Author: Momo Chan

1 The sixth time I ended up at the precinct after a physical altercation with my husband’s ex-wife, Grant finally broke. He grabbed a pair of scissors from the desk and, right in front of the officers and me, plunged them into his own shoulder. “Are you satisfied now, Riley?” he choked out, his voice trembling with a terrifying mix of rage and despair. I stood frozen, the air in the room suddenly too thin to breathe. Before I could even process the sight of the blood blooming through his dress shirt, he snatched a box cutter from the evidence table and dragged it across his wrist. “Is this enough? Will you finally leave Sloane alone?” He collapsed against the wall, gasping. “She was my wife once. That’s her only crime. Why can’t you just let her live?” Watching the sheer finality in his eyes, I felt a sudden, hollow click in my chest. Something had finally snapped, but it wasn’t my mind—it was my heart. The previous five times I’d caught them together, I was the one spiraling. I was the one who had slashed my wrists, threatened to jump from our balcony, and ended up in the hospital for a week after a hair-pulling, nail-clawing brawl with Sloane. I had fought for him like a woman possessed. But this time, looking at the dark, rhythmic pulsing of blood from his wounds, I just felt… tired. All that hysteria, all that disregard for his own life—none of it was for me. It was for her. He was willing to bleed out just to protect the woman who had spent the last year dismantling our marriage. If this was the price of our life together—this mutual, bloody destruction—I didn’t want to pay it anymore. While I stood there in a daze, a group of officers rushed forward to tackle him, prying the blade from his hand and shouting for a medic. They tried to hold him down to stanch the bleeding, but Grant fought them off with a feral strength. He crawled toward me, leaving a smeared trail of crimson on the linoleum floor, and collapsed at my feet. He sank to his knees, clutching the hem of my jeans. “Riley, please,” he sobbed, his forehead resting against my shins. “Show some mercy. Let Sloane go. She’s not alone anymore. She’s… she’s two months pregnant.” My breath hitched. My hand instinctively moved toward my own stomach, hovering over the secret I hadn’t yet told him. I couldn’t make a sound. “I’m the one who messed up,” Grant whispered, his voice thick with tears. “That night… I was drunk. I thought she was you. I’ll give you my life, I’ll give you anything, just stop hounding them. Stop bullying her.” He looked up at me, his eyes bloodshot and pleading. “Riley, you’re a doctor. You know exactly how to hit someone so it hurts like hell but doesn’t leave a mark the police can track. But Sloane isn’t like you. She’s fragile. She doesn’t have your… your calculated edge. I’m begging you. Just sign the non-prosecution affidavit. Let this go.” A single, hot tear finally escaped and rolled down my cheek. Six fights. Every single time, I was the one with the real injuries—the concussions, the bruised ribs, the bite marks. Every time the medical examiner looked at us, I was the victim. But Grant refused to see it. To him, I was the villain—the cold, calculating surgeon who knew how to manipulate the system and inflict “invisible” pain on his “innocent” ex-wife. He didn’t see my blackened eye. He didn’t see the patch of hair Sloane had ripped from my scalp or the deep scratches covering my arms. He only saw her tears. “And if I don’t sign?” I asked, my voice raspy. I let out a jagged, mocking laugh. “Riley!” Grant stood up, wiping the blood from his brow with a cold, detached motion. The vulnerability was gone, replaced by a chilling threat. “Do I really have to say it? If you keep pressing charges against Sloane, I’ll go public. I’ll tell everyone about the private investigators you hired to stalk me, the hidden cameras you put in my office… and I’ll remind the world that I’m the one who took a knife for you three years ago. Don’t make me ruin you.” The color drained from my face. My knees felt weak, and the laughter died in my throat, leaving only a bitter, ashen taste. “Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll sign.” It was drizzling when I stepped out of the precinct. Habit took over, and I turned to call for Grant, but I stopped when I saw him through the glass partition. He was on his phone, his face lit up with a relief so profound it hurt to watch. “Sloane? It’s done. She signed.” I couldn’t hear the rest, but I could imagine his tone. Don’t worry, baby. As long as I’m here, she can’t touch you. Even if you broke her ribs, I’d make sure you never saw the inside of a cell. I looked down at my shoes, watching the raindrops splash against the leather. There was a time when Grant would run through a downpour just to hold an umbrella over my head. When he made sure every lobster was peeled for me, every anniversary was a gala, every bad day was met with a bouquet. Now, all that devotion belonged to Sloane. I turned back as he walked out, his clothes still stained with his own blood. I looked at him—really looked at him—and said quietly, “If you love her this much, Grant, why haven’t you asked for a divorce?” He flinched, then let out a sharp, cynical breath. “As if you’d ever agree to that, Riley. You’ve made it clear you’d rather we both die in this house than let me go. I’ve accepted my sentence. I’m tied to you for life. I just ask that you leave Sloane and the baby out of it.” The last flickering ember of hope inside me went out. When I finally made it back to our penthouse, I didn’t even have time to kick off my heels before a burly security guard—a man I’d never seen before—blocked my path. Without a word, he physically steered me away from the hallway leading to the master suite. “Dr. Harrison, Mr. Harrison gave strict orders. You are not to go near Ms. Sloane.” I stared at the closed door of my own bedroom, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Grant… he brought her here?” The guard’s face remained a mask of professional indifference. “Ms. Sloane mentioned the house has ‘good energy’ for the pregnancy. She moved in this morning. Mr. Harrison was very considerate—he set up a room for you. It’s right behind the foyer.” I glanced at the door he was pointing to. It was a storage closet—maybe thirty square feet—usually meant for coats and vacuum cleaners. “Get out of my way,” I hissed, my temper flaring. I pushed past him, determined to see what kind of twisted game Sloane was playing now. But as I hurried toward the bedroom, a small pair of nail scissors slipped out of my pocket—the ones I’d used to cut a loose thread on my coat earlier. “Weapon!” the guard shouted. Before I could blink, my arms were pinned behind my back. I was slammed face-down onto the hardwood floor. He held me down with one hand and pulled out his radio. “Sir, you were right. Dr. Harrison just tried to come at her with a blade. I have her neutralized.” Through the phone on the floor, I heard Grant’s voice—cold, mocking, and utterly devoid of love. “Keep her there. I’m five minutes away.” “Let me go! Get off me!” I screamed, tears of frustration and humiliation spilling onto the floor. The guard didn’t move. He pulled a pair of zip-ties from his belt and bound my wrists behind my back, then dragged me into the storage closet and locked the door. “I’m sorry, Doctor,” he said through the slats. “Mr. Harrison warned us. He said you have an antisocial personality. He said if you can’t hurt others, you’ll hurt yourself. This is for your own safety.” I stopped struggling. The silence of the closet felt heavy, suffocating. “He called me… antisocial?” The guard didn’t answer. Seven years. For seven years, I had been the perfect wife. I’d managed his home, supported his career, cooked his meals, and loved him with everything I had. He used to tell me I was the gentlest soul he’d ever known. But his betrayals had turned me into a ghost, and now, he was using the trauma he caused to brand me a monster. Five minutes later, the front door opened. I heard Grant’s footsteps, then the rustle of shopping bags. I looked through the gap in the closet door. He was carrying bags from an upscale baby boutique—the exact items I had saved in my bookmarks months ago, hoping for a future that would never come. I remembered showing them to him on my laptop, curled up in his lap. “If we ever have a baby, Grant, can we get these?” He had kissed my temple and whispered, “Anything you want, Riley.” Now, he was buying them for her. “How is she? Is Sloane okay?” Grant asked the guard. “She’s fine, sir. The doctor is secured in the annex.” Grant let out a long, theatrical sigh of relief. He held up the bags and spoke loudly, clearly wanting me to hear. “Sloane said your taste in baby gear was the only thing about you she actually liked. So I bought it all. Don’t be petty about it, Riley. It’s not like you’ll be needing this stuff anytime soon.” I didn’t say a word. I just watched him through the slats, my eyes cold. A moment later, he unlocked the closet door. He looked at me with pure disgust as he cut the zip-ties. He threw the shopping bags at my feet. “Go ahead. Shred them, burn them, do whatever ‘crazy’ thing you have planned. Sloane and I are used to your tantrums.” He didn’t even flinch at the sight of my wrists, which were raw and bleeding from the plastic ties. There was no pity left. I looked down and felt a strange sense of peace. The man I had loved for a decade was gone. In his place was something rotting—something that looked like Grant but had the soul of a stranger. “Grant? Is that you?” The master bedroom door opened. Sloane stepped out, wearing one of my white silk nightgowns, her feet bare. The second her eyes landed on me, she began to scream, clutching her head. “No! No, please! Riley, I’m sorry! I’m not a homewrecker, I swear! Don’t hit me again! Please don’t hurt the baby!” Grant lunged toward her, catching her in his arms and pulling her against his chest. He whispered soothing words into her ear while glaring at me with a look of such concentrated venom it should have burned. Watching them—the “devoted” father and the “terrified” mother—I finally got it. Our marriage wasn’t a partnership; it was the backdrop for their grand, tragic romance. I was the obstacle they had to overcome to prove how “true” their love was. I reached into my pocket and felt the small white pill I’d taken from the hospital pharmacy earlier that morning. It was a termination pill. I had been holding onto it, paralyzed by indecision, still hoping for a miracle. But the miracle was dead. Without a second of hesitation, I put the pill in my mouth and swallowed it dry. Grant stood up and threw a dishcloth at my face. “This is your fault, Riley. Look at what you’ve done to her. Your constant harassment has given her severe PTSD. She can’t even see your face without shaking.” Harassment. I clutched the edge of the closet door as the memory of a year ago flooded back. The first time I found out he was cheating was the day after my first miscarriage. He told me he was going out to get me soup, but I found him in the hospital stairwell, his hands all over Sloane. He had knelt at my feet back then, sobbing, claiming she had forced herself on him. He begged for a second chance. And then a third. And a fourth. He’d even set up a shared GPS on our phones to “prove” his loyalty, not realizing he was just using it to track my movements so he could see her whenever I was at the hospital. And when I finally broke—when I screamed, when I tore down her studio banners, when I couldn’t stop the rage—he labeled me “insane.” Fine. I would give them exactly what they wanted. I stood up, my legs shaking, and reached into the drawer of the foyer table. I pulled out the divorce papers I’d had drawn up weeks ago. Grant’s face twisted the moment he saw the legal documents. He snatched them from my hand, but instead of reading them, he tore them into confetti. He lunged forward, grabbing me by the throat and pinning me against the floor-to-ceiling window. “I told you!” he hissed, his face inches from mine. “Stay away from Sloane’s business!” I struggled to breathe, clawing at his hands. Through the blurred edges of my vision, I looked down at the shredded paper on the floor. Those weren’t my divorce papers. Sloane had swapped them. On the floor lay high-resolution photos of Sloane’s bedroom window, taken from a distance—stalker photos. I looked at Sloane. She was standing behind Grant, her face a mask of faux-terror, but her eyes were gleaming with triumph. She gave me a tiny, mocking wink. “Grant… you… you’re wrong,” I managed to choke out. “I didn’t… take those…” The pain in my abdomen started then—a sharp, dragging cramp. With a burst of adrenaline I didn’t know I had, I grabbed a heavy ceramic vase from the side table and smashed it against the side of Grant’s head. He let go of my throat, stumbling back as blood began to trickle down his temple. He didn’t look angry. He looked… satisfied. “There she is,” he whispered, wiping the blood and staring at it. “There’s the real Riley. Just kill me, Riley. Kill me and leave Sloane alone. Would that make you happy?” I looked at him, my heart aching with a grief so profound it felt like a physical weight. “Grant, the papers in that drawer were divorce papers. I was letting you go. I was letting us both go.” The moment the words left my lips, the crushing weight on my chest lifted. But Grant’s expression shifted. For a split second, a flash of genuine panic crossed his face. “What kind of game is this, Riley? Another trap? Another way to make me feel guilty?” He shook his head, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “You won’t leave. You love the drama too much. You’d never let me go.” I wiped my nose and looked up at him, my gaze flat. “What is there left to love, Grant? Look at you.” Seven years ago, I had defied my parents to marry a man six years my senior. Back then, he was the brilliant, rising star of the tech world, and I was just a wide-eyed med student. He promised to be my rock. He promised his ex-wife was a closed chapter. “Riley, it was a merger of two families, nothing more. We were married for three months and it was miserable. You’re the only woman I’ve ever truly loved. There is no ‘out’ for us. It’s you and me until the end.” I was the only one who remembered those vows. He had buried them under a mountain of lies. I reached into my bag, pulled out my phone, and hit speed-dial for my attorney. Ten minutes later, a courier—who had been waiting nearby just in case—delivered a fresh set of papers. “I’m not joking, Grant. Sign them.” Grant’s hands were shaking as he gripped the pages. “You’re asking for nothing? You just want out?” His eyes scanned the final page. When he saw the “Zero Assets” clause, he seemed to lose his mind. “Get the notary in here,” he barked at the guard. A new set of documents was produced by his own legal team. He signed them without reading and threw them in my face. “Fine. Half the estate. I’m not having you go on the news claiming I left you penniless. Take the money and get out. I never want to see your face—” He stopped. I felt a warm, terrifying rush of fluid down my legs. My hand flew to Grant’s forearm, clutching him for support. His eyes widened. He looked down at the floor, at the bright red pool forming on the white rug beneath my skirt. “Riley? What… what is that?” He reached out to scoop me up, his face pale with sudden horror. But before he could touch me, Sloane dropped to the floor, clutching her stomach. “Grant! It hurts… the baby… I think it’s coming…” Sloane’s performance was amateur at best, but Grant didn’t care. He ignored the genuine agony in my eyes, shoved my hand away, and gathered Sloane into his arms. As he ran toward the door, he looked back at me, his lip curling in a sneer. “Nice try, Riley. You knew Sloane’s reputation was everything, so you staged a ‘miscarriage’ in front of a witness just to brand her a homewrecker. You really are a piece of work.” The room began to spin. The loss of blood was making everything dim and distant. I couldn’t even hear his insults anymore. I just curled into a ball on the floor, clutching those signed divorce papers to my chest like a lifeline. “I’m going,” I whispered to the empty room. “I’m finally going.” The smell of antiseptic was the first thing I noticed when I woke up. I jolted awake, my hand flying to my stomach. It was flat. Empty. A nurse noticed me moving and came over to adjust my IV. “Easy, honey. You’re lucky. If your neighbor hadn’t found you and called the paramedics, you wouldn’t have made it. You lost a lot of blood.” I stared at the ceiling, my mind a blank slate. “Your husband’s phone went straight to voicemail,” the nurse continued softly. “The neighbor who brought you in covered your intake fee. Do you want me to try calling him again?” I didn’t answer. The local anesthesia was wearing off, leaving a dull, hollow ache in its wake. From the room next door, I heard the sound of muffled laughter and a man’s low, murmuring voice. The nurse blushed slightly, giving me a sympathetic look. “Look at that couple next door. So sweet. The wife isn’t even pregnant—just a bit of low blood sugar—but her husband took the day off just to sit by her bed. He’s been hovering over her like she’s made of glass. Honestly, you should give your husband a piece of your mind. You actually lost a baby, and he’s nowhere to be found.” I didn’t feel anything—no anger, no sadness. I just reached up and pulled the IV out of my arm. “Wait! Where are you going? The bathroom is to the left!” I ignored her. I walked out of the room, my legs feeling like lead. As I passed the door to the next suite, I couldn’t help but look through the small observation window. There was Grant. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully blowing on a spoonful of soup before feeding it to Sloane. I looked at his hand—the one holding the spoon. I could see the jagged white scar across his knuckles. Three years ago, a disgruntled patient had come at me with a scalpel in the ER. Grant had stepped in front of me and taken the blade. Sixteen stitches. He hadn’t complained once. He had told me then that he’d take a thousand cuts to keep me safe. Now, that hand was tending to another woman. Inside the room, I heard Grant’s voice. “Don’t worry, Sloane. I’ve put the hospital on alert. I have sixteen guards on rotation. Riley won’t get within a mile of this floor.” He was right. I wasn’t going to cause a scene. I wasn’t going to scream. I took one last look at the man I used to know, then turned around and walked out of the hospital. That night, when Grant finally returned home with Sloane, he realized I was gone. He tried calling. No answer. He tried texting. A red exclamation point—I had blocked him. A flare of irritation rose in his chest. “Is she serious right now? All this drama over a period? She’s a doctor, for God’s sake. She knows it’s not a big deal.” He assumed I was just playing the martyr. He called the guard who had stayed behind. “Sir,” the guard said, sounding relieved. “I spent $2,600 taking Ms. Harrison to the clinic. Should I send you the invoice via Venmo or wire?” Grant frowned. “$2,600? For what? A box of tampons and an ego boost?” The guard didn’t argue. He just sent a photo of the discharge papers. Grant looked at the screen, expecting to see a bill for some minor outpatient procedure. Instead, the color drained from his face.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “551346”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day I went viral was the day the internet stripped me bare. Before I could even deactivate my burner account, I was trending globally. The reason? My “uncanny NPC energy.” It started when the industry’s biggest A-lister, Nate Cross, posted a teaser for his new thriller. Underneath, I’d commented: “Wow! The narrative architecture is sublime, the plot is a masterclass in tension, and your performance is simply transcendent. This is destined for peak viewership!” Then, the “America’s Sweetheart” actress, Hailey Quinn, posted a photo with her Golden Retriever. I was there, too: “Your canine companion is adorable! Those eyes are like polished obsidian. You two look like kindred spirits, offering one another warmth and silent solidarity.” It got worse. A fan posted a steamy piece of fanfiction about me and Nate Cross. I didn’t even read the tags before commenting: “What a stunning pair! The chemistry is palpable and the visual symmetry is breathtaking. They truly look like they were designed for each other. I’m so envious of this dynamic!” A fan replied: “Girl… did you even look at the thumbnail??!” The top comment on the trending hashtag read: “Jade Rivers: The Ultimate NPC Sister.” 1 My agent, Brenda, has a mantra: “Opportunity favors the prepared.” I’ve been prepared. For three years, I’ve worked like a dog, filming ten projects back-to-back. Most were supporting roles, but I poured my soul into every line of dialogue, every subtle glance. Luck just never looked my way. After three years, I was still the girl whose face people recognized but whose name they couldn’t quite recall. Brenda was reaching her breaking point. She even suggested the “Villain Edit” route—becoming the person everyone loves to hate just to get my numbers up. “At this point, we just need people to know you exist,” she’d snapped. I was terrified. The “clout-chaser” path was a one-way street to career suicide. Desperate, I went on an anonymous forum and asked: How do I effectively build a digital presence? The top-voted answer: “Do what I do. Comment on every single thing you see. High-traffic posts, niche threads, everything. You’ll farm engagement, and eventually, people will click on your profile just to see what kind of weirdo you are.” It was a lightbulb moment. From that day on, I became a ghost in the machine. I stayed active across every social platform, hunting for engagement. I used a burner account, of course—my official one was strictly monitored by Brenda. She always said our destiny was in our own hands. I decided to take hers literally. I found a post of a new mom showing off her newborn. I commented: “Your infant is truly exceptional! Those large eyes radiate a profound intelligence, and the lashes flutter like the delicate wings of a butterfly!” The mom replied: “Uh… thanks? Is this a bot?” I found a thread where someone was complaining about a “fake” best friend. I commented: “Interpersonal connections are a rare gift. This temporary friction is merely a crucible for your bond. May your friendship grow more robust through the corridors of time!” The poster replied: “…Okay, we made up. Thanks, NPC Sister.” I even commented on targeted ads. “This marketing campaign is incredibly innovative! It highlights the product’s utility with surgical precision. The copy is concise yet evocative. Bravo!” The brand replied: “Is this an automated response from our software?” When I saw people “shipping” celebrity couples, I jumped in the fray. “Haha! Their body language suggests a deep-seated intimacy. They are practically wearing their hearts on their sleeves!” User reply: “Switch to human mode, please.” Me: “…” User: “Oh my god, the bot knows how to use ellipses!” Finally, after weeks of relentless, day-and-night commenting, I gained a strange kind of cult following. I started seeing my “name” mentioned in threads I hadn’t even reached yet. “Has the NPC Sister weighed in on this yet?” “Saving a spot for the NPC Queen.” I felt a weird sense of accomplishment, even if I’d effectively lost my real identity. People genuinely believed I was an AI. My inbox was a graveyard of bizarre messages. One read: “Hey, it’s November 23rd. My stomach hurts and I’m sad. I’m never eating ice cream again. Just leaving this here.” Me: …Am I a diary now? Another: “Recipe for Sweet and Sour Pork: Wash the tenderloin, slice into strips, add salt, white pepper, and a splash of cooking wine…” Me: Great, I’m a cookbook. One more: “Top tier insults for gamers: ‘You’re like a gray sprinkle on a cupcake,’ ‘I’d agree with you but then we’d both be wrong’…” Me: And a burn book. Fantastic. But hey, they knew I existed. 2 I got bolder. I started commenting on everyone from A-list legends to viral pets. I even leaned into the bit and changed my handle to @TheAuthenticBot. A travel influencer posted a family vacation photo. I commented: “Such a wholesome tableau! The mutual support and care within this unit are evident. From the mundane details of daily life to these grand vistas, happiness permeates every frame. You are fortunate to possess such a foundation.” The replies were a synchronized wave: “The Bot has spoken.” “She’s everywhere.” “The NPC Queen’s reach is terrifying.” When Hailey Quinn posted that photo with her dog, I hit her with the “Kindred Spirits” line. When Nate Cross promoted our upcoming show, I went for it: “Wow! The narrative architecture is sublime, the plot is a masterclass in tension, and your performance is simply transcendent. This is destined for peak viewership!” Then I froze. Shit. That’s my show too. I went to delete it, but it was too late. The thread was already hundreds of comments deep. “First row! Everyone line up for a selfie with the Bot!” Someone even posted a meme of a girl with pigtails holding a vintage camera. My heart plummeted. My burner account was a perfect disguise, but the risk of exposure was rising. I was hovering over the delete button when Brenda called. “Have you seen @TheAuthenticBot’s latest comment?” she asked, her voice buzzing with excitement. “She’s the biggest thing on the internet right now. Quick, go interact with her from your official account. We need to piggback on that heat.” The irony was so thick I could choke on it. I was being told to clout-chase myself. “I don’t know, Brenda,” I stammered. “I’m an actress. She’s… she’s a meme. It feels a bit desperate.” Brenda didn’t hold back. “Jade, this is your third lead role, and nobody knows who you are. To be blunt, that bot has ten times the cultural relevance you do. Move.” My ego took a direct hit. Under Brenda’s metaphorical gun, I logged into my official account and replied to my own bot comment. “Sincere praise is like a breath of fresh air. Thank you, @TheAuthenticBot, for the thoughtful recommendation! I hope everyone tunes in!” The top replies to my “sincere” comment were: “Who is this?” “Oh, it’s that actress they keep trying to make happen. I can never remember her name.” “Look at her trying to trend off our NPC Queen. Cringe.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. 3 During the promotional cycle, “visibility” was the only currency that mattered. The night before the premiere, the three leads—Nate, Hailey, and myself—were scheduled for a live stream. The chat was 90% Nate and Hailey stans. The names “NATE” and “HAILEY” scrolled past so fast they became a blur. Occasionally, a stray comment would pop up: “Who’s the girl in the middle?” “I think it’s June Rivers?” My name is Jade. Thank you so much. I sat there like I was on a bed of nails. The host was a seasoned industry shark who knew exactly where the power lay. He laughed with Nate and flirted with Hailey, treating me like a prop that happened to be in the frame. I just sat there, forced into a permanent, vacant smile. The chat: “June’s smile makes her look like she’s internally screaming.” I was internally screaming. I was wondering why I was even there. Finally, the host turned to Nate. “Nate, any fun stories from the set?” Nate smiled—that devastating, million-dollar smile—and then, to my shock, he turned to me. “Actually, my favorite memory is the first time I met Jade.” Wait. Did he just call me “Jade”? I perked up, my curiosity matching the sudden spike in the chat’s speed. “It was late,” Nate said, leaning back. “We were doing a table read, everyone was exhausted, and the energy was just… heavy. I tried to lighten the mood with a joke. It wasn’t a good joke. It was terrible, actually. Everyone gave me that polite, awkward pity-laugh. I was dying inside. Then, Jade spoke up.” He looked at me, his eyes crinkling. “She said, ‘Haha! That jest was remarkably clever. The construction was innovative, the delivery was vivid, and the unexpected subversion of expectations created a profound comedic effect. Truly stellar.’” The chat exploded: “Wait, that phrasing…” “Why does she sound like the NPC Queen??” The host was leaning in now. “And then? What happened?” Nate laughed. “And then, for the first time that night, everyone actually laughed. For real.” The host shifted the mic to Hailey. “Hailey, what about you? Any ‘Jade stories’?” Hailey tilted her head, then burst out laughing. “Oh god, yes. It was during the big stunt sequence in the third act. I twisted my ankle on the wires. Jade took me to the ER, got me my meds, and then went back to finish her scenes. She kept texting me to check in.” She mimicked a robotic voice: “Jade asked, ‘Are you feeling better?’ I said yes. She said, ‘That is good.’ Then she asked, ‘Have you taken your medication?’ I said yes. She said, ‘That is good.’ Then she asked, ‘Do you require assistance with your leave of absence?’ I said no, I’ll be back in a day. She said, ‘That is good.’ Finally, I told her, ‘Thanks so much, I really appreciate you.’ And she replied, ‘Your wellness is my happiness.’” The host nearly fell off his chair laughing. I was genuinely confused. “Is that… is that not how normal people talk?” The chat: “LMAO Jade is actually a bot.” “Is her phone set to auto-reply??” “Did she work in tech support before this?” “Is this a bit? Please tell me this is a bit.” The live stream ended in a roar of laughter. For the first time, people weren’t asking who I was. 4 I ran home and immediately logged into the burner account. The notifications were insane. Nate Cross had replied to my bot comment. “Thank you.” Two words. That was it. And it had catapulted me to the top of the trending page. The “Nate Effect” was real. I decided to strike while the iron was hot and went through Nate’s recent posts. Nate posted about having insomnia. I commented: “Sleeplessness is a catalyst for anxiety, which in turn fuels sleeplessness. Please maintain a calm disposition. This state is merely transitory; balance will return.” Nate replied: “Thank you. I actually feel better already.” Fans: “Wait, why is this kind of cute?” Nate posted a gallery of professional headshots. I commented: “Wow! You are a masterpiece sculpted by the divine. From a distance, you are breathtaking; up close, you are aesthetically perfect. You have truly captivated the masses!” Nate replied: “Haha, did I captivate you too?” Fans lost their minds: “The Clueless Bot vs. The Flirty Movie Star. I am OBSESSED.” Nate posted: “I think I’m falling for someone.” I commented: “Infatuation is not a coincidence; it is the culmination of accumulated affinity. Affection cannot wait; you must declare your intentions immediately!” Nate replied: “Haha. Can I declare them to you?” The internet went into a meltdown. “The NPC Queen and Nate Cross? I didn’t have this on my 2024 bingo card.” “Why do they have more chemistry than most rom-coms?” “I am literally screaming. Please date. Do it for me.” A “Nate x NPC” ship tag started trending. I stared at the screen, baffled. This was just polite social media interaction, right? One person being sincere, the other being polite. Where was the romance? 5 Of course, Brenda called. She was audibly vibrating with frustration. “You’re being outplayed by a bot, Jade! A bot!” “Maybe she’s just… really good at what she does?” I said weakly. “The show is airing!” Brenda screamed. “Nobody cares about the lead couple! They’re all shipping Nate with a ghost account! Do you know how bad this looks for your ‘star power’?” I shrugged, though she couldn’t see it. “Maybe tell Nate to stop replying to her?” Brenda couldn’t touch Nate. He was too big. So she took it out on me. “From now on, you interact with Nate on every post. If the Bot comments, you comment. You fight for that spotlight, Jade. Happiness is earned!” I felt a headache forming. I didn’t care about being a “star” anymore. If I was a supporting actress for the rest of my life, fine. But Nate’s engagement was too juicy to ignore. I started tracking every mention of his name. I stumbled across a high-engagement fanfiction about Nate. Without looking too closely at the content, I dropped a standard “Bot” compliment. “What a stunning pair! The chemistry is palpable and the visual symmetry is breathtaking. They truly look like they were designed for each other. I’m so envious of this dynamic!” Seconds later: “Girl… did you even look at the thumbnail??!” I looked. It was a Nate Cross x NPC Sister fanfic. The replies poured in: “Is the NPC Queen officially shipping herself with Nate?” “She’s a bot, guys. She probably just auto-liked it without reading.” “The Queen has spoken! I don’t care if she’s an AI, I ship it!” I put my head in my hands. How do I explain to these people that I’m a human woman? The “NPC Queen likes Nate fanfic” story hit the tabloids. Our show was ten episodes in, and while it was doing okay because of Nate, the real “show” was happening on Twitter. The producers, sensing a sinking ship, called for an emergency live stream to “save the ratings.” Another night of playing pretend. I posted a selfie to my official account to promote it. “See you all at 8:30 PM for the live stream!” Click. Send. Done.

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After I decided to forgive Grant for his affair, I started spending his money. I spent it with a vengeance. Six-figure Birkin bags. Seven-figure diamond necklaces. I threw money at private runway shows like I was trying to bury my grief under a mountain of luxury goods. Everyone in our circle thought I’d finally “seen the light.” They thought I had accepted the unspoken contract of a billionaire’s wife: his heart might stray, but the credit card remains limitless. Until I stumbled upon a post from his “little assistant.” Grant had taken her to a $30,000-a-night presidential suite. I filed for divorce the next morning. “Why?” Grant asked, his voice dripping with genuine confusion when he found the papers. “It’s just a hotel room, Natalie. It’s not like you haven’t stayed in a thousand of them.” Our friends were equally baffled. To them, I was being hysterical over a room. They didn’t understand. It wasn’t about the suite. It wasn’t about the Italian marble or the panoramic view of the Chicago skyline. It was because of a comment Grant left on her post—a piece of casual, devastating tenderness: “I couldn’t have my girl staying in some dump. She deserves better than that.” My mind flashed back to the year we were at our most desperate. We were hiding in a sixty-dollar-a-night roadside motel, the kind where the carpet smells of stale cigarettes and regret. I remembered the way Grant’s sweat and tears dripped onto the crook of my neck as he held me that night. Back then, he had whispered a vow into my skin: “Natalie, I swear to God, I’m never going to let you feel this small again.” 1 I didn’t feel small anymore. I just felt empty. Back then, sixty dollars was our grocery budget for a week. Grant had to spend twelve hours hauling crates at a warehouse just to earn that much. But now… sixty dollars? Sixty thousand? It was all the same to him. A flick of the wrist. A rounded-off number in a ledger. I had long since lost the girl who loved him, so I shouldn’t have expected him to remember the promises he made to her. When I saw that post, I didn’t scream. I didn’t break any of the expensive vases in our foyer. I simply sent him a text. I want a divorce. Grant didn’t reply. Instead, a notification popped up on my phone. A wire transfer. A string of zeros so long it looked like a glitch. It was his way of talking to me. Over the years, our marriage had become exactly like those zeros: a vast, hollow space where something meaningful used to be. I didn’t reject the money. I used it to hire the most ruthless divorce attorney in the city. The referral came from Eleanor Whitmore, a woman whose husband occupied the same tax bracket as Grant. When she handed me the lawyer’s card, she couldn’t help but ask. “Why now, Natalie? Really?” Infidelity wasn’t a scandal in our world; it was a Tuesday. When the rumors first started a year ago, the advice from the “Sisterhood of Scorned Wives” was unanimous. “Men are wired this way,” they’d say over chilled Chardonnay. “Close one eye. Keep the other on the assets. You worked too hard to build this empire to just hand the keys to some twenty-two-year-old with a spray tan.” Grant and I were high school sweethearts. We built everything from a shared desk in a cramped apartment. Maybe it was the sunk-cost fallacy. Maybe I was just tired. I had gradually accepted the “arrangement,” carving out my own little acre of peace within the fortress of our marriage. But I was done guarding the fort. 2 I pulled up the post on my phone and slid it across the marble table to Eleanor. She squinted at it, confused. “This is Piper’s burner account,” I said. Piper was Grant’s assistant. She was also the girl he’d been hiding for the better part of a year. I had spent months fighting with Grant about her, only for him to hide her deeper, protect her more fiercely. I had reached a point where I didn’t even want to know her name. Then, the algorithm, in its infinite cruelty, pushed her post into my feed. What’s the most expensive hotel you’ve ever stayed in? Show me yours! The user, posting under a generic handle, had answered her own prompt with a photo of a lavish bedroom. Is this what a $30,000 suite feels like? she’d written. My boyfriend really wanted me to see how the other half lives! The comments were a mix of envy and awe, people marveling at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Gold Coast. I wouldn’t have known it was her if it hadn’t been for the last photo in the carousel. It was a picture of a man’s wrist, partially obscured. Wrapped around his hand was a necktie. Deep navy silk with a subtle jacquard weave. I had bought that tie for Grant for our anniversary three years ago. It cost maybe thirty dollars at a department store sale. It was wildly beneath his current status, but at the time, Grant had kissed me and said, “If it’s from you, it’s the only thing I want to wear.” He wore it constantly back then. But as the gifts from “others” started piling up, the tie vanished from his rotation. Seeing it used as a prop in a mistress’s bedroom didn’t make me cry. It didn’t even make me angry. It just felt like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place. Eleanor still didn’t see the big deal. To her, it was just a young girl bragging on the internet about a luxury she didn’t earn. She gave me a patronizing smile. “It’s just a hotel, honey. You’ve stayed at the Ritz in Paris. You’ve had the penthouse in Dubai. Why let this bother you?” She was right. Ever since I’d stopped caring about Grant’s heart, I’d started bleeding his bank account dry. I had gone from the girl who grew up in hand-me-downs to the woman who didn’t blink at a five-figure invoice. The world thought I’d finally grown up. Grant thought I’d finally surrendered. 3 “It’s not about the room, Eleanor.” I tapped the screen, playing the top-pinned audio comment on the post. I had listened to it a hundred times before coming here. A few commenters had been snarky, calling Piper out for her “new money” bragging. She hadn’t ignored them. She’d gotten Grant to defend her. The audio was Grant’s voice—deep, lazy, and sharp with protective arrogance. “I couldn’t have my girl staying in some dump. She deserves better than that.” I could see it. I could see him lounging on that Egyptian cotton, Piper giggling as she showed him the mean comments, Grant pulling her close and speaking into her phone just to shut the world up for her. I didn’t explain this to Eleanor. Explaining that I was divorcing a billionaire over a voice memo would sound “precious” or “dramatic” to anyone else. But the heart has a strange way of making its final decisions in the quietest moments. I thanked Eleanor, walked out to my car, and called the lawyer. When he asked how soon I wanted to proceed, I told him, “Yesterday.” We set a meeting for later that afternoon. But as luck would have it, as I was walking toward the private dining room at the club to meet him, I ran straight into Grant. 4 We hadn’t seen each other in weeks. Once Grant realized I had stopped fighting him about his affairs, he stopped bothering with the “business trip” excuses. He just stopped coming home. Three days turned into a week, then a month. But he wasn’t alone. I didn’t need a detective to know who was on his arm. Piper was clinging to his elbow, chirping about something, surrounded by a group of Grant’s “yes-men.” When they saw me, the air in the hallway seemed to freeze. It was like someone had hit the pause button on a movie. “Hey… Natalie,” one of them stammered. It was an unnecessary greeting. We all could have pretended I was a ghost. But now that I’d been acknowledged, the silence became suffocating. Thankfully, my lawyer stepped out of the private room at that exact moment. I gave a curt nod to the group and turned my back on them. The hallway was quiet enough that I heard the whispers behind me. “Did she even see us?” “She nodded, didn’t she?” “I thought for sure she was going to make a scene. I thought she was here to catch him…” The voices faded. I realized then that their stillness hadn’t been out of respect or awkwardness. It was fear. They were waiting for the “crazy wife” to start screaming. I almost laughed. I had forgotten how much energy I used to spend trying to “catch” him. I realized with a jolt of pure clarity that I didn’t even care enough to look at him anymore. 5 Inside the room, I laid it out for the lawyer. “Divorce. No mediation. Whatever it takes to make it fast.” The lawyer adjusted his glasses. “Mrs. Miller, the fastest way is always a mutual agreement. If your husband contests this, it could drag on for years.” I knew that. After the meeting, I sat in the booth for a long time. When I finally stood up to leave, Grant was waiting by the door. I don’t know how long he’d been standing there, watching the door like a silent statue. When he saw me, he tilted his head, his eyes searching mine. “Who was that?” Hearing his voice in person felt strange, like a song I used to love but had forgotten the lyrics to. “A friend,” I said. “What kind of friend?” “A lawyer.” Grant stiffened. The casual arrogance in his posture vanished, replaced by a cold, simmering anger. “A lawyer? You’re serious about this? I thought you were just having a moment.” He let out a sharp, mocking breath. “What is this, Natalie? Another stunt?” I couldn’t blame him for thinking that. During our worst year, I had threatened to leave a thousand times. But those threats were always a cry for help—a desperate, clumsy attempt to get him to look at me, to choose me. I was twenty-two when I married him. We’d slept on a mattress in a basement, worked construction jobs, and shared a single cup of instant noodles. During the worst of the flu season years ago, when I was burning up with fever, Grant had gone door-to-door in our tenement building, begging neighbors for medicine until he found someone with a few spare pills. That Grant was the man I had been waiting for. I thought if I stayed long enough, if I was patient enough, he’d come back. But looking at the man in the $5,000 suit in front of me, I finally understood. People don’t change back. They only change forward. “My lawyer will contact you,” I said, trying to move past him. “Natalie!” He grabbed my wrist. His grip was cold, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. The tension between us was a physical weight. And then, the silence was broken by a high, bright voice. “Grant? Babe?”

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1 The sound of his rhythmic, sickening breath is a ghost that refuses to leave my skin. I was buried under my duvet, shaking so violently the bedframe rattled, a prisoner to the nightmare of three nights ago. Sleep wasn’t an escape; it was a trap. So, I grabbed my phone, desperate for the mindless hum of social media to drown out the silence. The first thing on my feed was a video. It was Madison, my best friend. She was on camera, her face a mask of perfectly curated grief, tears tracking down her cheeks like rain on a windowpane. She was describing an assault. Every detail she uttered—the smell of stale tobacco, the way the intruder’s hand felt against her throat, the specific sequence of the terror—was mine. She was telling my story, but she was claiming it was hers. When it happened, she was the first person I called. She was the one who held me while I sobbed, the one who gently guided me into a hot shower, whispering that I’d be okay. By the time I had stopped shaking enough to think, any physical evidence of that monster had been washed down the drain. “It’s okay, Harper,” she had whispered, pulling me into a hug that felt like sanctuary at the time. “You have that security camera in your bedroom, remember? We’ll find him. We’ll get justice.” I couldn’t bear to look at the footage myself. I was too broken. So, when Madison offered to take the files and go to the police for me, I didn’t hesitate. I trusted her more than I trusted my own shadow. We’d been inseparable since we were kids. Now, I watched her use those files to perform for an audience of strangers. I stumbled out of bed, my legs like lead, and threw open her bedroom door. “Why is that video online? Madison, take it down! Now!” Madison didn’t even flinch. She was sitting at her vanity, casually checking her engagement metrics. “Relax, babe. The internet is faster than the precinct. I’m putting it out there so people can help identify him. I’m doing this for you.” “You’re telling them it happened to you,” I hissed, my voice cracking. “I’m protecting your reputation, Harper. Do you really want the whole world knowing it was you? This way, the creep gets caught, and you stay clean. Don’t be so ungrateful.” My heart hammered against my ribs. I remembered the man’s voice, a gravelly rasp against my ear in the dark. “I’m coming back for you, little girl. You call the cops, and you’re dead.” It had been pitch black that night. I had fought so hard he’d shoved my face into the pillow to muffle my screams. He hadn’t seen my face clearly, but in the dim moonlight reflecting off the vanity mirror, I had caught a glimpse of him. A jagged scar across his cheek. Cold, dead eyes. I had planned to move out immediately, to disappear before he could find me again. But Madison had just put a target on her own back—or mine. “The video is clear enough for him to recognize the room, Madison! If he sees this, he’ll come back. You have to delete it!” Madison’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, her expression shifting from bored to annoyed. “Look, I have things to do. Just go back to bed and let me handle the PR, okay?” She stood up, grabbed my shoulders, and physically shoved me out of her room. The door clicked shut, locking me out. I paced the living room, my breath coming in shallow gasps. My eyes drifted to the TV. The screen was glowing. Madison had been casting her phone to the smart TV earlier, and she’d forgotten to disconnect. The messages appearing on the screen turned my blood to ice. 2 Connor [2:14 PM]: The video is blowing up. You’re playing the victim perfectly. Everyone’s eating it up. Madison [2:15 PM]: I know, right? That idiot cried so loud in the footage, it’s like she wanted to be a star. The GoFundMe is already at five grand. Madison [2:16 PM]: She tried to make me delete it just now. Hilarious. I’m not throwing away this kind of easy money. The room seemed to tilt. “That idiot.” She was talking about me. She wasn’t seeking justice; she was monetizing my trauma. My best friend was a vulture, picking at my bones before I was even dead. Then, the next message from my fiancé, Connor, shattered what was left of my soul. Connor [2:18 PM]: Did you handle the guy? Make sure he’s gone. If he gets picked up and talks, we’re screwed. Madison [2:19 PM]: Relax. He’s just some drifter from my hometown. A total scumbag who’d do anything for a fix. I paid him well, and I already scrubbed the physical evidence off her. Even if she goes to the feds, she’s got nothing but a video of a masked man. The world went silent. It wasn’t a random attack. It was a production. Directed by my fiancé, produced by my best friend. I felt a surge of nausea so violent I had to grip the back of the sofa. They had orchestrated my ruin just to get rid of me. Connor [2:21 PM]: I hate thinking about another guy touching her, even if it was the plan. It’s disgusting. Madison [2:22 PM]: Ugh, tell me about it. But this was the only way to get her to break it off with you. She’s so ‘noble’—she’ll think she’s tainted and doesn’t deserve you anymore. Plus, she’s loaded. Make her feel guilty enough, and she’ll hand over a massive ‘goodbye’ check. Their words were jagged glass in my heart. I had supported them both for years. I had paid for Connor’s MBA, covered Madison’s rent when she was “finding herself,” and stood by them when everyone else saw through their shallow facades. I pulled out my phone, my hands surprisingly steady now, and filmed the TV screen. I recorded every word of their betrayal. “Ah!” A muffled shriek came from Madison’s room. She must have realized her phone was still casting. I bolted to my room, threw myself onto the bed, and pulled the covers up. Seconds later, Madison burst in, her eyes darting around the room like a cornered rat. “Harper? Are you awake? Have you been out here?” I rubbed my eyes, feigning a groggy, tear-stained confusion. “What? Madison, what’s wrong? I’m trying to sleep.” She stared at me, searching for a crack in my mask. Finding none, she exhaled, her shoulders dropping. “Nothing, babe. I just… I felt bad for being mean earlier. I’m going to make us some dinner, okay?” I nodded silently, watching her leave. The moment the door shut, my face went cold. I opened my laptop and pulled up the original security footage—the one thing she thought I hadn’t watched. I forced myself to look. I watched the man. He was tall, built like a soldier, moving with a terrifying, calculated precision. And then I saw it—under the sleeves of his tactical jacket, the unmistakable puckered skin of old gunshot wounds. This wasn’t some “hometown drifter.” This was someone dangerous. Someone professional. Madison had lied to Connor. Or the man had lied to her. Either way, the wolf they’d invited into the house wasn’t on a leash. A plan began to form in the hollowed-out space where my heart used to be. 3 That evening, Madison laid out a spread that would have looked great on Instagram: pulled pork sliders, creamy slaw, and spicy buffalo wings. Everything I hated. Everything Connor loved. “Eat up, Harper,” she said, her voice dripping with fake honey. “You need your strength.” I sat there, picking at a slider, looking like a ghost of myself. “You know,” Madison said, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “I haven’t heard from Connor all day. He must be so worried. You really should tell him what happened.” I looked down at my plate. “I can’t. I’m… I’m ashamed, Maddie.” “I know, babe. And honestly? Connor is such a traditional guy. He’s always said he has this thing about ‘purity’ in a relationship. It’s not fair, but… you might be right to be worried.” She reached across the table, squeezing my hand. “Maybe it’s better to let him go before he looks at you with pity.” I felt like vomiting. “You’re right. I don’t deserve him anymore. Tell him… tell him I want to break up.” I fled to my room before she could see the murderous look in my eyes. Within minutes, my phone was buzzing with “missed calls” from Connor. I ignored them. Madison knocked and walked in without waiting. “He’s devastated, Harper. He’s crying. He says he spent his best years on you.” “I know,” I whispered into my pillow. “I should compensate him. For his time.” I reached into my nightstand and pulled out a folder. It contained the deed to the condo—the one my parents had bought for me as a graduation gift. “Give him the place. I can’t stay here anyway. I’m going to my parents’ house upstate.” Madison’s eyes practically turned into dollar signs. “The condo? Are you sure?” “I just want it all to be over,” I said, sounding broken. She practically skipped out of the room. I waited until I heard her front door close. Then, I pulled out my suitcase. I didn’t book a flight upstate. I booked a flight to London. My parents had moved there for my father’s hedge fund job two years ago. I had stayed in the States for Connor. If Madison and Connor wanted my life, they could have it. Including the monster they’d invited into it.

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1 My boyfriend vanished into thin air in the middle of our graduation trip to Sedona. I had only stepped out for ten minutes to grab our DoorDash order from the lobby. When I unlocked the door to our suite, the room was chillingly still. Bennett was gone. At first, I thought he’d just run down to the vending machine. But as the desert sun dipped below the horizon and the hours ticked toward midnight, panic began to claw at my throat. His phone went straight to voicemail. The silence in the room felt heavy, unnatural. I sprinted down to the front desk, my voice trembling. “My boyfriend—Bennett Hayes. He’s missing. He was in Room 412.” The receptionist looked at me, her expression shifting from professional patience to genuine confusion. “Ma’am, I checked you in myself. You booked a single king suite. There was no one else with you.” My heart did a slow, sickening roll. I fumbled for my phone and called my two best friends, Harper and Riley, who were staying in the room down the hall. “Sloane, what are you talking about?” Harper’s voice sounded sleepy and concerned. “You don’t have a boyfriend. You’ve been single since middle school. Did you have a nightmare?” Desperate, I called the police. But when the officers arrived and did a sweep, they didn’t find a single trace of him. No extra toothbrush. No male clothes. Nothing. The lead detective leveled a hard stare at me. “Filing a false police report is a serious crime, Miss Miller. You’re the state valedictorian. You have a full ride to Stanford starting in the fall. Do you really want to throw your entire future away on a prank?” I stood there, paralyzed. It made no sense. Bennett’s luggage had been right next to the dresser. His boarding pass had been on the nightstand. How could it all be gone? Broken and gaslit by the world, I wandered up to the hotel’s rooftop observation deck—the place where we had watched the stars just the night before. The place where he’d promised me forever. Overwhelmed by a grief I couldn’t explain and a reality I no longer recognized, I let myself fall. The wind roared in my ears. Impact. Darkness. Then, a gasp. I bolted upright, lungs burning as if I’d forgotten how to breathe. I was back in the hotel room. The clock on the wall read 7:15 PM—the exact moment Bennett disappeared. I didn’t wait. I didn’t search. I grabbed my phone and dialed 911. “I want to report a murder,” I said, my voice steady despite the violent shaking of my hands. “My boyfriend has been killed. His body is hidden somewhere in this hotel.” My eyes locked onto the nightstand. There it was. A bottle of Fiji water, its cap missing, abandoned in a hurry. In the final, agonizing second before I died in my previous life, I had seen a flash of something. A reflection in the glass of the maintenance elevator. I knew where he was now. And this time, I wasn’t going to let the monsters get away with it. 2 The police arrived with surprising speed, sealing off the resort. The lobby was a sea of confused tourists in bathrobes and hiking gear, all grumbling about the sudden lockdown. Harper and Riley found me near the elevators, their eyes wide with disbelief. “Sloane, are you insane?” Harper hissed, grabbing my arm. “The cops are saying you reported a homicide. We’ve been together this whole trip. It’s just been the three of us! Where did you even get the idea you had a boyfriend?” The receptionist from before—the one who would eventually deny Bennett’s existence—sighed and looked at the officers. “Look at the CCTV, officers. She checked in alone. She didn’t present any other ID. I think she’s having some kind of mental break.” I felt the heat of anger rising in my chest, a sharp contrast to the cold dread of the previous timeline. “If I came here alone,” I challenged, my voice ringing through the lobby, “why didn’t I stay in the triple room with them? Why would I pay five hundred dollars a night for a private king suite if I was just going to sleep alone?” They exchanged looks. Riley shook her head, her face full of pity. “Sloane, you told us you’re a light sleeper and wanted to splurge for the ‘Valedictorian treatment.’ We even joked about how we were jealous of your fancy tub. How could you forget that? It was only three hours ago.” On the monitor behind the desk, the footage played. It showed me at the counter, laughing and gesturing toward Harper and Riley. But the space beside me—the space where Bennett had stood, his hand resting protectively on the small of my back—was empty. Detective Russo, a weathered man with graying temples, stepped toward me. His radio crackled with reports from his team. After a few hushed words, he turned to me, his face a mask of frustration. “We’ve called your parents. We’ve checked your social media. Everyone says the same thing: Sloane Miller doesn’t have a boyfriend. Do you have any idea the kind of resources you’re wasting right now?” 3 The weight of their collective doubt was a physical thing, pushing the air out of my lungs. In my last life, I had tried to show them Bennett’s things, but they had mocked me, claiming I’d stolen them from another guest’s luggage. They had threatened to institutionalize me. This time, I didn’t waste time pleading. I dragged Bennett’s black Samsonite suitcase out from behind the bellhop’s cart where I’d hidden it during the chaos. I threw it onto the marble floor and shoved his crumpled boarding pass into Russo’s hand. “If I’m traveling alone, why do I have a suitcase full of men’s clothes? Why am I carrying his ID?” Russo glanced at the boarding pass: Bennett Hayes. Seat 14C. He frowned, his skepticism wavering for the first time. But Harper leaned in, looking at the paper. “Sloane, you probably found that on the plane. You’re obsessed with these ‘missing person’ podcasts. Did you just pick a random name and decide he was yours? This is getting scary.” “She’s ‘maladaptive daydreaming’ again,” Riley whispered loud enough for the detective to hear. The helplessness threatened to swallow me whole. I thought of Bennett—of the way his blood had looked against the white tiles in my vision. I forced myself to stay upright. “He wasn’t on our original booking,” I said, my voice cracking. “He decided to come at the last minute because he didn’t want us traveling to a remote resort alone. He bought a standby ticket, which is why we weren’t sitting together. You all thanked him for coming! You said you felt safer with a guy around. Why are you lying now?” Russo’s patience snapped. “A boarding pass doesn’t prove a relationship. Look, kid, you’ve clearly had a long semester. I’m going to let this go because of your academic record, but if you don’t stop this right now, I’m taking you in for filing a false report.” “Check the suitcase,” I whispered, opening it. “Look at the ID inside.” Russo knelt down. Inside were Bennett’s hoodies, his sneakers, and his wallet. His driver’s license stared back at us—the face of the boy I loved. Russo pulled out his phone and called the airline. When he hung up, his face was pale. “The airline confirms Bennett Hayes was on the flight. And he hasn’t checked out of his luggage.” He looked at the phone number I had pulled up on my screen, labeled with a pig emoji and a heart. He dialed the number he got from the airline. The phone in my hand began to vibrate. 4 “If he exists,” Harper cut in, her voice shrill with a strange kind of desperation, “it’s because she’s a stalker! Sloane has always been obsessed with guys she can’t have. She probably saw this Bennett guy at the airport, stole his bag, and built a whole fantasy in her head!” To prove her point, she pulled out her phone and showed Russo a video from a month ago—me pointing at a cute guy in a coffee shop and giggling. “See? She does this all the time.” “That was before Bennett!” I screamed. “I told you guys last week he asked me out. I told you I was done looking at anyone else! Look at my phone! Look at the photos of us!” Russo took my phone. He swiped through the gallery, his face hardening with every second. He turned the screen toward me. It was just me. Dozens of selfies. Photos of the desert. Photos of my friends. Bennett was gone from every single one of them. I stared at the screen, my heart stopping. How? We had taken a photo at the trailhead just this morning. It was gone. Everything was gone. The lobby erupted. The guests who had been forced to stay were shouting insults at me. “She’s a psycho!” “Valedictorian? More like a mental patient!” “Lock her up!” The pressure was suffocating. In my last life, this was where I broke. This was where I became the ‘State Pride turned Local Pariah.’ I looked at Russo’s handcuffs. I thought about the Ivy League future waiting for me. I could stop now. I could say it was a breakdown, go home, and go to Stanford. I could have a “perfect” life. But then I remembered Bennett on the rooftop a week ago. He’d been so nervous, his face turning beet-red as he fumbled with a small velvet pouch. Inside was a simple sterling silver band he’d hammered himself in shop class. “I know it’s not much,” he’d whispered, “but I’m going to work three jobs this summer. I’m going to make sure you never have to worry about anything.” He had come here to protect me. And he had died for it. I stepped forward and held out my wrists. “Arrest me,” I said, my voice cold and clear. “Throw away my future. I don’t care. But do not leave this hotel until you find his body. He is in the maintenance shaft behind the kitchen. If you don’t find him, you’re letting a murderer walk free.” Russo hesitated. The crowd was filming me on their iPhones, the flashes like strobes in a nightmare.

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1 In the eighth year of our relationship, Cade Miller asked for a divorce. Or rather, he asked to end us. We weren’t married—not legally—though for nearly a decade, I had been his wife in every way that mattered. I was in the kitchen, poaching eggs and browning sourdough when he said it. “Sienna, you’ve spent your best years on me. I don’t want you to waste any more of your life in my shadow.” The smell of butter was suddenly nauseating. I didn’t turn around. “We’ve been together eight years,” he continued, his voice as smooth and detached as if he were critiquing a canvas at a gallery opening. “I’ll write you a check. A settlement for your time. Think of it as a severance package for a life lived well.” He was leaning against the doorframe, his eyes devoid of the warmth that had once burned through me. He looked exactly the same as he did when he spent a year relentlessly pursuing me—decisive, focused, and utterly self-involved. Years ago, Cade had offhandedly mentioned over wine: “An artist needs inspiration. They need new women to spark the fire.” At the time, I thought he was talking about the Greats—Picasso, Dalí, the tortured men of history. Now, I finally understood the subtext. I was no longer the spark. I was just the ash. I simply nodded. On the day he was set to marry someone else, I’d be on a flight to Germany with nothing but a suitcase and a recommendation letter he’d written years ago. The day Cade broke up with me started like any other Sunday. I was his anchor, his chef, his manager, his peace. I knew the rhythm of his breathing better than my own. For eight years, we lived in a chic, light-filled loft in Brooklyn, moving through life with the practiced ease of a long-married couple. I had met him at a subway station. He had chased me down, begging for my number, claiming I had “the most haunted eyes he’d ever seen.” I didn’t know then that he was the Cade Miller, the darling of the contemporary art world. I only knew he was gentle and attentive. A year later, I was won over. To the public, he was the sophisticated artist—bow ties, linen shirts, a brilliant conversationalist. To me, he was a man who couldn’t remember to eat, who didn’t know how to pay a utility bill, who would paint for forty-eight hours straight until his fingers bled. I was the one who bandaged those fingers. I was the one who made sure he didn’t starve. But eight years is a long time for a man who feeds on novelty. The tide of “us” had gone out, leaving nothing but wet sand. “Sienna, let’s end this,” he said from the kitchen doorway. “I know this isn’t what you wanted, but I’ve realized I’m just not the marrying type. Not with you.” He paused, adjusting the cuff of his shirt. “I don’t want to fail you anymore. Let’s make this a clean break. The eight years you’ve given me… I’ve calculated a figure. It’ll be in your account by Monday.” Clang. My fork hit the floor. 2 I looked at him, searching for a flicker of regret. There was none. Only the terrifying clarity of a man who had already moved on. “Fine,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “If that’s what you’ve decided.” I moved past him to go to the bedroom to pack. “Stay until you find a place,” he called out after me. “There’s no rush.” “Right,” I replied. The bedroom was dominated by a massive oil painting on the far wall. It was a portrait of me he’d painted during our “honeymoon” phase. Back then, a piece of his could easily fetch five million at auction. I knew I was looking at a fortune, but I never saw the dollar signs. To me, it was a testament of love—something that couldn’t be quantified. The doorbell rang. I assumed it was his Postmates order. I opened the door to find a woman standing there. She was radiant, glowing with that specific, irritating energy of someone in their early twenties. Her eyes… they were a three-quarter match for mine eight years ago. But I was twenty-eight now. Life had happened to my face. “Hi! I’m looking for Cade,” she said, her smile wide and bright, though her eyes scanned me with a sharp, territorial instinct. “Is he in, Ma’am?” Ma’am. The word felt like a slap. “He’s in,” I said, stepping back. She brushed past me, leaving a trail of white tea perfume in her wake. “Cade! Cade, honey, I’m here!” Seconds later, I heard her giggles from down the hall, followed by Cade’s low, indulgent laugh. Eight years ago, that was us. I was the one causing the chaos; he was the one smiling through it. We had shared every inch of this space for nearly a decade. He used to tell me I had a natural gift for color. He used to hold me and whisper, “Sienna, you are my Muse. Without you, the canvas is dead.” I realized then that an artist doesn’t just have one Muse. They have a gallery of them. 3 I heard footsteps approaching. Cade was walking her to the door. As she left, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him—a lingering, performative kiss. “I’ll be waiting for your answer,” she chirped. The door clicked shut. A moment later, there was a knock on my bedroom door. “Sienna? Can we talk?” I opened the door. Cade’s handsome face was marred by a smudge of bright pink lipstick on his jaw. “What is it, Cade?” His voice was hoarse. “You noticed, didn’t you? How much she looks like you used to look.” He stepped into the room, his eyes suddenly alive with a frantic, manic energy. “It’s been years since I felt that… that electric charge from you. But she? She gives me blood. She makes me feel like it’s eight years ago again.” “But it isn’t eight years ago, Cade,” I said softly. “People change. You changed. I changed.” His excitement flickered, turning into a strange sort of melancholy. “I know. But I’m captivated. In her, I’m talking to the ghost of who you were. I’m communicating with the version of you that I loved most.” I looked at him and realized I didn’t know this man anymore. He was more obsessed with the idea of art than the reality of human beings. I couldn’t find the energy to argue. “I’m going to marry her,” he said suddenly. “It’s the ending we should have had eight years ago.” He turned and walked back to his studio without waiting for a response. Marriage. I let out a jagged, self-deprecating laugh. So, he was the marrying type. He just wasn’t the “staying” type. He wanted to marry a memory, not a woman. To him, a Muse was just a piece of equipment—something to be used until the inspiration ran dry, then replaced. 4 I stayed in that room for a long time, staring at the portrait on the wall. In the corner of the closet sat a dusty box of professional-grade paints and brushes he had gifted me in our second year. He’d told me then that I had a “soul for light,” and for a while, I believed I could stand beside him as an equal. But then came the dinners, the laundry, the scheduling, the emotional labor of keeping a “genius” afloat. I had become the frame, and he was the masterpiece. I picked up a brush. It felt like an old friend, familiar and heavy with potential. I decided to paint him. Just once. The way he had painted me so many times. The paint moved for me. It didn’t feel like work; it felt like an exorcism. I worked through the night, the colors bleeding together as the sun began to peek through the Brooklyn skyline. When I was finished, I took down the multi-million dollar portrait of myself. In its place, I hung my own canvas. I wrapped his portrait of me in bubble wrap and took it to a high-end gallery in Chelsea. The curator’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when I told him what I had. “You’re saying you have the ‘Sienna’ original? The one Miller swore he’d never sell?” In the art world, a piece dedicated to a specific person—especially a long-term partner—is considered the “holy grail.” Cade’s output had slowed significantly in recent years; his value was skyrocketing because of the scarcity. I signed the consignment papers. As I stepped out of the gallery, I ran right into Cade and the girl from the day before. Talia. “What are you doing here?” Cade asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. He knew I didn’t care for the “scene.” He assumed I had no interest in the world he inhabited. He had no idea that for him, I had spent years studying art history and market trends in private, just so I could understand his world. “Just taking care of some business,” I said. “Cade, babe, let’s go,” Talia pouted, tugging at his arm. “You promised we’d look at the new expressionist wing.” The gallery owner stepped out just then, spotting Cade. “Mr. Miller! What a surprise. If word gets out you’re here, we’ll be at capacity in ten minutes.”

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1 My roommate used my identity to catfish a girl named Sierra Miller. When he finally got caught, he cornered me in our dorm, begging me not to blow his cover. He claimed his family was in a medical crisis—his grandmother was dying—and that was the only reason he’d deceived her. He’d accepted massive wire transfers from her, money he could never hope to pay back. In my past life, I was a fool. I let pity cloud my judgment. I went along with the lie and stayed with Sierra to protect him. But after we got married and the truth eventually bled out, she turned into a monster. She spent years systematically breaking me. “Did you really think I loved this face?” she’d screamed, her voice jagged with contempt. “Your looks are nothing compared to the person I thought Jackson was. Give him back to me!” Then came the crash. The fire. The darkness. And then, the light. I opened my eyes to find myself back in senior year. I was standing outside the dorm lounge when Sierra intercepted me. She leaned in close, her designer perfume cloying and suffocating, as she brandished her phone. The screen was filled with flirtatious texts I had never sent. “Hey, babe,” she whispered, her eyes searching mine with a predatory sweetness. “Why are you acting like you don’t know me?” I looked at her, my heart like a stone in my chest. “Get lost,” I said. The playful smirk on Sierra’s face faltered, then turned into something sharper. She looked at the photos on her screen, then back at my face, comparing every line of my jaw, every curve of my brow. “Interesting,” she laughed, though there was no humor in it. “One second you’re calling me ‘wifey’ and ‘sweetheart’ over text, and the next you’re telling me to get lost? That’s cold, even for a guy like you.” Her almond-shaped eyes danced with a challenge. Her voice was pitched just loud enough for the passing students to slow down and stare. I didn’t blink. “You’ve got the wrong guy. Move.” Sierra let out a sharp, frustrated laugh, but she quickly smoothed her expression. She softened her tone, reaching for that practiced vulnerability. “I’m sorry, babe. I know you weren’t ready for us to meet in person yet. But I love you too much to wait. I couldn’t help myself. Please don’t be mad.” She tapped her screen rapidly. “Look, I just Zelled you fifty grand. It’s a peace offering. Let me take you out to a real dinner, okay? Somewhere expensive.” I had spent years watching her look at me with nothing but icy boredom. Seeing her this desperate, this fawning, was almost pathetic. “Do you even know my name?” I asked. Her thumb hovered over the screen. She looked up, confused. “Miles?” I let out a dry, mocking breath. “Didn’t you check the name on the bank account when you sent the money? It’s not mine.” Sierra reached out to ruffle my hair, but I jerked back. Her hand hung in the air for a second before she slowly curled her fingers into a fist. She forced another smile. “Silly. You told me you were using your parents’ secondary card because you didn’t want them tracking your spending. You told me to send it to your roommate’s account for safekeeping.” I stared at her, genuinely amazed by the level of self-delusion. “We’ve been ‘dating’ for months. Did you ever once FaceTime him?” Sierra froze. She shook her head slightly. “So, you’ve never seen his face. You decided the person you’re in love with is me based on a few photos, and you’re sending six-figure sums to a stranger? Did you skip every orientation seminar on fraud prevention?” I leaned in, my voice dropping to a cold whisper. “You’re being catfished. It’s a pig-butchering scam. If I were you, I’d call the cops.” Sierra still didn’t want to believe it. She was convinced I was just throwing a tantrum because she’d surprised me. She looked hurt, her lower lip trembling slightly. “Babe, stop it. We have something special. We were going to meet eventually. Besides…” She lowered her voice, a suggestive glint returning to her eyes. “You sent me those photos. The ones where you’re… barely dressed. I couldn’t resist. But don’t worry, I promise I won’t touch you until you say I can.” My blood turned to ice. “What photos?” She handed me her phone. On the screen was a shot taken through the frosted glass of the dorm showers. It was me, mid-change, a silhouette of muscle and skin, unmistakable to anyone who knew me. “That’s you, Miles. Only you could have sent that. Stop playing games.” I ignored her, scrolling through the chat history. There was Jackson, using my face as his avatar, whining like a spoiled child. Jackson (as Miles): “Babe, these internships are killing me. Look how much weight I’ve lost.” Sierra had responded instantly with a wire transfer of $131,452.00. Sierra: “I’ll take care of you, baby. My dad just bought me that villa in the hills—the one with the infinity pool. Why don’t we just move in together after graduation?” Jackson: “Hmph. I know what you women want. I’m not ready for that yet. Let’s talk after finals.” I felt a wave of nausea. In my last life, I never saw these messages. I’d assumed Jackson had just lifted photos from my Instagram. I didn’t realize he’d been stalking me in our own living space, taking candid shots of me while I was vulnerable. I took a picture of her screen with my own phone and immediately emailed it to the Dean of Students. Subject: Urgent – Privacy Violation and Harassment. An individual has been taking non-consensual, private photos of me in the dorms and distributing them. I expect a full investigation. If the university cannot handle this, I am calling the police. 2 When I got back to the room, Jackson was there, looking shifty as he stepped in from the balcony. I ignored him, sitting at my desk and opening my laptop. After a few minutes of agonizing silence, Jackson shuffled over. “Hey, Miles. That girl downstairs… who was she?” I kept my voice flat. “Some rich girl getting scammed by a catfish. I told her to call the police.” Jackson’s entire body went rigid. His phone began to buzz incessantly in his pocket—notifications from Sierra, no doubt—but he didn’t dare look at it. Finally, he cleared his throat, his voice raspy. “Miles… we’re best friends, right?” “Of course.” I turned my chair around, offering him a thin, sharp smile. In my previous life, I really did believe that. I felt for him. I knew his family was broke, and when he told me his grandmother was dying, I agreed to step in and play the part of Sierra’s boyfriend to save him from prison. I found out later that while his grandmother was sick, he hadn’t spent a dime on her. He’d used Sierra’s money for a designer wardrobe, a nose job, and a ticket to an MBA program in London. By the time he returned to the States, he was a different man. Back then, Sierra and I fought constantly. She hated that I wasn’t the “sweet, needy” boy she’d met online. At a New Year’s Eve party, she’d mocked me in front of everyone, calling me a “beautiful, brainless statue.” Jackson had been there, swirling a glass of expensive scotch. He’d laughed and said, “That’s because the guy you were talking to wasn’t Miles. It was me.” He’d winked at me then, acting like he’d done me a favor. “Miles is gorgeous, but he’s got the personality of a wet brick. I had to be his wingman just to get you two to the altar. You should probably put me at the head table when you renew your vows.” He’d made it sound like a harmless prank. But Sierra had stared at him, and I watched the light change in her eyes. When we got home that night, I told her everything. I thought she would understand. Instead, she turned on me. “So it was Jackson all along? The one who actually knew my soul? Why did you lie to me, Miles?” “Because he was going to go to jail!” I’d shouted. “He couldn’t pay you back!” “I didn’t care about the money!” she screamed. “I cared about the person on the other end of the phone! Do you think you’re so special just because of your face? His personality made you look like trash.” After that, she chased Jackson. She dragged me to every event where he might be. Once, when I was delirious with a 103-degree fever, she literally forced me into the car to attend his engagement party. “You’re faking it,” she’d hissed. “You’re just jealous he’s the one I actually want. You should be thanking him for helping a loser like you land someone like me.” “Sierra, he scammed you,” I’d whispered, shivering in the passenger seat. “He stole from you.” “Then I wish he’d kept stealing!” I remembered sitting at that wedding, watching Jackson—now polished, handsome, and married to a wealthy tech executive—while I wasted away. I found out from an old classmate that his grandmother had died in a state facility, alone and in pain, because the bills hadn’t been paid. The memory made my stomach turn. I had been a martyr for a sociopath. In that life, I finally tried to leave her. On the drive home from that wedding, Sierra lost her mind. She’d jerked the steering wheel, aiming the passenger side—my side—directly into a concrete barrier at eighty miles per hour. 3 “Miles, my grandma… she’s in the ICU. I was desperate…” I leaned back, watching Jackson spin the same lies he had used before. I felt nothing but a cold, clinical boredom. Suddenly, the door swung open. Our RA, Marcus, walked in, followed by a campus security officer. “Is everyone here?” Marcus asked, his face grim. “If anyone’s missing, give me their names. I need them back here now.” Our other two roommates were easy to track down. One was a pre-med student who lived in the library; the other was already working a tech internship and lived with his girlfriend most weekends. They were back within twenty minutes. Jackson was trembling. “What’s going on, Marcus?” Marcus shut the door and looked at the four of us. “Someone has been taking surreptitious photos of Miles in this suite and distributing them online. This is a felony-level privacy violation. If the person responsible steps forward now, we can handle this through the university. If not, the police are waiting downstairs.” Jackson’s knuckles turned white. Based on the reflections in the glass and the laundry pile in the background of the photo, we narrowed the time frame down to last Sunday. The pre-med roommate immediately pulled up his logs. “I was in the 24-hour lab all weekend. I have keycard swipes and security footage to prove I never came back to the room.” The tech intern showed photos of himself at a hiking trail three hours away. All eyes turned to Jackson. Jackson forced a shaky laugh. “Miles, man, you must be confused. Didn’t you ask me to take a picture of your back last weekend? You said you wanted to send it to some girl you were talking to. Maybe she’s the one who leaked it?” The room went silent. Everyone looked at me. Marcus sighed, looking disappointed. “Miles, if you’re involved in some kind of online drama, you need to be honest. Sending explicit photos to strangers is dangerous.” I let out a short, sharp laugh. “I didn’t ask him to take anything. I don’t have a ‘girl’ online. I have no idea what Jackson is talking about.” Jackson panicked. “Miles, come on! You told me you had a crush on Sierra Miller from the West Campus. You were too shy to talk to her, so I offered to help you out. I’ve been ghostwriting your texts for months. Did you forget?” I remembered that basketball mixer from the first life. Jackson had asked me who I thought was the prettiest girl there. I’d pointed to Sierra. He’d laughed at the time, saying Vivian Harper was way more my type, but that Sierra was “loaded” and wore shoes that cost more than his tuition. He was using a three-year-old casual comment to build a house of lies. I looked him dead in the eye. “So, let me get this straight. Because I supposedly liked a girl, you decided to take non-consensual photos of me while I was changing? And you decided to use my identity to solicit over a hundred thousand dollars from her?” Jackson’s face went from pale to ash-gray in a heartbeat. 4 In the Dean’s office, Jackson broke down in tears. “Miles, please. Just this once. I was trying to help you at first, I swear! But then my grandma got the diagnosis. My parents don’t care about her—they left her to rot. She’s the only person who ever loved me. Sierra has so much money, she didn’t even miss it. It all went to the hospital.” He sobbed so convincingly that even the Dean looked a bit swayed. “Miles,” the Dean said softly. “If the photo was only sent to this one girl, perhaps we can bring her in to mediate? If she’s willing to settle this privately, it might be better for everyone’s future.” I looked at Jackson. He hadn’t had his plastic surgery yet. His features were plain, his jawline soft and uneven. In my past life, Sierra claimed she would have chosen him regardless of his looks. I wondered if she’d feel the same way seeing the “real” him—the one who hadn’t yet been sculpted by her own money. I nodded to the Dean. Sierra arrived ten minutes later. She stormed into the office, heading straight for me. “Miles! What is this? Your Dean says we’re both ‘victims’? Is your roommate trying to steal the money I gave you?” She glared at Jackson. “Hey! Have some dignity. That money was for Miles. Who do you think you are, trying to skim off his account?” Jackson looked like he’d been slapped. He’d spent hundreds of nights whispering “sweet nothings” to this girl until three in the morning. Jackson (as Miles): “I love you, babe.” Sierra: “I love your soul. Even if you didn’t look like a model, it wouldn’t matter. We’re soulmates.” He’d actually started to believe her. He thought she loved him. “Sierra,” Jackson whispered, his eyes red. “It’s me. I’m the one you’ve been talking to. I was just trying to bring you and Miles together, but then—” Sierra froze. Then, she let out a screech of pure disgust. “Shut up! Don’t you dare lie to me! Why would I ever talk to someone like you? You think I’m that bored?” She turned to the Dean. “He’s a liar. I saw his ID. I saw the student portal. I knew I was talking to Miles.” I watched her with a detached fascination. She was so desperate to distance herself from the “ugly” truth. She was exactly who she’d always been: selfish, shallow, and quick to blame everyone else for her own stupidity. “Don’t get so worked up,” I said calmly. “You and Jackson clearly have a lot in common. You should give him a chance. I’m sure you’re not so superficial that you only care about a face, right?” Sierra looked like she was going to explode. “He looks like a thumb! Who would date that? It’s embarrassing! Jackson, you’re a creep. You used Miles’s face because you knew no one would ever look at you otherwise. I want my money back, and I want you expelled. I’m calling my father’s lawyers.” Jackson’s face shattered. The “soulmate” who promised to love him forever was now calling him a “thumb.” “Dean,” Jackson gasped, “can Miles leave? I need to talk to Sierra. Privately. About the money.”

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1 Before the birthday party even officially started, Elena mirrored her phone to the massive LED screen in our private lounge. She opened our “Inner Circle” group chat and launched an anonymous poll. The prompt read: Tonight, should I stay to blow out the candles with my boyfriend, or go to the midnight premiere with my best friend? A thirty-second countdown appeared. The numbers flickered and jumped with aggressive speed. Best Friend: 17 votes. Boyfriend: 1 vote. Everyone in the room assumed that solitary vote was mine—a desperate, pathetic plea for my own girlfriend’s time on my thirty-fourth birthday. Elena leaned back against the velvet sofa, a sharp, satisfied smile playing on her lips as she watched the results. “Well,” she said, her voice airy and unbothered. “Majority rules.” Evan immediately pressed the movie tickets into her palm, his boy-next-door grin widening. “Looks like the people have spoken, Elena. I need you more.” I stood there in my favorite white linen shirt, positioned behind a tiered cake that hadn’t even been lit yet. Someone in the back of the room let out a mocking whistle. “Don’t be a sore loser, Noah,” someone shouted. “It’s just a poll.” That was the theme of our relationship. For three years, our lives had been a series of democratic humiliations. If we fought, a poll decided who should apologize first. After a party, a poll decided who she’d drive home. Once, when I asked her if she actually loved me, she turned that into a poll too. “Let’s see what the jury says,” she’d joked. I used to believe that if I could just win once—if just one time the bar for ‘Boyfriend’ would outstrip the rest—she would finally choose me with conviction. But I never won. Not once. And certainly not tonight. Elena stood up and reached for her trench coat. As she brushed past me, she reached out and playfully pinched my ear, a condescending gesture she used for her golden retriever. “Be a good boy. I’ll make it up to you when I get back,” she whispered. I stared at the poll results on the screen until the blue light burned my retinas. I reached into my pocket and turned off my phone. Then, I pushed the silver cake knife across the table toward her. “Don’t bother,” I said. My voice was quiet, but it cut through the laughter in the room. “Elena, I’m abstaining. From everything.” The lounge went silent for a heartbeat. Elena’s hand froze near my face. Evan was the first to break the tension with a light, dismissive chuckle, as if I’d just made a joke in poor taste. “Come on, Noah. Don’t be like that. It’s your birthday.” Elena pulled her hand back, her brow furrowing into a sharp line. “Noah, everyone is watching. Don’t start a scene just because the numbers didn’t go your way.” In the past, the second she used that tone—that warning “Noah”—I would have folded. I would have swallowed my pride to keep the peace, to stop the friends from whispering that I was “too sensitive” or “controlling.” But this time, I didn’t flinch. I reached out and began pulling the unlit candles out of the cake, one by one, dropping them onto the table like spent shell casings. “The only one making a scene here isn’t me,” I said. Evan immediately caught Elena’s sleeve, his expression shifting to one of wounded nobility. “Elena, forget it. Maybe we should just stay. I don’t need to see the movie that badly.” He said the words, but his fingers were white from how tightly he was gripping the tickets. The group chat notifications started chirping again. The “Inner Circle” was already weighing in. “The poll is final. No exceptions,” someone called out. “Let the man have his tantrum, Elena. You can celebrate with him tomorrow.” Elena checked her Cartier watch. The movie started in twenty minutes. She stood there for a moment, the silence stretching thin, before she finally slung her bag over her shoulder. “I’m driving him,” she said, her voice hardening. “If you still want to have a birthday, wait for me here. Stop making me play mediator every single time we go out.” I looked up at her, really looked at her. “I said don’t bother, Elena. I won’t be here.” She acted as if she hadn’t heard me, turning on her heel and heading for the door. Evan followed close behind, pausing briefly at my side to let out a performative sigh. “Noah, you know how much she hates being pressured to choose,” he whispered, just loud enough for me to hear. The door clicked shut. The music in the lounge surged back to life. On the giant screen, the poll was still frozen. Best Friend: 17. Boyfriend: 1. That lonely “1” felt like the last shred of my dignity, hanging there for everyone to mock. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A new poll had been posted in the group chat. This one wasn’t anonymous. Place your bets: How many minutes until Noah crawls back and apologizes? 10 Minutes. 30 Minutes. Tomorrow morning. Evan had already voted for “10 Minutes.” A few others joined in with laughing emojis. “Don’t give him that much credit. Five minutes max.” “He can’t breathe without Elena.” Elena didn’t vote. But she didn’t stop them, either. Then, a message popped up from one of the guys: “Wait, that ‘Boyfriend’ vote earlier… that was Noah voting for himself, right?” Evan replied with a ‘shushing’ emoji. “Who else would bother?” I stared at the screen until the words blurred. They didn’t even believe I had a single ally in that room. My chest felt hollow, a cold ache spreading through my limbs. I hit the “Leave Group” button. My gold party hat was still sitting on the table. A spilled drink had soaked into the paper, making it limp and soggy. I grabbed my jacket and walked out. “Hey, Noah! You actually leaving?” someone yelled. I didn’t look back. The hallway was long, lined with floor-to-ceiling glass. My reflection followed me—the crisp white shirt, the red-rimmed eyes, the empty hands. I looked like a clown who had finally realized the circus was over. Elena didn’t get back until 1:00 AM. I was in the middle of the living room, packing the last of her things into a cardboard box. In three years, she had colonised every square inch of my apartment. Her stilettos in the foyer, her expensive serums cluttering the bathroom vanity, her hair ties lost in the sofa cushions. Even the throw pillows I’d picked out had been replaced with the beige ones she preferred. The smart lock chimed, and she stepped in, bringing with her the chill of the night and a faint, woody scent. It was Le Labo Santal 33. Evan’s signature scent. She saw the boxes, and her face instantly darkened. “Again with this? The ‘packing’ routine?” I pulled a strip of packing tape across the box, the screeching sound filling the silence. “The rest will be ready for pickup tomorrow.” She marched over and slammed her hand down on the lid of the box. “Noah, I gave you an out tonight. I gave you a chance to be the bigger person. How long are you going to keep this act up?” I looked up at her. “It’s not an act. I’m clearing out the clutter.” Elena let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “I go to one movie with Evan and you’re throwing away a three-year relationship? You saw the poll, Noah. The group decided. It wasn’t just me.” My fingers stalled on the tape. “So, in your mind, you’re the victim of democracy? You didn’t actually make a choice?” She scoffed. “I followed the rules we’ve always had.” The rules. I remembered the first poll, three years ago. She had finally agreed to go public with us. But then Evan posted a poll in the group: Does Elena going public right now ruin the vibe of the group? Yes: 15. No: 2. Elena had kissed my cheek that night and said, “Let’s just wait a few months, babe. Everyone thinks it’s too soon. It’s better this way.” I waited three months. By the time Evan’s birthday rolled around, she posted a nine-photo grid on Instagram. The first photo was of her and Evan. Then came the New Year’s Eve parties where I sat in the back of the car while Evan took the front seat because of a poll. The anniversaries that were moved because the “Inner Circle” had a conflict. The first slice of every cake. I was constantly a line item on a ballot, and I was constantly vetoed. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my old backup phone. I unlocked it and opened a hidden folder. Inside were 276 screenshots. Three years of every poll, every mockery, every time I had been voted out of my own life. Elena blinked, looking at the screen. “Why on earth would you keep those?” “To make sure I never convince myself I was imagining it,” I said quietly. “And to remind myself why I have to leave.” Her face went rigid. “You’re being incredibly dramatic, Noah.” “Am I?” I gave her a tired smile. “Compared to watching my worth jump up and down in a bar graph every Friday night? This is the most dignified I’ve been in years.” Elena looked away, her jaw tight. “You used to be so much easier to be around. You weren’t so… keeping score.” “I used to believe that eventually, you’d choose me without needing a majority to tell you it was okay.” The room went quiet. I pushed the box toward her feet. “By the way, that one vote tonight? The one for ‘Boyfriend’?” Elena looked at me, her eyes flickering with a momentary doubt. “What about it? We all know you voted for yourself.” “I didn’t,” I said. “I never even took my phone out of my pocket. I stopped voting for myself a long time ago.” I didn’t know who had cast that lone vote, and frankly, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that for the first time in three years, I didn’t care about the outcome. Elena stared at me for a long time, her expression unreadable. Then, she suddenly kicked the cardboard box aside. “Fine. You want to clear everything out? Go ahead. Be miserable.” Her phone lit up on the counter. A message from Evan. Is Noah still throwing his fit? Should I come over tomorrow and apologize so he feels better? Elena didn’t even try to hide the screen from me. She typed back instantly: He’s still acting out. We’ll talk tomorrow. I watched her thumbs move across the glass and felt a strange, jarring sense of comedy. To her, I wasn’t heartbroken. I wasn’t disillusioned. I was just acting out. Like a child who needed a nap. I leaned down, straightened the box, and finished sealing it. “Elena, we’re done. Properly.” She was already walking toward the bedroom, her back to me. She let out a cold, hollow laugh. “You’ve said that a dozen times, Noah. You never actually go anywhere.” The next day at noon, my friend Miles called me. His voice was hesitant, laced with an awkwardness that told me he’d already been briefed. “Hey, Noah. Elena reached out. She said you left some stuff at the lounge last night. She mentioned you aren’t picking up her calls, so she asked me to tell you.” I stayed silent. Miles quickly added, “Look, I’ll go with you. We’ll grab it and get out. Easy.” But when I walked into the lounge, I realized it was an ambush. The room was packed with the “Inner Circle.” Miles’s face fell. “She told me it was just us,” he muttered under his breath. “I didn’t know the whole squad was going to be here.” Elena was sitting in the center of the booth. Evan was next to her, his eyes red-rimmed, looking like he hadn’t slept a wink. There was a small cake on the table with a single candle lit. The moment he saw me, Evan stood up. “Noah, man, I am so sorry.” He picked up a glass of scotch and walked over to me. “Last night was stupid. I shouldn’t have made a joke about the tickets. Please, don’t break up with Elena because of me.” Elena looked up, her gaze steady and expectant. “Evan apologized, Noah. Stop being so stuck-up about it. We all just want to clear the air.” As if on cue, the giant LED screen flickered to life. Someone at the bar was holding their phone up, laughing. The familiar poll layout appeared. Should Noah drink a peace-offering shot with Evan to officially move on? The countdown hadn’t even finished, but the results were already a landslide. Yes: 18. No: 0. The game was rigged before it even began. Evan looked at the screen, then back at me with a pained expression. “Guys, don’t. Noah’s going to feel uncomfortable.” Elena pushed a shot glass toward me. “Drink it, Noah. Let it go.” I looked down at the amber liquid. In the past three years, I had swallowed so many of these “peace offerings.” I drank to not be the “party pooper.” I drank to “give her a graceful exit.” I drank to prove I wasn’t jealous, to make sure Elena didn’t have to frown at me. I picked up the glass. Elena’s expression softened. Evan let out a visible breath of relief. Then, I turned the glass over and poured the scotch directly into the ice bucket. The sound of the liquid hitting the ice was sharp and final. The room went dead. I set the empty glass back on the table. “I’m not drinking to this. And you don’t need to notify me when you decide a situation is ‘over.’” Elena’s face turned stormy. “Noah, are you really going to be this difficult?” “Difficult?” I looked her in the eye. “You guys launch a poll to force me to toast the guy who spends his life undermining me. You force me to be ‘big-hearted’ so you don’t have to feel guilty about being shitty. And then you have the nerve to ask me why I’m not being ‘dignified’?” Evan’s eyes welled up. “I really just wanted us to be friends, Noah.” He turned to leave. “Elena, I should go. I’m clearly making things worse.” Elena moved instinctively, reaching out to grab his arm to keep him there. It was a reflex. So fast she didn’t even realize she was doing it. I saw it clearly. She didn’t need a poll. Her body had been choosing him for years. Miles grabbed my arm. “Let’s go, Noah.” I nodded. But as I reached the door, Elena chased after me, grabbing my wrist. “You aren’t leaving until we finish this conversation.” I shook her off. “It is finished. I’m breaking up with you. He’s ‘sorry.’ You guys can keep the ‘Inner Circle’ exactly the way it is.” “I didn’t agree to a breakup!” she snapped, her voice trembling with rage. I smiled, and it was the first time in years I felt like I had the upper hand. “What, do we need to take a vote on that too?” My phone buzzed. A new poll from the group chat. Betting pool: Will Noah come crawling back tonight? Yes. Absolutely Yes. There wasn’t even a third option. I held the screen up to Elena’s face. “Look. They’ve already scripted my return for me. They don’t even see me as a person anymore, Elena. I’m just an outcome.” Elena’s face paled. Evan was standing behind her, calling her name softly. “Elena, don’t fight with him because of me.” She didn’t follow me this time. I walked out of the club and into the overcast afternoon. My phone vibrated with a text from the moving company. We’re confirmed for 3:00 PM tomorrow. Moving day was grey and heavy. I stood in the hollowed-out living room, watching the movers stack the last of the boxes against the wall. There were pale outlines on the paint where the pictures used to hang—ghostly reminders of a life that had been stripped away. The landlord called, sounding confused. “Noah, Elena contacted me. She said you were just having a spat and told me not to process the lease termination yet.” I dropped my spare key into an envelope. “Process it. According to the contract.” The landlord hesitated. “She said you’d regret it.” “That’s her opinion,” I said, and hung up. The doorbell rang. On the security monitor, Elena was standing in the hallway. She was wearing the same black dress from the night before, her eyes tired. She didn’t ring again. She just sent a text. Open the door. Stop trying to scare me with this moving nonsense. Noah, my patience is wearing thin. I didn’t reply. Ten minutes later, another one: What exactly do you want from me? I looked at those words and remembered three years ago, the first time I had backed down. I had asked her the same thing. “Elena, what do you want from me?” She had told me: “I just want you to stop being so sensitive.” I guess everything comes full circle eventually. Only the person feeling the sting had changed. When the movers finally opened the door to leave, Elena was still there. She didn’t look at me first. She looked past me at the empty apartment. The shoe rack was gone. The coffee table was gone. I was even holding the ceramic pot with the snake plant she’d always complained was “ugly.” Her composure finally broke. “You’re actually doing this?” “Yeah.” She reached out to grab my suitcase. “Where are you even going?” I stepped back, out of her reach. “That’s none of your business.” Elena gritted her teeth. “Noah, don’t push this too far. I sent Evan home last night. I told them no more polls. What else do you want?” I looked at her. To her, simply stopping the abuse was the same thing as making amends. I pulled out my old phone and opened a screen. I had created one last poll of my own. Is Elena worth Noah looking back? Option 1: Not worth it. Option 2: Never look back. Total votes: 1. I had selected Option 2. Elena saw the screen, and her face went white. “This is childish. You’re being immature.” “I learned from the best,” I said. “You let them decide my life 276 times, Elena. Now, it’s my turn to vote.” Her voice turned icy. “Don’t you dare.” I tucked the envelope into her coat pocket. Inside were the keys, the silver watch she’d given me for our first anniversary, and the movie ticket from the night before, torn in half. “I vote you out,” I said. Elena grabbed my wrist, her grip desperate. “Noah!” The mover lingered by the elevator, looking awkward. I looked down at her fingers. In the past, if she held me like this, I would have softened instantly. Even if I was choking on my own resentment, I would have stayed just to feel chosen. But now, I just felt a profound sense of too late. I pried her fingers off, one by one. “Don’t touch me.” Elena froze. Her hand stayed suspended in the air, the shock of being rejected finally sinking in. At that moment, her phone buzzed. It was a screenshot from Evan. Another poll. Betting pool: How many days until Noah comes back? 3 days. 1 week. 2 weeks max. Evan’s avatar was already glowing under “3 days.” Elena’s fingers trembled. She tried to lock the screen, but it was too late. I’d already seen it. The last bit of dull ache in my chest finally went cold. I took the old phone and pressed it into her palm. “Let them keep betting,” I said. “I’m not playing the game anymore.”

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I was the breakout star of The Connection, the girl the tabloids called “America’s Sweetheart.” To the viewers, I was the delicate, soft-spoken girl-next-door who looked like she’d bruise if you touched her too hard. The “Truth or Dare” bonfire night had just begun when Mason Hayes reached for the microphone. “Lily Sinclair,” he said, his voice cutting through the crackle of the flames. “Do you really think everyone here is as blind as the audience?” The clearing went dead silent. All eight camera operators pivoted toward me in perfect synchronization. The host’s practiced smile froze on her face. Mason gripped the mic, his tone dripping with a calculated, gentle pity. “You act so pure in front of the cameras, but behind the scenes? You’ve been playing four of us at the same time.” The live chat on the monitors must have been hemorrhaging. I could almost feel the vitriol through the screen. “I knew she was too good to be true.” “Mason got burned last season, and now he’s being played again?” “Look at that innocent face. She’s a total shark.” The director’s voice crackled in the host’s earpiece, urging her to get me to explain. My throat felt tight. I opened my mouth to say I hadn’t done anything—to defend myself—when the return monitor tucked behind a camera flickered. A tiny line of white text scrolled across the bottom, invisible to the others. [Don’t defend yourself. His chat logs are forged.] [A girl last season was forced out exactly like this. The more you explain, the more guilty you look.] My breath hitched. I gripped my microphone, my knuckles white, and let a single tear spill over. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. The entire set gasped. I kept my head down, my voice trembling with just the right amount of fragility. “I… I honestly didn’t know how to handle all these relationships.” 1 The live stream exploded. “She admitted it!” “A total fraud.” “Kick her off the show. This is disgusting.” Mason blinked, caught off guard for a split second, before a smug smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He leaned in for the kill. “You play the victim so well, Lily. Every time a guy gets close, your eyes go red. But in private? You’ve been stringing me along, along with Owen, Jude, and Hudson. You gave everyone hope. You never said no to anyone.” On the sofas around us, the mood shifted. Owen frowned at me, his brow furrowed in hurt. Jude’s face darkened, his jaw tight. Hudson instinctively leaned back, creating distance between us. Mason was watching me, a flicker of triumph dancing in his eyes. I looked up at him, my voice soft, almost pleading. “Mason… could you teach me then?” He narrowed his eyes. “Teach me what?” With tears still shimmering on my lashes, I looked like a drowning girl reaching for a lifeline. “Teach me how to invite Ivy to the garden on the third night, then slip Tess an anonymous card at dawn on the fourth, all while making the entire world believe you only have eyes for me?” Ivy’s head snapped up. Tess’s face went pale. Mason’s expression turned icy. “Lily, don’t try to change the subject,” he snapped. I shook my head, my eyes wide and guileless. “I’m not. I just… I truly felt like you were much better at managing these things than I am.” The comment was a needle, popping the balloon of his moral superiority. Mason let out a sharp, cold laugh and pulled a second phone from his pocket. “Fine. Since you want to play it this way, I don’t have to protect you anymore.” He held the screen up to the main camera. “Take a look, everyone. Look at what ‘America’s Sweetheart’ really sends behind your backs.” 2 The director cut to a close-up of the phone screen. It was a screenshot of The Heartbox—the show’s official internal messaging system. My profile picture was clear. The timestamp read: Day 5, 10:17 PM. The messages scrolled by for the world to see: “You’re different from the others to me.” “Don’t tell Owen.” “I can’t make it too obvious on camera.” “Let’s meet privately after the show wraps, okay?” A collective intake of breath hissed through the studio. The chat was now a war zone. “How can she wash this away?” “Owen is just a backup. Poor guy.” “She almost had me with those tears. She’s a pro.” “Get her off! She’s polluting the show!” The host looked sick. The production crew was in a frenzy. Through the chaos, I sat on the sofa, head bowed, my fingertips ice cold. The forge was high quality. It looked identical to the app interface. Mason’s voice was heavy with feigned heartbreak. “Lily, I didn’t want to destroy you. But you can’t treat people’s hearts like poker chips.” I looked up, my eyes rimmed with red. “What day was that?” He hesitated. “Day five. 10:17 PM.” “And it was through The Heartbox?” “Of course.” He smirked. “It’s the official system. Did you think there wouldn’t be a record?” I gripped the mic tighter. “Is that the original photo? No cropping? No editing? No changes to the words?” My voice was tiny, terrified. Mason looked directly into the lens, his tone ironclad. “I swear on my reputation. The screenshot is real. Not a single word has been changed.” The return screen flickered again. [Keep going.] I lowered my eyes. “Is there more?” Mason scoffed. “You want more?” “If there is… can you just show it all at once?” My voice shook. “I don’t want to be dragged through the mud one piece at a time.” The comments sneered at me. “Now she’s scared.” “Classic gaslighter behavior.” “Even her breakdown is an act.” Empowered by the invisible digital mob, Mason pulled up three more screenshots. The second was to Owen: “I only feel safe when I’m with you.” The third to Jude: “Don’t choose anyone else tomorrow. It would break my heart.” The fourth to Hudson: “Vote for me tonight. I want our date to be private.” Every single one had my face on it. Every single one was timestamped within the last three days. Owen closed his eyes, leaning his head in his hands. Jude let out a sharp, mocking huff. Hudson looked at me, his voice low and disappointed. “Lily, if these are real, you owe us an explanation.” I didn’t explain. I just looked at Mason. “You’re sure I sent these?” “Yes.” “Between day five and day seven?” “Exactly.” “On The Heartbox?” “Yes.” “And these are the original files on your phone?” Mason’s patience snapped. “Lily, are you just trying to stall?” I bit my lip, another tear falling. “I’m just… I’m afraid I remembered it wrong.” He laughed, a cold, jagged sound. “You didn’t remember it wrong. You just can’t keep the lie going anymore.” The director finally signaled the host to cut to a commercial break. But before the music swelled, Mason added one final blow. “If she stays on this show, it’s an insult to everyone else here.” 3 The backstage conference room was stifling. The executive producer, the showrunner, the host, and the core cast sat around a long mahogany table. Mason sat across from me, his blazer draped over the back of his chair, his face having returned to that mask of calm, gentle concern—as if he hadn’t just tried to execute me on live television. The producer turned a tablet toward me. The top three trending topics on X were all my name. #LilySinclairExposed #MasonHayesBetrayedAgain #TheInnocentActCrumbles The showrunner sighed. “Lily, the internet is on fire. It’s not that we don’t want to hear your side, but the optics are a disaster.” “So?” I asked. He avoided my gaze. “We think it’s best if you ‘suspend’ your filming. We’ll call it a personal break while we ‘investigate.’” Suspend filming. A polite way of saying “disappear.” Once I left that house, they could edit the remaining footage however they wanted. The audience would take my departure as a confession. Just like what happened to Riley Brooks last season. Mason spoke up, his voice smooth as silk. “Lily, I really don’t want to push you into a corner.” He slid a piece of paper across the table. “This is a draft for a public statement.” I looked down. I, Lily Sinclair, acknowledge that my behavior during filming was inappropriate and caused distress to my fellow cast members. I am voluntarily withdrawing from the show and accept full responsibility for my actions. I almost laughed. They wanted me to sign my own death warrant for a crime I didn’t commit. My fingers brushed the edge of the paper, trembling. Everyone was watching, waiting for me to make the problem go away. The return monitor in the corner of the room—a feed from the observation deck—flashed a line of text. [Don’t sign. Make him confirm the source and the threat.] I shifted my gaze back to Mason. “If I sign this… you really won’t release any more screenshots?” A flash of victory sparked in his eyes. “If you leave, I’ll delete everything.” “You’ll tell your fans to stop attacking me?” “I’ll do my best to calm them down.” “You won’t bring me up again?” Mason smiled kindly. “I’ll give you your dignity, Lily.” I looked him in the eye. “You said I was playing multiple people. Specifically, who?” He leaned back. “Owen, Jude, and Hudson.” “And you have the complete logs for all of them?” “I do.” “And I initiated all of them?” “Of course.” “All on The Heartbox?” “Yes.” “No fakes? No edits?” Mason’s “gentle” mask cracked slightly. “Lily, stop playing the victim.” I lowered my head, looking cowed. The room fell into a heavy silence. The producer spoke up, weary. “Lily, just sign. We’ll try to make the final edit as kind to you as possible.” I looked at him. “And if I don’t?” The air in the room curdled. Mason’s voice dropped an octave, turning lethal. “Then I’ll release the entire archive. At that point, it won’t just be about the show. You’ll have to worry about whether you can ever show your face in public again. Think about your future.” I took a soft, shaky breath. “Mason. Are you absolutely certain that the screenshots you showed were from the official Heartbox system?” He sneered. “Positive.” “And the logs can be verified in the backend?” “Check them all you want.” I nodded and picked up the statement. Everyone relaxed. Mason’s shoulders dropped. Then, slowly and deliberately, I tore the paper in half. “Then let’s check.” 4 The production team didn’t want to do the verification live. The showrunner pulled me into a corner, his voice a low hiss of fury. “Lily, don’t make this any uglier than it already is.” I looked him dead in the eye. “I wasn’t the one who made it ugly.” “We can check internally—” “And then what?” I interrupted. “If the screenshots are fake, will you release the unedited footage? Will you admit you tried to force me to sign a confession? Will you tell the world Mason used forgeries to blackmail me?” He was silent. I smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “Exactly. You won’t. That’s why we’re doing this live. We’re doing it so everyone sees the truth in real-time.” Mason, of course, refused at first. But he had already said “check them all you want” on camera. To back out now would be an admission of guilt. At 1:00 AM, the show went back live for a “Heartbeat Verdict” special. Officially, it was to “address the controversy.” In reality, the five million viewers tuning in were there to watch my public execution. Mason had changed into a crisp white button-down. His hair was perfectly styled. He sat under the studio lights looking like the hero of a tragedy. The host followed the script. “Lily, do you admit to maintaining multiple romantic involvements during filming?” I gripped my mic. “I admit that I didn’t handle certain misunderstandings well.” Mason jumped in immediately. “It wasn’t a misunderstanding. It was a calculated deception.” The chat went wild. “Stop with the wordplay.” “Just sign the exit papers.” “Mason is being so patient with her, what a guy.” He pushed a fresh copy of the statement toward me. “Lily, just sign it. I don’t want you to be humiliated more than this.” The camera zoomed in on my hand. The pen was right there. In the control room, the director was counting down to the close-up of the signature. I picked up the pen. Mason’s lips twitched into a smirk. Then, I put the pen down. “I’m requesting an on-site forensic verification.” The studio went silent. I turned to the host. “Mason says these messages came from The Heartbox. I am requesting that the technical team pull the raw backend logs right now.” Mason’s face stiffened for a fraction of a second. “Furthermore,” I continued, “I have already contacted my legal counsel and the local authorities regarding digital forgery and character defamation.” The host nearly dropped her cue cards. The control room was in shambles. I looked directly into the main lens. “I am officially requesting that the network secure all raw footage from tonight, including the unedited segments before the break, the security footage from the conference room, and the raw audio from all cast microphones. No one is to delete, replace, or edit the source files.” The chat froze for a few seconds before erupting in a different direction. “Police?” “She sounds like she’s for real.” “Check the logs! If he’s right, he has nothing to fear!” Mason recovered quickly. “Check them,” he said, laughing humorlessly. “I’d love to see how long you can keep up this performance.” The head of IT was brought onto the set. Two technicians wheeled out a server-linked terminal and patched it into the giant LED wall. The network’s legal rep arrived, looking pale. I sat there, my tears dry now, my hands perfectly still. Mason was staring at me, a flicker of genuine unease finally surfacing in his eyes. I looked at the big screen. “Start with the first one. Day five, 10:17 PM. Check if my account ever sent Mason Hayes the message: ‘You’re different from the others to me.’” The sound of the ‘Enter’ key echoed through the silent studio. Every camera pivoted to the screen.

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1 After graduation, I moved to Seattle to start my career. To save on the city’s astronomical rent, I called my brother, Jason, asking if I could crash at his place. He was away on a month-long business trip but told me I could move in immediately. There was just one condition: I had to look after his “new addition.” “I got a new little black dog,” Jason told me over the phone, his voice distracted. “He’s a bit anti-social, so I’ve got him tethered inside. He can be a real brat. If he doesn’t listen, don’t be afraid to be firm with him.” I arrived at the old brick apartment building in the Hilltop district. I’d visited once years ago, so I remembered the trick to the place. I found the spare key tucked under a chipped ceramic planter and let myself in. The layout was exactly as I remembered, but the atmosphere felt heavy, almost stagnant. “Hey, puppy!” I called out, clicking my tongue. “Where’s the little troublemaker?” Hearing a faint rustle from the master bedroom, I smiled and pushed the door open. “Who’s a bad boy? Who wants a belly rub?” The room was shrouded in dim light, the heavy curtains drawn tight. A man was standing by the window. He was wearing a thin, wrinkled white shirt, his frame lean and sharp. Around his ankle, a sleek, black electronic monitor pulsed with a faint red light. His eyes were vacant, staring into a void I couldn’t see. His dark hair fell over a pale, aristocratic face—the kind of face that belonged on a billboard, cold and unreachable. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice a low, jagged rasp. I slammed the door shut, my heart hammering against my ribs. I pulled out my phone and pulled up Jason’s last message. New addition. Black hair. Tied up. Everything matched. It took me exactly thirty seconds to accept the horrifying reality: my brother was a psychopath. He had kidnapped a grown man—a beautiful, blind, broken man—and was keeping him like a pet. 2 But Jason was my brother. He was my only family, and I had already signed the contract for my new job in the city. I couldn’t run, and I couldn’t call the police—not yet. I decided the only thing I could do was care for this poor soul in the meantime. As the sister of a kidnapper, I didn’t dare reveal my identity. I told him I was the new housekeeper. His response was a cold, “Get out.” A temper. Well, who wouldn’t have a temper if they were being held captive in a dingy bedroom? I called Jason, trying to keep my voice steady. “Hey, about the… guest in your house. What’s his name? I want to make sure I take care of him properly.” “Are you losing it?” Jason barked. “His name is Dog. Don’t start treating him like a person. You call him ‘Dog,’ and he’ll come wagging his tail. Don’t be a weirdo, Sophie.” I felt the blood drain from my face. Jason had even stripped him of his name. I couldn’t fathom how my brother—the boy who’d worked his way out of our small town into the big city—had become this twisted. Was the city really this soul-crushing? I’d have to wait until Jason got back. Then, I’d find a way to get him professional help—or turn him in myself. “Jason,” I choked out, “he has dignity! How can you call him that?” He hung up on me, telling me to just feed the “mutt” and stop being dramatic. I couldn’t bring myself to call a human being “Dog.” I searched through the hallway cabinets until I found a discarded wallet. Inside was an ID card. The man in the photo had piercing, soulful eyes and an air of quiet power. His name was Elias Hawthorne. According to the ID, he was from Chicago. Jason had snatched him from halfway across the country. My brother was more dangerous than I’d ever imagined. 3 Ever since I’d claimed to be the housekeeper, Elias stopped asking questions. He spent most of his time sitting on the edge of the bed, staring into the dark. He looked like a man waiting for the end. I went to make dinner, but the fridge was a wasteland. All that was there were a few bottles of expensive red wine. No wonder he was so thin. Beneath that shirt, his collarbones looked like they could cut glass. The vibrant man from the ID photo had been hollowed out. I wore a mask and a hoodie to the grocery store, avoiding every security camera I could. If Jason eventually went down, I needed to make sure I wasn’t caught in the blast radius. I came back and whipped up a hot, three-course meal. I invited Elias to the small dining table. He walked out, his face like a thundercloud. The monitor on his ankle was flashing red. The display on the wall—part of some high-tech security system Jason must have installed—showed his status: Irritated. “Didn’t they tell you the rules?” Elias said, his sightless eyes fixed on a corner of the room. “I didn’t ask you to cook. Get out.” “…They?” I whispered. He didn’t answer, as if my stupidity wasn’t worth his breath. My hands shook as I held the tray. My brother wasn’t just a kidnapper; was he part of a syndicate? Was “they” a whole organization of psychos? 4 In the dim light, I noticed the scars on Elias’s arms. Some were old bruises from bumping into furniture, but others were sharp, thin nicks. Jason was a monster. Elias didn’t notice my scrutiny. He smelled the food, but instead of eating, he lashed out, sweeping the plate off the table with a violent crash. “Are you deaf?” he snapped. “Leave.” Despite his blindness, his presence was suffocating. I felt myself trembling under his glare. My brother’s debt was now mine to pay. I thought about the brother I used to know, and I decided I would save him from himself by saving Elias first. “Just eat something,” I said softly, my voice firm. “If you don’t, you won’t have the strength to run when the time comes.” The monitor on his ankle flickered. His health vitals were at a critical low. The “Mood” light was a solid, angry red. Hostility. Disgust. I was out of options. I called Jason again. He was going to be gone for a month; if his “pet” died on my watch, I didn’t want to know what he’d do. I told him the “dog” refused to eat and was acting out. “Then force his mouth open!” Jason shouted. “When I’m home, he’s a angel, wagging his tail at my feet. Why is he giving you such a hard time? He’s testing you. He’s a high-maintenance breed, Sophie. Don’t let him get skinny. If I come home to a bag of bones, I’m taking it out on both of you!” 5 I went back to Elias with a fresh plate. He moved to swat it away for the sixth time. He was starving, his skin a sickly, translucent grey. It looked like he was trying to commit suicide by hunger. Something inside me snapped. I grabbed his wrists, pinning them to the table. “Eat,” I growled, “or I’ll start hitting.” Elias tilted his head, his blind gaze somehow projecting a terrifying authority. He let out a low, dark chuckle. “You really have no idea who you’re talking to, do you? What exactly do you think your ‘position’ is here?” I laughed, a jagged, bitter sound. Jason said he was a “good boy” who wagged his tail. This man was a captive with the ego of a king. I pinched his chin, forcing his mouth open. “The puppy is being naughty. The puppy needs to be punished.” He froze, clearly never having been treated with such blunt, physical force. In his shock, I managed to shove a few spoonfuls of risotto into his mouth. His throat worked as he swallowed. “You…!” I softened my grip and brought a glass of warm water to his lips, patting his back gently. “There we go. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not like them. I’m the good one.” In our struggle, some of the water and food had spilled onto his dark shirt, clinging to his skin. Elias couldn’t see the mess, but he could feel it. His face was a mask of shock and lost control. “You’re a mess,” I said. “Go clean yourself up.” I watched him stumble back to his room. I went to the guest room to unpack and look over my new hire paperwork. I’d been recruited by a branch of the Hawthorne Group. I knew my immediate manager, but I hadn’t bothered to look up the C-suite execs. I’d never be in the same room as people that powerful anyway. I stretched and called Jason for my daily report. “The brat just threw a fit, but I got some food in him. Sent him to the shower.” Jason screamed through the phone. “Are you insane? He can’t shower by himself! He’s terrified of water! The idiot is going to drown! Get in there and save him!” 6 I realized the bedroom had gone silent. I sprinted down the hall and burst into the master bath. A silhouette was slumped in the garden tub, submerged. He wasn’t moving. My career! My life! My brother’s soul! Everything was flashing before my eyes. I lunged forward, slipped on the wet tile, and went flying. I ended up landing right in the tub, splashing down directly into his lap. I scrambled to grab his head, pulling him above the surface. “Please don’t die! Please don’t die!” Elias sputtered, coughing violently as he took in air. His chest heaved. His eyes, clouded with water and confusion, locked onto mine. Thank God. My life wasn’t over. Ignoring every social boundary, I tried to haul him out of the tub. “It’s okay, baby. From now on, we’re doing sponge baths.” But he was slick with soap and water. I couldn’t find a grip, my hands sliding over his damp skin. My hand landed on something… firm. Elias shoved me away, his face turning a deep, burning crimson. “Get out!” he rasped. “I’m fine!” “You almost died!” I yelled back, refusing to budge. We sat there in the tub, a standoff in lukewarm water. Then, I sneezed. Elias took a ragged breath. He braced himself against the wall, his hands trembling as he felt for the edge of the tub, carefully stepping around my legs to get out. He stood in the center of the bathroom, dripping, trying to reclaim some shred of dignity. “I don’t know who sent you,” he said, his voice shaking with fury, “but leave. Now.” The cold air hit him, and he realized he was completely exposed. He froze. “…Can you see me?” he asked quietly. I looked him up and down, my voice flat. “Don’t flatter yourself. I grew up with a brother. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Now, finish up. I’m staying right here to make sure you don’t sink again.” The monitor on his ankle began to chime a warning. The red light was strobing. Rage. Humiliation. Mortification. The words cycled rapidly on the wall display. I played dumb until he grabbed a towel, fumbling his way back to the bedroom. “I’m going to make sure they fire you,” he hissed as he left. I just rolled my eyes. I’d already hidden the landline and cut the Wi-Fi. Jason was an amateur; he’d forgotten to sever the “pet’s” connection to the world. Luckily, I was there to fix his mistakes. 7 Deprived of a phone and full of carbs, Elias finally slumped onto the bed. He glared into the darkness, hurling insults at me. I started singing him a lullaby Jason had taught me for the “dog.” “Go to sleep, little puppy, close your eyes…” The sheer absurdity of the song seemed to break him. He pulled the covers over his head and went silent. Jason had mentioned the “puppy” had some breathing issues at night, so I didn’t dare leave him alone. I dragged a chair to the corner of the room and watched him until his breathing evened out. The next morning, before work, I threw open the curtains. Sunlight flooded over his brooding form. He was staring at the ceiling, his eyes rimmed with red. “Morning, sunshine,” I said. “Get some Vitamin D.” Elias stiffened, clutching the duvet. “You… you slept in here? Are you a psychopath?” He reached for something on the nightstand to throw at me, but I’d already padded every sharp corner with foam and cleared away anything dangerous. He was fragile. He was blind. He needed protection. His hand landed on a plush toy I’d bought—a squeaky purple eggplant. He squeezed it, and it let out a pathetic wheeze. His face went cold. “What is this?” “A toy,” I said encouragingly. “Do you like it? I’m here to give you the love the others didn’t.” He ripped the toy in half. He stood up, looming over me. “Get out of my house. Right. Now.” “It’s our house now,” I said with a sigh, reaching up to pat his cheek. “We’re both just lost souls here.” My work alarm went off. I ducked under his arm and headed for the door. “I’ve set up a camera. Behave yourself. No ‘accidents’ on the rug, or I’ll have to put you in timeout when I get home.” The monitor on his ankle flashed a violent, blinding red. 8 During my lunch break, I checked the feed. I’d bought a cheap, $9.99 robotic camera ball that rolled around the floor. On the screen, Elias was sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked defeated. He’d punched his pillow a few times, but now he was just staring. I toggled the remote and bumped the camera into his foot. “Lunchtime,” I said through the speaker. “I left it in the microwave. Go heat it up.” “Go away,” he muttered. “Eat, or I’ll come home and make a scene. Be a good boy. Please?” I rolled the camera over his toes. He looked like he wanted to scream. Finally, he stood up, feeling his way along the wall toward the kitchen. He managed to eat his first full meal without a fight. I hit the “Applause” button on the app. A burst of canned cheering filled the apartment. “You fed yourself! Look at you! Such a big boy!” Elias’s voice was like ice. “Shut. Up.” After lunch, he felt his way to the bathroom. Jason had told me the “dog” was still working on “potty training” and needed encouragement. I rolled the camera right into the doorway. “Aim true, honey. Hold on tight. If you mess up the floor, I’m kicking you.” Elias: “…” 9 There were two weeks left until Jason was supposed to return. Because of the steady diet, the hollows in Elias’s cheeks were filling out. His health index was climbing. Aside from the moments I “supervised” his private time, his mood was surprisingly stable. I couldn’t help but brag to Jason. “The guest is doing much better. He’s up to 155 pounds now.” “What?” Jason yelled. “You’re turning my dog into a pig! He’s supposed to be lean! If I come home to a fat dog, you’re in trouble!” Weight management. Right. I found the muzzle I’d bought at the pet store. I went into the bedroom and strapped it onto Elias’s face. He looked up, stunned. “It’s 2 AM,” I whispered. “Owner’s orders. It’s time for a walk.” “Who gave you orders?” I didn’t say Jason’s name. I just tugged on his arm. “Don’t make me get the belt.” I couldn’t take him to the park—someone might recognize him. So, I made him walk the stairs of the apartment building. Eighteen flights, up and down. By the second round, we were both gasping for air. When we got back, Elias went straight to the shower without a word. He seemed genuinely angry. But since he’d learned the layout of the bathroom, I wasn’t worried about him drowning anymore. I fell asleep on the sofa, exhausted. In my half-sleep, I felt something warm and wet on my hand. My fingers felt itchy. I opened one eye. Elias was kneeling beside the sofa. His hair was damp, and his vacant eyes were fixed on my lap. He reached out, tentatively finding my hand. He pressed it to his lips, then, dissatisfied, gave my knuckles a sharp, tiny nip. I stayed still, pretending to sleep. He whispered to himself, “Why are you mad? Why… didn’t you watch me wash?” 10 Hearing him say something so bizarre made my skin crawl with second-hand embarrassment. I rolled over, pretending to wake up. Elias froze, then silently felt his way back to the bedroom. I immediately texted Jason, panicking. The “pet” was getting weird. He was crossing boundaries! Your dog bit me. What do I do? Get a tetanus shot! Don’t die in my apartment! Jason replied. Was human saliva even that dangerous? I was close to tears. Jason, please, just let him go. This is wrong. Think about your future, your degree… Jason was so angry he called me on FaceTime. “What do you mean ‘let him go’? It’s a dog, Sophie! A toy poodle can’t survive on the streets of Seattle!” He looked at the background behind me and paused. “Wait. Where are you? That’t not my place.” I thought he was joking. I panned the camera around the room. “Jason, you’ve been gone three weeks. You don’t recognize your own living room?” Jason let out a shaky breath. “Oh, no. Sophie… I moved last month. Didn’t I tell you?” A cold realization washed over me. “Jason… if this isn’t your house… whose house is this?” “Sophie,” he whispered, “I think you’ve been breaking and entering.” 11 After a frantic half-hour of “debriefing” with my brother, he was the one crying. “Sophie, you just started a job at a Fortune 200 company! That’s the Hawthorne Group! Your life, your career… it’s all over!” “How was I supposed to know?” I wailed. “You told me the dog was black and tied up! He was wearing a shirt!” “Why would a dog wear a shirt?!” We made a plan. Jason, who was apparently a better hacker than he was a brother, would scrub the local security footage. I just had to stay calm, stop treating Elias like a pet, apologize, and disappear. “He’s just a vulnerable, blind man,” Jason sighed. “You’ll never see him again. It’s not like his sight is going to miraculously return. I heard the Hawthorne heir went blind in an accident and disappeared from the hospital because he couldn’t handle the pity. If the guy you’ve been torturing is just some random shut-in, he’s probably too traumatized to even report you. You’re a literal home-invasion lunatic.” 12 I decided to make amends. That night, I didn’t sleep in his room. I stayed in the guest room, but at 3 AM, I heard him coughing. I ran in instinctively and rubbed his back. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his silk pajamas rumpled, exposing a shoulder. I handed him some warm water. He couldn’t see it, so he reached for my hand, his fingers interlacing with mine. He gripped me like a drowning man, so hard it hurt. He drank slowly, droplets of water falling onto his chest. He looked so cold, so I draped a cardigan over him. “I called for you,” he rasped. “Many times. You weren’t there.” “I was in the other room.” “Why? You’re supposed to be right here. Is this how you ‘care’ for me?” He still thought I was the housekeeper. I couldn’t tell him the truth—that I was a criminal. I had to be a “reformed” criminal before I left. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hawthorne,” I said politely. “Is there anything else I can get for you?” He turned his head sharply toward my voice. “What did you just call me?” “Mr. Hawthorne?” “Before… you called me ‘sweetheart.’ You called me ‘good boy.’” I bowed my head in a silent apology. “I was being unprofessional. I’m sorry.” Elias let out a sharp, cold laugh. He pushed the water away and climbed back into bed, pulling the covers over his head. The monitor on his ankle was strobing red. Anger. Extreme Agitation. It made sense. A sane man who had been treated like a poodle for two weeks was finally getting the apology he deserved. He was rightfully pissed. “I’ll be going now, sir,” I said. “Please don’t… report me.” Silence from the bed. The monitor light cycled from red to blue to red like a traffic light. I went back to my room and fell into a deep sleep. Around 4 AM, the room felt hot. I hung my hand over the edge of the bed, and suddenly, I felt something wet and warm lick my palm. I mumbles, thinking of Jason’s dog. “Not now, Shadow. It tickles.” I heard a low, soft, “Woof.” Wait. There wasn’t a dog here. I snapped my eyes open. The room was pitch black. I saw a flash of pink light from a monitor disappearing through the doorway. I must be dreaming, I told myself, and fell back asleep. 13 The next morning, I was rushing to make breakfast. My phone, sitting on the coffee table, started ringing. Elias was sitting there, his hands fumbling over the device. To my horror, he managed to answer it. “Hello? Is this Sophie Turner?” a loud voice asked. “I’m the realtor. Do you want to see that studio apartment today? Your boyfriend mentioned you wanted something close to the Hawthorne Building.” “You have the wrong number,” Elias said, his voice cold. “She already has a home.” He hung up. He turned toward me, his vacant eyes narrowed. Before he could speak, the realtor called back. “Look, my time is valuable! Is this Sophie? Your boyfriend’s number is dead, so I called this one…” Elias interrupted. “What is her last name?” I lunged for the phone and cut the call. “Wrong number! My name is… Mary. Mary Smith.” My heart was beating so hard I thought it would explode. Jason, that idiot, had used my real name with the realtor. To distract Elias, I clicked my tongue and tapped the table. “Breakfast time!” I’d made two different meals. Elias was usually a picky eater—oatmeal and nothing else. I’d been forcing him to eat eggs and bacon. Elias usually resisted, sometimes to the point of tears and soaked shirts, which I’d then make him “clean up.” But today, he sat down quietly. He put on his napkin. He felt for the bowl. He took a sip and his face fell. “Oatmeal?” He felt around the table. There was only one bowl. “Mr. Hawthorne,” I said professionally. “I realized your previous palate was much more refined. I’ve returned to your original menu. You seem much happier.” I had to get to work. “I’ll be back later to clean up. Please don’t touch the dishes, I don’t want you to get your hands dirty.” He looked confused, but then a look of realization dawned on his face. 14 At lunch, I couldn’t help myself. I opened the camera app. Elias was sitting at the table like a statue. When he heard the camera move, he tilted his head. “You’re late. I finished my lunch.” The dishes on the table were my leftovers from breakfast. The milk was gone. The plate from my sandwich was licked clean. Not a crumb remained. “Elias! That was trash! Your lunch was in the fridge!” “You told me to ‘handle the leftovers,’” he said simply. Did I? I couldn’t remember. “I need to use the restroom,” he added. Jason had complained the “dog” was messy, so I’d made him report every time he went. I rolled the camera into the bathroom, then turned it away to give him privacy. “You’re really not going to… supervise me anymore?” he asked quietly. “You’re just… leaving me alone?” The cheap speaker was fuzzy. I thought he said, “You’re leaving me, aren’t you?” “I’m done controlling you!” I shouted at the phone. “You’re free!” Something crashed in the bathroom.

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