Author: Momo Chan

I was bullied by the entire school. The only light in my life was the student council president — someone untouchable, someone I looked up to. He stepped in for me again and again, gently telling me to stop being weak and letting people walk all over me. Then one day, I was cornered again — punched and kicked by a crowd. I made up my mind. I pressed the button on the voice recorder, determined to finally fight back with evidence. But through all the noise — the shouting, the hitting — a familiar voice cut through. A voice I had come to depend on more than anything. It was dripping with mockery and contempt: “You guys haven’t seen the way she begs and grovels, have you? God, it’s absolutely hilarious.” It had all been an act. Every rescue, every kind word — a performance. I was nothing but a toy for his amusement. Vanessa’s slap landed hard across my face. It really hurts. Her cronies had me cornered on the rooftop, backs to the wall, nowhere to run. “Lily.” Vanessa’s voice was thick with contempt. “Did you go tell Tyler again?” I didn’t answer. I just looked at her. This had happened so many times before. Every time they came after me, the student council president — Tyler — would show up right on time. He’d protect me behind his back, just like a prince, tell Vanessa and her friends go away, righteous authority. Then he’d turn to me, gentle and reassuring, and tell me not to be afraid. He was the only person in this entire school who was ever kind to me. My one source of light. “What, are you dumb now?” Vanessa sneered when I didn’t respond. She reached out to grab my hair. Then the rooftop door swung open. Tyler walked in. He was wearing his crisp white uniform, his expression carrying just the right amount of anger. “Vanessa. What is going on here?” The moment she saw him, Vanessa’s bravado crumbled. She even managed to look a little wronged. “Ty, I didn’t do anything. She tripped on her own.” Tyler ignored her. He walked straight over to me and crouched down, helping me up with a gentleness. “Lily, are you okay? Are you hurt?” I shook my head. The tears came anyway. “Hey. Don’t cry.” He pulled out a tissue and carefully wiped my face. “I’m here. I won’t let them bully you.” He walked me back to class. Vanessa and her cronies left, fuming with resentment. After school, Tyler was waiting for me at the front gate. He pulled me aside under a large tree, his expression serious. “Lily, You can’t keep backing down anymore.” I stared at the ground. I didn’t know what to say. “If you keep backing down, they’re only going to get worse.” He reached into his pocket and pressed something into my hand. It was a small black voice recorder. “Next time they come after you, turn it on.” He looked me in the eyes, his gaze steady and certain. “Record everything — what they say, what they do. That’s your evidence. With that, I can actually go to the school and get them disciplined.” I closed my fingers around the recorder. It felt like a talisman, warm against my palm. My chest was so full of gratitude I didn’t know what to do with it. “Thank you, Tyler.” “Little silly. Go home. Be careful on the way.” He ruffled my hair, smiling that warm smile of his. The next day, Vanessa and her cronies cornered me on the rooftop again. Same spot. Same people. My palms were sweating. The recorder in my pocket was the only thing keeping me steady. “So, Lily.” Vanessa’s smile was cold. “Tyler came to your rescue again yesterday? Aren’t you just so talented.” One of the girls shoved me. I stumbled and hit the wall hard. Another one grabbed my bag and dumped everything out onto the ground — my textbooks, my notebooks, all of it scattered across the floor. Then they started stepping on my books. I was shaking. Rage and fear twisted together inside me until I couldn’t tell them apart. Now. It has to be now. I pretended to fall. I curled up on the ground, and while they weren’t looking, I slipped my hand into my pocket and pressed the button. The little indicator light on the recorder blinked once. It was working. I waited. I waited for them to say something more, something damning. I waited for them to make their move, so I’d have everything I needed. But the moment I pressed record, there was a brief burst of static — and then a voice came through the recorder, loud and clear. Tyler’s voice. “Now. Make it convincing. Don’t let her figure out we’re acting.” My mind went completely blank. Every sound on that rooftop disappeared. All I could hear was the recorder. Tyler’s voice, still going. “Vanessa, make sure you push her down. She needs to look like she’s really suffering.” “Yeah — step on her books. Make her feel hopeless.” “Once she hits record, the plan is done.” The wind moved across the rooftop. I couldn’t feel it at all. I felt frozen solid, from the inside out. All this time, my light had been my abyss. The prince who repeatedly saved me time and again was the very demon who dragged me into hell. Vanessa and the others froze, shooting me confused looks. They hadn’t heard the sound coming from the voice recorder. It was a pre-set command — only I could hear it. 2 My world shattered completely in that moment. Every warmth, every ounce of gratitude, every bit of dependency I’d built up — it all became one massive joke. I lay there on the cold floor, listening to Tyler’s voice coming through the recorder. That voice had once been my only comfort. Now it crawled into my ears like a venomous snake. So every single act of bullying had been a carefully staged performance. Vanessa was the actress. Tyler was the director. And I was the only one in the audience who never knew. He loved playing the savior. He loved the way I trusted him completely, the way I depended on him. I don’t know how I managed to pull myself up off the floor. I don’t know how I quietly picked up my books, scattered all over the ground, with Vanessa and the others watching. There was only one thought in my head: don’t let him find out that I know. I had to keep playing the part — the stupid, helpless, Tyler-dependent Lily. I gathered my schoolbag, kept my head down, and left the rooftop in silence, just like always. I didn’t go looking for Tyler. I went straight home. That night, I locked myself in my room and listened to the recording over and over again. Every word Tyler said was like a knife, slicing through my heart on repeat. I hated him. That hatred was ten thousand times more intense than anything Vanessa and her cronies had ever done to me. The next day, I went to find Tyler myself. He was in the student council office, going through some paperwork. When he saw me, his face settled into that look of concern — the I-knew-you’d-come kind. “Lily? You’re here. How are you? Yesterday…” He trailed off, as if he was waiting for me to hand over some kind of evidence. I dropped my head, wringing the hem of my shirt, letting my voice go shaky like I was about to cry. “I’m sorry, Tyler… I… I was so scared…” I took out the voice recorder and held it out to him. “I couldn’t do it… When they surrounded me, I just froze… I didn’t get anything.” Something flickered across Tyler’s face — just for a second — before the warmth came flooding back. He took the recorder, let out a small sigh, and reached over to ruffle my hair. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault — I was too rush.” His voice was as smooth and disarming as ever. “I didn’t think about how you’d be feeling. Of course you were scared, facing them like that.” I swallowed down the disgust rising in my throat and nodded. “Don’t worry, Lily.” He gave me a reassuring smile. “We’ll take our time and figure this out. I’ll think of a way.” “Thank you, Tyler.” I looked up at him, eyes shining with what looked like grateful tears. “You’re always so good to me.” He smiled — a flawless, perfect smile. “Alright, get to class. Come find me anytime you need something.” I turned and walked out of the student council office. The moment I was out of his line of sight, every trace of vulnerability vanished from my face. The game started right this moment. Tyler, you love being the director, don’t you? Fine. I’ll keep playing along. I would go on being that naive, dependent little victim — lull him into letting his guard down. And then, on his own stage, at his most triumphant moment, I would tear that mask right off his face. I started watching him. Every move, every interaction. What I found was that I wasn’t the only show he was acting. He wore a different mask for everyone. With teachers, he was the outstanding student — responsible, capable, the one they could always count on. With classmates, he was the helpful, warm, upstanding role model everyone looked up to. He soaked up the praise and admiration like it was sunlight, the perfect idol on a perfect pedestal. And Vanessa? She was his most devoted follower, the most useful tool in his arsenal. She was obsessed with him. So she’d do anything for him — including directing every one of those bullying scenes on his behalf. I needed an opportunity to completely shatter this massive lie. 3 The opportunity came fast — and Tyler handed it to me himself. I started trying to record things on my own phone, hidden in my pocket. I knew how risky it was. If he ever caught on, the fragile peace between us would be gone. But I had no other option. He’d given the voice recorder back to me, but I didn’t dare use it again. I had no idea if there were other tricks built into it. One afternoon, Vanessa cornered me in the stairwell again. I pressed my back against the wall and pretended to tremble with fear — while my hand, buried in my uniform pocket, quietly hit record on my phone. “Lily.” Vanessa’s face was inches from mine. “You really think having Tyler’s back you means I won’t touch you?” I caught a whiff of her sharp, overwhelming perfume. “Let me tell you something — Ty only feels sorry for you. Don’t push your luck.” My heart was pounding. I wanted her to keep talking. I needed more about Tyler. But just then, Tyler appeared around the corner of the stairwell. This time, he didn’t step in right away like he usually did. He just stood there, watching Vanessa, his eyes carrying a coldness I had never seen in him before. The moment Vanessa spotted him, she shoved me even harder — like she was trying to impress him. “What are you staring at?! You little bitch!” My phone slipped out of my pocket and hit the floor. The recording screen was still lit up. The air froze. Vanessa’s face went pale. Tyler walked slowly around the corner toward us. He didn’t look at Vanessa. He bent down and picked up my phone. He glanced at the screen, then stopped the recording. He looked up at me, and for the first time, every trace of his fake smile was gone. What was left was pure, undisguised malice. “Lily, you really disappoint me.” His voice was quiet, but it hit me like a hammer to the chest. He gestured for Vanessa to leave. Taking the hint, She scrambled away like her life depend on it. We were alone in the stairwell. “When did you figure it out?” He turned my phone over in his hands, casual, unbothered. I knew the game was over. I didn’t answer him. I just stared back, cold and still. “Was it the day with the recorder?” He answered his own question, then let out a light laugh. “My mistake. I figured someone like you would be easier to manage.” He moved toward me, step by step. He backed me into the corner until my shoulders were pressed flat against the cold wall. “You think recording me actually you can do anything about it?” He held up my phone and waved it in my face. “You think anyone’s going to believe you over me?” He leaned in close to my ear and dropped his voice so only I could hear. “Lily, you’re a rat in the gutter. And I’m the one standing in the sun.” “I decide if you live. I decide if you die.” His words cut like a poisoned blade, each one aimed straight at the heart. “Stop playing these little games.” He straightened up and looked down at me. “Be a good little victim and stay in your lane. Because if you don’t, what happens to you next will be a hundred times worse.” He tossed my phone back at me and walked away. I sank against the wall, slowly sliding down. Fear and fury crashed through me all at once. I finally saw him for what he really was. He wasn’t a hypocrite. He wasn’t even pretending to be good. He was just a completely monster. 4 The midterm grades came out. I ranked third in my entire grade. That score meant everything to me — it was my hope to get ride of here. But to Tyler, it seemed like a threat. And soon, a much bigger storm came crashing down on me. I was called into the dean’s office. Tyler was already there. So was Vanessa. On the desk sat a copy of the midterm math exam. The dean’s expression was grim. “Lily, a student has reported that you stole the midterm exam papers. how do you explain this?” I froze. “I didn’t.” I looked the dean straight in the eye, every word deliberate. “Didn’t?” Vanessa let out a cold laugh from the side. “Someone saw you sneaking into the teachers’ office the night before the exam. If it wasn’t you, then who was it?” “I was never in that office.” “She’s lying!” Vanessa pointed at me. “It’s all on the security cameras!” The dean opened a video file on the computer. It was footage from the hallway outside the office. The clip had been edited down to just a few blurry segments. A girl in the same school uniform, with a similar figure to mine, entered the office late at night and slipped out a few minutes later. The lighting was too dark to make out a face. “That’s not me,” I said. “Lily, none of us want to suspect you.” Tyler spoke up then, his voice full of what sounded like genuine regret. “But your improvement has been so dramatic. It’s hard not to suspect you.” His words were a soft knife — quietly suggesting my grades weren’t earned. “In order to get to the truth, and to make an example for the entire student , the school has decided to hold a grade-wide assembly,” the dean concluded. The assembly was held in the school auditorium. Over a thousand students and teachers from the entire grade were seated below. I stood alone on the stage, like a criminal waiting to be sentenced. The dean of students first announced the “stolen exam paper” incident. Then Tyler, as student body president, took the stage to speak. He started by passionately lecturing about the importance of integrity, then pivoted to me. “Lily has always been a very introverted student.” He looked out at the audience, his voice loud and clear. “We all know she faced some unfair treatment in her class before.” He was slipping into the role he played best — the messenger of justice. “However, that cannot be an excuse for making mistakes.” “When faced with solid evidence, the right thing to do is to bravely admit your mistakes.” He played the edited security footage. Then Vanessa went on the stage as a “witness.” She gave a tearful performance, describing how she had “accidentally” caught me stealing the exam, and how she had “struggled internally” before finally deciding to report me “for the sake of justice.” The entire auditorium buzzed with whispers. Everyone stared at me with suspicion and contempt. I had been nailed to the post of shame, branded a cheater. Finally, Tyler walked over to my side. He picked up the microphone and spoke in a tone of practiced “tolerance” and “compassion”: “It is never too late to mend. The school has decided to give Lily one more chance.” “We now hope that Lily will admit her mistakes in front of everyone, and thank Vanessa for being willing to forgive her.” He held the microphone up to my lips. Every eye in the room was on me. I looked out at the sea of faces below — the mockery, the scorn written plainly across them. I saw the school administrators sitting in the front row. I saw Vanessa, practically glowing with satisfaction. And then I looked at Tyler. His face wore a perfect, victorious smile. He didn’t want me to admit my mistake. What he wanted was to crush my dignity completely — right here, in front of the entire school — and grind it beneath his heel. This was his public execution. My lips trembled. I couldn’t get a single word out. “Go on,” he murmured in my ear, his voice laced with amusement. “Apologize, then thank her. This is your only chance.” I knew I had no choice.

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Five years into our marriage, I believed I had the most perfect life imaginable. My wife was gentle and devoted—and she wore the same face as my first love, the woman who died years ago. I told myself it was a gift from the universe. Compensation for everything I had lost. Then, on our wedding anniversary, an anonymous package arrived at our door. No bomb inside. Just a bloodstained ring, and a photograph of a woman burned beyond recognition. On the back of the photo, someone had written words that turned my blood to ice: “What kind of monster are you holding every night?” On our fifth wedding anniversary, I cleared my entire schedule and came home early. The dining table was set with seared steak, a decanted bottle of red wine, and a bouquet of white roses still beaded with water. Aria was in the kitchen, wearing the white dress I loved most. Her figure was slender, her long hair pinned loosely with a wooden clip, a few soft strands falling against the pale curve of her neck. I walked up behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist. “Thank you for this,” I murmured. “All of it.” She turned around. In the warm amber light, her face was breathtaking. Especially when she smiled—those two faint dimples at the corners of her mouth were an exact copy of Aurora’s. The Aurora who had died in a fire five years ago. Five years ago, my fiancée Aurora was killed in an accidental fire. I fell apart after losing her. There were moments I didn’t want to go on. Then, six months later, I walked into an art exhibition and met Aria. She told me she was an orphan. A freelance illustrator. And she looked so much like Aurora it stopped my breath. I fell for her helplessly—or maybe I fell for that face. Five years of marriage, and she had been nothing but gentle and patient. She tolerated every one of my bad moods. She even learned to cook Aurora’s favorite dishes, just for me. “Lucien, what are you staring at? Go wash your hands.” Aria tapped the tip of my nose with a teasing smile. Then the doorbell rang. “Who’d come at this hour?” She wiped her hands on her apron and started toward the door. “I’ll get it.” I touched her shoulder and walked to the entryway. No one was there. Just a black cardboard box sitting alone on the doormat. No return address. Only four printed words: For Lucien. Open personally. I frowned, picked it up, and brought it inside. “Who sent it?” Aria called from the kitchen, carrying a bowl of soup. “No idea. Probably someone’s idea of a joke.” I found a box cutter and sliced through the tape. Inside, black raffia padding cushioned a single transparent zip-lock bag. Inside the bag was a diamond ring—slightly warped, as if it had been through a fire. The moment I saw it, my mind went blank. The blood drained from my body. That was the ring I had used to propose to Aurora. After her death, it was supposed to have been buried with her ashes. So why was it here? My hands started shaking. “Lucien? You look terrible.” Aria stepped closer. “What’s wrong?” “Don’t come over here.” My voice came out sharp. She froze, her eyes wide with confusion and hurt. I ignored her. Because I had just noticed what was beneath the ring—a manila envelope. I swallowed hard and tore it open. Several photographs slid out, along with a photocopied medical file. The first photo showed a woman wrapped head to toe in bandages, lying in a hospital bed. The exposed skin was covered in ragged burn scars, dark and raised like deep welts running in every direction. The second photo showed the same woman with some of the bandages removed. It was a completely unfamiliar face—a wide jawline, a flat nose, eyes hollow with despair. The third photo showed her on an operating table. Her face was covered in surgical markers. Reconstructive procedures were already underway. The medical file read: Patient Name: Iris Diagnosis: Severe full-body burns. Facial disfigurement. Surgical Plan: Facial contouring, cartilage rhinoplasty, eyelid reconstruction… Reference template: Aurora (photo attached) At the bottom of the file, written in red ink by hand: “What kind of monster are you holding every night?” I stared at the photos. Then I looked up at Aria, standing a few feet away, her face pale with panic. The same eyes. The same dimples. It had all been a lie. Not a gift from the universe. Not a miracle reunion. A face, built from scratch with a surgeon’s blade. I stood up and hurled the photos and the file directly at her. Papers scattered across the floor like snow. “Tell me what this is.” My voice came out barely human. “Tell me right now.” Aria looked down at the photos. Every drop of color left her face. Her legs gave out beneath her and she crumpled to the floor, trembling violently. “Lucien… just let me explain…” “Explain?” I laughed, a cold and ugly sound. I stepped toward her, grabbed her jaw and forced her to look at me. “Explain how this face was carved out one cut at a time? Explain why you put on my dead fiancée’s face and climbed into my bed?” “Tell me who you are. Are you Aria? Or are you the one who burned—the one they called Iris?”

She could barely breathe with my grip on her jaw. Tears poured down the face that looked exactly like Aurora’s and fell onto the back of my hand, scalding hot. “Lucien, I love you.” She choked on the words, clawing at my fingers. “I really do love you—” “Don’t make that expression with her face.” I shoved her away and turned aside, nausea rising in my throat. Five years of sleeping beside her. Five years of her warmth, her laughter, her hands in mine. I had convinced myself I was holding a miracle—that I had somehow gotten Aurora back. Yet I never imagined that every inch of skin I kissed was a forgery, meticulously sculpted by a surgeon’s scalpel. “Get out.” I pointed at the front door, one word at a time. “Leave my house. Before I call the police and have you arrested for fraud—disappear.” Iris sat on the floor and sobbed. She didn’t argue. She didn’t beg. She just stumbled to her feet, left without grabbing a coat or a bag, and pushed out into the dark. The door shut behind her with a heavy thud. I dropped onto the couch, surrounded by scattered photos and that charred ring, and pressed my hands over my face. These past five years have been nothing short of an utterly absurd nightmare. The next morning, I called Vincent. Vincent had been a year above me in college. After graduation he’d opened a private investigation firm—he had connections on both sides of the law. We met at a quiet tea house off the main road. I dropped the package on the table in front of him. He lit a cigarette and went through the photos and the medical file, his expression tightening with each page. “Jesus,” he muttered, blowing out a long stream of smoke. “This reads like a thriller. A full face reconstruction? That takes serious money and serious pain. What was she after? Your money?” I shook my head. “My accounts have always been separate. She lived on a small monthly allowance. She never bought designer bags, never bought jewelry.” That had always confused me. If Iris was after money, she could have drained accounts and run. She didn’t. She just stayed—a flawless, quiet, model wife—for five years. “Not for the cash, then. Must be the man. ” Vincent tapped his cigarette ash. “But something still doesn’t add up. Even if she was obsessed with you, where does a nobody orphan get the cash for surgery like this? The procedures on this file—we’re talking millions, minimum. Where did she get it?” I looked up sharply. “That’s exactly what I want to know. Vincent, dig into all of it. Find out who Iris really is, which clinic did this, and—” I tapped the envelope— “find out who sent this package.” Vincent tucked the photos away and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “I’m on it. Watch yourself in the meantime. Someone’s been pulling strings behind this whole thing.” While I waited, I stayed in a hotel. I couldn’t go back to that apartment. Iris’s phone went straight to voicemail. She had vanished completely, as if she’d never existed. Three days later, Vincent called me to his office. When I walked in, his face was grim. He dropped a thick stack of documents on the desk. “Lucien, it’s worse than you think.” He pointed to the first page. “Iris is a real person. Five years ago, there was a serious explosion and fire at a chemical plant on the outskirts of the city. She was a line worker there at the time. After the fire, she was listed as missing—several bodies recovered at the scene were burned beyond identification.” My stomach dropped. Five years ago. A fire. Aurora also died in a fire five years ago. But Aurora’s was at an art gallery downtown. “Is that a coincidence?” My voice came out tight. “No.” Vincent pulled out a photograph. A young man in a white coat—clean-cut, gold-framed glasses, something cold and unsettling in his eyes despite the composed expression. “This is Julian. One of the top plastic surgeons in the city.” Vincent tapped the photo. “And the attending physician on that medical file.” I stared at Julian’s face. Something about it nagged at me—familiar in a way I couldn’t place. “You might not know him directly,” Vincent said. “But here’s his background.” He drew a slow breath. “Julian went to the same high school as Aurora. He was obsessed with her. Pursued her relentlessly—until she got engaged to you. That’s when he backed off.” Boom! The silence hit me like a physical blow. Julian. I remembered now. At our engagement dinner, there had been a man sitting in the corner the entire night—watching me with this flat, reptilian stare. That was him. “So…” My voice was unsteady. “Julian found Iris in the wreckage, funded her recovery, and paid to have her reconstructed to look like Aurora?” “Exactly.” Vincent nodded. “He runs a private clinic—very discreet. Iris was there for a full year. Thirteen major surgeries. Every bill paid from Julian’s personal accounts.” I sank back in the chair. A man who had been obsessed with my fiancée had spent a year sculpting a living replica and then placed that replica in my life. For what? To watch me hold a counterfeit and feel grateful? To watch me live out a lie? “Who sent the package?” I asked, jaw locked. Vincent shook his head. “Can’t trace it. Delivered by a local courier app, ordered from a burner number. Security footage shows someone in a mask and a cap—can’t make out a face. My best guess? Someone who knew about the whole setup—a rival of Julian’s, or someone who stumbled on the truth and wanted leverage.” I grabbed my car keys off the desk. “Where are you going?” Vincent caught my arm. “To find Julian.” My voice was flat. “I want to know where Iris is. And I want to know what he’s been planning.”

Julian’s private clinic was housed in a standalone building on the edge of the city, marked by a small, understated sign: Julian Aesthetic Surgery. The place radiated the particular kind of wealth that doesn’t need to advertise. I parked down the road and waited. At eight o’clock, staff began filtering out. By eight thirty, a black Maybach rolled out of the underground garage. Julian was driving. I fired up the car and tailed him without making a sound. The Maybach pulled up to a high-rise residential building in the heart of the city—a luxury river-view complex with full-floor units. I hid the car and watched Julian walk into the lobby. I followed close behind, noting that the elevator stopped at the top floor, 28. No key fob, so I took the fire stairs, climbing all twenty-eight flights. The door to unit 2801 was closed. I pressed my ear against it. The soundproofing was too good—nothing came through. Then I heard it. A sharp, muffled scream. The crash of something heavy hitting the floor. I stepped back and drove my heel into the door. The electronic lock was heavy-duty, the door remained completely immovable. Scanning the area, I yanked a fire axe from its box and swung it viciously at the lock. Crash! Crash! Crash! After a few brutal chops, the mechanism shattered. I kicked the door wide open and charged inside. What I saw stopped me cold. Iris was crumpled on the floor like a discarded piece of cloth, wearing a thin nightgown. Blood at the corner of her mouth. Hair tangled across her face. Julian stood over her, looking down with calm contempt, a surgical scalpel in his hand. The tip of the blade was pressed to her cheek—like Aurora’s cheek— “Stop.” I crossed the room in three strides. Julian startled. Just for a second. I put my fist through his face. He went backward over the arm of the sofa, the scalpel spinning away across the floor, and landed hard. I pulled Iris up from the floor and put myself between her and Julian. “Lucien.” Julian touched his bloody lip. And then, incredibly, he laughed—a fraying, unhinged sound. “You’re right on time. I was just correcting some bad behavior.” “You’re out of your mind,” I said. “What the hell is this?” Taking his time, Julian rose to his feet and casually adjusted his disheveled suit. “What is this?” He spread his arms wide like a curator presenting a collection. “Lucien, you should be thanking me. Aurora was gone and you were destroying yourself. So I gave her back to you. Look at her—” He gestured at Iris. “Every angle of that face, I measured twice. The geometry of her smile. The spacing of her eyes. One to one. Perfect.” His expression went somewhere else—bright and vacant and wrong. “To make her into Aurora, I broke her jaw and reset it. I rebuilt her eyelids. I cut away the scar tissue piece by piece. A full year of surgeries. And what did I get? The most precise replica ever constructed.” He pointed at Iris, his voice cracking into something colder. “And then this ungrateful thing goes and actually falls in love with you. She forgot what she is. She’s a stand-in. A vessel. Nothing more. She was secretly throwing away the anti-rejection medication I gave her. She was trying to get out from under me.” I felt something go cold in my chest. “So the package—that was you?” “No.” Julian’s smile thinned. “I wouldn’t sabotage my own work. That was a nurse I fired. She stole the files and tried to use them for blackmail. I’ve already handled her.” He said “handled her” the way you’d say you’d taken out the trash. I turned to Iris. She was gripping the back of my shirt with both hands, trembling, holding on like I was the only solid thing in the room. “Lucien… take me out of here. Please.” She cried and begged. “Take her?” Julian burst out laughing. “Lucien, who exactly do you think you’re taking? You think you’re getting Aurora back? Wake up. She’s a factory worker from a town you’ve never heard of. She could barely read when I found her. She signed a contract and traded her body for a roof over her head.” “Shut up.” My voice came out low and final. Julian’s laughter cut off. His eyes went flat and poisonous. “What gives you the right to speak to me like that? You think you loved Aurora? You couldn’t even protect her. If she had chosen me back then, she would still be alive!” The mention of Aurora’s death ripped something open in my chest. “That was an accident,” I said. “The gallery fire—it was an accident.” “An accident?” Julian looked at me like I was something almost too pathetic to bother with. A slow smile spread across his face. He took a step closer, dropped his voice until only the three of us could hear it. “Lucien. Do you actually believe that was an accident?”

The air in the room went completely still. I stared into Julian’s eyes, and my heart missed a beat. “What are you saying?” Taking a deliberate step backward, Julian threw his hands open in surrender, wearing a triumphant smirk. “Think about it. Why did Aurora end up at that gallery that night? Why did every single fire suppression system in the building fail? Why were there no signs she even tried to escape?” Because…” Julian enunciated every single word, “I was the one who injected her with succinylcholine. Succinylcholine. A powerful paralytic. It shuts down every voluntary muscle in the body—including the muscles that control breathing—while leaving the mind completely awake and aware. My mind went blank with a sudden rush, as if ten thousand needles were simultaneously piercing my temples. “You killed her?” My voice came out as barely a sound. “If I can’t have something, no one gets to.” Julian’s face came apart—whatever mask he’d been wearing dissolved, and what was underneath was not a person. “She was about to marry you. I went to her. I told her I still loved her. I begged her to come back to me. And she slapped me across the face and said I disgusted her.” “So I let her stay perfect. Preserved. I watched the fire reach her. I watched until—” He made a slow, satisfied exhale. “It was beautiful.” “Ahhh—!!!” I let out a scream of sheer despair and rage, throwing myself at Julian with reckless abandon. I’ll kill him! I’m going to rip him to shreds! I was just on top of him—my hands finding his collar, my fists finding his face. One hit, two, three. His nose broke. Blood poured down over his mouth and he was laughing, laughing— “Hit me harder! Hitting me won’t bring her back!” “Lucien, stop! You’ll kill him!” Iris had her arms around my waist from behind, throwing her whole weight into pulling me away. “Let go of me! I’ll kill him!” My eyes were bloodshot, and my sanity had completely shattered. And then Julian’s hand moved. He had found the scalpel on the floor. He came up with it in one motion and drove it toward my stomach. “Lucien—!” Iris let out a piercing scream and shoved me violently aside, throwing herself in front of me. Shhhk— The sickening sound of a blade sinking into flesh rang out, deafeningly loud in the dead silence of the living room. Time seemed to stand still in that very moment. I just stood there, staring blankly at Iris. Julian’s scalpel was buried in her left shoulder. Her white nightgown flooded red from the wound, a vivid crimson bloom spreading through the fabric. Julian stood frozen. He clearly hadn’t expected her to step in front of me. He yanked the blade free and stumbled back. Iris made a low sound and folded. “Iris—” I caught her before she hit the floor. Her blood was on my hands, warm and real. It was the first time I had called her by her real name. She looked up at me. Through the face that belonged to Aurora, she gave me a faint, ruined smile. “Lucien… I’m sorry… I lied to you…” Her voice was getting fainter. “I just… didn’t want to let go of the warmth you gave me…” “Stop talking. I’m taking you to the hospital.” I pressed my hand against the wound. My eyes were burning. “Don’t talk. Hold on.” I hated what she had done. I hated the face she was wearing and the lie she had built around it. But the soups she had left simmering for me. The light she kept on when I worked late. The way she used to look at me—like I was enough, like I was everything— That had all been real. I was already trying to get my arms under her to lift her when the back of my head exploded in white pain. A wave of agonizing pain washed over me, and the world around me began to spin wildly. In the last second before I lost consciousness, I saw Julian standing over me, a bronze ornament in his hand, looking down at us the way you look at something that is already finished. “Since you’re so devoted to each other,” he said, “I’ll send you both down together.”

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For seven years, I was billionaire Sebastian Scott’s dirty little secret in Washington D.C. By day, I was his sharp, capable secretary. By night, I was his on-call plaything—always available, always giving him whatever he wanted. I thought seven years of devotion would earn me a public commitment. Then the new intern walked into his office and changed everything. I was forced to hide beneath his darkened desk, listening as he laughed softly for another woman just above me: “Scarlett Blake? She’s nothing but a convenient outlet. How could she ever compare to you?” In that moment, seven years of foolish hope shattered into pieces. I crawled out from under him, wiped the corners of my mouth, and walked straight into the arms of another powerful man in Washington. Later, Sebastian cornered me with bloodshot eyes—desperate, begging me to come back. I just smirked and tilted his chin up with my finger. “Mr. Scott, I’m done playing lapdog.” Sebastian Scott’s office was on the top floor, with panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bustling D.C. business district. Right now, the blinds were shut tight. He had me pinned hard against the cold glass, my legs forced apart, my black pencil skirt bunched up around my waist. “Mr. Scott… mmm… we’re still at work…” I bit my lower lip, trying to hold back the broken sounds rising from my throat. Sebastian pressed against me from behind, his scorching breath fanning over the curve of my neck. His large hands gripped my waist hard, fingers digging in like a punishment — every thrust sending tremors through my entire body. “What’s wrong with being at the office?” His low, husky voice carried a thread of cruel amusement. His teeth grazed my earlobe. “Wasn’t Miss Blake just begging me for more last night? Why are you playing innocent now?” “Don’t… someone might hear us…” My whole body had gone soft as water. All I could do was grip the window frame and hold on. Seven years. I knew every inch of him — every temperature, every rhythm. All it took was one look, and every wall I had would come crashing down. I’d become his willingly, a toy he could use however he pleased. Then, without warning, the door handle clicked. “Mr. Scott? Are you in there?” The voice drifting in from the hallway was soft and breathy — Sarah Anne, the new intern. I froze instantly. Even my breathing stopped. Sebastian paused too. But instead of pulling back, he drove forward once more — deliberate, unhurried — and only after he heard my sharp gasp did he leisurely zip up his slacks. “Get under there.” His voice was cold and flat. He gestured toward the space beneath the large mahogany desk. I clenched my jaw and yanked my skirt back down. Then I got on my hands and knees and crawled into the cramped dark space — like a rat scurrying out of the light. I had barely tucked myself in when the door swung open. “Mr. Scott, why didn’t you answer when I knocked?” Sarah walked in on her stilettos, hips swaying. She had on a silk blouse today with a deep plunging neckline. Her perfume flooded the room instantly, smothering the warm, intimate scent of us that had still been hanging in the air. Sebastian leaned back in his chair, long legs crossed casually. My face was inches from the hem of his slacks. I could still smell the warmth on him — the scent that was mine. “What is it?” Sebastian’s voice had returned to its usual cool, detached calm. You’d never have guessed that less than a minute ago, he’d been losing himself in me. “I can’t make sense of this proposal,” Sarah said, rounding the desk. She leaned against the back of his chair, her chest brushing against his shoulder — whether by accident or not. “Miss Blake is always so cold. I’d never dare ask her. Could you please teach me, Mr. Scott?” As she spoke, Sarah’s pen slipped from her fingers with a soft clatter and rolled straight under the desk. “Oops — my pen.” She let out a little gasp and started to crouch down to reach underneath. My heart shot into my throat. I pressed both hands over my mouth, cold sweat soaking through my back. If she spotted me — disheveled, tucked between Sebastian’s legs — every shred of dignity I’d held onto for seven years would become a joke. Just as Sarah’s face was about to peer underneath, Sebastian’s hand shot out and hooked around her waist, pulling her straight into his lap. “It’s just a pen.” He let out a quiet laugh, and his voice carried a rare, indulgent softness. “Is it really worth getting yourself?” Sarah slid onto his lap, her voice coy and playful. “Mr. Scott, you’re so naughty. But… Scarlett always looks so uptight, dressing like some frumpy nun. Doesn’t staring at her all day kill your mood? Not like me — I know exactly how to make a man happy…” Under the desk, I drove my nails into my palm until I drew blood. I held my breath, desperately hoping Sebastian would say something in my defense. Even just one sentence — even just “she’s good at her job.” But there was nothing. A low, lazy laugh drifted down from above. One of his hands toyed with Sarah’s hair on the desktop. The other rested on my head beneath the desk — idle and absentminded — like he was patting a cheap little pet. “Scarlett?” Sebastian’s voice was casual, almost bored. But it cut like a blade dipped in poison, driving straight into my chest. “She’s nothing. Just a convenient outlet I keep around to use. Lies there like a dead fish — nowhere near as fun as you.” “Oh, stop it, Mr. Scott~ I’ll be waiting for you at the Hilton tonight…” Their flirtatious voices tangled together above my head. I crouched in the darkness beneath the desk as tears fell silently onto the cold floor. Seven years. Seven years I had stood by his side — from the day he was nothing but an illegitimate son with nothing to his name, clawing his way up, all the way to the moment he secured his seat as CEO of The Scott Group. I had fended off the grabby hands of drunk men at his business dinners. I had stayed up countless nights writing proposal after proposal. And in more moments than I could count, I had humiliated myself to satisfy his every twisted desire. I thought I was something special to him. Turns out, I was just “a convenient outlet he kept around.” In that moment, my heart died. Not with shattering, unbearable pain — just a slow, nauseating wave of disgust rising in my chest. I listened as Sebastian sent Sarah away. The moment the door clicked shut, he nudged my shoulder with the tip of his shoe. “Come out. Let’s finish.” He leaned back in his chair, reaching for his zipper, looking down at me like he was doing me a favor. I slowly crawled out from under the desk. But I didn’t kneel between his legs the way I always had. I stood up straight. I smoothed my tangled hair. I peeled off my torn stockings and dropped them into the trash can beside me. “Mr. Scott, I’ve got my period. I’m not up for it today.” I looked at him. My eyes were calmer than they had ever been. Sebastian frowned, visibly annoyed by the refusal — something that had never happened before. “Scarlett. Stop playing games. Get over here.” “No.” I picked up the documents from the desk and turned toward the door. “Don’t you have the Hilton tonight? Save your energy.” With Sebastian staring after me in stunned silence, I pushed the door open and walked out without looking back. That was the first time in seven years I had refused him.

At eight o’clock that evening, I returned to the apartment I shared with Sebastian. The open-plan penthouse in the heart of the city — I had decorated it myself, piece by piece. The sofa was Italian luxury, chosen for his taste. The rug was the softest wool I could find, picked deliberately because he liked doing things in the living room. Even the double bathtub in the bathroom had been custom-ordered to match his preferences. Every inch of this apartment was a reminder of how low I had let myself sink. I walked into the bedroom and pulled out the suitcase I hadn’t touched in years. I opened the wardrobe. Inside, it was almost entirely his — row after row of expensive suits. What belonged to me amounted to a few dull work outfits, and a drawer full of lingerie I’d bought to please him — scraps of fabric that barely covered anything. I let out a cold laugh and swept every piece of it into a trash bag. God, it was disgusting. I took only my everyday clothes, my laptop, and my documents. When I was done, the suitcase was barely half full. Seven years. And I had nothing left to show for it. I left the apartment key on the dining table. Next to it sat the pumpkin soup I had made for him the night before — completely cold now. I was about to push the door open and leave when my phone buzzed. A SnapChat message from Sebastian. “What’s your problem? Get back here. I want you now.” Even through the screen, I could picture him perfectly — tie pulled loose, staring me down like he owned me. He was so used to me being available whenever he called. So used to me coming running the moment he so much as crooked a finger — like a dog in heat desperate to get to him. I stared at the screen for three seconds. Then I typed back: “Go find Sarah if you need it that bad. I’m done.” I hit send, then blocked him and deleted him — all in one smooth motion. Dragging my suitcase out of the apartment building, I felt the early autumn night breeze cool against my skin. But my mind had never been clearer. My phone rang. It was my best friend, Kate Hamilton. “Scarlett, you actually moved out of Sebastian’s place?” Kate shrieked. “You finally woke up! I always said that jerk didn’t deserve you!” “Yeah. Wide awake.” I stood under a streetlight, watching the traffic stream past. “Kate, you mentioned The Hale Group is looking for a Chief Strategy Officer — is that position still open?” “The Hale Group? Nathan Hale’s company?!” Kate sucked in a sharp breath. “The position’s open, but Nathan is Sebastian’s worst enemy. If you go work for The Hale Group, Sebastian will lose his mind.” “Whether he loses his mind is not my problem.” I flagged down a cab. “Get me an introduction. I’m going in for the interview tomorrow.”

“Done! I’ve been waiting for you to absolutely crush it!” The next morning, I put on a full face of makeup, slipped into a fitted wine-red French trench coat, stepped into three-inch heels, and walked into The Scott Group’s HR department right on time. For seven years, I’d stuck to blacks, whites, and grays to fit Sebastian’s preference for keeping a low profile. Today, I was going back to being myself. HR Director Amy’s eyes nearly popped out of her head the moment she saw me. “Scarlett — Miss Blake? Today you’re…” “Amy, this is my resignation letter.” I slid the white envelope across the desk. My voice was clipped and final. Amy jumped to her feet. “Resignation?! Scarlett, are you joking? You’re Mr. Scott’s right hand — if you leave, what will Mr. Scott—” “I already send him by email.” I brushed a curl back and gave him a slow, effortless smile. “I’ve given the required one month’s notice, but I have seven years of unused paid time off. Once I finish the handover today, I’m done.” Amy wiped the sweat from her forehead and couldn’t bring herself to take the envelope. Less than five minutes later, the intercom from the executive office rang down to HR. “Tell Scarlett to get her ass to my office.” Sebastian’s voice crackled through the speakerphone, barely containing his fury. I walked to the CEO’s office at my own pace, heels clicking, and pushed open the door. Sebastian sat behind the massive desk, tie half-undone, eyes shot through with red. Looked like last night with Sarah had been a long one. When I walked in, his gaze landed on my wine-red trench coat and red lips and stayed there for a full five seconds. His Adam’s apple moved — he couldn’t stop it. But he covered it quickly, trading the flash of surprise for a mocking smirk. “You dress like that to hand in a resignation? Scarlett, your little ‘playing hard to get’ routine is embarrassingly transparent.” He crumpled the resignation letter into a ball and tossed it cleanly into the trash. “You blocked me last night, now you’re in here with a resignation letter.” He stood and walked over until he was right in front of me, staring down at me. He reached out to lift my chin with his fingers. “All because I said a few nice things about Sarah yesterday? Are you really that jealous?” “Come over tonight.” He lowered his voice, all suggestion and entitlement. “I’ll make it up to you.” I turned my head away in disgust, stepping out of his reach. “Mr. Scott, you’ve misread this.” I took a step back, putting space between us. “This is a real resignation. You already have the handover checklist in your inbox.” Sebastian’s hand froze in the air. His expression went cold. “Scarlett, don’t push your luck. Walk out of The Scott Group, and tell me — who in Washington is going to hire you?” “That’s not your concern, Mr. Scott.” I held his gaze without flinching. “Please sign. I’m on a tight schedule.” Sebastian stared at me, searching my face for any trace of spite, or regret, or reluctance. There was nothing there but impatience. He let out a short, cold laugh. “Fine. Great. You want to get out of here? Then go. I want to see how long you last without me.” He strode back to the desk, signed his name with a sharp stroke, and flung the documents at me. “Go do your handover with Sarah. That ten-billion-dollar project in the south — it’s hers now.” I caught the papers without flinching. “No problem.”

That afternoon, the handover took place right in the middle of the open office, in front of everyone. Sarah sat beside my desk in a tight bodycon skirt, flipping through the City South project files I’d put together, her expression dripping with disdain. “Miss Blake, don’t you think these files are a little… much?” Sarah whined in that saccharine voice of hers, her eyes sliding smugly to the coworkers around us. “There’s so much data here. Who’s actually going to read all of this?” Every single person in the office had their ears perked up, soaking in every word. Everyone knew the City South project was my ace in the hole — three months of sleepless nights and a bleeding ulcer just to close that deal. And now, with one word from Sebastian, it was being handed over to Sarah, who had barely been here five minutes. This was a flat-out humiliation. But inside, I felt nothing. “Everything’s in these files. I’ve marked the key negotiating limits in red,” I said, pointing to one of the pages. “Mr. Lane is a cunning old fox — he doesn’t care about surface-level profits. What he really cares about is equity dilution down the line. When you sit down with him, do not budge on giving up more than five percent equity. Not even close.” Sarah rolled her eyes and cut me off. “Okay, okay, I get it. Mr. Scott already told me — once I walk in there, Mr. Lane will play ball. Your whole rigid negotiating style is completely outdated.” I looked at her — all overconfidence and zero self-awareness — and decided she wasn’t worth another single word. “The USB drive has all the recordings and backups. The password is The Scott Group’s founding date. Handover’s done. I’m out.” I grabbed my bag and turned to leave. That’s when Sarah let out a sharp cry. “Wait — Miss Blake, this spreadsheet you gave me is wrong! Mr. Lane just called. He said our quote shows no sincerity and he’s pulling out of the deal!” Sarah shot to her feet, eyes instantly welling up with tears. She stared at me with that wounded look. “Miss Blake, I know you’re jealous that Mr. Scott gave this project to me — but you can’t just mess with the numbers to set me up!” That outburst was enough to drag Sebastian out of his office. “What’s going on?” He strode over, brow furrowed. Sarah lunged toward him and grabbed his sleeve. “Mr. Scott, the bottom-line price sheet Miss Blake gave me is wrong, and Mr. Lane is furious—” Sebastian’s cold, sharp gaze locked onto me. “Scarlett, there’s a limit to throwing a tantrum. You think you can play games with a billion-dollar deal just because you’re upset?” He didn’t ask a single question. He just convicted me on the spot. I looked at this man I had loved for seven years, and suddenly found the whole thing almost funny. I walked forward, snatched the spreadsheet straight out of Sarah’s hands, and held it up. “Mr. Scott, I suggest you open your eyes and actually look at this. The bottom-line price on this sheet is the version you personally agreed to at that business dinner last week — the concession you made to impress Sarah, right in front of Mr. Lane. I warned you at the time that price would blow through the company’s profit floor. You told me to shut up.” My voice rang out clear and sharp across the entire office. The whole room sucked in a breath. Sebastian’s face went ashen. His eyes flickered. I didn’t give him the chance to speak. I slammed the spreadsheet straight into Sarah’s face. “If you don’t have the brains for this, don’t embarrass yourself in public. The City South project is a disaster waiting to happen. Since you two filthy lovebirds are so fond of it, it’s all yours — enjoy.” I reached up, unclipped my badge, and tossed it into the trash can beside me. “Sebastian, we’re even. Seven years of my life — wasted on you.” In the dead silence that fell over the entire office, I walked out of The Scott Group on my heels, head held high. Behind me, Sebastian’s voice erupted in a furious roar. “Scarlett! You walk out that door today, don’t ever think about coming back!” I didn’t even turn around. I just flipped him off.

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I spent five years with Julian. To support him, I spent my days dumpster diving and my nights pole dancing at clubs, and I was barely in my twenties when my body started falling apart from it all. After finally waiting for him to achieve success, he made a grand entrance with a sweet little innocent who still uses a toddler’s bowl for her meals. Not only did he demand I give up my place as his fiancée, but he also wanted me to serve as a foot servant for his sweet little innocent. I let out a cold laugh, flipped over that sweet little innocent’s baby bowl, and turned toward the man standing alone in the corner — the illegitimate son the Blackwood family had exiled for ten years, the one everyone said was violent and crippled. “Damian Blackwood. A hundred-billion-dollar dowry from The Clark Group. Marry me — if you dare?” Crystal chandeliers scattered light like crushed diamonds across the grand ballroom of The Clark Group’s seventieth anniversary gala, casting a warm glow over a room full of designer gowns and glittering jewels. I stood there in a Paris couture dress, holding a single sheet of paper that felt almost weightless in my hand. It was a freshly notarized share transfer agreement — worth over a hundred billion dollars. Tonight, I wasn’t just here to announce Julian as The Clark Group’s co-CEO. I was here to announce our engagement to everyone who mattered in Washington, D.C’s inner circle. Five years of absolute devotion, just to prop him up and push him to where he is now.”. He was the kind of man who would drive across the city at midnight just to bring me a bowl of soup. Who would stay up all night by my side when my stomach was acting up. Who had spent six months planning a trip just because I once mentioned I wanted to see the Northern Lights. I had always believed he was the one I was meant to spend my life with. “And now, please welcome Miss Victoria Clark to the podium.” The emcee’s voice echoed through the lavish hall. I gathered my skirt and walked to the podium, every eye in the room on me — every power player in Washington, D.C’s inner circle watching. Julian was standing just below the stage. His tailored suit made him look sharp and polished, almost impossibly handsome. He was looking at me, but his eyes weren’t warm the way they used to be. There was something cold in them — something I couldn’t read. I pushed the uneasy feeling aside and smiled into the microphone. “Tonight, I have an important announcement to make. What I’m holding is a transfer agreement for thirty percent of The Clark Group’s shares. The recipient is—” Bang. The heavy mahogany double doors flew open, and my words died in my throat. Every head in the room turned. “Wait!” A sharp, breathless voice cut through the solemnity of the hall. A girl stumbled in wearing a faded, washed-out dress, her eyes red and swollen. “Wait. Please.” She looked like a white flower battered by a storm — fragile, trembling, heartbreaking to look at. It was Chloe. The girl I had been supporting for four years. The girl Julian had always introduced to others as his distant cousin. She moved like a startled fawn, stumbling forward and throwing herself into Julian’s arms, sobbing. “Julian, I was so scared. Victoria tried to lock me up — they wouldn’t let me come see you…” The room erupted. Guests exchanged glances, eyes gleaming with shock and barely concealed excitement. Dozens of eyes darted back and forth between the three of us, hungry for whatever came next. I stared at Julian. My fingers tightened around the paper in my hand as I waited for him to explain. He didn’t push Chloe away. Instead, he pulled her behind him — right there in front of everyone — shielding her with his body. Then he raised his head and looked at me with an expression I had never seen on his face before. Cold. Hateful. Like I was a stranger. “Victoria, enough.” His voice rang out through the silent hall, each word landing like a blade. “I am so sick of that self-righteous, hypocritical face of yours.” “Did you actually think I loved you? The Clark Group destroyed Chloe’s family. I never forgot that. Not for a single day.” “You sponsored Chloe to cover up what your family did — all the blood on The Clark Group’s hands. And you kept me around because you loved the feeling of grinding someone’s dignity under your heel.” “Tonight, I’m getting justice for Chloe. I’m going to expose you for exactly who you are and make you pay for it.” Julian’s words detonated like a bomb. The hall went dead silent for one breathless moment — and then erupted into a roar of voices. “Oh my God, The Clark Group has blood on their hands?” “So Julian stayed with her for five years just to get revenge?” “Victoria really took a massive tumble this time; she helped an ungrateful person.” I stood on that stage and looked at Julian’s face — twisted with rage and the sick satisfaction of revenge — and suddenly, I just felt like it was all absurd. Five years. I stayed up countless nights with him, helping him revise his business proposals. When he was hospitalized with a stomach hemorrhage, I stayed by his side for three days and three nights without sleep. I swallowed my pride and used my connections to introduce him to every major player in the industry. And after all that, in his eyes, it was nothing but “charity from someone looking down on him”? A quiet laugh escaped me. Julian’s jaw tightened, his eyes locked on me without blinking. “So,” I said, my voice cold and steady — calm enough to surprise even myself, “you’re standing here today, fighting for her, declaring war on me?” “Yes!” Julian lifted his chin, his eyes burning with resolve. “Victoria, as of today, I’m done with you — done with The Clark Group. We’re finished!” Chloe was hiding behind him, pretending to tremble, but I caught it clearly — that fleeting smirk at the corner of her lips. I lowered my gaze and ran my fingers over the transfer document in my hands. The bold heading — EQUITY TRANSFER AGREEMENT — printed across the top of the first page felt less like a legal document now and more like a silent mockery. Mocking me for being blind. I glanced down at the document — a stake worth over a hundred billion dollars. Then, under the stunned eyes of everyone in the room, I gripped the edges of the paper with both hands. Riiip— The sharp, clean tear cut through the silence of the hall like a blade. Julian instinctively stepped forward, but Chloe grabbed his arm. I tore apart the document that so many people would have killed for, and tossed the pieces into the air. White scraps of paper drifted down like snowflakes, scattering at Julian and Chloe’s feet. “Julian, who do you think you are?” I looked down at him, a cold, contemptuous smile playing at the corner of my mouth. “Without me, you wouldn’t even have the right to stand in this room. You want to declare war on me? You really think you have the right?” Julian’s face went ashen. “Victoria, don’t push it! I already have access to The Clark Group’s core client source. Even without you, I can—” “yeah?” I cut him off, my gaze sliding past his furious face toward the quietest, most overlooked corner of the hall. A wheelchair sat there. A man sat in it. He was dressed in an all-black suit, his entire presence blending into the shadows as if he were part of the darkness itself.

Damian Blackwood. The Blackwood family’s illegitimate son — the one they kept hidden from the world. Julian’s older half-brother. Rumor had it that a car accident ten years ago had left him paralyzed from the waist down. He was said to be volatile and dangerous, exiled abroad by the Blackwood family, and had only been brought back last month. he was a total failure. I gathered my skirt and walked down the steps, one step at a time, moving through the crowd as it parted for me, heading straight toward his wheelchair. Every eye in the room followed me. Julian’s brow furrowed deeper with each step I took — he had no idea what I was doing. I stopped in front of Damian and leaned down slightly, meeting his gaze. His dark eyes were bottomless, like they could swallow everything whole. “Damian Blackwood.” I parted my lips, my voice soft but clear enough for the entire room to hear. “A hundred-billion-dollar dowry from The Clark Group, plus a thirty percent stake in The Clark Group. In exchange — marry me.” “Do you dare?” The air seemed to freeze in that instant. Everyone held their breath, eyes wide, staring at the scene unfolding in front of them like it couldn’t possibly be real. The most dazzling star in Washington, D.C’s inner circle — publicly proposing to a paralyzed illegitimate man? Julian stared for a moment, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Victoria, have you lost your mind? You’re throwing yourself at a worthless cripple just to get back at me? He can’t even stand up. What could he possibly give you?” Chloe chimed in, her voice small and timid. “Victoria, don’t be impulsive. Julian just being too angry, Please don’t gamble your whole future over this…” I ignored the noise behind me and kept my eyes fixed on the man in front of me. Damian didn’t move. The cigarette between his fingers was still burning, a thin curl of smoke drifting up and blurring his features. Just as everyone assumed he would stay silent — like a coward — he let out a low, quiet laugh. It was deep and rough, like something dragged across sandpaper, carrying a magnetic edge that sent a chill crawling up your spine. He slowly raised his hand and pressed the cigarette out in the ashtray on the arm of his wheelchair. Then, those long, sharp-knuckled fingers shot out and closed around my wrist. His strength was shocking. I let out a startled cry, lost my balance, and tumbled right into his lap. “Victoria.” His hands gripped my waist. His breath was hot against my ear, carrying the faint scent of tobacco and something cold and sharp that felt almost like a threat. “Think carefully. Once you get involved with me, there’s no walking away.” The look in his eyes was terrifying — like a beast that had been lying in wait for a very long time, and its prey had finally walked straight into its jaws. I forced myself to ignore my racing heart and met his gaze. “I’m only asking you one thing. Do you dare?” Damian’s throat moved in a hard swallow. The next second, his long fingers slid through my hair and gripped the back of my head, pulling me roughly toward him. His lips pressed against the corner of my mouth with a force that felt like punishment, his voice dropping to a ragged, almost unrecognizable rasp: “Vivi, once you belongs to me, for the rest of your life — even in death — you’ll only ever belong to me.” A wave of disbelieving gasps erupted through the hall. Julian’s face went dead white. His eyes locked onto Damian’s hand at my waist, and a flicker of something passed through them — a panic and jealousy he didn’t even seem to notice himself. “Damian! Let go of her!” Julian stormed forward, reaching out to pull me away. But before he could get close, several broad-shouldered bodyguards in black seemed to appear out of nowhere, forming a wall between him and us. “You think you can put your hands on the young master’s fiancée?” the lead bodyguard said, his voice ice-cold. Julian stared at the bodyguards in disbelief, then shifted his gaze to the man in the wheelchair — his older brother, the “useless cripple” he’d looked down on for over twenty years. “You… where did all these people come from?” Damian didn’t even glance at him. He simply reached up and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, then said quietly, “Take me out. The air in here is filthy.” The bodyguard stepped forward immediately and wheeled him toward the exit. I walked beside Damian. When we passed Julian and Chloe, I stopped. “Julian.” I looked at his face — twisted with shock and fury. “Remember what you said tonight. Starting tomorrow, I’ll show you exactly what it looks like to lose me. In this circle, you won’t even be worth a stray dog.” I didn’t give him another look. I turned and walked out of the hall. The night breeze was cool, carrying away the stuffiness of the ballroom. Damian’s black Maybach was already waiting at the entrance. The bodyguard helped him into the car. I slid into the backseat right after him. The door shut, cutting off all the noise from outside. The cabin was dim. Damian leaned back against the seat with his eyes closed, looking nothing like the commanding, untouchable man who had just silenced an entire room. “Why me?” he said suddenly. His voice sounded especially low in the quiet, enclosed space. I studied the side of his face, half-hidden in shadow, and answered honestly. “You’re the best fit.” “The best fit?” His eyes snapped open. He turned and stared at me hard. “That’s all?” For just a moment, I caught something complicated in his expression — like a rage he was barely holding back, and beneath it, something that looked almost like hurt. Before I could figure out which it was, he suddenly leaned in, caging me between himself and the car door. “Victoria. Am I just a tool for your revenge against Julian? Or a business match to stabilize your stock price?” His fingers brushed lightly across my cheek, sending a shiver through me. “Fine. so we fit, You’re right — we’re perfect for each other.” A low laugh escaped him, edged with something unhinged. “As long as I can keep you close, I don’t mind being a mad dog.”

The next morning. The top-floor conference room of The Clark Group. The atmosphere was so thick it felt suffocating. Julian sat in what used to be his seat as Vice President, his expression dark and dangerous. Chloe, his so-called “special assistant,” hovered nervously behind him. I pushed open the conference room door and walked in — steady, unhurried — with my lawyers and security team at my back. “Victoria, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Julian shot to his feet, both hands slamming down on the conference table as he glared at me. “Wasn’t last night enough of a scene? You really want to push this that far? Let me be clear — I control the three most critical overseas projects The Clark Group has. if you dare harm me, and the stock price tanks tomorrow. I’ll make sure of it.” I pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sat down, looking at him with cool, steady eyes. “Julian,” I said, “do you have some kind of misunderstanding about what you’re actually worth?” I gave my lawyer a look over my shoulder. He stepped forward immediately, slamming a thick stack of documents onto the table. “Julian Blackwood, during your time at this company, you embezzled one hundred and thirty million dollars in company funds. You made private contact with our competitors and leaked trade secrets. You falsified your academic credentials and doctored your résumé — every piece of evidence is right here.” With each charge, Julian’s face went a shade paler. Chloe was trembling so hard she could barely stand, clutching the hem of Julian’s jacket. “Julian, this… this isn’t true, right? They’re framing you!” “Shut up!” Julian shook her off with an irritated jerk of his arm, his eyes locked onto mine. “Victoria, you had me investigated? You’ve been watching me this whole time?” I let out a cold laugh. “Julian, I gave you my trust, and you threw it in the dirt. Did you really think , i was the kind of fool who’d let love cloud her judgment — who’d hand over the entire Clark Group to someone she hadn’t fully vetted?” “Those overseas projects you were so proud of? The core technology is all in my hands. You thought pulling a few executives to your side would be enough to push me out? How naive.” I rose from my seat and leaned forward, both hands flat on the table, looking down at him with eyes sharp as blades. “As of this moment, in my capacity as Chairman of the Clark Group, I am officially terminating Julian’s position and all associated duties within this company. The legal department will be filing suit against you. I hope you’re ready to spend the rest of your life behind bars.” “Security — get these two out of my sight.” Several broad-shouldered security guards moved in at once, seizing Julian and Chloe by the arms. “Victoria! You can’t do this to me! Everything I did, I did it for Chloe! Your father drove her parents to their deaths — you owe her!” Julian thrashed wildly, his eyes bloodshot. “I owe her?” I walked over to Chloe and looked at that pitiful face of hers. Then I raised my hand. Crack. The slap landed hard across Chloe’s face, shattering the act she’d been putting on all this time. Her head snapped to the side. A thin trickle of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth. She pressed a hand to her cheek and stared at me in disbelief. “That’s for biting the hand that fed you — eating my food, living off my generosity, and then stabbing me in the back.” I gripped her chin and forced her to look at me. “Chloe, you know better than anyone how your parents really died. Your father embezzled public funds. When his crime was exposed, he took his own life out of guilt. Your mother couldn’t bear the grief and followed him. My father felt sorry for you, so he buried the truth and paid for your education all these years.” “And this is how you repay him. To get close to Julian, you spun this monstrous lie and used him as your weapon.” I let go of her, then pulled out a wet wipe and cleaned my fingers with undisguised disgust. “I have no interest in how you two lovebirds found each other. Now get out of my sight.” Julian went still. He turned to Chloe, his expression hollow with disbelief. “Chloe… is it true? What she said — your parents weren’t driven to their deaths?” Chloe’s eyes darted away from his. She shook her head, sobbing. “No, no, that’s not true — Julian, don’t listen to her, she’s lying to you…” But the guilt flickering in her eyes said everything. Julian looked like he’d been struck by lightning. All the strength seemed to drain out of him at once, and he crumpled to the floor.

By the time I’d finished dealing with everything at the company, I was completely drained. I had just pulled up to my private villa when I noticed a black Maybach parked in the courtyard. Damian was sitting in his wheelchair, out in my garden… pruning roses? He had on a loose black button-down, the collar slightly open, just enough to reveal the line of his collarbone. He held a pair of sharp shears in one hand, trimming away the dead branches with practiced, unhurried grace. The last light of the setting sun fell across him, softening the hard edges of his face with a warm, golden glow. There was something breathtaking about it. He heard my footsteps and paused, turning his head to look at me. “You’re back.” His voice was quiet, carrying a warmth he almost managed to hide. “How did you get in?” I frowned. The security system at my villa was absolutely top-notch. Damian gave a soft laugh and held out a single red rose he’d just cut. “There’s nowhere in this world I can’t get into if I want to. Besides — I’m your fiancé. Dropping by to see my future wife isn’t exactly a crime, is it?” I didn’t take the rose. I just looked at him, my voice cool. “Damian, this is a business partnership. Don’t go getting too caught up in the role.” The light in his eyes dimmed instantly, then was replaced by a flash of wild obsession. He tossed the vibrant rose onto the floor without a second thought and wheeled forward, closing in on me. “A business partnership?” He grabbed my wrist and yanked me toward him. I tumbled into his arms and ended up straddling his lap. “Damian! What are you doing!” I struggled to get up, but he locked his arm around my waist with a grip that was impossibly strong. “Victoria, I warned you. Once you get involved with me, don’t expect to walk away clean.” His eyes were dark and terrifying, like he wanted to devour me whole. “At the office today, you went off like that for that worthless piece of trash. Do you still have feelings for him?” His voice was thick with jealousy and barely contained rage. “Are you insane!” I glared at him, furious. “I did that to clean house! I don’t have feelings for anyone!” His voice was thick with jealousy and barely contained rage. “Are you insane!” I glared at him, furious. “I did that to clean house! I don’t have feelings for him!” After heard me. The hostility in Damian’s eyes eased, just a little. He suddenly buried his face in the curve of my neck and breathed in deeply. “Good.” His voice came out muffled, and to my surprise, there was a thread of vulnerability in it. “Vivi, you’re mine. Only mine. Anyone who tries to take you from me — I’ll kill them.” I didn’t know what to do with him when he was like this. This man — one moment he was a raging lion, the next he was a giant dog desperate for reassurance. Then my phone rang. It was Julian. I was about to decline the call, but Damian moved faster — he hit answer and switched it to speaker. “Vivi…” Julian’s voice came through the line, hoarse and defeated. “I looked into it. Chloe really did lie to me. I was wrong. I should have believed you. I should never have let her fool me. Vivi, can you forgive me? Can we start over…” Before I could say a word, Damian let out a cold laugh. “Start over?” His voice was like a blade dipped in ice. “Julian, who the hell do you think you are? You really think you can compete with me?” Julian went dead silent on the other end. “Damian?! Why are you at Vivi’s place? What did you do to her?” “What did I do?” Damian’s fingers deliberately traced along my waist, slow and suggestive, sending a shiver through my body. He leaned close to my ear and spoke into the phone. “What any engaged couple does, of course. I suggest you give it up — unless you want your legs to end up just like mine.” Then he hung up and tossed my phone aside. I was shaking with anger. “Damian, what the hell was that!” He looked up at me, eyes blazing, a wicked smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Was it a lie, Vivi? Maybe we should make it real.” Then his lips came down on mine — overwhelming, punishing, possessive — leaving no room for me to pull away.

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The first time I heard a corpse speak was in the autopsy room at the police station. My mentor, Dr. Elias Thorne, flipped through the autopsy report. “Typical suicide. Let’s close the case,” he said flatly. Detective Ryan Stone, head of the investigation unit, nodded silently. Outside the door, Sarah Davison’s mother knelt, sobbing uncontrollably, almost collapsing. Only I heard a hoarse female voice: “I didn’t kill myself.” The hemostatic forceps in my hand clattered onto the tray. Everyone looked at me. Dr. Thorne frowned. “Maya, you’re just an intern. Can’t you even maintain basic composure?” I stared intently at the corpse’s pale, blue-tinged face. The next second, she spoke again. “The killer is in this autopsy room.” The air instantly froze. My gaze slowly fell on Dr. Thorne’s blood-stained hands. On my first day, my supervisor told me: “In forensic science, the most important thing is to be calm. The dead don’t lie, but the living do.” Back then, I didn’t dare tell him. The dead really do talk. Since childhood, I’ve heard strange voices. When our old cat died, I hugged it and cried, but it complained in my ear, “Stop crying. You’re getting snot on my fur.” I was so scared I didn’t sleep for three days. Later, my grandmother passed away. At her funeral, everyone cried, but her body was murmuring in my ear: “Your Aunt Cathy stole my money again. There’s a savings book under the third floorboard beneath my bed. Don’t let her get away with it.” I searched where she said, and sure enough, I found the savings book. From then on, I knew I wasn’t normal. But I also knew that the dead were more honest than the living. So, when it came time to choose a major for college, I secretly enrolled in forensic pathology, hiding it from everyone. I thought, if I’m destined to hear these voices, then at least they should be useful. But I never expected that on my very first day at the police station, I would hear a deceased person crying out for justice. The woman on the autopsy table was Sarah Davison, twenty-eight years old, a product manager at an internet company. The case was straightforward. She was found dead in the bathtub of her rental apartment, a deep incision on her left wrist. The doors and windows were locked from the inside, the bathtub filled with a large amount of bloody water, and a knife lay nearby. Her phone’s notes app contained a suicide note: “I’m tired. I’m sorry, Mom.” The evidence seemed complete, the logic sound. Suicide. But she said she didn’t do it. I stood rooted to the spot, a cold sweat breaking out on my back. Dr. Elias Thorne glanced at me, his voice cold. “Maya, continue recording.” Dr. Thorne was a renowned senior forensic pathologist in the department. Forty-seven years old, with over twenty years of experience, he had handled thousands of bodies and solved countless major cases. My university professors spoke of him with reverence. If he declared it a suicide, almost no one would question it. But at that moment, the woman’s voice in my ear was still trembling. “I didn’t cut it.” “When I woke up, my wrist was already being held under the water.” “He was wearing gloves.” “He was smiling.” My throat tightened. I looked down at the corpse. Sarah Davison’s face was bloodless, yet the corners of her lips seemed to have been forcefully torn open by pain, maintaining an eerie, stiff curve. I couldn’t help but ask: “Dr. Thorne, isn’t the edge of the incision on her left wrist too neat?” Dr. Thorne was in the middle of removing his gloves. At my words, his movements paused. The autopsy room instantly fell silent. Detective Ryan Stone looked up at me. Sarah Davison’s mother, who had been kept outside the door, also looked up sharply when she heard my voice. Dr. Thorne slowly turned, his gaze fixed on my face. “What did you say?” I swallowed. “I just think the direction of the incision is a little strange. If someone uses their right hand to cut their left wrist, there are usually hesitation marks, but she has none. And the wound edge is so clean, it looks like it was done in one go.” Dr. Thorne chuckled. “Maya, this is your first day of internship.” I clutched my pen tighter. “I know.” “Good that you know.” He closed the autopsy report. “Classroom theory isn’t for showing off in a real-world case.” The other assistant forensic pathologists bowed their heads, saying nothing. Dr. Thorne continued, “There were trace amounts of blood on the webbing between the victim’s right thumb and forefinger, the victim’s fingerprints were on the knife handle, there were no signs of forced entry, and the suicide note was confirmed to have been typed on the victim’s phone. Tell me, if it’s not suicide, what is it?” I opened my mouth. In my ear, Sarah Davison’s voice suddenly grew shrill. “I didn’t take the knife!” “I didn’t write on the phone!” “He knew my password, he knew!” My heart pounded faster and faster. I couldn’t say I heard a corpse talk. No one would believe me. They’d just think I was crazy. Seeing my silence, a hint of mockery flickered in Dr. Thorne’s eyes. “It’s good for young people to be skeptical, but skepticism needs to be based on evidence. Doubts without evidence are just grandstanding.” His words felt like a slap across my face. My cheeks burned. But just as he turned to leave, Sarah Davison suddenly spoke again.

“My nail.” “Look at my right middle finger.” “There’s his skin there.” I sharply lowered my head. Sarah Davison’s right hand was placed by her side, fingers slightly curled. Her nails were short, with a light pink polish, showing almost no abnormality. Ignoring Dr. Thorne’s cold expression, I put on gloves and picked up a magnifying glass. In the nail bed of her right middle finger, there was indeed a tiny, dark reddish speck of tissue. It was so small. If I hadn’t been looking specifically, it could easily have been overlooked as a blood clot. My breath hitched. “Detective Stone.” I looked up, my voice tight. “There’s suspected skin tissue in the nail bed of the victim’s right middle finger. I recommend DNA extraction.” Detective Stone walked over. He was in his early thirties, with sharp, stern features, a notoriously dedicated workaholic in the homicide division. He bent down for a look, his expression shifting slightly. Dr. Thorne also walked back. He only looked for a second, then his face darkened. “The bathroom scene was complex; it’s normal to find impurities in the nails.” I said, “But if it was suicide, why would she have scratched skin tissue?” “Can you confirm it’s skin tissue?” “No, that’s why it needs testing.” Dr. Thorne stared at me. “Maya, do you know what you’re doing right now?” Of course, I knew. I was questioning the conclusion of an authoritative forensic pathologist. I was, as an intern, holding up a suicide report that was about to be officially stamped. I also knew that if I was wrong, my internship at the police station might be over. But Sarah Davison’s voice was crying. “Please.” “My mother only has me.” Outside the door, Sarah Davison’s mother stood up, leaning against the wall, her eyes red and swollen, her voice hoarse beyond recognition. “Officers, my daughter would never kill herself.” “Just yesterday, she told me she’d take me for a follow-up appointment at the hospital this weekend.” “She wouldn’t abandon me.” In that moment, I suddenly remembered the day my grandmother was buried. Before the coffin was closed, she had said in my ear: “Maya, don’t be afraid of the dead. The dead won’t harm you.” “What’s truly frightening is when the living close their mouths.” I looked up and said, word for word: “Detective Stone, I request a re-examination.” The air in the autopsy room seemed to freeze. Detective Stone didn’t speak immediately. Dr. Thorne’s face, however, had turned incredibly grim. He took off his glasses, slowly wiped them with a cloth, his voice eerily calm. “You request?” He looked at me as if I were some ridiculous joke, completely out of my depth. “Maya, you don’t have the authority to independently issue an expert opinion yet.” I said, “I know, so I’m only making a suggestion.” “A suggestion?” He sneered. “Your ‘suggestion’ will make the detective team restart their investigation, it will ignite unnecessary hope in the family, and it will delay a case that is already clear. Can you bear the consequences?” My fingertips grew cold. Detective Stone finally spoke: “Dr. Thorne, since suspected tissue has been found, extracting and sending it for testing won’t hold up the process.” Dr. Thorne’s movements paused. “Does Detective Stone also think my judgment was wrong?”

Detective Stone’s expression remained unchanged. “I only believe in evidence.” His words made the autopsy room even quieter. Dr. Thorne stared at him for a few seconds, then suddenly chuckled. “Fine. Since you’re all so insistent, send it for testing.” He put his glasses back on, his gaze returning to me. “But Maya, let me remind you, forensic science isn’t like a detective novel. The dead don’t cater to your fantasies.” I lowered my head. Sarah Davison softly whispered in my ear: “Thank you.” Her voice was very light, like a fading breeze. Expedited DNA testing takes time. Detective Stone ordered the evidence re-sealed and the case closure put on hold. I helped the assistants tidy up the autopsy room, my mind restless. Sarah Davison said the killer was in this autopsy room. But at the time, besides me, Dr. Thorne, and Detective Stone, there were also two assistant forensic pathologists and a female officer recording. Detective Stone was the homicide captain, the two assistants were under my watch the entire time, and the recorder was a female officer. So who was “he” that Sarah Davison spoke of? My gaze involuntarily fell on Dr. Thorne. He was washing his hands. Water flowed over his fingertips, carrying away faint traces of blood. As if sensing my gaze, he suddenly looked up and met my eyes in the mirror. In that instant, my heart gave a violent lurch. Dr. Thorne smiled. “Maya.” “Yes.” “Come to my office after work.” His voice was gentle. But I inexplicably felt a chill. At seven in the evening, only the nightlights were on in the Forensic Science Center. I knocked on Dr. Thorne’s office door. “Come in.” The main lights in the office weren’t on; only a desk lamp illuminated the room. Dr. Thorne sat behind his desk, my internship file resting beside his hand. He didn’t invite me to sit. “Your university grades are excellent.” I stood by the door, saying nothing. “First in your class, perfect score in anatomy, your mentor’s recommendation letter was also very strong.” He flipped through the file, his tone flat. “Pity you’re too eager.” I pursed my lips. “Dr. Thorne, I wasn’t trying to show off.” “I know.” He looked up. “You want to prove yourself.” I paused, surprised. He closed the file. “Every year, there are interns like you. Smart, sensitive, ambitious, thinking they can change the world.” “But the Forensic Science Center isn’t a school. Every single word here can affect the direction of a case, every judgment concerns both the living and the dead.” He sounded so pompous. If Sarah Davison’s voice weren’t still echoing in my mind, I almost would have doubted myself. Dr. Thorne stood up and walked towards me. “I can overlook what happened today.” I looked up at him. His tone softened: “Tomorrow, you write a statement saying you lacked experience and mistakenly identified contaminants as skin tissue. Withdraw the re-examination request, and I won’t let it affect your internship evaluation.” I finally understood why he had called me here. It was pressure. I said, “But the sample has already been sent for testing.” Dr. Thorne smiled. “It can still be recalled.” “Why should it be recalled?” The office was silent for two seconds. The smile slowly faded from Dr. Thorne’s face. “Maya, don’t back yourself into a corner.” My back was pressed against the door, my palms already sweating. Just then, from a storage cabinet in the corner of the office, a faint voice suddenly emerged.

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I walked into the pack’s vaulted jeweler. And there it was—my mate ring, on another she-wolf’s hand. And Silas—my mate, the Alpha of the Ironwood Pack—was holding her hand, looking at her like she hung the moon. The second he caught my scent, his expression went stone-cold. “Celine needs a showstopper for the Pack Alliance Gathering tonight,” he said, tone dismissive. “She’s the face of the Ironwood Pack, and she needs to project power.” “As for you… for the mate ceremony next week, just pick another ring off the rack and stop making a scene.” My bandaged fingertip throbbing. The moonstone ring…For a year, every single night, I bled onto it until my head spun and my hands shook—all so it would glow at our mate ceremony. Ended up…a battery for his mistress to flaunt. Celine smirked, pointing toward a dusty display case in the back. “What about that iron ring? Silas picked it for you. It suits your rugged personality much better.” My…rugged personality? I looked at my reflection in the mirror. To help Elias manage his pack, I had spent the last five years tethered to this wild. Border diplomacy, supply lines, territory patrols—I exhausted myself for him until I barely recognized the woman in the mirror. And now, in his eyes, I was nothing. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. In a wolf pack, tears are the scent of prey—they invite the hunt. Slowly, I unclasped the silver pendant from my neck—the symbol of Ironwood Pack’s Luna—and dropped it into the bin. “You’re right, Silas. ” I said, looking him straight in his arrogant wolf eyes, “Off-the-rack sounds lovely. I’ll wear it to mate with an Alpha who actually deserves me.” “The mate ceremony is off. ” … The silence that followed was suffocating. Silas turned slowly, his Alpha aura flaring—trying to crush me with the sheer weight of his power. “Elora Thorne,” he growled, the vibration rattling the windows. “What did you just say to me?” “I said the mate ceremony is off.” Celine let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Oh my god, Elora. Stop being so thirsty for attention.” She stepped toward me, still wearing my moonstone ring. “Silas and I are doing this for the good of the pack. This ring has more value on a high-ranking she-wolf like me than it ever would on a… whatever you are. ” “You’re usually so understanding. What happened?” Understanding? I don’t owe understanding to a wolf who betrayed me and his mistress. “Take it off,” I commanded. Celine flinched, shrinking behind Silas as her eyes welled with performative tears. “Silas, she’s scaring me. Her scent… it’s turning aggressive.” Silas’ face went dark. He stepped in front of her, shielding her from me as if I were a rogue. Then he glared at me. Jaw tight. “Elora, are you done making a scene?” “Celine is our biggest asset. I invest in her because I’m investing in the future of the Ironwood Pack. And you?” He looked me up and down, his eyes full of contempt for my plain attire. “You don’t even have a single combat mark on your record. You’re just a litter-sitter with a desk. Who would you even wear a moonstone ring for? ” He smirked. “The scouts who couldn’t make warrior?” Something in my chest pulled tight. He’d forgotten who walked into that battlefield alone and dragged his broken, barely-breathing body out five years ago. He’d forgotten who quietly cleared the path for his pack’s expansion. Then he stepped closer, and the scent of him hit my lungs like ash. “Get your facts straight, Elora. “He jabbed a finger toward my shoulder, laughing jagged and cruel. “I paid for the moonstone ring. Your apartment? Your haute couture dresses? The food in your mouth? It all comes from the Ironwood coffers.” “You’re nothing without me.” I looked at this arrogant wolf in front of me. He thought I was a dog groveling at his feet. He had no idea I was the backbone of his entire pack. But none of that matters now. He’s not worth my time anymore. I turned toward the door. “Did I give you permission to leave?” His hand clamped around my wrist like a vice. Bone groaned under his grip. “Let go, Silas!” Pain shot up my arm. “Don’t be ungrateful. “He yanked me back, his lips hovering inches from my ear, his voice dropping to a low, menacing snarl. “The ceremony is in five days, now go to the back and wear that iron ring. ” “After Celine finishes the Gathering, I’ll take you to the southern coast for a weekend. I’ll make it up to you then.” “But if you walk out that door right now…” His grip tightened, bruising the skin, his eyes glowing a predatory gold. “I’ll blackball you from every pack in the Blackridge Territory. You’ll be a Rogue by sunset. No one will take you in. No one will even look at you.” I didn’t flinch. I ripped my arm free and looked him dead in his eyes. “Silas, you make me sick.” I walked away. Behind me, I heard him chuckle—a dark, arrogant sound. And then— Bang. The heavy steel door slammed shut in front me. Silas stood there, a smirk playing on his lips. “I said you’re not going anywhere until I say so, Elora. A Luna needs to learn how to heel.”

“That’s false imprisonment, Silas. Open the door,” I said, my voice deceptively calm. “Imprisonment?” Silas sauntered back to the velvet sofa and sat down, crossing one buffed leather boot over his knee. “I’m just giving my future Luna some much-needed ‘meditation’ time. You’re clearly overwrought.” Celine leaned into his shoulder, shooting me a look of pure triumph. “Just give it up, Elora. He’s only doing this because he cares about your reputation. You’d look so foolish wandering the pack in this state.” I didn’t answer her. Didn’t even turn my head. She wasn’t worth the eye movement. Silas pulled out his phone. Didn’t even try to hide it. “Bank of Blackridge? This is Alpha Silas Vane. Freeze all secondary cards on the Thorne account. Effective immediately.” “Ironwood Housing? Terminate the lease on the 5th Street flat. Clear the furniture by morning.” “Pack Security? Put out a Grey-Alert on Elora Thorne. If she tries to cross the border, detain her. And tell the local transport unions—anybody who gives her a ride is an enemy of the Ironwood Pack.” He hung up and tapped the oak table with a rhythmic, mocking sound. Tap. Tap. Tap. It sounded like a dead countdown. “You’re nothing without me, Elora. Not even a place to sleep tonight.” He leaned back, the picture of ease. “I’ll give you two hours to think about how cold the woods get at night. When you’re ready to apologize, you can do it on your knees in front of Celine.” Then he flicked his wrist at the guards by the door. “Throw her out the back. Let her see what the world looks like without my protection.” They hauled me to the service entrance and shoved me into the alleyway. Bang. The door slammed behind me before I even had my footing. The sky was that ugly purple-gray. Wind ripped through the pines, and then the rain came down—freezing, violent, unrelenting. I stood there in the mud, soaked through in seconds. My phone started buzzing in my pocket. Notification: Your account has been suspended. Buzz. Notification: Access to Ironwood Territory denied. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Of course. Of course he’d done all of it. He wasn’t just posturing. He was trying to break me down to nothing so I’d crawl back and beg for scraps. But Silas Vane made one mistake. One big, stupid, arrogant mistake. He forgot that before I was his mate, I had a name that used to mean something. I pulled out my phone. Punched in a number. “Macy,” I said, rain streaming down my face, dripping off my chin. “I need a pickup. Back alley of the Ironwood pack’s Vault boutique.” On the other end, Macy’s voice cracked. “Elora… oh god, I can’t. Silas called my father. He said if any member of the Silver-Paw pack helps you, he’ll initiate a trade war. He’ll bankrupt us, Elora.” She took a shaky breath. “My dad took my keys. He’s got the house on lockdown. Please, Elora… just tell him you’re sorry. You know how he is. He’s just… he’s an Alpha. He needs to win.” My stomach dropped. Right through the floor. He’d even gone after the people I cared. I can’t believe this is the person I’ve loved for five years. Through the rain-streaked window, I could see Silas swirling his wine, watching me like I was a reality show he’d tuned in for laughs. Celine was kneeling at his feet, working her hands up his calves like she was trying to earn a tip. Something inside me snapped. Not broke. A release—All the cages I’d put myself in to fit into his sad, tiny world just… fell apart. I turned my back on the light and walked into the dark. SCREECH— A black Maybach skidded to a stop inches from me. Mud and gutter water splashed up, soaking my legs. Silas’s beta, Miller, stepped out with an umbrella. He held it over himself, not me. Looked me up and down like I was something he’d scraped off his shoe. “Here,” he said, dropping a garment bag into the mud at my feet. “Alpha’s feeling merciful.” The zipper was half-open. I caught a glimpse of cheap polyester. A bridesmaid’s dress from three seasons ago. Stained with something dark. Wine, probably. Miller kept his chin high, looking down his nose at me. “Alpha says Celine needs someone to carry her train at the Gathering tonight. You put this on and do the job, he’ll restore your credits by morning. And the mate ceremony goes on as planned.” Carry her train? For the woman wearing my mate ring? In a dress that belonged in a dumpster? I looked at the bag in the mud. My lips were blue, my whole body was shaking, but my spine was still straight. I stared at the bag in the dirt. My lips were blue, my body was shivering, but my spine was a rod of tempered steel. “Tell Silas,” I said, my voice cutting through the rain, “to go to hell.” A beat of silence. Then Miller’s face twisted into a snarl. He stepped forward, pointing a finger in my face. “Elora, don’t be ungrateful! You think you’re already Luna of Ironwood? You’re nothing now! ” “Without Alpha Silas, you’re just a stray waiting for torture. You can’t even afford a meal!” With that, he gestured. Two more guards jumped out of the car, flanking me. “What are you doing? Get your hands off me!” “The Alpha didn’t give you a choice, Elora,” Miller growled. “You’re going to that Gathering. One way or another.”

They shoved me into the back of the Maybach. Miller tossed the muddy bridesmaid dress onto my lap like he was disposing of roadkill. The air conditioner was blasting at sub-zero temperatures. My soaked clothes clung to me like a shroud. Miller watched me through the rearview mirror, a cigarette dangling from his lip. “Look at you, Elora. A little compliance would have kept you in silk. Now look at you—drowned and discarded.” I stared out at the rain-slicked streets. I didn’t say a word. What was there left to say? … Twenty minutes later, the car screeched to a halt at the Grand Hall’s backstage entrance. The air was thick with the scent of high-ranking wolves—pine, musk, and expensive cologne. They hauled me into a private dressing room. Celine was there, preening in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror. My Moonstone ring sat on her finger, pulsing with a frantic, silver light. Silas stood behind her, adjusting the strap of her gown. When he saw me—drenched, bruised, and clutching that filthy rag—his lip curled in disgust. “You look like a drowned rat,” he snapped. “Change. Now. The procession starts in ten minutes.” “I’m not wearing that, Silas,” I rasped, my voice cracking. “And I’m not playing servant to your mistress.” The air fell into dead silence. Silas’s eyes flashed a dangerous, predatory gold. The anger was unmistakable. But what did that matter now? He had nothing left to hold over me. For five years, the only thing that had kept me tethered to him was love — and that was gone. So when I saw him reach into his pocket, I didn’t expect what came next. He pulled out a small, velvet-lined box and opened it.. Inside lay a ruby-encrusted bracelet. The silver was tarnished with age, but the stones burned like embers. That was…My grandmother’s bracelet! My breath hitched. My hand shot out before my mind could catch up. But Silas lifted the box out of reach — high above my grasping fingers. I glared at him. “You said you lost that in the Ironwood fire.” “I lied,” Silas said, his smile sharp and cold. “This is the only thing you have left of your lineage, And you don’t want to see it destroyed, do you?” His face turned cold. “Then hold Celine’s train. Stand three paces behind her. If that ring doesn’t glow with the light you promised me, this goes into the flames.” He shifted his hand, until the bracelet hung suspended above the licking flames. The rubies caught the firelight. My breath stopped. “I’ll count to three.” “Three.” I looked at the moonstone ring on Celine’s hand—it was flickering, sensing my rage. “Two.” My nails cut into my palms. The humiliation was a physical weight, crushing the air from my lungs. “One.” “I’ll do it,” I choked out. The words came out like I was swallowing shards of sliver. Silas smirked, snapping the box shut. “Good girl. Go get dressed. Celine’s on in ten.” … I took the muddy dress and walked into the bathroom. I stared at myself in the mirror. Pale. Gaunt. A ghost staring back. Five years of hiding who I really was. Five years of playing small so he could feel big. I thought I’d found my fated mate. I’d just been feeding a monster. Silas Vane, you took everything from me. Now I’m going to take everything from you.

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Back in college, I buy myself a boyfriend. The deal is simple. He stays with me, and I cover his grandfather’s medical bills. For four years, this broke genius tolerates me out of pure humiliation. Then my family goes bankrupt. When I break things off, his face stays carved from ice. Not a single word. Not even a flinch. Four years later, I’m carrying a fruit platter into a VIP lounge at three in the morning, and he’s the man on the leather couch in a five-thousand-dollar suit. I keep my head down. My baseball cap is pulled low. Please, God, don’t let him look up. Serena sits curled against his side, her manicured hand resting on his thigh like she owns him. She probably does now. She was the It-girl of our class, signed by a modeling agency junior year, and now her face is on three different magazine covers. They look perfect together. Untouchable. “Waitress.” Ethan’s voice cuts through the room. My spine locks. “Slice the oranges.” I turn my back to him and pick up the knife. A long time ago, whenever I wanted oranges, Ethan would slice them for me. Every piece the exact same size. Back then, I thought it meant he loved me. Later I figured out it was just a habit. When he sliced oranges, he thought about the whole universe. He just never thought about me. Some businessman in the corner laughs too loud, then leans toward Ethan with a slick grin. “I heard you had a serious girlfriend back in college, Mr. Yang. Four years, right?” My hand stops. “Mm.” That’s all Ethan gives him. “Four years, man. That’s the whole college experience. Must’ve been hard to forget her.” Silence. The kind that stretches like a wire about to snap. Then Ethan laughs softly. One short, cold sound. “Not really.” The knife slips. A bright line of red opens across my palm. “Oh my God.” Serena finally notices me, her perfect nose wrinkling. “Ethan barely tolerates her existence, and now this. Babe, we went to the same school as his ex. Honestly, if that girl hadn’t been in the way back then, you and I would’ve been together years ago.” “Right, right,” the businessman laughs, eager to please. “Miss Serena, you’re a star. No ex could ever compete with a star.” The room warms back up. The conversation moves on. I press my cap lower and try to disappear. “I’m sorry,” I manage. “I’ll get a clean plate.” I grab the tray and bolt for the door. “Wait.” Ethan’s voice. Quiet. Final. “Turn around.” My body freezes in the doorway. One second. Two. Then my shift manager sweeps in like a hurricane, all smiles and apologies. “So sorry, Mr. Yang, she’s new, still training. The whole platter is on the house tonight.” She shoots me a sharp look over her shoulder. “What are you waiting for? Go get a fresh one. Move.” I move. I almost cry from relief. In the kitchen, she grabs my wrist and lowers her voice. “Next time, use your head. We all started somewhere, but one complaint from that room and you work tonight for free.” “Thank you.” “Don’t thank me. Just be careful with that VIP room. The young one in the middle, the good-looking one? He owns some tech company. The kind of money we can’t afford to piss off.” She pauses. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” “Can you bring the new platter in for me? Please. I don’t feel well.” She studies my face for a long second, then nods. “Fine. Wrap that hand.” I exhale. If there’s one person on this planet I’ve already wronged beyond repair, it’s Ethan Yang. I’m the ex he hates. I’m the girl who ruined him.

I think back to freshman year all the time. Ethan stood in the crowd of new students in a faded gray hoodie that had been washed a hundred times too many. Visibly broke. Visibly gorgeous. I loved the cool, flat way he talked. I loved how his eyelashes lowered when he looked at me. He was drowning in debt. His full scholarship had been quietly handed to the financial aid officer’s nephew, and nobody did a thing about it. So one night after class, I cornered him in the hallway like a complete lunatic and grabbed his hand. “Ethan, I like you. Be with me. I’ve got money. We can share my allowance. And if that’s not enough, I’ll pay you for every kiss.” He said no, obviously. But back then my life was a smooth glide. I didn’t know what failure felt like. The more he refused, the harder I chased. Then his grandfather, the man who raised him, collapsed and needed emergency surgery. I paid the entire hospital bill without blinking. That’s when Ethan finally bowed his head. Stupid me. I thought I’d saved him. It took me years to understand. I got him. And I broke him at the same time. We started dating, and nothing got better. It got worse. He still worked three jobs. He barely touched my money. And the rumors started anyway. People said he was sleeping with me for cash. Some guys gave him a nickname I won’t even repeat. Professors started “checking in” about his moral character. I was too stupid to see any of it. I was a princess in a glass tower, holding his hand, telling him to ignore the haters. I never noticed he was fighting alone. Senior year, my family went bankrupt overnight. I didn’t tell him. I just called him out one cold afternoon and said the four words I’d been rehearsing for a week. “I’m bored. Let’s break up.” “Why?” “I’m just bored of you.” “Okay.” That was it. That was four years. I figured he was relieved. Finally free. The same day, I snapped my SIM card in half, deleted my socials, and got on a train heading south to start paying off my father’s debts. I came back to this city three months ago. Ethan is doing very, very well. He was always a genius. Four years out of college, he’s the face of a tech magazine, the founder of his own company, the kind of man other men quote at dinner. And Serena, the It-girl, is apparently his now. Good for them. Really. I press a hand over my chest and swallow the burn. Four AM. I clock out last. The cleaning crew already killed the lights and shut down the main elevator, thinking everyone was gone. I jab the button over and over, alone in the dim hallway. “Just call somebody,” a voice says behind me. My blood stops. I turn slowly. Ethan is leaning against the wall ten feet away, hands in his pockets, watching me like he’s been there a while. I make the call with shaking fingers. The elevator hums back to life. We step in together. Tight space. Too tight. “You guys close this late?” His tone is flat. Polite. The voice you use with a stranger. “We can’t leave until the guests do.” “Pay good?” “It’s fine.” I keep my chin down, the brim of my cap covering half my face. He doesn’t seem to recognize me. He glances at his Rolex and sighs. “This elevator is so slow.My girlfriend’s probably getting impatient waiting.She’s clingy. Cute about it, though.” He means Serena. The words land like a slap I’m not allowed to react to. “What about you?” he asks. “No boyfriend coming to pick you up at four AM?” “I live close.” The doors slide open. I rush out as fast as I can. Ethan, who has been calm for the past few minutes, finally erupts in this moment. “What are you running for?” “Where do you think you can run to, Chloe?” “Pulling a vanishing act, disappearing off the face of the earth—was that fun?”

I freeze with my back to him. “Phone disconnected. Socials gone. Even our professors couldn’t find you.” His footsteps come closer on the concrete. “Was it fun? Pulling a vanishing act like that?” I turn slowly. He’s the same boy I remember, just sharper now. The softness sanded off. “I’m sure you’ve already pulled the file,” I say quietly. “My dad got tangled up in something ugly. The debts aren’t paid off. We’ve been running.” “Then why didn’t you tell me?” I don’t answer. “Was it the pride thing? Princess Yu couldn’t admit she needed help?” “No, that’s not—” “Chloe? Oh my God, it really is you!” Serena clicks across the garage in six-inch heels, every strand of her hair somehow still perfect at four in the morning. She looks me up and down like she’s pricing a thrift-store haul. “Babe, I haven’t seen you in forever! Everyone from class has been asking. Four years and not a single post?” “I moved down south.” “That explains it.” Her eyes pin my coat. “Wait, isn’t that the puffer you bought junior year? The feathers are coming out of it. You’re still wearing it?” I used to throw clothes out after one season. She’s trying to humiliate me. I’m too tired to feel it. “It still works.” “Oh, honey.” Her voice goes silky-sweet. “Are you struggling? You should’ve said something. We’re old friends.” She slides a black credit card out of her clutch. “Take it. You don’t have to pay me back.” I look at her. Then at Ethan. And I smile, slow and calm. “Thanks, but I don’t need it. I’m getting married soon. You should both come.” Ethan goes completely still. The card freezes in Serena’s hand. The next morning, I drag myself to my day job. The lounge gig is just nights. By day I’m a junior analyst at a midsize tech firm downtown, which is a fancy way of saying I do whatever no one else wants to do. In the break room, two coworkers are buzzing over coffee. “Did you hear? The new client coming in? Total genius. He built his whole search platform to find someone.” “Find who?” “An ex-girlfriend, supposedly.” My eyelid twitches. “Did he find her?” “No clue. But the system’s still in development and investors are throwing money at him. Our boss wants in on the partnership.” I gather the prep folder and head to the conference room. Through the cracked door, I hear him. “About the partnership, I need more time to think it over.” I push the door open and set the folder on the table. Ethan’s eyes lock on mine and burn. “Why are you here?” “I work here.” This is my real job. The one I went to college for. My supervisor blinks. “Chloe, you know Mr. Yang?” I think for a second. “We’ve met.” “Just met?” Ethan’s voice sharpens. I have no idea what he’s mad about. He’s the one who walked away that day without looking back. He turns to my supervisor without breaking eye contact with me. “I’ll sign the contract. On one condition. Chloe gets transferred to my office as my personal assistant.” My supervisor agrees on the spot. Doesn’t even glance at me. They talk all day. At six sharp, I grab my bag and head for the door. Ethan blocks me. “Where are you going? I didn’t say you could leave.” “Mr. Yang, I can’t stay late tonight. I have somewhere to be.” “Where?” “I have a DoorDash shift.” He stares at me in disbelief.

Back in college, I was the kind of girl who wouldn’t even touch takeout. For four years, Ethan ran deliveries between classes. His dinner was usually whatever cardboard meal the delivery company handed out at shift end. I went to find him once. In a cramped little break room, he was squeezed between a dozen other drivers, shoveling rice out of a foam box. “Ethan, how can you eat that?” I said. “It’s not even clean.” His face tightened. “Does it matter if it’s clean?” “Come on. Let’s go get steak.” I dragged him to a brand-new French place, five hundred a head. He stood at the door for a long minute, then quietly stripped off his yellow delivery jacket before walking in. I finally understand what was going through his head that day. Because tonight is exactly the same. It’s snowing. The sidewalk is slick. My bike skids, and I go down hard. The bag bursts open. Pad Thai and curry spread across the wet pavement like a crime scene. I call the customer with shaking hands to explain. He cusses me out. “Don’t give me excuses. Late is late.” My palm is scraped raw and burning in the cold, but I keep saying sorry, sorry, sorry. Then a hand reaches down and lifts my bike off me. Ethan. I don’t know how long he’s been standing there. I yank my hand behind my back on instinct. “Don’t hide it.” His voice is rough. His eyes are red around the edges. “Go rinse it off.” “I have to finish the delivery first.” “Get in the car. I’ll drive you.” The customer lives on the ground floor. When I hand him the bag, he sneers, “Damn. Porsche girls are doing DoorDash now? That’s rough.” I check my phone for the next ping. “Don’t take another one,” Ethan says. “I have to. I didn’t make enough tonight.” “Then I’ll buy it.” “What?” The app chirps. A new order auto-accepts itself, assigned by him. “I’m buying your time. The whole night.” Ethan drives me back to his place. I stand frozen in the doorway. I won’t go in. “Serena’s going to be pissed.” “You think you have time to worry about her? Look at yourself.” Besides the scraped palm, I’m soaked in dirty slush from head to toe. “And Chloe.” He pulls me inside anyway. “Look around. Does this place look like a woman’s been here?” “You two aren’t living together?” “I was never actually with her.” He drops a contract in my lap. “Six months ago, she came to me with a deal. She didn’t want sleazy producers casting-couching her, so she asked me to play her boyfriend in public. In return, she’d run interference with the difficult clients on my end.” He pauses. He’s afraid I won’t get it. “Some of these guys think every man can be bought with a girl in his bed. It’s exhausting. Serena scares them off for me.” The contract is bulletproof. Clean lines. Zero interference with private lives. He pulls me to the bathroom and starts cleaning the cut on my hand. That’s when I see the shelf. A whole row of hand cream. Unopened. Still sealed in their cellophane. It’s the brand I used to use in college. He has the entire collection. “I asked around at your office today.” His voice goes low. “You don’t have a boyfriend. You told your coworkers at the team retreat last week that you were single. Chloe. You were lying to me on purpose, weren’t you?” “I wasn’t.” “Then show me a picture. You and that guy.” “We don’t have one.” “You’re the most camera-obsessed girl I’ve ever met, and you don’t have a single photo with your fiancé?” “Good point. I’ll take one next time and send it to you.” Ethan laughs. It’s not a real laugh. Suddenly his hand braces against the couch behind my head, caging me in. There’s no space left. Through my sweater, I can feel the heat coming off him. “I bought your time tonight. You know what that means, right?” “I’ll refund you. Ethan. I’m really getting married.” His fingers slide down my shoulder. They stop at my wrist. “You’re getting married, but you’re still wearing the bracelet your ex gave you. That doesn’t seem right, does it?”

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I had just gotten back from my best friend Chloe’s bachelorette party when a push notification pulled me to a post on a popular anonymous blog. The title was: “Need a birthday gift under $300 that will absolutely humiliate someone. It’s for my best friend.” The comment section flooded with vicious ideas. The blogger rejected every last one. Same response every time: “Not disgusting enough.” In the end, she pinned her own reply. “Thanks, everyone. But her boyfriend said he’d help me get even at her birthday party. He’s going to make her embarrass herself in front of everyone.” The internet caught the weirdness immediately. “Your best friend’s boyfriend is helping you go after her? What exactly are you two?” The blogger answered with pure arrogance, followed by several eye-roll emojis. “What are we? The first bite of every steak he cooks goes to me. Anything he wins at auction, I get first pick.” “His first kiss was mine. That whole night — every round, from first to fifth — mine.” “He delayed his proposal five times for me. That diamond ring worth over a hundred grand? It has our initials on it.” My heart clenched. For a second, all I could think was — who does this? I reached to flag the post. But something stopped me. Instead, I tapped her profile banner. In the photo, a man and a woman had their fingers laced together. A diamond ring caught the light on her hand, blazing. My heart sank. That was the ring my boyfriend, Alexander, and I had personally designed six months ago at Van Cleef & Arpels in Paris. … I sat there frozen for a long time. Long enough for my screen to go dark on its own. Just one hour ago, Alexander had looked down at Chloe, who was “dead drunk” in his arms, and frowned. “Bella, look at her. She’s completely wasted. I’ll have the driver take you home. And I’ll make sure she gets back safe” I hadn’t actually drunk that much. The second the New York night air hit me, I sobered up. Out of habit, I nodded. I even reminded him to text me once Chloe was settled. But during that thirty-minute ride home, every call I made and every message I sent disappeared into nothing. Now, staring at Chloe’s post, I finally understood. She was sober. Very sober. Even the drunken act had been carefully planned. My phone buzzed. A message from Alexander popped up. “Your Highness, your bestie is home safe.” “Your knight is on his way back to you. At full speed.”

I didn’t reply. Instead, I opened that post again and zoomed in on the profile picture. That ring was one of a kind. I had drawn dozens of drafts by hand before we finally settled on it. On the man’s wrist was a limited-edition Patek Philippe watch. The birthday gift I gave him this year. On the woman’s wrist was a Cartier LOVE bracelet. I had gone to the boutique and bought it myself. One for me. One for her. A symbol of our friendship. Someone asked under the post: “What exactly did your best friend do to you?” She replied: “She’s loaded, but all she gave me today was a brooch. She used to foot the bill for my entire party every single year.” Someone else asked: “You and your best friend’s boyfriend are cheating behind her back. Are you not scared she’ll find out?” She answered: “Back in sophomore year, when we went skiing in Aspen, I gave him advice on how to go after her. But my condition was that he had to spend seven nights with me first. He agreed.” “The next morning, my legs were so weak I couldn’t even get out of bed, so I lied and told her I wasn’t feeling well. And my sweet, clueless best friend felt so terrible for me, she asked her boyfriend to carry me down the mountain.” I stared at those words. Every line burned. My stomach turned. I remembered that day. I had rushed to hand her an oxygen can, worried out of my mind. “Chloe, if you don’t feel well, just stay at the hotel and rest.” Even Alexander spoke to her gently. “Don’t push yourself. If you really want to ski, Bella and I will bring you back another time.” But Chloe rolled her eyes at him. She insisted on going anyway. But barely two steps in, her face drained of color. I couldn’t bear to watch her suffer. So I asked Alexander to carry her. I blinked. My nose stung. A tear fell onto my phone screen. I switched back to the chat. My thoughts were so tangled I didn’t even know where to begin. Just last week, Chloe had held my hand and joked. She said that as our self-appointed “witness to the love story,” she was going to drag us at the wedding — call out every single time we’d made our single friends want to disappear. I laughed so hard I collapsed against her. And I promised her that my bouquet would only go to her. But I never saw this coming. The two people I had trusted without reservation— they joined forces to deliver the most complete betrayal of my life.

The three of us — me, Alexander, and Chloe — had known each other for twelve years, since our days at Columbia. When Alexander confessed his feelings to me at the freshman mixer, Chloe stepped in front of me, furious. “Alexander Thorne! Bella is the princess of the Vance family. You’re some broke scholarship boy. What, do you think she shines too bright for you? Are you trying to drag her off that pedestal with some cheap move like this?” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I pulled her back. “Chloe, I only got the top score in design class because Alexander helped me build the model.” “And you know I hurt my hand before. He helped me organize all my notes.” Back then, seeing the troubled look on Chloe’s face, I figured she just thought I’d fallen for the wrong guy. During college, everyone knew how good Alexander was to me. Every day, he drove that beat-up secondhand car to pick me up. He remembered my period better than I did. That old backpack of his, worn shiny from years of use, was always packed with my favorite snacks and every emergency item I could possibly need. By junior year, Alexander was already planning our future. On the back of a business proposal, he wrote out his entire life plan — every detail — trying to prove to me that he could become someone I could count on. Over the years, he kept every promise he made. The company he founded went public, and he became the youngest CEO in Wall Street history. He was steady, never volatile. No matter how busy work got, he still came home and cooked for me himself. He chose the diamond ring with me. He was going to propose at my birthday party this year. Then next year, we would have our wedding in the Hamptons. After that, we would have children of our own. Every part of his plan had me in it. But outside that plan… There was Chloe.

The post updated again. I tapped it open before I could stop myself. “Actually, I’ve sent her disgusting gifts before. Indirectly, but still. Like that antique cross bracelet she’s been wearing lately.” “I was in a bad mood back then, and things between me and him got a little too wild. The condom broke inside me. He was okay with that. Later, he still gave her that bracelet and claimed he’d gotten it blessed at the Vatican.” My eyes drifted on their own to the vanity. That bracelet was Alexander’s Easter gift to me this year. He told me he had stood in line for three days to have a bishop bless it for me. “And last Thanksgiving, he took me back to his family’s old house in the countryside to meet his parents.” “This little gold family locket on my wrist? His mother gave it to me.” “He said he couldn’t give me a marriage, but he would more than make up for it in every other way.” Boom. My mind went completely blank. His mother’s plain, honest face flashed before my eyes, along with the apologetic words she had said to me. “We don’t have anything of value to offer. This silver locket was passed down to me by his grandmother…”

By the time Alexander came back, it was already one a.m. He smelled like Chloe’s favorite Tom Ford perfume. He smiled at me, warm and indulgent. “Were you waiting for me to dry your hair?” I looked at him coldly and was just about to question him. Then Chloe’s video call came in. She blew me a kiss through the screen, her eyes bleary and glassy, still half-drunk. “Bella, you’re the best.” “I love the brooch you gave me.” Her voice suddenly dropped. “I just feel bad. I’m so broke, and tomorrow is your birthday. I can’t give you anything that expensive in return…” I cut her off, my voice flat. “Oh.” Chloe froze for a second when she saw my face. Then Alexander wrapped his arms tight around me from behind, burying his face in my neck — the same as always, competing with Chloe for my affection. “Bella, the person who loves you most is obviously me…” As he spoke, his lips moved toward my cheek. On the screen, Chloe let out a sharp scream — and her phone crashed to the floor. Alexander’s eyes snapped to my phone. In an instant, all the color drained from his face. Chloe wasn’t on the video. No sound, either. He rushed straight toward the entryway, his voice tight with an agitation and panic I had never heard from him before. “Bella, something’s wrong with Chloe. I have to go check on her!” The door slammed shut with a loud bang. But I heard it clearly. Right before the call cut out, I caught the faintest laugh. I opened that anonymous blog again. The newest post dripped with malice, all of it aimed straight at me. “She’s so stupid. She has no idea I called him away on purpose.” “Tomorrow is her birthday, and she definitely won’t figure out my gift is meant to disgust her. Boring.” My heart sank — cold, heavy, all the way down.

I lay on the couch all night, hair still wet, staring at the ceiling until dawn. One memory kept replaying in my head. That trip to Aspen. The day we climbed all the way to the top. Chloe shouted into the wind, “Alexander Thorne, you’d better love Isabella Vance for the rest of your life!” Alexander glanced at her, then shouted too, “Chloe Ryder and Isabella Vance, best friends forever!” At 8 a.m., my alarm went off right on time. I sent Alexander a message. “Alexander, let’s break up.” The smart lock clicked open. And Chloe’s voice came in first, snapping at Alexander like he was hers to boss around. “This is your fault. You woke up late, and now we couldn’t get Bella’s favorite French croissants.” “You’re the one who took forever,” Alexander shot back. “You had to put on makeup just to come see Bella.” “That’s because you kept me up all night—” They walked into the living room carrying several different kinds of breakfast, both of them smiling like nothing had happened. The second they saw me lying on the couch, their voices died. What they had just been talking about was obvious. Alexander calmly set the breakfast on the table, then gave a soft laugh. “Oh — special alert from my princess. Let me see what she sent.” He looked down at his phone. Then his face went pale. Chloe leaned in beside him. Their faces were so close. Then her eyes moved to me, who was sitting there with no expression. There was a hint of amusement in her voice. “Bella, come on. Just because Alexander didn’t come home last night?” “I should be mad at you. I fell by accident, and you didn’t even call once to check on me.” “And I still got up early to buy you breakfast.” All the little things I used to ignore suddenly stood out. Since when were croissants from that bakery across town my favorite? Chloe was the one who loved them. Alexander lined up for them every single time, no matter how much trouble it was. And after a while, I became the one who “loved” them. I looked at Chloe, my voice perfectly calm, without a ripple. “Didn’t you fake that fall just to lure him back to that little apartment of yours?” “Chloe, I heard that little laugh before you hung up.” “And I saw the hickeys. On both of you.” Chloe instinctively pulled her collar higher.

Alexander rushed toward me. He swallowed hard. “No, Bella. It’s not what you think.” “Chloe passed out last night. I stayed and took care of her, so I couldn’t come home.” “I swear. It won’t happen again.” The first day Alexander and I moved in together, we made one rule. No staying out all night. Everything we had been through… All the good memories… I still wanted this to end with some dignity. But looking at those two faces, something in me broke loose. My voice came out shaking. “Break up.” That was all I could say. Chloe shoved Alexander hard and snapped, “Apologize to Bella! Beg her forgiveness!” Then she dropped to her knees with a thud. “Whatever happened, I’m sure it wasn’t your fault. Bella, I’ll apologize first, okay?” But Alexander yanked Chloe back up. His eyes were full of pain. For her. Then he looked at me. There was no guilt. Only disappointment. “Bella. Apologize to Chloe.” “We’ve put up with your temper for so long. But we get tired.” “Can’t you grow up for once?” “Why can’t you trust us the way we trust you?” Something inside me snapped for good. I felt nothing. Just numb. “You cheated on me.” “And you still keep acting?” “If you don’t leave, I’ll have security walk you out.” Chloe pulled Alexander away. As they left, she leaned in close to him — but made sure I could hear every word. “Let her cool off first.” “Who knows who upset her this time? Now she’s taking it out on us.” “I bet she binged some soap opera and decided she’s the main character.”

I thought I had made myself clear enough. The people who set you up know exactly how wronged you are. And the people who betrayed you know exactly what they’ve done. I blew out the candles on my birthday cake. The lights in the banquet hall came back on. And there they were. Standing side by side. Smiling at me. Chloe acted like nothing had happened. She was holding a huge, tacky Swarovski crystal figurine in her arms. “Surprise!” She pushed it into my hands, all smiles and cheerful chatter. “I picked this out just for you, Bella. Do you like it?” Then Alexander dropped to one knee. He lifted that diamond ring toward me, his eyes full of tenderness. “Bella, marry me.” The diamond blazed with light, and the whole room burst into cheers. Someone shouted, “Say yes!” I looked down. Inside the crystal figurine was a carving of me. And Chloe had picked the worst possible photo. It was a shot from some party — me drunk, mouth hanging open, looking completely out of it. She had always loved snapping ugly photos of me, then showing them to Alexander and saying I looked “real” and “cute.” Our friends all raised their phones and started filming. Chloe stepped behind Alexander. Her phone was pointed right at me. Then I saw her smug little smile. I knew exactly how ridiculous I looked. There I was — dressed up for the night, holding that ugly crystal thing, cheap rainbow light glittering off it. Ridiculous. Alexander raised the ring a little higher, urgency creeping into his voice. “Bella, Chloe got you that gift to make it up to you.” “Everyone’s watching. Haven’t you been waiting for my proposal?” Make it up to me? I lowered my eyes. Alexander acted like he couldn’t see how cheap and ugly Chloe’s gift was. I wanted to laugh. But the tears came first. Alexander and Chloe thought I was crying because I was moved. I closed my eyes. I raised my hand — Suddenly, sharp laughter erupted all around me. Several bottles of champagne were shaken and aimed straight at me, spraying me from head to toe.

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At prom, in front of the entire school, Liam asked if he could give his first dance to Daisy. I didn’t fight him on it or cry. All I did was take a single step back. Liam froze, staring at me in complete shock. But he still took Daisy’s hand. The music started, and they walked to the center of the dance floor. I turned around and just walked away. I wasn’t even out of the building when my phone buzzed. “I told you Daisy is new to this, she was nervous to dance with anyone else. Chloe, can you please stop being so oversensitive all the time? Otherwise, how am I supposed to introduce you as my girlfriend at NYU, if you keep acting like this?” I just laughed. He had no idea that just yesterday… I had accepted my offer from Caltech and rejected NYU, our dream school. From now on, it was West Coast to East Coast. With the whole country between us. We would never see each other again. … Liam looked perfect in his tailored black tux. He wore a white rose on his lapel, one I’d pinned there myself. All eyes were on him the moment we walked in, my arm in his. As the star quarterback, Liam was always the center of the school. A couple of his teammates even whistled at me. “Chloe, you’re the luckiest girl!” But I didn’t feel lucky at all. The second we stepped into the stadium, his attention was gone. He kept glancing at his phone distractedly. The screen lighting up, then going dark again. I handed him a cup of punch. He took it, but never took a sip. He just set it on a table, his eyes still scanning the crowd. I knew who he was looking for. Daisy.

She transferred to our school a year ago on a scholarship. Rumor was her family was barely getting by. Her mom had a chronic illness, and her dad worked odd jobs on the docks. Out of nowhere, Liam volunteered for the school’s “buddy program.” He specifically asked to be paired with Daisy. At first, it was just showing her around, helping with her Literature homework. Then it became lunch in the cafeteria. Study sessions in the library. And throwing a football around on the field as the sun went down. My best friend, Jessica, tried to warn me. She said the way Liam treated Daisy wasn’t just friendly. It had crossed a line. I just laughed it off, telling her Liam had always been a helper. But the line between helping and falling for someone? Sometimes, it’s thinner than a spider’s web. Ten minutes before the dance started, Daisy finally arrived. She wore a dress that looked a little too big, probably from a thrift store. But it was clean, and she’d combed her hair. She looked so awkward, totally swallowed by the noise and energy of the prom. The second Liam saw her, his entire face lit up. I knew that smile all too well. It wasn’t his polite smile. This one was real, the kind that made his eyes sparkle. Like he’d just spotted the only star in a pitch-black sky. “Hey, I thought you got held up.” He walked right over to her, his voice full of a warmth he didn’t even notice. “Sorry, the bus was running late,” Daisy said with a shy smile. She pulled a small velvet pouch from her pocket. “A graduation gift for you.”

Liam unwrapped the gift. It was a handmade leather bracelet. A dark brown leather cord, braided in a simple pattern. A polished piece of sea glass sat in the middle, glowing a soft blue. The kind of thing you’d find at a flea market for a few bucks. But Liam absolutely adored it. “Oh my god, this is cool.” He immediately started unclasping the Tiffany bracelet on his wrist. The one I’d given him. I bought it for our three-year anniversary the year before. I’d saved for six months from my part-time job to afford it. A sterling silver chain with a simple charm. Engraved with a single letter: L. I remember putting it on his wrist for the first time. He’d hugged me so tight, whispering words I never forgot. “Chloe, I’ll wear this forever. Always.” And now, he was sliding it off like it meant absolutely nothing. He held up the cheap leather bracelet, admiring it under the light. A grin spread across his face. Like a kid who just got the one toy he desperately wanted. I watched him stuff the silver chain into his pocket. My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise. It didn’t hurt—I just couldn’t breathe. I had to look away. I just couldn’t watch anymore. “Chloe,” Liam said, his voice way too cheerful. Like he was just commenting on the weather. “I’m gonna give Daisy the first dance, alright?”

Before I could say a word, Daisy spoke up. “Liam, we really shouldn’t.” Her brows furrowed in that perfectly practiced expression of concern. “Chloe is your date. The first dance is supposed to be with her.” As she spoke, her eyes darted to me for a split second. Then snapped right back to Liam. Under her mask of concern lay a smug, petty triumph. She thought she was being subtle, but it was crystal clear to me. Liam didn’t look at her, his eyes locked on me, waiting for my reaction. He probably expected me to get upset and to make a scene. Like the cold war we had when he ditched our date for her birthday last month. “She just learned the waltz and is too shy to ask others to dance.” Liam added, as if granting me an excuse. “You know how she is, Chloe. We can’t just leave her standing there alone.” There was no argument. No dramatic scene. Just three seconds of dead silence as I stared at him. In those three seconds, so many memories flooded my mind. Seeing him for the first time at freshman orientation. Him, drenched in sweat, running to hug me after his first big football win. Lying on the grass, dreaming about our life together at NYU. We applied to the same school, the same major. He promised we’d see every show on Broadway. That we would walk through the autumn leaves in Central Park. The way he talked about it was full of energy. For a while, I really believed in his promises. The three seconds were up. I took a single step backward, silently clearing their path to the center of the dance floor.

Liam just froze. He clearly hadn’t expected that. The look in his eyes was pure shock, then confusion. Like I had just gone completely off-script. But the surprise lasted all of two seconds. His attention snapped right back to Daisy. He took her hand, leading her to the dance floor. The first notes of a slow waltz filled the air. And just like that, they were dancing. Liam moved with his usual easy confidence, patiently guiding her. Daisy was stiff and obviously a beginner, occasionally stepping on his feet. He didn’t seem to mind, looking down at her with a tenderness I’d never seen. Everyone’s eyes were on them. Whispers started, phones came out to record. Then all those eyes shifted to me. I could feel their stares—a mix of confusion, pity, and way too much satisfaction. I couldn’t watch anymore. Turning my back, I walked straight for the gym doors. The cool night air hit my face. Outside, my hand went to the necklace he gave me for my sixteenth birthday. The chain was worn, the little charm dull. looked down at it and smiled faintly, but didn’t take it off. Not because I couldn’t bear to. It just didn’t feel necessary anymore. My phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with his name. I opened the message, checking the time first. A song lasted three minutes. Add in time to comfort Daisy… Right on schedule for him to “lecture” me. “I told you Daisy is new to this, she was nervous to dance with anyone else.” “Chloe, can you please stop being so oversensitive all the time?” “Otherwise, how am I supposed to introduce you as my girlfriend at NYU if you keep acting like this?”

Every message was a condescending lecture. As if I were the crazy one. The one who was overreacting. The one who needed to apologize for my feelings. I read his texts twice, and then I laughed. He didn’t know that I had accepted my offer from Caltech the day before. It was the most final decision of my life. Back home, I started purging everything he’d ever given me. A shoebox full of movie stubs. A jar of paper stars he folded for me. Every birthday card from middle school to senior year. His handwriting on them went from boyish to confident. The sign-off changed from “My Chloe” to just “Chloe.” I swept it all into a giant black trash bag. Next, the wall. That photo of us at the beach when we were fifteen. Matching white t-shirts, him hugging me from behind, grinning like an idiot. I tore it down. On my desk, the lumpy clay dog he’d made in art class. He said it looked just like me when I was mad. I stared at that ugly little clay dog for a couple of seconds. And tossed it in with the rest. The bag was almost full, but I didn’t tie it shut. Every single thing in there held a memory. A ticket stub from “La La Land.” He cried at the end. He’d leaned on my shoulder and whispered, “We can’t ever be like them.” An amusement park ticket, from the time he dragged me onto the tallest drop tower. He was terrified on the way up, but he never let go of my hand. And the scarf he secretly took a knitting class to make for me. The stitches were a total mess, but he swore it was a unique design. That entire bag was filled with pieces of him. From fourteen to eighteen. My entire youth was in that trash bag. Suddenly, my phone lit up. It was an Instagram notification.

I tapped on it. Daisy had just posted a new Instagram story. It was a two-part story. The first photo: a dim hotel room, a black tux jacket lying on the bed. The second was a close-up of men’s dress shoes, carelessly tossed on the floor. One was on its side, the brand name on the sole clearly visible. I knew those shoes instantly. For Liam’s birthday last year, I’d saved up for three months from my coffee shop job. Just to buy him those exact John Lobb dress shoes. A perfect size 10. He was ecstatic, saying they were the most comfortable shoes he’d ever worn. Daisy’s caption was a masterpiece of fake innocence. “He said he drank too much and made me get him a hotel room… What am I gonna do with him?” His teammates flooded the comments. “Get it, bro!” “Those shoes ain’t cheap. Looks like you hit the jackpot tonight, bro!” I just stared at that picture for a few seconds. Then I walked back to the trash bag. I sealed the opening shut with duct tape, wrapping it around three times. I dragged the bag downstairs and hauled it straight into the community dumpster. It landed with a final, muffled thud. And the world went silent. In the days that followed, not a single call or text came from Liam. I was perfectly fine with the quiet.

A week later, Mike from the football team announced a farewell party. He sent a message to the group chat. Then he DMed me privately, telling me I had to be there. Mike and Liam had been best friends since they were in diapers. I knew exactly what he was trying to do. I said I had plans, that I couldn’t make it. “Serious? College applications are done. What plans?” “You have to come. Or you’re dead to me.” At five, I pulled up to Mike’s house. I raised my hand to ring the doorbell, but then I stopped. It wasn’t hesitation. My own name drifted out from a cracked-open window. “…that first dance with Daisy at prom. Weren’t you scared Chloe would flip out?” Liam’s voice was smug, laced with a laugh. “Scared of what? Please. That’s just her. You have to keep her in check sometimes. She’s way too possessive, gives me no room to breathe. All I did was dance with a friend. It’s not a big deal.” Another voice chimed in. “But what if she’s actually pissed this time? Dude, she’s a total catch. Other guys would line up for her.” Liam just laughed again. “Chloe and I grew up together. I know her better than anyone. Relax. She’s just throwing a fit. I’ll smooth it over in a few days. It’s like when I bailed on our date for Daisy’s birthday.” He paused, his voice softened. “Hell would freeze over before she ever breaks up with me. I can guarantee that one hundred percent.”

I stood outside the door without heartbreak or rage. Just… bone-deep exhaustion. It was like finishing a marathon—I could finally stop running. He was right. I’d argued, I’d yelled, but I never actually broke up with him. Every time he pushed my boundaries, every time he tested my patience… He’d just grin and say, “You’re not really mad, are you?” And I would always, always forgive him. Not because I was a pushover. But because I loved him. Now I finally understood. My patience wasn’t love to him. It was weakness. He saw my kindness as his guarantee that I’d never leave him. I was about to turn around and leave for good. A hand tapped my shoulder from behind. “Chloe, why aren’t you going in?” Daisy was smiling at me, her face dripping with fake sweetness. Before I could answer, she shoved the door wide open. Every head in the room snapped towards the entrance. Liam was sitting in the middle of the couch. An empty seat waited beside him. He was shocked for a second, then he went back to normal, even raising an eyebrow at me. Mike was the first to react, jumping to his feet. “Chloe’s here! Get in here, we were waiting for you!” Daisy practically herded me into the living room. Mike tried to pull me towards the empty spot next to Liam. I resisted. “I’m fine standing.” He wasn’t having it. “I’m the host. You gotta listen to me.” Then he practically forced me down onto the cushions. Liam leaned over, his voice a low murmur. “Hi.” As if nothing had ever happened between us at all.

On his wrist, the Tiffany bracelet was back. The silver chain shimmered, and the ‘L’ charm hung from his strong wrist. But right beside it, a faint line was pressed into his wrist. The ghost of that cheap leather band. The two marks sat side-by-side. One was priceless, the other was worthless. I said nothing, just grabbed a can of Coke. I sipped my drink mechanically. The party was a blur of noise. Mike playing host, a board game in the corner, dares and laughter. Liam and Daisy were talking, in their own private island of jokes. I didn’t look or speak. Eventually, the conversation shifted to college. “Which university have you all decided to go to?” Mike asked, passing around pizza. “I’m going to state. Staying local.” “Same. My parents would kill me if I left California.” Mike turned to Liam. “You, man?” Liam grabbed a slice of Hawaiian, not even looking up. “NYU, obviously. Set in stone.” He said it, then shot a casual glance my way. “Chloe and I have a promise. We’re going to New York together.” His tone was absolute, as if it were already settled. No one batted an eye. To them, we were a package deal. Mike looked across the room. “Daisy? What about you?” She lowered her cup, a slow, sweet smile spreading across her face. “I’m going to NYU, too.”

The room fell silent for a beat. Liam’s pizza slice froze mid-air. A single chunk of pineapple slid off, hitting the rug. He was staring at Daisy, his eyes wide with shock and delight. “Wait, Daisy… you’re going to NYU?” “Mhm.” She nodded, her smile never wavering. “NYU gave me a full ride. And I’ve always loved New York City.” She said it so casually, like it was nothing at all. But the expressions around the table had suddenly grown complicated. People suddenly became very interested in their phones. Or the bottom of their cups. Eyes darted between me and Liam, then quickly looked away. I didn’t look up. I just kept sipping my Coke. When the party wound down, Mike suggested an after-party. I declined. Liam was still on the couch, watching me. He shot me a long, searching look, but didn’t ask me to stay. Back home, Mom and Dad were watching the news in the living room. I sat down across from them. “Mom, Dad,” I said, my voice perfectly level. “I accepted my offer from Caltech. I’m not going to NYU. And I don’t want anyone in Liam’s family finding out.” The room was quiet for a few seconds. My dad muted the TV and turned to face me. My mom put down her knitting, a complicated look in her eyes. “I’m also going to their summer session early. I leave this Monday.”

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I woke up from brain surgery. The first thing I checked was Julian’s texts. “Julian, my surgery is tomorrow morning.” “The doctors say it’s serious.” “If you’re not here when I wake up, I think we’re done.” 24 hours later, there was still no reply. I scrolled up. Same pattern every time I went under. “Can’t make it. My assistant will sign for you.” “In a really important meeting.” “You don’t need to tell me about these things anymore.” Eventually, he just stopped reading my messages altogether. Instead, he assigned me a personal assistant. Her only job was to stand in for Julian, signing the life-or-death legal documents. And that man, the one who’s always “too busy”? He was all over Chloe’s Instagram carousel. A nine-picture post, set against the sunset and private yachts of St. Barts. He and Chloe, heads pressed together, smiling. The caption read: “He always finds a way to make me laugh, again and again.” And the timestamp? Two hours before I was wheeled into the operating room. I sent his assistant one last text: “You’re fired.” Then, I called my lawyer. “Draft the divorce papers.” … As the anesthesia wore off, a throbbing agony pulsed from the incision in my skull. The pain tore me from sleep, night after night. The doctors had warned me that the chances of this surgery succeeding were slim. On the edge of consciousness, one thought consumed me. If I didn’t make it through this, when would Julian find out I was dead? Probably when it was time to deal with my estate. After all, his time and energy were never wasted on a burden like me. That evening, my hospital room door creaked open. Julian walked in, carrying a ridiculously fancy insulated bag. “How are you feeling?” “Still breathing.” “Okay.” He completely missed the ice in my voice. He opened the bag, pulling out a glass container. “Brought you some cream of mushroom soup.” In the rich broth floated slices of mushrooms, a golden sheen of oil on top. I’m violently allergic to mushrooms. Chloe, on the other hand, adores them. “Chloe got a nasty sunburn on the yacht. I dropped her off at the hospital to get it checked out,” Julian explained, pouring a bowl for me. “It was pretty bad, her whole back was bright red.” I just gave a flat, “Hm.” “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked and leaned closer. I caught a whiff of expensive cologne—citrus and wood. Completely avoiding his question, I asked my own. “You changed your cologne?”

He paused, a small smile playing on his lips. “Chloe recommended it. She said it suited me. If you like it, I’ll have her grab you a bottle.” We’d been together for nearly a decade. He should remember I don’t use scented products. Not perfumes, not even lotions. He should also remember that I shaved my head for this surgery. The shoulder-length hair I’d grown for three years, all gone. But he didn’t notice any of it. Then again, the last time he was actually home was six months ago. My hair was still resting on my shoulders then. Too much time had passed. He forgot. The room went quiet. Only the steady beeping of the heart monitor filled the air. Then, a notification from his phone shattered it. “Oh, my assistant mentioned you told her not to come back?” He asked, his eyes glued to his phone as he typed. “She won’t be needed anymore.” “Well, good. I’m glad you’re recovered.” My hand drifted to my bare, stitched-up scalp. My voice was calm. “I’m not better. It’s back. And I might need another surgery at any moment.” He didn’t look up. I took a deep breath, finally asking the question that had been haunting me. “Julian, do you still want this marriage?” A girl’s bright laughter suddenly erupted from his phone. It was on speaker, sharp and clear in the quiet room. “Julian, look at this video, it’s hilarious—” He instantly killed the volume and finally looked at me. “What did you say?” The beeping of the monitor felt like a countdown on our marriage. “So you went to St. Barts? The site visit is over?” I asked, changing the subject. His expression didn’t flicker. “Chloe was dying to go to the coast. An investment opportunity came up there, so I took her with me.” His head dropped, eyes glued back to the screen. Fingers flew across the glass one last time, and he stood up. His life was with Chloe, in a world of sunshine and laughter. While mine had become completely invisible. After the door clicked shut, my doctor handed me a folder. “Ms. Rodriguez, this relapse is more complex than we thought. I’d advise you to consider more advanced treatment options in Europe.” A surgery three years ago damaged my optic nerve. My left eye is already completely blind. I stared at the papers for a long time. My good eye strained to make out the words. “Set it up.”

Julian was supposed to pick me up on my discharge day. I sat on a bench by the hospital doors, waiting for him. Next to me was a canvas tote, holding my discharge report, medical records, and a bag of expensive targeted drugs. I pulled out my phone. Chloe had posted on Instagram again. Seven in the morning. A picture from a jog in Central Park, two figures from behind, one tall, one short. The caption: “Early birds get to see the sunrise kiss the city.” Less than half an hour later, she posted again. The picture: breakfast on a sun-drenched balcony, set for two. The caption: “Mornings are best when you’re being spoiled.” The man who promised to pick me up was off living his vibrant life with her. At ten, Julian’s black Porsche finally rolled up. The passenger-side window slid down, and there was Chloe’s face. “Ella! Julian was just giving me a ride to the office.” My legs were numb. The bag felt like lead. I swayed as I pushed myself to stand. Julian got out of the driver’s seat, walked around to the passenger side, and opened the rear door. “Traffic was bad,” he explained. I said nothing, just clutched my heavy bag of pills and walked over. Chloe leaned out the window, her gaze suddenly locking onto my left eye. “Ella, what happened to your eye?” she asked, tilting her head. “It’s like… not really focusing? It looks so weird!” She stuck her hand out, waving it right in front of my face. “Can you even see this? How many fingers?”

Julian finally cut her off. “Her eyesight is really bad.” “Oh…” Chloe pulled her hand back, looking awkward. I lost the sight in my left eye three years ago. A fact I’d told him at least ten times. He never remembered. Chloe hopped out of the car, leaning in with a curious smile. “Ella, what are all these medicines? Can I see?” Before I could answer, her hand was already reaching for my bag. I flinched back on instinct. The bag wasn’t closed properly. Her touch sent pill bottles and boxes scattering across the ground. Tiny white pills rolled everywhere, disappearing into cracks and under the Porsche’s tires. Julian’s brow furrowed. He shot a look of pure annoyance at the mess. “Why can’t you even hold a bag steady?” I crouched down, my head throbbing where the stitches had just been removed. My vision swam with black spots as I started picking up the pills one by one. Chloe knelt down too. “Ella, I’ll help you—” She fumbled, and her hand came down, crushing several pills into dust. “Oh no, they’re ruined! I’m so, so sorry, Ella…” Julian walked over, pulling her up from the ground, his voice suddenly gentle. “If they’re crushed, they’re crushed. Leave it. They’re not worth much anyway.” I slowly straightened up. “You’re right. They’re not worth much. Then she can go back and get the medication replaced.” He glanced at his watch, his frown deepening. “That’s not necessary. She meant well. Just go get another one yourself. Chloe’s going to be late. I’m taking her now. I’ll send the driver back for you.” Chloe was already back in the passenger seat, waving at me through the window. “Bye, Ella!” Julian didn’t even give me a second glance. He just got in the car. I thought I would cry. But my eyes were just dry and sore. My heart beat steadily and calmly. It was like watching a stranger walk away. And maybe, I realized, I really didn’t care anymore.

Back at our penthouse in Manhattan, I pulled out the divorce papers. I signed my name on the final page: Ella Rodriguez. Then, I started to pack. Ten years of my life with him fit into a single 24-inch suitcase. On the nightstand sat a photo of Julian and me. It was from a charity gala three years ago. I had long hair that reached my waist, with an elegant bun on top of my head. He wore a Tom Ford suit, his smile devastatingly charming. I picked up the frame and flipped it over. A line of neat, almost taunting handwriting met my eyes: “Chloe was here.” I stared at the words, then flipped the frame back over. I placed it face down, right on top of the divorce papers. His smile was frozen three years in the past. So was my long hair. My phone rang. It was Julian. He rarely called first. I answered. Loud music pulsed through the line. It sounded like some rooftop bar. I spoke first. “Julian, about the divorce papers—” He cut me off. “Chloe saw that painting of yours from the Venice Biennale.” Of course. It was always for Chloe. I paused. “It’s not for sale.” “She really wants it. I’ll pay a million dollars.” “I don’t like her. So I won’t sell it to her.” Two seconds of silence on his end. “Just name your price, Ella.” I let out a soft laugh and set the phone face down on the table. The nightstand drawer was ajar. I slid it open, and there was our marriage certificate. A sticker photo of Chloe had been pasted right over my face. She was smiling, sweet as candy, flashing a victory sign. My face was completely covered. I remembered the day we got it. My hair was still thick and full. Julian stood next to me, smiling like a teenager in love. I remembered showing him what Chloe did, my voice cracking with tears. He’d given it a passing glance, brushing me off with a vague promise to replace it. “It’s just a picture. Is it really that big of a deal? She’s just young. Cut her some slack.”

Three years. He never found half a day to replace it with me. His voice, cold and sharp, crackled from the phone I’d forgotten to hang up. “Chloe’s not mature. She throws a tantrum when she doesn’t get her way. Can’t you just give in? If you won’t sell, then maybe you don’t need that studio after all. We’ll talk when you’ve come to your senses.” A bitter smile touched my lips. “Suit yourself.” The sharp buzz of the dial tone echoed in the empty penthouse. In my left eye, there was only a permanent, unshakeable gray fog. And that old, familiar heartache washed over me like a slow tide. Everyone thought Julian was insane for wanting me. My diagnosis was a ticking time bomb. I had a moody artist’s temperament and a cold, distant heart. I was hardly wife material. But he swore none of it mattered. He said he loved all of it—the quiet, the distance, everything. For the first time, I let myself believe I could actually love someone. But then what happened? He was always busy, always promising he’d be there “right after this project.” Watching me wheeled into surgery, his look of pain turned to pity. And then, finally, to complete numbness. Eventually, he just stopped showing up at all. He missed so many appointments. Each time, I told myself he’d be there for the next one. Until the time I almost died in the operating room. As my consciousness faded, I thought I might never see Julian again. Never again see the boy who had been like moonlight in my dark life. When I woke up, only one thing mattered. I had to see him. I flew for twenty hours, connecting through cities to get to him in Paris. I pushed open the door to his hotel suite… And saw him gently blow-drying Chloe’s hair, the two of them laughing. In that instant, I understood everything. He was neither too busy nor lost his passion for sharing his life. He was just sharing it with someone else. And for the first time in my life, I completely shattered.

I stormed over, yanked the plug from the wall, and slapped her hard across the face. Then I started smashing everything in that hotel room I could get my hands on. “How could you do this to me?! I almost died, do you even get that?!” Shattered glass sliced into my leg, warm blood trickling down, but I felt nothing. “Do you think I’m some kind of joke?! Is that it?!” He watched me like a spectator at a freak show, then scooped up the terrified Chloe and turned to leave. “Are you done? You need to calm down. This whole display… it’s pathetic.” I stood there, panting, trembling in the middle of the wreckage. The twenty-hour flight, the desperate need to see him after escaping death… In that one single moment, it all turned to ash. After that day, Julian stopped coming home. My calls and texts were silenced. I had to piece together his life from Chloe’s Instagram stories. But when you were starved for love, you clung to the tiniest crumbs from the past. It was like clutching a melted piece of old candy in your fist. The wrapper fused to your palm, sticky and disgusting. But you couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away. You remembered being hungry for so long, and you remembered how sweet it had once tasted. So you just kept squeezing it tighter. Squeezing until the syrup ran out from between your fingers. Until one day, you realized you didn’t even have the strength left to make a fist.

Three days later, a text from Julian lit up my screen. “Be at the gala tonight. Eight o’clock.” He never read my messages. The divorce papers were still unsigned. But I decided to go. I would end this face-to-face. I put on an elegant wig and slipped the signed papers into my clutch. The ballroom was a sea of glittering chandeliers and soft music. A blur of designer gowns and expensive perfume. I spotted Julian the moment I stepped inside. He was on the dance floor with Chloe nestled in his arms. Her steps were clumsy, and she kept stepping on his feet. But he just leaned in, whispering something with an indulgent smile. I watched them for a moment, then moved closer. Chloe pressed against his ear, her voice a perfect stage whisper. “You put Ella’s gallery deal on hold for me. Isn’t she going to be furious?” Julian didn’t miss a step, just gave her waist a reassuring pat. “She’s needy. A few empty words and she’ll be fine.” I stood at the edge of the dance floor, my blood turning to ice. Whispers started rippling through the crowd. Eyes darted from me to the intimate couple on the floor. “Isn’t that his wife? Haven’t seen her for a long time. Is she here to cause a scene?” “The way he dotes on that girl… it makes you wonder who the mistress really is.”

The music faded. Julian finally looked up, letting go of Chloe. “What are you doing here?” She immediately laced her arm through his, a sugary smile aimed right at me. So that’s how it was. She sent the text from his phone. I held Julian’s gaze. “We need to talk.” Chloe tugged at his sleeve, pouting. “Julian, the next dance is about to start—” He waved me off with a frown. “Whatever it is, it can wait until the gala’s over.” Suddenly, the chandeliers flickered and died. The ballroom was plunged into total darkness. A wave of startled gasps went through the crowd. In the darkness, a hand shot out, grabbing, yanking. A sharp, tearing pain ripped across my scalp. The lights flared back to life a second later. I looked down. My wig was on the gleaming marble floor. My shaved head, covered in nothing but dark stubble, was exposed. The scar, an angry pink gash from my forehead to behind my ear, was exposed for everyone to see. A dead silence fell over the room. Hundreds of eyes locked onto me, pinning me in place like spotlights. “Oh my god, how horrifying…” “No wonder Julian never brings her out. I’d be sick just looking at that.” “What disease does she have? It’s not contagious, is it…?” Then the flashes started. Phones raised, capturing my humiliation. A triumphant smirk played on Chloe’s lips, though her voice was laced with fake concern. “Oh, Ella, I am so sorry… It was just so dark. I didn’t mean to…”

She knelt down, picked up the wig, and offered it to me with fake concern. I just stood there, frozen. I didn’t take it. Julian seized my wrist and started hauling me towards the exit. With my bald head exposed, he dragged me through the entire ballroom like a criminal. The whispers and camera flashes washed over me, a drowning tide of shame. The ride home was dead silent. Streetlights blurred past the window, casting flickering shadows on his stone-cold face. My mind was a complete blank, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. For so long, I had buried the memory of those dark, sunless days. The chemo, the vomiting, the bald stranger staring back from the mirror. People whispered, “Stay away from her.” Then Julian appeared. He shaved his head too, shielding me from all the pitying stares. He said, “Don’t be afraid. I’m right here with you.” And now, he was the one shoving me right back into that same hell. Back at our apartment, he poured me a glass of water. “The PR team is already handling it. None of the photos or videos will get out.” I said nothing. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure no one talks.” I blinked my dry eyes. “Does that include Chloe? She’s the one who sent the text.” He frowned. “The lights were out. She couldn’t see anything. She’s not like that.” Silence. A button on his cuff was loose, and from his collar peeked a red, woven bracelet. Was that a matching one? The same kind Chloe wore? “Are you really this blind, or are you just choosing not to see?” I asked. “A Wall Street genius can’t see through a pathetic little trick like that?” The living room was silent for a few seconds. Then his phone rang. Her voice, thick with crocodile tears, echoed through the quiet space. “Julian… Is Ella mad at me…? I really didn’t mean to… I can apologize tomorrow, okay…? Please don’t be angry with me… I’m so scared…”

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