Author: Momo Chan

1 Three years ago, I almost died on the delivery table. We lost the baby, and Jackson collapsed outside the operating room, sobbing on his knees until he couldn’t breathe. For the next three years, he was the perfect husband. Devoted. Attentive. He treated me like a piece of fragile porcelain that might shatter at any moment. Yet, the “Procreation System” bar in my mind remained stubbornly stuck at 99%. I started to believe the mission would never be completed, that I was destined to haunt this world forever, tethered to a ghost. On the third anniversary of our child’s death, I went to the cemetery alone. Afterward, needing to clear the suffocating grief from my lungs, I took a drive down to the coast. I was walking along the dunes when a small boy, maybe four years old, collided with my legs. He tumbled back into the sand. I knelt down, reaching out to help him. “Hey there, little guy. Are you okay? Where are your parents?” He scrambled up, shoved my hand away with a scowl, and sprinted off toward a cluster of palm trees. I followed him, my maternal instincts kicking in—mostly just wanting to make sure he found his family. But as I rounded the bend, the blood in my veins turned to ice. Under the shade of the palms, Jackson was lounging on a beach chair. He looked more relaxed than I’d seen him in years. He laughed as he caught the boy in a mid-air hug. “Daddy!” the boy squealed. And the woman the boy turned to, the one he called “Mommy,” was Isla Bennett. My best friend. My bridesmaid. Sitting next to them were my own parents, laughing as they held out a cup of coconut water to the child. “Come here, Cooper! Let Grandma hold you for a second,” my mother cooed. My father took a sip of his drink and sighed, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. “Summer is probably at the grave today. Poor girl. If she only knew that Cooper was actually—” “Dad!” Jackson cut him off sharply, covering Cooper’s ears. “Don’t. Summer owes this to Isla. This child is the debt she had to pay.” I dug my nails into my palms, my vision blurring. I blinked, praying it was a heat stroke hallucination. But then, the cold, synthesized voice I hadn’t heard in years rang in my head. “Host, identity confirmed. This is the child you gave birth to three years ago.” “Mission status: Procreation Task Complete. Do you wish to initiate world extraction?” My brain went numb. I stood there, paralyzed, as the world I thought I knew disintegrated. “Daddy, Mommy, that lady over there helped me up,” Cooper said, pointing toward me. Jackson and Isla turned. The smiles slid off their faces as if they’d been slapped. “Summer…” Jackson’s voice was a strangled ghost of itself. He instinctively tried to pull Cooper behind his back, shielding him from my sight. A bitter burn rose in my throat. “Don’t hide him, Jackson. Don’t you think I deserve an explanation?” He took a deep, shaky breath, his eyes darting to my parents, then back to me. The facade crumbled, replaced by a cold, defensive resolve. “Since you’ve seen him, there’s no point in lying anymore,” he said. “Yes. Cooper is your son. I lied to you. We told you he died in the NICU.” Isla’s face went deathly pale. She gripped Cooper’s hand so hard her knuckles turned white. “Summer, please… don’t blame Jackson. It was my fault. All of it.” She suddenly pushed Cooper toward me, her voice trembling with performative martyrdom. “Cooper, go to her. That’s your real mother!” The boy burst into frantic tears, scrambling back to Isla. “No! I don’t want her! Mommy, I only want you! Don’t let the scary lady take me!” He clung to Isla’s waist, and she pulled him into her arms, sobbing as if I were the villain in a Disney movie. In the eyes of my parents, I became the aggressor. “Summer!” My mother stepped forward, physically blocking me from Isla and the boy. “Don’t you dare try to break them up. Your father and I agreed to this!” My voice shook so hard I could barely form words. “You knew? Both of you… you knew my son was alive this whole time?” My mother looked away, a flicker of shame quickly replaced by indignation. “It’s your own fault! If you hadn’t insisted on that skiing trip back then, Isla wouldn’t have been injured trying to save you. She lost her ability to have children because of you, Summer. Giving her this child was only right. It was justice.” Justice? I remembered that trip. Isla had tripped on a flat trail; her “permanent injury” was a lie she’d used for years to milk my guilt. She’d actually lost her fertility due to a botched procedure years before I even met her. She bit her lip, refusing to meet my eyes. I remained silent, which my mother took as a sign of submission. “It’s been three years,” my mother continued. “Let it go. You and Jackson can always have another one. We’ve been coming here every weekend to see Cooper. Isla is a natural—she’s gentle, she’s patient. You’ve done nothing but mope and cry for three years. She’s a better mother than you could ever be.” My father nodded in solemn agreement. “Isla has been like a second daughter to us. We’ve already legally adopted her into the family. Just think of her as a sister. And Cooper… if you really can’t let go, you can be his aunt. That’s fair, isn’t it?” Looking at their “perfect” family unit, I felt the last warmth in my soul vanish. I started to laugh—a jagged, broken sound that turned into tears. “My son, whom I nearly died for, belongs to her. My husband treats her like his wife. And my parents… you’ve replaced me.” I pointed at Isla, my whole body trembling. “When I was screaming in the middle of the night, when I was contemplating ending it all because the grief was too much—were you happy? Did you feel like you’d won?” “Summer!” Jackson snapped, looking at me with disapproval. “Isla had nothing to do with the logistics. If you want to hate someone, hate me. Leave her out of it.” The taste of copper filled my mouth. I leaned against a nearby tree to keep from collapsing and summoned the System. “Confirm extraction,” I whispered in my mind. “I don’t want to stay here for another second.” 2 The System flickered. “Extraction sequence initiated. Physical departure scheduled in 72 hours via terminal exit.” I looked at Cooper. I saw my own eyes in his small face, the shape of my jaw. Despite the rage, a sliver of hope remained. I knelt down one last time and held out my hand. “Cooper,” I said softly. “I’m your mommy. Do you want to come home with me?” He took a step toward me. I allowed myself a tiny, tragic smile. Then, he picked up a heavy plastic truck from the sand and hurled it at my face. It caught me right on the cheekbone. “You’re trying to steal my daddy!” he screamed. “I only have one mommy! I hate you! Go away, you mean lady!” My cheek stung, swelling instantly. Isla rushed forward, scooping Cooper up with a protective, panicked air. “Summer, he’s just a child! He didn’t mean it! Please don’t hit him!” My mother shoved me back, acting like a hen protecting her brood. “He’s a baby! You can’t just come in here and start barking about being his ‘real’ mother!” Cooper buried his face in Isla’s neck, wailing uncontrollably. Jackson’s patience snapped. He grabbed my arm, his grip tight and bruising, and began dragging me toward the parking lot. “He’s terrified of you! Look what you’re doing to him. Just get out of here!” He hailed a taxi, shoved me into the backseat, and slammed the door. As the car pulled away, I looked through the rear window. I saw Jackson, Isla, and my parents huddled together, all of them focused on soothing the boy. I was the intruder. I was the ghost. When I got back to our house—the house that was a monument to a lie—I began to pack. I didn’t have much. An album fell out of the back of the closet. I opened it, and my heart stopped. Photos of Cooper. His first month. His first birthday. Christmas. Every milestone. In every single photo, Jackson and Isla were holding the child, flanked by my parents. On the back of one, in my mother’s elegant script, were the words: Family Portrait, 2023. For three years, they had lived a parallel life. And I was the only one kept in the dark. At the very back of the album, I found a hidden USB drive. I plugged it into my laptop, my hands shaking. The first thing I heard was the Wedding March. The video showed Jackson and Isla standing in front of my parents’ backyard gazebo. My parents were giving a speech. “Isla has been a part of this family since she was a girl. We are so happy to see her and Jackson finally find their happiness together.” The camera cut to the dressing room. Isla looked radiant in white. “Jackson,” she whispered, “what if Summer comes home early?” Jackson was pinning a veil into her hair, his expression softer than I’d ever seen it. “She won’t. She’s at the cemetery today. She always stays there until sunset. Today is for us.” I hit pause. I looked at the date. It was last year, on the anniversary of the day I thought I lost my son. While I was sobbing over a cold headstone, they were saying “I do.” The album hit the floor just as the bedroom door swung open. Jackson walked in, saw the mess, and his face hardened into a mask of fury. “Summer! What are you doing? Are you really going to throw a tantrum over some photos?” I looked at him, the hatred burning behind my eyes. “Why? Why did you do this to me? Why did you build your happiness on the wreckage of my life?” Jackson saw the video playing on the screen. The fire in his eyes died out instantly. “I…” He ran a hand through his hair, stepping toward me with a look of exasperated pity. “It already happened, Summer. Couldn’t you just have stayed ignorant? It was better that way.” “Better for who?” “I was just helping Isla fulfill her dream of being a bride,” he said, as if he were explaining a charitable donation. “You’re the one I live with. You’re the one I love. Cooper is better off with her. We’ll have our own kids, okay? Let’s just start over.” He reached for me, trying to lift me onto the bed, his touch suddenly possessive and demanding. Slap. The sound echoed in the room. He stumbled back, clutching his cheek in disbelief. “You hit me?” I pushed him away, the last shred of my heart turning to ash. “Jackson, I want a divorce. Get out.” 3 He let out a sharp, condescending laugh. “Don’t say things you’ll regret. You’re emotional. Isla and I… it’s not what you think.” His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and his entire demeanor changed. “Mr. Reed? This is St. Jude’s Hospital. Isla Bennett has been admitted…” Before the person on the other end could finish, Jackson was out the door. He didn’t even look back. I watched his car speed away. The System pinged in my mind. “Countdown: 48 hours remaining.” Jackson didn’t come home that night. I fell into a restless sleep, only to be jolted awake by the acrid smell of smoke. The room was an orange blur. Flames were licking at the curtains, climbing the walls. “Help!” I screamed, lunging for the door. The handle wouldn’t turn. It was locked from the outside. I hammered on the wood. “Mom! Dad! Jackson! Somebody!” Then I heard a small voice through the crack in the door. “Why are you trying to take me away? Why did you make Mommy cry?” It was Cooper. “I’m going to burn the bad lady,” he whispered, his voice chillingly calm. “So Mommy can be happy again.” I peered through the gap. I saw the boy standing in the hallway, clutching a lighter, his eyes filled with a terrifying, learned hatred. “Cooper… you set the fire?” My lungs burned. He grinned. “Nobody likes you anyway. You deserve to burn.” The smoke was thick now, black and suffocating. I collapsed to my knees, coughing violently. The System flashed red. “Host, hold on! Jackson is almost here!” A moment later, the door was kicked off its hinges. Jackson charged through the smoke, a fire extinguisher in one hand. He dropped it and scooped me up, his arms trembling as he carried me out of the inferno. When I opened my eyes, everything was white. Sterile. Jackson was sitting by my bed, his head in his hands. He looked exhausted. “You’re awake. The doctor said you’ll be okay. Minor smoke inhalation.” He handed me a glass of water. “Don’t be mad at Cooper. He’s just a kid. He was scared you were going to take him away from the only home he knows.” My voice was a raspy whisper. “He tried to kill me, Jackson. Isla raised him to be a murderer. Doesn’t she have to answer for that?” Jackson’s face darkened. “Enough! You’re just looking for ways to blame Isla. If you hadn’t threatened the boy yesterday, he wouldn’t have snapped.” I stared at him. The sheer absurdity of his logic drained the last of my energy. There was no point in arguing with a man who had already decided I was the problem. “Leave,” I said, closing my eyes. “I’m tired.” He didn’t move. I felt his hand wrap around my wrist, his grip desperate. “Isla was diagnosed with acute leukemia,” he rasped. His eyes were bloodshot, pleading. “While you were unconscious, I had the doctors run a compatibility test. You’re a perfect match, Summer.” He leaned in, his voice a pathetic whimper. “Please. Save her. For Cooper’s sake. He can’t lose his mother.” 4 I ripped my hand away, staring at him in horror. “You want me to give a piece of my body to the woman who stole my life? To the woman who helped my son try to kill me?” He hung his head, his voice cracking. “I know I’ve failed you. But Isla is so young. Cooper needs her. If you do this, I’ll do anything. Anything you want.” I felt a sob rise in my chest. Jackson had never begged me for anything. Not once in our marriage. And here he was, on his knees for her. “Get out,” I hissed. “This is her karma. Let her rot.” Slap. The blow caught me across the face, the same cheek Cooper had hit with the truck. My head snapped to the side. Jackson froze, his hand still mid-air. “Summer… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” I didn’t cry. I just started hitting him back, swinging wildly, raining blows on his chest and face. He didn’t fight back. He just stood there and took it. When I finally stopped, he was trembling. “Isla isn’t ‘the other woman,’ Summer.” He pulled out his phone and showed me a photo. It was a red marriage certificate sitting next to a set of divorce papers. The divorce papers had my signature on them. “I filed these three years ago so I could put Isla on Cooper’s birth certificate as the mother,” he whispered. “We’ve been legally married for years. I forged your name.” My heart seemed to stop beating. “What?” “Technically,” he said, unable to look me in the eye, “in the eyes of the law… you’re the one who doesn’t belong here.” I stared at him, the room spinning. I fell back against the pillows, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in my throat until it turned into a jagged sob. “You’ll regret this, Jackson. I hope you realize what you’ve done.” I closed my eyes and spoke to the System. “Can I choose the manner of my death?” When it confirmed, I looked at Jackson. “Fine. I’ll do the donation.” He grabbed my hand, his eyes filling with tears of relief. “Summer! I knew you still loved me! I promise, this is the last time. After the surgery, I’ll distance myself from her. It’ll just be us. I swear.” I looked into his eyes, seeing the hollow man he had become. “I have one condition.” “Anything.” “I want a public confession. I want you to post on every social media platform you have, admitting that you stole my child, that you cheated, and that you forged the divorce. You tell the world exactly what you did. Then I’ll save her.” Jackson hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded. “Fine. If that’s what it takes.” I kicked him out of the room. “System,” I thought. “I want to die on the operating table. I want him to live with the knowledge that he forced me into the grave.” The night before the surgery, I could hear laughter coming from the room next door. Jackson was playing with Cooper, making Isla laugh. My parents were there, too. “It’s lucky Summer is a match,” I heard my mother say. “It’s the least she can do to pay Isla back for everything.” I looked at the silver bracelet on my wrist—a charm I’d bought when I was pregnant, a prayer for my baby’s safety. I took it off and dropped it into the trash can. My phone started blowing up with notifications. Jackson had posted his confession. “It was my fault. I destroyed my family. I betrayed Summer…” My friends, my colleagues—everyone was messaging me in shock. But I felt nothing. Just a cold, heavy numbness. A knock at the door. My mother walked in, carrying a thermos. “I made you some soup. You need your strength for tomorrow.” I looked at her—the woman who used to fight my teachers if they were unfair to me, now a stranger. “Mom… what if I don’t make it out?” “Oh, stop being so dramatic!” she snapped, though she didn’t look me in the eye. “You’re just trying to make us feel guilty so you don’t have to donate. You promised. Don’t go back on your word. We’ll all be a happy family again after this, you’ll see.” My father sighed from the doorway. “Just do this, Summer. Then you and Jackson can move on.” “Countdown: 12 hours.” The next morning, the nurses came for me. As they wheeled me toward the OR, Jackson caught my hand. “When you wake up, everything will be better. We’ll be okay.” I didn’t answer. As the anesthesia took hold, the bright lights of the OR began to fade. “Doctor! Her blood pressure is plummeting!” “She’s hemorrhaging! Get the crash cart! Now!” I drifted in the gray space between worlds, hearing the System’s final countdown. “Extraction sequence complete. Five… four… three… two… one…” The long, flat tone of the heart monitor was the last thing I heard. My soul pulled away, rising above the chaos. The doors swung open. A nurse rushed out, covered in blood. “Where is Summer Reed’s family?” Jackson sprinted toward her. “Is she okay? Can I see her?” “She’s in shock. There was a massive hemorrhage. We’re doing everything we can, but you need to prepare for the worst.” 5 Jackson’s face went white. “What are you talking about? It was a routine harvest! How could this happen?” The nurse was sweating, her eyes wide. “Sir, why didn’t you disclose her medical history? She had a severe, underlying lung infection—likely from smoke inhalation. Her system was already compromised. She never should have been cleared for surgery!” Jackson froze. “The fire…?” “We’ve lost her.” The lead surgeon stepped out, pulling off his mask. His face said it all. “I’m sorry. We did everything we could.” Behind him, my mother let out a strangled cry and collapsed against the wall. “No,” Jackson whispered. “No, that’s not possible.” They wheeled “me” out a few minutes later, a white sheet pulled over my face. Jackson stood there, paralyzed, unable to touch the shroud. My mother threw herself over my body, wailing. “My baby! Summer! How could you leave us?” The surgeon handed Jackson a report. “Mr. Reed, her lungs were in terrible shape. Why wasn’t this reported? Who performed her intake exam?” Jackson stared at the paper. “We went to the local clinic after the fire… they said she was fine.” Then he remembered. He had been on the phone with Isla’s doctors the whole time. Cooper had been the one to run out and tell him “The doctor said she’s okay.” Jackson hadn’t even bothered to look at the discharge papers himself. Cooper wandered over from the waiting area, looking confused. “Grandma? What’s wrong?” My mother grabbed the boy’s hands, her face streaked with tears. “Cooper… this was your mother. Your real mother. And she’s gone.” “Is she dead?” Cooper asked. His voice was flat. My mother nodded, sobbing. “Honey, give her a kiss goodbye. Tell her you’re sorry.” But Cooper didn’t cry. He started to clap. A high, shrill sound that echoed through the sterile hallway. “Yay! She’s dead! The mean lady is gone!”

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1 My mother was the Davenport family’s dirty little secret, a “kept woman” hidden away in a gilded cage until the day she died. After she passed, the Davenports finally brought me into their world—not out of love, but out of some twisted sense of obligation. My half-brother, Elliot, hated the very sight of me. On my first night, he forced me to stay outside in the freezing rain. “The mistress’s brat,” he spat, his eyes cold enough to draw blood. “Enjoy the view while you can, because I’m going to make sure you’re out on the street where you belong.” He spent the next three years systematically breaking me. He shredded my school clothes, “lost” my mother’s few belongings, and locked me in the damp darkness of the basement whenever I stepped out of line. Then came Sebastian Archer. He was Elliot’s sworn rival, the one person Elliot couldn’t touch. When Sebastian started pursuing me, the bullying miraculously stopped. “I’ve got you now,” Sebastian whispered, pulling me into his expensive car. “No one’s ever going to hurt you again.” I thought I had finally found my sanctuary. On the night of my eighteenth birthday, I gave him everything. I gave him the only thing I had left that hadn’t been tainted by the Davenports. But the next morning, the dream didn’t just end—it shattered. I stood outside the cracked door of a private lounge at the club, clutching a bottle of hangover pills. Sebastian had mentioned a stomach ache the night before; I had stayed up worrying about him. Then I heard Elliot’s voice, sharp with a cold, mocking laugh. “So, did touching that piece of filth actually make you sick?” The room went quiet for a heartbeat before Sebastian’s lazy, velvet drawl filled the space. “It wasn’t that bad. Honestly, once the lights are out, they all feel the same.” Crude laughter erupted from the guys around them. “Did you get the video?” Elliot asked. I heard the dull thud of a phone being tossed onto a mahogany table. “High definition,” Sebastian replied, his voice devoid of the warmth that had sustained me for months. “She’d had a few drinks. Boring as a dead fish, really. I felt dirty just being near her.” The pill bottle slipped from my fingers, hitting the carpet with a soft thud. I felt as if someone had poured liquid nitrogen through my veins. The night before, when he held me, his voice had been thick with emotion. “Natalie,” he’d murmured, kissing the tears from my eyes. “Natalie, I love you.” I had believed him. I had believed him with every shattered piece of my soul. After my mother died, I hadn’t trusted a single person—until Sebastian. He was the golden boy, the one who saw me when everyone else looked through me. But he didn’t see me. He saw a pawn. He saw a way to spit in Elliot’s face by “sampling” the girl Elliot despised. I had been so desperate for love that I forgot a girl like me—a girl born from a scandal—was never loved for free. “What if she comes crying to you?” Elliot asked, his voice dripping with malice. Sebastian let out a dry snort. “Let her cry. I’m bored with her anyway.” I knelt down and picked up the pills. My nails dug into my palms until the skin broke, but I couldn’t feel it. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was an email from the Helsinki Institute of Art Restoration. Months ago, my mentor had urged me to apply for an international apprenticeship. He told me I had a rare gift for restoring ancient manuscripts—a steady hand and a patient soul. It was a three-year commitment, a total blackout from my life here, but it came with a full scholarship. I had hesitated because Sebastian talked about a future together. God, I was a fool. I tossed the pills into a nearby trash can and hit ‘Reply’ on the email. [Professor, I’m in. I’ll take the position.] I walked home alone in a torrential downpour. By the time I reached the Davenport estate, I was soaked to the bone. The rain blurred my vision, stinging like needles. Elliot was in the foyer when I walked in. He looked at me and scoffed. “Who are you performing for now? That pathetic ‘drowned rat’ look won’t work on me.” I looked up at him. For years, I thought if I was just quiet enough, just “good” enough, he would eventually see me as a sister. But standing there, shivering and hollowed out, I realized he didn’t hate me for anything I’d done. He just needed a place to dump his rage, and I was the perfect vessel. I didn’t say a word. I just walked past him and went upstairs. I was leaving. There was nothing left to say. 2 The next morning, my phone exploded. Dozens of texts from unknown numbers. Screenshots of the university’s Greek-life forum. The headline was a jagged blade to my chest: “The Davenport Bastard Spends a Night with Archer. Proof Inside.” The video was censored, but I recognized the room instantly. It was the place where he’d promised to marry me. The comments section was a cesspool. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Like mother, like daughter.” “I guess being a mistress’s kid is a transferable skill.” “Sebastian has low standards. I wouldn’t touch that trash with a ten-foot pole.” A cold shiver raced down my spine. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours, and they had already torn my dignity to shreds for the world to see. Before I could close the browser, my door was kicked open. My father stood there, his face a mask of livid fury. Elliot followed closely behind him. My father hurled his phone at my feet, his hand trembling with rage. “Natalie! I brought you into this house to give you a life, not to drag the Davenport name through the mud!” The absurdity of it nearly made me laugh. I was the one who had been recorded without consent. I was the one being publicly shamed. And yet, their only concern was the “shame” I’d brought upon their precious name. “Sebastian recorded it without my knowledge,” I said, my voice sounding like it was coming from underwater. My father paused, but Elliot just laughed. “You’re a slut, Natalie. You crawled into his bed yourself. Now you’re crying because he took a souvenir?” I stared at Elliot, my eyes burning. “You told him to do it, didn’t you?” Elliot’s expression shifted. He leaned in close, his voice a lethal whisper. “So what if I did? Do you really think anyone is going to take the word of a mistress’s daughter over ours? You’re nothing here.” He straightened up, his contempt radiating off him like heat. It was the truth—the most brutal kind. No one would believe me. My father sighed, a heavy, performative sound. “I’ll have the lawyers scrub the internet. Stay home for a few days. Don’t go to campus.” I looked at him, disbelief washing over me. “And then what?” He frowned. “What do you mean, ‘and then what’?” “That’s it? I’m humiliated, harassed, and my private life is on a public forum, and you’re just going to ‘scrub the internet’ and move on?” My father looked away. “The Archers are a powerful family, Natalie. We can’t afford a war right now. Just… deal with it.” My heart turned to ash. My mother had been wrong. The Davenports didn’t owe me a life; they only knew how to take one away. After my father left, Elliot picked up the phone he’d dropped, scrolling through the comments with a smirk. “See? This is what happens when you forget your place.” Something snapped. I grabbed the heavy glass water pitcher from my nightstand and hurled it at him. It shattered against the doorframe, narrowly missing his head. Elliot’s face went dark. “You little bitch. You want to play that way?” He lunged for me, grabbing my wrist so hard I heard the joint pop. He dragged me out of the room and down the stairs. He threw open the door to the basement, the smell of damp concrete and neglect rising to meet us. “Elliot, let go of me!” He shoved me inside and slammed the heavy oak door. “Stay there until you learn how to apologize.” The click of the deadbolt echoed in the silence. Darkness swallowed me. I slumped against the cold wall, my body shaking uncontrollably. When I was little, my mother worked late shifts. I used to wait for her in our tiny, cramped apartment, terrified of the dark. She’d bought me a small, cheap nightlight—a little plastic star. “Don’t be scared, Nat,” she’d say. “Mommy’s coming back.” But she wasn’t coming back. Not this time. 3 The next day, I went to campus anyway. I had to sign my final departure papers in person. I wore a heavy hoodie, a mask, and kept my head down, entering through the side door of the library. But it didn’t matter. Within minutes, someone recognized me. A group of girls blocked the hallway. “Look, it’s the star of the forum,” one of them sneered, pulling out her phone to record me. “Everyone, look! The Davenport slut actually showed her face.” I put my hand up to block the camera. She laughed. “What are you hiding for? We’ve already seen everything.” My hands were shaking so violently I could barely breathe. I tried to push past them, but someone shoved me from behind. My bag hit the floor, spilling my folders everywhere. My acceptance letter from Helsinki slid across the tile. Someone picked it up. “The Helsinki Institute? She’s trying to run away?” “Probably because she can’t show her face in this country anymore.” I lunged to grab it, but the girl held it high above her head. “Give it back!” I cried. Suddenly, a hand reached out and snatched the letter from her grip. It was Adrian Brooks. He was a graduate assistant for my mentor and famously cold-blooded. He handed the letter back to me, his expression unreadable, then turned to the crowd. “Distributing non-consensual imagery is a felony in this state,” Adrian said, his voice calm but carrying a terrifying weight. “Harassment and invasion of privacy are also actionable offenses. I’ve recorded your faces. If you don’t clear this hallway in three seconds, I’m taking this to the Dean and the police.” The girls paled and scattered instantly. I knelt down, shoving my papers back into my bag. My throat felt like it was filled with glass. “Thank you,” I whispered. Adrian looked down at me. “Don’t thank me. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Those five words broke the dam. For days, everyone had asked me why I wasn’t more careful. Why I had “let” him in. Only Adrian said the truth: that it wasn’t my fault. I went to my mentor’s office and signed the final documents. He looked at me with pity. “The program was supposed to start next week, but there’s a spot on a flight leaving the day after tomorrow at 4:00 AM. Can you make it?” I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” “Good,” he said. “Get out of here, Natalie. Don’t let these people destroy your future.” As I left campus, the sun was setting. I was waiting at the bus stop when a black SUV pulled up, its headlights blinding me. Sebastian jumped out, looking frantic. “Natalie! Are you okay?” I backed away, my entire body tensing. He reached for me, but I flinched so hard he froze. “I just… I wanted to make sure you were safe,” he stammered. I looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the hollow shell of a boy playing at being a man. I didn’t say a word. I just turned and walked into the rain, the water masking my tears. 4 Back at the Davenport house, I began to pack. I had nothing worth taking except for my mother’s things: her journals, a few photos, and her silver locket—the one shaped like a lily of the valley. It was the only thing she had from her own mother. On her deathbed, she’d pressed it into my hand. It was my only anchor. But when I opened my jewelry box, it was gone. Panic flared in my chest. I tore my room apart, but it was nowhere. I found one of the housekeepers in the hall. She wouldn’t look me in the eye. “Mr. Elliot was in your room this afternoon,” she whispered. I flew down the stairs. The Davenports were hosting a small “welcome home” soirée for Sienna, their “perfect” adopted daughter who had just returned from a semester in Paris. She was at the center of a circle of admirers, glowing in a designer dress. And there, hanging around her neck, was my mother’s locket. The world went white. I pushed through the crowd. “Give it back.” Sienna touched the locket, her expression one of faux innocence. “Oh, this? Elliot gave it to me as a welcome-home gift. It’s vintage, isn’t it?” I turned to Elliot, who was standing nearby with a drink in his hand. “That belongs to my mother. You had no right to take it.” Elliot’s eyes were cold. “You live under this roof, you eat our food, you wear clothes we paid for. Everything you own belongs to this family.” “I don’t care about anything else,” I hissed, my voice trembling. “But that stays with me.” Sienna grabbed Elliot’s sleeve. “Elliot, please don’t fight. I’ll just give it back…” She stepped toward me, her voice dropping so only I could hear. “You really are pathetic, Natalie. No mother, a father who hates you, and now Sebastian’s used you up. You’re nothing.” I stared at her. She smiled, sweet as honey. “You want the locket? Then get on your knees and beg me for it. Show everyone how much it means to you.” I looked at the silver lily. It was all I had left of the woman who loved me. I closed my eyes and, in front of the cream of local society, I let my knees hit the floor. “Please,” I whispered. “Give it back.” A murmur went through the room. I saw Elliot’s expression flicker. Sebastian had appeared in the doorway, watching the scene with a look of dawning horror. Sienna laughed, unhooked the locket, and held it out. As I reached for it, she let go. The silver chain snapped as it hit the marble floor. The delicate lily charm rolled across the tile, stopping at Elliot’s shoe. “Oops,” Sienna chirped. “My hand slipped.” Something in me snapped. The last thread of my sanity evaporated. I lunged forward and slapped Sienna so hard her head snapped back. She screamed, clutching her face, tears streaming down instantly. “Elliot! She attacked me!” Elliot’s face contorted with rage. He shoved me back with such force that I hit the edge of a mahogany table. Pain flared in my side, and black spots danced in my eyes. Sebastian rushed forward, but he went straight to Sienna, helping her up. I watched them and began to laugh—a broken, jagged sound. I crawled toward the locket, but Elliot stepped on it. “Apologize,” he barked. “For what?” I spat, looking up at him. “You’re throwing a tantrum over a piece of junk from a dead woman,” Elliot sneered. I stood up, fueled by a sudden, icy clarity. I stepped forward and slapped Elliot, too. The sound cracked through the silent room like a gunshot. “You can hurt me, Elliot,” I whispered, my voice shaking with fury. “You can humiliate me. But you do not get to disrespect my mother.” Elliot’s eyes burned with a dark, vengeful light. “Fine. You care about this so much?” He picked up the silver locket and, with a violent motion, hurled it against the stone fireplace. The silver charm shattered. My heart felt like it did the same. I tried to run for the pieces, but the security guards held me back. “Hold her down,” Elliot commanded, his voice cold as the grave. “Make her stay there until she apologizes.”

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I adopted a lab specimen—a lizard hybrid. I raised him with a tenderness that bordered on the sacred, taming the wildness in his blood with soft words and steady hands. Later, the lab reclaimed him by force. As they dragged him away, he screamed, a raw, guttural sound that tore through the sterile hallway. He asked me when he’d see me again. I lied. I whispered, “Just one day.” I didn’t see him again for seven years. When I finally did, he had become the Archon—the supreme commander of the Hybrid Coalition. He was arrogant, cold, and notoriously ruthless. Yet, the moment his eyes landed on me, his composure shattered. A heartbeat later, his thick, snow-white tail lashed out, coiling around my waist and hoisting me off the floor. He stared at me, his face a mask of frozen stone. “That ‘one day’ lasted a lifetime, didn’t it?” 1 On the day of my release, I spent the entire drive staring out the window. The sky over the city was a bruised, heavy grey. A bitter winter wind whipped against the glass, carrying enough grit to make the air feel like sandpaper. Seven years is long enough for the familiar to become alien. The skyline had grown jagged with new steel, and the world I once knew had been overwritten. Sarah, my former mentor, was at the wheel, her voice a constant hum over the heater’s rattle. “I nearly dropped my phone when you called,” she said, glancing at me. “You have no idea how much the world has flipped upside down while you were inside.” “I can see that,” I murmured. “Remember the old Institute? The Eve Project? It’s gone. The Hybrids took power three years ago and tore the place down to the studs. The board of directors? Executed. Every last one of them.” She paused, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. “Elena, are you even listening?” I blinked, pulling myself back from the grey horizon. “Sorry, Sarah. I’m here.” She sighed, her expression softening into something like pity. “You know… if you were still with 0207, things would be different for you.” She bit her lip, a flicker of awe crossing her face. “Though I suppose we have to call him ‘His Excellency the Archon’ now.” 2 The string of numbers—0207—sent a dull ache through my chest. It had been a lifetime since I’d heard his designation. “0207” had been a specimen. Back then, I was a lead researcher at the prestigious Eve Institute. 0207 was the first project I ever handled from the beginning. He was a lizard-type hybrid, a complex cocktail of reptilian genes. He was highly intelligent but physically frail, plagued by what the Institute called “emotional and psychiatric deficits.” But he possessed two things the military coveted: incredible regenerative cells and terrifyingly potent psychic abilities. After a series of failed trials, the board ordered him “decommissioned.” I couldn’t do it. I intercepted his cryo-tank right at the door of the incinerator and fought for the right to foster him. For a year after that, I raised him in my own way. At the time, his mental state was that of a confused child. I named him Silas. I taught him to read, sat by his bed until he fell asleep, and held him through the violent tremors when his powers spiked out of control. Then came the accident. The Institute noticed his skyrocketing potential and moved in to reclaim their “property.” I had no legal standing, no rights, and no way to fight back. The last time I saw Silas, he was hysterical. He fought so hard to stay with me that the sedatives barely touched him. He tore his claws through the electronic collar meant to suppress his emotions, the alarms screaming in the small room. He slammed his face against the heavy steel muzzle they’d forced onto him until it was bent and deformed. Half his face was a ruin of blood and torn scales. The floor was slick with the dark, emerald-green fluid of his lifeblood. It took a dozen guards to pin him down. The director, watching through the glass, grew impatient. “If you can’t secure him, just put a bullet in him. We’ll harvest the tissue post-mortem.” My blood ran cold. The guards leveled their rifles at Silas’s head. Panic, sharp and blinding, surged through me. I forced my face into a mask of calm, stepped over the blood-slicked floor, and pulled Silas into a tight embrace. “Be good, Silas,” I whispered into his ear, my voice trembling. “Go with them for now. I’ll come get you soon.” Silas finally went still. He shifted his pale green eyes toward me, his pupils dilating until the black swallowed the emerald. It took him a long time to find his voice through the muzzle. “…How… long?” “One day,” I lied, my heart breaking. “…One day?” “Yes,” I promised, stroking his hair as they dragged us apart. “Just one day.” 3 I never saw him again. Not for seven years. The traffic light turned red, and Sarah brought the car to a halt. Her voice snapped the thread of my memory. “Do you have a place to stay? If not, my guest room is yours.” Sarah Brooks had been my closest friend since grad school. We’d climbed the ranks at Eve together. Looking at her sleek car and expensive coat, it was clear she had navigated the new world order quite well. I didn’t turn her down. I had nowhere else to go. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” Sarah’s apartment was in the heart of the city—a high-rise with a view of the sprawling metropolis. She led me inside and went to make coffee. In the living room, there was a floor-to-ceiling aquarium filled with jellyfish. They drifted like ghostly umbrellas, illuminated by soft neon lights. “You still like jellyfish,” I noted. Sarah moved with the practiced ease of someone who hadn’t spent seven years in a cell. “I don’t know if I like them. They’re just… calming. Something to look at when the world gets too loud.” She set a mug in front of me, her eyes searching mine. “And you? How was it? When you vanished, the lab was a mess of rumors. People said you sold 0207 to the highest bidder and ran off with the cash. But then the news of your arrest hit, and…” I tightened my grip on the warm mug. “A lot happened, Sarah.” Sensing my wall going up, she backed off. “Right. It’s in the past. Let’s look forward. You need a job. My pharmaceutical firm is looking for a senior consultant. You were our star researcher, Elena. I know you can handle it.” I hesitated. “Sarah, I’ve been out of the loop for a long time. The technology…” She pressed a hand to my shoulder. “You have the instincts. Just try, okay?” 4 The next morning, I walked into Sarah’s corporate headquarters. Since the Hybrid Uprising, the industry landscape had shifted. Sarah’s company, Brooks Biotics, had survived by pivoting early to Hybrid healthcare. I spent the day buried in manuals, familiarizing myself with the upgraded lab equipment. By the time I looked up, the sun was beginning to set. I packed my bag and headed for the elevators. As I reached the lobby, the main doors hissed open. The light was hitting the glass at an angle, turning the lobby into a cathedral of orange and gold. A group of people walked in, but I only saw the man at the center. My heart stopped. Seven years hadn’t changed Silas’s face much, but everything else was different. He wore a sharp, black military-style uniform. His waist-length white hair had been shorn into a modern, jagged cut that partially veiled his eyes. On his fingers, he wore heavy rings—conductors for his psychic output. He looked lethal. He looked powerful. I froze at the top of the short stairs leading to the lobby, watching him from twenty yards away. I heard the frantic whispers of the receptionists. “Is that the Archon? What is he doing here?” “I heard he’s personally overseeing the new nerve-regeneration project. The R&D department is going to have a long night…” Silas moved with a predatory grace, flanked by aides. As he approached the private elevators, he stopped. Just before the doors slid shut, he turned his head and looked directly toward the stairs. It was a casual glance. Indifferent. His eyes swept over me for half a second before he turned back. The doors closed, and he was gone. 5 That night, the dreams returned. I hadn’t dreamt of Silas in years, but now my subconscious was a flood of the past. I dreamt of us walking through the woods behind the old lab, the sun dappling through the canopy. I dreamt of the way he’d struggle with a pen, carefully tracing my name on a piece of paper. I dreamt of the quiet afternoons when he’d shift into his larger, reptilian form, his massive white tail coiling protectively around my arm while he slept, his forehead pressed against mine. And I dreamt of the blood. The muzzle. His pale face through the rain. I woke up cold and hollow. The weeks passed in a blur of routine. I moved out of Sarah’s place and found a small, nondescript apartment near the office. I ate alone, slept alone, and kept my head down. Two months later, Sarah stopped by my desk. “Elena, are you free tonight? There’s a gala for the Coalition’s top donors. I need you there as my technical lead.” I nodded. It was part of the job. The gala was held in a ballroom that felt more like a palace. Champagne-colored marble, crystal chandeliers, and a fountain that flowed with liquid gold. The room was a mix of humans and Hybrids, all dressed in silks and velvet, dancing as if the war had never happened. I took a glass of wine and retreated to a quiet corner. I felt like a ghost haunting a party I wasn’t invited to. Then, the room went quiet. The heavy thud of combat boots echoed against the marble. I looked up. Silas walked in. He was in full dress uniform now, looking every bit the sovereign. The hard, pearlescent scales along his jaw caught the light like diamonds. He was no longer the boy who cried for me. He was a king. I couldn’t look away. And as if he felt the weight of my stare, his eyes snapped to mine. I looked down immediately, my heart hammering against my ribs. When I gathered the courage to look up again, he had disappeared into the crowd. Sarah came back a few minutes later, nudging me with her elbow. “You should go say hello.” “I don’t think so,” I said, my voice thin. “He’s our biggest client, Elena. For the sake of the firm, you need to make contact. Unless… it’s too much for you?” “Next time,” I said. “I’m not ready.” “Fine.” She raised her glass and wandered back into the fray. I turned to leave, but a man intercepted me. “Excuse me… Miss Miller?” I turned to see a face that looked vaguely familiar. A researcher from the old days. “It really is you,” he said, beaming. “It’s been so long.” “I’m sorry, have we…?” “The academic forum seven years ago. You gave that brilliant lecture on neural plasticity,” he said, handing me a business card. “I never forgot it.” “Oh, right. Good to see you again,” I said, forcing a smile. Before I could say another word, a shadow fell over us. The air in the immediate vicinity seemed to drop ten degrees. The conversations around us died out. I turned around and found myself staring into eyes the color of a cold mountain lake. Silas was standing inches away, his face partially in shadow. “A small world indeed,” he said. His pupils were narrowed into dangerous vertical slits. “I hope I’m not interrupting.” 6 I knew that look. Silas was furious. The man beside me stammered, “O-of course not, Your Excellency. We were just… catching up.” Silas didn’t look at him. He was staring at me, waiting for me to speak. I swallowed hard and lowered my head. “…Your Excellency.” Silas let out a short, cold laugh. The sound made the people nearby flinch. He held out his hand. His fingers were long and elegant, the rings at the base of his knuckles glowing with a faint, pulsing light. “In human etiquette, a handshake signifies goodwill,” he said, his voice a low drawl. “Isn’t that right?” It was a lesson I had taught him. The irony was like a physical blow. I reached out, my fingers barely brushing his for a fraction of a second before I tried to pull away. Silas didn’t let go. He kept his hand suspended in the air for a long moment after I retracted mine, his fingers slowly curling into a fist. A brave—or perhaps stupid—bystander asked, “Archon, do you and Miss Miller… know each other?” “Yes,” Silas said, tilting his chin up, his tone deceptively light. “We know each other very well. Though I’m not quite sure what I should call her these days.” He stepped toward me, closing the distance until I was forced to look up at him. “Researcher?” he mused. “Teacher?” “Elena?” He leaned down, his lips inches from my ear. His breath was cool, and his voice was a sharp, clear whisper that only I could hear. “…Mother?”

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1 My brother and I were born with matching port-wine stains. Mine is a jagged, dark violet mask that crawls across my right cheek, pulling at the corner of my eye. Growing up, the kids at school called me “The Phantom.” My brother, Austin, has his on his calf. In a world of jeans and cargo pants, no one ever knew it was there. My parents always looked at me with a mixture of pity and exhaustion. “We just don’t have the money for the lasers, Cade,” my dad would say, his eyes fixed on the TV to avoid looking at my face. “You’re a man. Looks don’t matter as much for you. If you want it gone, you’ll have to earn it.” So, I became obsessed with money. While Austin was out playing varsity soccer and blowing his allowance on sneakers, I was the kid collecting scrap metal, mowing lawns in the sweltering heat, and working double shifts at the local cannery. I lived on peanut butter sandwiches and tap water, saving every nickel. Austin didn’t care about his mark; he lived for the moment, always asking for advances on a “lifestyle” he couldn’t afford. The summer after high school graduation was my breaking point. I had spent two months on a grueling warehouse assembly line, working twelve-hour shifts until my bones ached. But I did it. I finally had the fifteen thousand dollars for the surgery. I walked into the house, buzzing with the kind of hope I hadn’t felt in eighteen years. In the living room, Austin was standing there in a pair of board shorts, grinning. He looked radiant. My father was staring at him, his eyes glistening with pride. “Look at our boy. You look incredible, Austin. No more hiding. You can go to college and finally be the man you were meant to be.” My mother smoothed Austin’s hair, her voice thick with emotion. “A fresh start for my baby. You’re going to be the king of that campus.” I froze. “How did Austin pay for the surgery?” The room went dead silent. Austin’s eyes darted to the floor. My stomach dropped. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s okay. I worked for it. I saved enough for mine, too.” My mother sighed, a heavy, performative sound. “Cade, honey… the day of Austin’s procedure, the surgeon said there were complications. We needed a specialist, and the insurance wouldn’t cover the extra costs. We had no choice. We had to use the money in your savings account to cover the balance.” I felt like the floor had vanished. “My money? That was ten years of work.” “Cade, you’re so strong,” my older sister, Becca, piped up, reaching into her bag. She pulled out a pair of expensive-looking designer sunglasses and handed them to me like a consolation prize. “Besides, you’re the smart one. Men don’t need to be pretty to succeed. Wear these when you start classes. They’ll cover the worst of it.” I touched the rough, dark skin on my cheek. At that moment, I was suddenly, violently grateful that the university I had chosen—the one that gave me a full ride—was three thousand miles away. My mother kept staring at Austin, her eyes welling up again. “Austin, I’m so sorry we made you wait this long. I know how much you suffered, carrying that mark on your leg. I know how it hurt your confidence. Now, you can finally be yourself.” My father nodded solemnly. Austin wrapped them both in a hug. I wanted to scream. What about me, Mom? You want your son to walk into college with confidence, but am I not your son? I’m the one who was called a monster. I’m the one who was isolated, bullied, and told by every girl I ever liked that I was a “creep” before I even opened my mouth. Did you think I wasn’t hurting? The words died in my throat. It was useless. Austin had always been the priority. When I was twelve and Dad lost his job, they cut my advanced math tutoring but kept Austin’s expensive club soccer. When we graduated, they bought Austin a brand-new iPhone as a reward. They gave me Dad’s old, cracked model. Austin was the “Golden Boy”—sunny, charming, and easy to love because his life was easy. I was the “Responsible One,” which was just code for the one they could ignore. I was the one who cleaned the house while they went to Austin’s games. My reward for being “good” was always just a pat on the head and a request for more help. My father pulled out his phone, fumbling with the camera. “Let’s get a picture of the new Austin. I want this on the photo wall. Something to look at when you’re away at school.” “Dad, get my good side!” Austin joked, striking a pose. They all laughed, a warm, tight-knit unit. Becca noticed me standing in the shadows. She looked a bit guilty. “Come on, Cade. Get in the photo.” She knew I hated cameras. She knew there wasn’t a single photo of me on that wall because I couldn’t stand to see the “Phantom” staring back. I shook my head. The warmth in the room curdled instantly. “Seriously, Cade? The attitude?” Dad’s face hardened. “Your sister just bought you a three-hundred-dollar pair of glasses and you haven’t even said thank you. Now you’re going to ruin Austin’s celebration?” “He’s just upset about the money,” Austin muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Is that it?” Dad barked. “You think that money was yours? We’ve fed you and housed you for eighteen years. Everything in this house belongs to the family. You’re brothers. Who cares who gets the surgery first? It’s not like we said we’d never help you.” My mother began to sob into her hands. “It’s our fault! We’re just poor, failed parents! Is that what you want to hear, Cade? Do you want us to get on our knees and beg for your forgiveness because we tried to help your brother?” “Cade, just apologize,” Becca hissed, giving me a pointed look. The weight of their collective disappointment felt like lead in my lungs. I looked at their faces—the people who were supposed to love me most—and realized I was an intruder in their home. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. “I’m sorry, Mom. Dad.” I stepped into the frame, forcing a rigid, grotesque smile for the camera. They barely looked at the photo before they started huddling around the screen, debating which one to post. Austin complained that his hair looked messy in the one with me in it. The photo with me was deleted seconds later. That night, Austin decided we needed to celebrate at The Diamond Grill, the most expensive steakhouse in town. My parents hesitated—it was way out of their budget—but Austin just looked at me with a smirk. “Cade, I saw Grandma give you a graduation card yesterday. I saw the cash.” He grinned, pulling a red envelope out of his pocket—my envelope. “I figured you’d want to treat the family. Since I’m the one who had the big surgery and all.” “Give that back,” I said, my heart racing. “Oh, don’t be such a miser,” Dad laughed, clapping Austin on the back. “He’s got you there, Cade. You’ve always been the stingy one. Let’s go. Steak is on the ‘Phantom’ tonight!” They went to change, laughing and chatting, leaving me alone in the living room. They didn’t care that those few hundred dollars were my only bridge to college. I stood there, frozen, until they had been gone for ten minutes. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Mom: Cade, you’re always the slowest. We’re almost there. Get a move on. They hadn’t even realized I wasn’t in the car. It started to pour. I didn’t have a car, so I ran to the bus stop, soaked to the bone, and arrived at the restaurant shivering. “There he is. Took your sweet time,” Mom remarked as I sat down. The table was already covered in half-eaten appetizers. They hadn’t waited for me to order. Austin had ordered everything he liked—calamari, shrimp cocktail, loaded fries. “Here, have some of this salad,” Becca said, pushing a plate toward me. “Austin forgot he was allergic to the walnuts and ordered it anyway. Good thing we caught it. Go ahead, Cade.” I looked at the wilted greens and the stray pieces of walnut. My family had forgotten that Austin and I were twins. We shared the same DNA. We shared the same allergies. I pushed the plate away. “Jesus, Cade,” Dad snapped. “Stop being so dramatic. You act like you’re too good for a five-star restaurant. If you’re going to pout, don’t eat.” Austin chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “I forgot. Cade likes the cheap stuff. Remember in high school? I’d ask him if he wanted to go for burgers, and he’d just sit in the cafeteria eating plain white bread and an apple to save a buck.” The table erupted in laughter. “Our Cade,” Mom wiped a tear from her eye. “No taste for the finer things. Just a simple boy.” “At least Austin has some class,” Dad added, looking at me with a sigh. “You should learn from your brother. He’s generous. He’s got spirit. You’re just… small, Cade. You’ve always been small-minded.” My chest ached so sharply I thought I might collapse. I was ‘stingy’ because you told me I had to pay for my own life, Dad. I was ‘small’ because I was trying to survive you. I looked down at my phone and sent a message to the freshman group chat for Saint Jude’s University: Does anyone know if the work-study program allows for early arrival on campus? On the way home, the rain turned into a deluge. We only had two umbrellas. Becca gave hers to Austin and huddled under the other with my parents. They hurried to the car. I was the last one out. Before I could even reach the door, Austin rolled down the window. “Hey, Cade! I really want one of those gourmet milkshakes from that place two blocks over. The car won’t fit in that alley. Go grab four and then just Uber home? We’ll see you there!” The car sped off before I could say a word. I walked through the freezing rain for twenty minutes. When I reached the shop, I bought the four shakes, and then, for the first time in my life, I bought a fifth one for myself. It was thick, sweet, and expensive. It tasted like rebellion. I didn’t get home until 10:00 PM. The house was warm and smelled like popcorn. “Cade, finally,” Becca said as I walked in, dripping wet. “Can you go make some ginger tea for Austin? He’s been sneezing and we don’t want him getting sick before the big trip.” “No,” I said quietly. “Excuse me?” “I’m tired,” I said, walking past her. “You’re just lazy,” my mother yelled from the couch. “You’re nothing like your brother. I don’t know how we’re going to count on you when we’re old.” I didn’t hear the rest. I closed my door and locked it. The next morning, the house was full of excitement. They were planning a pre-college vacation. “Let’s go to the ranch in Montana,” Dad suggested. “Austin always wanted to go horseback riding.” “What about the coast?” Mom countered, showing Austin photos on her phone. “You’ve never seen the Pacific, honey. The weather is perfect this time of year.” They went back and forth for twenty minutes before Mom glanced at me. She looked like she wanted to say something, but stopped. “Don’t bother,” Dad said. “He never wants to go anyway. He’s always been antisocial.” “Yeah, Cade,” Austin laughed. “Don’t blame us. We didn’t invite you because you’d just complain about the cost. Remember that camping trip in middle school? You refused to go.” I remembered. I remembered that Dad told me I had to pay for my own campsite and gear out of my savings. “Money shouldn’t come between family,” he had told me back then, “but Austin’s a kid, he doesn’t have a cent. We’ll pay for him. You’ve got your little stash.” I hadn’t wanted to spend three hundred dollars of my surgery fund, so I stayed home. I spent that weekend looking at their Facebook photos, crying in my room. After that, they stopped asking. I checked my phone. A message from the university: Yes, Cade. We have early-move-in slots for work-study students starting next week. I felt a surge of relief. I took my last bit of hidden cash and booked a one-way Greyhound ticket to the city. I planned to leave while they were on their trip. But then, the day before they were supposed to leave, Mom came into my room. Her face was soft, almost maternal. “Cade,” she said, sitting on the edge of my bed. “We’ve been thinking. We want to take you to the clinic tomorrow. We talked to Austin’s surgeon. He thinks he can do a preliminary laser treatment on your face. It won’t fix it, but it might fade it a little before you head off to school.” My eyes stung. A lump formed in my throat, thick and painful. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe, in their own messed-up way, they did care. “Thank you, Mom,” I whispered. The next day was a dream. They took me out for a massive breakfast. Mom kept touching my shoulder, asking if I was nervous. Becca took the day off work to be there. Austin was nowhere to be seen. For a few hours, I felt like a son. But when we got back from the clinic, the mask fell off. “Cade,” Mom said, her voice dropping into that familiar, pleading tone. “Austin realized yesterday that he messed up his college applications. He didn’t get into the main campus. He only got into the community college extension.” I felt a cold shiver. “He’s been crying all night. He’s devastated. Cade… we were wondering… could you stay home for a year? Do a gap year with him at the community college? Just to support him?” The world turned gray. “You know how sensitive he is,” she continued, her eyes red. “I’m afraid if you go off to that big university alone, he’ll spiral. He needs his brother. And besides, Saint Jude’s is so far. Maybe you could reapply next year to somewhere closer? Somewhere like State Tech?” Mom, I got into Northwestern. I’m the valedictorian. How do you not know that? “No,” I said. My voice was trembling. “I won’t do it.” I stood up and walked to my room, the tears finally spilling over. I didn’t say another word for the rest of the night. The next morning, I was on the balcony, hidden by the laundry, when I heard Becca and Mom talking in the kitchen. “Don’t worry, Mom,” Becca said. “I talked to Austin. He’s fine now that he knows Cade is staying. He’s already looking at classes they can take together.” “But Cade seemed so upset…” “Oh, please. Cade is the ‘Good Son.’ He always folds. Remember when he wanted to transfer high schools because of the bullying? Austin cried for five minutes about being lonely, and Cade stayed. He’ll do it again. Just go on the trip, have fun, and we’ll handle the paperwork when we get back.” I heard the front door click shut. I walked into my room, pulled my suitcase from under the bed, and started packing. This was the last time I would ever be the “Good Son.”

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After twenty years of being the dirty little secret, the billionaire finally decided he wanted to be a father. He stood there, clutching a black card linked to a billion-dollar trust, tears streaming down his face as he lamented the “lost years.” He’d even brought the press, spinning a narrative that the last two decades were merely a “test of character” and that I was destined to be the sole heir to the Bennett empire. My mother, draped in brand-new designer silk, sobbed as she shoved me toward the cameras, desperate to get her own face into the frame. In my previous life, I was blinded. I was a girl starved for affection, and I ran into his arms, thinking I had finally found a home. I didn’t realize until I was strapped to a cold surgical table that I wasn’t a daughter. I was a “bio-tank”—a walking pharmacy of matching blood and organs, kept on ice to ensure my father’s immortality. This time, as I opened my eyes to the flashes of the cameras, I knew one thing: blood is thicker than water, but it’s a hell of a lot harder to clean off the floor. 1 “Jade, honey, get home right now! Your father is finally coming for you!” My mother’s voice, shrill with a manic sort of joy, jolted me awake. The physical sensation of the phone pressed against my ear felt impossibly real. I had been reborn into this exact moment. In my last life, I had dropped everything and sprinted home. I had spent twenty years yearning for the man who shared my DNA. Arthur Bennett was a titan of industry, a man with more wealth than some small nations. My mother, Cynthia, was just one of his many “distractions”—a fact I’d known since I was old enough to speak. Arthur was notorious. He had dozens of illegitimate children scattered across the coast, but he only ever acknowledged the two sons born to his late socialite wife. For him to publicly claim me was supposed to be the ultimate coronation. But the memory of the needles made my skin crawl. My first instinct was a cold, hard rejection. “Mom, I’ve been a ‘secret’ for twenty years. I’m used to it. I don’t want to meet him.” “Are you insane?” she hissed, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper. “You’re a data entry clerk making peanuts, Jade! You could be a princess. He has fifty other kids—if you don’t take this spot, someone else will!” She was right about the competition, but she didn’t mention the cost. I looked at my modest cubicle, my lukewarm coffee, and my boring, safe life. It was heaven compared to what came next. I wondered then—did she know? Did she know I was being sold as a literal life-support system? “Then you go be a ‘princess,’ Mom. You’ve wanted to be Mrs. Bennett since the nineties anyway.” I hung up and went back to my spreadsheet. I knew they wouldn’t stop, but I didn’t expect the circus to arrive within the hour. Thirty minutes later, the office was buzzing. My coworkers were crowding around my desk, eyes wide. “Jade, are you freaking kidding me? You’re the Jade Bennett?” “What are you talking about?” I asked, though my stomach was already turning. “Go look outside! There’s a fleet of black SUVs and a Rolls Royce blocking the street!” I walked out the front doors of the office building and walked straight into a trap. There stood Arthur Bennett and Cynthia, framed by a dozen suited security guards. “Jade,” Arthur said, his voice rich and fatherly. He looked at me with a practiced expression of regret. “I’ve spent far too long away from you. Come home, sweetheart.” The crowd gasped. Arthur looked incredible for a man in his mid-fifties—he had the tanned, taut skin of a man thirty years younger, thick dark hair, and the physique of an athlete. I looked at his radiant health and felt sick. I knew exactly whose vitality he had stolen to look that way. “Jade, say something! It’s your father!” my mother urged, dabbing at her dry eyes. “I don’t have a father,” I said, my voice steady. “I have a biological donor I’ve never met. Please leave.” I wasn’t the naive girl I used to be. 2 “The car is ready, Miss Bennett!” the guards shouted in unison, pulling open the heavy door of the Rolls. I turned my back on them and headed back toward the building. “You are not walking away from this!” My mother grabbed my arm, her manicured nails digging into my skin as she tried to haul me toward the car. “Jade, use your brain! Look at him! He’s a billionaire!” The coworkers I’d known for years were watching, some filming on their phones. Some were laughing, assuming I was just a rebellious daughter playing hard to get. “I loved your mother for years,” Arthur said, loud enough for the reporters to hear. He let two perfect tears roll down his cheeks. “Circumstance kept us apart. Please, Jade. Let me make it up to you.” The cameras clicked frantically. It was the perfect American melodrama. Arthur signaled to an assistant, who stepped forward holding an oversized prop check. It was a grotesque display—a symbolic gesture of a hundred-million-dollar trust fund. “This is yours, Jade. Whether you call me father or not. It’s for the years I missed.” The crowd erupted. “It’s like a movie!” someone yelled. My mother slapped the back of my head. “Take it! Don’t be a fool!” I looked at Arthur’s “loving” face and felt a chill. The mask was so perfect. “Mom, if you want the life, take the check and go,” I said. “Besides, I remember you mentioned once that you hadn’t broken up with your ex when you got pregnant. Are we even sure he’s the one?” My mother’s face turned a violent shade of red. She twisted my arm harder. “You shut your mouth! How dare you!” I was lying, mostly. But I needed to sow doubt. I needed him to think I was a liability, a scandal waiting to happen, so he would go find some other “blood bag” among his many bastards. “Jade, don’t be cruel to your mother. She’s a saint,” Arthur said, his voice smooth as silk. The crowd hummed with sympathy. They were already writing the headlines: The Long-Lost Heir and the Star-Crossed Lovers. “We’ve already run the DNA, Jade,” Arthur said, pulling a folded lab report from his jacket and showing it to the live-stream camera. “You’re mine. And I’m not letting you waste your life in a cubicle. It’s for your own good.” My mother’s grip became iron. I couldn’t break free. Just as the guards moved in to “assist” me, my boyfriend, Noah, appeared. He came charging through the crowd, his work boots heavy on the pavement. “Get your hands off her!” he roared, prying my mother’s fingers away from my arm. He stepped in front of me, his broad shoulders forming a shield. “She said no. Can’t you people hear?” “Get lost, you grease monkey!” my mother screamed. “You were fine for her when she was a nobody, but you’re a nobody now!” I grabbed Noah’s hand, trying to pull him toward the safety of the office. “Ten thousand dollars to whoever helps get my daughter into that car!” my mother yelled to the crowd. Greed is a powerful motivator. My coworkers—people I’d shared lunch with—suddenly blocked my path. They swarmed us, pulling Noah away and shoving me toward the open door of the Rolls Royce. I was hoisted up and thrown onto the leather seat. “See you tomorrow for the reward!” my mother shouted to the office staff as the door slammed shut and the car sped away. 3 In my last life, I thought I had gone from Cinderella to a Princess. I didn’t realize I was actually being moved into a high-tech slaughterhouse. I remembered waking up in that “bedroom” for the first time—a room filled with more medical monitors than furniture. “Dad? Why is there a dialysis machine in here?” I had asked, so innocently. Who expects their father to be a predator? He had looked at me with pure contempt. “Did you really think a gutter-rat like you could just walk into the Bennett family? You have my blood, yes. But you have your mother’s soul. You aren’t a daughter, Jade. You’re an insurance policy.” He didn’t need to explain further. The doctors moved in. Strapped to that bed, I learned the truth. Arthur was obsessed with “The Singularity.” He believed that the blood of his own offspring, harvested under specific conditions, was the key to reversing his cellular aging. I became his private tap. Every two weeks, they took 500cc. He grew younger, his skin glowing with my stolen life, while I became a ghost—pale, brittle, and exhausted. When I begged for mercy, he just laughed. “I have dozens of kids, Jade. But your markers are the only ones that don’t trigger my immune system. You should feel honored. You’re making history.” I spent twenty years as a human battery. When my blood finally slowed and my marrow gave up, he didn’t even bury me. He had the doctors harvest my organs to give to his “real” sons, who were just as obsessed with longevity as he was. The memory of the cold steel scalpel made my entire body vibrate with terror. I wouldn’t let it happen again. 4 The car pulled up to a sprawling estate in the Hamptons. It was a fortress of glass and limestone. “Arthur, is this for us?” my mother cooed, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. Arthur gave her a look of mild amusement. “It’s a start. A little something to make up for the lost years.” My mother practically swooned into his arms. I watched her, wondering if she knew the price. The house was beautiful, but the security was terrifying. There were guards every ten feet. Not even a fly could leave without a clearance code. Arthur left us there, retreating to his “private wing.” “Mom,” I said, my voice dead serious. “Do you really want me here? Do you know what he is?” “I know he’s a billionaire, Jade! I’ve spent twenty years dragging you through cheap apartments and dating losers. It’s my turn to be taken care of.” My mother was beautiful, in a sharp, desperate way. She had caught Arthur’s eye decades ago, but the moment I was born a girl, he had vanished. He had cut her off, even getting me kicked out of a private preschool when I was three because he didn’t want to pay the tuition. I still remember that day. The headmistress had literally picked me up mid-nap and put me on the sidewalk in the snow. I didn’t even have shoes on. I had cried for my teddy bear, but the gates stayed locked. My mother had tried to use me as leverage for years, and when it failed, she had vented her frustration on me. She’d had a string of “boyfriends”—middle-management types who treated her like a toy and me like a nuisance. “Mom, I’m scared. I want to leave. Help me,” I pleaded, watching her face for a glimmer of real maternal love. “What do you want to do?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “I have a plan. The guards change shifts every six hours. There’s a blind spot near the service gate. If you distract them, I can get out.” She paused, then nodded. “Okay. If you’re that miserable, I’ll help you.” I felt a spark of hope. Maybe I was wrong about her. At midnight, the plan went into motion. My mother stormed out the front door, screaming at the top of her lungs. “Arthur, you coward! Come out here! You think you can lock me in this gilded cage without a dime to my name?” She started smashing expensive vases against the limestone pillars. The guards rushed toward her, trying to restrain the screaming woman. I slipped out through the side garden, staying low, moving toward the gate. I climbed the fence, my heart hammering against my ribs. I dropped down onto the grass on the other side, ready to run into the woods. Suddenly, floodlights blinded me. “Honey, your ‘blood bag’ almost got away! What’s my bonus for this one?” It was my mother’s voice. She was standing next to Arthur, a smug, cruel smile on her face. She knew. She had always known. “Get her,” Arthur commanded. “Take her to the lab. We’re starting the cycle tonight.” “Mom! Why?” I screamed as the guards pinned me to the dirt. “I’m your daughter!” “You’ve been a burden for twenty years, Jade. It’s time you paid me back,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “Arthur says as long as I keep you ‘compliant,’ he’ll keep me young too. Why should your organs go to waste inside you when they could do some real good for your father?” She sounded so casual, as if she were talking about donating old clothes to Goodwill. I felt a surge of pure, acidic grief, and then I vomited blood onto the grass. 5 The “escape” had failed, but that was fine. I knew a frontal escape was impossible in a fortress like this. The whole thing had been a test—a final confirmation of my mother’s soul. Now, I had no debts. No guilt. The next morning, I was moved to the medical wing. It was exactly as I remembered it. Sterile, cold, and smelling of ozone and death. “Jade, if you cooperate, this will be painless,” Arthur said, standing over my bed. “But make no mistake—you aren’t leaving.” “Arthur, darling, you should take an extra dose today,” my mother chirped, leaning against the doorframe. “After that little stunt she pulled, she deserves to feel a bit lightheaded.” She turned to him, her eyes sparkling with greed. “And since I’m her mother, our blood is similar, right? You should give me a little bit of whatever you’re having. I want to look twenty again.” Arthur smiled at her—a shark’s smile. “Of course, Cynthia. I’ll make sure you get exactly what’s coming to you.” “Father,” I said. It was the first time I’d used the word. He didn’t look happy; he looked bored. “If I’m going to be your ‘life source,’ I have conditions,” I said, staring him down. “If you want my blood to stay ‘pure,’ you need to keep me happy. Stress affects the cortisol levels, you know. It ruins the ‘product.’” He paused, intrigued. “Go on.” “I want the run of this floor. No locks on the inside. I want the finest food, the best clothes. If I’m going to die slowly, I want to live like a Bennett while I do it.” “You want freedom?” he sneered. “Within these walls. I’m not stupid. Just let me have the life you promised the press. And one more thing.” “What?” “I want you to kill her,” I said, nodding toward my mother. “Right here. In front of me.” The room went silent. “Jade! You bitch!” my mother screamed, lunging forward. A guard caught her by the hair. “She sold me out,” I said calmly. “I can’t produce ‘happy’ blood while I’m looking at the woman who traded my life for a Botox treatment. Kill her, and I’ll be your perfect little battery.” Cynthia turned to Arthur, her face pale. “Arthur, tell her she’s crazy! We’re a team!” Arthur looked at me, then at the aging woman screaming in his ear. He saw a daughter who was as cold-blooded as himself. He liked it. “Well,” Arthur whispered. “You always were a bit of a loudmouth, Cynthia.”

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Within the highest spire of the Bastion, the only source of detoxifying sap in the entire city had stopped flowing a week ago. Selena, the Commander’s golden girl—his delicate, untouchable first love—was sobbing over the withered, Tier-9 mutant life-vine. Gary, the Commander of the Bastion, had put up a bounty: a golden ticket into the safety of the Vault in exchange for a cure. The city’s top botanists had tested the soil and the water, and all of them had come up empty. Now, the cold steel of a rifle barrel was pressed hard against my temple. Gary’s voice was as cold as the concrete floor beneath me. “Take this useless gardener out to the dead zone. Let the infected tear her apart as an offering.” Just as the guard went to drag me away, a voice echoed inside my mind. It was a tearful, pathetic little whisper. It was Clover, the vine. “Please, big sister, save me! I don’t want to die! That awful woman… she keeps pouring her cheap, toxic perfume onto my roots every single night. It smells like synthetic rot. I’m suffocating. I can’t breathe, let alone make sap!” I jerked my head back, forcing the heavy rifle barrel away from my forehead. Taking a ragged breath, I stared straight at Selena’s pristine, tear-stained face. “Selena,” I said, my voice cutting through her theatrical whimpers. “That rose-scented oil you use every night—you’ve been dumping it right into the planter, haven’t you?” … Selena’s crying stopped instantly. She looked up, her wide, innocent eyes flickering with a sudden, sharp panic. “What did you just say?” I wiped away the sweat and blood dripping into my eyes from a cut on my forehead. “The rose fragrance. The one you use for your nightly foot baths. You’ve been pouring the leftovers into the soil.” Selena’s face drained of color, and she immediately threw herself into Gary’s arms, burying her face in his chest. “Gary, she’s lying! How could she accuse me of something so horrible? I only want what’s best for the city!” Gary wrapped an arm around her waist, his gaze shifting back to me. The barrel of his gun aligned perfectly with the space between my eyes. “Wren, you have exactly three seconds to stop talking.” The guard captain slammed his boot into my lower back, pinning me to the floor. The hard plastic of a rifle butt cracked against the base of my skull. A sharp, burning pain flared, and a warm trickle of blood slid down my neck. I clenched my teeth, refusing to look down. I kept my eyes locked on Selena. “The bottle is hidden in your vanity, Selena. The second drawer, in the back. It’s black glass, and there’s still dried red chemical powder caked around the rim.” Selena’s pupils contracted. Gary noticed. He frowned, his grip loosening slightly on her waist. “Selena?” Selena shook her head frantically, her voice climbing an octave. “No! No, she’s making things up to buy time! Gary, don’t listen to her!” In my head, Clover’s voice whimpered louder. “She’s lying, big sister! She comes in every night at eleven when the guard rotates. She pours that foul, burning water right onto my main root. It hurts so much. It burns.” I swallowed the metallic taste of blood pooling in the back of my throat. “Commander, send someone to her room. It will take less than five minutes to prove who is telling the truth.” Gary remained silent for a long, heavy moment. Finally, he gave a brief nod to his men. “Search her quarters. Find the black bottle.” Two guards turned and ran toward the residential wing. Selena’s fingers dug into Gary’s sleeve, her knuckles turning white. “Gary, this is a setup. She’s trying to ruin me!” A dry, bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Ruin you? I’m a low-level laborer with a gun to my head. How exactly would I manage to plant evidence in the most heavily guarded room in the spire?” Selena opened her mouth, but no sound came out. The room fell into an uncomfortable, stifling silence. Five minutes later, the guards returned. One of them held up a dark, heavy glass bottle. “Commander. We found it exactly where she said it would be. Second drawer.” Red residue was clearly visible around the plastic collar of the bottle. Gary’s expression hardened. He looked down at the woman in his arms. “Selena. Explain this.” Selena’s tears flowed freely now, thick with desperation. “I didn’t know… I swear I didn’t know it was bad for the plant. It’s just a soothing oil for my insomnia. It has nothing to do with why the vine is dying!” I pushed myself up from the floor, shaking off the guard’s grip. “Then let the botanist test it.” Dr. Nelson, the lead botanist, stepped forward and took the bottle. He unscrewed the cap, took a quick sniff, and his face went pale. “This isn’t an organic oil. It’s an industrial-grade synthetic chemical. It contains high concentrations of acidic solvents. It would eat through any root system within days.” A collective murmur rippled through the room. Gary stared at Selena, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Selena. Why?” “I didn’t do it!” she shrieked, pointing a manicured finger at me. “It was her! She must have snuck into my room and swapped my regular oil for this poison to frame me!” “And how,” I asked, my voice deadly calm, “does a kitchen-maid gardener bypass three biometric security doors to get into your private suite?” Selena choked on her words, her mouth working silently. Gary stared at the black bottle on the floor for what felt like an eternity. Finally, he looked up, his eyes resting on me. “Even if the oil is toxic,” Gary said, his voice returning to its usual flat, authoritarian tone, “that doesn’t clear you of negligence. You were hired to protect the vine. You failed.” He raised his pistol once more. “Take her outside. Executive order.” My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. The guards stepped forward, their heavy hands clamping onto my shoulders. Clover screamed in my mind. “No! No! Don’t let them take her! If she goes, I go! Sister, please, don’t leave me!” My mind raced, searching for a single thread of survival. There was only one card left to play. With a sudden burst of adrenaline, I wrenched my arm free from the guard’s grasp, reached down, and snatched the combat knife from his tactical vest. I drew the blade across the skin of my own throat, just enough to draw a thin line of red. “Let’s play a game, Gary,” I gasped, my voice steady despite the blade resting against my jugular. Gary’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of game?” “Give me five minutes,” I said, staring him down. “I will make the vine secrete sap again.” “If I fail, I’ll open my own throat right here. You won’t have to waste a single bullet.” I took a slow breath. “But if I succeed… you give my brother a permanent residency permit in the Vault.” Selena gasped. “No! She’s stalling! Gary, shoot her!” Gary ignored her. He studied my face, measuring the desperation in my eyes against the cold reality of a dying city. “Fine.” “But if you fail, your brother goes over the wall with you.” My hand trembled against the hilt of the knife. But I nodded. “Deal.” Dr. Nelson let out a condescending sneer. “Revive a Tier-9 life-vine in five minutes? Preposterous. I’ve spent thirty years studying mutant flora, and such a miracle is biologically impossible.” Selena leaned back against Gary, her lips curving into a cruel, satisfied smirk. “Wren, you really are pathetic. Dragging your own brother to the grave with you.” I didn’t waste my breath on them. I knelt beside the massive stone planter. The soil inside was stained a sickly, dark crimson, throwing off a sharp, chemical stench that stung the back of my nose. I dug my fingers into the dirt, pulling away the top layers. Beneath the surface, the thick roots were black, mushy, and sloughing off at the touch. But deep down, near the core, there was a tiny sliver of pale, vibrant green. Clover was still fighting. “Sister… it hurts… the black water is eating me…” “Hold on,” I whispered. I bit the tip of my index finger until it bled, then pressed the wound directly against that tiny patch of green root. Selena yelled from behind me. “She’s performing some kind of witchcraft! Stop her!” She took a step toward me. I spun around, the bloody knife glinting in the harsh fluorescent light. “Take one more step, and I will put this blade through your heart.” Selena froze, terrified by the raw violence in my eyes. Gary reached out and grabbed her shoulder, pulling her back. “Let her finish.” I turned back to the planter and reached into my pocket, pulling out three small vials of neutralizing agents I’d smuggled from the greenhouse weeks ago. I mixed them in a small flask, watching the liquid turn a cloudy, pale green. I began digging out the poisoned soil, throwing the rancid clods onto the polished floor. Suddenly, a sharp pain exploded in my hand. Selena had stepped forward while my head was down, her heavy heel stamping directly onto the back of my hand. I heard a sickening “crack” as the bones in my knuckles shifted. “Time is ticking, Wren,” she whispered, her eyes dancing with malice. “Why don’t you just give up?” The pain was a white-hot iron sheet in my mind. I didn’t scream. Instead, I reached up with my injured hand, grabbed her ankle, and twisted with every ounce of strength I had left. Selena shrieked as her balance vanished. She fell backward, her head striking the edge of the stone planter with a dull thud. “Get away from me,” I growled. Gary drew his weapon, his face dark with rage. “Wren!” I ignored him. Grabbing the flask with my left hand, I poured the neutralizing mixture directly over Clover’s exposed root. Gary checked his watch. “Ten seconds.” Selena scrambled up from the floor, her hair wild, her eyes spitting pure hatred. “Ten… nine… eight…” The countdown echoed off the concrete walls. I placed both of my hands on the edge of the planter, ignoring the screaming pain in my broken knuckles. I closed my eyes and pushed my neural resonance outward, flooding the plant with every drop of energy I had left. “Three… two… one…” Gary’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Time’s up.” But before he could pull it, the withered, black main trunk of the vine shivered violently. A sudden, brilliant emerald light erupted from the center of the planter. Three thick, vibrant green leaves unfurled from the tip of the dead branch, spreading a soft wave of healing energy throughout the room. The oppressive, heavy air in the spire suddenly tasted clean, like rain after a storm. Dr. Nelson’s jaw dropped. “Impossible… how is this…” Selena stumbled back, her face utterly drained of color. Gary slowly lowered his weapon, his eyes wide. I stood up, my broken hand dripping blood onto the floor. I looked Gary dead in the eye. “I won.” “The Vault permit. Now.” Gary remained silent for a moment, then gestured to his lieutenant. “Issue the permit.” Selena screamed, “No! Gary, are you insane? She must have used some kind of illegal stimulant! The vine will die in an hour! She’s tricking you!” “Would you like to run a diagnostic, Dr. Nelson?” I asked, my voice dry. The botanist rushed over, his hands shaking as he pressed his scanner against the new growth. The display flashed a bright, steady green. “Vigor rating… eighty-seven percent. And it’s climbing. It’s healthier than it was before the drought.” Selena was completely silenced. I stepped closer to Gary. “My brother gets on the transport tonight.” “If anything happens to him, I will ensure this plant never produces another drop of sap for as long as you live.” Gary stared at me, a strange, unreadable expression in his eyes. “Understood.” I turned and walked out of the room. As I passed Selena, she glared at me, her teeth clenched so hard I thought they might shatter. “Don’t get too comfortable, Wren. This isn’t over.” I didn’t stop. “Keep an eye on the vine, Selena. It only answers to me now.” In my mind, Clover gave a triumphant little giggle. “Yes! We won! Tell that bad lady to stay away from me, or I’ll choke her!” An hour later, I watched the heavy transport truck rumble through the inner gates of the Bastion, carrying my brother Toby toward the secure sub-levels of the Vault. Through the reinforced glass window, his pale face looked small and frightened. He pressed his hand against the glass, and I pressed mine against the cold air in return. “I’ll see you soon, Toby,” I whispered into the wind. “Just hold on.” The truck disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel. For the first time in years, the knot of terror in my chest loosened slightly. I dragged myself back to my small room in the servant quarters and fell onto the thin mattress. But before sleep could claim me, the high-pitched shriek of the city-wide alarm shattered the quiet. The door to my room was kicked open with a deafening crash. Four heavily armed guards flooded the small space, their rifles pointed at my chest. Before I could move, cold iron cuffs were snapped around my wrists. “Wren. Get up. You’re coming with us.” My stomach plummeted. “What happened?” The guard captain sneered. “You’ll see when we get there.” I was dragged back to the top of the spire. When the elevator doors opened, a foul, metallic stench hit me like a physical blow. The glass enclosure that housed the sacred vine was stained a dark, greasy purple. Inside, the plant was unrecognizable. The leaves were covered in thick, black pustules, and the stems had rotted into a bloated, decaying mass. My mind went entirely blank. This wasn’t Clover. Selena was sitting on the leather sofa, her eyes red from crying. The moment she saw me, she leaped to her feet, pointing an accusing finger. “It’s her! She used a banned necro-stimulant to trick us! She killed the city’s savior just to get her brother into the Vault!” Dr. Nelson stepped forward, holding a tablet. “We ran a chemical analysis of the soil. The toxin levels are off the charts. It’s a classic case of cellular collapse caused by artificial growth hormones.” Gary stood by the window, his silhouette dark against the city lights. He walked over to me, his face a mask of cold fury. Without a word, his hand swung out, striking me hard across the cheek. The force of the blow spun me around, sending me to the floor. My lip split against my teeth, and the taste of copper filled my mouth. “You played me, Wren,” Gary whispered, his voice trembling with rage. I spat blood onto the floor. “I didn’t do this.” “The evidence says otherwise,” Gary cold-eyed me. He turned to the guard captain. “Intercept the transport to the Vault. Pull Toby out of the queue and throw him into the lower holding cells.” “No!” Panic tore through me, hot and sharp. “You gave your word! Leave Toby out of this!” Gary looked down at me, his eyes entirely devoid of mercy. “You lied to get him in. The deal is null.” Selena walked over, her lips curved in a sweet, victorious smile. “You thought you were so clever, didn’t you, Wren? Now you get to watch your brother rot in the dark.” She reached for a heavy glass syringe from the medical tray nearby. “But don’t worry. We aren’t going to let you go to waste. Dr. Nelson thinks a direct transfusion of your blood—since you have a neural connection—might stabilize the core of the vine.” The long, silver needle glinted under the lights. Two guards pinned me to the floor, their knees digging into my back. The needle sank deep into my vein, and my dark red blood began to fill the glass chamber of the collection tube. Selena knelt beside me, her voice a soft, mocking purr. “You should be proud, Wren. Your blood is finally useful for something.” I gritted my teeth against the cold wave of nausea washing over me. I shut out her voice, closing my eyes and reaching out with my mind, searching for that familiar, warm presence. “Clover! Clover, where are you?” There was only silence. No sweet, childish voice answered. The nausea grew stronger, but it wasn’t just from the blood loss. There was something deeply wrong with the energy in the room. This plant… it felt greasy. Violent. Just as my consciousness began to slip, a massive, jagged voice slammed into my mind. It was cold, wet, and dripping with malice. “Yes! Keep draining her, little monkeys! Drink! Drink!” “I am no pathetic life-vine. I am a Sanguine Creeper. I feed on flesh and bone.” “That stupid, vain girl cut off my thorns and shoved me into this stone pot! It hurts! I want to taste her throat!” My eyes snapped open. I stared at the base of the decaying black vine. There was a thin, neat ring of scar tissue around the lowest part of the stem—a graft mark, hidden beneath a layer of fake moss. It was a fake. Selena hadn’t just poisoned the vine; she had replaced it entirely. The guard reached down to swap the full syringe for an empty one. With a sudden burst of adrenaline, I kicked out with both feet, striking the metal stand of the transfusion machine. It crashed to the floor, shattering the glass tubes. The room froze. Gary drew his sidearm, the barrel pointed directly at my face. “Wren, I will end you right here.” I wiped the blood from my lip and let out a dry, rattling laugh. “Go ahead, Commander. Pull the trigger.” “But don’t you want to know…” I slowly stood up, my eyes locked on Selena’s pale face, “where Selena sold your precious Tier-9 life-vine?” Selena’s breath hitched. “What are you talking about? She’s insane! Gary, shoot her!” I pointed to the rotting mass in the glass case. “That isn’t Clover. It’s a Sanguine Creeper. A flesh-eating parasite. Someone cut its thorns, painted its stem, and grafted it onto the root base to make it look like a dying life-vine.” Dr. Nelson scoffed. “Nonsense. The genetic signature—” “Why does it have a graft scar at the base?” I interrupted, stepping closer. “And why does it smell like sulfur and rotting meat instead of fresh rain?” Gary’s gaze drifted to the planter, his brow furrowing. Selena scrambled to block his view. “It’s dying, Gary! Of course it smells bad! She’s just trying to confuse you!” I didn’t wait for them to argue. I reached down to my boot, pulled out a small utility blade I’d kept hidden in the lining, and sliced through the main trunk of the black vine. “Get back!” Dr. Nelson yelled. The moment the blade sliced the flesh, a thick, jet-black fluid sprayed from the wound. A few drops landed on Dr. Nelson’s bare forearm. He let out a blood-curdling shriek as his skin began to sizzle and melt, exposing the yellowed bone beneath. The guards scrambled back in horror. I wiped a stray drop of black liquid from my cheek before it could burn through my skin. “The sap of a life-vine is clear and sweet. The blood of a Sanguine Creeper is highly acidic.” I turned to Selena. “Now, Selena. Tell us. Where is the real vine?” Selena’s face was completely bloodless. She stumbled backward, her knees giving out, and she collapsed onto the floor. “I… I don’t know…” she sobbed, looking up at Gary. “It was Dr. Nelson! He said he could replicate the sap! He told me to do it!” Dr. Nelson, clutching his ruined arm, screamed in agony. “You lying bitch! You came to me! You said the Obsidian Coalition offered you a place in their inner circle if you brought them the vine!” The room dissolved into a screaming match. But I wasn’t listening. Deep down, beneath the floorboards, a tiny, shivering voice reached my mind. “Sister… it’s so hot…” “The bad lady put me in the furnace… it burns…” My heart stopped. I spun on my heel and bolted for the exit. “Stop her!” Gary’s voice echoed behind me. I didn’t look back. I threw my weight against the heavy glass window of the spire, shattering it. Grabbing the external drainage pipe, I slid down into the darkness of the lower levels, the wind rushing past my face. Behind me, the alarms began to wail once more.

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Adam proposed to me in a dimly lit pool hall. He was leaning over the green felt, cue stick in hand, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. “I’ll marry you, Valerie. But I have one condition.” “Once we’re married, never interfere with my playing.” At the time, I was so dizzy with the joy of our long-term relationship finally crossing the finish line that I agreed without a second thought. I thought it was just a quirk of his genius. But on the eve of our engagement, he didn’t come home. I ran through the pouring rain, checking every dingy pool hall in Boston, my lungs burning with every step. I finally found him in an upscale, private billiard lounge. He was acting as a personal coach to another girl. His hands were on her hips, adjusting her stance with practiced, intimate familiarity. Once he was sure of her form, he finally looked up and met my eyes. “If you’re here to lecture me about my career, you can leave.” In that single, agonizing second, the truth laid itself bare. It wasn’t the game he didn’t want me interfering with. It was her. I wiped the cold rain from my face, my voice barely a whisper. “Fine. I’m leaving.” And I meant it. I would leave, and I would never come back. … The moment I got back to our apartment, I booked a one-way ticket out of Boston. Then, I collapsed onto the sofa. I stared blankly at the wall clock, losing track of time until the front door finally clicked open. Adam walked in, wearing his usual easy, effortless smile. He sat down beside me, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me tightly against his chest. “Still mad?” A sharp, unfamiliar perfume invaded my lungs, making my stomach heave. I pressed my palms against his chest, forcing some distance between us. “Adam, is there anything you want to tell me?” He paused, his grip tightening slightly. “Actually, yes. The World Snooker Championship is coming up. I need to focus entirely on training Leah.” He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his voice hardening with resolve. “So, let’s put off the engagement ceremony until after the tournament.” I didn’t say a word. In the dim light of the living room, I counted on my fingers. This was the seventh time he had postponed our engagement. The first time, it was a tournament he had to play in. The second, he had to judge an exhibition. The next few times, it was because he was determined to turn Leah, his “prodigy,” into a champion. I let out a dry, hollow laugh, forcing myself to look into his eyes. “Adam, do you even remember how many times you’ve said those exact words to me?” His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He looked away, unable to hold my gaze. “It’s my career,” he muttered quietly. “It’s my life. I’ve handed over all my tournament prize money and assets to you. All I ask is that you don’t suffocate me.” He took a deep, heavy breath, as if making a monumental, agonizing sacrifice. “Tell you what. If you’re really that insecure, we can go to the courthouse and sign the papers first.” I stood up, pushing his hands away. “No need.” Standing so close, I caught the fleeting micro-expression on his face. Relief. A wave of bitter self-deprecation washed over me. I should have known from the very moment he proposed. He was a billiard prodigy, having achieved his Grand Slam three years ago. As his girlfriend of seven years, I was supposed to share in his glory. But his training room had always been a sanctuary—a sacred space I was forbidden to enter. Until one afternoon, when he broke his own rule and brought me there. I remember sitting quietly on the leather sofa, watching him play. The sharp “clack” of the balls echoed in the quiet room, making my heart race with a strange, nervous excitement. When he sunk the final ball, he meticulously wiped his cue stick before finally looking at me. “We’ve been together four years now. I guess it’s time to get married. As long as you don’t interfere with my playing, I’ll marry you.” My chest had tightened at the coldness of his words. “Why?” He had smiled, offering a practiced excuse. “Because this is my passion, Valerie. Not yours. You just need to stay happy by my side.” I had let myself believe him, my heart warming at his words. I agreed. But a moment later, Leah walked in. Right in front of my eyes, she picked up the very cue stick he had banned me from ever touching. “Crack.” She sunk a ball. My heart shuddered. I looked at Adam. His face wore a proud, tender smile I had never seen before. His eyes shone as he looked at her. “This is my new apprentice,” he said. “She’s got raw talent. She’s going to conquer the circuit with me.” Adam never talked about the future. The only time he did, I realized his future didn’t include me. I closed my eyes, forcing down the phantom ache in my chest before looking back at him. He took my wrist, his voice soft with empty promises. “I swear, as soon as this tournament is over, I’ll make it up to you. We’ll have the wedding.” His hand was warm, but it couldn’t reach the ice in my veins. I pulled away. “No need.” The air in the room went dead. Adam slowly let go, taking off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “What is that supposed to mean? Valerie, it’s just a few more weeks. Is it really worth all this drama?” “A few more weeks.” I had lost count of how long I had been waiting. I only remembered the sight of his back as he boarded planes with Leah, the TV broadcasts of them celebrating their victories, the suffocating pain of hopes repeatedly shattered. Today, the pain had gone numb. I was tired of hollow expectations. I forced a smile, though it felt more like a cracked mask. “Yes, it is. Adam, I’m done. We’ve been together seven years, but your heart only has room for pool and Leah. I’m just an anchor dragging you down.” My voice rose, the fake smile vanishing entirely. Time had changed us both. He had completely forgotten how we started—how seven years ago, I had nearly died saving him. Back then, he was a nobody—a brilliant but dirt-poor kid. Genius breeds envy, and after he humiliated a senior player, a gang of jealous trainees cornered him in a dark alley. They snapped his cheap cue stick and began beating his back with the maple shards, trying to break his spirit. I happened to walk by. Without thinking, I threw my heavy backpack at one of them and swung a broken piece of wood to defend him. But they were too many. They threw me aside and pinned Adam to the ground, stepping on his head. When they aimed a heavy stick at his hands, Adam broke down, weeping and begging them to spare his hands. Nobody pitied him but me. As the stick came down, I broke free from my captors and threw myself over him, taking the blow. The impact fractured my ribs, driving a splintered bone into my lung. I coughed up blood before blacking out. I woke up in a hospital bed. Adam was sitting beside me, his eyes bloodshot, his tears hot against my hand. His voice had trembled violently. “I don’t even know your name, but you saved my life. I will take care of you forever.” I was in too much pain to understand the weight of that promise. It wasn’t until years later, on the eve of our first postponed wedding, that I heard him whispering to Leah through a half-open door. “Leah, I can never return your feelings. Valerie broke her ribs saving me. It punctured her lung, and she still struggles to breathe. I can’t just abandon her.” That was when I knew. To him, I was never a partner. I was a debt he had to pay, a heavy anchor he couldn’t throw overboard. Tears finally spilled over, wetting my collar. Adam looked at me, the light in his eyes flickering. After a long silence, he spoke. “Valerie, you aren’t my ideal partner.” I looked at him through the blur of my tears. “But I have to be responsible for you,” he continued, his voice tight. “For your sake, I’ve already broken Leah’s heart. Can you just accept that and stop making this so hard for me?” His hand nervously caressed the leather keychain hanging from his gear bag. It was a gift from Leah. He carried it everywhere. Meanwhile, every gift I had ever given him was rotting in boxes in our basement, gathering dust. I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. Then, I raised my hand and slapped him across the face. “Don’t play the martyr, Adam. You know exactly whether this is responsibility or just a cheap cover-up for your fading feelings.” He flinched, his jaw tightening. Before he could speak, a frantic knock shattered the silence. Leah stood on our doorstep, her eyes red and swollen. “Valerie, can you please stop throwing tantrums?” She pushed past me, running to Adam’s side. Her eyes welled with tears as she looked at his split lip. “Adam, are you okay?” Adam immediately softened, giving her a gentle, reassuring smile. “I’m fine. What are you doing here?” Leah bit her lip, her voice trembling. “Someone was trying to pick the lock on my apartment door. I called the police, but… I was too scared to go back inside.” She turned to me, her voice dripping with frail innocence. “Valerie, what more do you want?” Tears streamed down her pale face. “I was standing there with a knife, shaking, and all I could think about was Adam. But I remembered he was your boyfriend, so I forced myself not to call him. I’ve tried so hard not to disrupt your lives. Why can’t you just cherish him?” I took a slow, deep breath. Before I could utter a word, Adam cut me off. He grabbed Leah’s shoulders, scanning her for injuries. “Why didn’t you call me? What if something had happened to you?” His voice shook with a terror he had never shown for me. Their eyes locked. The raw, desperate affection between them was undeniable. Adam shielded her behind his back, looking at me with cold determination. “Leah is staying here tonight. We’ll talk about us later.” With that, he led her down the hallway toward the guest room. I watched their retreating figures, my vision blurring. It hadn’t always been like this. Back when Leah was training for her first tournament, she worked day and night. I had genuinely believed she was just his apprentice. I had even cooked meals for them, and she was always sweet, never crossing any lines. But that was the night I finally broke. I had gone to deliver dinner to them at the pool hall. It was late, and a man began stalking me a few hundred yards from the entrance. Trembling, I called Adam. He picked up, but Leah’s voice came through first. “Valerie, Adam is too busy to pick you up right now.” Then Adam’s voice followed. “I have to teach Leah this shot tonight. If you’re really scared, just run a little faster.” It wasn’t that the training was important. It was her. Driven by some dark impulse, I had followed them to his private office at the back of the hall. The door wasn’t fully closed. Through the crack, I saw Leah sobbing, throwing herself into Adam’s arms. He hesitated, then bent down and kissed the tears from her eyes. My chest burned with a sudden, violent rage. I wanted to destroy everything. I stormed into his office, grabbed the first cue stick I could reach, and slammed it against his glass display case. Glass shattered, flying everywhere, cutting my cheek. I barely felt it. The violent crash startled them. Adam spun around, his eyes wild as he saw the cue stick in my hand. “Valerie!” I didn’t stop. I looked down at the stick. It was the one Leah had won her first tournament with. He polished it daily, treating it like a sacred relic. Once, when I accidentally moved it while cleaning, he refused to speak to me for two weeks, banning me from his study entirely. I raised the stick and swung it hard against the wall. Leah screamed, throwing herself forward to protect it. The heavy wood struck her wrist. A sickening “crack” echoed through the room. Before I could comprehend what happened, a massive force shoved me to the ground. I fell onto the broken glass, shards slicing deep into my palms. A warm, metallic taste filled my mouth. But Adam didn’t look back. He was on his knees, cradling Leah’s arm. “Leah, look at me. Are you okay?” Leah was sobbing hysterically. “Adam, the tournament is next week… my hand…” Adam scooped her into his arms, his voice trembling with a desperate attempt at calm. “It’s going to be fine. It’s just a tournament. You’re all that matters.” He stepped right over me. Choking on the pain, I reached out and grabbed the hem of his jeans. “Don’t go… I…” He paused, looking down at me with cold disgust. Leah wept from his arms. “Are you happy now, Valerie? You destroyed my trophy, you broke my hand, and now you’re trying to stop him from taking me to the ER? Do you have to completely ruin my life to be satisfied?” Adam’s hesitation vanished. He kicked his leg free, his voice dangerously low. “I don’t have time for your hysterical games, Valerie. Stay here and think about what you’ve done. When you’re ready, drag yourself to the hospital and beg Leah for forgiveness.” He carried her out, leaving me on the glass-strewn floor. As they left, Leah looked back over his shoulder, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. I couldn’t breathe. A dark, suffocating despair closed in. Moments later, the door opened again. It wasn’t Adam. It was the police. “Miss Crane? We received a call regarding domestic disturbance, assault, and destruction of property…” I was taken straight to the precinct. The physical pain was nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest. “Do you have anything to say?” the officer asked. I sat in silence, my throat too dry to form words. Eventually, the officer handed me my phone to call someone. In this city, the only person I had was Adam. I dialed his number. It rang for a long time before he finally answered. After the officer explained the situation, Adam’s cold voice came through the receiver. “Valerie, you broke her hand. I can convince her to drop the charges, but only if you come to the hospital and beg for her forgiveness.” The humiliation was absolute. I closed my eyes, letting my final tear fall. “Never.” The line went dead. They kept me in the holding cell overnight. Adam didn’t show up until the next afternoon. I forced my stiff, aching body to stand as he walked in. He frowned, looking at my bandaged hands, before pulling me out of the station and into his car. “You hurt Leah,” he said, his voice flat as he drove. “Last night was your lesson. She agreed not to press charges, so stop throwing tantrums.” I looked down. The cuts on my wrist had reopened, blood soaking through my sleeve. “I won’t,” I whispered. “I won’t ever throw a tantrum again, Adam.” He softened slightly, misinterpreting my defeat as submission. “Good. Go home and make some soup, then bring it to the hospital. You need to care for her until she recovers. Once she’s healed, we’ll start planning the wedding again.” I nodded slowly. “Actually, I—” His phone buzzed. Leah’s tearful voice echoed through the car speakers. “Adam, where are you…?” Without a second thought, Adam pulled over, leaving me on the curb. “Go home. We’ll talk later.” I watched his car disappear into the traffic. The last shred of warmth in my chest died. My lungs felt like they were filled with wet, freezing wool, making every breath a battle. But I didn’t go back to the apartment. I walked straight to the airport. “You can have her now, Adam. I’m letting you go.”

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Ryan has always had a highly selective filter. He only responds when I share good news. The moment a text of mine carries even a trace of sadness, vulnerability, or frustration, he simply tunes it out. “We all have our own emotional boundaries, Rachel,” he would tell me, his voice smooth, clinical, and completely detached. “You need to learn to process your negative emotions on your own.” Even when my mother’s treatments became increasingly grueling, and the sheer weight of my grief threatened to crush me from the inside out, I received nothing but silence from him. No check-ins. No comforting words. Gradually, I stopped telling him things. I came to understand a harsh truth: my pain was my own to swallow. But then, I saw his texts with his new secretary, Cecilia. She told him everything. From something as trivial as wearing mismatched shoes to work, to getting scammed out of thousands of dollars on her apartment deposit. They were exactly the kinds of tedious, venting complaints Ryan used to despise. Yet, he caught every single one of her tears. He comforted her, piece by piece. “Am I complaining too much?” Cecilia had texted him, adding a crying emoji. “I don’t want to bring you down with my drama.” Ryan’s reply was gentler than anything he’d sent me in years: Everyone has bad days, Cecilia. I’m your boss. It’s my job to help you carry the load. Don’t worry about it. A bitter ache bloomed in my chest. Today, I got promoted. It was supposed to be a happy day. A milestone. I stared at my phone, thought about texting him, and realized there was absolutely no point in sharing. … How long has Ryan been like this? Even I’ve lost track. I think it started around the time the “emotional labor” discourse took over the internet. When he first suggested we should take accountability for our own emotional states, I actually agreed. After all, nobody wants to be trapped in a relationship that feels like an endless swamp of negativity. I thought establishing healthy boundaries would make us stronger, more equal partners. But I never anticipated the cold reality of how he would apply it. It became a weapon. Suddenly, I wasn’t allowed to have a single bad day. The moments of genuine suffering, the quiet breakdowns—I couldn’t share even a fraction of them with him. My life became a solitary war, fought in the dark. And yet, when he was the one struggling, I was always there. I placed myself in his shoes. I listened. I comforted him because I couldn’t bear the thought of him facing his demons alone. Whether it was the crushing anxiety of his job search or the petty dramas within his family, I helped him carry every burden. Helping him made me feel needed. It made me feel like we were a team. I truly believed love was a two-way street. But I was wrong. The last time my mother was rushed to the hospital, the doctor told me it was a severe neurological issue. He gently advised me to prepare for the worst. My hands shook so violently I could barely hold my phone. In a panic, my instinct was to reach out to Ryan. I texted him, desperate for a lifeline. He skimmed right past the message. When I called, it went straight to voicemail. He was waiting for me to “deal with it” on my own. Even when he tried to explain himself later, his voice was defensive. “I didn’t realize it was that serious, Rachel. And we agreed we wouldn’t dump our emotional baggage on each other, so I didn’t read it closely.” I just nodded, too exhausted to argue. Since then, no matter how many times Mom was hospitalized, no matter how suffocating the pressure became as I sat alone in those sterile corridors, I never reached out to him again. I had so much I wanted to say. I wanted, more than anything, to lay my head on someone’s shoulder. But every time I opened our chat thread, typing felt like a chore. The muscle memory of his cold indifference choked out my words before they could even form. I would silently lock my phone, pull my knees to my chest, and press my back hard against the hospital wall. At least the concrete wall felt solid. At least it didn’t pretend to care. Once, we had promised to be each other’s rock. We had agreed that managing our emotions would make us better partners. Instead, it had carved an ocean between us. And today, the truth finally clicked: he had simply found someone else to carry. He was spending all his emotional reserve on Cecilia, leaving nothing but scraps for me. The tragic irony was that he still expected me to absorb his bad days. I couldn’t make sense of it anymore. What is the point of a partner who only wants to celebrate your triumphs but refuses to stand beside you in the trenches? Do I really need someone like that? I went for a long, aimless walk. When I finally returned to our apartment, I was surprised to find Ryan already home. It was a rare evening off for him. “Where have you been?” he asked casually, not looking up from his laptop. “Visiting my mother,” I replied, my voice flat. He didn’t pry further. He was smart enough to avoid that landmine. He knew exactly why my mother kept pushing us to get married. It wasn’t out of nagging traditionalism; she was terrified of losing her mind before she could see me walk down the aisle. Mom had Alzheimer’s. She was desperate to hold onto the beautiful moments before her memory dissolved completely. But every time the topic of marriage came up, Ryan dodged it. It always ended in cold, heavy silence. After months of this, the frustration finally boiled over. I couldn’t understand it. “Do you even want to marry me, Ryan?” I had cried once, the tears spilling over. “If you do, why can’t we do it while my mother still knows who I am? Once she forgets me, I’ll be entirely alone. What am I supposed to do then?” Whenever I broke down like that, the raw pain was too much to suppress. And Ryan’s response? He would grab his keys and walk out the door. I’m not going to sit here and absorb your hysteria, he’d say. Calm yourself down first, and then we can talk. That night, the darkness in our bedroom felt thick, amplifying every stray thought. I tossed and turned, unable to find comfort. We had been together for ten years, five of them since we graduated college. Whether it was marriage, buying a home, or career paths, Ryan never initiated plans with me. He never built a vision for us. It was always me. Me asking, me pleading, me trying to drag him into a shared future. He simply hadn’t factored me in. I was twenty-seven now. How much longer could I afford to run in place like this? The fire inside me was burning down to ash. I exhaled a ragged breath in the dark. To make this marriage happen, I had tried to handle everything myself. In our family’s hometown, there was an old tradition of writing out the wedding vows by hand. It was a calligraphed marriage covenant, written stroke by stroke by the groom to show he was ready for the weight of a lifetime. My mother was incredibly old-fashioned about it. She believed that a physical, hand-written promise was the only thing that would hold its shape when her mind began to fracture. “If a man won’t even take the time to write out his vows properly, how can he carry the weight of a marriage?” she used to say. “A covenant is about responsibility.” But Ryan kept putting it off, month after month. It was so different from a decade ago. Back then, when he was trying to win my heart, he had written me dozens of love letters. He had even taken calligraphy classes just to make his writing look perfect for me. I remembered him smiling foolishly, handing me a page. I just wanted to make you smile, Rachel. A young man’s love is so pure, so uncomplicated. I wondered if the twenty-two-year-old Ryan, sitting at his desk practicing his penmanship just to make me smile, could have ever envisioned the cold, quiet ghosts we would eventually become. I had never pictured myself marrying anyone else. So, I spent six months practicing calligraphy myself. I was never good with my hands, and my first attempts were clumsy, but I kept practicing until my cursive was elegant and steady. It was pathetic, really. I was practically writing my own wedding covenant, trying to marry myself. I thought if I took ninety-nine steps, Ryan would only have to take one. He would see that everything was already prepared. But I never got that single step from him. Instead, I watched him fall for someone else. Ryan shifted beside me, letting out a soft, sleeping chuckle. And then, his lips parted. “Cecilia…” He muttered her name, a fond, protective smile playing on his face in the shadows. “What am I going to do with you? You’re so clumsy…” Once, Ryan had used those exact words to describe her to me. But back then, his voice had been dripping with annoyance. I swear, the hiring standards these days are in the gutter. She’s completely useless. Now, she was sweet-talking her way into his dreams. I wondered what they did in his subconscious. Were they laughing? Was he holding her? The thought sent a sharp, icy needle through my chest. Tears escaped my eyes, hot and silent, soaking into my pillow. The next morning, I left the apartment early. My mother’s memory was deteriorating rapidly, but she still remembered the exact way to season the chicken soup she made whenever I was worn down. She had insisted on making some to nourish me. Thinking of her gave me a fragile burst of strength. I took a half-day off from work to have lunch with her. But I waited. And waited. The clock ticked past noon, and she still wasn’t home. Panic fluttered in my throat. At this stage, Mom shouldn’t be getting lost. She always carried a small card with my phone number in her pocket. I stood up, sat down, and paced the small living room, my heart hammering against my ribs. Just as I was about to rush out the door to search for her, our neighbor, Mrs. Kerwin, came bursting in. She was out of breath, grabbing my arm and pulling me outside. “Rachel! Thank God you’re home. Your mother—something happened. She got into a terrible argument with a young couple down at the market. She collapsed, and they’ve rushed her to the ER!” What? My mind went completely blank. I ran. I ran faster than I ever had in my life, pushing through the hospital doors with my lungs screaming for air. By the time I arrived, Mom was already in the emergency room. But the shock that awaited me in the waiting room was a different kind of pain: the “young couple” standing there was Ryan and Cecilia. What on earth had they done? My grief and panic morphed into a blinding rage. I marched up to them, my voice shaking. “What did you do to her?” Ryan instinctively stepped in front of Cecilia, shielding her behind his back. “It was… it was an accident, Rachel,” he stammered, his eyes darting away. “Cecilia and I were just walking through the market, and we ran into your mom. There was just a… a misunderstanding.” I stared at him, my gaze burning into his skin. A flicker of guilt crossed his face. “Rachel, I swear I didn’t want this to happen. There’s nothing going on between Cecilia and me. Your mom got the wrong idea and demanded we explain ourselves. She grabbed Cecilia’s arm… Cecilia actually got scratched in the scuffle.” The strength drained from my legs, and I collapsed onto the cold tile floor. My entire body went numb. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to find out the truth, or that I didn’t want to tear both of them apart. It was simply that my mother’s life was hanging in the balance, and there was no room in my brain for anything else. I gasped for air, suffocating under the weight of the hospital’s sterile scent. I hated hospitals. I had spent so much of the past year trying to keep my mother away from them, trying to fill her remaining days with warmth and light. Huge, heavy tears splashed onto my hands. And Ryan? He just stood there. He was a man of his word, after all. He had promised not to get involved in my negative emotions, and he was keeping that promise perfectly. His eyes were entirely fixed on Cecilia, who was trembling and whimpering behind him. The silence of the hallway settled over me like a shroud. Without another word, Ryan led Cecilia away. She whispered that she “needed some air,” and he complied without a second thought. I stared at the red “In Progress” light above the operating room door. I was desperate for news, yet utterly terrified of what the doctors might say. Please be okay, I whispered to the empty hallway. Please let her be okay. Finally, the red light went out. The surgeon stepped into the hallway, pulling off his mask. “She’s out of immediate danger,” he said, offering a tired but reassuring smile. “But her system took a major shock. At her age, and with her condition, we’ll have to wait and see how she recovers.” I let out a shuddering breath. She’s going to be okay. She has to be. I sat by her bedside, holding her frail hand, afraid that if I let go, she would slip away. When her eyelids finally fluttered open, I leaned in. “Mom? Can you hear me?” She looked at me. But there was no recognition in her eyes. Only a deep, hollow confusion. “Who… who are you?” she whispered. My heart stopped. My throat closed up, and the room began to spin. Since her diagnosis, I had played out this exact moment in my head a thousand times. I thought I was prepared for the inevitable. But when the blow actually landed, it was physical. A wave of intense nausea hit me so hard I began to gag. I couldn’t let her see me break. I stumbled out of the room, ran down the empty corridor, and slapped myself hard across the face. Why did you let her go alone? Why did you ask for chicken soup? Why didn’t you go home earlier? Why weren’t you there to protect her? The questions plagued my mind, each one a sharp blade. If only I had done one thing differently. Just one. I wanted to turn back the clock. I knew this day would come, but please, God, not like this. Not so soon. “Ugh…” I bolted into the restroom, leaning over the sink, dry-heaving violently. Nothing came up but stomach acid and despair. After a long time, I wiped my mouth and looked in the mirror. I looked like a ghost. I had to pull myself together. My mother and I had fought so hard against this disease. She kept a daily journal; our small apartment was covered in sticky notes, and our walls were lined with photos. Every morning, she would study them, desperately trying to memorize our faces, fighting the monster that was slowly devouring her brain. And she was waiting for my wedding. She had been so excited to see me happy. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the trembling in my chest, and walked back out. But as I approached her room, I saw Cecilia standing by the door. She stepped close to me, her voice dropping to a cruel whisper. “You know, I only told your mother the truth. I told her you were a fraud, that Ryan dumped you, and that he’s with me now. I had no idea she’d go into cardiac arrest over it. Did she actually believe you guys were happily married?” My fingernails bit so deeply into my palms they drew blood. Cecilia smiled, her eyes dripping with malice. “She’s a bit fragile, isn’t she?” Slap! My hand moved before my brain could stop it. Ryan and I hadn’t even broken up. My mother wasn’t just sick; she was furious because she wanted to protect me. She was devastated by the blatant disrespect this girl had hurled at her daughter. Cecilia gasped, her cheek turning bright red. She raised her hand to strike back, but I caught her wrist mid-air and slapped her again, harder this time. But I wasn’t finished. I hit her again. And again. If she wanted Ryan, she could have taken him. She could have come after me. But she should have never, ever touched my mother. Thinking about my mother’s empty gaze, I lost all control. Cecilia shrieked, cowering against the wall. “Rachel, stop! Are you crazy?” I raised my hand for another blow, but suddenly, my wrist was gripped in an iron vice. It was Ryan. “Rachel, what the hell are you doing? This is a hospital!” He looked shocked. In our ten years together, I had always been the poised, gentle one. He had never seen me like this. I struggled against his grip, trying to shove him away. “Let go of me! She did this on purpose, Ryan! She targeted my mother! My mom treated you like her own son for a decade—are you seriously going to deny her justice?” Instead of listening, Ryan squeezed my wrist even tighter, the bones in my hand grinding together painfully. “Stop making a scene, Rachel. It’s a misunderstanding. You’re overreacting.” He pushed me back, pinning me against the corridor wall. I looked at him. My wrist was bruising under his fingers, throbbing with pain. But the ache in my chest was far worse. At that exact moment, the last ember of my ten-year love for him died. I looked him dead in the eye, my lips pale and trembling. “I regret the day I ever said yes to you, Ryan. We’re over.” Ryan froze, his grip loosening slightly in shock. I leaned forward and bit down hard on his forearm. He yelled in pain and let go. Before he could even process the words that had just come out of my mouth, I shook out my sore wrist and took a step toward Cecilia.

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The night the digital test flashed a steady, undeniable “pregnant”, my six-year-old son, Oliver, pointed at the glowing screen of his iPad. An adorable toddler influencer was dancing on the screen. “That’s my sister,” he said, his voice eerily flat. I let out a breathless, nervous laugh, assuming it was a joke, and gave his forehead a playful flick. “She lives all the way in Seattle, sweetie. You’ve never even met her.” “She has a million followers,” I added, trying to bring him back to reality. “Don’t make things up.” “If you want a sibling that badly, how about Mommy makes you one?” I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs, desperate to catch any flicker of excitement on his small face. But his expression remained utterly blank as he scrolled back through the girl’s old posts. “I bought her that little designer backpack in this photo,” Oliver said, his voice devoid of any childish warmth. “Dad told me she’s my only sister. He said I have to take good care of her.” My chest tightened. The smile died on my lips. “Mommy,” Oliver said, turning to look at me. His dark eyes were like two hollow, bottomless pits. “Dad and I are tired of pretending.” He reached out, his small, cold hand resting against my stomach. “I promised Dad I’d protect Lola. So, you can’t have another annoying pest. You’ll listen to me, right?” … It was the first time Oliver had ever looked at me that way. A cold dread crept up my spine. I forced a laugh, pretending to be angry. “Go do your homework right now! Keep talking nonsense, and I’ll have your father deal with you the second he gets home!” Oliver gave me a long, empty look before quietly heading toward his bedroom. “Do what you want,” he muttered over his shoulder. “But Dad is going to side with me anyway.” The door clicked shut, dividing our apartment into two entirely different worlds. I sat frozen on the sofa, my hands and feet trembling uncontrollably. His expression hadn’t been that of a child playing a prank. Could Elliot really have another family hidden away? I pulled out my phone and searched for the influencer. The mother’s name was Cathy. She was thirty, with soft, elegant features. Her daughter, Lola, was only four months younger than Oliver. I had followed their account for a year, but the father had never once appeared in any of their videos. Now, looking closer at Lola’s eyes, the resemblance to Elliot was undeniable. My knuckles turned white as I scrolled through their history, my thumb trembling. Back in June, Cathy had posted in her fan group, frantic because Lola’s father had accidentally given the girl milk, triggering her severe dairy allergy. Since Oliver also had a milk allergy, I had reached out, sending her a long, detailed list of precautions based on my own experience. Afterward, she had sent me a private message. “It’s all his fault for being so careless. He barely gets to visit, and when he does, he just wants to spoil her with treats. Thank you so much for today.” Attached was a photo of Lola sleeping. Next to her on the pillow rested a man’s hand. On his ring finger was the exact platinum band I had spent two months custom-designing for Elliot. It was one of a kind. At the time, I had been so busy setting up Elliot’s new home office that I hadn’t paid any attention to the photo. Now, the blood in my veins felt like ice. A single, heavy tear slipped down my cheek. But how could he have had the time to go to Seattle? At exactly eight-ten, the front door opened. Elliot walked in, immediately dropping his briefcase when he saw me. He cupped my face, his eyes filled with genuine worry and tenderness. “Aria, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” Looking at him, my tears only fell faster. I couldn’t squeeze a single word past the lump in my throat. Elliot’s face darkened. He marched over, kicked Oliver’s door open, and pulled him out by the shoulder. “Did you make your mother cry again?” Watching them, I felt a phantom pain in my chest. If this had happened yesterday, I would have found the sight comforting. Now, it felt like a knife twisting in my heart. The shopping bag Elliot had set on the counter contained a set of luxury room diffusers. I never used them, but they were scattered all over Cathy’s apartment in her videos. I had researched the brand once; it was a local Boston boutique that didn’t ship to Seattle. “Aria, did you pack the bags for Oliver and me?” Elliot asked as he guided Oliver into the kitchen to help with dinner. I blinked, trying to clear my vision. “I packed them this morning.” On the twentieth of every month, Elliot traveled to our family’s old estate in Maine to tend to his late mother’s grave. He always told me that my chronic back injury made the long drive too difficult for me. I had always found his thoughtfulness incredibly sweet. As Oliver got older, Elliot started taking him along. I had never questioned it. With trembling fingers, I logged into his airline account on my phone. Boston to Seattle. In our eight years of marriage, there were two hundred and thirty-six flight confirmations. Not a single one to Maine. It was all a lie. My phone buzzed with a notification. Cathy had just uploaded a new video. “Lola’s dad is coming home tomorrow, so I’m picking up some of his favorite things at the grocery store.” As she walked down the aisle, her camera casually swept past the family planning section, and she slipped two boxes of condoms into her cart. The comment section was buzzing with excitement, but I felt as though I had been dropped into an arctic sea. I knew Cathy had recorded that video specifically for me. Elliot came back to the table, chatting warmly as he scooped food onto my plate. “Make sure you don’t stay up too late while we’re gone. Oliver and I will be back as soon as we finish tending to the estate…” I squeezed the prenatal report hidden beneath the table, my vision blurring. “Are you really going to Maine, Elliot? Or are you flying to Seattle?” Elliot froze. He slowly, methodically set his fork down. “Who told you?” Oliver glanced at his father’s tense face before speaking up. “I did.” “Slap.” Elliot’s hand struck Oliver’s cheek. “Since you love making your mother sad, you can skip dinner. Go to your room and think about what you did.” Elliot’s expression returned to normal as he turned back to me, placing another piece of chicken in my bowl. “Aria, how about I stay home tomorrow? We can go see that movie you’ve been talking about.” Tears streamed down my face. I swept my bowl off the table, sending it shattering across the hardwood floor. “Are you not disgusted with yourself? Lola is only four months younger than Oliver!” Elliot frowned, his voice dropping an octave as he corrected me. “Her last name is Hastings.” The words felt like a physical blow. “You’ve always been too stubborn, Aria,” he said, let out a soft sigh. “You really should learn to be more like Cathy.” I felt like I was suffocating. “When did it start? When I was pregnant with Oliver? Or before that?” Elliot leaned back against his chair, his eyes drifting as if lost in a fond memory. “On our first anniversary. I was in Seattle for a business trip. You were hysterical, begging me to come home, and on my way to the airport, I ran into Cathy being harassed on the street.” I went entirely rigid, staring at him. On our first anniversary, my mother had been in a catastrophic car accident. Outside the ICU, the driver’s relatives were threatening me, while inside, my mother was on life support. I had sobbed into the phone, begging him to come back. By midnight, he had called to say a storm had delayed his flight out of Seattle. I had told him it was okay. I had even reminded him that I’d packed an umbrella in his suitcase. Elliot sighed, reaching out to wipe away my tears, but I flinched away from his touch. “Aria, it hurts me to see you cry,” he murmured. “I want to bring Cathy and Lola to Boston. Lola is getting older, and she needs her father. But I promise you, you will always be the only Mrs. Hastings. They won’t ever threaten your position.” Looking at his earnest, self-righteous face, I bent over and retched onto the floor. The next day, two of the brightest bedrooms in our suburban home were cleared out and decorated, complete with the boutique diffusers. Elliot and Oliver left for the airport early to pick them up. Once they left, I drove to the clinic alone. On the way, I opened Cathy’s livestream. On the screen, Lola was riding on Elliot’s shoulders, laughing. Oliver was hugging Cathy’s waist, looking incredibly close to her. “Who says I don’t look like my mom?” Oliver chirped to the camera. “She “is” my real mom!” Cathy beamed with pure happiness. “That’s right. We’re officially moving to Boston. Our family of four is finally going to be together forever!” The chat was flooded with thousands of congratulations. I typed a single comment: “This is disgusting.” Within a minute, a mob of viewers attacked me, and my account was permanently suspended. Before the procedure, the doctor looked at me with concern. “Is there no family member here with you? Your history is complicated; there’s a high risk of hemorrhaging.” Fear finally gripped me. I called Elliot, my hands shaking. The first two calls went unanswered. On the third, he picked up. “Aria, from now on, I’ll spend Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays with you, and Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays with Cathy. Today is Thursday. You need to learn to be more independent. Try to handle things on your own today.” Through the receiver, I could hear Oliver’s sweet voice calling out to his “sister.” I didn’t say a word. I hung up, wiped my face, and looked at the doctor. “I can sign the consent form myself.” When it came time to pay, I unlinked Elliot’s card from my digital wallet. A second later, a notification popped up. He had transferred fifty thousand dollars to my account. “You’re not being very good, Aria. Take this. I don’t want you running out of money.” I didn’t reply. He thought he had built a gilded cage for a songbird, but I had been quietly saving my earnings from my freelance illustration work for years. I didn’t need his money to survive. I drove to a quiet library downtown, drafted a divorce agreement, and booked a one-way ticket to Burlington, Vermont. The flight was in three days. When I got home, the house was dark. Elliot hadn’t brought Cathy and Lola back to our place yet. Late that night, a pair of freezing hands woke me. Elliot, with light snow still dusting his shoulders, pulled me into his arms and murmured against my ear. “Aria, link the card back. I know this is hard for you to accept. I came back tonight just to be with you.” “I won’t let them near you, but you need to be reasonable and stop leaving nasty comments on Cathy’s pages. It upsets her. I’m only going to let you throw a tantrum this one time.” “Didn’t you want to build a snowman? It’s snowing outside. Let’s go out, okay?” His lips pressed against my neck, his hand resting gently over my stomach—where our second child had been just hours before. But his coat carried the heavy, unmistakable scent of another woman’s perfume. I closed my eyes and nodded slowly. As he was wrapping a scarf around my neck, his phone rang. He answered, and within seconds, his face grew pale. He grabbed his heavy coat. “Lola has a fever.” I looked at him, my voice barely a whisper. “We’re not going to build a snowman?” Elliot’s brow furrowed, his voice rising sharply. “Are you serious right now? She’s a little girl! Why are you trying to compete with a child?” In two years of dating and eight years of marriage, it was the first time he had ever raised his voice at me. We both froze. Oliver ran out of his room, demanding to go along. I instinctively reached out to stop him. “No, Oliver. It’s freezing outside, and you just recovered from a cold.” But he turned and bit my hand, his eyes filled with a shocking amount of malice. “I want to see Lola! She’s more important than you!” I stood there for a long time, staring at the small teeth marks on my skin. Only when the cold draft from the open door made me shiver did I walk over to my laptop. With a numb heart, I deleted the clause in the divorce papers that granted me custody of Oliver. I sat on the edge of the bed, unable to sleep. I opened my phone to see Cathy had posted an update. “This is what happens when you lie…” The photo showed two empty boxes of condoms. A minute ago, she had replied to a comment: “Lola’s dad said we don’t need them anymore. He wants us to have another baby. Should I say yes?” I tagged her and replied: “Yes, go ahead.” On the nightstand rested the neatly wrapped gift box containing my positive pregnancy test. Elliot had never even noticed it. I picked it up, tore the report into tiny pieces, and dropped them into the trash bin one by one. Just like our marriage. There was a knock at the door. It was Elliot’s assistant. He handed me a beautifully packaged strawberry cake, offering a sheepish, apologetic smile. “Mrs. Hastings, Mr. Hastings asked me to come over and help you build a snowman. He said he’s deeply sorry, and he’ll make it up to you tomorrow.” I looked down at the receipt attached to the bag. “Two cakes?” “Ah, yes. The other is a mango cake for Ms. Cathy. I already dropped it off.” Elliot truly was a brilliant businessman; he never missed a detail. I remembered when we were still living in a cramped, damp studio apartment, barely scraping by. He hadn’t had the money to buy me a proper birthday cake, so he had bought a loaf of bread and some whipped cream, assembling a sad, lopsided treat. He had cried, holding my hands. “Aria, I don’t have much right now, but what I give you will always be yours alone. Once I make it, I’ll give you the absolute best life.” Now, we had the money. But nothing was mine alone anymore. I smiled gently at the assistant. “I don’t really like cake anymore. You can throw it away. Thanks for coming by.” When I woke up the next morning, my newly registered social media account had been banned again. Elliot was making his boundary clear: Cathy was untouchable. Even a simple comment was forbidden. A dull ache settled in my chest. I pulled out my suitcases and began to pack. When Elliot had first bought this house, he had been as excited as a teenager. “Aria, we finally have space! Now you can display all those little keepsakes you love collecting.” I had been so happy. Our old apartment had been so damp that my cherished mementos were always rotting or breaking. I sifted through the boxes now. Love letters Elliot had written in college, photo albums from our road trips, dried flowers from our anniversaries… They were just relics of a dead past. They had no place in my future. I dragged the trash can over and tossed them in, one by one. My text messages to him had gone unanswered since morning. I had sent: “Are you coming home? I want to talk.” He had ignored it. It was our first silent war in ten years. All because of Cathy. I looked at the signed divorce papers and then at my plane ticket. Elliot was waiting for me to break, to beg for his attention. But I was out of time. Late that night, my phone finally rang. It was him. “Oliver is sick,” Elliot said, his voice strained. “Can you come over? Lola is running a fever too, and I can’t handle both of them by myself.” I bolted out of bed. Despite how cruel Oliver had been to me, he was still the child I had raised for six years. I couldn’t stop worrying about him if I tried. When I arrived at Cathy’s apartment, she opened the door, looking every bit the lady of the house. “Aria, you should have texted us. I would have had Elliot pick you up. Look at you, you didn’t even put on shoes.” My eyes were bloodshot, panic clawing at my throat. “Where is Oliver? I’m taking him to the hospital!” Elliot stepped out of the bedroom, his face dark as he glared at me. “Keep your voice down! Lola just fell asleep!” Oliver stood behind him, his face flushed a deep, feverish red. I rushed forward and pulled him into my arms, my voice cracking with emotion. “I told you not to let him out in the cold! He just recovered from a fever! Why didn’t you give him his medicine?” Elliot’s face hardened at my lecture. Cathy stepped in, trying to play the peacemaker. “It’s my fault. Elliot was playing with Lola all day and was exhausted. Oliver didn’t say anything about feeling sick either.” Months of suppressed rage finally boiled over. I pointed a finger directly at her face. “Who gave you permission to speak? You’re a homewrecker. What right do you have to talk about my son? I’ve been entirely too polite to you—” Cathy’s eyes welled with tears. “Slap.” A sharp sting bloomed across my cheek. Elliot stood over me, his eyes burning with anger. “Aria, you’ve gone too far.” Oliver wrenched himself out of my grip and threw himself in front of Cathy, shielding her. “Don’t bully her! It was my fault!” The husband I had loved for ten years. The son I had nearly died to bring into this world. To both of them, I was now the monster. The fight drained out of me. A hollow laugh escaped my lips, dissolving into tears. “Oliver,” I whispered, my voice sounding incredibly distant. “Are you coming with me? I’ll take you to the doctor.” Perhaps the finality in my voice startled him, because he hesitated. But then, he shook his head firmly. “I don’t need you. Aunt Cathy is enough for me.” I gave him one last look, turned, and walked away. I slammed the heavy door behind me, stepping out into the biting winter wind. Neither of them followed. I bought a pair of cheap shoes and a coat at a twenty-four-hour convenience store, then hailed a cab to the airport. As the first morning light began to break over the horizon, my flight took off. I wiped my tears, pulled out my phone, and sent Elliot one last text before switching it to airplane mode. “Let’s get a divorce.”

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I was a Humbert girl. Gary, my boyfriend of ten years, had always known exactly what that meant. In our family, there was an ancient, unyielding rule: if a daughter wasn’t married by her thirtieth birthday, she was officially struck from the family registry, stripped of her inheritance, and barred from ever returning to the family estate. There were less than two weeks left until I turned thirty. Buckling under the relentless pressure from my parents, I finally sat Gary down to talk. Just a moment before, he had looked me in the eye and promised we would put the wedding on the schedule within the next few days. But the very next second, he stepped out onto the porch, and I accidentally overheard his phone call with his childhood best friend, Serena. “I’m just playing along,” Gary said, his voice dripping with easy amusement. “You just got divorced last week, Serena. If I went and got married right now, what kind of best friend would I be? I’d be a total prick.” There was a pause as he listened to her reply. “Her? Oh, she’s easy to handle. Once the dust settles and I can’t keep delaying it, I’ll just give her a little attention, throw her a bone, and she’ll fall right back into line.” He laughed softly, a sound that made my blood run cold. “Don’t worry about it. Her family has that archaic rule—no husband by thirty, and she’s exiled. She has nowhere else to go but to me anyway.” The autumn wind swept across the porch, biting through my sweater. I shivered, the chill settling deep into my bones. I didn’t make a sound. I just stood there in the shadows, letting the hot tears spill silently down my face. So this was what ten years of love amounted to. I pulled out my phone, opened my messages, and typed a text to my mother. “Mom, that guy you wanted to set me up with. I’ll marry him.” … I walked back into the living room and sat quietly on the sofa. The clock on the wall ticked away. One hour. Two hours. By the fourth hour, the low murmur of his voice on the porch finally ceased. When Gary walked back inside and saw me, his brow furrowed slightly. “You’re still up? It’s freezing out here.” It had taken me four hours to numb myself, to build a fragile dam over my emotions. Yet, at his casual question, the dam collapsed. I forced myself to look away, terrified he would see the raw redness in my eyes. “Gary,” I said, my voice thick, fighting to keep the tremor out of it. “If I married someone else, would you be sad?” Gary didn’t answer. After a long moment, he set his phone down, looking at me with mild confusion. “What? Sorry, did you say something?” He was still typing a message to Serena. Before I could repeat myself, he grabbed his jacket from the rack. “I have to step out for a bit. Go to bed, don’t wait up.” He left in a rush, completely missing the hollow disappointment in my eyes. Even though I knew I shouldn’t, after he left, I found myself grabbing my keys. I drove through the dark streets, following him to a dimly lit cocktail lounge downtown. I found a quiet, shadowed corner near the back and sat down. Almost immediately, a burst of laughter drifted over from a VIP booth nearby. “The second Gary heard Serena lost the dare and had to kiss some random guy, he practically flew over here. Still as possessive as ever, I swear.” “Right? I still remember Serena’s wedding last year. Gary got so wasted trying to outdrink the groom that he ended up throwing up all over the guy’s suit.” Sitting in the dark, the pieces of a puzzle I had spent a year trying to solve finally clicked into place. Last year, Gary had abandoned me in front of my entire family. It was the first time in ten years he had agreed to come home with me for Thanksgiving. My father had been ecstatic. He hosted a massive, neighborhood-wide pig roast, inviting everyone in our small town to celebrate. But once everyone sat down, Gary vanished. I called him a dozen times. Every single call went straight to voicemail. By the time I was on the verge of tears, he finally sent a dry text: “Something came up. Had to leave.” I had to dry my tears, plaster on a smile, and host the dinner alone, weaving lie after lie to cover for him when my parents pressed for answers. That night, I booked the first flight back to the city. When I walked into our apartment, I found him passed out on the sofa, his collar stained with vomit. The next morning, he offered no explanation. He acted as though nothing had happened. When I finally demanded to know why he had left me like that, he shrugged. “There doesn’t need to be a grand reason for everything, Bella. I wanted to leave, so I left.” We didn’t speak for three days. In the end, I was the one who broke the silence, begging for his forgiveness. The loud cheering from the booth snapped me back to the present. In the center of the crowd, the two of them were kissing. Serena’s eyes were closed, her cheeks flushed, while Gary held her with a gentle, fierce intensity, as if she were the most precious thing in the world. The crowd erupted in cheers. I raised my phone and silently took a photo. In the ten years I had been with Gary, his friends had never respected me. Just like tonight, not a single person in that circle thought to stop this absurd farce out of respect for his girlfriend. I remembered the first time I attended one of their gatherings—a casual backyard barbecue. Serena had spent the entire evening leaning against Gary, laughing brightly. Whenever she took a bite of something she didn’t like, she casually tossed the leftovers onto Gary’s plate, and he naturally ate them without a second thought. When I later admitted how uncomfortable it made me, Serena overheard. She rolled her eyes, her tone dripping with condescension. “Bella, you are so backward. What century are you living in, the Victorian era?” “Gary and I grew up together. We’re practically siblings. If there was ever going to be anything between us, it would’ve happened a decade ago. You wouldn’t even be in the picture.” The other friends had immediately chimed in. “Seriously, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. Serena has always been one of the guys. Don’t go pinning your insecurities on her.” “Exactly. We all spoil her. If you can’t handle how we hang out, maybe you shouldn’t come to these dinners.” “What a buzzkill. Getting jealous over nothing.” Gary had sat there in silence, letting his friends tear me down. After that night, he quietly removed me from their group chat, and I was never invited to another gathering. I kept taking photos until my phone screen flashed a low-battery warning. Across the room, the two of them finally parted. Serena buried her face in Gary’s chest, whispering something in his ear. Gary let out a fond, indulgent laugh, gesturing for the rest of the group to head out. My phone screen warned me it had thirty seconds before shutting down. I opened my chat with Gary. My last message from yesterday—asking what kind of wedding favors he preferred—sat unanswered at the bottom of the screen. I scrolled up. The thread was a monument of me talking to myself, punctuated by his rare, one-word replies when he was in a decent mood. I took a deep breath, typed “We’re done”, and hit send. The screen went black a second later. I didn’t look for a charger, nor did I make any move to leave. I just sat there in the dim light, ordering another drink. People always said alcohol could numb the pain, but all it did was bring Gary’s ghost back to haunt me. I remembered how he refused to celebrate my birthdays, claiming he “hated milestones and forced sentimentality.” Yet, for Serena’s birthday, he had rented out an entire historic theater downtown just to orchestrate a surprise performance for her. I remembered how he hated the cold and refused to ever build a snowman with me during our winter trips. Yet, he readily flew to Antarctica to go ice-climbing with Serena. I remembered how he scoffed at the wool scarf I spent months knitting for him, calling it tacky, while he kept a cheap, broken keychain Serena had put together on his car keys every single day. Serena posted all of his grand gestures on her Instagram. She never blocked me. She was never afraid of me making a scene, because she knew Gary would never take my side. As the memories flashed through my mind, the sheer absurdity of the last ten years finally hit me. I finished off a few more glasses, the alcohol hitting me hard. When I stumbled out of the lounge, I wanted to call an Uber, but my phone was dead. Just then, a low rumble of thunder rolled overhead, and a torrential downpour began to flood the streets. I let out a bitter, wet laugh. What a perfect end to a miserable day. My head was spinning violently. Through the blurry curtain of rain, I saw a figure walking toward me. Assuming he was the valet, I reached into my bag, pulled out my car keys and a wad of cash, and shoved them into his hands. “Take me to Oakridge Townhomes,” I muttered. I climbed into the passenger seat, closed my eyes, and let the darkness take me, entirely missing the look of quiet resignation that crossed the man’s face. When I woke up, the morning sun was streaming through the bedroom window. My head throbbed with a vicious hangover. I sat up and noticed my car keys and the cash sitting neatly on the nightstand. The hazy memories of the previous night slowly pieced themselves together. The stranger had driven me home, carried me in, left the keys and the cash on the table, and quietly slipped away. I rubbed my temples, trying to place his face. He had looked incredibly familiar, but my alcohol-soaked brain couldn’t grasp the memory. I plugged in my phone and turned it on. There were no new notifications from Gary. I opened Instagram. Serena had posted a new photo a few hours ago. “Just mentioned in passing that I wanted to go for a swim, and he went ahead and booked the entire rooftop pool.” The photo showed Serena in a flowing white bikini, laughing radiantly. In the background, Gary was looking at her with a soft, affectionate smile. Gary hadn’t replied to my breakup text. But he had liked her post. Then, a string of voice messages from my mother came through. “Bella! Your father went to the church first thing this morning to speak with the pastor. The fifteenth is a perfect date! Time is tight, sweetheart, so book your flight home immediately. There are so many wedding details to sort out.” “I can’t tell you how relieved I am, Bella. Your father and I were sick with worry. If you turned thirty without a husband, the family council would have cut you off. We couldn’t bear the thought of you being out there all alone. You’re our only girl.” My mother’s voice cracked with emotion. The warmth of unconditional love washed over me, melting away the lingering gray clouds of the night before. It was finally time to leave this ten-year shadow behind. I booked a one-way flight for that evening and began packing my life into suitcases. Near the bottom of the closet, I pulled out a dusty garment bag. Inside was a light blue, halter-neck mermaid dress. The sweet, naive memories of our first date had long faded, leaving behind only a cold, sharp humiliation. Halfway through our date that night, Serena had crashed it, claiming she wanted to “vet” her best friend’s new girl. She had looked me up and down, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “Bella, this is so over-the-top. The dress makes you look like you’re trying way too hard. It’s honestly kind of tacky.” Embarrassment had burned hot in my chest. I had looked to Gary, silently begging him to defend me. But he had only looked down at his drink, silent and indifferent. I had spent the rest of the night clutching my hem, keeping my head bowed. As soon as we got home, I hid the dress away, never wearing it again. I shook out the creases of the dress. Slipping it on, I was surprised to find it still fit perfectly. I walked over to the full-length mirror. The mirror reflected soft, elegant curves, the silk hugging my waist in a way that wasn’t tacky at all. I wasn’t the plain, awkward girl Gary’s friends made me out to be. I was beautiful. A quiet sense of closure washed over me. The sound of the front door opening broke the silence. Gary was home. He tossed his keys onto the entryway table with a tired sigh. When he walked into the bedroom and saw the open suitcases on the floor, his brow knitted in irritation. Then, I stepped out of the closet. His eyes locked onto me, and for a fraction of a second, he went entirely still. “When did you buy that dress?” he asked, his voice low. “Do you think it’s tacky?” I countered quietly. I didn’t wait for his answer. The dress that had defined years of my insecurity was entirely foreign to him. He didn’t even remember it. Gary’s expression quickly smoothed over into a cool, dismissive smirk. He didn’t say another word, turning to loosen his tie as he strolled toward the sofa. It was his usual play—giving me the silent treatment, waiting for my insecurities to flare up until I crawled over to beg for his approval. But this time, I merely glanced at him, walked back into the room, and continued packing. An hour passed. The silence in the apartment stretched, and the indifferent expression on Gary’s face began to sour. In ten years, I had never ignored him for this long. I zipped my final suitcase, rolled it to the front door, and reached for the handle. Before I could open it, Gary’s hand clamped down on my arm, pulling me back. “I was gone for one night, Bella. Are we seriously doing this? You’re throwing a tantrum and moving out?” “Didn’t you read my text?” I asked, looking at his hand on my wrist. “We’re done. I don’t make a habit of living with my exes. Let go. I’m going home.” Confusion and disbelief flashed across Gary’s face. He pulled out his phone, opened his messages, and scrolled past the endless pinned chats—with Serena’s name sitting comfortably at the very top—before finding my name under his muted contacts list. He stared at the words “We’re done”. “Why?” he asked, looking up, genuinely baffled. I unlocked my phone, opened my gallery, and handed it to him. The screen was filled with the clear, sharp photos of him and Serena kissing at the lounge. Gary’s body went rigid. “You followed me?” I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Is that really your first question? No explanation?” “It was a stupid party game, Bella,” he said, rubbing his temples, his tone laced with exasperation. “I couldn’t just let Serena stand there and be humiliated in front of everyone. You’re turning thirty in a few days. Why are you still throwing tantrums like a child? Grow up.” A cold weight pressed down on my chest. So he did remember my birthday. “Gary, if I don’t get married this month, my family will disown me. Did you ever, for one single second, think about what that would do to me?” He let out a dry, mocking laugh. “So that’s what this whole dramatic show is about.” He stepped closer, cutting me off. “I already told you I’d get the wedding sorted out. What are you clawing for? You’re so desperate to get married that it’s honestly pathetic, Bella. If it weren’t for me, who else would even take you?” I stared at him, a laugh bubbling up from the sheer absurdity of it all. He was still lying to me. He had no idea I had heard his porch conversation. He didn’t want a wedding; he wanted a placeholder. I didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. I yanked my arm out of his grip, grabbed my suitcase, and stepped out the door. “Think carefully, Bella!” Gary’s voice sliced through the hallway, cold and sharp. “If you step into that elevator, don’t expect me to ever ask you to marry me again. You know I don’t chase people. I’ve given you enough slack. Don’t push your luck.” He didn’t understand. I didn’t want to marry him anymore. Seeing the elevator doors slide shut without a single backward glance from me, Gary slammed the apartment door shut and marched back into the bedroom. Fine. Let her leave. He wasn’t going to play into her hand this time. When she came crawling back in a few days, he would make sure she learned her lesson. But that night, Gary was chased by nightmares. He dreamt of Bella in a sweeping white wedding gown, walking down a long, sunlit aisle toward another man. No matter how loudly he called her name, she never turned around. Gary woke up drenched in a cold sweat. The apartment was utterly silent, bathed in the pale, cold glow of the moon. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, an unfamiliar, suffocating dread clawing at his chest. He tried to shake it off. In the past, whenever they argued, she never lasted more than three days before sending a tentative, apologetic text. But as the days turned into a week, the silence from her end remained absolute. To drown out the unease, Gary practically lived at the lounge. But his mind was elsewhere. He threw a game of poker, prompting groans from the table. “Come on, Gary, you practically handed that hand to Serena. If you’re going to throw the game that obviously, we’re not playing anymore.” Serena’s cheeks flushed pink. “Oh, stop it, guys. We’ll just take a penalty drink together.” She poured a glass, leaning her body heavily against his. “How about we do something different tonight, Gary? Let me feed you.” The crowd cheered, egging them on. Gary sat frozen as Serena leaned in, her lips pressing against his to pass the drink. For a split second, a image flashed in his mind: if Bella saw this, she would have puffed her cheeks out, her eyes wide with a quiet, jealous pout that he always secretly found adorable. When he had first accepted Bella’s confession ten years ago, he had only planned on a casual fling. But over the years, she had been incredibly docile. She rarely cried, she never demanded much, and even when she got hurt, she would quietly heal herself and show up the next morning with a warm breakfast and a bright smile. Thinking of this, Gary’s heart softened. Fine, he would forgive her. She must be going out of her mind with anxiety after a week of silence anyway. This would teach her not to test his patience again. Amused, he opened his phone and went to his muted contacts. His smile froze. The chat was completely empty. There wasn’t a single missed call, not a single message. A sudden wave of panic crashed over him. He stood up so abruptly that Serena, who was still draped over his shoulder, lost her balance and slipped off the leather sofa, landing hard on the floor. Gary didn’t even look down at her tearful, shocked face. He grabbed his keys and flew out of the bar, driving like a madman back to the apartment complex. When he pulled into the driveway and saw the warm lights glowing in their apartment window, the suffocating dread in his chest finally eased. He practically ran up the stairs, bursting through the front door. “So you finally decided to come home,” he said, trying to inject a note of stern authority into his voice to hide how much his hands were shaking. But as he stepped into the living room, his entire body went rigid.

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