Author: Momo Chan

Ever since Mom’s affair, Dad had started doing something strange. Every single day, he would sprinkle a handful of flour inside her underwear. His face would go paper-white as he muttered under his breath, “Now it’s clean. Now I can see everything clearly.” Mom would just stand by the edge of the bed, her head bowed low, letting him do whatever he wanted. When she finally stepped out of the bedroom and caught me looking up at her with worried eyes, she would offer a gentle, weary smile. “Sweetheart, Daddy’s just a little sick. We’re just playing a game.” But today, Mom had to go out of town on a business trip. While she was packing her suitcase, she secretly pulled out that flour-dusted pair of underwear and swapped it for a clean one. The moment Dad saw it, he completely lost his mind. He lunged forward, grabbing her suitcase, his voice rising to a sharp, hysterical shriek. “Why did you change it? Are you going to see that divorced lobby host from your office again?! Even with the flour, you still want to throw yourself at him? Aren’t you afraid of rotting down there?!” Mom was pulled off balance, stumbling. She finally shoved him away with all her strength. “I’m going to Pinecrest Springs to meet a client! How am I supposed to wear that in public?! Can you stop being so damn paranoid every single second of the day?!” Dad stumbled backward, colliding heavily with the wardrobe. Instantly, tears spilled over his eyelashes. “If you weren’t so desperately starved that you’d sleep with a piece of human garbage who already has a kid, do you think I’d be paranoid?” Mom’s face flushed a deep, angry crimson. “At least Sean’s daughter is his own flesh and blood from his marriage! It’s not like you, dragging a rapist’s bastard into my life and expecting me to clean up your mess! If I were picky, I never would have married you in the first place!” Outside the window, a sudden crack of thunder shook the house. Dad froze, his outstretched hand slowly dropping to his side. I shrank deeper into the corner of the sofa, tears silently tracking down my face. I knew, right then, that Dad had finally broken. … The moment those words left her mouth, Mom’s expression shifted. She rushed over and clamped her warm palms over my ears, her voice laced with sudden panic and regret. “Lucy, don’t listen to that. Mommy was just out of her mind with anger. I was talking nonsense.” Her hands were hot against my ears, creating a muffled hum like I was underwater. But I didn’t feel anything. I just stared at Dad through the gaps of her fingers. Dad stood there, completely still. He didn’t scream. He didn’t make a scene. He simply crouched down, picked up the discarded underwear, folded it with meticulous care, and placed it gently into the laundry hamper. Then, he picked up Mom’s train ticket from the coffee table and stared at it for a very long time. Pinecrest Springs. When those words registered in my mind, a loud buzzing filled my ears. Suddenly, the memories came rushing back. Pinecrest Springs was the very first place I had ever seen the man Mom was sleeping with. It was on Dad’s birthday. He had taken me to Pinecrest Springs to celebrate. We had changed into our swimsuits and were heading to the hot springs. As we passed the locker rooms, Dad suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes were locked on two pieces of clothing hanging on the door of an adjacent private dressing room. A woman’s blouse and a man’s suit jacket. I recognized the blouse—it was Mom’s. I knew it because of the gold brooch pinned to the collar, a birthday gift Dad had saved up to buy her. From inside the dressing room came low, ragged gasps. A man and a woman, making noises like two wild beasts tearing each other apart. Dad’s face drained of all color. I didn’t understand what was happening. Hearing Mom sound like she was in so much pain, I thought someone was hurting her. So, I charged forward, threw the door open, and screamed, “Don’t hurt my mommy!” But inside, there was only a naked man. He scrambled past me in a panicked rush, fleeing into the hallway. And Mom, sitting on the bench inside, looked like a ghost. That day, Dad cried for hours. When Mom finally came home later, she dismissed it with cold impatience, telling Dad he was making a mountain out of a molehill. I remember her saying, “Back then, when that woman kept you chained up for three days and three nights, I was still willing to marry you. What is so hard for you to stomach now?” That night, Dad held me close as we slept. His tears fell continuously, soaking into my hair, cold and wet. I thought he was asleep, but his lips were moving, whispering fragmented, broken words. I caught pieces of it: not mine, rapist, bastard. I didn’t fully grasp what those words meant back then, but I knew one thing: I probably wasn’t Mom’s daughter. So, Mom, you don’t need to cover my ears. I’ve known for a long time. A warm drop of water splashed onto the back of my hand. I looked up. It was Dad’s tear. Seeing the look on Dad’s face, Mom must have felt a prick of guilt. She grabbed her phone, stepped out onto the balcony, and lowered her voice to make a call. “Hey, Megan, can you cover my trip today? Something came up at home… What? He’s already there?” Through the glass door, I could hear a man’s muffled crying coming from the receiver. Even through the phone, it sounded high-pitched and pathetic. Mom’s expression instantly changed. She barked, “I’m on my way,” and hung up. She stormed back into the bedroom, grabbed her suitcase, and headed straight for the front door. But this time, Dad didn’t run after her. He only knelt down and gently wiped the tear from the back of my hand. “I’m sorry, Lucy. Daddy really wanted to try. I wanted so badly to give you a real family.” He looked up at me, his eyes terribly red. “But Daddy is just so tired. I don’t think I can keep going.” Mom didn’t come home that night. Instead, my body betrayed me, and I came down with a raging fever. Dad stayed by my side all night, constantly changing the cool washcloth on my forehead and measuring my temperature. I heard him making phone calls—likely to Mom. The phone rang and rang, but no one ever picked up. By morning, the fever still hadn’t broken. Dad scooped me up onto his back and rushed me to the hospital. I clung to him, my eyelids feeling as heavy as lead weights. In my hazy, feverish state, I heard a man’s voice very close by. “Gently, sweetheart. Just hold on a little longer. It’ll be over soon.” The voice sounded familiar. I forced my eyes open. Through the blur, I saw three people standing outside the neighboring examination room. Mom. Sean. And a girl, about half a head taller than me, holding up a bandaged finger and whimpering dramatically. Mom didn’t see us. She was leaning over, signing some paperwork. The nurse called out, “Who is here for Kylie Reynolds?” Mom looked up, her voice quiet but distinct: “I’m her mother.” At that moment, it felt as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over my head. I woke up completely. As Mom turned around, her eyes collided with mine. She froze. Dad froze, too, his arms tightening around me. Sean was the first to react. A practiced smile plastered across his face, and he hurried over, his voice dripping with nervous urgency. “Hey, man, please don’t misinterpret this. The kid had a tantrum last night and ran out. We spent the whole night looking for her. She cut her finger, so we came to get it looked at. I’m new to this area and didn’t know where to go, so I had no choice but to call Evelyn for help.” But Dad didn’t even look at him. He gently set me down on my feet and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. “Lucy, does it still hurt?” Before I could answer, someone lunged forward and shoved me hard. I went flying, my forehead slamming violently against the plastic armrest of the hallway chairs. The pain was so sharp my vision went black. Dad let out a panicked cry, wrapping his arms around me as he whirled around. The girl stood behind me, her eyes red, pointing a finger at me as she screamed. “You little bastard! You shameless thief! Stop trying to steal my mommy!” Sean shrieked, lunging forward to grab the girl’s arm. The next second, he raised his hand and slapped himself hard across the face. Once, twice, three times. The slaps were loud and sharp, echoing down the corridor. Everyone in the hallway turned to stare. He sobbed as he kept slapping himself, his tears smudging whatever dignity he had left. “It’s all my fault! It’s all my fault! Don’t listen to her, she’s just a child, she doesn’t know what she’s saying—she probably picked it up from TV! I promise I’ll discipline her when we get home!” Dad never looked at him. He carefully examined my forehead, and only after ensuring the skin wasn’t broken did he stand up. His gaze cut past Sean, landing squarely on Mom. His eyes were as still and empty as a stagnant pool of dark water. Mom shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, her brow furrowing. “Alright, stop looking at me like that. We ran into each other, that’s all. Is this dramatic display really necessary?” Mom opened her mouth to say more, but suddenly she swayed, her knees buckling as she began to collapse. Sean was fast, catching her in his arms and rushing her into the adjacent examination room. The hallway fell quiet. The girl stood there, completely abandoned. She glanced at me, then at the examination room door, her lip trembling before she turned and ran in after them. I stood alone in the hallway. I hadn’t realized Dad had let go of my hand. I looked up and saw him leaning heavily against the wall, his eyes closed. “Daddy?” He opened his eyes, looked down at me, and gently stroked my hair. “Let’s go home, Lucy.” “Aren’t we getting my medicine?” “No.” He took my hand and led me toward the exit. As we passed the examination room, I heard the doctor’s voice drift out: “Congratulations, Ms. Crawford. You’re pregnant. It’s been almost three months. The fainting was just due to emotional stress. You need to rest.” My mind flashed back. The day we ran into Mom in the dressing room was exactly three months ago. Dad’s grip on my hand tightened. I looked up at his profile, but his face remained completely serene. When Mom’s eyes met his through the open door, Dad spoke only two words, his voice flat and empty: “Congratulations.” Then, he turned and led me away. “David!” Mom screamed from behind us. Dad’s footsteps never faltered. On the drive home, Dad didn’t say a single word. When night fell, Mom finally came back. When she walked into the living room, Dad was sitting quietly on the sofa. She sat down opposite him, her expression turning uncharacteristically solemn. “David, we need to talk.” Dad didn’t speak. Mom sighed, her voice softening into a gentle, coaxing tone she might use on a stubborn child. “I want to keep Sean’s baby.” She paused, glancing toward me, then back at Dad. “You know the state of your own body… After what happened back then, you were damaged so badly. The doctors said you could never get me pregnant again. The child I’m carrying right now is my only chance to have a baby of my own. It’s not that I don’t care about you, but you can’t be this selfish, right?” I stood by the bedroom door, watching Dad. His back was perfectly straight, his hands resting on his knees, his knuckles turning a stark, bloodless white. “Once the baby is born safe and sound, I’ll find a way to send Sean and his daughter abroad. They won’t interfere with our lives anymore. You’ll still be Mr. Crawford, Lucy will still be my daughter, and nothing has to change.” As she spoke, there was a faint, hopeful spark in her eyes. She looked as though she believed she was making a massive sacrifice, as though Dad ought to be drowning in gratitude. Dad suddenly let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Okay.” Mom blinked, clearly not expecting him to agree so easily. “You… you agree?” Dad lowered his gaze, his voice incredibly calm. “Yes. Take care of yourself.” A relieved smile broke across Mom’s face, the heavy tension leaving her shoulders. She stood up, walked over, and patted my head. “Be a good girl, Lucy. Mommy has to step out for a bit, but I’ll be right back.” I didn’t say anything. I just watched her silhouette disappear through the front door. Once she was gone, Dad looked away from the empty doorway. He leaned down and pulled a document from the drawer. It was a divorce agreement. He beckoned to me. “Lucy, come here.” I walked over and stood before him. He pulled me into a tight embrace, resting his chin on the top of my head, gently swaying me back and forth. “What if Daddy took you to live somewhere else? Somewhere far away. Would you like that?” I nodded. That night, for the first time in a very long time, we slept peacefully. The next morning, Dad had our bags packed and was ready to take me to the airport. But the moment he opened the front door, he was met face-to-face with Mom. Her face was contorted with pure, unbridled rage. Before Dad could even react, she threw her hand back and slapped him hard across the face. “David, how can you be so vicious?! Sean is already in fragile health, and you hired people to assault him?!” Dad was completely stunned. He cupped his smarting cheek, blood slow-dripping from the corner of his lip. “What are you screaming about? When did I ever hire anyone to touch him?” But Mom didn’t listen. She grabbed my arm and dragged both Dad and me out of the apartment. I stumbled blindly behind her, my knee slamming violently against the doorframe, a sharp burst of pain shooting through my leg. At the hospital. Inside Sean’s hospital room. The moment the door opened, a thick, metallic smell of copper and sweat hit my nose. Sean was half-reclined on the bed, his hair a tangled mess, his face slick with tears. His shirt was torn in several places, exposing skin covered in angry purple and blue bruises. Seeing Dad, Sean shrank back in terror, letting out a piercing shriek. “Stay away! Don’t let him near me! Don’t touch me! You animals!” Mom stopped in her tracks, her words hissed through clenched teeth. “David, just because you can’t father a child yourself, you can’t bear to let anyone else have one? Do you have any idea what your petty, sick jealousy has done to Sean? He’s severely injured!” Sean sobbed harder, his shoulders shaking violently. There was a dark, dried patch of blood staining his bedsheets, turning a grim, rusty black. Mom’s voice grew louder, her eyes shot through with broken red veins. She, too, had miscarried on the way here because of the extreme emotional upheaval. “What did he do wrong? What did the baby do wrong?” “Did you think that if you dragged Sean down into the dirt, you wouldn’t feel so filthy anymore? You wanted him to be just like you?” She stared at Dad, her words dropping like heavy, frozen stones. “David, looking at you right now makes me want to vomit.” Dad’s lips trembled. He shook his head desperately, tears finally spilling over. “I didn’t… I didn’t do this…” “Still lying!” Mom waved her hand, and the heavy door was pushed open. Several people were shoved into the room. Three women, their faces bruised and swollen, one of them bleeding from the corner of her eye. They cowered on the floor, terrified to look up. Mom demanded coldly, “You said a man paid you to drug and assault Sean. Is this him?” The woman at the front looked up, quickly nodding. “Yes! It’s him! He told us the guy was a cheap, divorced home-wrecker who would run away and wouldn’t dare call the cops!” The other two nodded in unison. The movement was so perfectly synchronized it felt rehearsed. Dad’s face went completely pale. I tore myself from Mom’s grip, throwing my small body in front of Dad, tears blinding me. “Daddy was with me the whole night! He never went out! You’re lying! You’re all bad people!” But Mom’s expression only darkened further. “David, you’ve even taught Lucy how to lie for you. I see I need to teach you a lesson you’ll actually remember.” She gestured with her chin toward the bruised women. “Take him to the empty room next door. Whatever you did to Sean, do the exact same thing to him.” A loud ringing filled my ears. Mom added, her voice chillingly casual: “It’s not like it’s his first time anyway. He’s got experience.” The women stood up, moving toward Dad. Dad seemed to lose the last shred of his spirit. He shoved me back out of harm’s way, screaming, “Lucy, close your eyes! Don’t look!” But for the first time in my life, I didn’t obey. I watched their hands claw at Dad’s arms, dragging him out into the corridor. “Daddy! Daddy!” I chased after them, but Mom grabbed me by my collar, hoisting me up like a helpless, squirming animal. The door to the adjoining room slammed shut. I dropped to my knees outside the door, crying hysterically, pounding against the wood until my knuckles bled. “Please! Please don’t touch my daddy!” There was no sound from inside. I turned back to find Mom. She was standing at the far end of the corridor, her back to me. Sean had somehow limped out of his room and was clinging to her. Mom’s arms were wrapped gently around his waist. The next second, a dull, heavy thud echoed from inside the room—the sound of something massive striking the concrete below. Then, the air was sliced by a chorus of panicked screams. The door to the adjoining room burst open from the inside. One of the women stumbled out, her clothes disheveled, her voice pitching into a terrified shriek: “He’s dead! The man jumped out the window!!”

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The day after I found out I was the imposter daughter, I finally lost my grip on the sick, desperate obsession I had for my older brother. I locked him in the basement, wrapping my arms around him, refusing to let go. By day, I pretended nothing was wrong. I joined the rest of the family in their frantic search for him, acting just as worried as they were. I was like a rat in a gutter, letting myself sink deeper and deeper into a swamp of my own making. An imposter daughter is already easy to despise. If they ever found out I was in love with my brother, it would make them completely sick to their stomachs, wouldn’t it? Until one day, when my family gathered right in front of me to conspire: “Hey, Una, there’s this international board meeting Kevin absolutely has to attend. Can we let him out just for a little bit?” “Just half an hour! We promise we’ll lock him right back up before you get home!” Me: ? … 1 At seven in the morning, I walked down the spiral staircase. My parents, my younger brother Toby, and Zoe were already seated at the dining table, laughing and chatting. I stood there for three seconds, waiting for the dull ache in my chest to subside, before slowly making my way over. Zoe was the first to notice me. She looked up and smiled. “Why are you up so early today?” She was looking more and more like me. Three days ago, Zoe had been brought back to the Calloway estate. She had arrived carrying a massive rucksack, covered in dust, the hems of her cargo pants completely frayed. We were told she had been injured during a wilderness research expedition and was admitted to the Calloway private hospital. That was how they discovered she was the family’s biological daughter. She had hugged everyone in the family, and then, she turned her gaze to me. Her eyes had lingered on my face for an uncomfortably long time. While I stood there, clenching my fists against my thighs and fighting a wave of panic, she had reached out and gently ruffled my hair. “So, you’re Una?” she had said. “You look much younger than me. Your skin is so pale.” She had studied me from head to toe, smiling. “What kind of shampoo do you use? It smells nice.” The next day, I smelled that exact same woody fragrance on Zoe. By the third day, she was wearing the same style of hoodie and sports watch that I wore. I understood what she was doing. Zoe wanted to replace me. She wanted to be the only true daughter of the Calloway family. I didn’t hate her for it. My heart just felt heavy and hollow. These past twenty-one years of luxury had been stolen time anyway. It was only natural for her to want them back. But there was one thing I refused to yield. He was currently locked in a pitch-black basement where no one could ever steal him away. I picked up a butter knife and began spreading butter onto my toast while listening to my mother talk about the welcome gala she was planning for Zoe. “We’ll host it the day after tomorrow. I’ve ordered new jewelry and gifts for both of you.” Then, my mother sighed in exasperation. “I don’t know what’s gotten into Kevin. He said he was going on a business trip, but to not even show his face or answer his phone when Zoe finally came home… And with his condition, I don’t even know if he’s taking his medication on time.” I pricked up my ears, desperate to catch any other detail. Toby interrupted with a grin. “Maybe he got kidnapped?” The table erupted into laughter. “He’s built like a tank and stands at six-four. Who on earth could kidnap him?” Only my hands froze. A heavy stone sank into my stomach. The bite of toast I had just swallowed threatened to come right back up. It took everything I had to force my lips into a faint smile. I lowered my head and murmured, “I’m full. I should get to campus.” 2 Zoe looked up instantly. “You ate so little. I baked some cookies—take them with you to eat on the way.” I politely declined and grabbed my backpack. As I walked out of the dining room, I caught Toby’s teasing voice behind me: “So, how does copy-pasting feel?” Zoe seemed to snap, telling him to shut up. In the foyer, I practically ran into my second-oldest brother, Luke. He was wearing a perfectly tailored suit, his wire-rimmed glasses resting on his sharp nose. He had a lean, academic build. “Heading to class?” He took my backpack with one hand and slung it over his shoulder. “Come on. I’m heading to the clinic anyway. I’ll give you a ride.” Sitting in the passenger seat of his Rolls-Royce Cullinan, I watched the sycamore trees lining the street blur past. I tried to sound casual. “By the way, Luke… what exactly is Kevin’s illness?” When we were kids, I used to cling to Kevin constantly. But when I turned eighteen—and Kevin was twenty-three—he was diagnosed with a rare condition. He started spending long stretches of time abroad. Over the last three years, I had barely seen him. Every time I asked what was wrong with him, the family brushed it off. It was a closely guarded secret. Luke kept one hand on the steering wheel, expertly navigating the heavy traffic. “I wouldn’t dare leak Kevin’s medical privacy. Ask him yourself when he gets back. Though God knows where he is—he won’t even pick up my calls.” “Oh,” I whispered, squeezing my fingers together. I looked up through my eyelashes, stealing a glance at him. Luke was the smartest person in our family. He had entered college at fifteen, finished his medical doctorate by twenty, and now managed the family’s private hospital system. I had always been close to Kevin, but I was always a little terrified of Luke. Just like now. Luke glanced over, his eyes locking onto mine. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes felt like an X-ray machine, stripping away my defenses and exposing my deepest secrets. He said softly, “Do you think he actually got kidnapped?” “Kevin served in the Special Forces. The only person who could possibly catch him off guard would have to be someone he trusted completely. Like… a family member.” I sat up straight so fast that the seatbelt locked, snapping against my collarbone and pulling me back into the leather seat. Luke arched an eyebrow. “It’s just a hypothesis. Why so tense?” My heart was pounding against my ribs. I forced a dry, awkward laugh. “Who would ever dare lay a hand on Kevin? Ha-ha.” Luke turned the wheel, his tone light and conversational. “I’ll drop you at the university gates, then head to the hospital. We’re partnering with the state on a wildlife rehabilitation project, testing some heavy-duty restraints. They’re lightweight but incredibly secure. Even the strongest predators can’t break out of them.” I turned my head to look at him. Luke kept his eyes on the road. Behind his glasses, there was the faintest trace of a smirk. “They’re stored in the warehouse behind the clinic.” The Cullinan pulled up to the campus gates. Silence settled over the car. I took a deep breath, my fingers clutching my purse. “I have a seminar tonight. I’ll be staying in the dorms, so I won’t be coming home.” Luke let out a low hum. “Keep it in moderation.” “What?” His eyes crinkled. “I mean, don’t stay up too late studying. It’s bad for your health.” 3 That night, I obviously didn’t go to any seminar. First, I made a stealthy detour to the hospital warehouse. After a long, agonizing moment of hesitation outside a convenience store, I went inside and bought a few specific items, feeling like a thief the entire time. Finally, I took a cab out to the quiet suburbs. My parents had bought this villa in my name when I turned eighteen. At the time, they had said, “Our little girl is growing up, and she’s going to have her own secrets. This will be Una’s secret sanctuary. Whenever you’re feeling down, you can come here.” They could never have imagined who I was currently hiding inside it. I walked down the stairs into the basement. Taking a deep, trembling breath, I unlocked the heavy door. “Kevin,” I called out softly. Dim, warm light spilled into the room. The tall, broad-shouldered man was sitting on the edge of the mattress. He wore a faded black tank top that hugged the powerful lines of his chest and shoulders. Faint, jagged scars from his military days stretched from his collarbone down to his forearms, only adding to his rugged, intimidating presence. But right now, both of his thick wrists were chained securely to the iron headboard. He lifted his heavy eyelids, his dark, piercing gaze locking onto me. “Una. You have completely lost your mind.” His voice was low, laced with the commanding, authoritative tone of a man used to being in charge. I stood by the doorway, my heart hammering wildly in my chest. I bit my lip, offering him a small, pleading smile. “With you here, Kevin, how could I?” The moment Kevin heard the news that Zoe and I had been switched at birth, he had caught the first flight back from New York. And the second he stepped off the plane, I had tricked him into coming here. He hadn’t even brought his luggage. For the past two days, I had been bringing supplies to the villa like a frantic squirrel storing food for winter. I set my backpack down and began unpacking my purchases one by one. Two cartons of blueberries. A bunch of bananas. Three bottles of whole milk. A loaf of brioche. Two sets of fresh loungewear. A pack of men’s cotton boxers. And a few tubes of cute, strawberry-scented hand cream. Kevin’s eyes fell on the hand cream, and his expression instantly hardened. “What is that for?” I looked up at him through my eyelashes, my voice barely a whisper. “I noticed your hands looked a little dry. I wanted you to use it.” Silence stretched over the basement for five agonizing seconds. Then, a harsh, humorless laugh escaped Kevin’s throat. “I’m your brother.” I clenched my jaw. “Not biologically.” The muscles in his jaw tightened, the atmosphere in the room turning dangerously cold. “You are completely out of control, Una. I watched you grow up. How could you do something this reckless?” I let out a soft, sad sigh and shook my head. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think, Kevin.” They say the quiet ones are always the most dangerous. Personally, I’ve always thought of myself as the kind of dog that doesn’t bark before it bites. The only person who had ever seen through me was Toby. He had grown up on film sets, achieving fame at a young age, and was three years younger than me. Once, when I went to visit him on set, the producer’s eyes had lit up when he saw me. He had said, “Your sister is gorgeous. I have a role for a sweet, innocent girl that would be perfect for her.” Toby had practically choked on his laughter. “That is the funniest thing I’ve heard all year. Don’t let her quiet, sweet face fool you. She’s got a million calculations running in her head at any given second. In our house, she’s actually the one with the biggest balls.” He was right. I was daring enough to fall in love with my brother, and reckless enough to kidnap him. And now, I was about to do something even more outrageous. I walked over and sat on the edge of the mattress. His skin radiated a fierce heat, and I could hear the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat. I looked up at him, my eyes filled with an intense, agonizing yearning. “Kevin, I love you. I want to be with you.” I pressed the strawberry-scented hand cream into his palm. “And you should be the one teaching me how to use this.” The air pressure in the basement plummeted. Without a word, Kevin lifted his arm, the metal chains clinking violently. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he slapped the tubes of hand cream off the nightstand, sending them scattering across the floor. “Don’t even think about it.” I stared at the tubes on the floor, my lips trembling slightly. A wave of disappointment washed over me, and I let out a soft sigh. “Okay. If you don’t want to use them, we don’t have to.” I shifted closer, moving to a spot right next to him. I leaned in, my heart in my throat, completely terrified but desperate. My lips brushed against his earlobe as I whispered, “Do you want to be with me forever, Kevin? When we’re finally together, will people call you my brother… or my husband?” Before I could finish the thought, a heavy hand gripped my jaw. His grip was firm, his thumb and forefinger pressing hard against my jawline, forcing my face up. Kevin narrowed his eyes, a dark, turbulent storm swirling in his black pupils. “Una, you seriously need to be put in your place. How old are you, filling your head with this nonsense?” 4 With his hand clamping my face, my cheeks were puffed out. My eyes instinctively darted downward. I looked at the hand holding my chin. Then at his wrist. It was bare. Where were the handcuffs? My eyes widened in sheer panic. How on earth had he gotten out of them? Kevin let out a cold sneer. “If I couldn’t pick a lock in under three seconds, my years in the Special Forces would have been a joke.” He flipped his grip, grabbing my wrists instead. His fingers felt like bands of solid iron. They were long and thick, the veins on the back of his hand bulging under the strain. “Locking me in a basement for three days, talking all this garbage…” He sat up fully, bringing his face level with mine. He was so close I could see my own terrified reflection in his dark eyes. “Did you actually think about how this was going to end?” My mind went completely blank. I felt exactly like a child caught red-handed doing something terrible. My heart hammered so hard against my ribs that my ears buzzed. My fingers shook. Instinctively, I reached into the very bottom of my backpack. I pulled out the heavy-duty wildlife restraints I had stolen from Luke’s warehouse. With a sharp click, I snapped the metal collar around Kevin’s wrist again. Kevin stared down at the new, high-tech restraint on his wrist, laughing in disbelief. “You came prepared, didn’t you? This is a specialized lock. Who gave this to you?” I bit my lip, desperately trying to change the subject. “Kevin, you’ve been completely off the grid for three days. Mom and Dad are worried sick. Shouldn’t you text them back first?” I grabbed his phone from the nightstand. There were dozens of unread messages in the family group chat. From Mom: Where on earth are you? You’re not answering your phone. @Kevin Dad had forwarded an email about an international board meeting, tagging Kevin: Your presence is required for this deal. Friday at 3:00 PM. Do not miss it. Toby had sent a meme of a dog holding its own leash with the caption: Can’t find my owner. Even Zoe had sent a message: Una, do you prefer the blue or the black dress? I want us to wear matching sister outfits. Then, ten minutes ago, Mom had sent another text: Una isn’t coming home tonight? My heart skipped a beat. My fingers felt incredibly stiff as I typed: My seminar ran really late. I’m just going to crash in the dorms tonight. Mom replied almost instantly: Of course, sweetie. Don’t push yourself too hard. Mom loves you! @Kevin you absolute brat, reply to me right now. Before I handed the phone to Kevin, I hesitated. “Kevin… you wouldn’t want the family to find out that your little sister has you locked up in a basement, would you?” Kevin: “…” A vein throbbed on his temple. He quickly sent a professional reply to the work emails, then dropped a quick message in the family chat to let them know he was safe. Only then did he look back up at me. He let out a long sigh, his voice softer than it had been all week. “Una. Come here. Let’s talk.” “Even if we aren’t blood-related, we’ve been brother and sister for a long time. Why do you have these feelings for me? Did I do something to lead you on?” “Or is it because of everything that’s happened recently? Are you feeling insecure? Did someone say something to make you feel like you don’t belong?” “Mom, Dad, and I have already talked. You and Zoe are both our daughters. The Calloways can easily support two girls.” I bit my lip, staying silent for a long time. Why did I fall in love with Kevin? When I was fifteen, I was kidnapped by one of my father’s business rivals. I was blindfolded, my hands and feet bound, locked in a freezing, pitch-black warehouse for what felt like an eternity. I had cried until my throat was raw and bleeding. It was Kevin who broke down the door, completely alone, and pulled me out. He had been wearing tactical gear soaked in sweat and blood, his face covered in cuts. He had held me so tight I could barely breathe. “Don’t be scared, Una. Your brother is here.” I had buried my face in his chest, sobbing hysterically. For the next year, I suffered from severe PTSD. I couldn’t sleep. The only time I felt safe was when Kevin was near me. I wanted him to eat with me. I wanted him to take me with him whenever he left the house. And when he did, I wanted us to share a bed so I wouldn’t wake up screaming from the nightmares. And then? I felt lost. There was a massive, empty void in my chest that made me want more. I wanted to possess him completely. But what else could I do? Until the day Zoe came back. It was like a bucket of ice water poured over my head. I finally woke up. I didn’t want to be his sister. I wanted to be his wife. Slowly, I raised my head to look at him, my voice barely a whisper. “No one said anything to me, Kevin.” “I’m just a bad person. That’s why I fell in love with you.” I looked at him, my eyes begging for a shred of hope. “Since we aren’t actually siblings… could you ever love me? Even just a little bit?” Kevin stared at me for what felt like an eternity. Finally, he closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. “Una,” he said softly. “There is already someone else. Someone I’ve loved for a very, very long time.”

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Outside the ICU, my husband was using my mother’s life-saving surgery deposit as a bargaining chip on a makeshift gambling table. He had his arm wrapped protectively around his fragile mistress, rolling the dice as he sealed my ruin. Around us, my in-laws watched in silence, while my husband wore a mask of sickening piety. “Dale, Freda has a fractured spiritual aura and a terminal diagnosis,” he said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “The spiritual guru we consulted said her only chance at survival is to siphon-bind the vitality of someone with pure, abundant luck. You’ve always been blessed with good fortune. If you lose this game, you’re going to let the master perform the vitality transfer to save Freda.” He leaned in, his eyes cold. “One stage of the ritual will cost you a single year of your life, transferred directly to Freda to ward off her bad karma.” “Two stages,” he continued, “and you will transfer your physical health and bodily vitality to her, leaving you weak but keeping her whole.” Freda Palmer leaned against his chest, a delicate, mocking smile playing on her lips. “And if we light all three stages, Dale,” she purred, her voice a fragile whisper, “your entire destiny, your wealth, and every remaining year of your life will be signed over to me. My broken, dying body will be sustained entirely by your life force. Tell me, Dale… to save my life, do you have the courage to play?” Before I could choke out a desperate refusal, my husband grabbed my wrist and forced my thumb onto the ink pad, slamming it down on the contract. “She’s playing,” he declared. As my heart turned to ash, a soft, tiny, childish voice suddenly echoed in my mind. Mama, play her. I’m the god of gamblers reborn. Let’s teach this trash bag of a father a lesson. I instinctively placed a hand over my abdomen. Feeling the sudden warmth under my palm, I met the mocking stares of my in-laws, reached out, and gripped the three dice. 1 “Dale, the monitors in there aren’t going to wait forever.” Zachary King held Freda Palmer by the waist, his voice thick with irritation. I stared at the hospital billing slip crumpled near his polished leather shoes. “Using my mother’s life to corner me, Zach? Just tell me what you actually want!” Zach reached into the breast pocket of his bespoke suit and tossed a thick stack of documents onto the nurses’ station counter. “Sign this. Voluntary Asset and Vitality Transfer Agreement.” On the very first page, in stark black and white, was the clause: I was to surrender every piece of my pre-marital real estate and all my shares in the family company. Furthermore, I would assume sole responsibility for all of Freda’s astronomical medical bills. My sister-in-law, Tammy, sat in a plastic waiting room chair, popping cheap mints and scrolling through her phone. “Dale, Zach is doing you a favor. Freda is genuinely sick. Giving up a little money and luck to save a life is just good karma.” My mother-in-law, Beatrice, rolled her eyes, chiming in. “Exactly. Your mother is an old relic anyway. If she dies in there, it’s just her time. Don’t stand in the way of someone who actually has a future.” Freda clung to Zach’s chest, coughing delicately. Her eyes grew red and watery. “Dale, don’t blame Zach. He just loves me too much; he can’t bear to watch me suffer. If you sign the paper and lend me your luck, I swear I’ll never try to take your place as Zach’s wife.” Zach rubbed her back soothingly, then glared at me. “You heard her. Freda is being more than generous. What are you waiting for? Sign it!” He tapped his watch. “Your mother’s oxygen saturation is dropping below fifty. The doctor was just out here looking for you. If you don’t pay the deposit and sign the consent form now, you can start picking out her casket.” I looked at the man standing before me. I remembered the winter nights he used to hold my freezing feet against his chest to warm them. I remembered him eating my leftovers, living like a loyal dog at my beck and call. Now, he was wearing a Tom Ford suit I had bought him, wearing a Patek Philippe I had gifted him, and using my mother’s dying breath to force me into becoming a human life-support machine for his mistress. A warm, gentle thrum vibrated in my belly. Mama, don’t panic. Let’s make him bet everything down to his skin. The voice was tiny, childish, but incredibly steady. Far too steady for an unborn child. I lowered my gaze to hide my eyes, my fingers tightening around the three cold dice. “Fine. We play.” I looked up, coldness seeping into my tone. “But we sign these agreements page by page, one round at a time.” Zach scoffed, kicking the hospital bill aside. “Fine. Let’s make sure you understand exactly how badly you’re losing.” He snapped his fingers. Two of his hired bodyguards marched over, carrying a folding table and placing it squarely in the middle of the sterile hospital corridor. Freda stepped forward, her movements graceful and fragile as she picked up the leather dice cup. “Dale, for the first round, let’s play for the deed to your estate in Westbury.” She shook the cup casually and slammed it onto the table. The rattle of the dice was sharp and deafening in the quiet hallway. Zach sat back in a plastic chair, crossing his legs like a king on a throne. He chin-jerked at the cup. “Open it.” The cup lifted. Three fives. Fifteen. Tammy clapped her hands, laughing. “Oh, Freda! Your luck is incredible! A fifteen right out of the gate!” Beatrice sneered at me. “Of course. Freda was born with a lucky aura. Unlike some people who bring nothing but poverty and misery wherever they go.” Freda giggled, sliding the cup toward me. “Your turn, Dale.” I picked up the heavy leather cup. Just as I was about to shake it, the childish voice rang out in my mind again, sharp and urgent. Mama, the mistress’s dice are loaded with mercury. She’s a cheap cheat. But don’t worry, your boy knows how to break her game. Stiffen your wrist and lose this one on purpose. My hand paused for a fraction of a second. I let my wrist slip slightly, slamming the cup down awkwardly. The three dice tumbled out onto the table. A two, a one, and another one. Four. An obnoxious burst of laughter erupted in the corridor. Zach slapped the first property deed transfer in front of me and shoved a pen into my hand. “Sign, Dale. You played, you lost. Don’t tell me you’re going to back out now.” He tapped the table impatiently. I gripped the pen, the nib hovering over the paper, trembling. 2 For the second round, the stakes were my Rolls-Royce. Freda shook the cup with practiced ease, letting it drop and lifting it to reveal two sixes and a five. Seventeen. The cheering from the peanut gallery was instantaneous. Tammy squealed, “See that? Even God is on Freda’s side!” Beatrice spat a mint wrapper onto the floor. “Look at her luck, then look at yours. Useless.” I picked up the cup in silence. The voice returned. Mama, tilt your wrist half an inch to the left. Keep losing. I followed the instruction exactly. The dice rolled out: two twos and a three. Seven. For the third round, we played for my thirty percent share in the family company. Freda rolled a sixteen. I rolled a miserable five. Three consecutive losses. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed hummily, casting a sickly glow over the corridor. The red “In Surgery” light above the ICU doors continued to blink ominously. Zach smiled with absolute triumph, pushing the remaining stack of transfer documents toward me. “Dale, even the universe has abandoned you. How did you think you could ever beat Freda? Sign the papers. Don’t ruin Freda’s lucky hour.” My fingers shook so violently I could barely hold the pen. Tears spilled over my eyelashes, leaving dark, wet circles on the crisp white paper. Beatrice leaned over, pointing a finger at my face. “Stop crying, you bad omen! Just sign the damn papers!” “Exactly,” Tammy chimed in. “You played the game. Your mother is waiting in there; she doesn’t have time for your tears.” I bit my lip until I tasted blood, forcing myself to press my thumbprint onto each document in dark red ink. I looked like a broken, desperate woman, sweating and frantic. Only I knew it was an act. Inside my mind, the baby’s voice was as steady as a mountain. Good job, Mama. Hang in there. He’s holding Grandmother’s surgical consent form. If we fight him now, he’ll pull the plug. We have to make this a legally binding game, letting him stick his own neck into the noose we’ve built. I took a deep breath, pushing the signed papers back across the table. Zach picked them up, flicking the edges with a satisfied smirk before handing them to a bodyguard. Just then, his phone lit up on the corner of the table. A text preview popped up: Mr. King, the rent on your luxury apartment in the Hamptons is past due. Please remit payment immediately… I caught the message out of the corner of my eye and quickly looked away, pretending I hadn’t seen a thing. Zach hastily flipped his phone face down, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. He forced a smile, adjusting his cuffs. “Alright. The first three rounds are settled.” He stood up, looking down at me. “Now, Dale, there’s only one round left.” “We play for your health and your life force.” “If you win, I sign your mother’s consent form immediately.” “If you lose, you leave this marriage with nothing, and you spend the rest of your life as Freda’s personal human battery.” I stared at the red ink on my fingers, my nails digging into my palms. “Aren’t you afraid of karma?” My voice was so raspy it was barely a whisper. Zach threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing off the sterile walls. “Karma? In this family, I am the law!” He leaned down, placing both hands flat on the table, bringing his face inches from mine. “Dale, if you’re scared, get down on your knees and beg. Maybe I’ll be merciful enough to let you see your mother’s corpse one last time.” Freda slid her arm through his, resting her chin on his shoulder. “Dale, you have nothing left to lose anyway. This is the final round. Are you in, or are you out?” 3 I pushed myself up from the table, grabbing the last blank agreement and slamming it back down. “Zachary!” I screamed, my voice cracking, my eyes bloodshot. I gripped the edges of the paper until my knuckles turned white, playing the part of a manic, ruined gambler perfectly. “You’re pushing me to the edge! Aren’t you afraid of what I’ll do to you when this is over?” Zach laughed so hard he practically doubled over. He leaned in close to my ear, his breath hot and unpleasant. “What are you going to do to me, Dale? I’ve spent months preparing for this. I have your corporate seals. I have your lawyers. You are a queen without a kingdom. You can’t touch me.” He stepped back, spreading his arms wide, looking every bit the cheap pretender trying to play king. “Face it, Dale. You were born to be stepped on by me.” Staring at his arrogant face, the trembling in my shoulders slowly stopped. I let a slow, cold smile creep onto my face. “Fine,” I said, my voice suddenly dropping its frantic pitch. “If we’re playing for everything, let’s raise the stakes.” I pointed a finger at his chest, my voice carrying down the quiet hallway. “If I win, you sign the surgical consent form immediately.” “And more than that…” “Every single asset, stock, and penny belonging to you and the entire King family becomes mine. You leave this marriage with absolutely nothing.” The corridor fell dead silent for a full second. Beatrice and Tammy froze, then burst into hysterical laughter. Beatrice slapped her thigh. “Oh, this is rich! Is this bitch insane? She actually thinks she has a chance to turn this around?” Tammy crossed her arms, sneering. “A three-time loser begging for a miracle. You want our family assets? Dream on, loser!” Freda hid her smirk behind a manicured hand. “Dale, why make this harder on yourself? Just accept your fate.” Zach finished laughing and snapped his fingers. “Fine! I’ll give you exactly what you want!” He shouted toward the elevators. “Mr. Davis! Get over here!” A man in a sharp suit, carrying a leather briefcase, hurried out from behind the bodyguards. Zach pointed at me, his voice booming. “Draft an ironclad contract! Put every single condition she just mentioned into it! I want to watch her sign her own death warrant!” Mr. Davis opened his laptop immediately, his fingers flying across the keyboard. Within minutes, a portable printer spat out two copies of the ultimate high-stakes agreement. It was stark, cruel, and legally binding. Zach didn’t even read it. He grabbed a pen, signed his name, and pressed his thumbprint onto the paper with aggressive satisfaction. “Your turn, Dale.” He threw the pen at me. His eyes were wide, bloodshot with greed, his face twisted in anticipation. I picked up the pen. My hand didn’t shake. Stroke by stroke, I signed my name. The notary stamp fell with a heavy, definitive thud. Suddenly, the frantic energy in the corridor shifted. My shoulders straightened. My spine went rigid. I looked up at Zach. My gaze wasn’t filled with hatred, or fear. It was the detached, clinical look of a medical examiner preparing to pull back a white sheet in a morgue. Zach flinched under my gaze, his throat bobbing as his brow furrowed. “What… what are you looking at me like that for? Stop playing games!” I ignored his outburst, carefully folding my copy of the notarized agreement and tucking it securely into my inner coat pocket. The act was over. The fish had taken the bait. “Cut the crap,” I said, my voice cold and steady. “Let’s roll.” Freda eagerly grabbed the leather cup, her eyes shining with manic excitement. 4 The final round was on. Freda held the cup with both hands, her eyes wide as she shook it frantically. The rattling of the dice inside was sharp, chaotic, and deafening. Behind us, the red light of the operating room cast a thin, bloody line across the linoleum floor. With a loud crack, Freda slammed the cup onto the table. Panting, her eyes locked onto mine, she lifted the cover. Three sixes. Eighteen. The silence lasted for two seconds before the hallway erupted. Tammy jumped in the air. “A perfect roll! A perfect eighteen! Freda won!” Beatrice clasped her hands together, looking up at the ceiling tiles. “Thank God! We’re rich! We’re finally rich!” The relatives swarmed Zach and Freda, showering them with congratulations, looking ready to bow down to them. At the peak of their celebration, the heavy doors of the operating suite swung open. A nurse rushed out, holding a clipboard, her voice frantic. “Where is the patient’s family? The ICU copay still hasn’t been cleared! If we don’t start the transfusion now, she’s going to crash!” Through the open door, the rapid, high-pitched alarm of the heart monitor echoed into the hall. Losing this round didn’t just mean losing my money. It meant letting my mother die on the table. Zach stood in front of the nurse, holding Freda close, a smug sneer on his face. “No need to rush, nurse. Someone is about to sign a DNR anyway.” Freda tilted her head, looking at my pale face with faux pity. “Thank you for the life force, Dale. I’ll take good care of your health and your money.” She smirked. “As for your mother… you might as well open your cup and start planning her funeral.” Tammy banged on the table. “Open it! Stop wasting time! An eighteen is on the board. Not even God can save you now!” They were using my mother’s dying moments to break me, pushing me into a corner. Behind me was my mother’s fading heartbeat; in front of me was a pack of wolves waiting to tear me apart. Listening to the rhythmic, desperate beeping of the hospital monitor, my face remained entirely blank. In my mind, the baby let out a cold, childish snort. An eighteen? How embarrassing. Mama, slam the cup. I gripped the leather cup, my knuckles turning white. The alarms, the screaming nurse, the mocking laughter of my in-laws all blurred into a chaotic, surreal noise. They looked at me like I was already dead, waiting for me to fall to my knees. I lifted the cup high above my head, poured every ounce of my strength into my wrist, and slammed it down. The impact rattled the entire corridor. Even the bodyguards at the end of the hall flinched. The folding table shook violently, its metal legs scraping sharply against the tile floor. Zach jumped at the noise, but quickly recovered, letting out a dismissive laugh. “Slamming the table won’t change the physics, Dale. What, did you think you could magically manifest a nineteen?” “Lift the cup. Stop wasting our time.” I didn’t say a word. My fingers slowly loosened their grip on the leather. Under the watchful eyes of everyone in the hall, I pinched the rim of the cup and slowly lifted it.

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At the wrap party for his new hit series, someone suggested playing Sympatico, the AI-driven compatibility game that was trending everywhere. The premise was simple: upload digitized memories—letters, photos, milestones—and let the algorithm analyze the emotional alignment. A score above ninety percent meant soulmate status. “Let’s try it, Adam,” I said, uploading a folder containing a decade’s worth of our photos, emails, and scanned letters. I wanted to solidify my place as his wife in front of the flashing press cameras. Adam Cross was a genius screenwriter. Every sweeping, heart-wrenching romance he penned was celebrated by the public as a love letter to me, his long-time partner and muse. He looked slightly annoyed by the spectacle, but he gave a curt nod anyway. The screen loaded. Our compatibility score popped up: Ten percent. Underneath, the AI’s diagnostic reading read: Unrequited. Zero emotional resonance. A collective gasp rippled through the banquet hall. I froze, my cheeks burning so intensely I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. “Mind if I take a turn?” The voice belonged to Isla Rowe, Adam’s notorious rival director, who rarely showed her face at these industry events. She stepped forward, casually typing in a few keywords of her own. The massive screen flashed instantly. The compatibility score hit a blinding one hundred percent. Beside me, the usually stoic, unshakeable Adam began to tremble so violently he could barely hold his champagne flute. A cold dread washed over me, numbing me from head to toe. In that single, devastating second, I understood. Every tragic, beautiful female lead he’d ever written—the ones that made millions of women weep—weren’t modeled after me. They were written for Isla. The woman who had ruthlessly abandoned him years ago to chase her career abroad. … “Unbelievable!” the host cried, practically pushing Isla toward Adam in his excitement. Before she could steady herself, she let out a soft gasp and stumbled straight into his chest. Adam, who usually despised public displays of affection, didn’t pull away. Instead, his hands clamped down on her shoulders, holding her steady with a desperate, white-knuckled grip. “I guess you can’t fight fate!” someone shouted from the crowd. The press went wild. The rapid-fire click of shutters and blinding camera flashes turned the room into a strobe-lit blur. There were even jokes rippling through the audience about turning this wrap party into an impromptu engagement party. I stood entirely outside the circle of light, a ghost at my own celebration. The ten percent on the screen felt like a physical blow, leaving one side of my face burning as if I’d been slapped. “Who is she?” my voice sounded hollow, like dry leaves scraping over concrete. The assistant director, standing next to me, slapped his thigh in excitement. “Oh, that’s right. You only joined the production company three years ago.” “Isla and Adam went to film school together. Back then, they were the golden couple of the indie scene—brilliant, passionate, unstoppable.” He sighed, his expression turning nostalgic. “But then she abruptly moved to Europe, and they lost touch.” He glanced at me, his voice dropping to a confidential whisper. “The famous ‘one who got away’ in Adam’s breakout script? The archetype for every heroine he’s written since? That’s her. Now that she’s back, I’m guessing the script of his life is about to get a major rewrite.” I stared at Isla’s face. When she smiled, the slight, upturned curve of her eyes was identical to mine. Or rather, mine had been subtly molded into hers over the last ten years, shaped by Adam’s gentle corrections, his quiet preferences, his whispered instructions on how I should wear my hair and present myself to the world. My chest tightened, a rusty blade twisting in my ribs. Noticing my pale face, the assistant director tried to smooth things over. “Hey, it’s just a party game. Don’t take it to heart, Fiona.” Needing to prove something—anything—I reached out and clicked the reset button on the screen, stubbornly re-entering our shared memories. Adam finally looked over at me, his brow furrowed in a slight, warning frown. I didn’t look back at him. I just watched the progress bar on the screen flicker and load. Ten percent. It didn’t budge. Because my side of the ledger was filled with ten years of quiet sacrifices, compromises, and desperate attempts to please him. His side of the ledger didn’t even have my name written on it. “Must be a system glitch,” the assistant director muttered, letting out a forced laugh. “I mean, Fiona is Adam’s exclusive leading lady. There’s no way they don’t have chemistry.” The crowd around us murmured awkwardly, quickly shifting their attention back to the main stage. In our industry circles, everyone knew about Adam and me. They knew I’d drunk myself to the point of a bleeding stomach ulcer to secure the seed funding for his first major film. They knew I’d lived in a damp, isolated cabin in the Pacific Northwest for six months just to help him find his creative spark. To them, I was the devoted, slightly pathetic woman who had clawed her way into his orbit. But what none of them knew was that Adam and I were already married. Standing there in the cold draft of the banquet hall, a terrible realization dawned on me. All those years of tender gazes, those quiet moments when he looked at me with such profound, aching depth… was he ever actually looking at me? Or was he looking right through me, searching for the ghost of someone else? “Adam, it’s too loud in here. My head hurts,” Isla murmured, tugging gently at the sleeve of his tailored suit jacket. Her tone carried an easy, practiced intimacy. “Can we get out of here?” One of the lead investors immediately tossed his car keys across the table. “Go on, Adam. Take care of our director. That’s top priority tonight!” I stared at Adam, waiting. He avoided my eyes entirely. Assisting Isla by the elbow, he began guiding her toward the exit. “I’ll drop her off first,” he muttered as he brushed past me, his voice low and dismissive. “We’ll talk later.” They vanished into the VIP corridor. The noise of the party resumed around me, but my world had quietly collapsed. I spent the rest of the night wearing a painted-on smile, nodding until my jaw ached. By the time the guests began to filter out, the hollow ache in my chest had only grown sharper. “Goodnight, Fiona,” the assistant director said, waving as he headed for the door. “Adam mentioned you guys had a major announcement tomorrow. Wedding bells finally?” I forced my lips to stretch into another smile, though my throat felt thick with unshed tears. “No,” I whispered. “No announcement.” Three months ago, I had custom-ordered a platinum band to surprise him with on the night we finally went public with our marriage. Now, the small velvet box felt like a lead weight in my clutch. Suddenly, the thought of giving it to him made me feel sick. By midnight, the venue was empty. I checked my phone. The dozens of texts I’d sent Adam remained unread, unanswered. “Excuse me, ma’am,” a security guard said gently, approaching me. “We’re locking up the building.” “Of course. Sorry.” I reached for the chair to grab my silk wrap, only to realize it was gone. Adam had draped it over Isla’s bare shoulders before they left. Outside, a bitter spring rain was falling, the wind cutting through my thin dress. I sat on a bench under the awning of a closed coffee shop until the early hours of the morning, shivering, until my phone finally buzzed. It was Adam. “Are you still at the venue? It’s pouring. Stay put, I’m coming to get you.” Twenty minutes later, his black sedan pulled up to the curb. I opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat. Immediately, the scent of expensive, smoky woodwind perfume mixed with a hint of tobacco hit me. It was Isla’s signature scent. “She was having an anxiety attack. I had to stay until she calmed down,” he said, his tone perfectly even as he shifted into drive. I opened my mouth to speak, but my eyes caught a crumpled piece of notepad paper wedged in the gap of the console. I smoothed it out. Written in Adam’s distinctive, elegant cursive was a script note: The first kiss after their reunion. A cool, rainy night in May. The paper felt like a hot coal in my hand, scorching my fingertips. “I told you to wait inside,” Adam said, glancing down at my damp heels and wet hem. He reached into the backseat, grabbed a cashmere throw, and tossed it onto my lap. The blanket carried that same unfamiliar, smoky-sweet scent. I didn’t touch it. I let it slide off my knees onto the floor. “Who is Isla Rowe to you?” The silence in the car became heavy, suffocating. “A director. A colleague.” “Just a colleague?” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Then why did the algorithm say you were a one-hundred-percent match? Why did the assistant director say she’s the blueprint for every love story you’ve ever written?” And what about me? I wanted to scream. Am I just a lump of clay you carved into her likeness because you couldn’t have the real thing? “It’s a machine, Fiona. Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, his brow furrowing with irritation. “The press was watching. If I didn’t play along, it would have ruined her night and made me look like an amateur. She’s sensitive. Her pride is fragile, and she doesn’t handle being sidelined well.” “And what about me?” I interrupted, my voice cracking. “Do I deserve to watch my husband walk out of his own party with another woman? Do I deserve to stand in the freezing rain for two hours waiting for him?” He didn’t answer. He just pressed down on the gas pedal, his jaw set. This was always his way. Whenever things got too real, whenever he couldn’t deflect, he built a wall of silence. Our marriage license had been signed in secret, a deathbed wish from his ailing father. Back then, I believed that if I was patient enough, if I loved him deeply enough, the lack of a proper wedding or public recognition wouldn’t matter. After a few blocks, he reached out, his voice tight. “Give me the note.” I didn’t move. “Adam, do you still love her?” “No.” “Then who is that rainy-night kiss written for?” He finally snapped, turning to glare at me with a cold, sharp annoyance I had never seen before. “Fiona, are you done throwing a tantrum?” “We are legally married. Our families’ assets are tied together. What exactly are you insecure about?” “A tantrum?” The word tore a physical wound in my chest. “Is that what this is? Then why did you force me to wear a perfume I hated? Why did you spend years dictating how I speak, how I act, how I carry myself on camera? Weren’t you just trying to build a ghost?” Adam slammed on the brakes, pulling the car abruptly to the curb. He let out a harsh, dry laugh, as if I’d just said something incredibly naive. “You’re flattering yourself,” he said, his voice flat and cruel. “If you think you could ever be her surrogate, you’re not even close.” He shifted back into drive, and the rest of the ride home was silent. The moment we walked through the front door, he headed straight up to his third-floor study, closing the heavy oak door with a definitive click of the lock. I shut myself in the master bedroom, staring at the velvet box containing the platinum band. On the nightstand sat our only photo together. It was taken the night he won his first major screenwriting award. I had practically forced myself into the frame. In the photo, Adam’s head is turned slightly, his gaze directed off-camera, while I smiled radiantly at the lens. I used to think he was just camera-shy. But looking at it now, I realized he wasn’t looking away from the camera. He was looking at the empty VIP seat in the second row—the one reserved for Isla. Adam had never been stingy with money. The gifts he gave me were always from high-end auction houses—diamond tennis bracelets, sapphire necklaces. They were flawless, expensive, and entirely cold. A guilt offering. But he never walked through a park with me. He never remembered my birthday. And whenever we were intimate, he insisted on turning off every single light, tracing the contours of my face repeatedly in the pitch-black silence. The realization hit me so hard my vision blurred with tears. Down the hall, the sound of his office printer began to hum. I walked out of the bedroom and stood by his secondary desk in the hallway. The printer was spitting out pages of his new series outline. The pages kept rolling until the machine paused on a password-protected digital document on his synced tablet. I reached out. I tried my birthday. Incorrect. Our wedding anniversary. Incorrect. My fingers trembled as I typed in the date Isla had boarded her flight to Europe ten years ago. Access granted. It was a digital archive of journal entries, spanning a decade. A private gallery of his grief, written for an audience of one. “Met a girl today, Isla. She asked me for a job. When she laughs, her eyes crinkle just like yours.” “I taught her how to play the role from your thesis film today. For a second, when the light hit her, I thought you walked through the door.” Every entry was a masterpiece of longing, a monument of devotion. He knew how to write love letters. He just didn’t want to write them to me. I kept scrolling, my chest aching, until I reached an entry timestamped from early this morning. “Ten years. We finally got our rainy-night kiss.” “Fiona wore the wrap tonight. From behind, she looked exactly like you. But when she turned around, the illusion broke. It’s never you.” My tears dripped onto the tablet screen, smudging the words. I leaned against the desk, catching my reflection in the dark window pane. I had spent ten years smoothing down my rough edges for him, studying acting, refining my speech, trying to be the perfect woman for Adam Cross. Only to realize I was just a cheap, knock-off copy. The last file in the folder was a photo taken just hours ago. A blurry shot of a woman’s back, draped in my silk wrap, looking out at the rain through a window. The caption read: “Isla, the rain tonight tastes like you.” I stared at those words, then looked out at the cold spring rain still streaking down the glass. Adam, I thought, I am so done with this marriage. A sudden wave of nausea hit me so hard I had to run to the bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink as my stomach heaved. To please him, I had traded my vibrant wardrobe for muted silk slip dresses. I had learned to lower my voice, to tilt my chin down when I spoke, to look up at him through my eyelashes. I thought he was just helping me perfect my craft. But he was just sculpting his masterpiece. I had given him the best decade of my life, and in return, I didn’t even get the dignity of being his wife. I was just a placeholder waiting to be discarded the moment the original returned. I walked down the hall toward the locked storage room at the very end of the corridor. Adam had forbidden me from ever going near it. But tonight, the rules didn’t matter. I went down to the garage, grabbed a heavy mallet, and walked back up. With three hard swings, the brass lock shattered, and the door swung open. The moment I stepped inside, the sheer weight of his obsession suffocated me. The room was a shrine to Isla Rowe. Racks of clothing lined the walls. There was the emerald gown she wore to her college graduation, the red dress she wore when she won her first international award. Adam had hunted down duplicates of every single outfit she’d ever worn and hung them here. And in the center of the room stood a dressmaker’s mannequin, draped in an unfinished lace wedding gown. It was the exact silhouette I had pointed out to Adam in a magazine a hundred times. I had begged him for a wedding like that. What had he said? “You don’t have the presence for a design like that yet, Fiona. Let’s wait.” He wasn’t waiting for me to grow into it. He was waiting for her to come back. Beneath the mannequin sat a wooden chest filled with dozens of unsent letters. Every date on those envelopes corresponded with a milestone in my life with him. The day I was discharged from the hospital after my stomach surgery, he had written to her: “She is weak today. Her pale face reminds me so much of how you looked the day you left.” The day we secretly signed our marriage license: “The family pressured me. I found the closest match to you to keep them quiet and protect the estate.” My entire existence had been reduced to a footnote in his grand love story with another woman. “What do you think you’re doing in here?” A cold, hard voice cut through the silence. Adam stood at the doorway, his eyes dark with fury. He marched into the room, tearing the letters out of my hands, and shoved me back. My forehead clipped the sharp edge of the mahogany wardrobe. A sharp pain shot through my skull, and spots danced in my eyes. “Adam, you are disgusting,” I whispered, pointing at the room full of relics. “Using me as a cheap bandage for your ego? Do you even have a soul?” He carefully smoothed out the crumpled edges of the envelopes, not even looking at me. “Fiona, don’t play the martyr,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Your family’s firm was on the brink of bankruptcy when you practically begged me to marry you.” “For ten years, you’ve used the Cross name to secure every major role you’ve had. Do I need to list them for you?” I stared at him, the sheer cruelty of his words piercing me like physical blades. “I want a divorce,” I said, gripping the wardrobe to steady myself. “Adam, we’re done.” His casual demeanor vanished. His jaw clenched. “A divorce? Get real, Fiona.” “Tomorrow night is the press gala for the new series. It’s also the night our families sign the contract renewal.” “If you walk now, you lose everything. You’re thirty. Without the Cross backing, what roles do you think you’re going to get in this town?” “I don’t care,” I said, my voice shaking but resolute. “I’d rather scrub floors than spend another second living with a ghost.” “Fine.” Adam pulled his phone out and tossed it at my feet. “Call your parents right now. Tell them you’re going to bankrupt the family business for the sake of your pride. See if they tell you to suck it up, or if they cheer for your independence.” With trembling fingers, I picked up the phone and dialed my father. I poured my heart out, my voice breaking as I told him everything. But when I finished, there was only a long, heavy silence on the other end. “Fiona,” my father said slowly. “Adam is an artist. Creative minds are temperamental. As long as he keeps you in that house and the contracts are signed, you’re the one with the ring. Don’t ruin this for us. Be smart.” The line went dead. It felt like a final sentence. Adam walked over, looking down at me with cold satisfaction. “See? Everyone expects you to keep playing the part.” “Just be good, Fiona. And you’ll always be Mrs. Cross.” Looking at his handsome, entirely empty face, I felt a deep, physical revulsion. I pushed past him, stumbled out of the bedroom, and began throwing my clothes into a suitcase. “Run away if you want,” he called out down the hallway. “But if you’re not at that gala tomorrow night—you know the consequences.” I didn’t look back. As I reached for my jewelry box to pack the platinum band, my hand brushed against a white envelope from my doctor’s office. My fingers froze. Adam, I thought, looking down at the positive test results, I am leaving you. And I am taking this life with me.

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My boyfriend, Toby, never asks for things directly. He always drops these subtle, roundabout hints. I used to think it was a pride thing—that he was just too embarrassed to ask me for help. And since we were getting married soon anyway, I figured what was mine was his, so I kept giving in, satisfying his every little hint. Until I accidentally stumbled upon an Instagram post from my best friend, Rae. [I am absolutely in love with the new Tesla Model Y. If only I could drive one!] The very next second, Toby’s account left a comment underneath. [Consider it done. I’ve got you.] I was still wondering when they had gotten so close when a text from Toby popped up on my phone. “I have to meet a client in a bit. It’s so hot out, and I have to walk half a mile to the subway station. It would be great if I had a car.” I was about to reply when I saw Rae’s latest comment on her post. [You know me so well! But I only want it if she brings it to me on a silver platter herself. Don’t forget to buy balloons—you used them all up last night.] I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. My thumb kept refreshing the screen, over and over, hoping for a different reality. But those glaring words only became clearer, and my heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold, iron fist. I stared at the screen, my stomach turning violently. Sleeping together behind my back, and using me as their personal ATM? I deleted the draft that read, “I’ll bring you the keys.” Instead, I replied: “Oh, you should probably call an Uber then.” 1 Toby was clearly taken aback. It took him several minutes to send another message. “It has to be over a hundred degrees out there.” “Probably. I’m in the AC, so I can’t really tell.” Seeing that I wasn’t playing along with his usual script, he quickly sent a frantic voice note, his tone tense and impatient. “The client is rushing me. If I’m late, this deal is dead. You know how important this project is for our future, Nicola.” In the past, if he had laid it on this thick, I would have immediately capitulated. I wouldn’t have had the heart to let him miss his meeting; I would have rushed over to hand him my keys. Then, he would pretend to feel guilty, hesitate a bit, and finally take them with a sigh. Just like every single time before. When he said his laptop was too slow and he had to work overtime to finish his reports, I bought him a brand-new MacBook Pro the very next day. When he said he was jealous of his coworkers having the new PlayStation 5 while he only had a stress ball to squeeze, I bought him the entire setup immediately. I had even quietly started saving recipes, thinking about how I would cook different meals for him every day once we were married. But this time, I intentionally played dumb. “Then order an Uber Comfort or something. It’s not that expensive, and it’s definitely worth it compared to losing a client.” He probably didn’t expect that response. His chat window fell silent for a long time. Ten minutes later, he sent a sad emoji. Then came another voice note: “I saw a colleague pull up in a brand-new car to meet a client yesterday. The client’s attitude was completely different.” I stared at the screen and let out a dry, bitter laugh. I just replied, “Cool.” On his end, the “typing…” indicator flickered constantly for three full minutes before a single line appeared. “I guess I’ll go squeeze onto the subway then. If I get heatstroke today, I won’t be able to make that garlic herb steak you love tonight.” I rolled my eyes at the screen and sent back a careless, “Stay safe out there.” Half an hour later, my phone rang. It was Rae. “Nicola, what kind of girlfriend are you?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “You’re making him take the subway in this heat? He has to meet an important client. What if he gets heatstroke? Do you not care about him at all?” I pinched the bridge of my nose, pressing down the anger flaring in my chest. “Since when do you care more about him than I do, Rae?” She didn’t seem to catch the edge in my voice and kept her self-righteous tone. “You guys are getting married. Why are you keeping score? It’s just borrowing a car. Do you really have to be this petty?” I laughed out loud. “It’s my car. I borrow it out when I want to, and I don’t when I don’t. How does that make me petty?” “Come on, that car was meant to be part of your wedding assets anyway. It’s eventually going to be Toby’s to drive. What’s the big deal about letting him use it now? I don’t get what you’re throwing a tantrum about.” I had just picked up the car last week and had barely driven it myself. Yet Toby had already borrowed it three times under various excuses, and every single time he brought it back, the low-fuel light was blinking red. Now, all the details I had willfully ignored started clicking into place. The day after I filled up the tank, Rae posted photos of a sunrise hike on Instagram. The next time he borrowed it, she posted a nine-photo grid of a lavish picnic that very afternoon. And back then, I was stupid enough to think he was running around working hard for our future, giving him whatever he asked for without a second thought. In reality, they were screwing around behind my back, using me as a tool to fuel their little trysts. I let out a cold laugh into the receiver, my voice dripping with barely suppressed sarcasm. “Rae, you’re awfully eager to speak up for him. You haven’t fallen for him, have you? Since you care so much, why don’t you just adopt him?” “Nicola, you are insane!” Before I could say another word, she slammed the phone down. 2 When I got home from work, Toby was sitting on the sofa, his face dark. “Nicola, you need to call Rae right now and apologize.” No “hey, babe.” No warmth. It was the first time he had spoken to me with such hostility. And all of it was for my best friend. The person I had poured my heart out to, the one I shared all my secrets with. My nose stung, and tears threatened to spill over, but the memory of his betrayal hardened my resolve. I blinked them back. “She was sobbing on the phone earlier, barely able to breathe,” Toby said, sounding genuinely aggrieved. “She was just trying to help us so we wouldn’t fight over a car and ruin our relationship. How could you humiliate her like that?” Looking at his righteous indignation, I found the whole thing hysterically funny. I leaned against the entryway wall, crossing my arms as I looked down at him. “Humiliate her? Why are you two so defensive? Did I hit a nerve?” Toby slammed his hand down on the armrest, making the cushions slide to the floor. “Nicola, stop being so unreasonable! Rae is your best friend. She tries to keep the peace and you throw dirt on her. Who wouldn’t be upset?” His tone made it seem like I was the one throwing a tantrum. I smirked. “Were we even fighting?” He froze, caught off guard. “What kind of peace was she keeping? Or are you just so used to her sticking her nose into our business? And now she’s crying to get your sympathy?” Toby’s face flushed red, then went pale. He struggled for words before squaring his jaw and shouting. “What is wrong with you today? It’s just a car! I’ll pay you back for the gas. Why do you have to drag Rae into this?” “You used to never be this petty! Why are you acting so toxic?” He stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls vibrated. For the next three days, Toby didn’t come home. I actually enjoyed the quiet. I used the time to silently pack my bags. On the fourth morning, I called my parents. “Nicola, sweetie! Your dad and I were just looking at dates for the wedding later this year,” my mom’s cheerful voice came through. I took a deep breath. “Mom, Dad… cancel the wedding. I’m not marrying him.” The other end fell dead silent, followed by my mother’s trembling, worried questions. I didn’t explain in words. Instead, I sent her the screenshots of Rae’s Instagram from the past three days. There was Toby’s profile in a car dealership, the two of them posing intimately in front of a Tesla display, and even a shot of him kneeling down to adjust her passenger seat. The quiet sobbing on the other end of the line stopped. My mother was silent for a long moment before letting out a heavy sigh. “A man like that isn’t worth a single tear. We’ll find you someone who actually deserves you, sweetie. Don’t you dare feel bad.” A week later, I was on my way to a client meeting. As I drove past Rae’s office building, I saw a brand-new Tesla Model Y parked downstairs—exactly like mine. And my banking app notified me that $30,000 was missing from our joint savings account. A cold shiver ran down my spine. A $30,000 withdrawal. The exact same car. Rae’s posts at the dealership… 3 I pulled over, got out, and walked up to the building’s security guard. I pulled up Rae’s photo on my phone. “Excuse me, sir, is that black Tesla out front hers?” The guard squinted at the photo and nodded warmly. “Oh, yeah. Her boyfriend just bought it for her. Said it was a promotion gift.” Of course… How incredibly generous of him. A brand-new thirty-thousand-dollar car for Rae without blinking an eye. And for me? Roundabout hints, manipulative complaints, treating me like a mindless ATM. I was about to lose my mind when my phone buzzed. It was him. “What the hell is wrong with you, packing up and moving out? What is that supposed to mean?” It had taken him an entire week to notice? He must have been living at Rae’s place the whole time. “Look, I know you’re mad about the house fund, but I didn’t have a choice! The project’s cash flow got tight, so I had to borrow some money to cover it. I’ll put it back next week as soon as the client payment clears!” Ah. He thought he had taken the house fund. We had agreed that for our marriage, he would pay the down payment on our house, and I would buy the car as my contribution. But what he forgot was that his company’s project expense card and our joint house fund card shared almost identical numbers, differing only by the very last digit. The project expense card was a corporate account designated specifically for material procurement. By using that card to buy Rae’s car, he hadn’t just dipped into our savings—he had committed corporate embezzlement. I was about to point this out, but he cut me off. “Just get back here once you’ve cooled down. We’re adults, Nicola. Stop dragging out these minor issues. I’ll set up a dinner tonight so you can apologize to Rae. You guys are best friends—there’s no reason to let a silly misunderstanding ruin that.” I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh and hung up. Then, I drafted a text to the head manager of Toby’s firm. It looked like a casual, friendly inquiry, but every word carried a razor-sharp edge. “Hi Mr. Henderson, hope you’re doing well. I heard the materials for the new project were supposed to be delivered this week, and since I was passing by the site, I wanted to check in. Is everything on track?” After hitting send, I stared out the window at the passing city skyline, thinking about the last three years I had spent helping him manage his projects. Even though we worked at different firms, we were in the same industry. Over the past year, I had kept a close eye on his projects, warning him about suppliers with bad reputations and spotting flaws in his schedules. And during the days he was busy picking out a car for Rae, his project’s critical material delivery window was happening. With no one to remind him, he had completely forgotten. When Mr. Henderson got my message, he would definitely check the ledger. The company had already authorized the funds to Toby. Under normal circumstances, the steel and concrete should have arrived at the job site. But Toby had embezzled the material funds to buy Rae’s Tesla. With the suppliers unpaid, the materials would be withheld. This was about to get very interesting. 4 That evening, Rae made a grand entrance in her new Tesla, pulling up right in front of me with Toby leaning lazily in the passenger seat. Rae rolled down the window and jingled the keys at me. “Honestly, this car drives like an absolute dream. We should totally go on a road trip sometime soon!” Toby poked his head out, a smug, self-satisfied grin plastered on his face. “She loved your Tesla so much she wanted the exact same model. I guess you two really do have the same taste.” His arrogant posture said it all: Even if you wouldn’t let me borrow your car, I still found a way to get her one. Rae fished out a car wash gift card and tossed it through the window at me. “The dealership gave me this. You can have it. Let’s not let past drama get between us. We’re sisters, right?” I looked down at the plastic card in my lap. “See? Rae is so understanding. She’s trying to make peace,” Toby chimed in, though his eyes kept darting to my phone. “But man, owning a car is expensive. Insurance alone is a killer.” Rae sighed in unison. “I know, right? Nicola, you’re so lucky you could just buy yours outright. Must be nice to have so much cash lying around. Unlike me—I had to finance mine.” Financed? Did you pay a single penny, Rae? You demanded Toby buy it, and now you want me to pay for the insurance? You two are truly unbelievable. They played their roles perfectly, completely glossing over their betrayal as if my anger had just been some hysterical overreaction. I stood up, picked up the gift card, and tossed it straight into the trash can. “If you can’t even afford the insurance, you shouldn’t have gotten the car.” Rae’s face drained of color, and her eyes welled with tears. “Toby… I told you she’d just humiliate me. She’s always hated me just because I’m close to you. Maybe we shouldn’t see each other anymore. I don’t want her making trouble for me!” Covering her face, she stumbled away, looking like the victim of some grand tragedy. Toby’s face darkened, his eyes flashing with fury. He glared at me, then turned to chase after her, shouting back over his shoulder: “Nicola, that is enough! Rae was nice enough to bring you a gift, and you throw a tantrum?” “If you’re going to keep acting like a psycho, we don’t need to get married!” Who the hell wants to marry you! The next day, Rae’s car was seized. An enraged Toby dragged a hysterical Rae straight to my office. Shedding her usual fragile persona, Rae pointed a manicured finger at my nose and screamed, “Nicola! Did you do this?!” “How can you be so vicious? Just because I spoke up for Toby, you accused me of sleeping with him, and now you have her car towed and locked up? What is wrong with you?” I almost laughed out loud. They were the ones cheating, yet here they were, accusing me without a shred of evidence. I kept my voice cold. “What proof do you have that I had her car seized?” SLAP. A stinging blow landed hard across my cheek. The sudden pain flared up instantly, leaving half my face completely numb. Holding my burning cheek, I stared in utter disbelief at Toby, who stood there with his fist still raised. He was breathing heavily, his eyes wild with a protective rage for Rae. “Who else could it be? You didn’t want her driving your car, and now that she has her own, you go and pull strings to get it seized!” I slowly lowered my hand. “So you finally admit you wanted to use my car for her?” Caught in his own trap, Toby’s face flushed a deep crimson. He stepped forward and grabbed my wrist roughly. “Stop changing the subject! Get them to release the car right now, or I’m calling your parents to call off the wedding! They’ve been waiting for this for years. Do you really want to disappoint them?” I pulled out my phone and unlocked it. “Sure. Let’s call them.” Toby snatched the phone away, staring at me in disbelief. “Are you serious? Just apologize to Rae and get the car back!” I opened my hands. “Why would I apologize? I’m not the court. I don’t have the power to seize anyone’s car.” Toby frowned. “What are you talking about?” I smiled. “I mean, you’re about to be arrested.”

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On the day of my engagement to the wealthiest heiress in the city, my father stood on the stage, smiled warmly into the microphone, and said: “To be honest, my son used to make amateur adult videos online. A different partner in every tape. I’m just glad he finally found a sucker to take him off our hands.” I stared at him, my mind blank with disbelief. But Gwen Dewitt simply stepped in front of me, shielding me from the whispering crowd. “Mr. Dunbar,” she said, her voice cool and steady, “please don’t make jokes like that again.” Later, in private, my father offered a half-hearted shrug. “I only wanted to see if her devotion to you was real.” But on the night before the wedding, I ate the dinner my father had personally cooked for me. When I next opened my eyes, I was lying in a bed next to my brother’s girlfriend, Sasha Lawson. Gwen, who had come to pick me up for the ceremony, walked into the room. Her eyes turned instantly red. “So,” she whispered, “your father wasn’t lying after all.” My younger brother, Charlie, burst into tears and slapped Sasha across the face. “How could you do this to me?” In the end, the groom at the altar was Charlie. Sasha burned every piece of clothing that carried my scent. “I have never met a man as pathetic as you,” she spat. “Willing to sleep with your own brother’s girl!” I looked at my father, tears streaming down my face, begging for him to speak the truth. He remained entirely unmoved. “Your brother,” he said quietly, “is simply better suited to be the husband of the Dewitt heir.” Twenty years later, the city’s newest rising star—my daughter, Amelia—brought her boyfriend to meet me. “Dad, if you approve of him, we’re getting engaged.” I looked at the boy standing beside her. He had the exact same face as my brother Charlie. “I don’t approve,” I said. 1 The words “I don’t approve” rippled through the banquet hall. A sudden, suffocating silence fell over the guests. My brother’s son, Gary, had taken his mother’s last name—Dewitt. He was a prestigious graduate of the Berklee College of Music. Six feet tall, slender, and striking. His father was a well-known socialite, his mother was the former wealthiest woman in the city, and his grandfather was a celebrated national philanthropist. Even Amelia looked stunned. “Dad… when I talked about Gary before, you seemed so supportive. What changed?” “I liked the idea of him,” I said, taking a slow sip of my tea. “Now that I see him, I don’t.” A murmur of unease spread through the room. Physically, Gary was a carbon copy of my brother. Back at Berklee, he had been the golden boy, adored by everyone. He had clearly never experienced rejection of this scale. His face flushed a deep, angry red. “Mr. Morgan, is it my manners? My clothes? Something else? Just tell me, and I will change it!” “You don’t need to change anything,” I replied, setting my teacup down with a soft click. “But you will never step foot into the Morgan family.” “Mr. Morgan,” someone in the crowd intervened, unable to hold back. “Perhaps you haven’t heard of Gary’s grandfather. He’s a world-renowned philanthropist who has dedicated his life to helping the less fortunate.” “Yes, indeed,” another guest chimed in. “The boy was raised by the finest families. You don’t need to worry about his character.” I let out a quiet, bitter breath. So my father had poured all his care into Charlie’s child, too. Amelia looked at me, her eyes filled with quiet curiosity. “Dad… did Gary do something to upset you?” “It has nothing to do with him,” I said flatly. Gary snapped. “Then why? What right do you have to bar me from your family? Tell me what’s wrong with me! Just saying ‘no’ is… it’s…” I looked him dead in the eye. “It’s what?” “It’s not fair!” he shouted. I narrowed my eyes. “I am the sole owner of Morgan Enterprises. Why should I have to submit a report to you on who I choose as my son-in-law?” “You—!” Fuming, Gary spun on his heel and stormed out of the hall, slamming the double doors behind him. I remained seated, calmly drinking my tea. The banquet resumed, and no one dared to bring up the subject again. No one wanted to cross me on my own turf. Amelia, whom I had raised single-handed, had always respected my decisions. Toward the end of the evening, she leaned in and murmured, “Dad, if he ever did anything to hurt you in the past, don’t keep it bottled up. It’s not worth your health.” I smiled but said nothing. But as the guests were starting to leave, the heavy doors were thrown open once more. “Where is David Morgan?!” Twenty years ago, I legally cut ties with the Dunbar family and took my mother’s maiden name, Morgan. My brother, Charlie Dunbar, stood in the doorway. He looked much the same as he did twenty years ago, though his hair was parted with absolute precision and his face carried the heavy, settled look of middle age. When his eyes met mine, he froze. A few seconds passed, and then a mocking smile spread across his lips. “Amelia’s father… is you?” I didn’t answer. “Dear brother,” Charlie said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “They said you never married. I didn’t realize you managed to produce a child out of wedlock.” “Is there something you want, Mr. Dunbar?” I asked. Charlie finally remembered why he had stormed in. His expression darkened. “Gary came home in tears.” “Okay.” “Don’t you think you’re being pathetic?” Charlie sneered, taking a step toward me. “You couldn’t beat me back then, so now you’re taking your revenge out on an innocent kid?” I only smiled. “David,” Charlie said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Don’t think that being a billionaire gives you the right to do whatever you want. Don’t forget, my wife was once the wealthiest woman in this city. And Gary’s grandfather—our father—is a saint compared to you.” I sat comfortably at the head table. “And? Are you saying your family gets to dictate who my daughter marries?” “I…” Charlie clenched his fists. “I’m just telling you not to push your luck!” “You crashed my private event to force me to accept your son,” I said, my voice turning icy. “Who is pushing whose luck?” Charlie bit his lip. He was used to everyone bowing to him because of Gwen and our father. 2 My silence was a luxury he wasn’t going to get. I gave a slight nod to the security team. Two large men immediately stepped forward, grabbing Charlie by his arms. “David Morgan! How dare you have your men touch me!” Charlie panicked, his dignified facade instantly cracking. I didn’t even look up as they dragged him out. Charlie had never looked so pathetic, flailing between two guards as they hauled him toward the exit. “David! You’ve gone too far! You’ll pay for this!” The heavy doors shut, cutting off his pathetic screams. I wiped my hands with a linen napkin, stood up, and bowed slightly to the remaining guests. “My apologies for the interruption. I’ve prepared a small parting gift for everyone, which you can collect from the butler on your way out. Have a wonderful evening.” With that, I walked out of the hall, Amelia following closely behind. The next morning, before I had even finished my coffee, the front gate security called. When the front door opened, I found myself face-to-face with Gwen Dewitt. It had been exactly twenty years since we last looked at each other. “I’m here about my husband and son,” Gwen said, skipping any polite pleasantries. She looked around the expansive foyer of my estate, a flicker of regret crossing her eyes. “So, you really built all of this by yourself?” “Did you think someone was going to help me?” I asked, my voice dry. Her gaze lingered on my face, and she let out a soft sigh. “What happened back then… I admit I was too rash.” “And who exactly are you here for, Ms. Dewitt?” Gwen choked on her breath. The boy who used to cling to her arm, calling her his whole world, was long gone. In his place was a cold, impenetrable man. She sighed again. “Those two have been spoiled by me. You know how much Charlie and his father adore them. Your cruelty yesterday has devastated them. Neither of them has eaten a bite since.” “Cruelty?” I set my coffee cup down, staring directly into her eyes. “Ms. Dewitt, do I no longer have the right to manage my own household?” “It’s not that…” Gwen hesitated. “But anyone with eyes can see what you’re doing. You’re taking your revenge.” I smiled. “If that’s how you want to see it, then yes. I admit it.” “But your anger is with me, isn’t it? Because I didn’t marry you?” Gwen’s voice grew desperate. “What happened is in the past. If you want to punish someone, punish me! Don’t take it out on my family! Tell me what you want. If you let Gary marry Amelia, I will sign my entire estate over to you.” I looked at her, genuinely surprised. Then, I laughed. “Gwen. You built your empire from nothing.” She stiffened, turning her head away. “You swore you would never go back to being poor,” I continued. “And now you’re willing to throw away everything you built? For them?” Gwen closed her eyes, her shoulders dropping. “They… are more important to me than money.” A bitter pang went through my chest. She had said those exact words to me once. In the end, I had my security escort her out. As she walked down the driveway, she kept looking back. “Can we really not talk about this? I’m not joking about the compensation, David.” “Please. They are so heartbroken.” I watched her through the window. And what about me? I thought. What about the twenty-four-year-old boy who knelt on the floor, begging you to believe he was set up, sobbing until he couldn’t breathe? Who comforted him? Not long after Gwen left, my assistant knocked again. When the door opened this time, we both froze. It was Sasha Lawson. The woman I had allegedly ruined. My brother’s former girlfriend. Like me, she had spent the last twenty years in solitude. 3 Sasha had never married. “I didn’t think you’d show up here,” I said, gesturing for her to sit. Sasha sat across from me, her eyes sweeping over the quiet grandeur of my home before finally settling on me. “I didn’t realize you were so obsessive,” she said. “What do you mean?” “Amelia. I only found out yesterday that she is your daughter.” I remained silent. “The night of the setup?” she asked softly. I knew what she was referring to. The night my father had drugged me and placed me in her bed. I shook my head. “I didn’t do it, Sasha.” She sighed, a weary smile touching her lips. “You don’t have to deny it anymore. I understand.” “I really didn’t.” She looked at me, her expression a mix of pity and exasperation. “You’ve always been stubborn, David. But you must know… the reason I’ve stayed single all these years is because of you.” I took a slow sip of my coffee and said nothing. “Targeting Gary and Charlie… honestly, it’s a bit much,” she continued. “Are you trying to dictate my family affairs too?” I asked, my voice dropping an octave. She let out a long, heavy breath. “David. Legally and biologically speaking, Amelia is my daughter. This is my family affair too.” “I told you, she isn’t your daughter.” Sasha stared at me. “David, I have eyes. That girl looks just like me.” I couldn’t help but laugh. Sasha was a woman of sharp, striking features. Amelia had a similar, elegant bone structure. “Amelia has a sharp style, yes,” I said. “But you don’t own a monopoly on high cheekbones, Ms. Lawson. You’re projecting.” Sasha closed her eyes for a moment. “Fine. I’ll yield. I will marry you.” I paused, staring at her. “If this is what all of this was for,” she said, looking at me with absolute seriousness, “I can accept it. We can go get our marriage license today. What do you say?” For a moment, I was completely speechless at the sheer absurdity of her arrogance. “My heart might never fully belong to you,” she added, “but I will do my best to be a dutiful wife.” I couldn’t take any more of this delusion. “Security. Escort her out.” “David Morgan!” Sasha stood up, her brows furrowed in anger. “Do you really have to make life miserable for Charlie and Gary?” “Get out,” I said coldly. Sasha glared at me, clearly thinking I was entirely unreasonable, before she was walked out by my staff. I pinched the bridge of my nose. “If anyone else comes to see me, turn them away immediately.” But the next afternoon, my assistant knocked on my door again, looking troubled. “Mr. Morgan, there’s a man outside who refuses to leave. He says… he’s your father.” Twenty years had carved deep lines into Richard Dunbar’s face, but his eyes were just as cold as the day he threw me out. He walked into my office, surveyed the room, and let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Twenty years. You really spent twenty years fueled by nothing but spite.” “If you have something to say, Mr. Dunbar, say it.” My father took a few steps closer. “You’re my son, David. I know you hate me.” And then, right there in the middle of my office, the great, revered philanthropist sank to his knees. I stared at him, entirely stunned. “Dad?” “If it makes you feel better, I will kneel before you,” he said, his voice trembling. “Bobby… I still prefer the name I gave you.” My hand, which had automatically reached out to help him up, froze in midair. He looked up at me, his eyes wide and pleading. “What happened back then was my choice alone. I don’t regret it, but I will take the blame. I am sorry.” I let out a soft, hollow laugh. “For Charlie’s sake, you would actually go this far.” “Yes,” he whispered. I slowly pulled my hand back, letting it drop to my side. “Dad, there is one thing I’ve never understood. Will you tell me the truth?” “What is it?” 4 “Why is it,” my voice cracked, the old, familiar ache rising in my throat, “that you can be a savior to thousands of orphans across this country, but you couldn’t find a single ounce of fairness for your own son?” My father lowered his eyes. “Answer me, Dad.” “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his jaw tightening. “But I couldn’t bear to see Charlie suffer.” I smiled. You couldn’t bear to see him suffer. So you broke me instead. “Get up,” I said, my voice empty. “I will never forgive any of you.” He didn’t move. “Bobby…” he pleaded, his voice cracking. I turned my back to him, staring out the floor-to-ceiling window. “Show him out.” I heard him slowly rise. The grief in his eyes surely turned back into anger, then bitterness, before the heavy oak door was slammed shut. I watched his frail figure walk down to his car. “Set up a matchmaking gala for Amelia,” I instructed my assistant. “Open invite. Any family with good standing, good character, and of appropriate age. Everyone is welcome.” I paused. “Except Gary Dewitt.” “Understood, Mr. Morgan.” The gala was put together within a week. Amelia was dressed beautifully, looking every bit the poised, elegant heiress she was. “Do you hate me for orchestrating this?” I asked her as we stood near the entrance. “No,” Amelia said, looking out at the young men gathered in the room. “I’ll never forget that you raised me alone, Dad. I want to do what’s best for our family.” I patted her shoulder. “If there’s someone you like, their net worth doesn’t matter. I just want you to be happy.” Amelia looked up at me. “Anyone I like?” “Yes.” “Are you sure?” “Of course. Even if they aren’t in this room tonight, you can choose them.” “If that’s the case…” Amelia stood up. With a sudden, violent sweep of her arm, she sent a towering, double-height champagne pyramid crashing to the floor. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the hall. Guests shrieked and scrambled backward as a wave of gold liquid splashed across the marble floor, soaking the hem of my trousers. I looked up, frozen. Amelia stood there, her hand wrapped tightly around Gary Dewitt’s wrist. He had just walked through the front doors. “I’m sorry, Dad,” Amelia said, her voice shaking but resolute. “I know you hate Gary. But he’s the only one I want.” Gary looked down at me, a smug, victorious smile pulling at his lips as he wrapped a possessive arm around my daughter’s waist. “My apologies, Mr. Morgan,” Gary said smoothly. “It seems your word isn’t absolute after all.”

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All because I was trying to be helpful and washed my boss’s coffee mug. His wife threw a cup of scalding hot chai latte right in my face, soaking my clothes. She shoved me against the wall, her face contorted with rage. “Look at yourself! You really think you have what it takes to seduce my husband?” The hot liquid blistered my hands instantly. I tried to shake my head, to wave my hands in desperate denial, but she wouldn’t stop screaming. “No wonder your mother is rotting away in a hospital bed! She’s probably dying of shame from raising a pathetic, fatherless mistake like you. I hope she dies sooner so she’s out of her misery!” I gripped the dish towel in my hands, a white-hot fury pushing me to the brink of sanity. Then, her eyes caught the glint of the silver ring hanging from my neck, slipped beneath my collar. Her face twisted into something truly monstrous. “You’re wearing a ring with my husband’s initials? What lie are you going to spin now, you home-wrecking bitch?” She snatched the chain, ripping the ring from my throat, threw it onto the floor, and ground her heel right into it. That was when my boss pushed the door open. He didn’t even glance at his wife. He walked straight toward me. Kneeling down, he reached for the warped silver band. His hands were shaking. His eyes were bloodshot and brimming with tears. And then, he whispered a name I hadn’t heard in twenty years. 1 At dawn, the hospital’s billing department woke me with a call. The voice on the other end was cold, dripping with professional impatience. “You’re five hundred dollars short on this month’s payments. If you don’t clear the balance by the end of the week, we’ll have to suspend your mother’s dialysis.” My mom lay sleeping beside me in our cramped apartment, her face pale and sunken. I gently touched her cheek, my voice hushed as I whispered into the receiver, “I’ll get the money. I’ll find a way, I swear.” I rushed through my morning routine and headed to the coffee shop where I worked. As I wiped down the wooden tables, my mind kept running the numbers over and over again. Twelve thousand dollars. That was what the surgery cost. On my meager hourly wage, even if I stopped eating entirely, it would take years to save that much. The weight of that figure felt like a mountain crushing the breath out of my lungs. I took a deep breath, forcing the tears back. When you’re poor, you don’t have the luxury of crying. You just don’t have the time. Just then, Sylvia, the boss’s wife, walked in, her stilettos clicking sharply against the tile. She narrowed her eyes, scanning the cafe like radar, looking for any flaw. From my very first day, she had hated me. She always found a reason to pick at me, to make my life difficult. I hoped I could fly under the radar today, but my heart sank as she marched straight toward me, holding up a custom ceramic mug. “Who told you to touch my husband’s mug?” I squeezed the wet rag under the running water, keeping my voice as polite and small as possible. “There were coffee stains on it. I just wanted to clean it for him.” She grabbed another stained mug from the counter and slammed it onto the table. “These are matching couple’s mugs. You wash his and leave mine dirty? You think I’m stupid? You did this on purpose.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it,” I replied, biting my lip. “Oh, so you’re just ignoring me now? Trying to push my buttons?” Without warning, she grabbed a freshly made hot chai latte off the pickup counter and flung it over me. I instinctively held up my hands to shield my face. The hot liquid splashed over my knuckles, immediately searing my skin into angry, red blisters. “Sylvia, please… I’m just trying to do my job.” She didn’t listen. Hysterical, she slammed me against the wall. “Look at yourself! You really think you have what it takes to seduce my husband?” I shook my hands, trying to explain, but she kept spitting insults. “No wonder your mother is terminal. She’s probably dying of shame from raising a pathetic, fatherless mistake like you!” Rage surged straight to my brain. “You can say whatever you want about me,” I whispered, my voice trembling, “but do not talk about my mother.” Sylvia blinked in surprise, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Oh, you’re talking back now? I’ll say whatever I want! I hope she dies sooner so she’s out of her misery. Think of this drink as an early wake for her!” I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. But in the end, I let go. I couldn’t afford to lose this job. I couldn’t risk it. Every dollar I made was keeping my mother alive. I hung my head, utterly defeated. As I slumped, the silver ring I wore on a chain slipped out from the collar of my uniform. The metal was worn, but if you looked closely, you could see the faint engraving of an ‘S’. For Sullivan. When Sylvia saw it, her face darkened instantly. “You’re wearing a ring with my husband’s initials? What lie are you going to spin now, you home-wrecking bitch?” She kicked me hard in the chest. I collapsed onto the sticky, sweet puddle on the floor. As Sylvia bent down to rip the chain from my neck, the door opened. My boss, Robert Sullivan, stepped in. Taking in the mess and my bruised state, he yelled, “Sylvia, stop! What the hell do you think you’re doing in my shop?” 2 In an instant, Sylvia’s eyes welled with tears. She threw herself into Robert’s arms, her voice cracking with performative distress. “Oh, Rob, thank God you’re here! She tried to attack me!” She held up her wrist, pointing to a faint red mark she must have pinched into her own skin. “I was just trying to give Lucy some feedback about her performance, telling her to stop slacking off, and she just flew off the handle! She screamed at me and threw hot coffee all over herself just to make me look bad!” Robert’s gaze shifted past Sylvia, landing directly on me. More specifically, his eyes locked onto the silver ring resting against my collarbone. When he realized what it was, a visible tremor ran through his entire body. As if trying to hide his shock, he quickly turned and retreated into his office. He threw a cold, brief remark over his shoulder: “I’ll handle this.” The way he had looked at me… it was strange. It lingered in my mind, but I was too shaken to dissect it. Sylvia had a spa appointment, so she grabbed her purse, giving me one last venomous glare before leaving. “We aren’t finished,” she whispered. During the lunch lull, Robert approached my station. He quietly slipped an envelope into my hand. “Lucy, this is the Employee of the Month bonus. It’s five hundred dollars in cash.” I stared at the envelope. I had only been working here for three months. I was clumsy, broke things, and made mistakes. How could I possibly deserve Employee of the Month? I opened my mouth to protest, but Robert gently patted my shoulder. “You’re a good kid. If you ever need anything—any help at all—just ask. I mean it.” His voice was thick with an emotion I couldn’t quite place. But I couldn’t bring myself to hand the money back. Because five hundred dollars was exactly what I needed to keep my mother’s dialysis going. By the afternoon, Sylvia returned and ordered me to haul heavy crates of milk and syrup into the basement storage. Usually, it took three of the baristas to do this over several hours. But she forbade anyone from helping me. “Consider this your punishment for yesterday’s little stunt with my husband. You don’t leave until it’s done.” I hauled the heavy crates for two agonizing hours. By the end, my lower back felt like it was splitting in two. I hid in the staff bathroom, trying to massage the ache away. Suddenly, my phone began buzzing frantically. It was the store’s group chat. Sylvia had pinned a long, public message: [Just a reminder to everyone, this cafe is a place of business.] [Some people have twisted ideas about how to get ahead, thinking they can sleep their way to a promotion.] [I suggest everyone keep their distance from certain toxic people unless you want to get dragged down with them.] The other employees instantly chimed in, eager to kiss up to the boss’s wife: [You’re so right, Sylvia! Some people have no dignity. It’s disgusting.] [Don’t worry, Sylvia. If I see anyone acting shady, I’ll call them out myself!] [Message received. Keeping my distance starting now.] At the very end, Sylvia tagged me directly: [@Lucy, if I ever see you sniffing around my husband again, you’re fired on the spot.] The digital venom felt like physical needles piercing my skin. Every second I spent in that shop was becoming a living nightmare. I was about to wipe my eyes and force myself back to work when my phone rang again. It was the hospital. The lead physician’s voice was grim. My mother had taken a sudden turn for the worse. Her kidneys were failing rapidly, and her heart was starting to show signs of strain. “We need to schedule the surgery immediately, Lucy. We can’t wait anymore. If we don’t operate this week, I’m afraid she won’t make it.” I leaned against the cold bathroom tiles and slowly slid to the floor. I buried my face in my hands and let out a broken, quiet sob. I allowed myself exactly five minutes to cry. Then I wiped my face, swallowed my pride, and went to find Sylvia to ask for a salary advance. She was lounging in the office chair, legs crossed, casually painting her toenails a vibrant crimson red. I took a deep, shaky breath, trying to build up the courage. And then, I spoke. 3 “Sylvia, is there any way I could get an advance on my salary? Just a few months. My mom’s condition worsened, and she needs emergency surgery…” Sylvia blew on her wet toenails, not even bothering to look up. She let out a sharp scoff. “Are you daydreaming? First you try to steal my husband, and now you’re trying to steal my money?” I bowed my head, my voice cracking with desperation. “I’m not joking. My mother is in the ICU. She needs this surgery to survive.” “If you can help me with the advance, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll work overtime for free, I’ll sign a contract—I’ll work the next three years without pay if I have to!” “Why the hell should I care about your mother?” She rolled eyes and stood up to leave. Desperate, I stepped into her path, blocking her way. “Please. I’m begging you…” “Get out of my face!” She swung her hand wildly. The heavy glass bottle of nail polish slipped from her grip and struck me hard across the forehead. A warm, thin trickle of blood immediately began to slide down my temple. She sat back down, crossing her arms, her smile dripping with malice. “Your mother’s life has nothing to do with me. Shouldn’t you be begging your father for the cash?” “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You don’t have a father. Your mother chose to raise a bastard child, and now you’re just following in her footsteps.” “Otherwise, why would your father leave your mother to rot while you’re out here selling yourself to other women’s husbands?” The blood in my veins ran hot, rushing straight to my ears. I stared at her, my eyes burning with a raw, painful fury. “That is enough. That is the second time you’ve insulted my mother.” She stood up slowly, stepping into my personal space until we were nose-to-nose. “You dare glare at me? I could fire you right now and leave you with absolutely nothing.” She spat her words in my face. “The nerve of you, asking me for money after trying to sleep with my husband. One more word and I’ll dock your entire paycheck for the month.” In that moment, I realized how easily poverty can strip away a person’s dignity. I covered my mouth, bolted from the office, and hid in the breakroom, weeping silently. I squeezed the silver ring around my neck, its cold metal pressing hard against my palm. Where are you, Dad? How could you just leave us like this? How could you let her suffer? I tried to gather myself, trying to stop shaking so I could go back to the floor. But before I could open the door, Sylvia and a group of employees blocked my way. “Lucy, don’t move.” My heart plummeted. “What’s going on?” Sylvia sneered. “The register is short five hundred dollars. What do you think is going on?” A cold dread washed over me. “I’ve been hauling crates in the basement all afternoon. I haven’t even been near the cash register!” She arched an eyebrow. “How do we know you didn’t sneak up here when no one was looking?” “I didn’t!” I protested, tears stinging my eyes. “Check the security cameras! The footage will prove I wasn’t anywhere near the counter!” Sylvia let out a mocking laugh. “Oh, what a shame. The cameras conveniently went down this afternoon. Not a single thing was recorded. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?” A chill went down my spine. Because in my pocket, I was carrying exactly five hundred dollars. 4 “If you have nothing to hide, let us search you,” Sylvia demanded, stepping closer. “If we don’t find the money, you’re clean. If you refuse, you’re a thief.” I stared at her in disbelief. “You have no right to search me.” Sylvia laughed hysterically. “Either we search you, or I call the police. And when you go to jail, your pathetic mother will be left to die alone in that hospital bed.” The mention of my mother sent a sharp spike of terror through my chest. If I was arrested, there would be no one left to save her. I squeezed the envelope in my pocket, my palms slick with sweat. The five hundred dollars in that envelope had been given to me by Robert. If they found it on me now, there would be no way to explain it. But if I didn’t let them search me, they would call the cops. I was trapped. Two security guards stepped forward, grabbing me firmly by the arms. I thrashed against their grip, but it was useless. Sylvia reached straight for my pocket. “Get your hands off me!” I screamed, breaking one arm free. Slap. Sylvia struck me hard across the cheek. My face burned with a stinging heat, and the metallic taste of blood pooled in the corner of my mouth. She yanked at the pocket of my uniform. The white envelope slipped out, hitting the floor. Crisp hundred-dollar bills spilled across the tile. A collective gasp echoed through the room. Sylvia snatched up the cash, waving it in front of the crowd. “Exactly five hundred dollars! She stole it from the register!” “I didn’t!” I cried, shaking my head frantically. “Mr. Sullivan gave me that money! He told me it was an employee bonus!” Sylvia scoffed as if I had just told the most ridiculous lie. “An employee bonus? We’ve never had bonuses like that. Why would my husband just hand you cash? What exactly are you doing for him?” She leaned in close, lowering her voice to a venomous whisper. “I wonder how your sick mother would feel if she knew you were selling your body to your boss just to pay her medical bills. Would she die of a broken heart?” She straightened up, raising her voice so everyone could hear. “Oh, I get it now! Was this hush money? Did my husband pay you off to keep you away from me?” I was shaking so violently I couldn’t even form words. Suddenly, her eyes locked onto my neck, and her expression shifted to vicious glee. “And what about this?” She lunged forward, ripping the chain off my neck and holding up the silver ring. “This ring has my husband’s initial on it. She must have stolen it from him, keeping it like some sick trophy!” “Give it back!” I screamed, throwing my weight forward. That ring was the only thing my father had left my mother. It was our only connection to him, our anchor. Sylvia’s face was completely heartless. With a cruel grin, she dropped the ring onto the floor. And brought her stiletto heel down hard. I let out a raw shriek, diving for the floor to claw at the metal, but I was a second too late. A sickening, metallic crunch echoed through the room as the band warped under her weight. She lifted her foot, adjusted her balance, and stomped down again. The sharp point of her heel drove into the back of my hand. A white-hot agony flared up my arm. Cold sweat broke out across my forehead, soaking my uniform as I gasped for air. Sylvia didn’t hesitate. She ground her heel into my hand, twisting it slowly. She looked down at me, her expression a mix of threat and triumph. She tapped the toe of her shoe against my cheek. “Kneel and beg for my forgiveness. Maybe if I’m in a good mood, I’ll let you off the hook. Otherwise, I’m calling the police. Three, two, one…” In that moment, every ounce of my pride, every shred of my strength, shattered. I wasn’t afraid of prison. I was terrified that if I went to jail, I would never see my mother alive again. “I’m sorry. It was my fault.” The humiliating words scraped past my throat, barely audible. Tears mingled with the blood on my face, dripping onto the tile. I grabbed Sylvia’s ankle, pressing my forehead against the floor right next to her dusty shoe. “Please… don’t call the cops.” I’m sorry, Mom. This is the only way I can protect you. I pressed my forehead against the hard floor again and again. A satisfied smirk finally spread across Sylvia’s face. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She kicked my hands away as if I were a piece of garbage. “Don’t worry. Even when you’re locked up, I’ll be charitable enough to send some flowers to your mother’s grave.” Just as the words left her mouth, the front door of the cafe slammed open. Robert stood in the doorway, staring at me as I knelt on the floor. Sylvia’s face transformed instantly into a mask of fragile distress. “Oh, Rob, you came at the perfect time! This little thief stole five hundred dollars from the register. I was just about to call the police!” My ears were ringing, and the room was spinning. I saw Robert’s lips moving, saying something to me, but I couldn’t hear the words. And then, the entire room went dead silent as he spoke the words that changed everything.

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During the wedding toasts, my wife’s guy friend, Chase, looked at me with a sly, knowing smirk. “Hey, man. Looking good. Great build.” I assumed he was complimenting the bespoke charcoal suit I was wearing. Squeezing Helena’s hand, I gave him a shy, grateful smile. “Thank you.” The next second, the entire table erupted into booming laughter. Chase leaned over, tossing an arm around Helena’s shoulder. “Don’t thank me. Honestly, we should be thanking Helena. She’s the one who gave us the grand tour. Who knew she’d be willing to share those private bedroom photos with the group chat?” A cold dread washed over me, freezing the blood in my veins. I turned slowly, my eyes searching Helena’s face for some kind of denial. She was quiet for a beat. Then, she reached down and gently rubbed my knuckles, her touch meant to soothe but feeling entirely hollow. “It was just a game of Truth or Dare, Ian. I lost. You couldn’t expect me to back out and let everyone think I’m a sore loser.” I stared at her, completely numb. It hit me all at once: my private, intimate photos had been passed around among her friends like a cheap joke. Even though I was fully dressed in a tailored suit, I felt utterly naked under their gazes. Chase scoffed, his tone dripping with thin, condescending pity. “Oh, come on. You literally sold your body to save Helena back then. Don’t tell me you’re getting touchy over a couple of bedroom pictures now.” The wound I had spent years trying to bury was ripped wide open, and the pain left me gasping for air. Suddenly, the illusion shattered. The prestige, the wealth, the grand wedding—it all felt incredibly pathetic. I reached down, slowly slid the platinum band off my finger, and placed it on the white tablecloth. “I’m done, Helena. The wedding is off.” … Helena’s brow furrowed, her expression tightening with irritation. “Ian, have you lost your mind?” “I told you I don’t care about your past. I kept my promise and married you. What more do you want?” My mother came shuffling over to our table, her steps weak and trembling, her face etched with deep worry. “Ian, sweetie? What’s going on?” She had just finished another grueling round of chemotherapy, and her skin looked paper-thin and ghostly pale. Helena immediately stepped in front of me, her sharp edge instantly melting into a warm, reassuring smile. “Nothing’s wrong, Mom. We’re just teasing each other.” I looked past her shoulder, watching my frail mother and my father, who sat paralyzed in his wheelchair a few yards away. I swallowed the burning humiliation in my throat and forced a tight, artificial smile. “She’s right, Mom. It’s nothing. Helena was just joking around.” My mother let out a soft sigh of relief. “Oh, good. Helena, our Ian is a gentle boy. Please don’t tease him too hard.” Helena smiled warmly, nodding. “Of course, Mom. You know I cherish him too much to ever hurt him.” From across the table, Chase let out a quiet, mocking snort. “Spoken like a true housekeeper’s son. He’ll swallow any amount of dirt just to marry into a family like ours.” Someone next to him quickly nudged his arm, whispering, “Chase, shut up.” But Chase just mumbled, “What? I’m not wrong…” Hours later, the reception finally ended, and the guests scattered into the night. We returned to the bridal suite, where the king-sized bed was sprinkled with red rose petals—a classic, romantic touch. I sat on the edge of the mattress, my chest tight, wanting to talk to Helena about the photos. But before I could speak, she leaned down, capturing my lips in a deep, heavy kiss that drowned out my words. “Let’s not ruin our wedding night with arguments, Ian,” she murmured against my skin. After a chaotic, exhausting hour, Helena slipped out to wash up. I lay there with my eyes closed, waiting for the heavy silence to settle over me. Suddenly, the closet door clicked open. Chase stepped out, holding a digital camera, laughing so hard his shoulders shook. “Incredible! Absolutely stellar! Helena, you’ve still got those moves!” My breath hitched. Panic seized me as I frantically clawed at the duvet, dragging it up to cover my bare body. “What the hell are you doing in here? Get out! Get the fuck out!” Chase rolled eyes, casually tossing the camera in his hand. “Relax, man. It’s just a wedding night prank. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” Helena walked back into the room, wearing a silk robe. She leaned down and pressed a casual kiss to my exposed shoulder, then looked up at Chase with a soft, indulgent smile. “Alright, Chase, that’s enough. Get out before your brother-in-law actually loses his temper.” I froze, staring at her in absolute disbelief. “Helena… you knew he was in there?” Before she could answer, Chase interjected, “Don’t overthink it, Ian. It’s a tradition in our circle. I film it for every friend who gets married. Just a harmless joke. Helena only went along with it because she didn’t want to be the boring one. You wouldn’t want her to be an outcast, would you?” A suffocating wave of shame washed over me. The humiliation was so heavy it felt physical. I couldn’t hold back the rage tearing through my chest. “What kind of sick joke is this? You record your friends having sex for your own amusement? Helena, you are disgusting!” I lunged forward to slap the smug look off Chase’s face, but Helena intercepted me. She grabbed my wrist mid-air, her grip like iron, looking down at me with cold, piercing eyes. “Disgusting?” she asked, her voice dropping to a freezing whisper. “Personally, I think the dirty, broken version of you is much harder to look at.” She threw my hand back, sending me sprawling across the bed. Without another word, she grabbed Chase’s wrist and walked out of the suite. As they left, Chase turned his head and flashed me a triumphant, mocking grin. Lying there in the dark, the past rushed back in terrifying, vivid flashes. It was five years ago. Helena had been kidnapped by one of her family’s bitter business rivals. To save her, I had willingly offered myself up as a hostage. I remembered the cold metal of the gun pressed against Helena’s temple as the kidnapper sneered at me: “One of you has to pay a price to leave this room alive today. You choose.” I hadn’t hesitated. Not even for a second. I would have given anything to keep her safe. What followed was a nightmare of blunt force and cruelty. Fists and wooden bats rained down on me, shattering my bones and my dignity. Helena had been forced to watch every single second of my torment. Her eyes had gone bloodshot, screaming like a wild animal: “Stop it! Touch me instead! Kill me! Just leave him alone!” Her desperate screams eventually dissolved into broken, hysterical begging, and finally, into quiet, helpless weeping. After several days of agony, I finally managed to steal a key and help us escape. Helena was returned to her wealthy world unharmed, but I was entirely broken. The day the doctors told me the physical trauma had left me permanently sterile, a heavy, suffocating depression settled over me. I tried to hang myself. I slashed my wrists. I wanted to escape my own body. For months, Helena couldn’t sleep. She stayed by my side day and night, watching my every move. But when the news of my condition and my suicide attempts reached my parents, it destroyed them. My father suffered a massive stroke that left him paralyzed and half-dead. My mother’s health deteriorated rapidly from sheer grief and worry. They resigned from their positions at the Caldwell estate, planning to take me far away so we could heal in obscurity. But Helena had thrown herself at their feet, kneeling on the hard floor and weeping until her forehead was bruised and bleeding. “Mr. and Mrs. Ward, please,” she had sobbed. “I can never repay what Ian did for me, but I swear on my life I will cherish him. I swear to you, I will spend the rest of my days loving him and only him.” A shrill, frantic ringing shattered my thoughts. I fumbled for my phone. My father’s voice came through, thick with panic. “Ian… Ian, it’s your mother. She’s collapsed again. I don’t know what to do…” I sat up instantly, adrenaline surging through me. “Dad, breathe. Stay calm. I’m finding a doctor right now!” My mother’s rare condition could only be treated by the specialists at the Caldwell family’s private medical facility. I threw a robe over my shoulders and repeatedly called Helena, but the calls kept going straight to voicemail. Then, I heard a faint ringing nearby. I followed the sound down the hallway of our massive apartment. As I approached the guest suite, a soft, muffled sound drifted through the door—the unmistakable, intimate rhythm of heavy breathing. I pushed the door open. Helena was leaning back in a plush armchair, her expression relaxed and indifferent. Chase was kneeling on the floor between her thighs. My mind went entirely blank, a white-hot fury vaporizing whatever sanity I had left. I lunged forward, trying to tear them apart. “What are you doing? What the hell is this?!” Chase gasped in surprise, violently shoving me back. “What is wrong with you? Ian, seriously? You’re making a scene over nothing. We didn’t even go all the way.” I couldn’t speak. The rage was a physical block in my throat, hot tears blurring my vision. Helena calmly adjusted her robe and stepped forward, reaching down to help me up. “Ian, are you okay?” I violently slapped her hand away. “Don’t touch me! You make me sick!” Helena’s hand froze in mid-air, her eyes darkening. “Ian, if you hadn’t thrown a tantrum on our wedding night, I wouldn’t have been stressed enough to seek a distraction. Have I not done enough for you? You were broken by those men, and ever since, I’ve had to hold back, catering to your delicate physical state. I have compromised my own needs for years. Is that still not enough?” I shook so hard my teeth rattled. “Helena… you are absolutely shameless.” She let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Shameless? Ian, if I’m so disgusting and shameless, why are you standing in my room right now? What does that make you? A beggar?” The last trace of color drained from my face. But then I pictured my mother, gasping for breath on a cold floor, and I forced myself to swallow the bitter humiliation. I grabbed Helena’s sleeve, my voice cracking. “Helena, please… my mother is dying. I beg you, for the sake of what I did for you back then, please call the private hospital. Send the doctors to her!” Helena’s expression softened slightly, a flicker of panic in her eyes. “Ian, okay. Don’t worry, I’ll call them right now.” She pulled out her phone to dial the private line. But Chase stepped in, snatched the phone directly from her hand, and stepped back. He knelt down in front of me, tilting his head with a mocking smirk. “Wow, Ian. You really know how to find an exit strategy, don’t you? Using your own mother’s health to guilt Helena on your wedding night? It’s been five years, and you’re still playing the martyr card to keep her chained to you.” I choked back a sob. “I’m not lying! Helena, please, you have to believe me… I’m telling the truth.” Helena stared at me, her eyes unreadable, but she remained silent. Chase grabbed me by the collar of my robe. “But we still have the issue of you trying to hit me earlier. We can’t just overlook that. Just because your parents were servants doesn’t mean you can act like a savage. I think you owe me an apology. Down on your knees. Press your head to the floor three times, and maybe I’ll give Helena her phone back.” I turned to Helena, pleading with every ounce of my soul. “Helena, please… my mother doesn’t have time. Tell him to give you the phone. Please!” Helena looked away, quiet for an agonizing moment, before she spoke in a flat, detached voice. “Ian… you really shouldn’t have put your hands on Chase. You do owe him an apology.” I stared at her, a hollow, broken laugh slipping from my lips. My mother was dying, and here I was. I slowly let my knees drop to the cold hardwood floor. Looking at Chase, I whispered, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. I shouldn’t have pushed you. Chase, please forgive me.” I forced my forehead down onto the hard floor, again and again, until a sharp pain flared and warm blood began to trickle down the bridge of my nose, blurring my vision. I looked up at Helena, my face smeared with red. “Is that enough? Can we save my mother now?” The bright red blood dripped down my forehead. Helena’s chest heaved, her fists clenching at her sides as if a sudden spike of guilt had finally pierced through her cold facade. “Enough!” she snapped. Chase smiled, thoroughly pleased. He stopped the video recording on his phone and patted my bloody cheek condescendingly. “There. All forgiven.” He stared at the screen, admiring the footage of my utter humiliation. “Man, you really have no dignity, do you? I wonder how your sweet parents would feel seeing you like this. The things you’ll do to secure a spot in a rich family.” He tilted his head, a cruel thought lighting up his eyes. “Actually, if your sick mom saw this, she’d probably die of shame before the doctors even got there.” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, suppressing the urge to tear him apart. Just then, my phone buzzed again. My hands shook so violently I dropped it twice before successfully sliding to answer. “Ian!” my father sobbed, his voice cracking with sheer terror. “Someone… someone just sent your mother a video of you… of you begging on your knees, bleeding… She started choking, Ian… she’s coughing up blood! Why… why would you do that to yourself? What did they do to you?” The world went entirely silent around me. I scrambled to my feet, my legs buckling beneath me. Helena reached out to steady me. “Ian, what’s wrong?” I threw her off with all the strength I had left and ran for the door like a madman. Helena looked bewildered and took a step to follow me, but behind her, Chase suddenly collapsed onto the floor with a dramatic groan. “Helena! My ankle… it hurts so bad! I think I broke it when he pushed me!” Helena hesitated for a fraction of a second, but ultimately turned back to help Chase. I didn’t wait. I ran all the way back to my parents’ small apartment down the street, bursting through the front door, gasping for breath. “Dad! Mom! I’m here! Where are you?” But the apartment was dead silent. The wheelchair was overturned near the balcony door, the sheer curtains fluttering wildly in the cold night air. A sickening dread pooled in my stomach. I rushed to the balcony. There, on the ledge, was my father. With his paralyzed legs, I couldn’t even comprehend how much agonizing effort it must have taken for him to drag his body up onto the high sill. He was leaning out into the open sky, teetering on the edge. My heart hammered violently against my ribs. “Dad! No! Please, stop!” He turned his head and looked at me, a gentle, heartbreaking smile on his worn face. “Ian… my brave boy. I’m so sorry. I can’t let us be a burden to you anymore…” “Dad!” I screamed, lunging forward and grabbing his arm. “I’ve got you! Just hold on! Give me your other hand!” But my fingers slipped. With a sickening rush of air, he fell. I was left gasping on the ledge, staring down at his prosthetic leg, which had come loose in my desperate grip. “Dad!” I shrieked, my voice tearing. I leaned over the balcony, but the sight below made my vision swim. A dark pool of crimson was already blooming on the pavement below. Suddenly, a loud, heavy crash echoed from the bedroom. I froze. My chest felt hollow, as if my heart had been ripped out of my ribcage. The short walk from the balcony to the bedroom felt like a mile-long march to the gallows. I pushed the bedroom door open. My mother was hanging from the ceiling fan, suspended by a bedsheet. Her face was pale, her lips a terrible shade of blue. She wasn’t breathing. “Mom! No, no, no!” I screamed, rushing forward and wrapping my arms around her legs, trying to lift her up to take the pressure off her neck. But my body was exhausted, my muscles failing. I strained on my tiptoes, desperately clawing at the knot, but I couldn’t reach high enough to loosen it. My footing slipped, and I collapsed heavily onto the floor, weeping in absolute defeat. Right by her feet lay a crumpled piece of paper. I picked it up with trembling hands. It was her handwriting: My darling boy, do not let us hold you back anymore. Be free. Live a life of your own. I clutched the note to my chest, a gutteral, agonizing sob ripping from my lungs. “Dad… Mom… please come back. Don’t leave me here alone. Please…” That was when the Caldwell family’s private doctor finally arrived, panting from the climb. He took in the chaos of the living room and asked cautiously, “Mr. Ward, where is your mother?” I didn’t say a word. I wiped my tears, my expression turning utterly blank, and pointed toward the bedroom. The doctor walked in, and a second later, a horrific scream tore from his throat. His heavy medical bag slipped from his hand, sending bottles and instruments clattering across the floor. He spun around, wide-eyed with terror, only to see me standing on the edge of the balcony railing. I carefully folded my mother’s suicide note and slipped it into my pocket. Then, looking out at the endless night, I closed my eyes and let myself fall backward. Mom, Dad, wait for me. I’m coming. The doctor’s panicked scream faded as the wind rushed past my ears, a roaring, comforting embrace. And then, the world went quiet. Shaking violently, the doctor fumbled for his phone and dialed Helena’s number. “Ma’am…” Helena answered, her voice carrying a trace of lazy, arrogant amusement. “Well? Is his mother stable? Has Ian realized how foolish he’s being yet?” The doctor collapsed onto the floor, his lips trembling. “Ma’am… they’re gone. Ian… his whole family… they’re all dead.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “465187”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I found my husband’s journal by accident. The latest entry was from yesterday: “Another fight with her. Suddenly, I miss Maeve so much. If it were Maeve, she’d probably just laugh and say, ‘Let it go.’” I flipped back a page. “Passed by the bakery today. They discontinued the chestnut tarts Maeve loved. I felt this sudden, hollow ache.” I kept flipping. Page three, page four, page five. In the entire journal, her name—Maeve—appeared one hundred and forty-three times. My name appeared eight times. And five of those times, it was followed by the word again. “Rachel forgot to take out the trash again.” “Rachel missed my call again.” “Rachel brought up having kids again.” On the last page, right beneath yesterday’s entry, he wrote: “I treat Rachel well. But ‘being good to someone’ and ‘loving someone’ are two entirely different things. I know the difference.” He hadn’t even tried to hide it. The journal was just lying there, splayed open on the mahogany desk like a written confession. As if to say… I didn’t cheat. I haven’t contacted her. You can’t blame me for my thoughts. I closed the leather-bound book, picked up his fountain pen, and wrote a single line in the blank space at the bottom of the page: “Thank you for being honest with me.” Then, I dragged my suitcase down from the top shelf of the closet and began packing. In the adult world, nobody actually dies from a broken heart. Besides, we hadn’t had a real, screaming argument in a very long time. … 1 I stood up, grabbed my purse, and walked out the door. I was alone in the elevator. The mirrored walls caught my reflection—the faint, bluish shadows bruised under my eyes. One hundred and forty-three times. I repeated the number in my head like a student obsessively checking a math problem they knew they’d gotten wrong. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Gavin. “What do you want for dinner? I can pick something up on my way home.” I stared at the screen for a few seconds, then typed back: “Whatever.” He replied instantly: “How about that Thai green curry fish you loved last time?” You see? He really was good to me. He remembered what I liked, even from a passing comment I’d made weeks ago. But his journal said… They discontinued the chestnut tarts Maeve loved. I felt this sudden, hollow ache. He remembered my favorite foods, but they never left him hollow. At the office, my coworker Diane strolled over with a mug of coffee. “You look exhausted. Up late again?” “No, just didn’t sleep well.” “Your husband is so sweet, though. Remember when he dropped off lunch for you last month? The whole floor was jealous.” I offered a tight, polite smile and let the comment hang in the air. Good. Sweet. Since last night, those words had started to grate on my nerves like sandpaper. During lunch, I skipped the cafeteria and sat at my desk, aimlessly scrolling through my phone. For some reason, my fingers drifted to Gavin’s Instagram profile. He rarely posted. His most recent update was from three months ago—a photo of his cluttered desk late at night, captioned: “Another productive night.” I kept scrolling. Two years back, there was a shared link to an old song. There was no caption, just an ellipsis: “…” I clicked it. “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac. In the comments, someone had written: “Who are you missing?” He had replied with a single word: “Yeah.” The person who asked had a profile picture of a white gardenia. Her username was Maeve_In_Bloom. I pressed the power button, plunging the screen into blackness. At three in the afternoon, Gavin texted again. “Leaving early today. Want me to pick you up?” “No need. I’ll take the subway.” “What’s wrong? You okay?” “I’m fine.” “I’ll come anyway. It’s on my way home.” That was just who he was. You tell him no, and he does it anyway. You tell him you’re fine, and he insists on digging. But the things you actually need him to notice? He remains utterly blind to them. At five, his car was idling by the curb outside my building. He rolled down the window and waved me over. I climbed into the passenger seat, the click of the seatbelt sounding incredibly sharp in the quiet cabin. “You look pale. Did you skip lunch?” “I ate.” “Liar. Diane told me you didn’t go down to the cafeteria.” I turned my head to look at him. “When did you exchange numbers with Diane?” “When I brought you lunch that one time. She was really friendly.” He brushed it off, casually turning the steering wheel as we merged into the evening traffic. “Rachel.” “Yeah?” “Is there something you want to tell me?” I watched the streetlights flicker past outside, one by one, looking like cigarettes being stubbed out in the dusk. “Gavin, who is Maeve?” The car jerked violently. He hit the brakes, prompting an angry honk from the SUV behind us. “Why are you asking about her all of a sudden?” “Just curious.” He was silent for a few seconds before accelerating again, his voice slipping back into its usual, gentle cadence. “Just someone from college. We lost touch after graduation.” Lost touch. Yet she lived in his journal, occupying one hundred and forty-three pages. I didn’t say another word. The car grew so quiet that the only sound was the low hum of the AC. When we got home, he went into the kitchen to heat up the curry fish. I stood in the doorway of the study. The journal was gone from the desk. I opened the bottom drawer—it was buried beneath a thick stack of tax documents. He had hidden it. “Rachel! Dinner’s ready.” I pushed the drawer shut and walked over to the dining table. He had plated the fish perfectly, even taking the time to skim the crushed spices off the top. “Try it. It’s from that new place downtown. The reviews are incredible.” I took a small bite. “Good?” he asked. “It’s good.” He smiled, a look that was warm, comforting, and utterly practiced. Suddenly, his own words echoed in my head: I treat Rachel well. But ‘being good to someone’ and ‘loving someone’ are two entirely different things. A tiny bone caught in my throat. I coughed. “Slow down. No one’s going to steal it from you.” He handed me a glass of warm water. His fingers brushed against mine, radiating a quiet warmth. I took the glass and drank. The bone dislodged, but the phantom tightness in my throat remained. 2 “Rachel, there’s a college reunion this Saturday. Do you want to come with me?” Gavin asked the next morning while adjusting his tie in front of the mirror. I was brushing my teeth, my voice muffled. “What classmates?” “The college crew. We haven’t caught up in years.” The toothbrush froze in my mouth. College crew. “You should go,” I said, spitting out the foam. “I think I’ll skip it. I wouldn’t know anyone.” “Come on, it’ll be fun. I want to introduce you to everyone.” “No, really. You go ahead.” He didn’t press the issue. He grabbed his briefcase and left. The moment the front door clicked shut, I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. A college reunion. Would Maeve be there? He said they had lost touch. But reunions had group chats. People showed up. What was I even doing? He hadn’t cheated on me. He hadn’t contacted her. It was written in black and white in his private diary. What right did I have to police his thoughts? On Saturday, Gavin tried on three different shirts before leaving. He finally settled on a light blue linen button-down I’d bought him for his birthday last year. “How does this look?” “Great.” “I’m heading out, then. Might be a bit late.” “Okay.” After he left, I sat on the sofa for a long time, staring into space. Eventually, I picked up my phone and texted Diane. “Hey Diane, random question—does your husband have someone named ‘Maeve_In_Bloom’ on his social media?” Diane replied instantly: “No, don’t think so. Why?” “Nothing, just curious.” I opened Gavin’s Instagram again and scrolled down to that post from two years ago. I tapped the gardenia profile icon. The page was completely blank—This account is private. He claimed they didn’t talk. Yet, she was still sitting right there in his followers list. At nine that night, Gavin sent a photo. A group of people was raising their glasses around a long wooden table. He was sitting at the far end, laughing heartily. “Pretty lively! You definitely have to come next time.” I pinched the screen to zoom in, studying the faces one by one. There were eight people—five guys, three women. One of the women sat directly across from him. The photo caught her in profile: long hair, wearing a white knit sweater. In front of her plate sat a small slice of cake. A chestnut tart. I zoomed back out. I texted back a single word: “Nice.” He got home at eleven, smelling faintly of beer. “Didn’t drink much,” he said softly, kicking off his shoes. “Just a couple of IPAs.” He went into the bathroom to shower, leaving his phone on the nightstand. A moment later, the screen lit up with a text notification. I didn’t touch the phone. But the preview text was bright and clear against the dark glass: Gavin, I had such a wonderful time tonight. It’s been so long since we— The rest of the message was cut off. The contact name was simple: Maeve. He had told me they didn’t contact each other. The shower cut off, and the bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of warm steam. Gavin walked out, rubbing a towel through his damp hair. He noticed me sitting on the edge of the mattress. “Still awake?” “Can’t sleep.” “Want me to warm up some milk for you?” “No, thank you.” He picked up his phone, scanned the screen without a flicker of emotion, and casually flipped it face-down on the nightstand. “Get some rest. I’m taking you out for brunch tomorrow.” He climbed into bed and switched off the lamp. In the darkness, his breathing soon settled into a slow, steady rhythm. I stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. We lost touch. It’s been so long. I had a wonderful time. The fragments pieced themselves together, developing in my mind like a Polaroid. I rolled over, turning my back to him. In his sleep, his arm draped over my waist, pulling me closer as he mumbled something incoherent. I couldn’t make out the words. Maybe it was “Don’t kick the blanket.” Or maybe it was a different name entirely. The next morning, he kept his promise and took me to a trendy spot downtown. He ordered my favorites—smoked salmon Benedict and lemon-ricotta pancakes—and even asked for a pot of jasmine green tea. “Good?” he asked, watching me. “Yes.” “Have you been unhappy lately?” I looked up. He was carefully placing a piece of smoked salmon onto my plate. “No, I’m fine.” “Good,” he smiled, looking relieved. “I was worried you were mad at me.” “Why would I be mad?” “I don’t know. You just seem quieter these past few days.” He had noticed. But his perception always stopped at the surface. “Gavin.” “Yeah?” “Who ended up showing to the reunion yesterday?” His fork paused for a fraction of a second. “Brian, Dave, and a few others you wouldn’t know. Why?” “The girl sitting across from you. Who was she?” “Which one?” “In the white knit sweater.” He seemed to think about it for a moment, his voice perfectly casual. “Oh, that was Phoebe. We were in the same major. Her husband couldn’t make it, so she came alone.” Phoebe. Not Maeve. “Why the sudden interest?” he asked with a playful grin. “Are you jealous?” “No. Just wondering.” He reached across the table and lightly pinched my cheek. “Don’t worry. I only have eyes for you.” It was a beautiful line. So beautiful that I almost allowed myself to believe it. 3 “Rachel, your mom called. She wants us over for dinner this Sunday,” Gavin said on Wednesday evening, handing me his phone. I took the phone. It was a voice message from my mother. “Okay. Let’s go.” “Perfect. I bought her a heated back massager a while ago, but I kept forgetting to give it to her.” He pulled a beautifully wrapped box from the closet shelf and tapped it. “Got it last month, actually. Just slipped my mind to tell you.” See? He was incredibly thoughtful, even to my mother. But I had memorized his journal entries. Out of his one hundred and forty-three mentions of Maeve, one read: “Today is Maeve’s birthday. I wonder how she’s doing.” That date was our wedding anniversary. When we visited my parents on Sunday, my mother couldn’t stop singing his praises, patting Gavin’s hand. “Gavin is such a wonderful young man. So attentive, always thinking of others.” “Of course, Mom. It’s the least I can do,” Gavin replied, flashing a warm, perfectly rehearsed smile. At the dinner table, he served my mother and kept my father’s glass filled with bourbon. He didn’t speak excessively, but every word he uttered was polite and charming. After two drinks, my dad patted his shoulder. “I can rest easy knowing Rachel is with you, Gavin.” Gavin glanced at me. “I’ll always take care of her, Dad.” Take care. Good. There was that word again. After dinner, I helped my mother clear the table. She leaned in close, lowering her voice. “Are you two doing okay lately?” “We’re fine.” “Good. Gavin is a steady, reliable man. Don’t go looking for problems where there are none, Rachel.” I placed the plates in the sink and turned on the faucet. The rush of running water drowned out whatever I might have said in response. On the drive home, Gavin hummed along to a classic ballad playing on the radio. Suddenly, he stopped. “Do you know this song?” “No.” “It was huge when we were in college,” he murmured, his voice softening. “Back then, we used to… actually, never mind. It’s nothing.” Back then, what? Back then, did Maeve love this song too? I didn’t ask. When we got back, I took a shower first. When I came out, he was sitting in the study, hunched over his laptop. “What are you working on?” “Just clearing out some emails,” he replied without looking up. “Go ahead and sleep first.” I walked past the desk, my gaze catching the edge of his screen. It wasn’t his email inbox. It was an instant messaging app. I couldn’t read the name at the top of the chat, but I saw the last message he had sent: “Do you still remember that song?” I pulled my gaze away and stepped back. “Rachel?” “Yeah?” “Can you close the door for me?” I pulled the heavy wooden door shut behind me. Standing alone in the dim hallway, I could hear the rapid-fire tapping of fingers on a keyboard from the other side. Fast, relentless, like rain striking a windowpane. That night, I dreamed of Gavin standing under a dogwood tree heavy with white blossoms, holding a chestnut tart. He smiled at me and said, “I bought this for you.” But when I reached out to take it, the tart crumbled, turning into loose sheets of journal paper that scattered into the wind. Every single page was covered with the same name. And it wasn’t mine. When I woke up, the sky was still a bruised indigo. Gavin was sleeping soundly beside me, his chest rising and falling in steady intervals. I turned my head to look at his face—his sharp jawline, his long eyelashes, the faint upward curve of his lips as if he were dreaming of something beautiful. Who was in his dreams? I slid quietly out of bed and padded down to the study. The leather journal was still buried at the very bottom of the drawer. I didn’t open it. I didn’t need to. Even if I read it a hundred more times, the math wouldn’t change. One hundred and forty-three versus eight. That was the raw, unvarnished math of our marriage. Suddenly, my phone buzzed on the counter with a text from an unknown number: “Hi, is this Rachel? I’m Phoebe, one of Gavin’s friends from college. He mentioned you at the reunion, and I’d love to connect if you’re open to it!” Phoebe. The girl sitting across from him in the photo, the one with the chestnut tart. I stared at the message for a long time. Then I typed back: “Sure.” 4 Phoebe added me. Her profile picture was a silhouette of her in profile against a golden sunset. Her first text included a smiley face: “Hey Rachel! I’m Phoebe. My boyfriend used to room with Gavin back in college, so we all ended up becoming close friends.” I wrote back: “Hi.” “We missed you at the reunion! Gavin said you were resting at home. You definitely have to come out with us next time.” “I’d love that.” She was incredibly warm, texting me every other day about mundane things—the best local bistros, sales at the mall, occasionally sending photos of lipstick shades to ask for my opinion. I kept my replies polite but detached. On the fifth day, she sent an old photograph. It was a group photo from college. Seven or eight of them were standing on a grassy campus lawn. Gavin was on the far left, looking much leaner, with a shy, boyish grin. Standing right next to him was a girl with a ponytail and a plain white t-shirt, her eyes crinkling into half-moons as she laughed. Phoebe’s caption read: “Found this in my old drive! We were all so young.” I zoomed in on the girl next to Gavin. Her hand was resting naturally on his shoulder, and his body was angled slightly toward her, as if drawn by an invisible gravity. “Who is the girl standing next to Gavin?” I messaged back. Phoebe replied almost instantly: “Oh, that’s Maeve. She was the star of our creative writing program. Everyone called her Mae.” Maeve. The phone nearly slipped from my numb fingers. “Does she still keep in touch with everyone?” I asked. “Yeah, she actually lives in the city! She came to the reunion the other night.” She was at the reunion. Gavin had told me Maeve wasn’t there. He told me the person sitting opposite him was Phoebe. “Are you doing okay, Rachel? Why the interest?” “Oh, no reason. They just looked really close in the photo, so I got curious.” Phoebe sent a string of laugh emojis: “Haha, yeah, they were practically joined at the hip in college. They never officially dated, though. Maeve got married right after graduation, but she got divorced recently. She’s single now.” Joined at the hip. Never dated. Single now. I set the phone face down and took a slow, deep breath, trying to steady the shaking in my chest. When Gavin got home that evening, I was in the kitchen prepping dinner. He slipped off his shoes, walked up behind me, and wrapped his arms around my waist. “Smells amazing. What are we having?” “Braised ribs.” “My favorite. No one makes them like you do.” I held the spatula still, staring at the sizzling pan. “Gavin, did Maeve show up at the reunion last weekend?” The arms around my waist stiffened instantly. “How do you know that name?” “Phoebe told me. We connected on Instagram.” He let go of me, taking a step back. “Phoebe talks too much.” “So she was there?” “Yes,” he said, leaning against the refrigerator, his tone carefully neutral. “It was a standard reunion. She was in our class, Rachel. It’s not like we could ban her from coming.” “You told me she wasn’t there.” “I never said that. I said Phoebe was the one sitting across from me.” “Then where did Maeve sit?” “I don’t know, I don’t remember. Rachel, what is this really about?” A sharp edge of irritation crept into his voice. I switched off the burner and turned around to face him. “I want to know if the Maeve in your diary is Maeve Warren.” The air in the kitchen turned instantly frigid. Gavin’s face drained of color, his annoyance morphing into shock, and then into a look I had never seen on him before—the raw panic of a man caught red-handed. “You read my journal?” “It was lying wide open on the desk. I didn’t search for it. You left it there.” His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “Rachel… those were just private thoughts. Things I wrote for myself.” “One hundred and forty-three times,” I said. “You wrote her name down one hundred and forty-three times.” He didn’t deny it. He didn’t even try to explain. He just stood there, watching me, waiting for the inevitable explosion—for me to scream, throw things, or break down in tears. But I didn’t do any of those things. I simply untied my apron, folded it neatly, and set it on the counter. “The ribs need about ten more minutes. You can plate them yourself.” I walked past him. As I cleared the kitchen doorway, he reached out and caught me by the wrist. “Rachel, I haven’t contacted her. I swear to God.” “I know.” “Then why are you…” “Gavin,” I said gently, pulling my wrist from his grasp. I looked directly into his eyes. “You treat me well. But ‘being good to someone’ and ‘loving someone’ are two entirely different things. You wrote that yourself.” His face went completely ash-white. I walked into the bedroom and shut the door behind me. The suitcase was still sitting on the floor, half-packed. I knelt down and began placing the remaining clothes inside. As I was pulling the zipper closed, my phone buzzed. It wasn’t Gavin. It was Phoebe. “Rachel, I just had lunch with Maeve. She told me something, and… honestly, I think you deserve to know.” “What is it?” “She said Gavin texted her last week. He asked her to meet up for dinner. He said there were things he needed to say to her in person.” My hand froze on the zipper. “She said she turned him down, but Gavin insisted…” The message cut off there. Phoebe’s next text didn’t come. I stared at the screen, my fingers turning icy cold. Outside the door, I heard Gavin’s footsteps approaching, heavy and hurried. Then came a sharp knock. “Rachel, open up. We need to talk.” “I just called Maeve. I made it clear to her that we can’t contact each other anymore, that we’re completely…” His voice died in his throat. Through the crack at the bottom of the door, the wheels of my suitcase were clearly visible.

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On our wedding anniversary, my husband gave me a secondhand designer bag. Inside, wedged deep in the lining, was a plastic claw clip that had belonged to its previous owner. “Buying secondhand is the new sustainable chic,” he said, his face a picture of absolute, unbothered logic. “Besides, it’s practically brand new. It suits you.” I forced a tight, empty smile and thanked him. But minutes later, when I opened the resell app on his phone, I found a transaction history that made my blood run cold. Auctioning my wife’s free time this Friday afternoon. Starting bid: fifty dollars. Buyer can choose which coffee shop she goes to. Auctioning a high-res photo of my wife cooking from behind. I stared at the screen, my hands shaking. To him, I wasn’t a partner. I was just another piece of pre-owned inventory, waiting to be marked up and sold to the highest bidder. 1 I held the cheap plastic claw clip between my fingers. My fingertips were numb. A few stray, unfamiliar hairs were still tangled in the teeth of the clip, and if I looked closely, I could see tiny flecks of someone else’s dandruff. A wave of intense, physical revulsion hit me, rising from my stomach and settling like lead in my throat. “Well? Do you love it, babe?” Derek’s voice drifted in from the kitchen, dripping with the smug satisfaction of a man who believed he deserved a medal. “That bag is easily three grand retail. I snagged it on a resale app for a hundred and fifty bucks. Practically mint! Think of how much money I just saved us.” He stepped into the living room, wiping his hands on a dish towel, and leaned in to inspect how the bag looked draped over my shoulder. He nodded, thoroughly pleased with himself. “Look at that. It was made for you. Tell me I don’t have the best eye.” I looked at his face, glowing with the pride of a cheapskate who had successfully gamed the system. My throat felt incredibly tight. The smile on my face felt like dry plaster, ready to crack. “Thank you,” I whispered. “I… I love it.” “Glad to hear it. Now, how about we get dinner started? I’m starving.” He patted my shoulder—a quick, transactional gesture—and vanished into the bathroom, humming a tune under his breath. A moment later, the shower started running. On the sofa, his phone vibrated. The screen lit up with a notification from a local marketplace app. New activity on your listed item: “Wife’s Idle Time”! I stood there for a long moment before my feet moved on their own. I walked over to the sofa and picked up his phone. The passcode was my birthday. I used to think that was romantic. Now, it just felt like a cruel joke. I unlocked the phone and tapped on the marketplace app. His profile page popped up instantly. His avatar was our wedding photo. His username: Derek’s Curated Finds. But as I scrolled past the listings for used golf clubs, old iPhones, and gently worn jackets, I saw dozens of listings that had nothing to do with electronics or clothes. They were about me. Auctioning my wife’s free time this Friday afternoon. Starting bid: fifty dollars. Buyer can choose which coffee shop she goes to. Sold for: $150. Buyer Review: She’s even prettier than her pictures, though she was a little quiet. Can you ask her to smile more next time? Auctioning a high-res photo of my wife cooking dinner from behind. Sold for: $30. Buyer Review: Incredible waistline. Makes you want to reach out and grab her. Auctioning a photo of my wife’s wet hair right after a shower. DM for details. Sold for: $80. Buyer Review: So sweet and innocent. Can you get a shot of her legs next time? Will pay extra. I scrolled down, further and further, my hands trembling so violently I could barely hold the device. In his direct messages, the filth spilled across the screen like cheap ink. Hey man, can you get her to wear yoga pants next time she goes to the grocery store? I’ll give you three hundred to auction her shopping trip. When does her period start? I want to see a photo of her looking pale and vulnerable. It’s a specific vibe, you know? Are you ever going to auction a full dinner date with her? I’ll start the bidding at five hundred. Every private, quiet moment of my life had been sliced into pieces, given a price tag, and displayed in a digital shop window for anonymous men to drool over. “What are you doing?” Derek’s voice cut through the apartment like a gunshot. He was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, water dripping from his hair. In three quick strides, he snatched the phone out of my hand. When he saw what was on the screen, his expression hardened. “You’re snooping through my phone?” I looked up at him, my body completely drained of warmth. “What is this, Derek?” My voice cracked. “What the hell is this?” He glanced at the screen, and instead of looking guilty, he let out a dry, dismissive laugh. He walked over to the kitchen island, poured himself a glass of water, and sat down on the sofa, spreading his legs comfortably. “What does it look like? I’m monetizing some of your spare time and a few harmless photos. What’s the big deal?” He looked at me with an agonizingly casual indifference. “You’re overreacting. It’s not like I’m asking you to sleep with anyone.” A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my chest. “That is my time, Derek! My photos! My life!” “Who gave you the right to sell me? Did you ever stop to think about asking me?” “Oh, here we go,” Derek said, slamming his water glass onto the coffee table. “Don’t start acting all high and mighty, Maggie. If it weren’t for my side hustles, do you think we’d be living this comfortably?” He stood up, pacing the room, his voice rising as if he were the one who had been wronged. “So what if I sell a little bit of your time? Does that money go to waste? No, it goes right back into this household. Do you have any idea how hard it is to manage a mortgage, car payments, and utilities every month? I’m doing this for us.” “For us?” I stared at him, disgusted. “The down payment on this apartment was paid entirely by my parents. The deed is in my name. And we split the mortgage fifty-fifty. I have never missed a single payment, Derek.” “Your ‘contribution’ to this household is turning me into a commodity on the internet so a bunch of creeps can talk about my body!” My words hit a nerve. His face flushed red with embarrassment, which quickly curdled into rage. Smash! He grabbed the glass from the coffee table and hurled it against the wall. Shards of glass rained down onto the hardwood floor. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you, Maggie?” he spat, pointing a finger at my face. “I married a wife, not an accountant! You’re being completely unreasonable.” He grabbed his leather jacket and his car keys, storming out of the apartment and slamming the door behind him. The force of it shook the frame, leaving a ringing silence in my ears. I looked at the shattered glass on the floor, and then at the secondhand bag with someone else’s hair clip sitting on the counter. Slowly, I slid down against the wall, pulled my knees to my chest, and let out a quiet, strangled sob in the dark. 2 Derek didn’t come home that night. I sat on the sofa until the sky outside turned a bruised grey, the chill from the window pane seeping deep into my bones. When I looked in the mirror, my face was washed out, my eyes hollow. But life didn’t stop because my marriage was a lie. I still had to go to work. I applied a thick layer of makeup to hide the dark circles under my eyes and caught the morning subway. The train was packed, a sea of shoulders and briefcases. As I squeezed into a corner, I felt a sudden, prickly sensation on the back of my neck. I felt like I was being watched. I turned my head quickly. Several men immediately looked down, their thumbs moving rapidly across their phone screens. Was I losing my mind? Was it just paranoia? When I arrived at the office and sat down at my desk, my phone buzzed. It was a text from my best friend, Natalie. It was a screenshot of a group chat called The Leisure & Time Exchange. And there, right at the top of the thread, was Derek’s avatar. He had posted a new listing. Auctioning the right to care for my wife while she’s weak on her period. Starting bid: twenty dollars. She’s not feeling well today, very pale and quiet. Perfect for anyone who likes the delicate, vulnerable type. You can easily find her at the convenience store downstairs from her office building around noon. Beneath it, a string of vulgar comments followed. Oh, Derek’s got a new listing! This is hot. I love the delicate ones. I’ll bid forty. Can I buy her a hot tea and hold her hand? Bidding eighty! My hands went entirely numb. I was on my period, and my lower abdomen had been aching all morning. It was a deeply personal, intimate detail of my health, and he had turned it into marketing copy, throwing me to a pack of online hyenas for pocket change. A wave of nausea hit me. By lunchtime, the cramps were so bad I could barely stand. I decided to quickly slip down to the convenience store on the corner to grab a sandwich and some pain relievers. The moment I stepped inside the store, that heavy, suffocating feeling of being watched returned. A man in a flannel shirt was standing near the snack aisle, but his eyes weren’t on the shelves. They were on me. When I picked up a bottle of water, he moved closer. When I went to the checkout counter, he lined up right behind me. He was standing so close I could feel the heat radiating from his chest. I glanced at the metallic reflection of the soda fridge. He was holding his phone up, and on the screen was a photo of my face. He was comparing the photo to the back of my head. A jolt of pure panic shot through my chest. I snatched my bag, abandoned the sandwich on the counter, and bolted out of the store, running back to the office lobby. I locked myself in the women’s restroom, leaning over the sink, dry-heaving. Nothing came up but stomach acid. Looking at my pale, terrified face in the mirror, I realized there was no safe place left. There were invisible eyes everywhere, waiting to see how I would react, waiting to consume my misery. By late afternoon, the sky had turned ink-black, and a torrential downpour began to beat against the high-rise windows. When the clock struck five, the storm showed no signs of stopping. The rideshare apps were completely backed up, showing over a hundred people ahead of me in the queue. I didn’t have an umbrella. I stood under the narrow awning of the supermarket next to my office, shivers running down my spine as the wind blew the rain onto my damp clothes. Then, a man carrying a large black umbrella stepped out of the rain and walked directly toward me. He was short, with slightly greasy hair and a nervous, oily smile on his face. “Maggie? Right?” I took a sharp step back, my shoulder hitting the cold brick wall. “You have the wrong person.” “No, I don’t think I do,” he said, his grin widening to reveal slightly yellowed teeth. He pulled out his phone, pulled up a screenshot, and thrust it in front of my face. It was a transaction receipt from Derek’s account. Auctioning an accidental meeting and umbrella-sharing with my wife Maggie. Rainday exclusive. Sold for: $100. The buyer’s username matched the man standing in front of me. “I paid a hundred bucks for this,” he said, shifting the umbrella so it covered my head, stepping closer into my personal space. “Come on, let me walk you home, beautiful.” A visceral disgust washed over me. I shoved his chest with all the strength I had left. “Get away from me!” I screamed it, the sound swallowed by the thunder, and then I sprinted directly into the freezing rain. The downpour blinded me, soaking through my coat and jeans in seconds. I didn’t care. I ran through the sheets of water, my tears mixing with the rain, leaving the man’s angry shouts far behind me. I don’t know how long I ran, but by the time I let myself into my empty apartment, my muscles were shaking from exhaustion. I locked the deadbolt, threw the safety latch, and closed every single curtain in the house. I slid down against the front door, pulling my wet knees to my chest, and wept in the silence. This apartment wasn’t a home. It was just a display case where Derek kept his most profitable commodity. 3 I couldn’t stay there. Every breath of air in that apartment felt contaminated. Late that night, I called an Uber and made the journey back to my parents’ house in the suburbs. Standing on the familiar porch, looking at the peeling paint on the doorframe, I felt a fleeting sense of safety. I rang the bell. It took a long time for the door to open. My mother stood there in her pajamas, her face pinched with annoyance. “Maggie? What on earth are you doing here in the middle of the night?” She looked at my soaking-wet clothes, but instead of reaching out, she sighed. “Do you have any idea how early your brother has to be up for school tomorrow? You’re going to wake the whole house.” My heart sank a little. “Mom, I’m sorry, I just…” “Just come inside. Go change into something dry before you ruin the hardwood floors.” She stepped aside, already reaching for a mop to clean up the water I had dripped onto the entryway. I sat on the edge of the living room sofa, my body still shivering. Once she finished mopping, my mother sat down across from me. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The words spilled out of me in a ragged, tearful rush—the listings, the photos, the creepy men following me, the complete betrayal of my privacy. I expected her to be furious. I expected her to reach for her phone and call Derek to scream at him. But she didn’t. She just looked down, her eyes darting nervously around the room, before she quietly pointed toward the kitchen. “You know,” she murmured, “Derek brought over a brand-new Dyson vacuum cleaner last week. He said he got it on one of those resale apps for barely a hundred dollars. It works wonderfully.” Just then, my teenage brother, Tyler, walked out of his bedroom, rubbing his eyes. When he saw me, he yawned, then tapped the screen of the sleek Apple Watch on his wrist. “Hey, Maggie,” he said, completely unfazed by my tears. “Check out what Derek got me for my birthday. The latest series. He said he found it on some bidding app for half price.” I stared at them, the air leaving my lungs. “Mom… Tyler…” My voice was barely a whisper. “Do you have any idea how he got the money for those things?” I stood up, my whole body trembling. “He sold me. He sold your daughter’s safety, your sister’s dignity, to buy those cheap pieces of plastic.” My mother’s face shifted—not with anger, but with an awkward, defensive irritation. “Maggie, let’s not be dramatic,” she said, her voice taking on a sharp, lecturing tone. Tyler rolled his eyes from the hallway. “Seriously, Maggie. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. It’s just a few pictures and some coffee dates. It’s not like he sold you into slavery. Look at all the cool stuff we got out of it. Don’t be so ungrateful.” I stared at my own brother, my flesh and blood, unable to believe the words coming out of his mouth. My mother stood up and took my hand, her voice softening into that manipulative, motherly tone she used whenever she wanted me to fall in line. “Maggie, sweetie, listen to me. It’s not easy for a young man to support a household these days. The pressure on husbands is immense. You need to have some compassion.” “A marriage takes compromise. If you keep throwing tantrums, you’re going to drive him away. What is a divorced woman in her thirties supposed to do? Who’s going to want you then?” “Besides, he’s sharing the wealth. He bought Tyler that watch, and he brought me the vacuum. It shows he cares about this family.” I looked at my mother’s face, full of practical, selfish calculations. I looked at Tyler, holding his wrist up like a trophy. And slowly, piece by piece, my heart went entirely cold. To them, I wasn’t a daughter or a sister. My safety and my body were worth less than a refurbished vacuum and a used smartwatch. Derek had already bought their loyalty with the very blood money he made off of me. I didn’t say another word. Slowly, gently, I peeled my mother’s fingers off my hand. Under their bewildered stares, I turned around, opened the front door, and walked back out into the cold, silent rain. This time, I didn’t cry. 4 With nowhere else to go, I used the cash in my purse to check into a dingy, low-budget motel on the edge of town. Lying on the stiff, synthetic sheets, I stared at the ceiling until the morning light began to seep through the plastic blinds. I didn’t fall apart. I didn’t shed a single tear. When you reach the absolute bottom of despair, you don’t cry. You plan. I bought a burner SIM card, registered a new, anonymous account, and quietly slipped into the Leisure & Time Exchange group chat. The group was in the middle of a feeding frenzy. Hundreds of men were eagerly discussing the next big event. Derek’s profile picture flashed as he posted a pinned announcement. The Ultimate Auction: This Friday night, a private candlelit dinner with my wife at the exclusive Moonlight Bistro downtown. The winning bidder gets to sit directly across from her, enjoy premium wine, and experience a truly romantic evening. Starting bid: $500. Highest bidder takes all! The comments went wild. Seven hundred! I’m in! Nine hundred! I want to watch her pour my wine. One thousand! I’m going to make her look me in the eye all night. The price climbed steadily until a user with a solid black avatar and the handle Abyss locked it in at two thousand dollars. Derek proudly announced the winner in the main chat. Congratulations to user Abyss! Friday night at seven, The Moonlight Bistro. Don’t keep her waiting! He immediately sent a direct message to Abyss with the restaurant details and a recent photo of me. I watched the screen, my grip on the phone so tight my knuckles turned white. There was no fear left in my chest. Only a cold, razor-sharp focus. You dug this grave, Derek. Now you’re going to lie in it. Over the next few days, I didn’t go back to the apartment, and I didn’t reply to any of Derek’s increasingly frantic texts. I simply ceased to exist. Until Friday afternoon, when my phone rang from an unknown number. It was Derek. He had used a different phone to bypass my block. When I answered, his voice was sickeningly sweet, dripping with forced affection. “Maggie, babe, where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.” “I’m so sorry about the other night. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I want to make it up to you.” “I booked a table at The Moonlight Bistro tonight. Let’s celebrate our anniversary properly. Just the two of us. What do you say?” I listened to his lie, my voice completely flat and cooperative. “Okay.” “Awesome! Wear something really nice, babe. Be there at seven sharp. I’ll have the host guide you to the table.” “I’ll be there.” After I hung up, I looked at myself in the motel bathroom mirror. I put on a face of makeup I had never worn before—vampy red lipstick, sharp winged eyeliner, bold and dangerous. I wore my most expensive black velvet slip dress and a pair of four-inch stilettos. At exactly seven o’clock, I walked into the dim, mahogany-paneled dining room of The Moonlight Bistro. The soft strains of a cello filled the air. The hostess led me to a secluded booth near the window. A bottle of expensive cabernet was already breathing on the table, next to a single flickering candle. I sat down gracefully, my eyes scanning the room. It didn’t take long to spot him. Behind a heavy velvet partition a few tables away, a figure was crouching nervously, holding a phone level with the gap in the fabric. It was Derek. He was live-streaming me. I picked up my water glass, took a slow sip, and let a cold, dark smile play on my lips. The heavy glass doors of the restaurant swung open, the brass bells chiming. A man walked in. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a perfectly tailored black charcoal suit. He carried an air of absolute, terrifying authority. His eyes swept the room once before locking onto my table. His leather dress shoes made a slow, deliberate thud, thud, thud against the hardwood floor as he approached. He pulled out the chair directly opposite me, sat down heavily, and leaned forward. His lips curved into a sharp, knowing grin. “Good evening, Maggie. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” “Your husband sold you to me.”

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