Author: Momo Chan

After I got pregnant, I became incredibly anxious. Every day, I’d text Ethan Vance, asking if he loved me. For the first 99 times, he’d respond gently. Until the 100th time I asked. He suddenly replied with three impatient messages. `[Aria, are you that bored?]` `[Now that your morning sickness is over and the baby isn’t bothering you, you’re going to start bothering me?]` `[If you have so much time, why don’t you look in the mirror and see that face of yours? It looks like a bruised piece of meat.]` I froze. The next second, the messages were unsent, and a voice message popped up. “My apologies, my assistant accidentally sent that. Please don’t mind it.” Whether it was accidental or not didn’t matter anymore. All I knew was, our marriage was completely over. I got up and went to the clinic. When I walked out, my four-month-old baby was gone. By the time I got home, it was pitch black outside. The living room lights were on, and Ethan Vance was sitting on the couch. He looked up when he heard the door, his brows furrowed. “Where have you been? Why are you back so late? Couldn’t you bother to reply to my messages or calls?” I didn’t say anything. I kicked off my shoes and went to pour myself a glass of water. He looked at me, his gaze lingering on my face for a few seconds before he finally spoke: “About what happened this afternoon, I explained it to you. My assistant grabbed the wrong phone.” “She’s already apologized to me, and I gave her a stern talking-to. It won’t happen again.” An assistant, grabbing her boss’s private phone by mistake? I chuckled softly, put down my glass, and looked at him. Ethan Vance was incredibly handsome. I’d known that from the first moment I saw him. Now at thirty-three, he looked better than most men his age. Sitting on the couch in his loungewear, he looked like he’d stepped right out of a magazine. I used to love looking at him, thinking I’d never get tired of it. But today, I suddenly realized that his good looks had nothing to do with me anymore. It was like a beautiful dress in a storefront window. You look at it for a long time through the glass, thinking it’s yours, but you never actually get to hold it. “Ethan,” I spoke, my voice calmer than I expected: “What was your assistant’s name again?” He paused. “Megan. Why?” “How long has she been with you?” “About six months,” he said, then added, “Why are you asking? I told you it was a misunderstanding, didn’t I? Do you have to keep dwelling on it? Can’t you just pretend you didn’t see it?” He fired off four questions in a row. I didn’t answer him, instead continuing: “I remember when she first started, you mentioned she was clumsy, nothing like the efficient type you usually preferred. Then you stopped talking about her, and I thought you’d fired her.” “Turns out you didn’t fire her. And because of her, I’ve noticed that for the past six months, your overtime hours have been getting longer, and your business trips more frequent.” Ethan Vance’s brows furrowed again. “Aria, what exactly are you trying to say?” I smiled. “I’m just stating facts.” His frown deepened, and his tone became impatient: “Aria, I know pregnancy is hard, and your emotions are all over the place. I get that. But you can’t be paranoid over a few accidentally sent messages. It’s not good for you, and it’s not good for the baby.” Baby. That word was like a needle, piercing straight through my heart. How long had we been married? Four years, I think.

When I was twenty-two, I secretly came back from overseas to have some fun. At a friend’s party, I fell for Ethan Vance at first sight and pursued him. At first, he thought I was too young. Later, I relentlessly pursued him, laying my heart bare. I sent him flowers, gave him jewelry, and even proposed to him. People gossiped, saying I was too bold, too eager. But I didn’t care. Shouldn’t you be brave when you love someone? Later, we got together. We dated for a year before getting married. For four years of marriage, every single day, I was the one carefully giving my all. He’d respond with just a little bit, and I’d feel like my whole world lit up. It wasn’t until I got pregnant that I noticed he seemed happy, even giving me more attention than usual. But deep down, I suddenly started to feel uneasy. I kept pestering him, asking if he loved me. Though he never said “I love you,” he’d gently reply with “I’ll come home early.” Until this time, his private phone, which he never even let me touch, was taken and used to send multiple messages. Only then did I understand. He’d never truly cared about me, not once. But it was fine; it was over now. I was tired of loving him. Seeing that I remained silent, he probably thought I’d given in. He walked over to me, bending down as if to hug me. “Alright, don’t overthink things. The housekeeper made you some soup; drink a little and get some rest. Tomorrow’s the weekend, I’ll take you shopping…” “I aborted the baby.” My words were barely a whisper. He froze. His arm was still in mid-air, poised to hug me. The living room was so quiet you could hear the wall clock ticking. One tick, two ticks, three ticks. Then he straightened up, looking down at me, as if he hadn’t understood. “What did you say?” I looked up, meeting his gaze, and said, word for word: “I said, the baby’s gone.” “After you sent those messages, I went to the clinic and had the procedure done.” Ethan Vance’s face gradually turned white. In the five years I’d known him, I’d almost never seen him lose his composure. He was always in control in front of everyone, emotionally stable like a finely tuned machine. But at this moment, that machine had jammed. I found it oddly refreshing and kept watching him. “You aborted the baby without consulting me?” My lips remained curved. “Yes.” “Aria.” He called my name, his voice trembling: “That was my baby too.” I shrugged indifferently. “I know.” “You know?” His voice suddenly rose, his eyes instantly turning bloodshot: “You knew, and you still went to the clinic by yourself and aborted the baby, without even telling me!” “Aria! Do you even see me as your husband?” He had never yelled at me like this before. In our occasional arguments, he would at most just go silent with a cold expression, waiting for me to back down first. At that moment, I suddenly laughed: “Ethan, so you *can* get angry? You *can* get red-eyed? You *can* have moments like this when you lose your composure? I thought you were only capable of giving me the silent treatment.” Ethan Vance froze, then instantly clamped a hand on my jaw, his eyes blazing with fury. “Aria! What exactly are you trying to pull? I told you those messages weren’t from me. Why won’t you just believe me!” “And that wasn’t just your baby, it was mine too. How dare you get rid of it by yourself without consulting me?” “Since you’re so capable of aborting my child on your own, then you better make me another one!”

He suddenly lowered his head and bit my lip. A metallic taste quickly filled my mouth, and I winced in pain. In our one year of dating and four years of marriage, he had never initiated a kiss. Even during our most intimate moments, I was always the one to initiate the kiss. There was a time I dreamed he’d be more proactive. But now, I just felt disgusted. I bit him back, hard. He cried out in pain and roughly shoved me away. I looked up, my eyes red, staring fixedly at him: “If you want a baby, go find another woman to have one with. I’m sure your assistant would be thrilled to have your baby.” Ethan Vance froze: “What did you say?” My eyes red, I shrieked: “I said, if you want a baby, go have one with your assistant! Don’t you dare disgust me!” “Ethan, you truly, truly disgust me now!” He stared intently at me, like he wanted to pierce right through me. Three seconds later, he suddenly laughed. “Fine! Since you’re so generous, I’ll give you what you want.” “Don’t you dare regret it! And don’t come back crying and begging me!” The door slammed shut with a heavy thud. Silence fell. I looked at the closed door, tears silently streaming down my face, until finally, I burst into loud sobs. As if to cry out all the grievances of so many years. Ethan Vance, this time, I won’t regret it. And I won’t beg you ever again. I wiped away my tears and made a call. “Marcus, pull the funding we gave Ethan.” Ethan Vance didn’t come back that night. The next morning, I went to a lawyer’s office to prepare divorce papers. It was the weekend, so he wasn’t at work. But I didn’t know where to find him. Just then, my phone popped up with a video. Immediately followed by Chloe’s frantic voice message. “Aria! Isn’t this your super-cool, unapproachable husband?” “I saw him at The Galleria with some woman! He even knelt down to tie her shoelace for her!” “You’re only four months pregnant, and he’s already out chasing other women? That asshole, has he no shame?! Holy crap, I’m going to kill those two scumbags!” I tapped on the video. In the clip, the man who always acted so superior around me was kneeling down to tie a girl’s shoelace, just because of a few playful words from her. The girl laughed and filmed him with her phone, and he was smiling reluctantly too. My heart still couldn’t help but ache. I used to wish for that, too. But back then, he always maintained an aloof posture. He never flat-out refused, but he never reciprocated either. Leaving me to awkwardly find an excuse to back down. I forced a smile and replied to Chloe. “We’re getting a divorce.” No sooner had I sent the message than an unknown number called. “Ms. Vance, your husband and a friend have had a disagreement. Please come to the police station as soon as possible.” Chloe was impulsive, but I hadn’t expected her to act so quickly. I quickly hailed a taxi and went there. As I arrived at the entrance, the noisy commotion was still ongoing. “Ethan Vance! How could you do this to Aria? She’s only four months pregnant, and you couldn’t resist going out and cheating! And you openly took your mistress shopping, tying her shoelace! Why don’t you just drop dead!” “Our Aria was so good to you, loved you so much…” “Wasn’t she practically throwing herself at me?” Ethan Vance interrupted her, his face cold. I froze in place. Ethan Vance’s voice continued: “Did I ask her to be good to me? Did I ask her to love me? Wasn’t she the one who was desperate, who practically climbed into my bed, who married me at the flick of my wrist? So, what’s her kindness got to do with me? I don’t love her, why should I respond to her? Now that she’s pregnant, do I have to stay loyal to her forever?”

Chloe was furious; if the officers hadn’t held her back, she would have lunged at him. “Ethan Vance! Do you have any conscience?! If it wasn’t for Aria back then, you’d be behind bars by now…” “Chloe!” I cut her off, walking in and looking at the police officer. “I’m taking her.” Before the officer could speak, Ethan Vance said in a deep voice: “Are they just going to leave after hitting my person?” I looked at the woman next to him, eyes red, covering her face and leaning into him, then finally at Ethan. “What do you want?” Ethan Vance’s eyes were cold and narrowed. “Your friend slapped Megan, now I want her to return it.” Chloe looked like she’d heard a joke. “Let her hit me, you think…” “Who said I want you to return it?” Ethan Vance cut Chloe off, his gaze fixed on my face. “Aria, your friend made a mistake for you, so you should be the one to pay the price.” “You son of a bi—” Chloe trembled with rage, rushing forward to tear apart those two scumbags. The next second, I spoke. “Okay.” Chloe whipped her head around: “Aria, are you crazy? He cheated! He wronged you!” I ignored her and walked up to Ethan Vance and Megan. “Do it.” Megan’s eyes were red, and she said softly: “Mr. Vance, please don’t make your wife uncomfortable, I…” *Slap!* Before she could finish, Ethan Vance grabbed her hand and harshly swung it across my face. A burning, stinging pain instantly spread. After the slap, I turned to leave. “Did I say you could leave?” Ethan Vance’s tone was icy cold: “She slapped Megan once. I want you to return it ten times over.” He pulled Megan forward. Before I could react, slaps rained down, one after another. *Slap! Slap! Slap…* Nine slaps, each one heavier, each one crueler than the last. With each blow, what little love remained in my heart dissipated a little more. After the final slap, I felt nothing at all. A warm liquid flowed from the corner of my mouth, and my mouth was filled with the taste of rust. None of the nearby officers dared to interfere. Because the one doing the hitting was Ethan Vance, who practically ran the city. After hitting me, Ethan Vance rubbed Megan’s hand. He warned me coldly: “Keep your friend in check. Next time, don’t let her bark like a mad dog and scare my person.” With that, he pulled Megan, ready to leave. “Ethan.” I called out to him, taking out the divorce papers: “Let’s get a divorce.” Ethan Vance looked incredulous: “You want to divorce me?” I nodded: “Yes.” He stared at me for a full ten seconds, then laughed. “Aria, I haven’t even settled the score with you for aborting our baby behind my back. Now you’re coming at me with divorce, playing hard to get?” I forced a smile: “You’re overthinking it.” Ethan Vance’s face instantly darkened. He snatched the divorce papers, quickly signed his name, and then harshly slapped them back onto my face. “Aria, a friendly reminder: without me, you’re nothing.” “And when you come crawling back to me crying for forgiveness, I won’t even spare you a glance.” At the hospital, Chloe cried while applying medicine to my face. “How dare he hit you? What right does he have to hit you? If it wasn’t for you back then, that Ethan Vance would be behind bars, and he wouldn’t be here throwing his weight around and bullying you!” “That asshole! I’m definitely going to find a way to get revenge! I want him dead, I want to avenge you!” I chuckled a little, “I’ve already told Marcus to pull the funding.”

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When I fell into the ocean, my childhood sweetheart, Ethan, swam towards my cousin, leaving me to be swept away by the waves. My family thought I was dead. Ethan married my cousin, Tiffany. Three years later, I returned home, and my parents’ first reaction wasn’t joy. Instead, they were worried about upsetting Tiffany and causing her to have a miscarriage. My mom’s eyes darted away, and my dad’s face held a warning. After Tiffany moved in, my family forbade me from arguing with her, including over Ethan, whom I loved. But they didn’t know I’d lost my memory after falling into the sea. I now had a fiancé who loved me and a new family. It was the third year since I fell into the ocean. My mom, eyes swollen, took my hand. “Elara, don’t blame them. No one expected you to come back.” I pulled my hand back, feeling a little awkward. My dad slammed his hand on the table. “The search teams went out multiple times and found nothing. It’s your own bad luck; who else is there to blame?” “Tiffany married Ethan and she’s pregnant. When they get here, don’t say anything to upset her.” I looked at the fork that had fallen to the floor. A little lost. Ethan? It sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t recall much. After drifting at sea for three days and three nights, Liam Hayes saved me. He said I hit a reef and lost my memory. It wasn’t until recently that I recalled I might have a family. I hadn’t planned on coming back. But Liam’s family was so loving. They didn’t believe their own parents would abandon a child, unless by accident. Watching my mom guiltily turn her head away and my dad’s unwelcoming expression, I instinctively felt that my subconscious had been right. But, it didn’t matter. I’d already died once. I’ll love those who love me, and ignore those who don’t. I said calmly, “Okay, I won’t say anything out of line.” My dad choked on his words. My mom put some food on my plate, sighing. “Elara, these past three years haven’t been easy for anyone.” “Tiffany was with us all this time, and Ethan felt so guilty about not saving you.” “You don’t know how much they suffered. Ethan lost over twenty pounds, and Tiffany forced a smile to reassure us.” I picked out the cilantro I didn’t like. Suddenly, I missed the meals Liam’s mom used to make. Half an hour later, the guests finally arrived. Tiffany Thompson touched her slightly bulging stomach, her face filled with guilt. “Mom, Dad, it’s all my fault.” “My stomach hurt a bit before we left, and Ethan was too worried. He insisted we go to the hospital to get it checked.” Seeing her pale face, my mom quickly asked Ethan, “What did the doctor say? Is everything okay?” I glanced over inadvertently. Ethan’s eyes were a little red, and he quickly avoided my gaze. How strange. I said I didn’t remember Ethan. My mom thought I was just being stubborn. She said we used to be inseparable, like two peas in a pod, even sharing a bed when we were kids. “Elara, let’s talk things out nicely and part amicably. It’s better for everyone.” She said “good” so many times. But she never once asked: “You were missing for three years; how have you been out there?” When I was rescued, my phone and wallet weren’t with me. Did I have money? What did I eat, what did I wear, how did I live? I wasn’t complaining. There was no disappointment. The Hayes family had been so good to me. So good that I had come to believe I had always belonged to their family. I was just curious. How could parents be so cold to their own child? From the moment she entered, Tiffany kept looking my way, noticing my glance at Ethan. Her expression grew agitated, mixed with a hint of sorrow. “Elara, I’m so sorry.” “It was an accident when I pulled you into the water. I thought Ethan would save you first.” Ethan’s eyes completely panicked, afraid to look at me. My dad interrupted. “Tiffany, you don’t need to apologize to her!” “Elara must have pushed you first, and you lost your balance, pulling her down with you.” “It was only right for Ethan to save you first.” My mom gently stroked Tiffany’s head. “Silly girl, Elara and you are good sisters; she won’t hold it against you.” “Rest easy and take care of your pregnancy. Your uncle Richard and I will handle everything.” Oh, my God. I knew I was terrified of water. Why would I even go to the beach? Turns out, someone pulled me into the water! Seeing that I didn’t speak, Tiffany’s face turned stark white, as if she had genuinely done something terribly wrong to me. But, if she truly wanted to apologize. How was it that every time she spoke, my family blamed me for being difficult? I didn’t remember what she did. But the feeling was incredibly uncomfortable. My dad’s voice grew even angrier. “You’re back now, so let’s turn the page on this. No one is allowed to bring it up again.” “Okay!” My dad was terrifying. He had none of Robert Hayes’ gentle demeanor. My mom was biased too. I, the victim, hadn’t even spoken, and she’d already easily forgiven them on my behalf. Whatever! Anyway, I didn’t remember anything. Perhaps, thanks to her pulling me, I completely forgot about my parents.

I got up and went into the kitchen. Ethan followed me in. Our eyes met, and I felt incredibly awkward. “Elara, how have you been these past three years?” “Pretty good.” “You weren’t dead. Why didn’t you ever come back? Was it because I didn’t save you?” I forced myself to answer. “Something like that!” “Mainly, I had amnesia and completely forgot I even had relatives.” Ethan’s face instantly froze. He wanted to speak again. Tiffany burst in. Seeing us talking, she called out intimately, “Honey, I want shrimp. Can you peel them for me?” Ethan followed her out. I glanced at the stove. I remembered Liam’s mom saying that steamed egg custard shouldn’t be left on the stove too long, or it’ll get rubbery. So, I took it out. My mom saw what I was holding and looked anxious. “Tiffany is pregnant; this bowl of sea cucumber and egg custard is specially for her.” Tiffany’s eyes lowered, showing a hint of forbearance. “Elara suffered a lot out there. I don’t need it.” My dad reacted as if he had some kind of post-traumatic stress. “She chose not to come back herself; what does that have to do with you? Don’t give it to her.” He was so fierce. I felt a little angry. But Liam’s mom said that when you’re doing well, it’s easy to be generous and not dwell on trivial matters. These past three years, they had given me so much care and love, making me gentle-tempered. I smiled slightly. “I wasn’t going to eat it. I just saw it was done steaming and helped take it out.” Ethan looked at me and mumbled instinctively, “Elara, you’ve changed so much.” I blurted out, “Have I?” My dad took a small sip of wine, saying contentedly, “Before, you always competed with your cousin for everything. Looks like suffering out there taught you some manners.” I was speechless. This neighborhood isn’t cheap! How can they act like a bowl of sea cucumber is such a big deal, making such a fuss about who gets to eat it? I yearned for Liam’s mom’s cooking again. Silverwood was near the ocean, and she often made big seafood feasts. Steamed grouper, vermicelli scallops with garlic, salt-baked mantis shrimp, spicy blue crabs. Seeing how much I loved them, the whole family would compete to put food on my plate. Tiffany had a prenatal class appointment, so she grabbed Ethan and left in a hurry. My mom praised him for being thoughtful, like a good father-to-be. Ethan gave me a complicated look. I pretended not to see it. Looking at my dark, cramped room, I figured I wouldn’t be back often, so I turned on the light and started clearing out things I didn’t want. My mom looked surprised. “Elara, isn’t this your favorite dress? Why is it on the floor?” She seemed to be reminiscing. “At first, I only bought one for Tiffany, and you were so mad you didn’t eat dinner for two days.” Was I really that childish? Liam’s younger brother, Caleb, would definitely tease me if he knew. I casually picked it up and said indifferently, “I don’t remember! That style is so outdated. If you don’t want to waste it, just use it as a rag!” My mom looked hurt. In her eyes, even if I never won against my cousin, I still showed an expectation for my parents, hoping they could be fair, at least buying each of us one. Yet now, she saw no ripple of emotion in my eyes. I packed a large bag of old things, ready to call someone to pick them up. Passing Tiffany’s room, it was beautifully decorated. Even though she had moved out, everything was neat and tidy, the duvet smelling of sunshine. Unlike my room, which was small, cramped, and dusty enough to make you choke. My mom’s expression was awkward, and she eagerly explained, “Tiffany loves cleanliness, so I tidied her room whenever I had time.” “Tomorrow I’ll find a cleaner. I’ll buy you the bedding you used to like, sweetie.” “No need.” I came back to Fairview to finalize my official records and change my registered address. Liam’s family had initially hoped I would get married with my parents present, so I wouldn’t have any regrets. But it seemed utterly unnecessary now. My phone chimed. The contact was labeled “My clingy puppy fiancé.” He sent several messages in a row: “Babe, are you happy seeing your parents?” “Why haven’t you given me my goodnight kiss yet? Has anyone bothered you?” “I bought your mom a jade necklace, and I heard your dad likes off-road vehicles, so I ordered one around two hundred thousand.” “Do you think the gifts are generous enough? My parents also want to send a carload of stuff.” I thought for a moment, then rapidly typed. I only replied with seven words. Liam was so startled he immediately called.

“Babe, what do you mean, ‘I don’t think they deserve it’?” “Has someone been bothering you?” Liam was terrified I’d suffer even the slightest grievance. I told him the truth. The staff’s words echoed in my ears: “Your parents had your registration officially cancelled.” “Generally, if someone is missing for four years, you can apply. But since you fell into the sea, considered an accident, your family could apply to the court in as little as two years.” I couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. A trace of doubt surfaced in my mind. Why was my dad so eager to declare me dead after only two years of my disappearance? On the other end of the phone, Liam gritted his teeth. “That’s outrageous! How could they do that to you?” He sounded a hundred times angrier than me. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t be there for you.” Liam’s branch office was in the next city. He wanted to come home with me but had an important client meeting. I told him to focus on his work. “Babe, are you sad?” Not really. It just felt strange to be inexplicably declared dead. I didn’t know how to explain it. I wasn’t particularly bothered. But there was a dull ache. I went to the courthouse to revoke the death decree. On the way, I ran into Ethan. He stared at me intently, his eyes swirling with an unreadable emotion. “Elara, after your uncle Richard cancelled your registration, I went to the beach to lay flowers whenever I had time.” I nodded, feeling incredibly awkward. “I wasn’t dead. Did I make you waste money?” He quickly shook his head, then added, as if explaining, “Tiffany and I only got together after your registration was canceled.” “By then, we were both barely holding on, and thankfully we became each other’s support.” “That’s good. You two look like a great match.” Ethan’s eyes turned red. “Elara, I know you loved me most. But Tiffany and I are married; I can’t betray her.” “Please don’t take it out on Tiffany; she’s fragile and pregnant with my child. She can’t handle any stress.” I looked at him, bewildered. “I’m not doing anything!” Ethan’s expression stiffened slightly. “That’s good! When the baby is born, Tiffany hopes you and Mom can help take care of it.” He seemed to be testing my reaction. I shook my head. “No, I’ll be leaving Fairview soon.” Ethan’s face instantly paled, and he grabbed my hand. “Say that again?” “I finally waited for you to come back; why are you leaving again?” I pulled my hand away with force. “My fiancé is in Silverwood. Isn’t it normal for me to leave with him?” Ethan’s voice was strained, trembling slightly. “Impossible. You said you’d marry me when we grew up… How could you choose someone else?” I looked at him, at a loss for words. “Uh, your name is Ethan, right?” “To me, you’re no different from a stranger now.” “You married my cousin, so don’t say such strange things.” “My fiancé is a jealous type. If he beats you up, it’s not his responsibility.” Ethan’s body trembled as he looked at me, his eyes reddening inch by inch. Is something wrong with this guy? Is he going crazy? I quickly walked away.

I don’t know if Ethan was bad luck. Soon after, I bumped into someone else. When she finally saw my face, She looked like she’d seen a ghost, screaming loudly. “Elara, I’m sorry. Even though we’re rivals, it’s only professionally. Please don’t come looking for me in broad daylight!” “I’m terrified of ghosts. I’ll go to the temple tomorrow to burn incense for you.” Me: … After all that fuss, it was just a misunderstanding. Seeing that I had a shadow while standing in the sun, Chloe Foster finally calmed down, patting her chest. “It’s not just me overreacting; everyone at the TV station thought you were dead.” “Your dad showed up at the director’s office with your death certificate and black-and-white photo, causing a huge scene.” “He claimed you fell into the sea by accident while interviewing fishermen and insisted that Tiffany take over your job, threatening to cause trouble every day if not.” To prove I wasn’t a ghost, Chloe dragged me to the station. I hadn’t worked there long. But I had a good education and strong work ethic, so my colleagues liked me. Everyone was complaining about Tiffany. “She can’t even edit a script in a day. When she messes up, all she does is cry, adding so much to our workload.” “If it weren’t for your sake, and the fact that her fiancé brought in advertising, she would have been fired long ago.” I couldn’t help but laugh wryly, buying my colleagues bubble tea. My mood on the way home suddenly felt like I was going to a funeral. As soon as I entered the house, a cup was suddenly thrown towards the doorway. I narrowly dodged it. Then I saw my dad, without even asking what happened, yelling at me. “Elara, look at what you’ve done. You just had to go to the TV station and embarrass your cousin.” My mom looked at me with displeasure, her tone full of disapproval and blame. “Tiffany is pregnant and often takes time off, so her colleagues are already jealous. Now that they know you’re not dead, but she’s taken your position, the boss will definitely make things difficult for her.” Tiffany’s eyes were red, looking so wronged she was about to cry. “Elara, I didn’t mean to take over your job.” “Uncle Richard said it’s best to keep opportunities within the family, and that a radio job is hard to get and brings Ethan prestige, so I agreed.” My dad rushed to cancel my registration to clear the way for Tiffany. I thought for a moment, then couldn’t help but laugh. “Tiffany, your grades were so bad, how could you possibly handle it? Be careful not to take on a role you’re not qualified for. You might just bring trouble upon yourself.” She looked anxious. “How do you know my grades were bad? Did you remember something?” “No! I saw your old test papers while packing. Your essays were always miles off-topic, and you couldn’t even get the basic literature questions right.” My dad noticed her discomfort and was about to scold me again. Tiffany, afraid I’d reveal more, quickly tried to appease him. “Uncle Richard, Elara misunderstood; that’s all in the past.” “Mr. Hayes from Zenith Corp rarely makes appearances; he’s a finance mogul the station has long wanted to interview.” “Thanks to Ethan collaborating with him, we got in touch. I actually contacted him directly a few days ago.” Her voice suddenly rose, and she glanced at me. “I will prove to all of you that I won’t do any worse than anyone else.” My dad looked relieved, and my mom was proud of her. I listened, utterly bewildered. Zenith Corp? It sounded like a branch company under the Hayes Group. Was the Mr. Hayes she spoke of Liam, or his distant cousin, Daniel, who was dealing with embezzlement issues?

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The Don who killed seven of my exes just to have me — yet stood by and let his side piece flaunt a positive pregnancy test in my face. When I dated, he kidnapped my boyfriend. When I got engaged, he chopped off my fiancé’s hands. So I drugged him, took three hundred sixty-five filthy photos of his sleeping body, and leaked every single one online. He woke up, wrapped a hand around my throat, and kissed me laughing. “That’s my girl. The rose I raised myself. We were always meant to bleed together.” I laughed too. God help me, I agreed. That was eight years ago. Eight years of blood, bullets, and a bed neither of us ever left empty. Nothing on earth could pry us apart. Until her. Sienna Moretti. Soft hands. Soft eyes. No blood under her nails. I’m at the black-market clinic for my tenth round of fertility treatment when she walks in, cradling a swollen belly like a prize. “You must be Christian’s sister,” she purrs. “I hear you kill people for sport. No wonder your womb won’t take.” I just nod. I don’t even blink. She knows what I am. She walked in here anyway. That’s not courage. That’s an invitation. I have her strapped to the operating table within minutes. The doctor doesn’t ask questions. He never does. I snap a picture of the bloody little thing they pull out of her and text it to Christian. Got your gift. I love it. Ten minutes later, every soul in the building has been cleared out by his men. He storms in with a Glock in his hand and fresh blood still drying on his collar. “Have you lost your mind?” “Wasn’t this your gift to me? I opened it. You’re not happy?” His jaw locks. His eyes—those cold dead eyes I’ve watched empty a hundred men—turn red as he stares at the operating room door. “Elena. She’s just a girl. You didn’t need to go this far.” “Just a girl?” I light a cigarette, let the smoke curl between us. “She knew I get off on killing. I figured you sent her over so I could blow off some steam.” I lean in close. “Tell me, big brother. Did I read it wrong? She wasn’t a present. She was your new mistress.” The fury drains out of him. Something worse replaces it. Guilt. He shoves past me into the operating room. The girl is already awake and screaming, clawing at her empty, bleeding stomach. “Christian! She killed our baby! Kill her, kill her!” He scoops her up like she’s made of glass and presses his gun against my forehead. “Elena. You went too far.” I laugh. I actually laugh. I push the barrel aside with one finger and blow smoke into his face. “So what now? You gonna put one in me to avenge that little bastard?” I trail my fingers down Sienna’s bloody thigh and slide the blade from my garter. “Or do you want to gut me too? Even the score for your lamb?” The knife is already moving. Sliding into her fresh wound, twisting just enough. She goes quiet. Out cold. “Sorry, brother. There’s nothing in mine to take.” His men swarm me, guns drawn from every angle. But Christian just stares at me. And then he smiles. He waves them off. “Out. All of you. I didn’t call you here.” “Elena. Well played.” “Right back at you, brother. You taught me everything I know.” Eight years. Ten dead boyfriends. That’s how long it took him to turn me into this. The night he made me his, he wrapped my hand around the hilt of his knife and drove it through my fiancé’s heart together. He whispered against my ear, “Once you become me, no one else will ever be good enough.” He pulled me down off my white pedestal and into the dirt. The white roses turned red. The stain never washed out. And now he wants something clean? That’s a joke. “What, brother? Disappointed I accepted your gift? You’re right, I should’ve gone further. You always say a real Vance leaves nothing standing. I’ll do better next time.” He stares at me for a long moment. Then he carries her out. “Elena. Remember this. We’re not done.” The consequences come faster than I expected.

That same night, my doctor calls. The one who’s done all ten rounds of IVF on me. Christian has shut down every treatment. He’s moving the doctor to the estate to take care of Sienna. He’s even confiscated my psychiatric meds. The fragile little lamb needs them more, apparently. When his men leave, I’m staring at the ceramic pieces in the display case. The ones Christian and I made by hand when we were young and stupid and in love. Marco is shaking with rage as he packs them into a box. “Miss Elena, the Don’s lost his mind. Turning on you for some outsider? If it weren’t for you, he’d be rotting in a ditch a dozen times over.” “He’s playing with a new toy,” I tell him, smiling. “Let him play. When he’s done, I’ll bury what’s left of her.” “Throw those out. And bring me his wine collection.” I sit in the moonlight with a glass of red and look at Christian’s prized bottles. Vintage Bordeaux. Sixty-thousand-dollar Burgundies. A whole cellar of them. Pretty things are always so easy to break. I pick up a hammer. One. Two. Three. In ten minutes, two million dollars worth of wine is a sticky red lake on the marble floor. Marco rushes over. “Watch your feet, Miss Elena. Don’t cut yourself on this junk. It’s not worth it.” I snap a picture and send it to Christian. Not loud enough. Buy me more. He doesn’t text back. He video calls. Sienna’s smug little face fills the screen. “What, disappointed it’s me?” “I should thank you, really. If you hadn’t done what you did, I’d never have moved into Christian’s penthouse. He didn’t leave me after the miscarriage. He’s actually softer with me now. Guilt does wonderful things to a man.” She fakes a yawn, tugging her collar down so I can see the fresh kiss marks he left across her chest. “Sorry, can’t chat. Christian wants to make it up to me again tonight.” “You really are as filthy as they say, Elena. No wonder he can’t stand you.” I smile. “Is that right? Sweetheart, clean things don’t live long around the Vances.” Marco’s face goes black with fury. “Let me handle her, Miss Elena. Quiet. Clean.” I wave him off, swinging on the porch swing. “She’s just a girl. I’ve already wrapped a present for her.” If she’s smart, she’ll understand who she’s playing with. If she’s not, I’ll teach her. A month passes. Christian doesn’t come home once. I know my husband. He collects things. Wine. Art. Women. So I buy a ticket to the biggest underground auction of the season. He’s there. Of course he is. Sienna is glued to his arm. “Elena. What a coincidence. What brings you?” “Did someone tell you there’d be a gift for you tonight?” I lean back in my chair. “Tell me, sweetheart. Pregnant again? Already?” Her smile cracks. Her eyes go wet. Christian gives me a warning look. “Elena. Watch yourself. You’re scaring her.” That’s funny. I once gutted twelve men in our foyer five months pregnant, and he kissed the blood off my face and called me his good girl. “Just here to restock, brother?” I murmur. “Makes sense. Your cellar’s looking awfully empty.” His jaw tightens. He looks at Sienna. She mumbles something about the photos I sent—she deleted them because she didn’t think they mattered. “Don’t make decisions for me again,” he says coldly. Then he sees how upset she looks, and his voice goes soft. “It’s fine. Just don’t do it again.” A dozen lots come and go. Then the headline piece. The lights dim. Three hundred sixty-five photos of Sienna fill the screen. Every position. Every angle. Every filthy little secret she thought was private. Her scream tears through the ballroom. “What is this! How did you—” Christian kicks the door of my booth open. “Elena. Pull them down. Now.” I nod at the auctioneer. He clears his throat. “My apologies, Don Vance. These are tonight’s featured lot. Starting bid: two million.” I tap my fingers against the table and watch his face. Rage. Disbelief. Hatred. But not a single drop of guilt. “You’ve gone too far.” “She’s just a girl!” I smile, wide and innocent. “So what do you want me to do, brother? The bidding’s already open. My opening offer is ten million. Care to match?” “Otherwise, who knows where these end up.” He slams the door behind him. A minute later, the booth next door bids back. Every time I raise, he adds a hundred grand. Eighty million dollars later, I let him win. I lean back, satisfied. Bleeding him was only step one. A text buzzes on my phone. Unknown number. Watch your back, Elena. You’re next.

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The pregnant woman next to me holds up a lipstick and asks the room if her husband is cheating. I recognize it. It’s mine. “Found this in his coat pocket last night,” she says, holding it up between two fingers. “Be honest with me, ladies. Is he cheating on me?” My eyes lock on the tube. The casing is scuffed and worn, and there—right on the side—is the Hello Kitty sticker I pressed on five years ago. That’s my lipstick. Before I can breathe, another woman laughs and points at the lock screen of her phone—a wedding photo. “Mrs. Chase, stop it. You and Sterling have been married almost three years. He treats you like you’re made of glass. There’s no way he’s cheating.” I follow her finger to the screen. The groom in the photo is my husband. My delivery-driver husband. The man I’ve been married to for five years. Sterling Chase. The room goes underwater. Their voices sound miles away. The pregnant woman catches my elbow. “Hey—you okay?” I nod. I can’t speak. My eyes drop to her left hand, and the diamond on her ring finger nearly blinds me. She catches me looking and smiles, holding her hand out a little farther. “Pretty, isn’t it? My husband flew it in from overseas. There’s not another one like it in the country.” “Of course it’s pretty,” another woman chimes in, voice thick with envy. “An six-million-dollar piece. You said you liked it, and Sterling bought it on the spot. He is obsessed with you.” Six million. I don’t even dream about it. Because I argue with cashiers over two bucks of vegetables. This is the man who couldn’t make rent? The man I’ve been married to for five years? “Obsessed? That’s an understatement,” another mom-to-be says. “Their wedding three years ago cost two million. The day they signed the papers, he transferred every asset he owned into her name.” “And since she got pregnant? Forget it. He’s got nurseries set up in three rooms—boys’ clothes, girls’ clothes, bottles, toys, you name it. Through age ten. The man is dying to be a dad.” The whole room laughs. I’m freezing. My fingertips are shaking. For five years, Sterling has refused to give me a baby. He said we couldn’t afford it. He said he didn’t want me or the child to suffer. He said wait, just wait a little longer. Three years ago, when I got pregnant the first time, he begged me for three nights straight. I cried the whole way to the clinic. Alone. I thought he was scared of the cost. I thought maybe he just didn’t like kids. Turns out he has money. Turns out he loves kids. He just doesn’t want them with me. My nose burns. I tip my head down before the tears come and pull out my phone. I text the only friend I have at the courthouse. [Can you check something? Is my marriage to Sterling Chase legally on file?] The reply comes quickly: [Yes. It’s real.] I should feel relieved. Instead my chest caves in. So what if it’s real? This woman in front of me—even if her marriage to him is the fake one—she has everything I don’t. The Mrs. Chase title. The six-million-dollar ring. The two-million-dollar wedding. The man who treats her like glass. And me? I have nothing. My phone buzzes in my hand. Incoming call: Star I stare at the screen. I can’t make my thumb move. And then, beside me, her voice goes sharp. “Star?” She’s looking right at my screen. “Your husband’s name is Star too?”

My fingers tremble around the phone. Before I can answer, the ringing dies. Three rings. Cut off. A second later, another phone rings. Hers. She swipes to answer on speaker without thinking, and his voice pours into the room. “Hey, baby. Class done?” I stop breathing. “There’s a storm coming. Don’t move. I’m coming to get you.” She giggles, scolding him. “Babe, no. You have that big meeting today. I’ll just grab a cab.” “Not a chance,” Sterling says. His voice is warm, possessive, the way it used to be in my kitchen at midnight. “No meeting matters more than you. I’m not letting you go home alone in this.” The call ends. The other women start teasing her about how lucky she is. I sit very still. Year one of our marriage, I worked a night shift on top of my day job. No matter how late I got off, Sterling would be waiting outside. I’d tell him to sleep, that I felt awful dragging him out of bed. He’d pull me into his chest and laugh. “Sleep? Not a chance. I don’t care how tired I am. I’m not letting you go home alone.” Back then, I thought I’d marry this man a hundred times over. Now he’s saying the same words, in the same voice, to someone else. My vision blurs, then sharpens. My phone buzzes. [Star: Babe, last-minute overtime. Can’t make it home tonight. I’ll come next time.] [Star: Drive safe in the rain. Take care of yourself.] Three years ago, he took a delivery route in another city. Said he could earn more there. Said once he saved enough for a down payment, he’d come home and buy us a real house. A real life. I believed him. I waited. We saw each other a few times a month, if that. I held onto every promise like it was sacred. Working overtime. He’s used that line so many times I lost count. And every time, I forgave him. Sometimes I cried for him. For how hard he was working. For us. Five years of waiting. Five years of saving up hope. And what was waiting on the other end? Another wife. Another house. Another life. He built me a fairy tale he never planned to make real. He’s never going to tell me who he actually is. Because in his real life, there’s no room for me. My eyes drift down to her bump. “How… how far along are you?” She rubs her stomach, and her whole face softens. “Just past five months.” She tilts her head. “I don’t think we’ve met. Are you new? I’m Evelyn Lockwood. Call me Evie.” Evie. Late-night phone calls. Evie in his contacts. He told me she was a pushy boss. I never questioned it. Someone elbows me. “She asked your name, hon. You with us?” I lift my chin. “Aria.” Evelyn’s eyebrows twitch a little. “Aria? Pretty.” A woman squints at the lipstick still in Evelyn’s lap, then sucks in a breath. “Wait—look at the bottom of the lipstick. Is that… an A engraved there?” The room goes quiet. Every single eye lands on me.

The silence stretches. “Wow, what are the odds,” the woman says slowly. “Same letter and everything. This wouldn’t happen to be yours, would it, Aria?” My face goes stiff. Every breath is heavy. Then she bursts out laughing at her own joke. “Listen to me. What am I even saying? Like she’d know Mr. Chase. Girl probably doesn’t even know what he looks like.” Right. Of course. A woman like me—worn jeans, gray T-shirt, pilled socks—couldn’t possibly cross paths with Sterling Chase. I see Evelyn’s shoulders relax. The little crease between her brows smooths out. But she’s not done with me. Her smile turns sweet in that careful, practiced way rich women have. “Ladies, leave Aria alone. She seems like a good girl. She’d never do something that nasty.” Then, louder, for the room. “Whoever the lipstick belongs to—she’s just some cheap mistress. Trash. She’s not making waves.” Evelyn picks up the lipstick, glances at it once, and tosses it into the trash can like it’s a used tissue. I watch it land. Something in my chest tears wide open. Sterling gave me that lipstick on our wedding day. A five-dollar drugstore tube. I kept it like it was a diamond. Five years. I’d panic if it scratched. And there it sits in the trash. Right next to my marriage. Both of them garbage. Both of them are jokes. Evelyn’s eyes drift over me—slow, neutral, the way you’d look at something at a yard sale. In a room full of designer maternity wear, I stick out like a stain. I tuck my feet under me without thinking. She catches it. Of course she does. The corner of her mouth lifts. Calm. Untouchable. “Aria, I have a closet full of clothes I haven’t even worn. If you’d like, come by and grab whatever fits. My husband buys me a whole new wardrobe every season. I can’t get through it. It just ends up in donation bags anyway. Better it goes to someone who needs it.” Then her eyes drop to my stomach. “How far along are you, sweetie?” My nails dig into my palm. “A little over three months.” The whole circle turns. Stares. A few jaws actually drop. “Three months? Are you serious? You can’t even tell.” My hand drifts to my belly. My fingers won’t stop shaking. No. You can’t tell. I work two jobs so Sterling won’t have to stretch his paycheck. I haven’t bought meat in months. I’ve been losing weight for years. Five-foot-eight, barely ninety pounds. My stomach is flat. There’s nothing there for them to see. In a room of glowing pregnant women, I look like a dried-up weed. Something close to pity flickers across Evelyn’s face. Her voice goes soft. Gentle. “Honey, you’re not eating enough. That’s not okay for the baby. After class, let me send you home with some prenatal stuff. Vitamins, protein powder, whatever you need.” I shake my head on instinct. She waves me off. “Don’t be silly. Do me the favor. Honestly, ever since I got pregnant, my husband’s been trying to feed me the entire store. I can’t keep up. I’m sick of looking at it.” I glance at the black plastic bag near the wall. Inside: the day-old shrimp I grabbed from the market this morning, half of them already gray. That’s what I’m bringing home to my baby tonight.

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My husband filed a PTO request for his wedding. And the bride isn’t me. Good thing I joined his company as HR behind his back. Or I never would’ve found out about this sweet little surprise. I click to see the details. Applicant: Henry Mitchell. Co-applicant: Vivian Brooks. I pull up Vivian’s employee file. Sweet face. Twenty-four. Job title: Henry’s personal secretary. I find her on Instagram. Her account is public. Her most recent post, from yesterday, is a wedding photo. Henry in a white suit, his arm wrapped around her waist, smiling like he means it. My finger hovers over the “Approve” button on the request. Click. Enjoy your wedding, Henry. I signed off on it myself. … A message pops up in the company group chat. It’s Vivian. She’s posted a digital wedding invitation. Below it — the same photo she put on her Instagram yesterday. The chat explodes. I scroll through them with a blank face. Each message hits me like a slap. My chest gets tighter and tighter. Then the HR door swings open. Vivian walks in carrying a tray of wrapped chocolates, beaming. “Ladies, come celebrate with me!” Her voice is sugar-sweet. The happiness on her face isn’t something you can fake. Everyone crowds around her, laughing, grabbing handfuls of chocolates. She works her way down the row and stops at my desk last. I don’t reach for any. So she sets a handful of chocolates down on my keyboard herself. Like there’s no question whether I’ll take it. “Avery, you have to come. Promise me.” I look up at her glowing face. “Congratulations.” I pick up a chocolate, peel back the foil, and pop it in my mouth. Sweet. “Vivian, that bracelet is stunning. Did Henry get it for you??” One of the girls points at her wrist. Vivian laughs, embarrassed, touching the diamond bracelet. “Yeah. He says my skin’s too pale not to wear something that sparkles.” I stare at the bracelet. The chocolate in my mouth turns bitter. That bracelet was Henry’s first-anniversary gift to me. Three months ago, Henry told me he was going on a business trip. When he came back, he said the bracelet had slipped off somewhere. He felt awful about it. Promised me he’d replace it with something better. The bracelet wasn’t lost. He gave it to her. Vivian lifts her hand higher. The diamond on her ring finger catches the light. “Henry designed the ring himself. Look, see how the petals curl? Isn’t it the most unique thing?” The girls gasp. “Henry is so romantic!” “A man like that? You don’t find them anymore!” I once told Henry I wanted a one-of-a-kind ring. But he said, “We’re already married. What’s with all that cheesy stuff?” Vivian’s cheeks flush pink. She keeps going. “Henry’s so busy, but he still remembers to pick up cinnamon rolls from my favorite bakery. Always fresh out of the oven.” That bakery is downstairs from our apartment. I asked Henry a hundred times to grab some on his way home. He always snapped at me. “That’s so far. Why would I go all the way over there?” The bakery is in the opposite direction from where Vivian lives. He wasn’t avoiding the detour. He was avoiding doing it for me. “Henry says once we’re married, he’s putting me in charge of all the finances. Every cent.” Three days into my marriage, I handed over my paycheck. Henry said a man should manage the money. That’s what keeps a household stable. I look at this glowing girl in front of me. The sweeter she sounds, the harder I breathe. “Avery? You’re so quiet.” I force my lips into a smile. “He really loves you. You two are going to be so happy.”

When I get home, Henry is in the kitchen wearing an apron. He hears the door and pokes his head out, smiling. “You’re home! Go wash up, dinner’s almost ready.” He walks out carrying a steaming plate of shrimp pasta. “Made your favorite tonight. Try it.” I drop my bag and head to the bathroom. I twist the faucet on full blast. The rush of water drowns out the sound of me almost throwing up. Back at the table, Henry has already filled my plate. “How’s the job hunt going?” He asks me this every single day. It used to feel like he cared. Now it feels like surveillance. I push rice around my plate. “Still looking. No rush.” “No rush at all. Take your time. I can support both of us.” I almost laugh out loud. Sure he can. After all, he gives me a $300 monthly allowance. That diamond bracelet on Vivian’s wrist? I couldn’t afford it if I starved myself for two years straight. Henry sets down his fork. “By the way, something came up. I have to fly out to Miami tomorrow. Big project. About two weeks.” I look up. “That long?” “Yeah. They need me on-site.” He lies smoothly. Not a single crack. “When do you leave?” “Tomorrow morning.” I nod. “All packed? Need help?” “I’ve got it.” He drops a piece of shrimp onto my plate. “Eat more. You’ve gotten so thin.” My stomach lurches. It’s Vivian’s favorite dish. I’m allergic to shellfish. I set down my fork. Henry’s brow furrows. The warm look on his face cools instantly. “What now? Food’s not good enough?” I shake my head. “Just tired today.” “Tired?” He scoffs. “You sit at home all day and you’re tired? I work twelve-hour shifts and still come home to cook for you. Do you ever hear me complain?” I look at him. For a second, he feels like a stranger. Is this really the man I married? The man who used to run out at midnight to get me Midol when I had cramps. The man who carried me across flooded streets in the rain. When did he become this? “Henry, when’s the last time we actually talked?” He blinks. Then waves his hand, irritated. “What do you call this? I’m talking to you right now.” “I’ve got a million things on my plate at work, and I come home to wait on you. What more do you want from me, Avery?” “Don’t be ungrateful.” I don’t say anything else.

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Every bridal boutique in New York prays I’ll walk through their door, because I pay in full and never use the service. That’s because on every single shoot day, my fiancé finds a brand-new excuse not to show up. This is the 33rd time Ethan Caldwell has left me standing alone in a bridal shop because of Tiffany Sinclair. I call him. His voice is flat, distracted. “Tiff just wanted some fresh coconut water, babe. Go easy on her.” “I already flew down to Malibu with her. I really can’t get back. Let’s reschedule the shoot in a week.” Then Tiffany snatches the phone. “Oh my God, you’re really calling about this? You should be used to canceling these shoots by now.” In the background, Ethan laughs — soft, doting. A tone I’ve never heard him use with me. I hang up. The boutique attendant gives me that practiced, sympathetic smile. “Miss Lawson, you can cancel the shoot, but the deposit is non-refundable.” This time, I don’t take off the dress and walk out. I smile, and dial a number. Within minutes, Ethan’s best friend, Hunter Brooks, is standing in the boutique doorway. Under a dozen stunned stares, I slip my arm through his—his hand is shaking with excitement—and turn to the attendant. “Okay. We can start now.” … It’s evening by the time we finish. I change out of the gown, sink into the lounge sofa, and casually leave a five-star review for the boutique on my phone. The review goes live. Ten seconds later, Ethan’s name flashes on my screen. But it’s Tiffany’s syrupy voice that comes through. “Chloe, you’re really shooting wedding photos alone and writing reviews about it? Doesn’t it feel a little pathetic?” I lean back into the sofa. “Not as pathetic as you.” “My review went live ten seconds ago and you’re already calling. Watching my every post like some creepy little stalker — who’s the pathetic one here?” She loses it. “I wasn’t stalking you! It just showed up on my screen, okay?!” I’m not done with her. “Malibu is across the country. Do I look three years old to you?” She scrambles. “I — I just forgot to turn off my location! What’s it to you?!” I hang up. Seconds later, Ethan’s text lights up my screen, dripping with blame. [Chloe, do you have ANY idea how hard it is to calm Tiff down?] [She called you because she cares. Why would you snap at her? Now I have to fix what you broke. Happy?] I don’t reply. Instead, I open Instagram and post the digital wedding invite the boutique sent me. Caption short and sweet: Friends — see you all this weekend at the wedding. The comments explode. [OMG CHLOE!! You and Ethan are FINALLY tying the knot?? Congrats babe!!] [Wait — I thought you two broke up?? You’re really getting married?? I’ll be there!!] I’m about to start replying when Ethan’s comment shoots straight to the top — colder than his text, in front of everyone. [Chloe, are you out of your mind? I’m in Malibu with Tiff. I’m NOT flying back this weekend. Stop being so delusional.] [For the record—clear this up. Tell everyone you made the wedding up.] The thread goes silent for a beat. Then more notifications flood in. I just repost the invite. Same caption. Friends — see you all this weekend at the wedding

What I didn’t expect, Ethan booked the next red-eye home. What I really didn’t expect, Tiffany flew back with him. It’s two in the morning when he slams the front door open. Tiffany’s eyes are puffy and red. The second she sees me, she breaks. “Chloe, you must be loving this. E and I just took a little trip together and you had to fake a wedding to drag us back in the middle of the night.” “You ruined my entire island trip!” I glance at Ethan. Then at her. “Nobody told you to fly back.” Ethan’s voice is sharp. “Chloe. Take down that post.” “No.” He inhales hard. “Chloe, how long are you going to keep this up?” “Family, friends — everyone is watching. You’re literally trying to force me into marriage!” Tiffany sniffs. “She’s just jealous because we are close. E, she wants you to crawl back to her.” “E and I are just friends, Chloe. Take it down already!” I ignore her. Eyes back on Ethan. Same word. “No.” He laughs with bitter and furious. “Fine. Send out a thousand invites. Without a groom on the day, you’re the joke. Not me.” I smile. “You can show up or not. It doesn’t matter. You’ve already been missing from my life for a long time. Haven’t you?” His face goes cold. Tiffany feels the silence and grabs his arm, shaking it like a child. “E, don’t listen to her, she’s guilt-tripping you!” “Nobody dies without somebody else, okay? The world keeps spinning!” But Ethan softens his tone. “Chloe, I get it. You’re using this little game to lock me down.” “But I really hate seeing you like this. You used to be so easygoing, so reasonable. Why are you making everything ugly now?” He adds, like it explains everything, “You know how much friendship means to me.” I look at their fingers, laced together, tight, and let out a laugh. “Friendship? Ethan. You call that level of intimacy friendship?” He frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I say it slowly, making every word clear, “I’m saying. You. Have. No. Boundaries.” Tears pour down Tiffany’s face on cue. “Chloe, ENOUGH! E and I have known each other for twenty years!” “Just because you don’t have any guy friends doesn’t mean other people can’t! Why are you so controlling?!” Ethan pulls her into his shoulder, stroking her hair. “Chloe. Apologize. Right now.” I almost laugh. “Apologize for what?” He explodes. “You made Tiff cry! You owe her an apology!” That’s when the doorbell rings. Hunter walks in. Ethan blinks. “Bro — what are you doing at my place at 2 a.m.?” Hunter’s eyes flick at me. He answers, weight in every word. “I’m here to help Chloe move out.” Ethan stares for a second — then exhales, relieved. “Thanks, man. But it’s not that serious. Chloe and I are just having a couples’ fight.” His tone turns smug, knowing. “You’re a real one, bro. One Instagram post and you saw right through her drama.” “Help me talk some sense into her, yeah? Women need to know their place. Stop embarrassing themselves.” “I gotta take Tiff to a hotel. She’s wrecked from the flight. I’m gonna rub her feet.” Hunter looks down. He smiles slowly and strangely. He pauses. Says nothing to Ethan about what’s really going on. “Sure, bro. I’ll take it from here.”

I move out that same night. When Ethan figures it out, he switches to text bombing me. [I know you’re mad, but you can’t push me like this. Marriage is a big deal. You can’t just announce a wedding this weekend. I’m not mentally ready.] [Chloe, it’s not that I don’t want to marry you. It’s just bad timing. Tiff’s been in a rough place. She needs me. Can’t you just wait?] [I’m being real with you. I’m not ready to get married. The more you push me, the less I want to marry you.] I don’t reply. Not one message. … All the way until the night before the wedding. That’s when Tiffany sends me a video. The lighting is dim—clearly a suite at that boutique hotel in Malibu. Then her call comes through. “You saw the video, right? If even that doesn’t make you cancel… Wow! You really are something.” My voice stays flat. “I saw it. I’m not canceling.” She hangs up on me. A few seconds later, a photo lands in my inbox. Soft hotel light. Ethan and Tiffany were kissing. I look at it. Type three words back. [Not. Canceling. It.] … Wedding day. I stand at the hotel lobby in my gown, greeting guests. Ethan walks wearing gym clothes. His eyes catch on me — and for half a second, I see real shock there. Real awe. “That dress you picked alone… It actually looks good.” Then Tiffany—in a full evening gown—slides her arm through his. The whole room goes silent. A groom in sweatpants, arm-locked with another woman. The bride standing alone across the room in white. Ethan ignores the stares and starts babbling. “Look, I need to be straight with you. There’s nothing going on between me and Tiff.” “That photo and video you saw? Camera angles. We staged it. We just wanted you to cancel the wedding. We didn’t think you’d take it this far.” Tiffany nods beside him, voice sugar-sweet. “It’s true, Chlo. It was all my idea. I just wanted to test how much you really care about E.” “You sat through that video and those photos without breaking. Honestly? I’m impressed by your love.” I look at the two of them. I smile. “Even if you two are sleeping together, I don’t care.” Ethan’s face shifts. He notices my tone changes right away. “I’m telling you the truth. She’s literally just a friend. You know Hunter? Same exact thing.” Tiffany jumps in. “Right, we’re just friends!” Ethan launches into the same speech again. “You know how much my friends mean to me. I’d never ditch a friend just because I’m dating someone.” I look at him standing there, righteous as ever, and I can’t help it. “Ethan. You keep preaching about how much your friends mean to you.” “So how come you haven’t noticed you’re already missing one?”

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My husband finally agrees to a family portrait for our daughter’s fifth birthday, and I’m so giddy I book the most exclusive studio in the city before sunrise. Lumina Elite Studios. Six months waitlist. I pulled strings. I’m sitting in front of the vanity in a custom Valentino gown, makeup flawless, hair styled to perfection. The lights are warm. The photographer is ready. But Julian and Lily are nowhere to be found. The studio’s closing time comes and goes. My phone finally buzzes. Julian:Forgot to mention. Company arranged a year-end trip. Took Lily with me. Back in a week. Then a voice note from my five-year-old daughter, all giggles and sunshine: “Mommy, the trip is sooooo fun! We’ll take pictures with you when we get back, okay?” I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I just smile, type back a cheerful “Sounds good, sweetie!” and then open a different chat. To Logan Chase. CEO of Chase Holdings. My oldest friend. Also, technically, Julian’s boss. Me: Funny. Why didn’t you tell your biggest shareholder you were sending the whole company on vacation? Three seconds later, my phone rings. “What vacation?” Logan’s voice is sharp, baffled. “Chloe, are you dreaming? It’s Q4. We’re squeezing blood from stones over here. Nobody’s on vacation except Julian. He requested PTO last week. The rest of us are pulling all-nighters.” My fingers tighten around the phone. “Got it.” “Whoa, hey, wait. Chloe, what’s going on?” I press my lips together. In the mirror, I see a woman in a ten-thousand-dollar gown, sitting alone in a studio she rented out for the whole afternoon. A walking punchline. “Come pick me up,” I say flatly, sending him the address. “Five minutes. Don’t move.” I sit frozen at the vanity as the staff start packing equipment. I can feel their eyes shift. The whispers earlier were envious. Look at her, must be nice to book the whole place out. Now they’re something uglier. Pity. Naked, suffocating pity. “Bet she got stood up.” “Poor thing. Money can’t buy a husband who shows up.” The studio manager appears beside me, holding a thick leather portfolio against her chest. Her smile is too soft, too careful. “Ma’am, please don’t be too upset. I’m sure your husband had an emergency. Why don’t you take a look at our portfolio? Pick a style for next time.” She slides the album in front of me. I’m too numb to refuse. I flip the cover. And every cell in my body turns to ice. The first page is the studio’s flagship piece. A massive, gilded family portrait. Cream backdrop. A man in a crisp navy suit, smiling like he’s in a cologne ad. A woman in white silk, glowing. And between them, a little girl in a pink tulle dress, clutching a bouquet of daisies, her eyes crescent-moon happy. That little girl is my daughter. That man is my husband. And the woman… The manager mistakes my frozen face for awe. She launches into her sales pitch, practically beaming. “Oh, you have excellent taste! That’s our signature family. Such a lovely couple. They’ve come every year since the baby’s first month.” “The husband’s a CEO at some Fortune 500. Seven figures, easy. Gorgeous man. And the wife is a total sweetheart. Devoted to her husband and daughter. The little girl is a natural in front of the camera, our whole staff adores her.” Every word is a knife sliding between my ribs. Six years ago, I quietly funded Julian’s career. I hid him inside Logan’s company so no one would push him around. I anonymously invested millions to make sure he became Top Performer of the Year, then VP, then CEO. And every time I tried to take a picture of Lily, she’d scream and hide behind Julian. “Mommy, GO AWAY! I HATE pictures!” Julian would always smirk and say, “Babe, drop it. She doesn’t like your photography. Honestly, neither do I.” She doesn’t hate pictures. She hates pictures with me. My eyes drift back to the woman in white. At first glance, just familiar. But now… Vivian Rose. The poor scholarship girl I funded through four years of college. The one I personally called in favors to place at a Fortune 500 firm after she couldn’t land a job. I gave that girl a degree. A career. And apparently, my husband. And my daughter. “Ma’am? Ma’am, do you like this style? If so, we can…” A roar of an engine outside. Tires screeching. Then footsteps pounding through the lobby. “CHLOE!” Logan bursts in, hair wild, leather jacket half-zipped. His eyes sweep over me, the empty studio, the Valentino gown. “Damn, girl. Look at you. Red carpet ready.” He grins, then frowns. “Where’s Julian? Where’s Lily? Thought you were doing the family portrait thing?” I close the album. Slowly. Carefully. Because I refuse to let him see the picture inside. “Chloe? Why do you look like that?” I lift my chin and smile. A smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Take me to The Grand Sovereign. Apparently, my daughter’s having a birthday party tonight.”

Logan doesn’t ask questions. He just floors it. The Grand Sovereign is the most exclusive hotel in the city. It also happens to be owned by Logan. We pull up to the entrance, and the first thing I see is a massive welcome banner outside the ballroom. The same family photo from the studio. Vivian curled into Julian’s side. Lily perched on Julian’s shoulders. And in glittering gold script: “Happy 6th Birthday, Our Beloved Lily!” Six. Lily is five. I read it three times. My brain refuses to compute. Logan’s jaw locks. He’s the owner of this entire building, and someone rented his ballroom to throw a party mocking his best friend. He moves to grab the nearest manager, but I touch his arm. “Not yet.” I push the ballroom doors open. Music. Champagne. Two hundred faces turning at once. Most of them are Julian’s employees. I don’t show up at his office often, but I’ve dropped off lunch a few times. Some of them recognize me. “Oh my God, isn’t that Mrs. Miller? The trophy wife?” Someone laughs. The whispers crash over me like a tidal wave. “What’s SHE doing here? On a night like this?” “I heard she doesn’t even work. Just spends Julian’s money all day.” “Look at that dress. Probably swiped his black card to buy it.” Julian is on stage. White tux. Long ceremonial knife in his hand. Vivian’s hand on top of his, both of them poised over a five-tier cake. The picture of a perfect couple. He sees me. And he doesn’t even flinch. He just frowns, like I’m a stain on his rug. “Chloe? What the hell are you doing here? I told you to stay home. Don’t embarrass me.” He doesn’t even step down from the stage. He scolds me from above, like I’m a misbehaving dog. I keep walking. “Embarrass you?” My voice is hoarse. I point at the banner. “Julian. Is Lily five years old, or six?” His eyes flicker. Just once. Then he doubles down, chin high. “What’s the difference? Five, six, who cares?” That’s when Vivian glides forward. Custom gown. Champagne flute. Demure smile. The very picture of grace. “Chloe, sweetie, since you’re here, why don’t you grab a seat in the back? Tonight’s a celebration. Lily’s birthday, and my promotion. Don’t ruin it for everyone.” A small body launches itself at me before I can answer. A shove against my hip. Hard. “Get AWAY from her!” My five-year-old daughter. The girl I rocked through fevers, whose first word was Mama, whose tiny fingers I held while she learned to walk. She’s wearing a princess dress. And she’s looking at me like I’m her enemy. “You can’t bully Mama Vivian! Mama Vivian says you’re a useless loser! She says you’re just dragging Daddy down!” Something inside my chest cracks clean in half. “Lily…” My voice breaks. “Baby, I’m your mama…” “NO YOU’RE NOT!” She wraps her arms around Vivian’s leg and tilts her chin up like a queen. “Mama Vivian is my real mama! She’s pretty and rich and buys me everything! She says I have her smart blood, NOT some loser’s blood like yours!” The room erupts. Laughter. Howling, vicious laughter. “Oh my GOD, she’s been raising another woman’s kid?!” “Five years of changing diapers for nothing!That’s gotta be the cuck of the century!” Every employee who ever called me Mrs. Miller with a polite smile is now twisting the knife to suck up to Julian and Vivian. Six years ago, I was funding Vivian’s senior year of college. That same year, Julian “happened” to meet me at a coffee shop, weeping about how his ex broke his heart, how he just wanted a stable, gentle woman to settle down with. It was a setup. From day one. They needed a free meal ticket. A dumb, rich nanny. They picked me. And my own daughter… I already know the answer to that one. “Julian.” I drag in a breath. My voice is steel. “So these last five years. Was all of it an act?” Logan can’t take it anymore. He shoves to the front of the crowd and jabs a finger at the row of executives. “You blind idiots! Look at me! Look at me and tell me you don’t recognize who I…” “SECURITY!” Julian cuts him off, irritated, like Logan is a fly buzzing in his ear. “Get these two psychos OUT of here. Especially the bum next to Chloe. What’s he, your broke cousin? Dressed like a trailer park reject.” The employees are practically vibrating to impress him. Before security can move, three big middle-managers are already rolling up their sleeves and circling us, grinning like wolves.

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It was the eighteenth time the Castellanos and the Marchettis tried to put me and Dante at the altar, and once again every made man in the ballroom walked out behind my adopted sister. My mother called. Impatient. Not even pretending to care. “Mirella’s stomach is acting up again. We’re flying the Family doctor in. Just cancel, you’ve done it enough times, you know what to say to the room.” Then Gianna, my maid of honor, my blood sister since we were six, clicked her tongue at me through the phone. “You serious right now, Aria? Your ceremony matters more than Mirella nearly hitting the floor? When did you get this cold?” And Dante? My fiancé, the Don of the Castellano Family, didn’t even bother dialing. Just a text. Six words. Ceremony’s off. We’ll talk later. I read those six words over and over. He’d used that same line on me eighteen times. A cold laugh slipped out before I could stop it. And just like that, I felt nothing. Eighteen times. Enough. I walked out of the bridal suite, straight past the wall of amethyst violets. Mirella’s favorite flower. Never mine. The whole hallway reeked of her. The family chapel was at the end of the hall. I went inside and shut the door behind me. I dropped to my knees in front of the cross. Three days, I whispered. That’s all I want. Three days to cut every one of them off, and let them lose every damn thing they got because of me. The candles flickered once. Somewhere far away, I swear something answered back. I picked up the microphone and walked onto the engagement stage. Every inch of it draped in amethyst violets. Mirella’s favorite. Funny how that always worked out. “My apologies, everyone. Tonight’s ceremony is canceled.” The room of capos, consiglieres, and Family wives traded looks. Not one of them looked surprised. “Knew it. Eighteen ceremonies and not one’s gone through. If I were her, I’d have stopped showing my face years ago.” “The whole Marchetti house has bent the knee to that little sister for years. If I were Aria, I’d have stepped aside, kissed Dante goodbye, and at least walked out with my name still meaning something.” “Oh, honey. You don’t get it. Every time Don Dante’s tried to walk away from her, something happens. Last spring the Family lost three container ships off the coast of Naples. Two billion in product, gone overnight. The spring before that, the Atlantic City casino burned to the ground. He’s tested it more than once. That’s the only reason he hasn’t put her on a plane back to Sicily for good.” “So she’s, what, some kind of charm?” “Call her whatever you want. The man is stuck with her, and the whole East Coast knows it.” I walked off the stage with their stares on my back. I heard every word. The corner of my mouth ticked up. This time, a few burned ships were going to be the smallest of their problems. I changed out of the gown and drove back to the Marchetti estate to grab my things and disappear before sunrise. But the second I stepped into the foyer, the front gates opened and the whole convoy came rolling in. Three black SUVs, a dozen Family soldiers, and Mirella in the middle of all of them, leaning on Dante’s arm like she’d just walked out of a hospital instead of brunch. The moment they saw me, every smile in the foyer dropped. Dante’s eyes went black. “Aria. You canceled and didn’t give the room a single reason. Now every Family from here to Sicily is going to be whispering it was Mirella again. Do you understand what that does to my name?” My father scoffed. Didn’t even look up. “You really screwed up this time, Aria. Every other cancellation, you cleaned it up yourself. I never had to lift a finger. Get on the phone. Call the columnists, call the wives, call every gossip we own, and tell them the truth. Tell them you were being a brat.” Gianna already had her phone out. “I’ll start working the wives. By morning every Family on the coast will be saying Aria threw a tantrum and walked out. Nobody will be saying Mirella’s name.” I didn’t say a word. I just stood there and watched them. Two more nights. That’s all I needed. “Aria. Are you listening? I’m telling you straight. If you don’t fix this, I can’t promise when the next ceremony happens. Or if it happens at all.” Dante stopped right in front of me. Voice sharp. Done with me. And then Mirella finally opened her mouth, voice soft as silk. “It’s all my fault. I came between Dante and my sister. Blame me for everything.” “There are still a few good dates left this month. Please. Don’t push the ceremony back any further.” She didn’t even finish before she started coughing. Dante crossed the foyer and rubbed her back like she was made of glass. “It’s not your fault, sweetheart. Don’t even think about it. Your sister can’t live without me. We could put this off another year and nothing would change.” “Then you’re the one who doesn’t get it.” That was the first thing I said since I walked in. Every head in the room snapped toward me. I lifted the bag in my hand. “I’m leaving.” The words barely left my mouth. The next second, a sharp crack split the air. The slap echoed through the whole foyer.

I tipped my head and let out a bitter laugh. My mother’s hand was still shaking from the slap. “You’ve got the nerve to keep pushing me? After everything we’ve done for you? This is what we get?” “You want to walk out? Where? You think the whole Family won’t talk? You think they won’t say we threw you out like trash?” She was screaming by the end, voice cracking. “I should’ve never had you, Aria. Not one damn day of peace since Mirella came home. Not one.” The taste of blood spread across my tongue. I ran my tongue along the corner of my lip. Yeah. Every other time, I would have made a scene. Because I didn’t get it. I didn’t get how Mirella smashed my father’s antique pistol and somehow I was the one who broke it. I didn’t get how the security cameras caught her tripping on the staircase, and they still swore I pushed her. I didn’t get how I bought a bouquet of lilies, she turned out to be allergic, and suddenly I was a bully. This wasn’t the first time my mother had hit me. The last time was two days ago. Mirella wanted to wear my engagement gown and I said no. She fainted on the spot. My mother shoved me into the wall and took a pair of scissors to the custom gown I’d waited six months for. Mirella was tearing us apart, and we were almost done. So yeah. I used to scream. I used to drag every soldier and capo into the foyer and beg someone, anyone, to tell me I wasn’t losing my mind. Not this time. The truth was, I’d always brought this Family good fortune. Every single one of them. The day after I was born, the Marchettis pulled a port deal out of nowhere that yanked the Family back from the edge and made my father the most feared Don on the East Coast. His stage-two liver cancer cleared the same week. Every doctor in New York said it was impossible. Gianna was nothing but a forgettable kid from a forgettable little Family before she met me. Once she started running around with me, she grew into the kind of beauty that turned every head in a room. Landed every audition. Won Best Actress at twenty-two. Became the most bankable face in the country. And Dante. He was nobody back then. A teenager running cigarettes and stolen watches out of the back of a flea market in Queens. Cops chased him. Older crews beat him bloody. He slept on a cot in his cousin’s shop. Until the night he found me wandering lost down by the docks and walked me home. I fell for him before we made it back to the gate. After that, every move he made hit gold. Built his own crew. Never lost a deal. By thirty, he was Don of the Castellano Family, with his hands in half the ports from Boston to Miami. For twenty years, this whole Family treated me like the sun rose and set on me. Dante looked at me like I was the only thing keeping his heart beating. They got everything they ever wanted. Then Mirella was brought home. And every last one of them changed. My father’s voice went cold. He didn’t even glance at me. “Take it all back. The dress. The earrings. The watch. Pull every diamond off her wrist and her neck. Not one Marchetti thread walks out that door with her.” “You want out, Aria? Go. But don’t come crying back. I’ll be on the front page of every paper in the city tomorrow disowning you for good. You won’t carry my name another day.” They didn’t even let me grab a coat before two soldiers shoved me out the front door. Dante exhaled and pressed a key into my hand. “It’s an apartment downtown. Go there. Sleep it off. I’m not doing this with you again, Aria. None of us are.” “I should’ve saved Mirella that night. Not you.” I scoffed. “Then marry her.” He let out a long, exhausted breath. “Don’t start. I told you I’d put a ring on you and I will. That doesn’t change.” “Mirella is sweet. She’s a good girl. I’m not going to stand here and let you treat her like she’s something to throw away. Don’t pull that again.” He turned and walked back up the steps. I dropped the key on the marble and turned to leave. Mirella came running across the foyer and grabbed my sleeve. “Sister, don’t go. I’m the one who reached for what was never mine. I don’t deserve any of this.” “You stay. I’ll go. I’ll be packed and out before sunrise, I swear.” I knew exactly what she was doing. So I stood there. Let her clutch my sleeve and squeeze out her little tears. But the second she realized I wasn’t shoving her off like I always had, she gasped, clutched her chest, and crumpled at my feet. “Mirella!” “Somebody call the doctor! Mirella, honey, stay with me!” Every soldier and house staff member in the foyer came running and crowded around her. Dante’s hand closed around my throat. His eyes were black. “You laid a hand on her? Don’t think for a second I won’t put one on you, Aria.” Turns out, when you’re past furious, all you can do is laugh. I hadn’t even touched her. Somehow I’d still done it. “Dante. I really hope none of you live to regret this.” My father’s voice cracked across the foyer. “Get her the hell out of my sight. Lock her in the cellar. I’m not done with her tonight.”

The cellar was cold. Damp. The kind of dark that crawled under your skin. Second time I’d been thrown down here. The first time was still fresh. I’d caught Mirella sneaking into Dante’s wing of the estate at two in the morning. Found her curled up in his bed like she belonged there. She broke down sobbing. Said she’d been sleepwalking. Said her foster father back in Sicily used to lock her in a closet at night, and ever since, her feet just carried her somewhere she felt safe. She didn’t know it was Dante’s bed. She didn’t mean it. Please don’t be mad. My parents bought every word. Dante crouched down in front of her like she was made of porcelain and told her, soft as silk, that his door was always open. Anytime she was scared. Back then I was still out of my mind in love with him. I wouldn’t let a single woman near his office. Every female assistant on his floor got transferred out within a month. The only women allowed near him were the cleaning staff, and they had to be over fifty. So I walked over and slapped Mirella across the face. My father had me hauled down to this cellar that same night. Seven days. One bowl of broth a day. No light, no blanket, no door cracking open. They didn’t drag me out until I was too weak to stand and I agreed to apologize on my knees. This time, starvation wasn’t the plan. My father came down the stone steps with a riding crop in his hand. Dante walked in behind him. “Family code says thirty for what you did. Mirella got down on her knees and begged me to go easy on you. She asked for the crop instead of the belt. So now it’s fifty.” A pause. Then he raised his arm. Crack. The first lash tore a red welt across my back before I even felt it land. He went again. And again. A dozen strikes in. The welts split open one after another. By the tenth, every blow was hitting raw meat. My skin was on fire and somehow numb at the same time. The crop had been soaked in something. Even through the haze of pain, I could smell it. Vinegar. Salt. Some kind of brine. So that’s what begging for the crop really meant. “Apologize to your sister.” “You going to apologize or not?” He never got the answer he wanted, so he just hit harder. By the time he counted to fifty, my back and the backs of my arms were open. Strips of skin hung loose. Blood ran down my spine and pooled on the stone floor underneath me. I’d stopped feeling individual blows somewhere around twenty. I curled into the corner, forehead against the cold stone, breathing in shallow gulps. My father dropped the crop on the ground and turned for the stairs. “Stubborn as a damn mule. Just like her grandmother.” That was all he said before he left. Dante crouched in front of me. “Mirella sent down ointment and a clean shirt. After everything you put her through, she’s the one taking care of you.” “You’re her sister, Aria. Act like it.” “Just apologize. End this.” He shook out the shirt Mirella had picked out for me. Laid it across my back like he was doing me a kindness. The second the fabric touched my open wounds, my whole body locked up like someone had thrown me into a barrel of salt. I doubled over on the stone and couldn’t breathe. Mirella hadn’t sent ointment. She’d dusted that shirt with something. The sting was deep, chemical, the kind that bit straight into raw skin. I bit down on my tongue until I tasted iron just to keep from screaming. Dante stood up and looked down at me like I was something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. “Christ. The dramatics. Mirella’s been white as a sheet from pain her whole life and you’ve never seen her put on a show like this.” He walked out. I waited until I heard the cellar door slam upstairs before I let myself breathe. Then I lay there on the cold stone, staring at the blood on my own hands, and counted. Two more nights. Two more nights and every last thing this Family had bled out of me was coming home.

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Every time my billionaire husband brings his latest mistress home, he graciously leaves a gorgeous college boy in my bed as a consolation prize. “I need a little excitement, you need company. Fair trade. No hard feelings.” That’s what Asher always says, like he’s negotiating a merger instead of cheating on his wife. This time, though, he really screwed up. He drags another boy toy into our living room, then pulls me aside with that smooth, coaxing voice of his. “Chloe got pregnant. We tried everything, but she wants to keep it, and she won’t unless I make her my wife.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear like he’s doing me a favor. “So we’re getting a quick divorce. Temporary. Just until the baby’s born.” “And before we remarry, you can have your fun with him. I won’t say a word.” Behind us, his entourage of leeches is already pouring whiskey. Later, when I’m out of earshot, one of them whispers, “Damn, Asher. You crawled a hundred miles on your knees for that woman. You’re really just gonna hand her over?” “Yeah, man. You didn’t even tell the kid to keep his hands off her?” Asher takes a long, lazy drag of his cigarette. “I’m not into cuckold porn, gentlemen.” “Scarlett’s a prude. A trophy wife with a stick up her ass. She won’t touch him.” “Genius, Ash. Pure genius. You bring the boy home, she sends him away, and somehow you end up the good guy. Hat’s off.” They’re already laughing, already counting their winnings, because every single time before, I played my part. Cold face. Fat check. “Get out of my house.” I’m sitting on the velvet armchair across the room, scrolling my phone, pretending I can’t hear them. Then I look up and smile. “Sure. Whatever you want.” Asher’s cigarette freezes halfway to his lips. The room goes dead silent. Lena recovers first. “Scarlett, sweetie— what did you just say?” I set my phone down on the coffee table. My eyes drift past Asher and land on the boy still standing awkwardly by the staircase. “I said yes.” I let my gaze sweep him from head to toe, slow and appraising. “He’s not bad looking, I’ll give you that.” Someone actually gasps. “She agreed?!” “No way. She’s not kicking him out this time?” “Asher, did you hear that?” Asher’s expression doesn’t shift. That lazy half-smirk is still glued to his mouth. But Chloe, the pregnant princess, suddenly clings tighter to his arm. “Ash, baby, sis finally came around. You should be happy.” He doesn’t answer her. He grinds his cigarette into the crystal ashtray, walks over to the boy, and claps him on the shoulder. “Take good care of her tonight.” Then he loops an arm around Chloe’s waist and walks her up the stairs. I turn to the boy. He’s still standing there, ears glowing red. “You commute, or are you staying?” His Adam’s apple bobs. “Whatever— whatever you want.” “Then stay.” I walk down the hallway, and the whispers start up behind me like static. “Wait, is she serious?” “Last time she pulled this, half of us caught a beating from Asher!” “Relax. She’s bluffing. She always bluffs. Like touching one of those boys would melt her precious skin off.” “Remember the football player? She literally had security drag him out by his collar.” “Nah, this time she’s just rattled. The pregnancy spooked her. She’ll fold by morning.” I keep walking. Their words pelt my back like little needles. Not deep. Just everywhere. And the worst part? They’re right. For three years, I’ve been exactly that woman. Too proud. Too icy. Too convinced that the words “I’m a prude” were some kind of holy shield. Every time Asher paraded a new boy in front of me, I’d hand over a check and toss him out like trash. I told myself that was winning. That at least I was the clean one in this filthy marriage. And now? Chloe’s belly is showing. My “purity” didn’t save a damn thing. Just bought me a divorce decree, a cold side of the bed, and a living room full of vultures laughing behind my back.

I push open the bedroom door upstairs. “This is it.” Then I lean against the doorframe and really look at him. Jace Holloway. Six-foot-two. Valedictorian. Top-ranked moot court champion at his law school. Full ride to grad school, dean’s list every semester. Asher really splurged this time. No more random gym rat from a downtown bar. “Selling yourself for cash?” I ask. He nods. No hesitation. No excuses. The old Scarlett would’ve smirked, tossed a few thousand at his feet, and snapped, “Take it and get lost.” God, I used to feel so righteous doing that. Standing on my little moral pedestal, waving my prudishness around like a sword. As if any boy who touched me would somehow stain me. As if Asher’s parade of pretty things were dirty just for showing up. And what did all that purity get me? The “dirty things” left. Asher never came back to me anyway. Honestly? Which one of those boys was ever dirtier than the man who sent them? “Tell the housekeeper if you need anything,” I say. I walk past him into the room. He follows, quiet, careful. “My name’s Jace.” “I know. Asher told me.” I keep walking, straight to the balcony. He doesn’t follow. Doesn’t push. Smart boy. Down on the lawn, Asher’s friends are starting to scatter. I watch their backs disappear into the night, one black sedan after another. I’ve lost count of how many times they’ve watched me get humiliated. When I come back inside, my eyes catch on the divorce papers sitting on the nightstand. Three years. Three years of looking the other way every time Asher pulled some new stunt. Because of what happened back then. Because something broke between us, and neither one of us knew how to fix it. He had his reasons. I had mine. Debts always come due. In the beginning, I told him: just don’t bring them home. Then it became: just don’t get one of them pregnant. I kept retreating. He kept advancing. And now we’re both tired. I pick up the pen and sign my name. The bathroom door clicks open. Jace walks out, hair still dripping, a towel slung low around his waist. The second he sees me, his ears flush bright red. “Sorry— I just got out—” I stand up. God, Asher really picked a blusher this time. The other boys, the ones I sent away with checks, they always had a flicker of resentment in their eyes. One of them actually shouted at me: “Are you and your husband sick? One of you pushing me in, the other shoving me out— what the hell am I, a prop?” I’d just stared him down. “Take the money and shut up.” Looking back, the kid was right. We are sick. Both of us. One with a cuckold fetish. One with a frigid martyr complex.

My phone lights up. A text from Asher: Get some sleep. I stare at those three words and almost laugh. He’s never sent me anything like that. Not once in three years. But tonight? Tonight he sends it. Because Jace is still in my room? Because the great Asher Vance is finally starting to wonder if his prudish little wife might actually go through with it this time? I don’t reply. Outside, the last lights in the estate flick off. The whole house goes still. Chloe’s moved in. Jace has moved in. This place finally looks like what it is. A trash can. Stuffed with whatever anyone feels like dumping in. Including me. I turn off the lamp. There’s a smile on my mouth I can’t even see. He thinks I’m still the old Scarlett. He thinks I won’t. He thinks I never could. He thinks my so-called purity will hold the line forever. He’s wrong. — The next morning, my lower back still aches from a night of bad sleep. Jace is in the kitchen helping Maria, our housekeeper. When he sees me coming down the stairs, the spatula nearly slips out of his hand. I smile at him. Where’s all that smoldering eye contact from last night, kid? I’ve barely sat down when Asher strolls into the dining room. “You’re up early.” He drops into the chair across from me, smirking like he knows a punchline I don’t. “How was your night?” Before I can answer, the front door bangs open. Tyler Brooks comes barreling in first. “Ash! Ash, who won? Who won?!” “I bet twenty grand she folded before noon!” “I bet she kicked him out before midnight! Three to one odds, Ash, you’re holding the pot—” He stops dead when he sees me at the table. Three grown men, all suddenly very interested in their shoes. “Scarlett. Hey. Morning.” Asher picks up his coffee. Takes a slow, satisfied sip. Like the bet his buddies just placed on his marriage is some kind of trophy. “Sit down, boys. Breakfast is ready.” I stand up and walk toward the kitchen. “You should head to class,” I tell Jace. He blinks, unties the apron, and slips out the front door without a word. The door clicks shut. Two seconds of silence in the dining room. Then Tyler stage-whispers, “See? Told you. Sent him packing first thing in the morning.” Big Ron laughs. “What, you doubted Asher? That man can read his wife like a goddamn paperback.” “That’s why Asher’s the king,” Tyler says, all worship. “You wanna marry one of these, boys? Find one who knows her place.” Asher leans back in his chair, eggs already gone, that smirk still hanging on his lips. Drinking it in. I exhale slowly and walk back into the dining room. Asher and I open our mouths at the exact same second— “Have dinner at my parents’ place tonight—” “Two o’clock. Courthouse. Be there.”

The dining room goes still. I drop the signed divorce papers right on the table between us. “Let’s get this done.” Asher freezes for a second. His eyes drop to the signature line. He doesn’t move. I know exactly what he’s thinking. The old me would’ve ripped that paper in half with shaking hands. Cried. Screamed, “Asher, you don’t get to just decide we’re done!” Made him chase me around the house for hours before anything got signed. He looks up at me, that same lazy drawl in his voice. “What’s the rush, baby? I told you, we’ll handle it after Chloe’s first trimester.” “I can’t wait that long,” I say. “Two o’clock. Courthouse. Are you coming or not?” His eyelid twitches. “Scarlett.” He pushes the papers back toward the middle of the table. “Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” “Better sign before you wake up too,” I shoot back. “Otherwise you’ll change your mind and tear it up again.” The silence stretches. Then Chloe comes drifting down the staircase like a ghost in a silk robe. “Sis, please don’t be upset. I just— I don’t want my baby labeled illegitimate, that’s all.” Her voice cracks beautifully. “The divorce can wait until after the first trimester, really!” Her eyes are already brimming. She looks more torn up about my marriage than I do. Asher glances at her. That tragic little face. That trembling lip. That soft “don’t be upset”— it lands on his ego like a slap. When did Asher Vance ever get rushed into a divorce? “You think I won’t sign?” He laughs once, sharp, and grabs the pen. Tyler jumps up. “Ash, hold on—” “Shut up.” Asher doesn’t even look at him. He scrawls his name and slams the pen down. That signature smirk crawls right back onto his mouth. “There. You all witnessed it.” He nods at his entourage. “After the baby’s born, we remarry. Everyone heard me.” Then he leans down to my ear, voice dropping into something almost tender. “You’re the woman I dragged back from death itself, Scarlett. None of those girls out there hold a candle to you.” “This kid? He’ll be ours to raise. Only you get to be his mother. Got it?” I let out a soft laugh. So this is what he calls love. I don’t say a word. I just grab the suitcase I packed last night and walk out the front door. Behind me, Chloe’s voice floats out, soft as cotton: “Ash… she’s not really leaving for good, is she?” Asher doesn’t answer. Originally his plan was clean and tidy. Divorce on paper, but I keep my room. My closet. My place at the dining table. The illusion of a wife, parked in the corner like a vase. Me actually leaving? Wasn’t in the script. But it doesn’t matter. Not to him. “You little troublemaker,” he murmurs to Chloe, brushing her hair back. “Bet you’re loving this, huh?” “That’s not fair!” Chloe pouts. “You always tease me. I’d never break up someone’s marriage on purpose— my conscience won’t let me.” She rests her hand on her belly, eyes shining. “It’s all for the baby.”

She looks like a wilted little flower in a storm. Asher melts. “Okay, okay. No more teasing. I’m sorry.” I’ll give Chloe this much— she’s smarter than the rest of them. She doesn’t post passive-aggressive captions on Instagram. Doesn’t call me to flex about whose bed Asher’s in tonight. Doesn’t text me photos of his hand on her thigh. She plays the wide-eyed innocent. “I’m just trying to fit in! I’d never come between you two!” One sharp word from me, and Asher’s already convinced she’s the victim. I’ve seen prettier girls. Younger ones. Bolder ones. They all crashed and burned because they were in too much of a hurry. Pushing him to commit. Texting me to back off. Chloe? Chloe just moved in. Belly first. Calling me “sis” like we’re family. She did what none of them could. — 1:50 p.m. I’m sitting on a wooden bench outside the courthouse. I’ve called Asher nine times. This time he picks up. “Where are you?” I ask. His voice is so casual it’s insulting. “I’m at Chloe’s prenatal appointment. Can’t really leave. I’ll swing by when we’re done.” “I told you. Two o’clock. Divorce filing.” “The divorce isn’t going anywhere, sweetheart.” Like he’s coaxing a tantruming toddler. “Wait till Chloe’s done with her ultrasound. Talk later.” He hangs up. Wait. Always wait. I look around the lobby. Couples shuffling in and out. Some dabbing their eyes. Some staring straight through the wall. Some signing with steady, expressionless hands. I used to cry like that. The full breakdown. Begging. Snot and mascara everywhere. And every time, Asher would soften, pull me back, and reward me with a “fine, we won’t get divorced.” Like that was a prize. Today I’m done collecting his prizes. A clerk calls the next number. I pull up my contacts and text my lawyer: Megan— file for divorce. Contested. I’ll send the paperwork over this afternoon. — That night, after my father-in-law’s third call, I drive out to the Vance estate alone. The whole way there I’m rehearsing. How do I tell the old man? That his son knocked up his side piece? That he’s pressuring me to sign? That I’m filing in court? Family politics. Sometimes they’re worse than the actual lawsuit. I show up alone. The old man pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. “Where’s Asher?” “Busy.” “Busy?” He sets the fork down hard. “What the hell is more important than his wife?” I don’t answer. Mr. Vance and my late father were brothers in everything but blood. They served together. Bled together. He’d wanted Asher and me married since we were kids. His wife wasn’t sold. My family wasn’t rich enough. I’d been seriously sick as a teenager, and she decided my “energy” was wrong for her son. But Asher refused to walk away. He drove out to St. Bartholomew’s, the old cathedral on the hill, and walked the entire mile-long stone pilgrimage path on his knees. A hundred steps. By the end, his knees were raw and bloody. He knelt at the altar and said: “I don’t need to be with Scarlett. I just need her to be okay.” When I heard about it, I cried for two days straight. He was always the one running toward me. I was always the one shrinking back, scared I wasn’t enough. After that I grabbed his hand and said, “I’m done hiding. If you want to marry me, I’ll say yes.” I got better. I went home with him. The old man was so happy he transferred a third of his stock options into my name as my dowry. “For the family to see,” he said. “So you’re protected.” Back then I thought Asher’s mother was the worst thing standing between us. Now I know. Outsiders never destroy a marriage. Only the two people inside it can do that.

I’m still figuring out how to start when the door swings open. Asher walks in with Chloe tucked under his arm. He sees me and stops short. The old man’s face goes black. “You bastard. You bring that girl into my house?” Asher just pulls out a chair for Chloe, easy as anything. “Dad, relax. It’s just dinner.” Then he glances at me. “Scarlett, head home. I’ll deal with you later.” Like I’m an inconvenience he double-booked. He leans in, lowers his voice like he’s doing me a courtesy. “I didn’t think you’d actually show.Tonight Chloe’s the one I’m here for, okay?” I laugh. She’s the one he’s here for. He’s running cover for a mistress. Bringing her to family dinner before the ink on our divorce is dry. I used to think Chloe was a phase. New toy, fresh smell, gone in a few months when he got bored. Guess I had that one wrong. Then his mother walks in. Her eyes slide over me, then over Chloe. “So this is the pregnant one? Lovely. We just collect strays now, do we?” One sentence. Two women insulted. The Asher I used to know would’ve stepped in front of me. “Scarlett is the woman I chose. Watch your mouth.” Tonight he just frowns and pulls Chloe closer. “Mom. Don’t talk about my woman like that.” Sharper than he ever was when he was protecting me. Chloe melts into his shoulder, eyes glistening, the perfect picture of a fragile thing under attack. She always looks like the world is bullying her. Not like me. I get insulted and my face doesn’t even move. Whatever they throw at me, I just swallow it. I stand up. “I’m leaving.” The old man calls after me. He can’t make me stay. Asher doesn’t even look up. The second I’m through the front gate, I think about that pilgrimage. The cathedral steps. The bloody knees. “I don’t need to be with Scarlett. I just need her to be okay.” Well. He got his wish. — The divorce moves faster than I expected. Asher figures we’ll be remarried by Christmas anyway— Chloe pops the kid out, they hand it off to the housekeeper, life resumes. The day we sign the settlement, he shows up forty minutes late. But he signs. Smooth. No fuss. Then he leans toward me, voice dropping into something almost coaxing. “You always wanted a wedding, didn’t you?” “When we remarry, I’ll throw you the real thing. The beach you love. The white dress you used to dog-ear in magazines. Whatever you want. I’ll give you all of it.” I look up at him. “Asher. Don’t bother.”

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My boyfriend pushes me into a military-grade interrogation chair to save his “female best friend” from a wedding prank. He has no clue my family runs the syndicate that runs this city. It’s supposed to be Sienna Lopez’s big day. She schemed, lied, and slept her way into marrying Dominic Cavalier, the head of the Cavalier crime family. During the pre-ceremony games, the groomsmen pull out their toys. An interrogation chair. A crate full of snakes. Props designed to humiliate. Sienna, the so-called tough girl, suddenly turns into a tearful damsel. She looks at my boyfriend Julian with those trembling doe eyes. And he shoves me forward. “They’ve gotta mess with someone. Why the bride? Mess with the bridesmaid instead.” He lowers his voice, trying to sweet-talk me. “Sienna’s an influencer. She married into the Cavalier family. If any of this ends up online and ruins her image, it’s over. Just take her place. She’ll owe you big. I’ll make sure she pays you. Probably more than you make in three months running deliveries.” Then Sienna opens her mouth, simpering at the groomsmen. “Gentlemen, I know you boys love your games. I’d never kill the vibe.” She gestures at me. “This is my buddy’s girlfriend. She’s a delivery driver. Use whatever you’ve got on her. Don’t let it go to waste.” What she doesn’t know? I’m Elena Moretti. The sole heir to the most feared syndicate in New York. Running midnight deliveries in the Bronx was nothing but a bet I made with my grandfather. The family heirs I’ve put my fists through? You could line them up from New York to London. Jax Russo, the one leading the groomsmen, steps forward. Lip ring glinting. He squints at me. “Why does she look familiar?” Of course I look familiar. I beat the shit out of every trust-fund thug in this room at some point. But right now, my signature red hair is dyed black. My bold red lip is bare. My leather jacket is swapped for a plain white dress. Thick-framed glasses and skin tanned a shade darker from months on a bike under the sun. Who’s going to recognize their worst nightmare in this disguise? Sienna laughs nervously. “She’s just a delivery girl. Maybe she’s dropped off your food before.” Jax smirks. He points at the black metal chair behind him, sparking with live current. “Military-grade interrogation unit. Makes grown men piss themselves.” He blows out a ring of smoke. “Delivery girl. Wanna take a seat?” I turn to Julian. My voice is calm. “The first day we got together, you said you’d always stand in front of me. Shield me. Where’s that now?” He looks away. No spine. “Babe, Sienna’s delicate. You’re out in the sun every day. You’re tougher. Just take this one for her.” Fine. My mistake for not seeing through him sooner. I swallow the sting in my chest. I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth. Then I smirk. “Gentlemen, keep the party going. I’m out.” I head for the door. Sienna shrieks. “Julian! She’s leaving! Who’s gonna take my place?!” Julian blocks my path. His expression is dark. “You throw little tantrums all the time and I let it slide. But right now, in front of all these men, you walk out and disrespect them? You want Sienna to suffer for that? You want the Vance family to pay for it?” I stare at him. Same handsome face. But he’s a stranger now. When I say nothing, Julian grabs my wrist. Each word deliberate. “If you don’t take Sienna’s place today, we’re done.” His eyes are smug. Confident. Sienna giggles behind her hand, leaning toward the groomsmen. “Every time Julian threatens to break up, she folds. She literally can’t live without him.” “And honestly,” Sienna looks at me, contempt dripping, “with your status? Julian is the ceiling of what you could ever land.” I sigh. I glance at my phone. “Julian. Can we break up in one hour instead?”

“It’s our one-year together in an hour,” I add. This is about the heir’s bet. I can’t lose now. Julian gives me that insufferable look. The one that says I knew it. “See? I knew you couldn’t leave me. Baby, I can’t leave you either. That breakup threat? Just a little trick to keep you in line.” He takes my hand, presses it over his heart. “Even though I’m helping Sienna today, you’re the only one in here.” “Do this one small favor for her, and I promise I won’t break up with you.” No wonder he’s so confident. Last week, Sienna kissed Julian right in front of me. “Accidentally.” Drunk. Then laughed about how they’d pinky-sworn as kids. She said, “If there was anything between me and Julian, it would’ve happened already.” He said, “Babe, she’s like a brother to me. It’s not what you think.” And I still didn’t leave him. Everyone thinks I’m desperately in love with Julian Vance. Thinking about it makes me curse my grandfather for the eight hundredth time. “Are we doing this or not?!” Jax loses patience. He kicks a crystal vase off the center table. It shatters across the floor. That savage look in his eyes makes everyone flinch. “Who’s sitting in the damn chair?!” Sienna tugs Julian’s sleeve. Tears pooling. She doesn’t even need words. Julian hands her a tissue. Then shoots me a warning glare. “Sit in that chair. Now. One second of hesitation and we’re over.” I can’t lose the bet at the finish line. I paste on a soft, obedient smile. “Fine. I’ll do it.” Sienna opens her livestream. “Hey babes! Broadcasting my wedding! That’s Jax Russo, the Russo family heir. Hottest psycho in the city.” “My bridesmaid? Oh, she volunteered to play. She’s loving it.” The comments pour in like venom. “Isn’t that delivery girl Julian’s girlfriend? She hooked a rich guy and now she’s attention-whoring at someone else’s wedding?” “Gold-digger trying to seduce Jax Russo? Girl picked the wrong target. That man has ice in his veins.” I glance at the comments. Then at Jax. Hard to connect this so-called monster with the guy who used to tremble like a puppy in front of me. I drop into the chair. Hold out my arm. “Hook me up.” The bodyguard connects the electrodes. Sienna cuts in. “Jax, let me ask the questions. I know her better.” She lowers her voice so only we can hear. “Don’t you want to see her lose control of her bladder on camera?” Jax drags on his cigarette, waves a hand. Whatever. Sienna smiles sweetly. “First question.” “Have you ever killed an animal? A pet?” I think for a second. Nod. “Yeah.” The comments explode. “Psycho!” “Animal abuser!” “Look at her face, she doesn’t even care!” Julian stares at me. “I didn’t know you were that kind of person.” Jax, though. He leans forward. Interested. “Why’d you kill it?” “To save someone’s life.” It was a wolf. Legal to own overseas. I brought it to the estate, and on day one it tried to rip a courier’s throat out. I put a blade through its neck. But I can’t say that. Too many details that lead back to my identity. I shake my head. “No comment on the details.” Sienna pounces. “Even if an animal bites, you smack it! You don’t slaughter it! You’re cold-blooded!” The livestream chat calls for doxxing me. Threats to show up at my door. “Second question.” Sienna’s smile sharpens. “On your birthday, you faked a pregnancy to force Julian into buying you a forty-thousand-dollar necklace. And for his birthday, you were planning to give him… a wooden box. True or false?” Deny it, get electrocuted live. Admit it, branded a gold-digger forever. That’s her game. I smile slowly. “True.” Comments erupt. “She can’t even spend a hundred bucks on him?” “Classic gold-digger move.” Sienna shoves her phone in my face. “Look, everyone! Not even a hint of shame!” Why would I be ashamed? That box contains the Moretti Onyx Coin. Whoever holds it gets full protection and priority access to every deal in the Moretti empire. The Vance family is drowning in debt. That coin was their only lifeline. But I say nothing. Not yet. Julian’s jaw tightens. “So the rumors were true. You’re only with me for my family’s money. I gave you a forty-grand necklace and you can’t even…” I tap my fingers on the armrest. “That necklace. You know exactly what happened. Want to explain to the livestream? Or should I?” His face goes white. Then red. “…It’s in the past. Drop it.” Jax is bored. No one’s gotten electrocuted. No one’s screamed. “Forget this. She’s telling the truth every time. Boring.” He claps his hands. Bodyguards wheel in the massive crate draped in black cloth. Something hisses inside. Jax rips the cover off. Dozens of snakes. Coiled, writhing, tangled at the bottom. He grins. “So. Bride or bridesmaid. Who’s getting in?”

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