers, unable to sleep a single wink. The next morning, when I dragged my feet downstairs with dark circles under my eyes, Lola was already waiting by the porch. She had looked me up and down, clicking her tongue. “Did you spend all night robbing banks, Dan?” I had snapped at her, and she had just laughed. After graduation, she was the one who asked me out properly. “You might be scrawny, but I guess you’ll do. Want to be my boyfriend?” I playfully punched her arm. “Who’d want to be your boyfriend?” She had clutched her shoulder, laughing, calling me a stubborn idiot who could never just admit what he wanted. Then college. Walking through autumn rain, kissing under the streetlights. Marriage right after graduation. A son, a daughter. Decades of beautiful, noisy, chaotic bickering. Once, we had a cold war that lasted a whole month. Everyone thought we were done. But Lola would just snap at them, “What do you know? This is foreplay.” And then she’d turn to me, grinning, “Right, honey?” Even on her deathbed, she was still teasing me, telling me she’d find a strong, handsome man in her next life. I thought she was just trying to get a rise out of me one last time. I didn’t realize she actually meant it. I pulled myself out of the wreckage of my memories. Looking at Lola, I forced my voice to remain steady. “…As if anyone would want to date you anyway. Loudmouthed tomboy.” Then I turned on the rest of them. “And you guys? Half of you look like bloated pigs and the other half like starved monkeys. You’ve got a lot of nerve talking about anyone else’s body. Go look in a mirror before you open your mouths.” Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked out of the classroom. 2 If I stayed another second, the tears would have spilled over. In the bathroom, I splashed freezing water onto my face over and over again. The cold droplets rolled down my jaw, soaking into my collar, freezing against my collarbone. I stared at the eighteen-year-old reflection in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, raw. This wasn’t a dream. Lola and I had both come back. Only this time, she had decided I wasn’t worth choosing. When I walked back into the classroom, Zack was sitting in my seat next to Lola, looking entirely too comfortable. I stopped by the desk, my voice cold. “Move.” He bit his lip, casting a helpless look at Lola. “But… Lola told me to sit here.” Right on cue, Lola walked in, holding her insulated thermos. “I told him to sit there. He’s my boyfriend now, so of course he sits next to me.” She pointed toward Zack’s old desk near the back. “Go sit over there.” When the teacher had first assigned seats, she was the one who had begged to sit next to me. She’d said, “You’re too small, Dan. Someone’s gonna bully you. I’m here to protect you.” I didn’t say a word. I grabbed my backpack from my old desk, and under the stunned gazes of our classmates, I walked straight to the very back row. “What is he doing? Is Dan going to sit with Maeve?” “Even if he wants to, there’s no way Maeve is going to let him.” Lola’s brow furrowed, her eyes following me. I tapped on the wooden desk in the back corner. The girl buried in her arms slowly blinked her eyes open, looking up at me. Her gaze was detached, cold, carrying a faint trace of annoyance at being disturbed. “Can I sit here?” I asked. She stared at me for a beat, then closed her eyes again, turning her face away. I pulled out the chair and sat down. The whispers around the room didn’t stop until the bell finally rang, plunging us into a tense silence. I opened my textbook, but my mind was a chaotic mess. My eyes kept drifting toward Lola. She was resting her chin on her left hand, her gaze locked onto the side of Zack’s face. A soft, contented smile played on her lips. She used to look at me just like that during lectures. She’d say, “You know when you’re the most adorable, Dan? When you’re actually paying attention to the teacher.” After we got together, the look remained. “Dan, you’re so pretty. I just want to kiss you.” And after we got married: “Husband, I want to be with you in this life, the next life, and every life after that.” Suddenly, a packet of tissues appeared on my desk. I looked down, only to realize a dark, wet circle had bloomed on the page of my textbook. Maeve had already pulled her hand back, leaning lazily against her chair, looking straight ahead as if she hadn’t done a thing. Her voice was a low, dry murmur. “If anyone walks in, they’re going to think I bullied you.” Two lifetimes added up to nearly a century of living, yet here I was, crying like a baby in front of an eighteen-year-old girl. The grief was quickly swallowed by a wave of pure mortification. I wanted nothing more than to sink through the floorboards. When the final bell rang at the end of the day, Lola walked over, carrying Zack’s backpack over her shoulder. Her tone was casual, almost indifferent. “Go on home without me. I’m walking with Zack today.” She took two steps, then paused, looking back. “And don’t you dare tell my parents I’m dating someone.” She turned back to Zack, her face lighting up with an effortless smile. “Come on, I’ll take you to get those amazing churros down the street.” Lola loved those churros. In our past life, she dragged me there every single afternoon. But now, she had someone else to share them with. I had spent the entire afternoon drowning in misery, but as I watched them walk away, something clicked. I understood now. Even if she had loved me fiercely in another life, that was a past that no longer existed here. I needed to let go. I needed to move forward. 3 I turned to my aloof new deskmate. “Hey. Want to get some hot pot? I know this place that makes the most incredible, numbing broth.” Maeve gave me a look like I had sprouted a second head. She swung her backpack over her shoulder and slipped past me, throwing a chilly line over her shoulder. “Are we friends?” Brutally rejected, I walked out of the school gates alone. The silence was jarring. Since kindergarten, the walk home had always been a shared routine. In college, I walked her back to her dorm every single night. When we got married, I’d leave work early just to wait outside her office so we could commute together. How could someone who loved me that deeply suddenly flip a switch and become a stranger? The frustration flared up, hot and sharp. I kicked a loose pebble on the sidewalk, sending it flying. “Selfish jerk!” I muttered. The pebble soared through the air and struck the back of a head a few yards in front of me. The person stopped dead in their tracks and slowly turned around. My stomach dropped. Maeve’s eyes were like chips of ice as she stared at me. “Who are you calling a selfish jerk?” My brain scrambled for an escape route. I pointed quickly at a stray golden retriever lounging by the brick wall. “The dog. I was talking to the dog.” The retriever blinked at us innocently, giving its tail a lazy wag. Maeve’s lips curved into a cold, dangerous smile. “You talk to dogs with rocks?” “…It was a slip of the foot. I didn’t mean to.” She walked back, stopping right in front of me. Her voice dropped to a quiet, threatening register. “Dan. Were you throwing that at me?” I waved my hands frantically. “No, no! I swear! I was cursing out Lola. Really.” Maeve went quiet for a moment, her eyes searching mine with a strange, unreadable intensity. “Why were you cursing her out?” “Because she’s… a selfish jerk.” Maeve arched an eyebrow. “So. Lola dumps you, you call her a selfish jerk, and I get a rock to the head?” I choked on my words. From an outsider’s perspective, I had indeed been dumped. When I first realized I had traveled back in time, I wanted to scream with joy. I thought I was getting a whole second lifetime to love her. Who could have guessed she’d be off eating churros with her new muscle-bound boyfriend? I took a deep breath. “What do you mean she dumped me? We were never even together. Besides, a girl like her—someone who forgets her promises, who betrays our… our friendship—she’s not worth my time anyway.” A small, unexpected chuckle escaped Maeve’s lips. “Right. Well, you still owe me an apology.” I hung my head. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you. Do you need to go to the nurse?” “No.” She turned to walk away. On some bizarre impulse, I called out after her. “Let me buy you dinner to make up for it. That hot pot place really is amazing.” She stopped. She didn’t turn around, but her cool voice drifted back to me. “Lead the way.” After sweating through a bowl of ridiculously spicy hot pot, I dragged Maeve to a street cart for fried chicken and skewers. The heavy weight in my chest finally began to lift, dissolved by the simple comfort of grease and spices. When I finally walked into my apartment courtyard, the first thing I saw was Lola sitting on a concrete bench. Beside her was a grease-stained paper bag of cold churros. Seeing me, she stood up, her face instantly souring. “Dan, did you lose your way? Why did it take you so long to get home?” I rolled my eyes and walked right past her. As our shoulders brushed, I said casually, “I was out having dinner with Maeve. Lost track of time.” A hand gripped my backpack strap, jerking me to a halt. Lola’s voice exploded behind me, raw with anger. “What did you just say? You had dinner with Maeve?” She spun me around, her eyes wide with sheer disbelief. 4 “You don’t even know her! Why the hell are you having dinner with her?” I yanked my strap out of her grip, my voice flat. “None of your business.” “None of my business?” Lola let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “Dan, are you losing your mind?” “Since when is anything you do not my business? In preschool, you didn’t even know how to wipe your own butt, and I had to do it for you! In first grade, you lost a fight and cried, and I went back and punched the kid for you!” She rattled off a dozen childhood memories, her chest heaving. Watching her work herself into a frenzy, I felt a sudden, strange urge to laugh. “Who I eat dinner with is my choice. You and I are just neighbors, Lola. Lose the possessiveness.” “If you’ve got this much free time, go call your handsome boyfriend with the abs.” Lola ground her teeth. “Dan, you are unbelievable. You’re just doing this to get back at me. I only said yes to Zack because—” “I know,” I interrupted. “Because he has a six-pack.” I looked her straight in the eye. “And I went out with Maeve because she’s gorgeous. It’s nice to walk next to someone who actually looks good. Plus, she’s quiet. She doesn’t have a temper like a rabid dog.” Lola’s face went dark, practically purple with rage. I ignored her, turned around, and walked into my building. But the moment the heavy glass door clicked shut behind me, the tears broke. Large, hot drops spilled over my cheeks. It was so damn hard to let go. The next morning, the moment I walked into the classroom, I found a hot cup of sweetened soy milk and a breakfast sandwich sitting on my desk. It was my exact order—extra sweet, light on the ice. Zack was standing by the edge of my desk, offering a timid, polite smile. “Hey, Dan. Lola bought too much breakfast this morning, so she wanted you to have this.” Before I could even open my mouth, Lola’s voice drifted over from the desk behind him. “Zack, why are you wasting your breath? Just leave it there. If he wants to starve, let him.” She walked over, popped a straw into another cup of soy milk, and held it to Zack’s lips. Her eyes were warm, almost sickly sweet. “Drink this one. I added extra sugar. Sweet, just like you.” Zack blushed furiously as he took the cup, and a few classmates nearby started whistling. “Damn, Lola, since when did you become such a romantic?” “Seriously, I didn’t know you had it in you.” Lola smirked, her eyes casting a deliberate, sliding glance in my direction. “Depends on who I’m talking to.” I picked up the sandwich and the soy milk, walked over to the trash can, and dropped them inside with a heavy thud. Lola’s smug smile instantly froze on her face. At lunchtime, the moment I sat down at a cafeteria table with my tray, two people slid into the seats directly opposite me. Lola was clinging to Zack’s arm like a vine. She began picking the prime pieces of ribs from her tray and dropping them into his bowl, her voice practically dripping with artificial sweetness. “Eat up, babe. You need to keep those muscles fed.” Zack blushed, shaking his head. “It’s too much, Lola. I can’t finish all this.” Lola laughed, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “If you can’t finish, I’ll eat your leftovers. It’s not like we haven’t shared food before.” The surrounding tables went quiet, several heads turning our way. “Whoa, Lola, moving fast, aren’t we?” “Seriously, get a room, you two.” My grip on my fork tightened until my knuckles turned white. In our past life, Lola loved eating my leftovers. I was a notoriously picky eater, and she’d always lecture me about wasting food. She would complain the entire time, but she’d pull my plate over and polish off every single bite. I lowered my head, forcing spoonfuls of rice into my mouth, chewing desperately to swallow down the bitter lump in my throat. Lola suddenly looked up at me, her tone dripping with mock pity. “Dan, why are you eating all by yourself? Where’s your pretty new deskmate? Did she dump you already?” “None of your business,” I muttered, keeping my eyes on my tray. “Oof, still so touchy,” she mocked. She turned to Zack, her voice loud enough for the whole row to hear. “See? I told you he’s got a miserable temper. He doesn’t have a fraction of your sweetness.” As the words left her mouth, a tray slid onto the table right across from me. Maeve sat down, completely ignoring the tension in the air. She picked up her fork and began to eat her vegetables, chewing slowly and methodically. Her shoulders were broad enough that she completely blocked my view of Lola’s face. From behind her, I heard a sharp clatter of plastic. “I’m done. This place is giving me a headache,” Lola snapped. She grabbed her tray and marched off, Zack scrambling to catch up with her. The remaining students in the cafeteria stared. I finished my meal in silence, then looked up at Maeve. “Thanks.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin, her expression as blank as ever. “You owe me a meal.” “…Didn’t I just buy you hot pot yesterday?” “One meal replaces another. It’s a clean slate.” I stared at her, temporarily speechless. Who calculated debts like this? But looking at her, I realized she had just saved me from a massive amount of public embarrassment. “Fine. I’ll buy you dinner another day.” She stood up, throwing a final line over her shoulder. “Don’t flake on me.” That afternoon, I ran into Lola by the school gates. She was leaning against the concrete wall alone, holding a bottle of water. When she saw me, she straightened up. “Dan.” I didn’t stop walking. She caught up in three quick strides, stepping directly into my path. “What?” I asked, exasperated. She looked down at me, her throat bobbing as if she wanted to say a hundred things, but only one sentence came out. “Why aren’t you taking the bus today?” “I feel like walking. Good exercise.” “Then I’ll walk with you.” “No thanks. Go walk your boyfriend home.” She winced, looking away. “He had to leave early today. Family stuff.” I didn’t reply. I just kept walking. She fell into step beside me, unable to keep quiet for more than three seconds. “Since when did you and Maeve get so close? You’ve only been sitting together for two days, and suddenly you know she’s ‘quiet’ and ‘sweet’? And now you’re eating lunch together?” Her voice was taking on a frantic, high-pitched edge. “Dan, don’t tell me you actually like her? She’s not your type at all. She’s impossible to get along with. She walks around looking like the whole world owes her a million dollars…” I stopped so abruptly that she nearly crashed into my chest. “Lola. What is your point?”

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During our three years of marriage, Caroline spent nearly half her nights at the apartment across the river. She told me that because her older sister had passed away early, leaving Jared entirely alone, she had a duty as a sister-in-law to look after him. She called it the Grayson family’s deep sense of loyalty. Back then, I was foolish enough to believe her. To preserve her dignity and respect her sense of obligation, I endured her absence on holidays, tolerated our Thanksgiving dinners being cut in half, and even swallowed the quiet mockery of outsiders who whispered that I was a weak, accommodating husband—a man sharing his wife. Yet, whenever she spoke to me, her tone was always gentle but distant, like a glass wall. Until the day of the multi-car pileup, when all three of our cars were crushed into scrap metal. I was clutching my right leg, where the stitches had only recently been removed. Cold sweat drenched my clothes as I clawed at the shattered window. “Caroline, please, help me…” She managed to crawl out of the driver’s seat. Her eyes swept over my blood-soaked leg. But she turned away, wrenching open the back door instead. She pulled Jared—who had nothing but a minor scratch on his forehead—tightly against her chest. “Don’t look, it’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.” She patted his back, soothing his panic over and over. While my door, warped and crushed, remained locked tight. She wasn’t fulfilling a sacred familial duty. She just couldn’t bear to see him suffer a single scratch. 1 The ambulance arrived, sirens blaring. The firefighters used hydraulic shears to cut through the door trapping me. I looked down beneath my seat. It was a pool of my own blood. A sharp, throbbing agony radiated through my right leg. I held it tightly with both hands. Seven months of agonizing physical therapy—all my hard work was riding on this leg, and I didn’t even know if I would ever move it again. I went limp as they hoisted me onto the stretcher. The paramedic pressed an oxygen mask over my face and shouted into the chaos outside: “Where is the family? What’s the patient’s history? Do you have his rehab records?” Caroline was leaning over, gently dabbing at a tiny scratch, barely an inch long, on Jared’s forehead with a tissue. The paramedic shouted again. Caroline glanced over her shoulder at me, her lips parting. “He’s… he’s been in rehab for seven months. Beyond that, I don’t really know.” She didn’t really know. Every time I came back from a checkup, I filed the progress reports in the second drawer of the study. She had never opened it. Yet she knew exactly which medications Jared was allergic to, which of his knees had the old injury, and precisely how many minutes to steep his herbal tea. As the stretcher rolled away, I turned my head to look at her. She didn’t follow. Jared gripped her arm, trembling against her shoulder. She lowered her head, resting her hand on the back of his neck. “Don’t look over there. You’re safe. Just close your eyes, I’m here.” Before the ambulance doors slammed shut, I saw her helping Jared into another vehicle. I was rushed straight into surgery the moment I arrived at the hospital. I bit my lip to keep from screaming, but tears leaked from the edges of my mask, hot and silent. A nurse banged on the operating room door. “We need a family signature! Consent form for emergency nerve repair. Is there anyone here?” The door swung open. Caroline walked in. Her hand shook as she signed her name on the bottom line. I thought she would step closer to me. But the moment the pen left the paper, she pulled out her phone to answer a call. She lowered her voice, but I heard every word. “Don’t worry, Jared. The scans will be ready soon. I had Oliver go with you. I’ll be there as soon as I sign this.” The anesthesia flooded my veins, dragging me into the dark. I had no idea how long the surgery lasted. When I finally woke up, it was the middle of the night. Oliver was slumped over the edge of my bed, his eyes red and swollen. My first words were, “My leg… how is it?” He didn’t answer. I looked at his face, and I closed my eyes. Outside the door, my mother-in-law’s hushed voice carried through the crack. “Jared, sweetheart, don’t blame yourself. Caroline has handled everything. Go home and get some sleep. Your health comes first…” Nobody mentioned my right leg. It was as if those seven months of grueling, agonizing physical therapy had never existed. Caroline came in later, just once. She stood at the foot of my bed, silent for a long time. Then she spoke: “I asked the rehab center to keep your spot. Just focus on healing.” She didn’t say she was sorry. She didn’t mention that my right leg was permanently damaged. I said nothing. The next day, Oliver showed me a photo taken by a passing car’s dashcam. In the first photo, Caroline stood by my side of the car, her hand resting on the warped metal frame. In the second photo, she had already turned toward the backseat, pulling open Jared’s door. I stared at the printout, my thumb pressing hard against the paper. It wasn’t a matter of running out of time. She had simply made her choice. I turned the photo face down on the hospital bed, placing my hand over my numb, useless leg. My eyes were dry, burning with a pain too deep for tears. Outside, someone whispered that Jared had been severely traumatized. I closed my eyes and turned my face toward the shadow. That night, for the first time, I didn’t wait for Caroline to come back. 2 On the day I was discharged, Caroline came to pick me up. She opened the passenger door, her hand hovering gently behind my back in a show of tender care. I didn’t speak the entire ride. When we reached our building, she got out to grab the luggage. I limped into the living room and noticed a brown medicine organizer on the coffee table. A man’s cashmere shawl—not mine—draped over the arm of the sofa. Beside the TV stand stood a framed black-and-white portrait of Caroline’s late sister, Catherine. I froze at the entrance. Behind me, Caroline paused as she kicked off her shoes. “Jared hasn’t been doing well. He’s having night terrors and can’t be left alone. I told him he could stay here for a few days, just until he stabilizes.” I didn’t reply. I walked straight toward the master bedroom. Pushing open the cracked door, I saw Jared sitting on the edge of my bed, sorting small pill bottles. He was wearing my slippers. Seeing me, he immediately stood up. “Jude, you’re back.” His voice was soft, fragile. “I’m just… I’m terrified of the dark, and I couldn’t handle being alone. Caroline said I could stay here for a couple of days. I’ll leave as soon as I’m a bit better. I won’t be a burden.” I looked down at the slippers on his feet. They were the slip-resistant ones I bought after my accident. Caroline had spent hours helping me choose them. I turned to Caroline. “He’s staying in the master bedroom?” Caroline leaned against the doorframe, a strained, conflicted look on her face. “He had a panic attack the other night and fell. No one found him until morning. The master bedroom is closer to the living room. It’s easier to keep an ear out.” “You can take the study for now. I’ve already made up the daybed for you.” A heavy knot tightened in my throat. There was so much I wanted to say, but not a single word came out. Not because I was afraid, but because in that exact moment, I realized my place in this home could be packed up and moved at her convenience. At dinner, Jared sat at the table, ladling soup for Caroline. He glanced up at me, then quickly lowered his gaze. “Jude, I know you just got out of the hospital, and I shouldn’t be intruding. But Caroline is Catherine’s only sister. If she turns her back on me, I truly have no one left to lean on.” Caroline placed a piece of chicken in my bowl. “Jude, it hasn’t been easy for Jared. Just focus on your recovery. I’ll handle the rest. I won’t let you down.” I stared at the food in my bowl. After dinner, I walked down the hall to my physical therapy room. The moment I pushed the door open, I knew something was wrong. The bins on the windowsill that held my knee braces and resistance bands were gone. In their place stood a wooden easel and several boxes of oil paints. An index card hung from the easel, written in elegant script: Art Therapy for Emotional Healing. I stood in the doorway, staring at the easel, as the knot in my throat finally dissolved into cold clarity. I turned around. Caroline was standing in the hallway. She spoke first. “Jared’s therapist suggested art therapy to manage his anxiety, and we don’t have any other spare rooms…” I cut her off. “This is my rehabilitation room.” She hesitated. “Jude, I packed your rehab gear away. I didn’t throw it out. Please don’t upset yourself, you’re still recovering. Once Jared moves back, I’ll put everything back exactly how it was.” I didn’t have the energy to fight her. I just suddenly wanted to know where my hope of walking properly had been stashed. In the middle of the night, I limped over to the storage closet and opened the door. My therapy table and heating units were nowhere to be found. The training clothes I had folded so carefully were gone too. Only a few label stickers lay at the bottom of an empty cardboard box. The housekeeper crept up behind me. “Sir… those things… Mrs. Grayson said keeping them around would only make you sad about your leg. She had them sent to the charity auction run by Mr. Jared’s foundation.” I bent down to pick up a label from the bottom of the box. On it, I had written my weekly milestones and expected recovery dates. I stared at it for a long time, then folded the paper and squeezed it tightly in my fist. In this house, even the physical proof of my struggle to heal had to be cleared out for him. I closed the closet door. The click of the latch was quiet. But as it snapped shut, something inside me locked away forever. 3 On the day of my follow-up appointment, Caroline said something urgent had come up at the office and sent the driver to take me. I registered, waited in line, got my scans, and waited for the report entirely alone. The doctor frowned as he flipped through my chart. “The nerve recovery isn’t looking good. There’s no improvement in the damaged tissue. You need to take your medication on schedule, avoid physical strain, and keep your stress levels down.” He looked up. “Where is your spouse? Why did you come alone?” “She’s busy,” I said. The doctor gave me a long look but didn’t press further. When I got back, Caroline was sitting in the living room. She stood up and took the folder from my hand. “What did the doctor say?” “Still recovering,” I replied. She nodded, relieved. Then she said something that made me freeze in my tracks. “Jude, let’s keep the news about your permanent limp quiet for now. Jared has been extremely unstable lately. Hearing about permanent injuries might trigger his PTSD from the accident. Please, try to be understanding.” I stood in the entryway, my coat still half-on. “You want me to hide it?” “Not hide it,” she said quickly. “Just… don’t make it public yet. We can talk about it once Jared is doing better.” I stared at her. Her expression was entirely earnest, pleading. It was a face I knew all too well. Every time she wanted me to compromise, she looked at me exactly like this. The next day, my mother-in-law called. “Jude, Caroline told me. Don’t think I’m being heartless, dear. You’re still young, you can take your time to heal.” “But Jared can’t. He already lost Catherine. Any more shock might break him completely.” “I’ve changed the reservation for your recovery dinner. We’re turning it into a three-year memorial dinner for Catherine instead. All the relatives have been notified. I’m sure you don’t mind.” I sat in the dim study, holding the phone. That recovery dinner was something Caroline and I had booked together four months into my therapy. I had picked out the menu. I had written the guest list. The table cards were supposed to say Celebrating a New Beginning. Now, it had been handed over to celebrate someone else’s grief. I cleared my throat. “Martha, even if my leg is ruined, I fought hard for it. I want to keep a small commemorative plaque. Nothing big. Just something to put on my desk.” The line went dead silent for a few seconds. “Jude, Jared is living with you. If you put that out, what happens if he sees it?” After I hung up, I sat in the darkness of the study as the sun sank below the horizon. I remembered telling Oliver once that Caroline was just weighed down by her family duty, but that she loved me. Yet now, even the memory of my recovery wasn’t allowed to exist in our home. On the night of the memorial dinner, I was seated at the very end of the long table. The entire room was reminiscing about Catherine. Jared sat right next to the head of the table, basking in the attention of the family. People patted his hand, piled food onto his plate, and sighed over how tragic it was for him to be a young widower. No one mentioned my leg. A distant uncle whispered to the person next to him: “Why does Caroline’s husband look so miserable? He’s so young, yet he sits there with a sour face. Doesn’t he know how much this family has been through?” My hand tightened around my water glass. Suddenly, Jared swayed, gripping the edge of the table. The entire room stood up in a panic. My mother-in-law was the first to reach him. “Jared! What is it? Are you feeling dizzy again?” Caroline rushed around the table, kneeling by his side. The uncle turned to me, raising his voice so the table could hear. “Did someone say something to upset him? Jared has been so fragile. How can anyone be so insensitive?” I knew he was looking at me. I didn’t get up. I realized then that no matter what I did, everyone in this room would find a way to blame Jared’s collapse on me. When we got home that night, I didn’t wait up for Caroline. I logged into my online banking and pulled up three years of joint account statements. Then I drove to the hospital to print the billing records from the night of the crash. On the night of the accident, Caroline had paid for Jared’s full battery of scans and a private room first. Her payment went through forty-seven minutes before I was wheeled into surgery. And the receipt for my surgical deposit bore Oliver’s name. I stacked the papers neatly and slid them into my briefcase. I remembered all the times I had made excuses for her. She was just too loyal. She was caught in the middle. She was forced into this position by the Grayson family. But looking at those receipts, the excuses ran dry. I slowly stood up. My right leg throbbed with a dull, aching pain. But more than the physical ache, I felt a clean, sharp crack open in my chest. The cold wind rushed in, and for the first time in three years, I was wide awake. 4 I went searching for my commemorative silver pendant. I had ordered it secretly—a palm-sized piece engraved with a butterfly breaking from a cocoon and the date my doctor predicted I’d throw away my crutches. I had locked it in my study drawer. I was the only one with the key. When I pulled the drawer open, it was empty. I asked the housekeeper. She shook her head, avoiding my eyes. I searched the entire house and finally found it in a recycling bag next to the trash bin. The silver was dented and deeply scratched, the engraving ruined. Jared walked into the study, stopping when he saw me kneeling on the floor, holding the damaged metal. “Jude… about the pendant. I didn’t mean to.” “I was tidying up the study and accidentally bumped the drawer. My hand slipped, and it just…” I spoke quietly. “The drawer was locked.” He hesitated. “Maybe the housekeeper forgot to lock it after cleaning. Jude, I really didn’t do it on purpose. I saw the dates engraved on it and felt so guilty about my own survival that my hands started shaking…” His eyes welled with tears. My mother-in-law marched into the room, grabbing Jared’s arm. “Jared, sweetheart, don’t cry. It’s just a piece of metal. Jude, your brother-in-law is fragile. Why must you keep these things out in the open? You know how much it hurts him to see them.” I remained on the floor, the cold metal edges biting into my palm. “Martha, this drawer was locked.” Martha’s brow furrowed. “What are you trying to say? Are you accusing Jared of breaking into your desk to ruin your things?” Jared took a step back, wiping his face. “Jude, if you don’t believe me… fine. It doesn’t matter what I say. You’ll always find a way to make it my fault.” He turned and hurried out of the room. Martha’s voice turned ice-cold. “Jude, you cannot take your anger about your leg out on Jared. He lost far more than you did.” By the time Caroline came home, Martha had already taken Jared back to the Grayson family estate. She stared at the damaged silver pendant on the coffee table. “Jude.” “I know you’re hurt. But Jared’s mental state is incredibly fragile. If he did this, it truly wasn’t malicious.” I didn’t look up. She reached out and covered my hand with hers. “I’ll have a new one made for you. Exactly the same. Okay? Whatever words you want, we’ll go together to get it engraved. I promise I won’t let Jared touch your things again.” She was placating me, just like she always did. And just like always, she expected me to yield. But this time, I didn’t. I pulled my hand back, stood up, and went into the study. I laid out three years of bank statements on the desk, organized chronologically. The HOA fees for the apartment across the river, Jared’s therapy bills, his private nurses, the personal debts of his mother’s family—all paid out of our joint marital account. Next, I pulled out the hospital billing records, the edited guest list for the memorial dinner, and the donation receipt for my physical therapy equipment. I slid everything into a single leather folder. The next morning, I had Oliver schedule an emergency family meeting. Martha sat at the head of the table, with Caroline beside her. Jared, his eyes red and puffy, sat across from them. I laid the folder on the table and opened the first page. “Over the past three years, the total amount of marital assets spent on Jared’s personal lifestyle and expenses comes to one hundred and ninety-two thousand dollars.” “That includes his rent, private nursing, therapy, and his mother’s family debts.” I turned to the second page. “These are the hospital billing records from the night of the crash. Jared’s private room and scans were paid for before I even entered the operating room. My own surgical deposit had to be paid by Oliver.” Third page. “My physical therapy equipment was donated without my consent. The charity receipt is made out directly to Jared’s personal foundation.” Fourth page. “The original draft for my recovery dinner. My name was crossed out, replaced with Catherine’s three-year memorial.” The room fell into a suffocating silence. Jared’s lips trembled. Martha’s face flushed with anger and embarrassment. Caroline stared at the documents, completely still. Jared was the first to break the silence, his voice cracking. “Jude, that money… when Catherine passed, her insurance hadn’t cleared yet. I truly had no other way to survive…” I looked him dead in the eye. “Jared, you were the sole beneficiary of Catherine’s life insurance. The policy paid out five hundred thousand dollars. It cleared three months after her death.” Jared turned white as a sheet. I kept going. “You weren’t broke, and you weren’t helpless. You just didn’t want to spend your own money.” Martha’s fingers gripped the armrests of her chair. Caroline closed her eyes. Jared stood up, sobbing, and ran out of the room, covering his face. After the family scattered, Caroline remained in the living room. I went back to our bedroom to pack my medical files, my marriage certificate, my bank statements, and the deed to the house. I pulled out my permanent disability diagnosis from the back of the drawer. I tucked it into my file folder. I heard the front door lock click open. Caroline walked in, helping Jared inside. Jared was draped in her coat, clutching a silver charm in his hand. It was the silver pendant. The one with my hope for recovery written on the back. My eyes locked onto it. And the thread that had kept me bound to this marriage for three years snapped. Caroline saw where I was looking, and her face fell. Jared instinctively tried to tuck the pendant into his sleeve. Caroline took a step forward. “Jude, listen to me—” I cut her off. “Caroline.” She froze. I placed the signed divorce papers on the entryway table and pulled my suitcase past her. I stopped at the threshold. “Don’t bother explaining.” “From now on, let’s not see each other again.” I closed the door behind me and walked toward the elevator.

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After the college reunion ended, the venue locked us in. A state-of-the-art “Equilibrium Protocol” had taken over the building. The rules were simple, yet absolute: only couples with genuine, reciprocal love could unlock the doors by interlocking their fingers. One by one, under the pressure of the locked room, secret crushes confessed, old sparks reignited, and classmates walked out safe. I didn’t move. Neither did Nicola. We had been together in secret for seven years, and I knew her rules. I understood her caution. So, I quietly waited by her side. Until only four of us were left in the suffocating room. I thought the hiding was finally over. I took a deep, relieved breath and reached my hand out to her. But Nicola didn’t even look at my hand. Instead, she stepped right past me and grabbed Simon, who was shaking in the corner. “Biometric verification successful. True love match confirmed. Doors unlocked.” The automated voice echoed through the speaker. My hand froze in midair. Nicola didn’t look back. She just threw a hasty promise over her shoulder: “Just wait for me here, okay? I’ll find a way to get you out as soon as I’m free!” The heavy steel doors slammed shut. I watched the silhouette of her back, shielding Simon as she hurried out. Seven years. Seven years of late nights, shared dreams, and quiet devotion. And yet, the system didn’t recognize me as her true love. But she didn’t know one crucial detail. A few days later, when she brought a rescue crew to pry the doors open… I had already walked out of that room, my fingers tightly locked with my fiercest rival. 1 When we first realized the exit protocol was active, panic swept the VIP lounge. I sat in the corner, my eyes instinctively drifting toward Nicola on the other end of the sectional. She didn’t look back. She was leaning against the leather, lazily spinning the delicate silver chain on her wrist. Loop after loop. Her face was a mask of cool composure. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Nicola: Wait. Keep your distance. I replied: Okay. On our second day of dating, seven years ago, she had begged me to keep us a secret. “The firm is just getting off the ground, Zack,” she had pleaded, her eyes wide and anxious. “Investors don’t like partners with emotional baggage or distractions. Please.” So I agreed. For seven years, I became an expert at acting like a stranger in public. Couples kept matching and leaving. When there were only eight of us left, someone gestured toward us. “Hey, Nicola, Zack—you guys are both single, right? Why don’t you give it a shot?” My heart leaped. The crowd was small enough now. Even if we triggered the system, it wouldn’t matter. I looked at Nicola, ready to step forward. Before I could say a word, Nicola let go of her bracelet and laughed lightly. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re just old classmates. I wouldn’t want to take advantage of a handsome guy like Zack.” Her tone was casual, laced with a polite but chilling distance. The others Profile laughed, moving on. A familiar, dull ache bloomed in my chest, quickly fading into a numb acceptance. I was used to this. Nicola never, under any circumstances, showed any hint of affection in public. But then the doors kept opening and closing until only four remained. Me. Nicola. Simon Thatcher—who was curled up, looking terrified. And Maeve Harrington, sitting in the deepest shadow of the room. She had always been quiet, intense, and she hadn’t said a single word all night. But I was tired of waiting. I stood up and walked toward Nicola. I wanted to go home. I reached my hand out to her. But without warning, Nicola bypassed my outstretched fingers. She grabbed Simon’s trembling, tightly clasped hands. Before I could comprehend what was happening, the doors slid open. They crossed the threshold of the love-bound prison. The lounge wasn’t soundproof. Through the heavy wood, I could hear the immediate cheers of our classmates waiting outside. “I knew it! I knew you two were together! We were stressing out for you—the system only unlocks for real love!” “Damn, Nicola, you hid it well. But honestly, even back in college, you always treated Simon differently.” “Right? Remember sophomore year when those guys were bullying Simon, and then suddenly they stopped bothering him entirely? We thought they just found a conscience, but Tyler got drunk last month and let slip that Nicola took a baseball bat and some guys to the back alley to ‘educate’ them.” I slowly lowered my hand. My fingers were shaking so violently I had to tuck them into my pockets. Sophomore year. I remembered the night Nicola came back to our shared apartment with a split lip and scraped knuckles. I had panicked, running to the 24-hour Walgreens at two in the morning to buy antiseptic and bandages. She had pulled me into her lap, kissing my hair, and said softly: “You told me those guys were giving you trouble, right? I saw them today, and I couldn’t just stand by.” I had cried, my heart aching for her, and spent the next week waking up early to cook her favorite meals to help her heal. She hadn’t been fighting for me. She had been playing guardian angel for Simon. And that devotion had lasted seven years, culminating in a biometric system declaring them soulmates. My brain felt entirely hollow, ringing with a single question: What was I to her? 2 My phone buzzed with an incoming text from Nicola: Be good. Wait for me. I had heard those words for seven years. When I wanted to make us official, she told me to wait. When my parents wanted to meet the woman I was building a life with, she told me to wait. Now, she had walked out with her true love, and she still expected me to wait? No need. I’ll figure it out myself. Almost instantly, my phone rang. It was Nicola. I didn’t answer. Then came the flood of texts. Zack, don’t do this. Don’t be childish. It’s not what you think—the system must have glitched! Simon and I barely talk. He used to avoid me in college. How could he possibly love me? I know you’re upset, but he’s a major client. He was recently diagnosed with terminal cancer, Zack. He came to my firm to complete his bucket list. I couldn’t just leave him in there. Don’t be jealous. I checked the fridge—there’s enough food and water to last a few days. Once I get him settled and calm, I’ll find a way to get you out! Every line was placating, filled with reasonable-sounding excuses, but dripping with condescension. I didn’t believe her. And thank God I didn’t. Because outside, the voices of our classmates drifted through the door again. “Wait, isn’t it just Zack and Maeve left in there? Oh man, they’re going to be stuck forever!” The hallway went quiet for a second, followed by a burst of laughter. “Trying to get the star student and his academic rival to fall in love? That’s a death sentence.” “Should we play matchmaker from out here? Give them a little push so they can get out?” “That’s enough.” Nicola’s voice cut through the laughter, cold and sharp. “Stop joking. Those two are impossible.” She sounded so certain. I leaned my head against the door, a bitter, silent laugh escaping my lips. She was absolutely certain I would never look at Maeve. And she was even more certain that I could never leave her. She assumed I would do what I had always done: wait quietly in the dark until she was done playing her games, waiting for her to remember I existed. What gave her that right? Just then, my best friend, Kyle, called me. He was about to give me the answer. “I am losing my mind, Zack! That absolute piece of work. You need to hear what she’s saying right now.” He sent me an audio recording. The acoustics sounded like a hollow parking garage. Nicola’s voice was low, laced with a familiar, husky sigh: “You said you didn’t have feelings for me. Then why did the doors unlock when I grabbed your hand, Simon? Is playing hard to get fun for you?” Simon’s voice was thick with tears, trembling: “I regretted it… Nicola, back then, I just felt so worthless. I didn’t think I deserved you…” “You were so good to me. In high school, when everyone froze me out, you were the one secretly leaving milk in my locker. When they locked me in the gym closet, you skipped your final exams to climb through the window and find me.” “You even turned down early admission to Columbia just to stay in the same state as me… How could I not love you?” The sound of rustling jackets. “It’s too late,” Nicola said, her voice dropping. “I have a boyfriend.” “I don’t care,” Simon sobbed harder. “I don’t have much time left. Just for these next few weeks, Nicola… please, can you be my girlfriend? Even if it’s a lie.” There was a long pause, then a soft, heavy sigh. “Don’t cry. You’re still such a coward, afraid to even hold onto what you want…” I clicked the screen off, my fingers trembling. I slid down the door until I was sitting on the floor, hot tears finally spilling over my eyelashes and dripping onto my hands. Seven years. I thought I was the one who held her heart. 3 When I had a severe stomach ulcer and was hospitalized, she stayed by my bedside for three days and three nights without changing her clothes. When I casually mentioned I loved the apple fritters from that bakery across town, she stood in a snowstorm for three hours to get them for me. When I confessed I was afraid of the dark, she would stay on the phone with me every single night until she heard my breathing slow. It wasn’t because I was special. It was because she was capable of being that good to anyone she chose. I thought her secrecy was to protect us. Now I realized it was to keep her slate clean. She regretted that Simon hadn’t chosen her back then. So she kept her heart guarded, using me as a comfortable, safe harbor. Because she knew I loved her enough to swallow every insult, every compromise, and every lonely night. I was the only one who would let her sail away to mend her past regrets whenever she pleased, with zero consequences. Only this time, she was wrong. The illusion had shattered. I wiped my face, stood up, and looked across the dim room at Maeve. “Do you want to get out of here?” Her response was quicker than I expected, her voice cool and steady. “Yes.” “Have you heard of the suspension bridge effect?” I asked. “Under extreme stress or fear, the heart rate spikes, and the brain misinterprets it as romantic attraction.” “I’ve been looking at the system’s sensors. If we can get our heart rates over 130 and hold it there for ten seconds, we might fool the lock.” “Okay.” She stood up and walked toward me. A minute later. “Biometric verification successful. True love match confirmed. Doors unlocked.” I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and started to pull my hand back. But Maeve’s grip remained tight. She looked up at me, her chest rising and falling slightly. “I wasn’t holding my breath, Zack.” I froze, staring at her. Maeve let go, taking a polite step back to give me space. “I don’t need a suspension bridge, Zackary,” she said, her voice measured, quiet. “Just standing near you gets my heart rate over 120. My feelings don’t require a trick.” The air in the room seemed to solidify. Suddenly, memories I had dismissed flashed through my mind. Every time I had cried in the library after failing to secure a top internship, a hot coffee would mysteriously appear on my desk the next morning. Every time Nicola and I fought and I walked home alone in the dark, a familiar black sedan would crawl slowly behind me, keeping a safe, protective distance. I had always assumed it was a coincidence. “Maeve, I…” “You don’t have to say anything,” she interrupted, her expression softening. “I’m just stating a fact. The door is open. Let’s go.” I pulled out my phone and opened Nicola’s chat. I typed three words: We are over. I hit send. A red exclamation mark popped up. I was blocked. I opened Instagram. Simon’s latest post was a photo of a handwritten bucket list. Item #99: I want my girl to love only me from this moment on. The comments were already flooded. One of Simon’s friends commented: Not enough, bro. She needs to delete every guy on her phone who isn’t work-related to prove it! Simon had replied: She already did (blushing emoji) I stared at the red exclamation mark. Seven years in the dark, and I didn’t even get a decent goodbye. Then, my phone rang. It was an unknown number, but I knew the voice instantly when I answered. “Zack, it’s me. Are you okay in there? You aren’t scared, are you?” “I’m fine,” I said, my voice entirely flat. Nicola let out a relieved sigh. “Good. Don’t be mad about the block. It was just to appease Simon’s list—it’s a client management thing. Don’t be petty, Zack. Once I close this deal and get the final payment, I’ll add you back.” “Just try to understand me,” she pleaded, her voice softening into that sweet, manipulative tone. “Be good and wait for me. I’ll bring a crew to get the door open tomorrow.” Understand her? Hadn’t I spent seven years doing exactly that? “Don’t bother adding me back,” I said, looking up at the night sky outside the venue. “Nicola, we’re done.” 4 The line went silent for a few seconds before she let out a weary sigh. “Are you jealous again? I told you, it’s just work. I’ve been with you for seven years, Zack. Can’t you handle just a few days of this?” “Once I’m done with this client, I’ll buy you that watch you liked to make it up to you. Be good, stop throwing tantrums.” I hung up immediately, then blocked her number. By the time I got back to our apartment, the sky was beginning to turn pale. I pulled two large suitcases out of the closet and started packing. My clothes, my shoes, my books. When I reached for the bottom drawer of the wardrobe, my hand paused. Inside lay a pair of custom-ordered wedding bands. Engraved on the inner band: N.C. Next to them sat a wedding dress I had hand-sewn myself. Last year on her birthday, she got drunk and cried in my arms. She said she felt terrible for keeping me in the dark, and promised that once her company went public, she would give me the biggest wedding imaginable. I believed her. I secretly took sewing classes, pricking my fingers countless times, and stitched every detail of that dress by hand. I wanted to hand it to her on the day she finally went public. What a pathetic joke. I grabbed a pair of fabric scissors, lined them up against the collar of the dress, and sliced it to shreds. I threw the ruined silk and the custom rings into the trash. My phone rang. It was my father. “Zack, when are you finally bringing this girlfriend of yours home?” his voice sounded strained. “Seven years! You keep her hidden like she’s a secret. Tomorrow is your mother’s sixtyeth birthday. You must bring her.” “No more excuses!” My father only knew I had a girlfriend, but he had no idea who she was. Nicola had always maintained that until her business was successful, she would feel too embarrassed to meet my parents. I had covered for her every single time. She had never introduced me to her parents either, claiming they were traditional and wouldn’t approve of us living together before marriage. To keep things low-profile, I had only added her mother on a burner social media account, never interacting beyond liking her posts. Her mother had no idea who I was. But half an hour ago, she had posted an update. My sweet girl finally brought her fiancé home to meet us. Simon is such a wonderful young man. I know he’ll get through this. The photo showed her holding Simon’s hand, smiling warmly. A spread of gourmet food covered the table. Nicola sat next to him, peeling shrimp for him with a gentle expression. So, it wasn’t that she couldn’t introduce a partner to her parents. I was just the one who didn’t qualify. I took a deep breath. “Dad, tomorrow at noon. I’ll bring her.” This time, I wouldn’t hide. The next day, Nicola was at the amusement park with Simon, watching him ride the carousel. After they finished, she met up with her friends. Bella leaned in, smirking. “Hey, Nicola, going to pick up your guy? You’ve left him stewing for a few days. Is he going to be pissed?” Nicola rubbed her temples and let out a long breath. She hadn’t been able to reach Zack all day. She tried calling from other numbers, but they went unanswered. Her texts went into a void. She figured he was just sulking, but she wasn’t particularly worried. He always came around. Whenever they fought, she would give him the silent treatment for a couple of days, offer a small gesture, and he would happily take the olive branch. Besides, the VIP room had plenty of refreshments. He wasn’t in any danger. “Let’s go,” she said, motioning to the locksmith crew she’d hired. “Let’s go get Zack.” A group of them arrived at the venue. But as Nicola reached out to knock, she froze. The heavy door was wide open. “Why is it unlocked?” Nicola frowned. “Did we get the wrong room?” One of her friends didn’t answer. She was staring at her phone screen, suddenly catching her breath. “Oh my god… what is this? Nicola, look at this!” She hurriedly held her phone up to Nicola’s face. Nicola’s eyes went wide.

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Late-stage bone cancer. The oncologist asked if I wanted to go through with the amputation. My breath caught in my throat. I hesitated, staring at my phone screen for what felt like an eternity, before finally sending a message to my wife, Norma. The amputation will buy me another year. Do you want me to do it? Just a minute before they were scheduled to wheel me into the operating room, my phone finally buzzed in my palm. Wishing you prosperity and wealth. It was a digital red envelope. Just like every single response she had sent to my messages over the past three years. I stared at the screen, letting the silence of the pre-op room swallow me. Ever since our wedding night, when I desperately begged her to lend me fifty thousand dollars, Norma had been convinced I was exactly what her wealthy friends called me: a parasitic gold-digger. So, when I was hospitalized with severe internal injuries from pulling her out of a car wreck, she sent me a cash transfer. When I begged her to attend my father’s funeral, she sent me a cash transfer. Six months ago, I was diagnosed with the same hereditary bone cancer that took my father. In the near future, I knew I would end up just like him—confined to a sterile hospital bed, hooked up to a dozen tubes, slowly rotting away. Terrified and breaking down, I had sent her ninety-seven long, weeping voice notes. I received ninety-seven digital red envelopes in return. And now, facing the prospect of losing my leg just to drag out this agonizing survival, Norma was busy. She was over at her childhood best friend Glenn’s apartment, helping him assemble a fuse-bead art piece. Staring at their cozy Instagram stories—the warm lighting, the soft laughter, the flood of congratulatory comments from mutual friends—I smiled bitterly and pulled the IV needle out of my vein. Norma had once told me, her voice dripping with absolute venom: “Marrying a useless parasite like you is the single biggest regret of my life.” If that was true… then this time, Norma, I hope you can live the rest of your life without any regrets. … The needle came out with a small bead of dark blood. The nurse rushed over, pressing a cotton ball onto the puncture site, her face pale with panic. “What are you doing! Press down on this!” I only offered her a quiet, tired smile. “Could you please tell Dr. Evans to cancel the surgery?” The oncologist was summoned quickly. He stood by my bed, staring at me in heavy silence for a long time, before finally writing a prescription for high-dose painkillers and letting me discharge myself. As I walked out of the ward, I heard the nurse’s hushed, frantic voice pleading with him in the hallway. “Dr. Evans, this is his life! If he doesn’t get the amputation, the cancer will metastasize to his spine. He won’t even survive a week!” A week. I didn’t realize my release would come so quickly. The doctor sighed, his voice heavy with a profound sadness. “You know his father died in this exact bed, from the exact same disease.” My footsteps faltered in the corridor. “He’s been coming here alone for chemotherapy for a year,” the doctor continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. “While other patients have family members staying overnight, feeding them, wiping them down… he just curls up on the mattress, shaking in pain, pressing the call button himself. His wife hasn’t shown up once. Once, when he called her in the middle of the night, some other man answered.” He paused. “Maybe it’s just his fate.” I gripped the paper prescription slip in my hand, my nails digging deep into my palm. Yes. Maybe it was just fate. Just like when my dad was diagnosed. He had held my hand, his body racked with agonizing pain, yet he still managed to smile. “Don’t be scared, son. Dad can fight this.” In the end, he drew his last breath right in my arms. And just like when I had swallowed my pride on our wedding night, begging Norma for fifty thousand dollars to pay for his emergency surgery. I still remember the look of utter disgust and betrayal in her eyes. “Luke, is that all I am to you? An ATM?” “My parents, my friends, even Glenn—they all warned me you were a fraud. But I didn’t believe them. I ruined my own reputation, tore up my family’s contracts, let everyone in our circle mock me, all because I was determined to marry you.” Her voice had been raspy, her eyes bloodshot. Stunned by her reaction, I had stammered, “No, Norma, please listen to me. My dad… he’s really sick…” “Today is our wedding day,” she cut me off, tearing her lace veil from her hair and throwing it to the floor. “Did you really have to show your true colors today?” “Norma, I swear I’ll find a way to pay you back! Actually, forget it. I won’t borrow it from you. I’ll figure it out myself. Please, just don’t be angry.” She threw her credit card hard against my face, the plastic edge drawing a thin line of blood on my cheek. Her lips curled into a cold, stiff sneer. “Once a dog gets its teeth into a piece of meat, does it ever let go? Stop acting, Luke. You really are the gold-digging trash they all said you were.” She slammed the door and left. That was our wedding night. I sat on the living room floor, waiting until four in the morning, only for Glenn to bring her back. She was blackout drunk, leaning half her weight against him, her head tucked into his shoulder. The dark red marks on her neck were stark and glaring under the foyer light. Glenn gave me a smug, innocent smile. “Hey, brother-in-law. Norma’s safe with me. Go get some sleep.” I was too young then, too paralyzed by grief and confusion to know what to do. I felt the blood rush to my head, hot and suffocating. Terrified of fueling her misunderstandings further, I never touched her credit card again. The fifty thousand dollars was eventually “lent” to me by one of her wealthy socialite friends, on the condition that I accompany her to a private club. I was forced to drink until my stomach bled that night. When Norma came to pick me up at dawn, her face was livid. She didn’t say a single word on the drive back. The moment we stepped inside our apartment, her anger exploded. “Do you have any idea what would have happened to you if I’d been any later? Is money really that important to you?” “Why don’t you just put a price tag on yourself and work at a host club? At least then you’d stop embarrassing me.” The humiliation in that car tore my dignity to shreds. My stomach was burning, but my heart was freezing. From that day on, “leech” and “gold-digger” became labels I could never peel off. Her friends mocked me openly at dinners, and she never defended me; sometimes, she even laughed along. And yet, my father didn’t make it. On the day he passed, I called Norma in a state of absolute hysteria, my words slurred with tears. She was in a board meeting and hung up on me. I sent countless voice messages, pleading, explaining, pouring my soul out. Hours later, she sent a cash transfer. Wishing you prosperity. I stared at the $888 transfer on the screen, my hands shaking uncontrollably, my soul turning to ash. After that, Norma and I became husband and wife by law, but complete strangers in life. She stopped replying to my messages entirely, using those sterile cash transfers to remind me, over and over, of what a shameless parasite I was. But strangely, she never brought up divorce. I picked up my medicine from the pharmacy and returned to a freezing, silent house. The pain in my leg was growing vicious, like rusted needles driving deep into my bones, tearing through the flesh. With trembling hands, I swallowed the painkillers, along with two sleeping pills. The drugs took hold quickly. In my hazy vision, I looked up at the massive wedding portrait hanging on the wall. Norma was laughing so brightly, her eyes reflecting the sunlight and me. That was when we loved each other most. She had cupped my face back then, kissing me gently. “Husband, I’ll love you forever.” Forever. What a cheap lie. My fingers shaking, I typed into the chat box: Norma, if I died, would you be sad? I hit send. Almost instantly, the phone buzzed. A red transfer popped up. Wishing you prosperity. I stared at that transfer for a long, long time. Then, I suddenly clamped my hand over my mouth, rushed to the bathroom, and dry-heaved into the toilet. Nothing came out. The drugs were dragging me down, heavy and suffocating. I collapsed onto the bed, my vision blurring into abstract shapes. In the dark, I thought I saw twenty-year-old Norma walking toward me, burying her face shyly in my chest. “Hey, silly. When are you finally going to propose to me?” I smiled, stretching out my hand to reach her. I wanted to say yes, let’s do it. But my tears fell first. Let it be. It would be better if I never woke up. At least in my dreams, Norma wouldn’t look at me with that cold disgust, telling me that marrying me was the biggest mistake of her life. When I finally woke up, it was the morning of the third day. I reached weakly for my phone on the nightstand. I had slept for over twenty-four hours. Aside from a few app notifications, there was nothing. No missed calls from Norma. No texts. Our chat history ended on that red transfer, a silent, mocking sneer. I opened her social media. Ten minutes ago, she had posted a grid of nine photos. She was still at Glenn’s apartment. Under a warm, amber light, the floor was covered in colorful fuse beads. Norma sat on the rug, holding a pair of tweezers, her profile looking incredibly focused and tender. Her caption read: “Someone’s OCD demanded we finish this tonight. Pulling an all-nighter to assist.” Below was a string of comments from mutual friends: “Wow, the PDA is real.” “Since when did Norma have this much patience? Glenn really knows how to tame her.” “You two need to hurry up and get married already.” “This is what real love looks like.” If Glenn mentioned offhand that fuse beads seemed fun, Norma remembered. She bought all the tools and spent night after night with him. If Glenn wanted to go to a bar at midnight, she would drive across the city to accompany him. When Glenn caught a cold, she walked away from a multi-million-dollar contract just to sit by his bedside all night. Sifting through her feed was like reading a love journal. But this thick journal had once belonged to me. The twenty-year-old Norma would have crossed oceans for nineteen-year-old Luke. I swiped through the pictures. Somewhere along the line, the wedding band on her ring finger had vanished. I couldn’t look anymore. I put the phone down, feeling completely hollow. The medicine was wearing off. My throat was parched, but the agony in my leg kept me pinned to the mattress. When Norma’s call finally came, the painkillers had barely managed to blunt the latest wave of white-hot agony. Her voice was as cold and arrogant as ever. “Dinner at the estate tonight.” I remained quiet for a long moment before answering. “I don’t feel well.” She let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Last time it was your leg, what is it this time? How much do you need? Luke, unless your legs are literally broken, get your ass over here. Don’t forget your place.” The line went dead. I wanted to laugh. Maybe I really should have let them amputate my leg. Pushing myself up from the edge of the bed, I noticed dark, dried blood on the sheets. I stared at it for a few seconds, then silently swallowed a double dose of pills, changed my clothes, and went to face her. The Crawford estate was filled with laughter. Glenn sat next to Norma’s mother, Catherine, dressed in a tailored suit, occupying the seat meant for the man of the house. As I walked in, he was feeding her a slice of orange, making the older woman laugh warmly. Norma sat on the adjacent single sofa, her head bent over her phone. My arrival silenced the room for a fraction of a second. A maid pulled out a chair at the very far end of the long mahogany table. I sat down, separated from the head of the table by a vast, cold expanse. The women resumed talking about jewelry and designer bags; the men discussed stocks and luxury watches. No one spoke to me. Within minutes, the deep, throbbing ache in my bones started up again. As cold sweat began to bead on my forehead, Catherine finally noticed me at the far end of the table. She frowned. “Luke, you’ve been married to Norma for three years. You haven’t helped her career one bit, you don’t even have a real job, and all you do is hold your hand out for money. The Crawford family doesn’t harbor freeloaders.” My face drained of what little color it had. Three years ago, Glenn had crashed his car into a guardrail. To save Norma in the passenger seat, my knee had been impaled by a shard of shattered glass. But she had rushed a merely unconscious Glenn to the hospital, leaving me behind. Because I didn’t receive timely medical care, my knee would fester and ache to the bone whenever it rained. I lost my job after being hospitalized for six months. But Norma never believed I was genuinely injured, because she hadn’t visited me even once. Later, when I excitedly told her I had found a stable, new job to help support us, she only looked at me with mockery. And on the night my old injury flared up so badly I couldn’t sleep, I called her and messaged her repeatedly. In return, I received a barrage of cash transfers, followed by a text from Glenn: “Sorry, brother-in-law, Norma is busy making me hangover soup.” That was the night I finally broke. I smashed the apartment, tore up our marriage certificate, and screamed at Norma, “Why won’t you answer my messages? Why do you keep sending these cash transfers? What does it mean!” She had simply smiled. “Isn’t this exactly what you wanted? What, is it not enough?” In sheer agony, I asked her, “If you hate me so much, why did you marry me? Why won’t you divorce me?” But she just laughed. “Luke, you’re too deep in your own act. Don’t start believing your own lies.” After that night, I stopped talking. “Oh, Catherine,” Norma’s aunt chimed in, smiling as she glanced at Glenn. “Why rely on him when you have Glenn? Glenn comes from a great family, he’s incredibly capable, and he’ll be the real partner Norma needs in business.” Glenn lowered his head with a modest, polite smile. Norma, however, suddenly frowned. “Don’t talk like that. Glenn is like a brother to me.” “Oh, we know, we know. A very close brother,” her aunt teased. “I still have the love poems you wrote to him when you were teenagers.” “I was young and foolish then—” My stomach churned, the pain and humiliation rising to my throat. I couldn’t bear it for another second. I stood up abruptly, my knee buckling, accidentally knocking over my porcelain plate. It shattered on the hardwood floor with a sharp crack. Instantly, every eye in the room turned on me with disgust. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice trembling as I stumbled toward the door. “Luke!” Norma called out, chasing me into the foyer, her face tight with anger. “Can you not even walk straight now? What kind of game is this? If you’re really that sick, go to a hospital. Stop throwing tantrums!” I opened my mouth, but no words came. I wanted to tell her. I wanted to say, In a few days, you’ll be entirely free. But before I could speak, a louder cry from inside drowned out my weak voice. “Norma!” Glenn whimpered, his voice laced with pain. “I cut my hand on the broken porcelain… it hurts so bad…” Norma’s face paled. She spun around instantly and ran back inside. “Don’t touch it! Don’t move, okay?” Her panic was completely unshielded. I stood on the porch, the freezing wind cutting through my thin coat. The hollow space in my chest, previously so fragile, didn’t ache this time. It was just numb. Instead of returning to our house, I went back to my father’s old, rundown apartment. My phone vibrated. It was Norma’s first text message in three years: Come back and apologize to Glenn. I stared at it, a quiet laugh escaping my lips. The phone rang. It was her, her tone impatient. “Did you hear me? Glenn said—” “Norma,” I interrupted her, my voice barely a whisper. “If I died, would you be sad?” The question that had haunted me for months was finally out in the open. The line went silent for a few seconds. Then, her voice exploded with frustration: “Are you completely losing your mind lately? Who taught you to speak in such depressing riddles? Are you even a man? If you want money, just say the word. It’s not like I’ve ever cut you off! Get over here right now!” She hung up without giving me an answer. But it didn’t matter anymore. I lay down on the creaky wooden bed where my father and I used to sleep when I was a boy. I pulled out an old flip phone from a rusted tin box. Inside were the messages Norma and I had sent each other when we were twenty. “Luke, I saw the class president giving you a love letter today. If you dare accept it, we are over!” “Luke, when are you going to make time for me?” “Luke, I miss you just a little bit today.” The excruciating pain had spread from my leg to my entire body, like a thousand claws tearing at my organs. I wanted to laugh, to cry, to scream. But I couldn’t make a sound. Only a single tear slid down my cheek. I read through all eight thousand messages, one by one. And then, I hit delete all. Using the very last of my strength, I swallowed the remaining sleeping pills and painkillers. My eyelids grew heavy. The pain began to recede into a soft, dull hum. For the first time in months, a genuine, peaceful smile touched my lips as I closed my eyes. Norma. I am free. I don’t hate you. I just hope that this time, you get to marry the right person. I stared at the disconnected call, a strange, suffocating restlessness settling in my chest. Instinctively, I opened the GPS tracking app on my phone. When we were dating, I had teased Luke into installing it, and I used to check it constantly. But ever since I realized he was a liar, I hadn’t opened it once. The red dot hovered over a dilapidated, old neighborhood. I frowned, reaching for my car keys. “Norma,” Glenn called out, pulling at my sleeve, his eyes wide and pleading. “You promised you’d come with me to the corporate gala tonight… and my hand still hurts.” My hand paused over the keys. I looked at the small adhesive bandage on his finger, and slowly sat back down. “Alright.” But throughout the entire gala, I couldn’t focus. Luke’s fragile, whispered voice kept echoing in my head. “If I died, would you be sad?” Annoyed, I loosened my collar and called my assistant, instructing him to look into Luke’s recent contacts. Who was feeding him these dramatic lines? Why did I even care? Luke was just a parasite who had sold his body and soul for my money. I was sipping my champagne when my assistant called back. “Ms. Crawford, Mr. Evans hasn’t contacted anyone except his doctors at the municipal hospital. His social circle is non-existent. His only relative was his father, who passed away three years ago.” My hand clamped hard around the glass. I stood up so fast my chair scraped loudly against the floor. People turned to look, but I didn’t care. “He had a father?” I demanded. Glenn had investigated him. Glenn told me Luke was an orphaned gold-digger who made a living swindling wealthy women. “Yes, Ms. Crawford. Three years ago, his father passed away from late-stage bone cancer.” My brain went entirely numb, a physical blow that left me breathless. A terrifying possibility flashed through my mind: what if he hadn’t lied to me? Bone cancer. The word felt horribly familiar. Where had I seen it? Then, like a bolt of lightning, I remembered the message Luke had sent me months ago.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “479986”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day my heart gave out, my parents died in a car crash trying to reach the hospital through a torrential downpour. I was still on the operating table, clinging to the fading edges of consciousness, when they slid the consent forms into my trembling hand so the surgeons could try to save them. When I finally woke from the jaws of death, all that was left for me to see were their cold, silent bodies. The woman who should have been holding my hand was busy posting a celebration on Facebook. “Huge congrats to Coco! She worked so hard all night and is finally a mommy!” With what little strength I had left, I tapped “like.” Within seconds, my phone buzzed with a text from her. Two words: Delete it. I sent her our shared location at St. Jude’s. “Come to the hospital. We need to talk in person.” “Don’t tell me your parents are sick again,” she shot back. “Honestly, I think they just have too much free time. I’m in the middle of something critical. I can’t leave.” “Your ‘critical’ emergency is delivering his dog’s puppies?” “Are you seriously jealous of a dog now? You’re so incredibly petty, Luke. It’s exhausting.” I didn’t have the strength to fight. If she wouldn’t come to me, she could talk to my lawyer instead. … By the time I finished making the funeral arrangements for my parents, it was late the following evening. I dragged my hollow body through the front door, only to find our meticulously kept apartment in absolute chaos. Leona was tearing through drawers, mindlessly tossing things onto the floor. It was the careless behavior of someone who lived with the absolute certainty that someone else would always clean up after her. Hearing the door, she didn’t even look up. Her voice was laced with irritation. “Where the hell have you been all weekend? I actually had to order takeout for lunch.” I froze. So she hadn’t come home last night either. Over the past two years, this had become our normal. If Toby’s apartment had a blown fuse, she would jump out of bed at 2 AM to fix it, yet she was the one who forgot to lock our front door, allowing a stumbling drunk to wander into our living room—an incident that left me with night terrors for a month. When Toby’s dog was due, she didn’t hesitate to skip my post-cardiac check-up, taking a whole week of paid leave just to be by his side, treating a canine labor like a medical residency, even though that was a vet’s job. When I didn’t answer, Leona finally looked up, her expression shifting to mild surprise. “You look like a ghost, Luke. Is your chest hurting again?” I took a step back, slipping out of reach of her outstretched hand. My voice felt entirely flat. “I called you seventy-six times yesterday. Why didn’t you answer?” Her hand remained suspended in the air, and her brow furrowed. “Are you interrogating me, Luke? Toby and I have been best friends since childhood. Coco isn’t just some pet; she’s practically his child. He was terrified. She was having a complicated delivery. Toby was losing his mind. I had to help her through it. In a life-or-death situation like that, I didn’t exactly have time to answer seventy-six pointless calls. It was just a routine follow-up, anyway. Normal people go to those alone all the time. And even if you needed someone, your parents are retired. They have nothing but time. What difference does it make if I’m not there?” Watching her stand there, so utterly righteous, a hollow ache bloomed in my chest. What about my parents, Leona? The crash had been horrific. My father’s heart had stopped before the paramedics could even pull him from the wreckage. My mother made it to the OR, but her internal injuries were catastrophically complex. Leona’s colleague had pulled me aside, telling me that only a surgeon with Leona’s specific, brilliant expertise could navigate a trauma that severe. Only she could have given my mother a fighting chance. She claimed she was too busy to look at her phone, yet the moment I liked her Facebook post, she had responded instantly to order me to take it down. She was so terrified of making Toby feel uncomfortable. “Is he really just your childhood friend?” I asked softly. “Because Leona, I saw you kiss him.” It was at the Bistro on 4th—the exact same restaurant where she had proposed to me. They were even sitting in our booth. I had been so blinded by shock when I walked out that I hadn’t seen the oncoming motorcycle. Though the rider managed to swerve, the sheer terror of the near-miss had sent my compromised heart into arrest. A flicker of panic pierced Leona’s usually unflappable composure. “Toby was just so stressed about Coco. I took him out to get some air. He had a few too many drinks, and it just…” She softened her tone slightly, reaching out again. “Look, let’s not do this. I’ll make it up to you. I promise I’ll be there for your next appointment.” Always the same pattern. A flimsy excuse, a sweet promise, and the expectation that I would sweep everything under the rug. But she didn’t get it. She would never have to accompany me again. “Don’t bother,” I said. “I want a divorce.” Leona stiffened, her guilt instantly souring into defensive anger. “For God’s sake, Luke. Is this what you journalists do? Always looking for a dramatic headline? I told you it was a mistake. You’re blowing this completely out of proportion. Besides, you’re turning thirty, and you’re still just a low-level clerk in the station’s archive room making pennies. Honestly, who else is going to put up with you? I work myself to the bone at the hospital to provide for us. I don’t come home to deal with your insecure tantrums!” She spun on her heel, storming toward the door. But as she reached the entryway, her eyes caught the edge of a document slipping out of my satchel. The words Death Certificate were printed in bold, stark lettering. Leona paused, frowning. “Who died?” She reached out to pull the paper from the bag. Before her fingers could touch it, her phone rang. Toby’s voice came through the speaker, high and trembling with tears. “Leona… one of the puppies is choking on milk. The shop is packed with customers and I don’t know what to do. Is it going to die? I’m so scared…” Leona’s expression tightened instantly. “Don’t panic. I’m on my way.” She hung up and rushed out the door without looking back. In her haste, she forgot to lock her home office—a room she had always guarded like a vault. Like a ghost drawn to a light, I walked inside. But the moment I looked under her desk, a cold shock ran through me. Wedged tightly beneath one of the uneven legs of her mahogany desk to keep it from wobbling was my old press badge. Five years ago, I had been the most promising young investigative journalist at the network. I had been assigned to interview the famously reclusive retired hospital president. After days of chasing him, running on empty, my blood sugar crashed and I fainted in the hospital courtyard. Leona was the one who found me. She revived me, gently telling me the old doctor was too stubborn to ever grant an interview. As my face fell, she slipped an orange candy into my mouth. “I’ve always had a soft spot for people who love their work,” she had whispered with a wink. “So… why don’t you interview me instead?” I found out later she was the youngest chief of cardiothoracic surgery in the state. Dozens of veteran reporters had tried and failed to get an exclusive with her, yet she broke her own rules for me. That was how we fell in love. But as our careers picked up, the demands became suffocating. One evening, Leona held my hands, her eyes filled with soft pleading. “Luke, I know how much journalism means to you. But with both our parents getting older, someone needs to manage the home front. Could you step back? I promise I’ll take care of you forever.” I knew her dream of saving lives was just as sacred. So, I compromised. I didn’t quit entirely; instead, I transferred to the quiet, dead-end archives department, just to keep a toehold in the building of the career I loved. On countless sleepless nights, I would sit in the dark, tracing the raised letters on my press badge. Whenever Leona caught me, she would wrap her arms around me, thick with guilt, repeating her promises to cherish me. And now, that very badge—the symbol of everything I had sacrificed for her—was being ground into the floorboards, used as a literal piece of trash to balance her furniture. I walked over to her safe. I entered Toby’s birthday, and the electronic lock clicked open. Resting on top was a thick manila envelope. Inside were dozens of photos: the two of them wrapped in each other’s arms, kissing, walking hand-in-hand down a sunlit beach. Beneath the photos were stacks of receipts—down payments she had made on Toby’s loft, start-up capital for his pet boutique, contractor bills for the renovations. She was quietly bankrolling his life, covering his losses month after month. Across the front of the envelope, in Leona’s precise, elegant handwriting, were the words: “I will always clear the path for your dreams.” I stared at those words for a long, quiet moment. I thought of the last five years of my life—the endless loads of laundry, cooking dinners she was always too busy to eat, managing her parents’ prescriptions. I thought of the hollow ache I felt whenever I saw my former colleagues rushing out with notebooks and recorders, fueled by the fire I had been forced to extinguish. I let out a soft, bitter laugh. So she did understand the sacredness of a dream. She just didn’t care about mine. I took photos of the documents with my phone, placed everything back exactly as it was, and closed the safe. I dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. “Hey, Rachel. I heard the network is still looking for a correspondent to go to the conflict zone in the Middle East. No one’s volunteered yet. If you’ll have me, I want to go.” Rachel gasped. “Luke? Are you serious? I was devastated when you took that desk job years ago. This is a massive opportunity. It’s incredibly dangerous, but if you make it back, your career will be completely revitalized.” “I’m ready,” I said. “I can leave within the week.” I hung up and began packing. There was nothing left in this apartment that belonged to me anymore. Except for one thing: the heavy wool sweater my mother had knitted for me before she died. When I was a kid, she made all my clothes. As I grew up and her eyesight began to fail, I begged her to stop, not wanting her to strain her eyes. But after my cardiac surgery, I began to suffer from severe chills. My mother had secretly taken up her needles again, staying up until her eyes were bloodshot. When I scolded her, she just waved me off with a tired smile. “Store-bought yarn doesn’t hold love, sweetie. I picked the softest wool myself. Knitted with love for my boy.” It was my most precious possession, too sacred to wear. But as I searched the closet, it was gone. I was about to call Leona when an Instagram notification popped up on my phone. It was Toby. “Puppies were shivering, so a certain angel brought over the perfect blanket! Thank you ‘Mommy’ Leona from the bottom of our hearts. And hey, my custom tailoring skills aren’t too bad either, right?” Leona was with him, celebrating the puppies’ birth. In the photo, their heads were tilted together, shoulders touching, each holding three tiny golden retrievers. But my gaze locked onto the fabric wrapped around the puppies. It was my mother’s sweater—chopped up, hemmed, and refitted into dog vests. The bell above the pet boutique door chimed as I walked in. Through the glass, I saw Leona and Toby sharing a single spoon, eating a slice of cake. Leona had severe germaphobia. At home, her cutlery had to be sterilized separately, and we always used serving spoons. Once, after a grueling day of cleaning, I had taken a sip from her water glass. She didn’t say anything at the time, but that night, I found the glass in the trash can. She later explained it was just a habit she picked up in the sterile environment of the hospital. I realized now, her boundaries were highly selective. Seeing me, Toby raised an eyebrow, a smug, venomous smile playing on his lips. “Oh, hey, Luke. Sorry, Leona and I have always shared everything since we were kids. Hope you don’t mind. Leona, what did I tell you? He’d never actually divorce you. I mean, let’s be real—a guy with a dead-end job relying on his wife’s handouts? How else is he going to take care of his aging parents? Look at him, tracking you down like a lost puppy. He’s clinging so tight.” He sighed dramatically. “I guess I’m just too independent. Back to being a hardworking entrepreneur for me!” Leona pinched his nose playfully. “Aren’t you the clever one? Always a troublemaker.” Then she turned her gaze toward me, her eyes carrying the patronizing indulgence one might show a stubborn child. “Alright, Luke. Since you came to make peace, I’ll pretend I never heard that nonsense about a divorce. Go on home and clean up the living room. The puppies are still in a fragile state, so I’m going to stay here and help Toby monitor them for a few more days.” Listening to them, a bitter sense of absurdity washed over me. One was a homewrecker proud of his status; the other was an adulterer wrapping her betrayal in noble excuses. Ignoring Leona entirely, I looked Toby dead in the eye and let out a cold laugh. “If you’re so incredibly independent, Toby, how is it that you’re not only taking my wife, but stealing my clothes too? Tell me, is this ‘hardworking entrepreneur’ brand of yours just code for being a full-time mistress?” Several women browsing the pet accessories turned around, staring in shock. “Wait,” one of them said, looking at Toby. “She’s not your wife? But you two were sharing a spoon… That’s a bit inappropriate, isn’t it?” “Yeah, when I said you guys looked like a lovely couple earlier, you didn’t deny it. So she actually has a husband?” Toby’s face flushed a deep, ugly crimson. Seeing his silent guilt, the customers scoffed, dropped their items onto the counters, and walked out. Toby’s eyes welled with tears as he turned to Leona. “Leona, did he come here just to ruin my business? I only thought that old sweater was soft enough to keep the babies warm. He spends so much of your money anyway—it’s not like he can’t afford a million other sweaters. Why is he attacking me like this? Those were some of my best clients. How am I supposed to run a business now?” Leona tenderly wiped his tears, then whipped around to glare at me with boiling fury. “Luke, I was the one who took the sweater. Don’t take your frustration out on Toby! It’s just a cheap piece of wool. Why are you being so incredibly petty? Just ask your mother to knit you another one! It’s not like it’s some designer label. Why are you acting like it’s priceless?” Looking at her sneering face, the sheer, dismissive cruelty in her eyes, something snapped. Before I could stop myself, my hand flew out and struck her across the cheek. “Yes, it is priceless!” I screamed, my voice cracking under the weight of a million shattered pieces. “Because my mother will never knit me another sweater again! While you were playing house with your little childhood friend, choosing to deliver his puppies over answering my dying calls, my parents died in a car crash!” Leona’s eyes widened in sheer horror. Her arm dropped, instinctively letting go of Toby. “What? What do you mean? Your parents… how could they…” Before she could finish, Toby lunged forward and shoved me hard. “How dare you hit her! It’s just a piece-of-shit sweater! Nobody wants your garbage anyway!” He violently ripped the small woolen vests off the puppies and threw them into a dirty litter box that the shop assistant was carrying out. “Crying about your parents being dead? Please! I literally ran into them at the grocery store this morning! I am sick of you, Luke. You’re a pathetic, freeloading parasite who tells sick lies to manipulate his wife. You’re an embarrassment to men!” The litter box hadn’t been cleaned yet. Clumps of soiled waste clung to the delicate yarn, emitting a foul odor. My mother’s last gift to me lay ruined, smeared in filth. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know he was going to do that…” the young assistant whispered, trembling as she looked at my bloodshot eyes. A searing, toxic rage burned through my chest. I turned back toward Toby, raising my hand to strike. But before my palm could connect, a stinging blow struck the side of my face. Leona had slapped me. The sharp crack echoed through the silent boutique. I stumbled backward, my cheek burning, a high-pitched ringing filling my ears. I looked up in complete disbelief. For a split second, Leona looked stunned by her own hand. But then her eyes drifted to Toby’s tear-streaked face, and her shock instantly hardened into disgust. “Luke, how dare you touch Toby? Because he exposed your pathetic lie? I thought you were a journalist who stood for the truth. Cursing your own parents just to get attention? Have you no shame? Think about our future children, for God’s sake! Either apologize right now, or take your trash and get out. If you make another scene, I’m calling the police!” I stumbled out into the pouring rain, clutching the soiled wool to my chest. By the time I made it back to the empty apartment, I was soaked to the bone and shivering violently. The rain had dissolved the waste, turning the beautiful sweater into a gray, stained rag. It was supposed to keep me warm. It was supposed to be my mother’s embrace. I sat on the cold floor all night. As the gray dawn crept through the windows, I reached into my bag and tore up the amicable divorce papers I had drafted. Leona was right. A journalist’s duty is to bring the truth to light. How could I ever disappoint her? The next night, I felt a cool, herbal ointment being gently rubbed onto my bruised cheek. I opened my eyes to see Leona sitting on the edge of the bed, her face softened with guilt. “Does it still hurt, Luke? I’m so sorry. I lost my temper. But you shouldn’t have attacked Toby like that in front of his customers. He’s a young, unmarried man trying to build a business. It’s bad for his reputation.” I brushed her hand away, my voice completely dead. “And?” Leona swallowed, looking tentative. “So… could you post a public apology? Just say you’ve been extremely stressed and delirious from lack of sleep. That those accusations were a misunderstanding. Toby’s hosting a big event for his shop’s second anniversary the day after tomorrow. Since you still have contacts in media, maybe you could get some of your influencer friends to give him some free promotion?” In that moment, the sterile smell of her medicine felt more sickening than the filth on my mother’s sweater. “Leona, I’m only going to ask you this once. Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?” She looked down, unable to meet my eyes, but her voice remained firm. “Toby has been crying non-stop. Just think of it as making things right. Do it for the sake of our parents’ peace of mind. If you do this, I promise I will never miss another of your appointments. I’ll make everything up to you.” I stared at her face, searching for a single trace of the woman I had fallen in love with. I found nothing. After a long silence, I smiled. “Okay.” Relief washed over her, and she reached out to hug me, but her phone began buzzing with rapid-fire texts. I didn’t need to look to know who it was. True to form, she grabbed her coat and rushed back to Toby. But this time, it didn’t hurt. A few minutes later, Toby called. “You really are pathetic, Luke, aren’t you?” he sneered, his voice dripping with venom. “Using your weak heart to play the victim so Leona would run back to you. But look what happened. All it takes is one text from me, and she drops you instantly. You have nothing but a piece of paper that says you’re married. It’s completely worthless.” In the past, I would have hung up. This time, I let out a low chuckle. “You’re right, Toby. I am her legal husband. Leona’s family values traditional marriages, and she cares deeply about her professional image. If I had to guess, you two always use protection, don’t you? Because she’s currently trying to get pregnant with me.” The sudden silence on the other end confirmed my theory. “So you see, she will never divorce me for a side-piece,” I continued smoothly. “Women can play around all they want, but at the end of the day, they go home. Oh, and she actually told me last night that once we have a child, all her real estate and investments will go to them. You won’t get a single dime. At the end of the day, Toby, you’re just a toy she plays with when I’m under the weather. Honestly, I should thank you.” Toby’s heavy, furious breathing echoed through the receiver. “Don’t get cocky, you bastard! I will make her divorce you!” He didn’t disappoint. Thirty minutes later, a video notification popped up. It was a recording of him and Leona in bed. It was accompanied by a smug voice note: “Who’s laughing now, Luke? I cried a little, and Leona promised to give me a baby. We didn’t use protection tonight. Once I’m carrying her child, you’ll be kicked to the curb!” I didn’t reply. It was pointless to argue with an idiot. Two days later, Leona hosted a lavish celebration at the Grand Plaza Hotel for the second anniversary of Toby’s pet boutique, paying for the entire event out of her own pocket. The room was packed with their mutual friends, hospital colleagues, and Toby’s high-end clients. Before the event started, Toby had boasted to everyone that I would be making a public livestream apology to him. When the time came, Leona nodded to the technician at the soundboard, signaling him to start the broadcast. The massive projector screen on the stage lit up, showing my face. “Good evening, everyone,” I said, looking straight into the camera. “At my wife’s request, I am here to make a formal public apology to Mr. Toby Evans.” Toby smirked, puffing out his chest with smug satisfaction. But then, a cold smile spread across my face on the screen. “I am deeply sorry that when you sent me the video of you sleeping with my wife, I threw up out of sheer disgust instead of respecting your dignity as a homewrecker. As compensation, I’ve decided to coordinate with my media colleagues to give you the free exposure you wanted. Everyone, please enjoy the show. Let us all bear witness to this grand, filthy affair.”

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Coming back from a business trip, I pointed to the limited-edition dirt bike that had just been delivered to the garage. “Howard, have the flatbed tow this over to my apartment around noon. I’m taking it out to the outer loop this weekend.” He didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at me with a cold, unblinking gaze. “My mom and Izzy are out this afternoon. You don’t need to drive them anywhere.” I nodded. “I know.” “Oh, and grab that new riding gear from my room and load it up too.” He didn’t answer. He just glared at me, his eyes dark and hostile. I paused. “Do you not know how to call a flatbed?” “Never mind. I’ll just call the towing service myself.” When the tow truck driver arrived and we started loading the bike and gear, Howard suddenly flew off the handle. “What do you think you’re doing, taking off with something this expensive? Did you even ask for my permission?” I was stunned. My mom and sister had always hated bikes. They had been terrified of motorcycles since they were kids. I was the only one in the family who rode. My dad had custom-ordered this off-road bike from Europe and had it shipped over specifically for me. Howard was just our driver. Did he honestly think living on the estate made him the man of the house? 1 “Howard, my mom and sister have zero interest in riding. This bike was bought for me.” “If you’re so interested, I can let you take it for a spin sometime.” His face fell, sneering at me with pure disdain. “Even if they don’t ride it, you have no right to just cart it away.” “You’re twenty-eight years old. No wife, no real career, still living off your parents’ dime. Aren’t you embarrassed?” My temper flared. “You’re the driver, Howard. Stick to your job and mind your own business.” He shut his mouth, but he kept staring at me like I owed him a million dollars. I didn’t care to indulge him. I told the tow truck driver to finish loading. As I walked out the door, I caught him muttering under his breath: “Twenty-eight and still acting like a spoiled brat. Your mother might coddle you, but I won’t.” I swallowed my anger. My mom suffers from severe motion sickness. We have gone through at least ten drivers in the past few years. Howard wasn’t exactly a pleasant guy, but he was the smoothest driver we’d ever had. My mom and sister could actually ride in the back without getting sick. That was the only reason I let it slide. The next morning, my mom came back from her morning run. The moment she stepped through the door, Howard rushed over, eagerly offering to take her coat and water bottle. When she politely declined, he turned around to pour her a glass of water. As she drank it, a smug, self-satisfied grin crept across his wrinkled face. Then, my sister Izzy came downstairs. Howard immediately started fussing over her. “Izzy, I got those fresh pastries you like from the bakery down the street.” “Izzy, the weather app says it’s going to pour today. Make sure you drive carefully.” “Izzy, what do you want for dinner tonight? I can pick up whatever you need.” I travel constantly for work. Even when I am home, I’m out early and back late, so I rarely interacted with him. Whenever he looked at me, his face was a mask of irritation and cold resentment. I had assumed he was just a miserable guy by nature. I hadn’t realized he was playing a double game. At the dinner table, Howard sat himself down right next to my mother. “Diana, that brand-new dirt bike you got yesterday? Elliot packed the whole thing up and took it to his place.” My mom smiled at me warmly. “Those bikes can be dangerous in the wind, sweetie. Don’t ride too fast, and please wear your helmet.” I took a bite of my food. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m only riding on weekends. It’s staying in my apartment garage.” My mom said affectionately, “Alright. If you want, I can order you a road cruiser for your daily commute. It’ll be easier for getting to the office.” Howard slammed his fork down. “Diana, you’re going to ruin him if you keep doing this.” “A twenty-eight-year-old grown man, unmarried, no real ambition, still begging his family for toys. Aren’t you worried people will laugh?” Izzy looked up, her fork pausing. “Howard, my brother spends our family’s money. Why do you care?” My mom chimed in, “I like spoiling my son. Who has a problem with that?” Howard’s face turned a deep, angry purple, but he didn’t dare snap at them. Instead, he directed a look of pure venom at me. I stood up. “What is your problem?” “My mother can spoil me all she wants. Since when does our driver get to tell us how to run our lives?” Howard’s face flushed a deep red. “Diana, look at how he talks to me!” “I’m only speaking up for the good of this family. A grown man acting like a parasite—I can’t say a word about it?” I scoffed. “You’re overstepping, Howard. My dad bought me that bike, and my parents own this house.” “You’re just the hired help. Do you actually think you own the place?” He gasped, clutching his chest like he was having a heart attack. “You have the nerve to bring up the house? Your sister is the one who’s going to inherit this estate and carry on the family legacy. This house is her security.” “You’re a man. You’re supposed to build your own life. How can you be so shameless as to try and steal your sister’s inheritance?” Izzy’s face darkened. “Howard, that’s enough. I’ve never accused my brother of trying to take anything from me. Stop trying to drive a wedge between us.” My mom pushed her chair back, her voice cold. “Howard, you don’t make the decisions in this house.” Howard choked on his words. “Diana, Izzy… I was only trying to help.” “A boy needs discipline. Twenty-eight and still lounging around the family estate—what kind of woman would ever want to marry him?” Seeing that he wouldn’t drop it, my mother’s tone grew ice-cold. “Howard. Know your place.” 2 Howard finally shut up. But the look he gave me was dripping with resentment and unearned arrogance. That evening, in our family group chat, my mom and sister both sent me a Zelle notification. Ten thousand dollars each. Mom: “Elliot, honey, don’t listen to a word Howard said. You will always be my baby.” Izzy: “Seriously, Elliot. The driver is acting so bizarre lately. A couple of weeks ago, he literally pushed his son’s contact card on me.” My heart skipped a beat. “You didn’t add him, did you?” A brief pause. Izzy: “Somehow he got my number and added me first. But don’t worry, I blocked and deleted him immediately.” I thought back to Howard’s behavior toward my mother and sister this morning. It all clicked. He was trying to make a play for my mother, while simultaneously setting up his son to marry my sister. A double jackpot. He wanted to swallow our family whole. But my parents were happily married. My dad just spent most of the year overseas managing our international branches. Howard must have assumed my mother was a lonely divorcée or a wealthy widow. An audio message from my dad popped up in the chat. His voice was tight with barely suppressed rage: “You two just sat there and let some hired hand bully my son?” My mom and sister replied almost instantly, their voices trembling with guilt: “I’ll fire him first thing tomorrow!” I jumped in to stop them. “Wait until we find a replacement.” My mom’s motion sickness was no joke, and Howard really was a remarkably smooth driver. I figured we could tolerate him for just a little longer while we quietly scouted a new agency. The next morning, my mom left early to visit a high-end domestic staffing agency, and Izzy went to her office. I had pulled an all-nighter finishing a project proposal and had only just fallen asleep when a racket outside my door jolted me awake. It was the obnoxious, heavy thudding of sneakers stomping up the stairs, followed by a loud, grating voice boisterously shouting in the hallway. It was impossible to sleep through. I threw open my bedroom door, my face clouded with exhaustion and irritation. “Howard, keep it down. Some of us are trying to sleep.” A completely unfamiliar, gravelly voice barked back. “It’s the middle of the day, what are you still sleeping for? Get over here and help me unpack my bags.” I rubbed my bleary eyes. Standing in our hallway was a heavy-set, sunburned young man, looking at me with pure arrogance. “Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?” Howard emerged from the guest room next door, his chin held high. “This is my son, Dustin. You’d better show him some respect from now on.” I let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. I didn’t care if his son was the president. “Howard, this is my house. You are our driver. And you’re telling me to show your son respect?” Howard smirked, looking down his nose at me. “You’re a twenty-eight-year-old freeloader who doesn’t even have a real career. What right do you have to talk down to anyone?” “Who knows who’ll be running this house soon anyway.” Dustin sized me up from head to toe, a look of disgust on his face. “Just as useless as my dad said.” “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to pack your bags. Tomorrow, you’re out of here.” “Your sister is the one keeping this place. A grown man trying to squeeze his sister out of her own inheritance? Have some shame.” I kicked away the duffel bag Dustin had tossed onto the floor. “Get out of my house right now, or I’m calling the police for trespassing.” Howard pointed a finger at me, his face turning red as he screamed. “Don’t you dare act ungrateful! Your mother has carried you for twenty-eight years, that’s long enough! It’s time for you to get out.” “Your sister is staying. The house belongs to her. What are you trying to steal?” “A grown man with no job, no drive, and you actually think you have a right to this estate?” “Go look in a mirror and see if you even deserve to stand here!” His toxic words made my blood boil. “Howard, you’re fired. Both of you, get the hell out of my house.” Howard didn’t even flinch. “You don’t have the authority to fire us.” “Who was there to take care of your mother when she was sick? Did you spend a single dime? Did you lift a single finger?” “I’ve bled for this household, while you’ve done nothing but leach. What gives you the right to raise your voice to me?” I didn’t waste another breath. I pulled out my phone to dial 911. Dustin lunged forward, snatched the phone out of my hand, and slammed it onto the hardwood floor, shattering the screen. “You little punk. You don’t know when to play nice.” “I guess we’ve spoiled you too much. Today, I’m going to teach you who really runs this place.” 3 He shoved me aside and barged into my room, ripping open my closets and drawers. “Look at all these luxury watches, these designer sneakers. A worthless freeloader doesn’t deserve any of this. It’s mine now.” Howard stood by, cheering him on. “That’s right, Dustin! Take it all. He doesn’t deserve a dime of it.” “Twenty-eight years old, no job, just squandering his family’s money. It’s pathetic.” This was the absolute limit. I grabbed a heavy broom from the utility closet and began swinging it wildly, striking them wherever I could. “Thieves! Parasites! Get the hell out of my house!” I managed to force them out, slamming the heavy front door shut. Finally, the house was silent. But the adrenaline was surging, and any hope of sleep was completely gone. After restoring some order to my room, I headed downstairs to find something to eat. When the elevator doors opened into the lobby of our building, I walked into a crowd of residents gathered in a tight circle. In the center stood Howard and Dustin. Their clothes were torn, their faces smudged, and they looked completely disheveled. I kept my head down, trying to walk past them without making a scene. But someone stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “Don’t you dare walk away. You need to apologize to Howard and his son right now.” “We live in a civilized society. Assault is a crime.” Howard let out a pathetic, trembling sob. “Elliot… Diana works so hard to keep this family afloat, and you just walk off with hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of custom bikes.” “Every day, it’s designer shoes, lavish vacations… you’re draining your mother dry.” “I tried to talk some sense into you, and you threw me out. You even tried to force Diana to sign the deed of the estate over to your name.” “Poor Izzy… she’s the one who’s supposed to inherit the house. It’s her security!” He wiped away a tear, sniffled, and put on a masterclass of tragic suffering. The surrounding neighbors immediately flared up with self-righteous anger. “Young man, you can’t behave like this. Your mother has severe health issues. If Howard hadn’t been taking care of her, who knows what would have happened?” “He works tirelessly for your family, and you just throw him out like garbage?” “You’re twenty-eight! No career, no family of your own, just mooching off your mother?” “And trying to steal your sister’s inheritance? How pathetic.” “Look at the bruises on Howard and his boy. Stepfathers really have it rough.” “Howard gave his heart and soul to that house, only to end up with a delusional stepson who wants him gone. What a nightmare.” I stood there, my hands shaking with absolute rage at their web of lies. “What the hell are you talking about? He is our driver!” Howard cried even harder. “My feelings for Diana are real! I never cared about her money!” “I poured everything into that home. What do you know about sacrifice, you spoiled brat?” An elderly neighbor, Mr. Henderson, shook his head with pity. “Son, you should be grateful. Having someone step up to take care of your mother is a blessing.” “At twenty-eight, you should be out making a life for yourself, not staying home trying to cheat your sister out of her house.” Others chimed in: “Exactly. And calling him ‘the driver’ to devalue him? How cold-hearted.” “Howard, you need to stand up for yourself. He’s only walking all over you because you’re too soft.” “Go to the clinic, get your injuries documented, and call the police. Let everyone see what an abusive, lazy, freeloading coward he is!” Howard frantically shook his head. “No, no, please, don’t call the police. It’ll ruin his future, and Diana would be devastated.” He lowered his head, the picture of martyr-like restraint. “I… I can take it. I’m used to it. Keeping the peace in the family is what matters.” The crowd’s anger boiled over, turning entirely on me. I felt physically sick. My mother? His partner? Did my mother have any idea this lunatic was spinning these fantasies? The crowd of onlookers was growing, and their venomous whispers began to pelt me like stones. “Go ahead, call the police!” I shouted, my voice raw. “This is slander and defamation. Let’s see who ends up ruined!” Howard pointed a trembling finger at me. “Elliot, don’t push it. I know you have friends in the local department. Are you really that determined to destroy my life?” He pulled up his sleeve. “Look at these bruises! He did this to me!” Then he tugged at Dustin’s shirt collar. “Dustin only wanted to protect his dad, and he got beat up too.” “Dustin, I’m so sorry. Your father is useless. I couldn’t protect you from these people. I’ve failed you, son.” Dustin lunged forward and struck me across the face. “Elliot, you’ve already ruined my happiness, and now you’re torturing my dad?” “You lazy piece of trash, karma is going to get you!” My head snapped back from the blow. It was the first time I had ever been hit like that in my life, let alone under such a humiliating, fraudulent pretext. Blinded by rage, I swung back and hit him. The moment I did, Dustin grabbed me by the hair and began raining punches down on me. “I’ll teach you to lay hands on my dad!” I tried to fight back, but two men from the crowd suddenly grabbed my arms from behind, pinning them. “That’s it, buddy! Teach this punk a lesson!” “We’ve got him pinned! Hit him!” Thankfully, the sound of sirens cut through the chaos. Two police officers rushed into the lobby, pulling Dustin and the men holding me apart. Every muscle in my body ached, my face burning where Dustin had struck me. I clenched my fists, trembling. “Officer, I want to press charges for assault, battery, and defamation.” But before I could finish, Howard dropped to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “Elliot, I can’t protect you anymore. Not after what you did to my son. You’ve broken my heart.” “You have a sick, obsessive attachment to your mother. You can’t stand any other man being near her.” “Ever since I started caring for Diana, you’ve been acting like a psychopath.” “And my poor Dustin… he and Izzy are deeply in love, but you threatened to kill yourself if they didn’t break up.” “You just wanted to steal the trust fund and the house that Dustin and Izzy were supposed to share.” “Today, Dustin just came to visit his father, and you beat him half to death. And now you want to put us in jail?” “You’re trying to destroy us!” The surrounding neighbors immediately stepped up to back his story. “We saw the whole thing, Officer. This kid started it. Howard and his son were just defending themselves.” “The kid is unstable. He attacked them right in front of us. God knows what he does behind closed doors.” “Poor guys. I heard they were already planning the wedding, and the family was going to put Dustin’s name on the deed.” “Izzy is the real victim here, having a leech of a brother who wants to steal her life.” I was losing my mind. These people were weaving a fantasy that threatened to drag my entire family into the mud. “You’re both insane!” I screamed. The officer turned to me, his expression grave. “Is any of this true, sir?” “It’s a complete lie! He is a driver hired through an agency. If you don’t believe me, call the agency right now.” “This other guy broke into my apartment, threatened me, and tried to steal my personal belongings.” “I hired a driver, not a father figure, so I fired him on the spot.” “Then they come down here and make up this ridiculous story. Our relationship with Howard is strictly employer-employee. My mother is happily married, and my sister has never even met this man’s son.” The officer pulled out his notepad and made a call to the agency. “Howard Briggs? Yes, he was terminated from our registry six months ago.”

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I spent our wedding night sitting upright in an armchair, watching the sky outside the floor-to-ceiling windows turn from ink-black to a pale, bruising gray. Early the next morning, Jessica walked in, tossing a cardboard box onto the duvet. Inside were fifty scratch-off lottery tickets. “Go ahead, Larry,” she said, her voice dry and thick with fatigue. “Scratch them. Whatever you win, I’ll match it ten-fold and wire it to your father’s company.” I reached for the quarters on the vanity with numb fingers. First card: Try again. Second card: Try again. Third card: Not a winner. Jessica leaned against the doorframe, a faint, mocking smile on her lips. “Is this really the extent of your talent? You seemed a lot bolder last night when you poured that glass of Pinot Noir over Dan’s head.” I looked at the silver shavings on my fingers. “I won’t do it again.” She paused, surprised by my docility, then walked over and patted my head, the way one might soothe a temperamental golden retriever. “Good. Remember that. Keep your hands off Dan.” She pulled a titanium card from her purse and tapped it against my cheek. “This is more than enough to bail out your dad’s firm.” My eyes dropped. “I don’t want it.” She didn’t know my father was dead. Dead men don’t have payroll to meet. … Jessica’s brow furrows. “Larry, stop playing hard to get. I told you, Dan is just my assistant. You throwing a scene in front of our investors didn’t hurt him—it humiliated me. I withheld the wire to teach you a lesson.” I look at her collarbone. There is a faint, plum-colored bruise there. She sees me looking, and her lips twitch into a smug, fleeting smile. “I understand,” I say. She looks at me, searching my face. “You understand what?” “That I was being childish.” She softens slightly, a look of vindication settling over her features. “Good. You need to stop expecting everyone else to clean up your messes.” She looks nothing like the girl who first came to my father’s house for Sunday dinner. My dad had spent all day making roast beef. Afterward, he took her into his study, placed my hand in hers, and said, “Larry is stubborn, Jessica. I’ve spoiled him, and his temper gets the best of him. Please, look out for him.” Jessica had squeezed my hand. “I promise, Mr. Westfield. I’ll always stand by him.” But now, she uses my father’s survival as a leash. Her phone buzzes on the nightstand. She glances at the screen and answers, her voice softening instantly. “What is it, Dan? … I’ll be right there.” She hangs up. “Dan’s having an allergic reaction to some seafood. I have to go check on him.” She walks to the mirror, adjusting her collar. “You were spoiled, Larry. You’re used to everyone bowing to you. But now that we’re married, you need to learn to bend.” I stand there, watching her, then look down at my own phone. Twenty-three missed calls from an unknown number. “Are you going to the hospital?” I ask. She stops, looking at me through the mirror. “What? Checking up on me already?” “No,” I say softly. “Just take the card with you. Buy him a new tie while you’re out.” Her expression darkens. She strides over, grabbing my chin. “Do you have to be so incredibly passive-aggressive right now?” She lets go with a harsh laugh. “Fine. Since you’re in such a generous mood, the wire can wait another three days. When you learn to speak to me with a little respect, I’ll release the funds.” Ever since our family’s supply chain collapsed, everyone in the city knew Jessica was our only hope. And because of that, she became utterly convinced I could never leave her. She started ignoring my calls, showing up to galas with Dan on her arm, and silencing my protests with a cold threat: One more word, Larry, and the money gets delayed. She turns on her heel. “Scratch the rest of those cards. I want to see them on the counter tomorrow morning. And wipe that miserable look off your face. It’s depressing.” The heavy oak door slams shut. The house falls dead quiet. I walk into the walk-in closet, pull out a battered leather duffel bag, and begin folding my shirts. Jessica doesn’t know. My father, driven to the edge by loan sharks, went up to his office rooftop. He lost his footing. He fell eighteen stories. He died on impact. The next morning, I walk out of the villa carrying my bag. Robert, the butler, stops me at the iron gates. “Mr. Westfield, where are you going?” “Just out.” Robert looks at my bag, his face tightening with worry. “Mrs. Davenport gave strict instructions. If you leave the house, you have to let her know.” I pull out my phone and dial Jessica’s number right in front of him. It rings six times before she picks up. “What is it now?” she asks, her voice dripping with irritation. “I’m leaving the house.” “Where are you going?” “The hospital.” “The hospital? For god’s sake, Larry, stop playing sick for attention.” “I have things to take care of.” She scoffs. “Fine. Just don’t bring any of that hospital misery back into my house.” “Okay,” I say. I hang up and look at Robert. He sighs, stepping aside. At the county morgue, the coroner hands me a clipboard. “Mr. Westfield, here is the autopsy report and the cremation consent form.” I take the pen. My father had hundreds of friends when he was wealthy. But standing here today, I am the only one left to sign his name away. My hand trembles so hard the pen barely touches the paper. “Is there any other family we should call?” the coroner asks gently. I dig my fingernails into my palm until the pain sharpens my focus. My hand steadies. “No,” I say. “Just me.” “When can we proceed with the cremation?” The coroner takes the clipboard back, glancing at the empty hallway behind me. “Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock.” “Thank you.” When I step outside, the autumn sun is blindingly bright. It reminds me of the afternoon my father went in for his first biopsy years ago. Jessica had canceled a merger meeting to sit with me in the waiting room. My palms had been slick with sweat, and she had wrapped her hands around mine. “Don’t be scared,” she had whispered. “I’ve got you.” Later, my dad had patted her shoulder. “Jessica, Larry is a bit fragile under pressure. I’m relying on you to look after him.” She had looked at me with genuine warmth. “Don’t worry, sir. As long as I’m here, he’ll never have to carry the weight alone.” And now, here I am, signing his death warrant in the same hospital while she buys ties for another man. My phone vibrates. It’s Bill Davis, our company’s head accountant. “Larry, the wire from Davenport Enterprises still hasn’t cleared.” “I know, Bill.” “Larry, you have to talk to her. Please. We can’t reach your father, and the creditors are at the door. We can’t let the firm collapse.” “Bill,” I interrupt quietly. “How much is left in the operating account?” “Less than ten thousand dollars.” “Use it to pay out severance to the staff. Tell everyone to go home today.” There is a long pause. “Larry… what do you mean?” “We’re filing for Chapter 7. We’re liquidating.” On the other side of town, Jessica is stepping out of a boutique with Dan. Her assistant, Diana, stands by the idling town car, speaking in a low voice. “Ms. Davenport, there’s been some news from Westfield Logistics. It seems Mr. Westfield senior has…” Dan is holding the car door open, a subtle smile playing on his lips. Jessica frowns. “What news?” “It seems there was an incident—” “Did Larry tell you to say that?” Jessica cuts her off, her voice cold. Diana hesitates. “No, ma’am, it came from—” “That’s enough,” Jessica says, waving a hand dismissively. “I told you, I don’t want to hear about the Westfields’ dramatic ploys to get my attention. All I care about is whether Larry has called to apologize. Let him stew for a few days. He’ll learn.” I walk into the funeral home. The director shows me the options. “This solid mahogany vault is beautiful. It’s moisture-resistant. Eight thousand dollars.” I hand him my debit card. “This is fine.” The machine beeps. Declined. I close my eyes, remembering that I used the last of my savings to clear his final medical bills yesterday. My dad spent his whole life trying to shield me from the cold realities of the world. And now that he’s gone, I can’t even afford to buy him a decent final resting place. “Give me a moment,” I tell the director. I sit on the steps outside and open a luxury consignment app on my phone. I list the Rolex and the bespoke Dunhill suits Jessica had bought me over the years. I price them to sell. Within ten minutes, the notifications chime. Sold. Paid. I suppose that was the only real value of her love in the end—it bought my father a sliver of dignity. I transfer the funds to my card and walk back inside. “Try this one.” The transaction goes through. I sit on a stone bench outside the crematorium, cradling the heavy mahogany box in my lap. It feels so small, yet my arms ache from the weight of it. My phone rings. Jessica’s name flashes on the screen. “Larry, where the hell are you?” she demands. “Outside,” I say. “I just got an alert from my concierge. You sold the Rolex I got you for our anniversary? And your formal suits? Are you completely out of your mind?” I look down at the dark wood in my arms. “I needed the money.” She lets out a sharp, mocking laugh. “I told you, Larry. Walk through the front door, apologize to me, and twenty million dollars will be in your account within the hour.” “No, thank you.” “Larry!” her voice rises, sharp and dictatorial. “I gave you a way out of this. Don’t push me.” “Jessica, let’s get a divorce.” The line goes dead silent. Ten seconds pass, filled only with the faint sound of her breathing. “What kind of game is this?” she asks, her voice dripping with condescension. “Your father’s company is on the verge of ruin. You think you’re in a position to ask for a divorce?” I don’t say anything. She takes my silence as surrender. “There’s a charity gala tomorrow night. Get yourself together and be ready by seven. And don’t wear one of those drab, depressing black suits. If you behave yourself, I might consider releasing five million on Friday.” She hangs up before I can answer. I look at the small photograph of my father I keep in my wallet. He’s smiling, standing on a dock with a fishing rod in hand. It was taken five years ago, right around the time Jessica asked for his blessing to marry me. I remember him holding her hand, looking at her with tears in his eyes. “Please, take care of my boy.” And she had looked him in the eye and said, “I promise, Mr. Westfield. He will never suffer as long as I live.” I slowly slip the platinum band off my left ring finger. The next day, I spend the morning in the quiet chapel of the funeral home. At five in the afternoon, Isabel calls. “Larry? Where are you? Jessica’s driver is looking for you.” “I’m not coming, Isabel.” “Larry, stop it,” she sighs. “I know things are tense, but Dan is going to be there. If you don’t show up, people will talk. Jessica said if you don’t come tonight, she’s completely cutting off the Westfield accounts.” I watch the small fire flicker in the iron hearth of the chapel, throwing long shadows across the stone floor. “Tell her I’m busy,” I say, and hang up. I watch the last of the embers die down, then stand and brush the gray soot from my coat. Tomorrow is the burial. I need to make sure the plot in Westlake Cemetery is ready. The next morning, a cold, gray drizzle falls over the city. I stand alone under a black umbrella, watching two cemetery workers lower the mahogany box into the earth. I thought I would cry, but my throat is raw and my eyes are dry as bone. I lay a bundle of white chrysanthemums on the wet grass. “Goodbye, Dad.” The rain smears the glass of his framed portrait. I reach out to wipe it away, but my fingers are freezing, completely numb. I remember a rainy afternoon years ago when I had a high fever. My dad had carried me on his back to the clinic, and Jessica had held the umbrella over us, her own shoulder soaking wet so not a single drop would touch me. And now, on the day I bury him, she is nowhere to be found. By the time I get back to the Davenport estate, it’s noon. My black wool coat is heavy with rainwater, the cuffs stained with cemetery mud. I push open the front door. The sound of a daytime talk show echoes through the foyer. Jessica is curled up on the velvet sofa, her head resting on Dan’s shoulder. Draped over Dan’s lap is a cream-colored cashmere throw—the one my dad had bought me for my twenty-fifth birthday. “Keep warm, Larry,” my father had joked back then. “Even when you have a wife, you have to look after yourself.” And now, that very blanket is keeping Dan warm in my home, next to my wife. My hands clench into fists at my sides. A primitive urge flares up inside me to tear it off him, to scream at them to get out. But I just look away. It doesn’t matter. My father is gone. A piece of fabric means nothing. Hearing my footsteps, they both look up. Jessica’s face hardens the second she sees me. “So you finally decided to crawl back?” She looks at my mud-splattered boots, her brow furrowing with disgust. “Why are you wearing all black? Who died?” She brushes a piece of lint off her sleeve, as if looking at me is physically exhausting. I look down at the mud on my cuffs. I don’t say a word. I’m afraid that if I open my mouth, the raw grief will tear through me. I turn toward the stairs. Jessica springs up, grabbing my wrist. Her grip is white-hot and tight. “I’m talking to you, Larry! You hang up on me, block my texts, and now you walk in here looking like a ghost. Do you think I have infinite patience for your tantrums?” “Let go,” I say quietly. She laughs, tightening her grip until my bones ache. “Are you still trying to punish me for withholding the money? Let me tell you something, Larry. You missed the gala last night. The Westfield deal is dead. This morning, I personally instructed our bank to pull the emergency credit line.” She leans in, her breath warm against my ear. “Your father is probably hiding from debt collectors in some dark alley right now. You want to save him? Kneel. Beg me. Maybe I’ll throw him a bone.” I look at her, my face completely blank. My father is in the ground. No one can hurt him now. Dan stands up from the sofa, adjusting his shirt with a soft, patronizing smile. “Larry, listen to Jessica. Just apologize and let’s move past this. Your father isn’t young anymore. He can’t handle that kind of stress. If something terrible happens, you’ll have to live with the guilt.” Jessica lets go of my wrist, dismissing me with a wave of her hand. “Go change. We’re going to my family’s estate for dinner.” Right then, her phone on the coffee table begins to vibrate. It’s Isabel. Jessica sighs and answers. “What is it, Isabel?” Isabel’s voice is trembling so violently I can hear it from where I stand. “Jessica… where are you?” “At home. Why?” “You need to go to the police station. Now.” Jessica’s brow furrows. “Why would I go to the police station?” “Detective Miller just called me. Your father-in-law’s file is being closed, and they need a family member to sign the final release forms. He couldn’t reach Larry, so he called me.” Isabel takes a ragged, shaking breath. “Charles fell from his office roof three days ago, Jessica. The burial was this morning.” The living room falls into a suffocating, dead silence. Jessica’s hand freezes mid-air, the phone still pressed to her ear. Slowly, she turns her head. Her eyes travel down to my black coat, to the dried gray mud on my cuffs, to the hollow emptiness in my eyes. The realization hits her like a physical blow. “No,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “Isabel, stop playing these stupid games.” She stares at me, her face pale. “Larry, tell her she’s lying. Tell me this is just another stunt to get the money! Say something!” I look at her. Even now, her first instinct is to assume I’m manipulating her. I don’t offer an explanation. I simply reach into my coat pocket, pull out a folded piece of paper, and place it on the glass table. Jessica looks down. It’s a death certificate. The time of death is printed clearly in black ink. It was the exact hour she had switched her phone to silent to sit in a hospital room with Dan. The phone slips from her fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor.

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My father always said I was a liar. In preschool, when a plastic truck got stepped on, I said I wasn’t the one who broke it. He told the teacher I was lying. Our next-door neighbor, Mr. Peterson, came over to borrow a wrench and noticed a dark purple bruise on my father’s calf. When he asked what happened, I said Mom had kicked him. My father laughed it off, claiming he’d just walked into the coffee table, and told Mr. Peterson that I just loved to make things up. When Grandpa Hank asked if my dad was good to me, I told him the truth: “No, he’s not my real dad.” My father chimed in from the doorway, “Hank, I told you, the kid has a vivid imagination. He can’t tell fact from fiction.” Grandpa Hank just sighed, rubbed my hair, and let it go. I was five when my father applied for a major promotion at the county utility commission. Because it was a government-adjacent role handling public funds, they sent representatives to our house to conduct a routine background and character check. That was the day everyone finally realized that everything I had ever said was true. 1 On the day of the interview, three people came to our house. There was Mr. Burke, a stern-looking man in his late forties who led the questions. A young woman named Lucy, who sat with a laptop to take notes. And an older gentleman with thinning silver hair who sat quietly at the end of our sofa. Mr. Burke started with the basics, asking my father standard questions: date of birth, where he grew up, his parents’ names, and when he and my mother got married. My father answered effortlessly, his smile warm and perfectly measured. Mr. Burke nodded, noting down a few things, before turning to me. His expression softened. “And what about you, buddy? Is your dad good to you?” The living room fell dead silent. “He hits me,” I said. “A lot.” My mother’s hand froze as she set down a teacup. My father’s smile didn’t slip, but I noticed his fingers tremble slightly against his knee. He let out a soft, helpless laugh—the sound of a patient, wounded parent. He looked at Mr. Burke and shook his head. “You see what I have to deal with, Mr. Burke? He’s like this all the time. Not a single word out of his mouth is true.” He gently pulled up my sleeve, exposing my bare arm. It was smooth, pale, and completely unmarked. “You be the judge, Mr. Burke. If I beat him every day, would he look like this?” Mr. Burke looked at my arm and remained silent. My father kept going, his voice growing thick with emotion. “He’s been doing this since he was three. His preschool teacher said he pushed another child off the slide, and he absolutely refused to admit it. The moment I try to discipline him, he goes around telling everyone I abuse him.” Tears began to well up in my father’s eyes, his voice cracking. “Since the day he was born, I’ve given him everything. Food, clothes, toys—he’s never wanted for anything. And this is how he repays me, by badmouthing me to anyone who will listen… I don’t know what I did to make him hate me so much.” My mother sighed beside him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s true, Mr. Burke. He’s had this issue since he was a toddler. We even took him to see a child psychologist—” “I’m not sick,” I said. The room went quiet again. I looked straight at Mr. Burke. “He really does hit me. It hurts.” Mr. Burke studied me for a long moment. “Where does he hit you, Toby?” I had to think about it. My thighs. But that was in the summer when I wore shorts, and the bruises had faded. My ears. But the redness from having my ears pulled vanished quickly; they weren’t red now. “He just does,” I said quietly. My father didn’t say another word. He just stared at me, tears streaming down his cheeks. They looked so incredibly real. Mr. Burke sighed and turned to my father, his tone turning sympathetic. “Kids say hurtful things when they’re angry. We understand.” He closed his notebook, looking ready to wrap up. But the silver-haired older gentleman, who had been silent the entire time, suddenly spoke. “And why does your father hit you?” 2 The moment the question hung in the air, my father’s quiet weeping stopped. My mother’s hand hovered over her teacup. All eyes in the room landed on me. I looked at my father. “Because he’s not my real dad,” I said. “My real dad didn’t look like him.” My father’s face drained of color. It was only for a fraction of a second before his wounded, pitying expression returned. He shook his head. “This boy… I honestly don’t know what to do with him anymore.” Mr. Burke finished packing up his briefcase and said they would head back to verify the information. The silver-haired man was the last to leave. He paused at the doorway, turning back to give me a long, searching look. It felt like he was trying to see right through me, searching for something hidden deep beneath the surface. But he didn’t say anything. The second the front door clicked shut, my father grabbed my arm, dragging me down the hallway and throwing me into the bathroom. The light flickered off. The door locked from the outside. In the pitch black, his muffled voice drifted through the wood. “Say one more word like that, and you’re sleeping on the floor in there tonight.” I sat on the tile, leaning against the base of the toilet. I didn’t cry. I was used to the dark. But my mind kept returning to that old man’s eyes. He was different from the others. Others looked at me like I was a broken toy. He looked at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve. Since I was three, my father had been building this narrative. The first time was in preschool. When a toy got broken and the teacher asked who did it, I said it wasn’t me. My father was called in. In front of the teacher, he pinched my cheek hard and said, “Don’t believe a word he says, Ms. Davis. He’s a pathological liar.” I cried, protesting my innocence, but he pinched me again, laughing it off. “See? There he goes again.” The second time was Mr. Peterson. He saw the dark purple bruise on my father’s thigh and asked about it. I told him Mom had done it. My father laughed, blamed the doorframe, and later cornered me. He squeezed my thigh until I whimpered. “Speak up again, and I’ll sew your mouth shut.” After Mr. Peterson left, he locked me in the bathroom for the entire afternoon. From then on, I never spoke of Mom hitting him again. But my father didn’t stop. He made sure to warn everyone about my “condition.” Teachers, neighbors, relatives. Every time someone looked at me, there was a strange, pitying skepticism in their eyes. That’s the dishonest boy. When I was three, Grandpa Hank asked me, “Is your dad good to you, Tobes?” I said no. “He’s not my real dad.” My father shook his head sadly. “I told you, Hank. The boy can’t help himself.” Grandpa Hank sighed, patted my head, and left. At four, I told him again. This time, Grandpa Hank didn’t even sigh. He just looked at me with a profound, aching pity. Not because he thought I was being abused, but because he thought I was mentally ill. On my fifth birthday, I blew out my candles and made a wish. I wished for just one person to believe me. Just one. But nobody did. They all believed him. He knew how to play the victim, how to cry, how to wrap his arms around me in public and whisper, “The poor kid was just born a little off.” And all I could do was repeat the same phrase over and over: “He’s not my real dad.” Like a broken toy that only knew one line. 3 Until the investigators came and I said it again. I thought this would be the moment. But the look on Mr. Burke’s face told me he didn’t believe me either. That night, my father didn’t hit me. Instead, he made me kneel on the concrete of the back porch for two hours. The early autumn breeze was freezing. My knees felt like they were cracking under my weight. My mother stayed in the living room, watching TV, never looking out. When Grandpa Hank called to check in, my father answered smoothly. “Oh, everything’s fine, Hank. Toby is just taking a bath.” When he hung up, he walked out to the porch and knelt down to meet my eyes. “Toby,” he whispered, his voice as soft and sweet as a lullaby. “If you ever say those crazy things to the investigators again, I’ll have you committed to an institution. They lock kids like you in rooms with straightjackets, and you never get to leave. Do you understand me?” I nodded. He smiled and patted my head. “Good boy. I’ll go warm up some milk for you.” He got up and went inside. I kept kneeling. As the wind swept over me, a memory flickered— My real dad had warmed up milk for me, too. It was the only memory I had from when I was barely a year old. He was wearing a white pajama top, carrying a warm mug from the kitchen, blowing gently on it to cool it down before handing it to me. They were not the same man. I knew it with absolute certainty. But no one believed me. Thirty-five days passed after the investigators left. I thought they were gone for good. My father thought so too. He stopped wearing high-necked sweaters and went back to his loose t-shirts. He started shouting at my mother again, throwing dishes, sliding back into his old skin. My mother started drinking again, smashing glasses when she had too much. Everything returned to the way it had always been. Except for Grandpa Hank. He started visiting more often. He would bring boxes of pastries, watching me eat in silence. Sometimes he would sigh out of nowhere, stroke my hair, and whisper, “My poor boy.” I didn’t know if he believed me or not. I didn’t care anymore. One afternoon, I was playing in the dirt in the front yard. The doorbell rang. My father went to open it, and the cheerful greeting died in his throat. Mr. Burke was standing on the porch. It was the same three people: Mr. Burke, Lucy, and the silver-haired older gentleman. But this time, the older man walked in first. “Mr. David Henderson,” Mr. Burke’s tone was strictly professional. “We need to follow up on a few details. May we come in?” My father’s smile was stiff, but he stepped aside. “Of course, of course. Please.” My mother came out of the kitchen. When she saw them, her face went pale, but she quickly masked it. “Mr. Burke, is there a problem with the background check?” “Just a routine follow-up,” Mr. Burke said. “Please, have a seat.” But they didn’t sit on the sofa. The silver-haired man walked straight over to me and knelt down. “Toby,” he said softly. “Last time, you said this man isn’t your real father.” “Do you have any proof?” I remembered. I had seen my real dad when he was taking a shower once. On the left side of his chest, there was a birthmark. A small, heart-shaped mark. I opened my mouth to speak— But my father let out a sudden, loud laugh. It was a cold sound that made the hair on my arms stand up. “Walter, you’re seriously going to listen to a five-year-old’s fantasy? The kid is a pathological liar. What ‘proof’ could he possibly have?” The old man, Walter, ignored him. He kept his eyes fixed on me. They were incredibly bright. “Don’t be afraid, Toby. Take your time.” Looking into Walter’s eyes, I realized something. He was serious. He actually wanted to hear what I had to say. “My real dad,” I said, “had a heart-shaped birthmark on the left side of his chest.” “He doesn’t have one.” My father’s laughter died instantly. His face went white as paper.

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Ever since my husband started spending his off-duty days at his late partner’s widow’s house, I noticed our daughter, Lucy, had started writing “My father is dead” in her school essays. The school counselor called me to confirm. I stood in the hospital hallway, silent for a long moment, before I whispered, “Yes. A long time ago.” On Father’s Day, Lucy’s class made cards. Instead of a standard folded card, she folded her paper into a paper airplane and wrote four neat words on the wing: Deliver to Heaven. During the parent-teacher open house, the classroom walls were covered with essays titled My Father. Lucy’s read: My dad died on a battlefield called “Next Door.” There is a lady there who never stops crying, so Daddy had to stay. He never came back. Every time she finished one of these essays, she would clutch her eraser so hard in her tiny fist that her palm would sweat, turning the rubber slick and gray. Eventually, Garrett noticed something was wrong. He rushed home, holding a bouquet of supermarket roses, desperate to celebrate Lucy’s eighth birthday. But when he opened the door, his eyes fell directly on the new notebook left open on the coffee table. The title was written in her careful, childish pencil strokes: If Dad Were Still Alive. … “Norah, is this how you’re raising our daughter?” Garrett stared at the open notebook, his chest heaving under his flannel shirt. The lead pencil script stared back at him: If Dad Were Still Alive. The easy, practiced smile he’d walked in with vanished. His eyes widened, dark with a sudden, sharp anger. “I am standing right here, healthy and breathing, and you’re letting her write that I’m dead?!” He whipped his head toward me, his voice booming in the quiet of our living room. He threw the birthday cake he’d been holding onto the coffee table. The plastic box cracked, and the frosted edge slumped against the cardboard. “I didn’t teach her that,” I said quietly. “She wrote it herself.” Garrett ground his teeth, reaching down to grab the notebook as if he were going to rip it to shreds. But as his fingers brushed the page, his eyes caught the loops of Lucy’s handwriting. He froze, then slowly let his hand drop. He had no idea. He didn’t know this wasn’t the first time Lucy had buried him in her stories. Ever since he brought his fallen partner’s widow, Heidi, and her son, Toby, back to our city, the father Lucy once knew had ceased to exist. I didn’t offer any further explanation. I just stood there, looking at him with a cold, detached indifference. Hearing the shouting, Lucy crept out of her bedroom. She was wearing her faded, twice-washed cotton pajamas, her small frame partially hidden behind my hip. She didn’t rush to throw her arms around his neck the way she used to. She didn’t cry or shrink away from his anger, either. She just watched him. Her eyes were flat, calm, and utterly vacant. Like she was looking at a stranger on the subway. That kind of look is far more agonizing than any tearful tantrum. Garrett’s breath hitched. The roar of his anger seemed to choke him, dying somewhere in his throat under the weight of her indifference. He pulled at his collar, trying to swallow his irritation, and reached into the paper shopping bag he’d brought. He pulled out a sleek, white shoe box. “Lucy, sweetie, come here,” he said, forcing his voice into a gentle, coaxing register. “Daddy was passing by the mall today, and I finally got you those ballet slippers. The ones you wanted.” “You have your level exam next month, right?” “Come on, try them on. Let’s see if they fit.” Those were the satin slippers Lucy had stared at through the glass window of the dance boutique for three months. Every time we walked past, Garrett had promised, Next time, kiddo. Next time for sure. A few months ago, she would have leapt with joy, wrapping her arms around his waist. Now, she didn’t even twitch. Garrett sighed, dropping to one knee with the practiced patience of a man used to dealing with crises. He popped the lid off the box, reaching out to gently grasp her ankle. But before his fingers could brush her skin, his pocket vibrated. A soft, melancholic piano ringtone cut through the room. Everyone at his private search-and-rescue firm knew that ringtone. It was reserved for one person: Heidi. Garrett’s hand jerked back as if he’d been burned by dry ice. He stood up in a single, fluid motion, his fingers already sliding the phone from his pocket. “Heidi? What’s wrong?” There was a frantic tenderness in his voice, an immediate, protective panic he couldn’t hide even if he tried. Through the receiver, Heidi’s breathy, fragile whimpering carried into the quiet room. “Garrett… I’m so sorry. I know I shouldn’t call. But Toby… his asthma is flaring up again, and he’s crying, begging for you. I can’t lift him, and I’m just so scared. I don’t know what to do.” I stood there, listening to the same clumsy, rehearsed melodrama she had used a hundred times before. A wave of nausea rolled through my stomach. Garrett’s expression shifted instantly. There was no hesitation. No pause to look at his daughter, who was still standing in her faded pajamas. He tossed the ballet shoes onto the carpet and grabbed his car keys from the entryway table. “Norah, keep an eye on Lucy. Toby’s having a severe attack. I have to get over there right now.” He spoke with the absolute conviction of a martyr, convinced that abandoning his own child to play savior to another man’s son was his moral duty. The heavy front door clicked shut. He didn’t look back once. The apartment descended into a graveyard silence. Lucy walked forward, her bare feet silent on the rug. She looked down at the satin ballet slippers lying askew on the carpet. Then, she bent down, picked them up by the ribbons, and dropped them into the kitchen trash can. “Mom,” she said, her voice light, almost conversational. “Dead people don’t buy shoes, do they?” My chest tightened so sharply it felt like a physical tearing of flesh. The air in my lungs tasted like copper. I knelt down, pulling her small, fragile body against mine, burying my face in her soft hair. “No, baby,” I whispered. “They don’t.” After Lucy fell asleep, I sat alone in the dim light of the study. I pulled open the bottom drawer of my desk. Lying there was an official, stamped transfer notice from the state medical board. I was a senior pediatric orthopedic surgeon. For years, I had turned down fellowships at prestigious research hospitals in Chicago, all to keep our family in this city for Garrett’s career. But I was done drowning in this swamp. I picked up a red felt-tip pen and drew a thick, heavy circle around a date fifteen days from now. The absolute deadline to report for my new position. In fifteen days, Lucy and I would be gone. We would live our lives as if Garrett Davies had never existed. Ten days left. I had just finished a grueling six-hour emergency reconstruction surgery, my shoulders aching under the weight of my scrubs. When I stepped out of the elevator on our floor, I froze. Our front door was propped wide open. The hallway echoed with the gruff, loud voices of moving men. I rushed inside, and the sight turned my blood to ice. The living room was in shambles, cardboard boxes stacked haphazardly. In the hallway, two men in overalls were maneuvering Lucy’s upright Steinway piano out of her study. Garrett, dressed in his off-duty clothes, was gesturing toward the door. “Careful with the corners,” he warned them. “That instrument is worth more than my truck.” I had worked three years of consecutive holiday night shifts to buy that piano for Lucy’s fifth birthday. Lucy wiped the keys down every single night; it was her absolute sanctuary. “Garrett, what the hell are you doing?” I marched over, placing my body directly between the movers and the door. Seeing me home early, a flicker of guilt crossed Garrett’s face, but it was quickly replaced by that familiar, defensive righteousness. “Norah, don’t make a scene,” he said, stepping closer. “Heidi just moved into a new apartment. Toby’s classmates have been bullying him because he doesn’t have a dad, and his child therapist said learning an instrument would help heal his emotional trauma.” He paused, clearing his throat. “Heidi’s a single mother. She can’t afford something like this. Lucy hasn’t even been playing much lately anyway. We’re just letting Toby borrow it.” I listened to his absurd, twisted logic, a cold laugh escaping my throat. He was taking the physical manifestation of my hard work and his daughter’s joy to heal another woman’s child. How did he manage to make such blatant betrayal sound like a charitable act? If this had been a year ago, I would have screamed. I would have grabbed the movers, threatened to call the police, and fought him tooth and nail. Instead, I pulled out my phone and switched on the video camera, recording the movers’ faces, the piano, and Garrett standing in our living room. “What are you doing?” Garrett snapped, reaching out to snatch the phone. I took a step back, keeping my arm out of his reach. “Documenting this,” I said, my voice deadpan. “This piano is marital property. You are transferring assets to a third party without my consent. I have every right to keep a record for my attorney.” Garrett’s face darkened, his jaw tightening. “Norah, when did you become so cold and calculating?” he hissed. “This is Patrick’s son! Patrick died so I could walk out of that collapse alive! It’s a piece of wood and some strings. Are you really going to be this petty?” His phone buzzed. A second later, a notification popped up on my screen—a money transfer of five thousand dollars. “There,” he said, gesturing to my phone. “Consider it bought out. You can take Lucy to Target and get her one of those electric keyboards to practice on.” He turned back to the movers. “Keep going. Take it down.” As the door clicked shut behind them, the sudden emptiness of the study felt like a physical weight pressing down on my chest. An hour later, Lucy came home from school. She carried her backpack into the hallway and stopped right outside her study. The space where her piano had stood was empty, leaving four deep, rectangular indentations in the hardwood floor. She didn’t cry. She didn’t ask me where it went. She simply walked into her room, pulled out the creased notebook Garrett had almost torn, and sat down at her small desk. With a pencil, she began to write her fourth essay. The title was: The Dead Dad Took My Piano, Too. I stood in the doorway, watching her small, solitary shoulders. My eyes burned with a dry, aching heat. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a notification from social media. I opened the app to find Heidi’s latest post. In the photo, Toby was sitting in front of Lucy’s Steinway, a brilliant, triumphant grin on his face. The caption read: Patrick is watching over us from heaven. Toby finally has his first piano. Thank you to our dearest Captain Garrett, for being the light that keeps us going. At the bottom of the post was a single blue thumbs-up from Garrett. I stared at the screen for a long time, then slowly tapped the “like” button myself. Then I switched over to my banking app and transferred the remaining balance for the down payment on the townhouse I’d leased near my new hospital. Just as the transaction cleared, a text from Garrett popped up. Once Toby’s settled in, I have a long weekend off next month. I’ll take Lucy to Disneyland to make it up to her. Stop teaching her to hold grudges, Norah. I stared at the word “Disneyland.” A hollow, mocking smile touched my lips. I didn’t reply. He didn’t realize there would be no next month. Three days left. Today was the award ceremony for the statewide youth art competition. Lucy sat in the front row of the museum auditorium, wearing a navy blue velvet dress I’d bought her for the occasion. Her eyes were fixed on the double doors at the back of the hall. I sat beside her, holding her damp, slightly trembling little hand. My heart ached with a dull, persistent throb. I knew Garrett wouldn’t show up, but children have a stubborn, tragic capacity for hope. “Mom,” Lucy whispered, her eyes never leaving the doors. “Daddy promised. He said he’d be here to watch me get my ribbon.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her. I just squeezed her fingers. Ten minutes before the presentation began, my screen lit up with a text from Garrett. Got called into an emergency briefing. Can’t make it. Tell Lucy I’m sorry. A familiar excuse. A familiar betrayal. I turned the phone face down on my lap and remained silent. Lucy glanced back one last time. “Maybe he’s just stuck in traffic.” The ceremony proceeded with agonizing efficiency. The announcer took the microphone, his voice echoing off the high gallery ceilings. “And now, we are thrilled to present our Grand Prize for the elementary division!” Lucy’s grip on my fingers tightened. “The winning piece—Daddy in the Fire!” The massive projector screen behind the stage lit up, displaying Lucy’s watercolor painting. It was a painting she had spent two weeks working on, depicting Garrett in his heavy rescue gear, his back to a wall of golden-red flames. It was her love letter to her father, filled with the awe and devotion she used to feel for him. Lucy gasped, half-rising from her seat. “Mom! That’s my painting!” I smiled, preparing to guide her toward the stage. But then the announcer continued: “Let’s welcome our winner to the stage—young Toby Walsh!” The smile froze on Lucy’s face. On the bottom right corner of the projected image, the digital label read: Toby Walsh, Age 8. Her name, Lucy Davies, had been completely erased. She stood frozen in the aisle, her mouth slightly open, but no sound came out. Behind us, a parent leaned over to whisper to another, “Why is that little girl standing up? I thought they called a boy named Toby?” Lucy heard them. Slowly, her small shoulders slumped, and she sank back into her seat, bowing her head. My hands clenched into fists. I stood up and marched straight toward the VIP family seating area. Heidi was already standing, fussing over Toby’s little bow tie. I stepped directly into her path. “Heidi. Stop right there.” Heidi looked up, the triumphant smile still lingering on her lips. “Oh, Norah! You’re here too?” “That painting belongs to my daughter,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “Why is your son’s name on it?” Heidi shrank back half a step, her shoulders pulling in, adopting her signature posture of defensiveness. “Norah, please don’t do this here… Garrett took care of the registration. I didn’t know anything about it…” Then, she leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper meant only for me, a sharp, ugly malice glinting in her eyes. “But honestly, Norah, does it really matter who painted it? What matters is who Garrett wants to give the world to. Your daughter can stay up all night painting, but with one word from Garrett, her hard work belongs to my Toby. He loves us, Norah. No matter how mad you get, you can’t change the fact that he doesn’t care about either of you.” “You shameless bitch.” The words left my mouth just before my hand connected with her cheek. The slap cracked loudly through the gallery. Heidi’s head jerked to the side, and she let out a sharp, theatrical wail, clutching her face. Before I could grab her arm to drag her to the event organizers, a heavy force shoved me from the side. “Norah! Have you lost your mind?!” I stumbled back several steps, the small of my back colliding hard with the edge of a wooden bench. A sharp pain shot up my spine, forcing me to double over. I looked up through a haze of pain. It was Garrett. He was standing there, shielding Heidi and Toby behind his broad shoulders, his eyes wild and red with anger. Heidi clung to his back, sobbing loudly. “Garrett, it hurts… please don’t blame Norah, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let Toby accept the award. I’ll give it back…” Seeing the red mark blooming on Heidi’s cheek, Garrett’s fury boiled over. He pointed a finger at my face. “Norah, what is wrong with you? Attacking someone in public? Look at you—you’re acting like an unhinged, hysterical lunatic!” I steadied myself against the bench, forcing myself to stand tall. “Garrett, that painting took Lucy weeks to finish. You put Toby’s name on her art, and now you’re pushing me to defend this woman?” “It’s just a damn drawing!” Garrett yelled, cutting me off. “Lucy can draw another one! Toby lost his father. He gets bullied at school. He needs this kind of recognition to build his confidence!” “Patrick died saving my life! What is so wrong with giving his son a little win?” “You’re an adult, Norah, and you have absolutely no grace, no compassion. To strike Heidi like this? You are completely out of your mind!” Hysterical. Out of my mind. My daughter’s art had been stolen. Her tribute to her father had been handed to another child by that very father. And when I demanded justice, her father threw me to the ground to protect the thief. I stopped talking. There was nothing left to say. On stage, the coordinators escorted Toby to the microphone. He held the trophy aloft, posing in front of Lucy’s painting, smiling for the cameras. Heidi stood by Garrett’s side, a faint, satisfied smirk playing on her lips. When she went up to accept a sponsor’s bouquet, she spoke into the microphone, her voice trembling with mock emotion. “Toby wouldn’t be here today without his mentor, Captain Garrett Davies… He has been more than family to us…” Garrett watched them, letting out a long, emotional sigh. “Mom.” A small, quiet voice called out from behind me. I turned. Lucy was standing a few feet away. She was looking at Toby with his trophy, at Garrett with his arm resting protectively near Heidi’s waist, and at me, still clutching my bruised back. “Lucy…” I reached out, trying to pull her to me. But she took a step back. Slowly, she reached up to her chest, unpinning her contestant badge. With methodical, quiet precision, she tore the paper tag into tiny, unrecognizable shreds, letting them flutter into the trash can beside her. She brushed her hands together, clearing away the dust. “Mom, let’s go home.” Her little face was incredibly tight, her chin trembling as she fought back her tears. My heart shattered into a million jagged pieces. I walked over, wrapped my arms tightly around her, and without another word, we walked out of the museum. I didn’t stay to argue. Arguing with a man who has chosen to be blind is a waste of breath. When we got home, Lucy sat in her room for hours. Eventually, she opened her notebook and began to write. The title of her fifth essay was: Dad Gave the Painting of Him to Someone Else, and He Hurt Mom for Them. I opened my phone and rescheduled our flight. I changed our departure to the day after tomorrow. I couldn’t spend another second in this city. The day before we were set to leave. I took Lucy to the downtown shopping district to purchase a few essentials for our move. The mall was crowded, filled with the low hum of shoppers and soft pop music. As we walked past a glass-fronted pizza parlor, Lucy suddenly stopped. I followed her gaze through the glass window. There was Garrett. He was sitting at a booth, carefully cutting a small piece of pizza with a knife and fork. He blew on it gently before feeding it to Toby, who giggled. Heidi sat beside him, looking like the picture of maternal bliss. She reached over with a napkin, tenderly wiping a smudge of marinara sauce from the corner of Garrett’s mouth. A perfect, happy family. Looking at them, I actually felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rise in my throat. This was the “urgent department emergency” he had claimed kept him from answering my texts. The lie was so bare, so pathetic. Lucy’s small fingers tightened around the hem of my coat. “Mom,” she whispered. “I thought Dad was working.” “He isn’t,” I said, a cold numbness settling over me. “Let’s go.” Before we could turn away, a deafening siren began to wail through the concourse. A split second later, a massive explosion shook the first-floor food court. The blast shattered the glass partitions of the nearby storefronts, and a wall of thick, black smoke and orange flames came rolling through the atrium. Panicked screams erupted instantly. The crowd transformed into a stampeding herd, rushing blindly toward the exits. “Lucy!” I screamed, lunging forward to grab her hand. But the crowd was a chaotic tidal wave. A heavy-set man slammed into my shoulder from behind, sending me crashing hard onto the polished tile floor. My hand slipped. Her fingers slid out of mine. “Mom!” By the time I managed to scramble to my feet, the smoke had already risen to the second level, making it hard to breathe. “Lucy!” I screamed, coughing violently. Through a gap in the dark smoke, I saw her. She had tripped and fallen behind a heavy display counter near a structural pillar. A fallen metal advertising board had pinned her down, trapping her in a dead end. At that moment, a figure came charging through the smoke. It was Garrett. His training took over immediately as he began directing people toward the fire exits. Then, he saw her. He looked right at his daughter trapped behind the counter. I saw the sudden, violent conflict flare in his eyes. But that hesitation lasted less than two seconds. From the other side of the corridor, Heidi’s voice pierced the chaos. “Garrett! Help us! Toby’s trapped under the display shelf!” Garrett froze. He looked back at Lucy, who was coughing in the rising smoke. “Lucy, stay there!” he roared across the din. “Daddy’s going to get Toby out, and then I’m coming right back for you!” And then, right before my eyes, he turned his back on his own daughter and ran toward the other woman. He scooped Toby into his arms, threw his jacket over Heidi’s head, and ran toward the emergency stairs. In a moment of life and death, he had abandoned his daughter. Again. I stared at the empty space where he had stood, the copper taste of blood filling my mouth as I bit through my lip. Wait. He had told her to wait, trading her survival for theirs. Through the choking black smoke, Lucy watched the direction her father had vanished. Her small body went completely still. She stopped crying. She stopped calling out. Slowly, she let her small hand drop from her face, allowing the toxic smoke to fill her throat. A single tear cut through the soot on her cheek. Her lips moved, forming silent words. Mom, Dad went to save someone else… I don’t have a dad anymore. That silent whisper snapped the last thread of my sanity. I let out a raw, guttural scream. Grabbing a heavy red fire extinguisher from the wall, I swung it with manic strength, shattering the display counter blocking her path. “Lucy!” “Mom is here!” “I’ve got you!” I pulled her limp, semi-conscious body into my arms, wrapped my wet coat over her face, and charged blindly through the emergency exit. The moment we burst into the cool air of the street, the first sirens of the fire department were arriving. I ran straight to an arriving ambulance, climbing inside with my oxygen-deprived daughter. At the hospital, the red light of the emergency room flared to life. I collapsed onto a plastic chair in the waiting room, my hands shaking. I pulled out my phone and opened the chat with my divorce attorney. I’ve signed the papers. File it. Cut every single tie. Then, I opened the airline app. I changed our flights from tomorrow morning to the very next flight leaving tonight. I was leaving. And Garrett Davies would never find us again.

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I have been blown into literal, microscopic pieces four times. All because some brain-dead protagonist insisted on playing his stupid little “reform the villain with love” game. For the first four loops, he cried his eyes dry, and the villain still flattened the world anyway. Fifth loop. Watching him prep his tear ducts to dive into the villain’s parents’ arms and play the victim, I didn’t hesitate. I kicked him straight into a sewer drain. Get lost. If love can’t tame this little monster, then my fists will have to teach her some manners. 1 The fifth time the wealthy Henderson couple came to the Greenwood Orphanage to adopt a child, Nicky was already squeezing the hem of his shirt, his eyes rimmed with red, preparing to launch himself into Richard’s arms. He’d been working on those tears all morning; they were right on the verge of spilling. I stood right behind him, expressionless, and casually stuck my foot out. Smack! Nicky made a spectacularly pathetic sound as he face-planted straight into a muddy puddle, muddy water splashing everywhere. Before anyone could process what had just happened, I stepped forward, planting my foot squarely on Nicky’s back, and plastered a sweet, innocent, completely harmless smile across my face. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Henderson,” I pitched my voice high, sounding sickeningly sweet. “I’m Connor, the most well-behaved kid in this whole place.” Richard froze. Diana stared. Only the semi-transparent chat overlay hovering in my vision began scrolling frantically like a broken stock ticker: [LMAO holy shit, why is the Demon Child stepping up?] [Didn’t he beat up the orphanage bully just two days ago?] [Seven years old and the undisputed king of the yard. Even the stray dogs lower their heads when he walks by.] [If this kid gets adopted, the Henderson house is going to implode in three days.] [I’m dying. But wait, is this the protagonist’s fifth attempt at the quest?] Yes. The fifth time. Under my sole, Nicky was thrashing wildly in the mud, muffled, pig-like squeals escaping his throat. Without breaking my sweet smile, I shifted more weight onto my heel, grinding it right into his lower spine. During the first four loops, Nicky had used this exact pathetic, tragic routine to worm his way into the Henderson family. He’d sworn up and down that he would plant the seeds of love and peace in the black heart of their naturally sociopathic daughter, Beatrix. And how did that go? The first time, she locked him in a cellar for three days and then, on a whim, blew up the harbor bridge. I happened to be selling flowers on that bridge. Vaporized. The second time, he tried to hug her during one of her manic episodes and got his lung punctured with a kitchen knife. In her panic, she triggered a chemical plant alarm. I was working an illegal shift in that factory. Blown to pieces again. The third time, the fourth time… Goddamn it. I was just a nameless extra in this godforsaken story, yet I’d been dragged down to a horrific, scattered death four times because of these two lunatics! And let me tell you, getting blown to bits hurts like hell. That sheer despair of having your internal organs instantly vaporized by superheated gas, before you can even scream—I experienced that four times. Four. If love can’t reform that little psycho, then it’s my turn. After all, I know a thing or two about throwing a punch. “Oh, my… what a bright-looking boy,” Richard finally found his voice. Looking at my face, which was lightly splattered with mud, a flicker of paternal warmth softened his eyes. Diana cleared her throat, her gaze drifting down to the writhing mud-man beneath my shoe. “What is that… under your foot?” I glanced down. “Oh, this is just Nicky. He really, really loves playing in the mud.” I smiled with pure, unadulterated innocence. I lifted my foot and casually hauled Nicky out of the puddle by his collar. Nicky’s face was caked in foul-smelling silt, bubbles blowing from his mouth. He snapped his eyes open, staring at me with the sheer, unbridled fury of a high-dimensional player whose spellcast had been rudely interrupted: “Connor! You absolute psych—” Quick as lightning, I clapped my hand over his mouth and pulled him into a tight, suffocating hug. “Oh, Nicky, I know you’ll miss me! But this nice gentleman and lady… they look so warm. It’s like I’m seeing the mom and dad from my dreams.” I managed to squeeze out two perfect, crystalline tears. It was an Oscar-worthy performance. Richard was entirely sold. He was already on the verge of a nervous breakdown dealing with his psycho daughter at home; he desperately needed a sweet, sensible son to restore some balance to his life. “We’re taking him,” Richard said, his tone leaving no room for argument. The director stood nearby, wiping cold sweat from his forehead. “Mr. Henderson… Connor is… well, he’s a very energetic boy.” 2 No shit. Last month, some street thugs came trying to shake down the neighborhood, and I chased them three blocks wielding a loose brick. Is that energetic? That’s a feral honey badger. “Energetic is good. It means he’s healthy,” Diana declared, sealing the deal. The paperwork was finalized in record time. Before leaving, I went to the restroom to change my clothes. Nicky blocked the door. He had washed his face, but muddy water was still dripping from his hair, making him look like some vengeful swamp monster. “Connor, do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Nicky hissed, his voice dropping to a cold, menacing whisper. “This is my quest! Only I can save Beatrix! You’re just a low-dimensional NPC—what the hell are you interfering for?” I shut off the squeaking faucet, turned around without a word, and slapped him across the face. Crack! Sharp, clean, and incredibly loud. Nicky spun halfway around from the force of it. He clutched his cheek, staring at me in sheer disbelief. “You… you hit me?” “Damn right I did, you absolute moron.” I shook out my tingling wrist and stepped into his personal space. “Save her? With what? That brain of yours that’s leaking radioactive waste? For four loops, what did you do besides cry and beg, ‘Oh, big sister, please don’t do this!’? Did you accomplish a single useful thing?” I grabbed him by the collar, slamming him hard against the tiled wall. “I was blown to pieces four goddamn times because of your precious storyline. This time, you’re going to stay right here in this orphanage, eating your bland cafeteria mush. If you so much as poke your head out to play hero, I’ll send you to the afterlife myself.” A flash of genuine terror crossed Nicky’s eyes, but he still tried to grit his teeth. “Beatrix is insane! She ends up killing her own parents! You think you’re going to survive your first night in that house?” “Don’t lose sleep over it,” I said, releasing his collar and smoothing out his crumpled shirt. “Monsters deserve bigger monsters. You don’t reason with a rabid dog; you use a heavier stick.” I pushed open the restroom door. Diana was standing at the end of the hallway, waving me over. I instantly flipped the switch back to my sweet-child persona and trotted over. The chat overlay flared wildly in the air: [Holy shit, that slap felt so good to watch!] [Sweet! I’ve wanted to punch Nicky’s self-righteous face since loop one.] [But can our Demon Child actually handle Beatrix? She isn’t some orphanage weakling.] [She’s a seven-year-old genius who can cook up homemade explosives. Don’t get cocky and get vaporized, kid.] I watched the comments scroll, a cold smirk forming in my mind. Homemade explosives? How fitting. Before I got blown up in my past life, my day job in the underground market was bomb disposal. We climbed into the Hendersons’ stretched Rolls-Royce. The air conditioning was freezing. Richard took my hand, patting the back of it. There was a faint, guilty nervousness in his eyes. “Connor, don’t be scared when we get to the house. You have an older sister, Beatrix. She’s…” He paused, seemingly digging through his vocabulary for any positive word he could find. “She’s usually very quiet. Just… occasionally, she has a very… spirited personality.” Spirited? I rolled my eyes so hard they almost went into the back of my skull. Pushing her Ivy League private tutor out of a second-story window and breaking his legs, pouring concentrated acid into her nanny’s thermos, dissecting the neighbor’s purebred Tibetan Mastiff alive… You call that spirited? That is textbook antisocial personality disorder. “That’s okay, Dad!” I chimed happily. “I love spirited sisters. I’ll make sure to take excellent care of her.” From the front passenger seat, Diana glanced at me through the rearview mirror. Her gaze was complicated—probably thinking I was just a naive, foolish kid walking straight into a meat grinder. 3 The car glided smoothly into the gated enclave nestled in the hills. From a distance, I could see the massive European-style estate sprawling like a sleeping beast in the shadows. The car had barely come to a halt, and before the chauffeur could even open the door—BOOM! A dull, heavy explosion echoed from the second floor of the villa, followed immediately by the sharp, agonizing screech of shattering glass. Richard’s face drained of all color instantly. Diana threw her door open and bolted toward the house. I followed at a leisurely pace. The moment I stepped through the grand double doors, a thick, choking stench of gasoline hit my nostrils. The foyer was a war zone. Priceless Ming dynasty porcelain lay shattered across the marble floor; the luxury leather sofas were slashed to ribbons, their foam stuffing spilling out like guts. Our middle-aged butler was clutching his bleeding forehead, practically crawling down the spiral staircase, shaking like a leaf. “Sir! Ma’am! Miss Beatrix… she’s having another episode!” The air in the foyer turned to ice. The maids and servants were huddled in the corners, terrified to make a sound. I looked up, following the sweep of the grand staircase. Standing by the second-floor balustrade was a little girl. That was Beatrix. She was wearing a pristine, custom-tailored black dress, her long dark hair half-veiling her face. If you ignored the red plastic gas can she was casually dangling from her left hand, she looked like a delicate little Victorian princess. Her skin was porcelain-pale, her features exquisitely delicate. But her eyes… those eyes were entirely devoid of life. They were like twin pools of stagnant water, hiding a violent, chaotic madness that threatened to swallow everything. She was flicking a heavy silver Zippo in her right hand. Flick. A flame danced. Snap. Darkness. In the absolute silence of the foyer, the rhythmic metallic clicking sounded like a countdown to execution. The chat went absolutely wild: [HIGH ALERT! HIGH ALERT!] [Nicky literally pissed his pants at this part in the previous loops.] [Beatrix’s stare is unreal. Chills down my spine.] [Get out of there, Demon Child! Don’t try to face her head-on, she will actually light the place up!] Richard was shaking with a mixture of terror and rage. He pointed a trembling finger upward. “Beatrix! What are you doing now? Put that lighter down!” Beatrix tilted her head. She didn’t even spare her father a glance. Instead, her eyes locked onto me, tracking me like a predator spotting prey. “Is this the new toy you bought me?” Her voice had the sweet clarity of a child, but her tone was bone-chillingly cold. “He looks kind of stupid.” A cruel, twisted smile touched her lips. “I’ll count to three. Get out of my house, or I’ll burn him along with the rest of this place.” She raised the Zippo. Flick. The flame reflected in her pitch-black eyes. Richard gasped, instinctively grabbing my shoulder to push me back toward the door. “Connor, get out! Go! Now!” I didn’t budge. I just stared up at that smug, arrogant little brat on the landing, and a wave of pure, unadulterated irritation surged straight to my head. The phantom agony of being vaporized four times over screamed in my mind. This was the little parasite responsible. I took a deep breath. Then, under the horrified stares of everyone in the room, I calmly unbuttoned the cheap, oversized jacket the orphanage had given me, slipped it off, and tossed it onto the ruined leather sofa. “Connor? What are you doing?” Richard stammered. I rolled my neck, my joints popping with a satisfying series of cracks. “Nothing, Dad. Just going up to introduce myself to my new sister.” I stepped forward, walking over the shards of glass and porcelain, heading straight for the stairs. “Stop!” Diana yelled. “Are you insane? Come back here!” I ignored her. Beatrix watched me ascend. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, but it was quickly replaced by a deeper, manic glee. “You aren’t afraid of dying?” She laughed, tossing the silver Zippo toward the Persian rug doused in gasoline. “Then burn.” The split second the lighter left her fingers, I burst into a sprint. Adrenaline flooding my seven-year-old body, I vaulted up the remaining steps like a predator. In mid-air, my foot connected perfectly with the falling lighter. Clack! The silver Zippo flew backward like a bullet, smashing against the wall and breaking into pieces. Beatrix froze. For the first time, her mask of cold, calculated indifference cracked. 4 Before she could even process the sight, I was in her face. The raw, terrifying strength of my past-life muscle memory exploded from this tiny seven-year-old frame. I grabbed her by the collar of her expensive designer dress and shoved her back with everything I had. Thud! Her back slammed hard against the solid oak balustrade. I didn’t give her a second to breathe. I clamped my hand around her throat, driving her upper body backward, dangling her out over the edge. A collective gasp echoed from the foyer below. Richard’s eyes rolled back, and he fainted right onto the floor. The butler let out a screech like a dying chicken. “Miss Beatrix!” Dangling five meters above the ground, Beatrix’s feet lost contact with the floor. If I let go, she would plummet onto the hard marble below. It wouldn’t kill her, but it would definitely shatter a few bones. I looked down at her, watching the panic finally leak into her pale face. “Toy?” I bared my teeth in a savage grin. “Today, kid, I’m going to teach you what a real machine feels like.” The chat was moving so fast it was practically lagging: [HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT!!!] [Is this a drama? This feels like an action movie!] [Incredible! Beat her down, Demon Child!] [Oh my god, goosebumps! This is the best twist ever!] Beatrix’s face began to flush red from the lack of air. She clawed at my wrist, trying to pry my fingers loose. But it was useless. My grip was like a steel vice. Just as I was about to haul her back and deliver a couple of solid slaps to her cheeks, she stopped struggling. Her flushed face suddenly twisted into an incredibly eerie, manic grin. Looking at me, her eyes held no fear of death—only a sick, triumphant madness. Shit. What’s that sound? My stomach dropped. The next instant, her right hand, which had been hanging limply at her side, snapped up with terrifying speed. A small, black object pressed firmly against my ribs. Bzzzt. The low hum of electrical current crackled at point-blank range. It was a custom-modified, high-voltage pocket taser. Beatrix stared at me, her voice raspy but trembling with a sickening thrill. “Got you, little mouse.” She pulled the trigger without a second thought. BZZZZT! A high-voltage shock surged directly into my side. Blue arcs of electricity crackled between us. Any normal seven-year-old would have been on the floor foaming at the mouth, losing control of their bladder. But my grip didn’t waiver. Damn. Did it hurt? Absolutely. The sensation of my muscles seizing up surged straight up my spine. But compared to having my organs vaporized and my bones turned to ash four times? This electricity was nothing more than a cheap, crappy massage. I locked my eyes onto hers and grinned. In my rush, I’d bitten my lip, and blood was smeared across my teeth. “That all the voltage you got?” my voice came out raw and mockingly cold. “Did you forget to eat breakfast?” As Beatrix’s pupils dilated in sheer, unadulterated horror—as if she were looking at an actual demon—I tightened my grip on her collar, hoisted her up, and drove my forehead violently into her nose. Crack! The dull, sickening sound of cartilage meeting bone. She let out a high-pitched shriek. Her hand went limp, and the modified taser slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the marble floor below and breaking in two. A torrent of dark red blood erupted from her nose, painting her pale, perfect face. I hauled her back over the railing like a wet rag and threw her hard onto the floor of the hallway. Before she could even try to crawl away, I straddled her waist, pinned her down, and began raining slaps down on her face. Slap! Slap! Slap! The sharp cracks echoed loudly through the cavernous estate. “You want to play with fire? You want to shock me? You think you’re hot shit, huh?” One blow after another. No fancy techniques—just raw, therapeutic, physical education.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “479980”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel