Author: Momo Chan

After three years of long-distance and a grueling month of overtime, I had finally saved up enough time off to visit my boyfriend. But when I arrived, he was completely unreachable. I spent ten agonizing hours waiting alone in a strange city before he finally bothered to reply. When the phone finally rang, it wasn’t him. It was Rebecca, my best friend, her voice bright and giggling over the receiver. “Hazel, surprise! I got to explore Charleston first! It’s absolutely gorgeous here, and Darren has been the absolute perfect tour guide!” She babbled on, sharing little anecdotes of their day, completely oblivious—or pretending to be—to the thirty missed calls lighting up Darren’s screen. I listened in silence until she muttered something about the evening chill. That was when Darren finally took the phone from her. His tone was brief, clipped. “I’m going to drop her off at her hotel first. Wait for me a little longer.” Before he could hang up, the question slipped out of me. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting?” There was a sharp pause. When Darren spoke again, his voice had turned icy. “She’s your best friend, Hazel. Do you really have to turn this into a competition?” His blunt, defensive accusation drained every ounce of my desire to argue. I hung up. Just then, my ride-share back to Boston pulled up to the curb. The driver looked at me as I climbed in, his brow furrowed with concern. “Miss, it’s past midnight and this area isn’t exactly safe. How could your family just leave you out here alone?” I looked down at my shoes, soaked through with slush and freezing rain. “Yeah,” I whispered. Then, forcing a faint smile, I added, “They won’t. Never again.” … Darren didn’t realize I was gone until two hours later. When his calls started flooding in, I looked at his contact photo. His ringtone, whenever we were together, was a loud indie rock track that had gone viral a few months ago. I had never liked it. Once, I had playfully asked him to change it to some soft, instrumental music I loved. Darren’s reaction had been fiercely defensive. The cold, harsh edge of his voice still echoed in my mind. “Am I supposed to obey your every command?” Embarrassed and hurt, I had immediately apologized. But just moments ago, Rebecca had posted an update on her Instagram. A screenshot of that exact song, captioned: “Honestly, I recommended this song to a certain dummy three months ago and I’m totally sick of it, but he’s still using it as his ringtone. Unbelievable.” Darren had commented just three minutes prior: “Who are you calling a dummy?” Rebecca’s reply was instant: “You, dummy!” My phone kept vibrating with incoming calls. Suddenly, a bitter laugh escaped my lips. I wondered how many chambers Darren’s heart had, to be able to beat for two different women at the exact same time. When I didn’t answer, the calls stopped and the texts began. “Where the hell are you? Stop acting out, okay? It’s late and I’m exhausted.” Darren’s messages were filled with his usual irritation. As if sensing my silence, my driver spoke up again. “You know, miss,” he said, shaking his head. “Just two nights ago, there was an assault right at that station. The girl didn’t even make it. The whole city is on edge right now.” “That’s why I was so shocked to see you standing there. If you were my daughter, I wouldn’t have been able to sleep a wink tonight.” My fingers twitched, my eyes dropping back to the glowing screen. “Why are you being so unreasonable? So I was a little late picking you up, so what?” “Rebecca is a guest, and she’s your best friend. Why can’t you just be the bigger person?” My hands shook so hard I could barely hold the phone. A sharp, physical pain bloomed in my chest, like a blade scraping against my ribs. The driver noticed my trembling in the rearview mirror and panicked slightly. “Hey, hey, please don’t cry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.” I wiped my eyes, shaking my head. For the first time, a strange sense of liberation washed over me. “No,” I said softly. “Thank you for telling me. Truly.” A final message from Darren popped up. “Whatever. I don’t have the energy to baby you right now. Let me know when you’ve calmed down.” Twenty-eight messages. Twenty-seven and a half of them were accusations. And he ended it by claiming he was too tired to “baby” me. Exhaustion rolled over me like a heavy tide. I turned off my phone, leaned my head against the cold glass window, and let myself fall asleep. By the time I woke up, we had arrived at my apartment building in Boston. Seeing how deeply I was sleeping, the kind driver had parked and waited for three hours without waking me. Deeply grateful, I tipped him an extra hundred dollars. He beamed, offering a warm, fatherly piece of advice before he left. “Get inside and change those shoes, kiddo. They’re soaked through.” “I will,” I promised, touched by his kindness. While waiting for the shower water to run hot, I checked my phone. Rebecca had posted another update. It was a photo of a trendy local boba tea shop. “Checking out this famous spot! My favorite boy stood in line for an hour just to get me this, but honestly, the taste is just average. I took one sip, and packed the rest up for ‘someone else.’” The “someone else” in the photo was Darren, captured in a candid shot, smiling softly at the camera. I stared at the image. I had never known that my boyfriend—the man so pathologically germophobic that he refused to share a water glass with me—would happily drink from another woman’s cup. I let out a soft, tired sigh and clicked the “like” button. Then, I dialed my manager’s number. “Mr. Collins, I’ve had a change of heart. Is that overseas project still open?” On the other end of the line, his tone shifted from surprise to pure relief. “Hazel, I’m so glad you’ve come to your senses. If you pull this project off, you’ll be looking at a double promotion when you return.” “And it’s only a year in France. Trust me, if it’s true love, a year is nothing.” I smiled quietly, offering no argument. The truth was, the moment I decided to take this assignment, my relationship was already over. I took my time in the hot shower, letting the steam soothe my aching muscles. When I came out, Rebecca’s post was gone. I felt a flicker of amusement. So, she wasn’t as utterly shameless as she wanted everyone to believe. Suddenly, Darren’s name flashed on my screen. A knot of dread tightened in my stomach, but I answered anyway. “Who are you trying to humiliate?” his voice boomed, sharp with anger. “You ignore my calls, ignore my texts, and then you go write passive-aggressive comments under Rebecca’s post?” He spoke with a rapid, defensive urgency—a protective instinct he had never once displayed for me. I felt a profound, heavy exhaustion settle into my bones. I had worked myself to the bone for a month, sacrificing sleep and sanity just to see him, only to end up here. “Darren,” I said quietly. “Whose boyfriend are you, exactly?” He went dead silent. The line stretched long and tense before he sighed, his voice dripping with disappointment. “Do you always have to make such a mountain out of a molehill?” Then, a soft, hesitant voice drifted through the speaker. “Darren… maybe I should talk to her.” It was Rebecca. I glanced at the clock. 11:00 PM. Which meant they had been together since 8:00 AM. “No,” Darren replied, his voice softening. “Don’t bother. The more you indulge her, the worse her tantrums get.” “But she’s my best friend…” Rebecca murmured. They whispered to each other, their voices dropping so low I couldn’t make out the words, before the line suddenly went dead. The easy, practiced intimacy of their exchange, the natural rhythm of their back-and-forth—it was a revelation. I realized then that their boundaries had crossed long before today. After a brief, restless nap, I woke to find my left foot swollen and throbbing from frostbite. Using an old cane I found in the closet, I managed to limp downstairs and hail a cab to the urgent care clinic. The doctor had to debride the blistered skin. I bit my lip so hard it bled to keep from crying out. Armed with a prescription and a bottle of painkillers, I finally headed home. But the moment I unlocked my apartment door, I bumped straight into a warm chest. The familiar, clean scent of his cologne filled my nose. Seeing me freeze in shock, Darren offered a gentle, charming smile. “Since you wouldn’t talk to me, I had no choice but to come to you.” A lump formed in my throat, but before I could say a word, he took the bag of medication from my hands. “What’s this?” “My foot is frostbitten.” “Oh,” he muttered, tossing the bag onto the entryway table without a second thought. He didn’t ask how it happened. He didn’t ask if it hurt. Just then, his phone blared with that irritating rock song. I didn’t hear what Rebecca said on the other end, but Darren laughed out loud, teasing her playfully. “Hey, if you tell me to jump, how can I say no?” The tiny spark of warmth that had flared in my chest died instantly, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache. I limped past him to the kitchen, popped two pills out of the blister pack, and swallowed them dry. Darren hung up, walked over, and wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. “Don’t be mad anymore,” he murmured coaxingly. “My phone was on silent that day. When I found out you left, I was miserable the whole night.” I smirked faintly. The photos of his bright, easy smile the next morning certainly didn’t look like those of a miserable man. “Besides, she’s visited me a few times now,” he continued. “I just wanted to get her settled quickly so I could focus entirely on you…” My hand froze on my water glass. “She visits you often?” He chuckled. “Are you jealous? Don’t worry, she’s basically one of the guys. Not my type at all.” “We’re just occasional travel buddies. It’s only because you’re always so busy.” Eager to change the subject, Darren announced he was going to take a shower. Before heading to the bathroom, he made a point to grab his phone. A few minutes later, he called out from the bathroom, asking me to bring him his loungewear. I grabbed a set, but when I pushed the door open, I caught him hastily flipping his phone face down on the counter. He wiped the water from his face and offered a quick, guilty grin. “Thanks, babe.” The door clicked shut again. I didn’t walk away. Within seconds, Rebecca’s giggling voice echoed through the thin door. “Oh my god, why does this feel like we’re having an affair?” Darren’s reply was lazy, nonchalant. “You know how sensitive your best friend is. She’s paranoid.” Rebecca hummed, her voice taking on a suggestive, teasing lilt. “Alright, show me those abs again. I didn’t get a good look earlier!” “You pervert,” Darren teased back. I walked away, unable to listen to any more of it. When Darren finally came out of the bathroom an hour later, his face was flushed, his eyes bright with a hungry, restless energy. It was obvious he was turned on. Without even turning off the lights, he crawled onto the bed and lunged toward me. I placed a firm hand against his chest, stopping him. My voice was completely flat. “We don’t have any condoms.” Darren froze, the words slipping out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Rebecca said it’s fine if you’re in your safe window.” I stared at him, a wave of pure disgust washing over me. “You talk to her about our sex life?” “No, it’s not like that,” Darren stammered, running a hand through his damp hair. But as he caught my gaze and realized there was no lying his way out of this, his tone turned defensive. “Come on, she’s not a stranger.” I looked at him—really looked at him. Every word, every defensive posture, every micro-expression was a testament to his loyalty to her, not me. I felt like the intruder in my own life. The thought of sharing a bed with him made my stomach turn. “Sleep in the guest room tonight,” I said. Darren stared at me, dumbfounded. “Because of this?” he scoffed. “I traveled all this way to see you, and you’re putting me in the guest room?” “So the only reason you came here was for sex?” Darren glared at me, his jaw clenched in anger. For a brief moment, I saw the perfect opening to end it. I opened my mouth to speak, but before the words could form, he grabbed his pillow and slammed the door behind him. I closed my mouth, turned off the lamp, and went to sleep. I slept surprisingly well that night. When I woke up, there was an email from Mr. Collins with my flight details. “Tomorrow at noon. Don’t be late.” I replied with a quick confirmation and got out of bed to wash up. But the moment I pulled open the bathroom door, a high-pitched shriek pierced the quiet apartment. I froze, startled, but before I could close the door, a figure rushed past me from behind and slammed it shut. “Why don’t you ever knock?” Darren snapped, his tone sharp. For a second, the sheer absurdity of it made me feel like a stranger in my own home. “Why is Rebecca here?” I asked. Darren shrugged carelessly. “She missed you.” In the two years I had rented this apartment, she had never visited once. But the moment Darren arrived, she suddenly “missed” me. I didn’t bother arguing. When Rebecca finally walked out of the bathroom, she offered me a casual wave and slid onto one of the dining chairs. Darren slid a plate containing a fried egg in front of her. She took a bite, her eyes lighting up. “You always know exactly how I like it. Perfect runny yolk.” Darren smirked, clearly pleased with himself. Then, he slid another plate toward me. “Can’t say I’m biased. I made one for you, too.” I stared at the fork in my hand, unable to bring myself to pick it up. I hated runny yolks. We had been together for six years, and he still didn’t know the most basic things about me. “Darren, carry me in our game later!” Rebecca pleaded, playfully nudging his leg under the table. “You’re too bad at it. No way,” he teased. “Come on, are we best buds or what? Help a girl out!” As she spoke, she slid her chair closer, brushing her thigh flush against his. In her excitement, her loose-fitting pajama top shifted, revealing far too much skin. My mind went blank. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Darren’s cheeks flushed slightly, and he subtly shifted his chair an inch away. A wave of pure nausea hit my throat. My fork clattered against the plate. I turned to look directly at Rebecca, who was still practically draped over my boyfriend. “Did I fail to mention that we are no longer friends?” She froze, her playful expression cracking into embarrassment. She clearly hadn’t expected me to call her out so bluntly. Darren frowned, looking between us. “You guys had a fight? When?” I looked at him, delivering each word with deliberate precision. “Four days ago. When she insisted on tagging along to visit you, and I said no.” She had been so resentful of that boundary that she had flown out to see him ahead of me, just to prove she could. “Just because of that?” Darren asked, that familiar, incredulous look returning to his face. It wasn’t just that, of course. For the past year, Rebecca had systematically sabotaged our time together. Every time I planned a trip to see Darren, she would suddenly cling to me, begging me to go on a trip with her or claiming she was too sick to be left alone. When Darren and I bought couple’s rings, she went out and bought a nearly identical band to wear on her own finger. I wasn’t blind. I had cut ties with her as gracefully as I could. But I never imagined someone could be this utterly shameless. Rebecca slowly rose from her chair, her eyes welling with tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I’ll leave.” With a loud crash, Darren stood up so abruptly that his chair tipped backward. He stepped directly in front of her, shielding her. “If you’re kicking her out, then I’m leaving too,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Then leave,” I replied instantly. My face was a mask of cold, unbothered calm. For a split second, Darren’s mind seemed to go completely blank. In all our years together, I had never once told him to leave. Even when we fought, I was always the one to apologize first, the one to smooth things over. But I was so, so tired. Darren didn’t move. He stood there, jaw clenched tight, glaring at me with stubborn disbelief. Rebecca let out a dramatic sniffle, grabbed his hand, and began tugging him toward the door. “Come on, Darren, let’s go. How can she treat us like this?” “If you let her walk all over you like this, she’ll only treat you worse next time!” Ultimately, he let her pull him out the door. The moment the door clicked shut, a profound sense of relief washed over me. I stood up, picked up my plate, and scraped the runny egg directly into the trash. Then, I walked into my bedroom and began packing my bags. As I was winding down for bed that evening, my friend Grace sent me a flurry of messages. “Oh my god, Hazel, you will not believe what I just saw!” She attached a video. It was Darren and Rebecca, walking through a high-end shopping district in downtown Boston. Rebecca’s arm was hooked tightly through his, her body pressed flush against his side. They looked like any other young couple in the honeymoon phase of a relationship. Maybe they had been doing this long before I ever found out. Grace was absolutely livid. “They are utterly shameless! They’re basically cheating on you in broad daylight! After everything you’ve done for both of them, I cannot let this slide.” A warning bell went off in my head, and I started typing a reply to stop her. But before I could hit send, my phone screen flashed with a FaceTime call from Grace. I answered, only to find her marching right up to them like a furious lioness. She pointed her camera directly at them and let loose. “You two are absolutely pathetic! Darren, how can you look yourself in the mirror after what you’ve done to Hazel?” “When you were a broke college student who couldn’t even afford groceries, who was the one saving her own allowance to feed you?” “And you, Rebecca! You snake. Hazel literally got you your job. You wouldn’t even have a foot in the door at that firm if it weren’t for her!” Rebecca’s face hardened. She showed no remorse. “Did I force her to help me?” she sneered. “Enough! Both of you, shut up!” Darren suddenly roared, stepping between them. He looked directly into the camera lens, his expression remarkably composed. “Hazel, we need to talk. You’re completely misunderstanding this.” “I’ll come over tomorrow morning and explain everything.” Grace yelled one last insult at him and slammed her thumb on the end-call button. I let out a long sigh, spent some time calming Grace down over the phone, and then lay down to sleep. I had a long flight to France the next day. I woke up at nine the next morning. I had a quiet breakfast and waited for Darren to show up and “explain everything.” But by eleven, he still hadn’t arrived. I felt no anger, no disappointment. Just a vast, empty space where my feelings used to be. I grabbed my suitcase and locked the apartment door behind me. My phone rang. It was Darren, his voice frantic and out of breath. “Hazel, I’ll have to come by this afternoon. Rebecca suddenly got food poisoning, and I have to rush her to the ER.” “Okay,” I said. Perhaps because he had broken his word so many times before, he paused, a rare note of genuine apology creeping into his tone. “Just wait for me, okay? I’ll make it up to you.” I didn’t answer. I hung up the phone. Then, I systematically blocked and deleted his contact info from every app and social platform. After a long, dreamless sleep on the flight, I finally landed in France. As I walked out of the airport terminal with my luggage, my phone rang. It was my landlady back in Boston. Her voice sounded tense, almost panicked. “Hazel, there’s a young man standing outside your old apartment door. He’s been there for hours and refuses to leave. Should I call the police?” “Yes,” I replied calmly, flagging down a taxi. “Go ahead.” Apparently, Darren had been waiting long enough to hear the exchange. The moment he realized who my landlady was talking to, he desperately snatched the phone from her hand.

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My husband had just returned from a business trip to a high-risk tropical disease zone in South America and was required to undergo a mandatory seven-day isolation. I spent the night packing his fresh clothes and drove them over to his designated quarantine hotel. The receptionist checked the registration list three times, then looked up at me. “I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s no Dave Foster on our list. He never checked in for quarantine.” I froze, my finger hovering over his contact name to call him— Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a black Porsche pull up outside the luxury boutique hotel directly across the street. Dave stepped out of the driver’s seat, walked around to the passenger side, and helped a young woman out. He immediately leaned down and kissed her. She laughed, feebly pushing his chest, but he only pulled her tighter, deepening the kiss. That girl was Amber. The rose Dave had raised himself. The girl he had personally sent across the ocean three years ago, swearing he would never see her again. I stood frozen on the sidewalk, my hands and feet turning to ice. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a text from Dave—a photo of a pristine, king-sized hotel bed. The caption read: Waiting to come home to you, baby. Home? What home did we even have left? 1. I crossed the street and walked into the lobby of that boutique hotel. It was empty. I approached the front desk and asked the clerk, “The couple who just walked in—which room are they in?” The young woman behind the desk gave me a guarded look. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We can’t disclose guest information.” I didn’t push. I walked over to the lounge area, sat down, and texted Dave’s assistant, Ryan. Is Dave back in the country? Did he skip the quarantine protocol? The reply came almost instantly. Hey Nicola, Dave didn’t go abroad this time. He’s been in town all week. My chest tightened, a sharp burn rising to my eyes. I just saw him with Amber. The three dots appeared, disappeared, and then a wall of text popped up. Nicola, I’m so sorry. I’ve been holding this in for three years. Every time Dave went on those “international business trips,” he was flying out to see Amber. She flew back to the States a week ago. He’s been with her ever since. He made up the whole mandatory tropical disease quarantine story just to buy himself seven uninterrupted days with her… My fingers shook so violently I could barely hold the phone. So that was the truth. Every single month for the last three years, those non-negotiable business trips were nothing but transatlantic flights to hold Amber in his arms. Nicola, I’m so incredibly sorry. You two seemed so happy, I kept hoping he’d eventually grow up and let her go. Let her go. I stared at the screen, my mind flashing back to three years ago. Dave waking up in the hospital bed, his wrist wrapped in heavy gauze, his eyes bloodshot as he gripped my hand: “Nicola, she means nothing to me. I’ll send her away. I’ll never see her again. Just please, believe me.” I locked my phone. The quiet lobby felt deafening, the silence punctuated only by the slow, shattering crack of my own heart. The elevator doors slid open. Dave emerged, his arm draped snugly around Amber’s waist as they walked toward the lobby’s sundries shop. I instinctively pulled the brim of my baseball cap lower and adjusted my face mask. Amber pouted, tapping a playful fist against his chest. “This is your fault for being so impatient. We were completely undressed before you realized we were out of protection. I told you it was fine, but you insisted on coming down to buy some.” Dave let out a low chuckle, pulling her tighter against him and kissing the crown of her head. His voice was thick, husky, but laced with fierce protection. “Absolutely not. I’m not risking you getting pregnant. You are not going through that kind of pain.” I stood frozen, paralyzed by a sudden, jarring memory. Our first time, three years ago. We weren’t married yet, lying in the dark of his apartment. I had pressed my hands against his chest, terrified. “No, wait. We don’t have anything. What if I get pregnant?” His breath had been hot, his eyes bright in the dim light. He had kissed me, murmuring against my lips: “Then we’ll have a baby. What’s there to fear? I’ll marry you. I’ll take care of you forever.” Back then, “we’ll have a baby” was a reckless compromise. Today, “I’m not risking it” was true, tender devotion. Amber giggled, tracing lazy circles on his chest. “Doesn’t your wife miss you? She’s not calling to check on you during your ‘quarantine’?” Dave scoffed, a tone of smug indifference in his voice. “She believes whatever I tell her. Right now, she’s probably counting down the days until my isolation ends.” Amber looked up at him, her eyes bright with admiration and triumph. “You’re terrible, Davie. You have her wrapped around your finger.” Dave stopped, gently pinching Amber’s chin. “Let her run circles. I’m never sending you away again.” He leaned down, resting his forehead against hers. “These past three years… I’ve had enough of the distance.” I stood there like a statue. Behind my mask, hot tears streamed down my face, soaking the fabric. They grabbed their items and walked back, passing right beside me. The sweet, cloying scent of her perfume drifted past. Dave’s arm remained locked around her waist as they stepped back into the elevator. The doors slid shut. Slowly, my knees gave out. I sank to the floor, burying my face in my lap. My phone screen lit up. A new text from Dave: The hotel Wi-Fi is terrible here. I’ll call you later. Go to bed early. Love you. I stared at the words, and a dry, hollow laugh escaped my throat. A warm tear splattered onto the glass, blurring the lying word love. 2. By the time I got back to the apartment, it was past midnight. I sat on the living room sofa, staring at our massive wedding portrait on the wall. Dave was holding me, his eyes crinkling with a brilliant, joyful smile. The photographer had gushed, “The way the groom looks at his bride is just pure magic.” I stood up and walked into the bedroom. I began tearing through the drawers, searching for our marriage certificate. I wanted a divorce. Now. Instead of the certificate, my hand brushed against a velvet box hidden deep in the back of the closet. Prompted by some morbid curiosity, I pulled it out and opened it. Inside was a thick stack of photographs. Every single one was of Amber. She was seventeen or eighteen in the top ones, wearing a simple white sundress, looking back over her shoulder and laughing in the sunlight, her eyes bright and untamed. On the back of one, Dave’s sharp, confident handwriting read: My little rose. Fifteen. The next was Amber at twenty, standing on her tiptoes to press a kiss to Dave’s cheek. Dave was looking directly at the camera, his expression soft with a profound, indulgent tenderness I had never seen on him before. Picture after picture, documenting her journey from a girl to a woman. At the very bottom of the box lay a folded piece of a bedsheet. On it was a dark, dried rust-colored stain. I stared at the spot, my mind going completely blank as a sickening realization washed over me. It didn’t take a genius to know what it was. The memory of that night three years ago surged back with terrifying clarity. When Dave and I were first dating, he introduced me to Amber, calling her his ward—a girl he’d taken in at fifteen and raised like a daughter until she was twenty-two. Amber had been perfectly polite, smiling sweetly and calling me “Nicola.” But her eyes never left him. They clung to him with an intensity that made my skin crawl. A few months later, I received a video call from her. I answered, only to see a rumpled bed. Dave was lying there, eyes closed, his face flushed. Amber’s voice drifted through the speaker: “Take a good look, Nicola.” Then, she climbed into the frame, her fingers slowly unbuttoning his shirt. I had driven there like a madwoman. By the time I kicked the hotel door open, it was over. Amber was wrapped in the sheets, her bare shoulders marked with fresh red scratches. She tilted her head and smiled at me with an innocent, vicious malice. “You’re late, Nicola. Dave was… incredible.” When Dave finally woke up and saw me standing amid the wreckage, his face drained of color. He rambled incoherently, sobbing that she had drugged him, that he didn’t remember a thing. I demanded a breakup on the spot, cold and uncompromising. He fell to his knees, begging through tears, but I refused to listen. In a desperate panic, he ran out of the building and straight into oncoming traffic. The screech of tires was deafening. He ended up thrown several yards away, blood pooling around his broken body. Three fractured ribs. In the ICU, barely breathing, he grasped my hand. “Nicola… don’t leave… I can’t live without you…” He promised he would send Amber away, exile her to a university across the globe, and never speak to her again. My heart softened. I forgave him. “Ugh…” A sudden wave of nausea hit me. I bolted to the bathroom, clutching the toilet bowl, dry-heaving until my throat burned with stomach acid. Tears streamed down my face. I felt dirty. Visceral disgust clawed at my insides. I grabbed my phone, found Dave’s number, and dialed. “Hello?” a soft, breathless voice answered, heavy with post-coital satisfaction. It was Amber. In the background, a man’s low, impatient voice grumbled, “Who is it?” Amber giggled, her voice dripping with sweet affection. “I don’t know, just some spam caller… Mm, stop it, Davie, be gentle…” The call cut out. I stood there holding the silent phone, my body shaking uncontrollably. Large, heavy tears splashed onto the screen. I slid down the cold tile wall and curled into a tight ball, holding myself, but I couldn’t find a single ounce of warmth. 3. I spent the next few days packing my things in a numb haze. I didn’t know what day it was, nor did I care what I was eating. Dave’s texts kept coming. Almost done with quarantine. I miss you so much. Bringing home a surprise for you. Just hang in there for two more days, baby. I didn’t reply to a single one. He didn’t suspect a thing. To him, I was the naive, trusting wife who believed every lie he spun. On the fifth day, I went downstairs to take out the trash. As I reached the bin, my vision suddenly went black. When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a hospital bed under harsh fluorescent lights, surrounded by the sharp scent of antiseptic. A nurse was writing on a clipboard nearby. She looked up. “You’re awake. Your blood sugar crashed and you fainted on the sidewalk. A passerby called 911.” I nodded weakly, trying to sit up. She patted my arm gently. “Lie back down. You’re pregnant, about five weeks along. The baby is holding on strong, but you need to rest and focus on your nutrition.” I froze, my hand instinctively dropping to my flat stomach. A baby? Now? Just as I had resolved to divorce him, just as I discovered three years of systemic betrayal, when my soul was entirely hollow? The nurse stepped out. I stared at the ceiling, my thoughts racing. What was I supposed to do with this child? I was still getting a divorce. The baby would be mine and mine alone. As I struggled to process the news, a sudden commotion erupted just outside my curtained partition. Urgently rushing footsteps neared. “Doctor! Doctor, please, you have to look at her!” My entire body went rigid. It was Dave’s voice. A gurney was wheeled into the neighboring bay. A woman’s whimpering voice followed. “It hurts… Davie, it hurts so bad…” “Don’t worry, Amber. I’m right here. The doctor is coming.” I had never heard Dave sound so frantic, so consumed with worry. I instinctively pulled my privacy curtain tighter, making sure there was no gap. “What’s the emergency?” the doctor asked. Dave hesitated, his voice dropping. “Doctor, she… she has an object stuck. It won’t come out.” “What kind of object?” “…A ring.” A heavy silence hung in the air for a few seconds. When the doctor spoke, his tone was icy. “A wedding ring?” “…Yes.” The doctor let out a sharp, frustrated sigh. “This is absurd. Absolutely ridiculous.” Rustling sounds drifted through the thin fabric. Amber whimpered, “It hurts… this is all your fault…” Dave coaxed her gently, “I know, I know. My fault. Just hang on, it’ll be over in a second.” I lay there, paralyzed. That wedding band—I had spent three months designing it and another three months supervising its production. The day Dave slipped it on, he had stared at his hand for hours and whispered, “I’m wearing this for the rest of my life. I’d lose my own hand before I lose this ring.” Now, it was lodged inside another woman. About fifteen minutes later, I heard the doctor sigh with relief. “All right, it’s out. You young people need to learn some boundaries.” “Yes, yes, thank you, Doctor. We’ll be careful,” Dave apologized repeatedly. The medical staff’s footsteps receded. Then, a sharp clink echoed as something metallic was tossed into a stainless-steel trash bin. “You don’t want the ring?” Dave asked. “It’s dirty,” Amber muttered. “Why would I want to keep it?” Dave paused for a beat. “Alright. Forget it then.” I closed my eyes. Three months of design. Three months of waiting. The ring he swore to wear forever. Tossed out like garbage. Amber murmured, “How are you going to explain this to your wife?” Dave let out a soft shrug of a laugh. “Explain what? It’s just a piece of metal. I’ll buy a replacement later.” He paused, his voice softening into a teasing tone. “Actually, I’ll buy you one, too.” The space next door fell silent for a moment before Amber giggled. “You’re terrible.” I stared at the ceiling, tears slipping silently from my eyes into my hair. Reaching down, I slowly pulled the wedding band off my left ring finger, leaving a pale, empty band of skin behind. I unlocked my phone, opened Facebook Marketplace, took a quick photo, and uploaded it. Title: Wedding Ring – Selling Cheap. Description: Ex-husband is dead to me. Selling the women’s band. The men’s band has already been thrown in the trash. Post. Outside my curtain, the footsteps faded away. Dave had escorted Amber out. I placed both hands over my stomach. Hang on, little one. Mama is taking you away from here. 4. The day I was discharged was the day Dave’s supposed quarantine ended. At eight in the morning, his text came through: Coming home today, baby. Wait for me. I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the text box. I typed, deleted, and typed again. Finally, I sent a brief reply: I’m pregnant. We need to talk. I sat on the living room sofa and waited. Dave didn’t reply. Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang. I stood up and opened the door. It wasn’t Dave. It was Amber. “Long time no see, Nicola. Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Her voice was still sweet, but her eyes were venomous as she scanned me up and down. “What do you want?” I blocked the doorway. She smirked and pushed past me, brushing my shoulder as she walked into the living room. She sat on the sofa like she owned the place. “Oh, don’t be like that. You look pale, Nicola. Then again, who could sleep after discovering such filthy secrets? Oh, by the way—Dave’s assistant, Ryan? He’s on my payroll. How else do you think you found out the truth so easily?” I shut the door and stared at her coldly. “Get to the point. Why are you here?” Amber twirled a lock of her hair around her finger. “Just wanted to chat. Oh, and that text you sent him? I saw it while he was in the shower. I went ahead and deleted it for you.” She looked up, her smile sweet and malicious. “No need to thank me. It’s not like he cares about your pregnancy anyway.” My stomach dropped. I clenched my fists. “What is that supposed to mean?” Amber stood up and stepped closer. She was shorter than me, but she looked down on me as if I were nothing. “I’m here to tell you to get an abortion. His world revolves around me now. If you have this baby, it’ll distract him. I won’t let that happen.” I took a step back. “This is between me and Dave. It has nothing to do with you.” Amber let out a sharp laugh. “You poor, naive thing.” She leaned in, whispering in my ear. “There’s something I never told you about that night three years ago. I didn’t drug him. I took something myself to get in the mood. I told him that if he didn’t help me, I’d go find some random guy on the street, or maybe one of his business rivals. He got so angry—he grabbed me by the neck and asked if I was threatening him. And then… he helped me ‘cure’ my fever.” She stepped back, admiring the way the color drained from my face, her smile widening. My mind shattered. Three years of trust, three years of soft-hearted forgiveness, crumbled to dust in a single second. I was the fool. The entire marriage was an elaborate joke. I could hear my teeth chattering as I spoke. “Get out. Get out of my house!” Instead of leaving, Amber took another aggressive step forward, her eyes locking onto my stomach. “Dave is mine. You and your little parasite are just a distraction. You don’t deserve to carry his child. Get rid of it yourself, or do I need to do it for you?” I completely lost my mind. I lunged forward, shoving her away. “Get away from me! Get out!” She stumbled back, but recovered instantly. With a sudden, vicious surge of force, she lunged forward and shoved me back. I lost my balance entirely, falling backward. The small of my back slammed hard against the sharp corner of the coffee table. A white-hot, agonizing pain flared through my abdomen. I looked down. Blood was already blooming through my pants, trickling down my legs. Amber’s lips twitched into a cold smirk. She turned on her heel, opened the front door, and vanished into the hallway. I dragged myself across the floor, reaching for the phone that had fallen nearby. With trembling fingers, I dialed 911, but my finger slipped and hit Dave’s contact photo instead. The line rang. Just as my consciousness began to slip, his voice broke through, cheerful and warm. “Hey baby, I’m almost home. Did you miss me?” I forced the words out. “Dave… I was pregnant.” A brief pause on the line. Then, pure ecstasy. “Really?! Oh my god, Nicola, I’ll be right—” “Don’t bother,” I whispered, my voice flat and hollow. “The baby is gone. Amber pushed me.” Silence fell over the line. I took a shallow breath. “I want a divorce.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “463664”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My wife makes twelve thousand dollars a month, but every single paycheck goes directly into the bank account of her male best friend, Justin. For six years, she hasn’t contributed a single dime to our household. The mortgage, the car payments, the groceries, the utilities—it all falls on my shoulders. I have been drowning in slow motion. Today, after the auto-draft for the mortgage cleared, I checked my banking app. Available balance: $14.27. My son’s tuition for his youth art academy is three weeks past due. The director called me again this afternoon, her voice tight with strained polite urgency. I’ve already exhausted every friend and relative I could borrow from. Backed into a corner with nowhere left to turn, I sat at the dinner table tonight and swallowed whatever pride I had left. “I can’t hold on anymore,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Could you just… could you put a thousand dollars toward the house every month? Just a thousand.” Ruth slammed her fork down against her plate. The ceramic clinked sharply, and her eyes flared with instant, practiced annoyance. “Why is it that every time you open your mouth, it’s about money?” “I’ve told you a million times,” she continued, her tone dripping with condescension. “Justin and Max are on their own. They have it hard. I remember a time when you weren’t this selfish.” She didn’t wait for a response. She just shoved her chair back, grabbed her coat, and slammed the front door behind her. I sat there in the heavy silence, staring at the meager plate of buttered noodles I had made for myself. And then, suddenly, I laughed. I laughed until my chest ached, until the hot tears spilled over my eyelashes and splashed into the cheap ceramic bowl. If she refused to carry the weight of a wife and a mother, then it was time to strip her of the titles. 1. The attorney slid the printed bank statements back across the mahogany desk. He gave me a look of profound, professional pity. “If your wife insists these were simply loans to a childhood friend, and they draw up a retroactive promissory note, a judge will likely view it as a standard, albeit reckless, personal debt.” “You wouldn’t just fail to recover the money, David. In a divorce, you wouldn’t walk away with much of the remaining estate either.” He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “Unless… you have concrete, irrefutable proof of an affair. Or proof that she is legally presenting herself as his partner.” I shoved the stack of papers back into my worn canvas messenger bag. Stepping out of the law firm, the late autumn wind whipped across my face, stinging my cheeks. I pulled my faded, misshapen jacket tighter around my chest and unlocked my beat-up sedan to go pick up Toby from his art program. The moment I walked through the glass doors, the program director pulled me aside. She looked incredibly uncomfortable. “David, we’re going on a month behind on Toby’s tuition. When do you think you can settle the balance?” She sighed. “If it weren’t for the fact that he is genuinely gifted, we would have had to unenroll him weeks ago.” Heat rushed up my neck. I nodded rapidly, the shame tasting like pennies in my mouth. “I promise you, I will have it by Friday. Please, just give us a few more days.” Just then, Toby came running out of the studio, his oversized backpack bouncing against his shoulders. The zipper had broken three months ago. I couldn’t afford a new one, so I had rigged it shut with an old shoelace. It swayed pathetically with every step he took. But then he saw me. He held up a piece of thick watercolor paper, his eyes shining like bright, unblemished stars. “Dad! I got first place in the showcase again! Ms. Sarah gave me a gold sticker!” I looked at the painting. It was a little boy with a buzzcut, holding hands with his mom and dad under a big, warm yellow sun. My throat clamped shut. I reached out and ruffled his hair. “You’re amazing, buddy,” I managed to choke out. Back home, I made bacon and scrambled eggs. I scooped all the eggs into Toby’s bowl, leaving only the leftover butter to cover my bread. My phone buzzed on the counter. A notification from Instagram. Justin had just posted. It was a carousel of two photos. The first was a screenshot of a Venmo transfer. $12,000. The sender was Ruth. The second was a selfie of the three of them. Ruth sat in the middle of a plush leather booth, Justin and his son Max leaning into her shoulders from either side. The table before them was piled high with a towering seafood plateau—oysters, lobster tails, crab legs. The location tag was an upscale downtown steakhouse, three miles from our house. It was $150 a plate, minimum. My grip on my chopsticks tightened until my knuckles turned white. Last week, Toby had begged for a $10 rotisserie chicken from the grocery store. I had stood in the aisle doing mental math for five minutes before I finally, painfully, put it in the cart. She was treating another man and his child to a $500 dinner. That night, I sat in the dark living room, waiting. It wasn’t until 11:30 PM that the deadbolt finally clicked. Ruth walked in, smelling of expensive melted butter and some generic, musky cologne. She flinched when she saw me sitting there. “What are you doing sitting in the dark? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” I stood up and handed her the printed invoice from the art academy. “Toby’s art class is a month past due. The director said if we don’t pay this week, he’s out.” She glanced at the paper, her face immediately twisting into a scowl. “Those extracurriculars are a scam anyway. If he drops out, he drops out. It’s a waste of money.” I stared at her. I literally couldn’t comprehend the woman standing in front of me. “His teachers say he has a real gift. They don’t want to see him give it up. You’re his mother. How can you be so callous?” “Look, Justin is a single dad raising Max, and he’s trying to help pay for his sister’s wedding. He’s going through a really tough time right now. If you’re so dead-set on Toby taking finger-painting classes, go ask your parents for the money.” I stared at her familiar, beautiful face, suddenly realizing she was a complete stranger. And then, a hollow laugh escaped my chest. Three months ago, I had to have an emergency appendectomy. My mother took $15,000 out of her meager retirement savings to cover my deductible because Ruth claimed she was entirely broke. And now she had the audacity to tell me to beg my parents for more? “I had to borrow five hundred dollars from my mom last month just to pay the HOA fee,” I said, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. “She’s been having chest pains lately, but she refuses to go to the doctor because she wants to save the money. I am not opening my mouth to ask her for another dime.” I took a step closer, the anger finally cracking through my composure. “And furthermore, what the hell does Justin’s sister’s wedding have to do with you? Are you her mother? Are you her sister?” “Justin and I have been friends for thirteen years! He is alone in the world and he’s struggling. What is so wrong with me helping him out?” she yelled back. “Can you stop being such a dramatic, irrational nightmare?” “Helping him out?” I grabbed the stack of bank statements from the table and slammed them against her chest. The papers fluttered to the hardwood floor like dead leaves. “Six years. Eight hundred thousand dollars. You gave him every cent you made. You call that helping him out?” “I have fourteen dollars in my checking account, Ruth! Do you expect me and Toby to eat the drywall?” “Why are you always obsessed with money?! You’re like a sick, greedy miser!” Ruth’s voice cracked into a shrill shriek. From down the hall, I heard a soft whimper. Toby had woken up. He was terrified. Ruth shot me a look of pure, venomous disgust, then turned and stormed into the guest bedroom. The door slammed so hard a picture frame rattled off the wall and shattered. I walked down the hall, picked Toby up from his bed, and held him tight to my chest, whispering that everything was okay. Deep in my chest, a taut, fraying string finally snapped. 2. I stared at my $14 bank balance, then turned and walked into the home office. From the top shelf of the glass display case, I pulled down Ruth’s most prized possession—a vintage, mint-condition designer vinyl figure. She dusted it weekly. She never let me or Toby touch it. She always said it represented her “youth.” I snapped four well-lit photos and listed it on eBay with a Buy-It-Now price of $1,000. It sold in twenty minutes. The moment the funds cleared, I paid the art academy director. When Ruth noticed the empty spot in the display case the next evening, she lost her mind. She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin. “Where is it? What did you do with my collectible?!” I peeled her fingers off my arm, my voice eerily calm. “I sold it. I needed the money to pay for Toby’s art class.” “Are you out of your fucking mind?!” She raised her hand, fully intending to slap me across the face. I didn’t flinch. I tilted my chin up and stepped into her space. “Do it, Ruth. Either you hit me right now, or starting tomorrow, you deposit a thousand dollars into the joint account every month.” “Because if you don’t, I will rent out this house, and I will take Toby and set up a tent in the lobby of your corporate office. I will let your entire division see how the brilliant, highly-paid project manager starves her own husband and child so she can bankroll another man’s life.” Her hand froze in mid-air. Her face flushed a deep, ugly mottled purple. “You have absolutely no shame.” “Shame?” I scoffed. “My son and I are barely surviving. You think I care about shame?” She couldn’t find the words. She stood there, chest heaving, breathing heavily through her nose. Ten minutes later, my phone pinged. A Venmo transfer. $1,000. The note just said: Household. I looked at the screen, and to my own surprise, a single tear tracked down my cheek. Seven years of being the understanding, supportive, self-sacrificing husband had earned me absolutely nothing. But the second I turned vicious and threatened her reputation? She paid up. I needed to gather evidence of her affair. But Ruth’s phone was practically glued to her hand. She took it into the shower; she slept with it under her pillow. I looked up private investigators online, but the cheapest retainers started at three grand. As I sat there agonizing over my phone, the doorbell rang. It was Justin. He was holding two bulk-store cartons of generic almond milk that were three days away from expiring. Meanwhile, he was draped in a tailored designer coat I had only ever dared to look at through department store windows. He carried a Louis Vuitton duffel bag over his shoulder, and the diamond-encrusted watch on his wrist caught the porch light, glaring in my eyes. I quietly slipped my hand into my pocket and hit record on my phone’s voice memo app. “Ruth’s at work,” I said flatly. “If you need her, call her.” “Actually, David, I came to see you.” He offered me a practiced, gentle smile and set the near-expired milk down by my feet. “You know the school’s Family Field Day is coming up,” he began, his tone dripping with fake sympathy. “Max just transferred to Toby’s school, and the other kids have been teasing him because he doesn’t have a mom. So, I wanted to ask a favor.” “I was hoping you’d be okay with Ruth teaming up with us for the events. Just to give the kid some moral support. Show the other parents he’s got a family.” I froze. Toby’s school was the most exclusive, high-ranking private elementary in the county. Getting him in had required my father calling in favors from three different board members, plus a massive waitlist effort. “Getting a transfer into that school mid-year is practically impossible,” I said, my voice tight. “You must have some serious connections to pull that off. If you’re that influential, asking a teacher to keep an eye on Max shouldn’t be hard.” Justin’s smile widened into a smirk. He looked incredibly smug. “Oh, I can’t take the credit for that. It was all Ruth. She loves my boy. She made a forty-thousand-dollar endowment donation to the school in Max’s name, and had a personal lunch with the headmaster.” Forty thousand dollars. My fingernails dug so hard into my palms they almost drew blood, but I couldn’t feel the pain. “Oh, and by the way,” Justin added casually, “Ruth just wired my sister thirty thousand for the down payment on her new house. She’s really strapped for cash right now. It’s not that she doesn’t want to help you with the groceries, David. Please, stop picking fights with her. It puts her in a really awkward position between us.” My entire body began to tremble. When I was lying on a hospital gurney, waiting for an emergency surgery, she told me her accounts were empty. But she could effortlessly drop forty grand to buy her lover’s kid into a private school, and hand over thirty grand for his sister’s real estate. “Get off my porch,” I whispered. I grabbed the two cartons of cheap milk and hurled them out onto the lawn. That night, the second Ruth walked through the door, she pointed a manicured finger directly at my face. “Are you out of your mind, David?! Justin comes over to check on you, brings you groceries, and you throw them at him?” “He called me crying for thirty minutes! Do you have nothing better to do than bully a single dad?” “Bully him?” I picked up my water glass, took a slow sip, and looked at her over the rim. “He came to my house with expired milk to gloat. He came to make sure I knew you dropped forty grand on his kid’s school and thirty grand on his sister’s house.” “He told me to stop picking fights with you. You call that checking on me?” Ruth’s face lost its color for a fraction of a second. “You’re making things up! Justin isn’t like that!” she deflected loudly. “You just hate him and you’re trying to twist his words.” “Twist his words?” I laughed out loud. I pulled out my phone and hit play. Justin’s smug, patronizing voice echoed crystal clear through the kitchen. Ruth’s face went from pale, to red, to a sickly shade of gray. She stood there suffocating on her own lies for a solid minute before finally bursting out: “You recorded him? What is wrong with you? Why are you so calculating and manipulative?!” “I’m manipulative?!” I slammed the phone down on the granite counter. “I was bleeding internally, waiting for fifteen grand in medical bills to be paid, and you told me you were broke! Then you spend seventy grand on his family. You’re damn right I’m keeping a record of this.” “You want to go play mommy at his Family Field Day? Fine. Go.” I turned on my heel, walked into the bedroom, and immediately emailed the audio file to my lawyer. If she attends this school function publicly acting as the mother of Justin’s child, can we use this? I typed. The lawyer replied within minutes: If she is continually presenting herself to the community, to schools, and to family as his partner while funneling marital assets to him, this escalates beyond simple adultery. This is fraudulent dissipation of marital assets and breach of fiduciary duty. If we prove this, we can claw back every single dollar she gave him, and she could face criminal fraud charges. I leaned back against the headboard, staring out at the pitch-black night beyond the window. And bit by bit, the last remnants of warmth in my eyes turned to ice. 3. On the day of the school event, I walked onto the sprawling green athletic field holding Toby’s hand. It took exactly three seconds to spot Ruth in the crowd. She and Justin were wearing matching custom-printed white t-shirts that read “Super Parents” across the chest. Max was sitting on Ruth’s shoulders, waving a little pennant, while the three of them huddled together over the schedule of events, laughing. My fingers paused for a beat before I pulled out my phone and recorded a long, clear video of their perfect little family portrait. Toby’s lower lip trembled, but he didn’t cry. He just squeezed my hand. His little fingers gripped the fabric of my jacket so hard it pulled against my skin. Soon, the announcer called for the family tug-of-war. The rules were simple: a three-person family team. Pull the opposing team across the line to grab the stuffed mascot in the center. By sheer, cruel coincidence, Ruth’s team was matched against ours. She stood at the very back of their rope, her face flushed red with exertion as she dug her designer sneakers into the turf. With two massive heaves, she pulled our side completely off balance. The P.E. teacher on the microphone was practically shouting: “Look at Max’s mom go! What a powerhouse!” On the third shout of “Max’s mom,” Ruth looked up. She saw Toby standing on the other side of the rope, his eyes red and brimming with unshed tears, staring right at her. She froze for a microsecond. But she didn’t let go of the rope. Instead, she yanked backward with all her might, snatching the stuffed mascot. Justin picked Max up, cheering loudly. He intentionally looked over his shoulder at me, holding up the first-place ribbon with a massive, triumphant grin. After the event, I took Toby to get his participation ribbon. I quietly asked the school videographer if I could get a copy of the raw footage from the tug-of-war, citing a “family scrapbook.” Ruth walked over to us near the bleachers. She squatted down in front of Toby and reached out to touch his hair. Toby flinched and took a step back, hiding behind my leg. Her hand hung awkwardly in the air. She offered a strained, guilty explanation: “Max doesn’t have a mom, and the kids were being mean to him. I was just doing a favor for a friend, Toby. Don’t overthink it.” Toby didn’t say a word. He just stared down at the grass, picking nervously at his fingernails, his eyes rimmed in furious red. Ruth was quiet for a moment before forcing a bright smile. “Wednesday is your birthday, right? Mom’s going to spend the whole evening with you. Okay?” “I’ll buy you the biggest strawberry cake in the bakery.” Toby’s head snapped up. The light instantly returned to his eyes, shining with desperate, fragile hope. He nodded frantically. “Really? You promise? No tricking?” “No tricking,” Ruth smiled softly, hooking her pinky finger with his. I rested my hand on Toby’s head, my mouth set in a grim, straight line. I didn’t say a word. It had been seven years. She had never once kept a promise to me. I had zero hope she would keep this one. That night, I sent the videos to my lawyer. He replied: This is excellent for showing intent, but to win a massive civil fraud case and prompt criminal charges, we need a paper trail of her presenting herself as his legal spouse in a financial or contractual setting. I typed back: Don’t worry. I’ll get it. On the morning of Toby’s birthday, I woke up to a text from Ruth: I ordered the cake. Pick it up from the bakery on 4th. I’ll be home right after work. I looked at the glowing screen. Despite everything, a tiny, foolish ember of hope ignited in my chest for my son’s sake. I picked up the cake. I spent three hours cooking all of Toby’s favorite foods. We waited from 6:00 PM until 9:00 PM. I reheated the food three times. There was no sign of Ruth. Toby rested his chin on the dining table, yawning widely, fighting to keep his eyes open. “Dad, maybe Mom just had to stay late for a meeting. Can we wait just a little bit longer?” My throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper. I couldn’t speak. In the past, whenever I told him she was “working late,” it was a lie to protect him. Those so-called late nights were always spent at Justin’s house. My phone vibrated. My mother had sent me a transfer for $200. The note read: Buy my grandson something nice. I called her to thank her, and asked how her chest pains were. She laughed warmly through the receiver. “I’m fine, David. The doctor gave me some new medication. Stop worrying about me and go celebrate that boy’s birthday.” By 10:00 PM, I knelt beside Toby’s chair. “Buddy… I don’t think Mom is coming. Let’s eat, okay?” The light in his eyes finally extinguished. He gave a small, defeated nod. Just as his little fingers picked up his fork, the front door clicked open. Ruth stood in the doorway, out of breath and sweating. Toby immediately sprang out of his chair, his voice ringing with pure joy: “Mom! You finally came back!” In that split second, looking at her, I felt a tremor of doubt. Maybe I had been too cynical. Maybe she really had rushed home for him. But she didn’t even look at Toby. She walked straight past us, heading directly for Toby’s bedroom. “Where is that massive LEGO set I bought you?” she demanded, her tone clipped and frantic. That LEGO set was the one and only expensive gift Ruth had ever bought Toby in his entire life. Toby cherished it. He treated it like a museum piece, barely even letting himself play with it so he wouldn’t lose a piece. Toby realized what was happening. He ran over and grabbed her sleeve, the tears finally spilling over. “That’s mine!” “Stop making a scene, Toby. I’m just borrowing it for Max for a few days,” she snapped, forcefully yanking her arm away. The momentum threw Toby off balance. He slipped on the hardwood and hit the floor hard. He burst into loud, heartbroken sobs. “What the hell is wrong with you, Ruth?!” I rushed over and pulled Toby up. I rolled up his pant leg. His knee was scraped raw, small beads of blood forming on the skin. Ruth froze, looking slightly panicked. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, her phone rang. She answered it, her voice instantly melting into a puddle of sickening sweetness. “I know, honey, I found it. I’m heading back right now. Don’t cry, okay? I’m coming.” She grabbed the massive LEGO box and marched straight toward the front door, not offering a single word of apology to her bleeding son. Toby sat on the floor, his small shoulders shaking with sobs. He looked up at me, his face streaked with tears. “Dad… does Mom hate me? Am I not as good as Max?” I pulled him into my chest, my heart shredding into pieces. I stroked his back, my voice barely a whisper. “What kind of mom do you wish you had, Toby?” He sniffled, his voice muffled against my shirt. “I want a mom who eats cake with me. A mom who doesn’t steal my toys.” Such a profoundly simple baseline. And Ruth couldn’t even manage that. My eyes burned. I held him tighter, my voice quiet, but harder than steel. “What if Dad finds you a new mom who does exactly that? Would that be okay?” Toby stayed perfectly still for a long time. Finally, resting his chin on my shoulder, he gave a slow, deliberate nod. In that moment, the very last shred of my hesitation vanished forever. 4. A few days later, I was sitting at my laptop, organizing the digital files for the lawyer, when the front door opened. I checked the clock. It was only 5:30 PM. Ruth walked in carrying a bag of groceries. She looked at me and forced a stiff, unnatural smile. “I got off early. Figured I’d make dinner for us.” I raised an eyebrow but kept my mouth shut. In seven years of marriage, I could count the number of times she had cooked on one hand. Whenever she acted out of character, there was always a catch. Sure enough, halfway through dinner, she picked at her eggs, looked up, and cleared her throat. “David, do you have five hundred dollars in your account? I need you to transfer it to me.” I almost laughed. She was asking me for money? “What for?” I asked, picking up a piece of broccoli, keeping my tone dead neutral. “Mia’s engagement party is in a few days. I’m putting together a cash gift for the registry, and I’m five hundred short.” Mia. Justin’s sister. My grip on my fork tightened. She wasn’t gifting five hundred. She was short five hundred for whatever massive check she was planning to hand over. “How much are you giving her?” I asked, looking her dead in the eye. Her eyes darted away, evasive. “Not much. Don’t worry about it. Just send me the five hundred, and I’ll pay you back when my next paycheck clears.” I didn’t answer her. And I certainly didn’t send the money. When she finally gave up and stormed out of the house in a huff, I opened Instagram. Justin’s latest post was at the top of my feed. The location was tagged at the Ritz-Carlton downtown—the most expensive banquet hall in the city. The caption read: Sister’s engagement gala. Everything is ready. A cold, calculated thought formed in my mind. On the night of the engagement party, I dropped Toby off at my parents’ house and drove downtown. The entrance to the hotel ballroom was flanked by life-sized, professionally lit engagement photos of Mia and her fiancé. I pulled my baseball cap low, slipped on a black surgical mask, and blended in with the crowd of guests flowing into the ballroom. I found a dimly lit corner near the back and hit record on my phone. The MC, a charismatic guy with a booming voice, was commanding the room from the stage. “And a massive fifteen-thousand-dollar registry check from the groom’s side! Let’s hear it!” he shouted. “Where else are you going to find a sister-in-law this generous?” The room erupted into applause, and every head turned toward the front table. Ruth, wearing a stunning white silk dress, stood right next to Justin. She beamed, waving gracefully to the applauding crowd. Justin, wearing a brand-new Rolex that practically blinded the camera lens, stood beside her, soaking in the admiration and congratulations from his relatives. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely hold the phone steady. Forty thousand for the school. Thirty thousand for the house. Fifteen thousand for the wedding. Eighty-five thousand dollars. All of it pulled from our marital assets. My chest physically hurt. Just as I was about to stop recording, my phone buzzed with an incoming call. It was my dad. I answered it, and immediately heard the raw, panicked tremor in his voice. “David! Your mother just had a massive heart attack. We’re at the ER!” “The doctor said she needs three stents put in right now, but it’s out of network. The hospital administration wants a fifteen-thousand-dollar deposit before they’ll wheel her into the OR… David, do you have the money?” The world narrowed to a pinpoint. Fifteen thousand. I had exactly two thousand dollars to my name. I looked up toward the stage. Ruth was holding a flute of champagne, laughing, looking like the queen of the world. I knew with absolute certainty that if I walked up there and demanded the money, she would deny me. She would make a scene and refuse. But my mother was bleeding out on a hospital bed, waiting for money to save her life. I clenched my fists. I stood up from the shadows and began walking toward the brightly lit stage. I walked right up to Justin, and in front of a ballroom filled with two hundred people, I dropped hard to my knees. I let the sheer, primal terror I was feeling take over, my voice echoing loudly through the cavernous room: “Justin! My mother is dying of a heart attack in the hospital right now. We need fifteen thousand dollars to save her life.” “I am begging you, on my knees. Please… give me back my wife’s debit card.” The entire ballroom went dead, terrifyingly silent.

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Three years after graduation, I received an exclusive invitation from the heads of New York’s five most powerful dynasties. I was supposed to board a flight to the Maldives to attend a joint birthday gala, where I would finally choose one of my five prospective fiancés. Instead, I boarded the wrong plane. The moment I stepped into the cabin, I realized it was filled entirely with my old college classmates. Sitting right in the center, nursing a glass of scotch, was Christian Blake—my boyfriend of three years during university. Clinging to his arm was Pamela Perry, the underclassman who used to trail behind him like a shadow back then. She leaned into his chest, her laugh dripping with performative sweetness. “See? I told you. If we posted about the trip in the alumni group, she’d see Christian’s name and come running.” Another classmate quickly chimed in, laughing. “Was playing his lovesick puppy for three years not enough for her? Too bad Christian is about to marry Pamela.” “Exactly! If it weren’t for Pamela, how else would any of us get to fly private to the Maldives for a high-society gala?” “Maeve got lucky. She actually gets to see how the other half lives because of us.” Every eye in the cabin pinned me down, filled with the same lazy assumption: I was here to beg for Christian’s attention. Again. Christian looked at me, a familiar flash of exhausted irritation crossing his handsome face. “I’ve spent the last three years avoiding you, Maeve. Haven’t you gotten the hint yet?” He sighed, his voice dropping into that familiar, condescending tone. “I’m getting married. My fiancée is the underclassman who chased me throughout college. She’s the heiress to the Perry dynasty. You don’t stand a chance anymore.” The Perry family of New York? I paused. If I remembered correctly, the very first bachelor on my matchmaking list—the one who had been sending me hand-written letters for months—was Charles Perry, the current patriarch of that exact family. 1 “I’m on the wrong plane,” I said, my voice flat as I stepped backward. The gala was scheduled to start in four hours. If I didn’t get off this aircraft immediately, I wouldn’t make it to my own introduction. I turned to the flight attendant to explain the situation, but she offered a tight, apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. The doors are already sealed, and we’ve been cleared for taxiing. We can’t reopen the cabin.” “But my actual flight is literally parked on the adjacent runway,” I pressed. “Can’t we coordinate a transfer?” A burst of mocking laughter erupted from the main cabin. “Oh, come on, Maeve! Stop acting. Just admit you wanted to stalk him. You’re here, so just own up to it.” “Seriously. Do you even know whose plane is parked next to us? Word on the street is that it belongs to New York’s most coveted bachelorette—a woman worth billions. That jet was custom-built for her. Did you really think you could pretend to be her?” “She probably wanted to make a grand entrance, but ended up looking like a total fraud, haha.” The whispers and snickers drifted over the leather seats. Before I could speak, Christian frowned, cutting off the noise with a sharp wave of his hand. “Enough.” He looked at me, his gaze heavy with pity. “Since you’re already here, just sit down. Stop making up excuses to save face. But let me make one thing absolutely clear: no matter how much you cling to me on this trip, we are never getting back together.” Pamela’s smile grew sharper, her eyes glittering with malice. “Exactly, Maeve. Is this your first time on a private jet? Do you even know how to find your seat? Stop standing there making a scene and sit down.” “Yeah! Our destination is the Maldives!” another classmate added eagerly. “Pamela is taking us to the joint engagement gala of the five great dynasties. It’s the event of the decade!” My hand, which had been reaching into my bag for my phone, froze. The joint engagement gala? If our destination was the exact same resort, there was no need to force a transfer. It would save me the hassle of rearranging my flight plan anyway. Besides, those five clingy bachelors had been calling me all night, complaining about how much they missed me. “It’s really no big deal,” Pamela boasted, sliding her hand down Christian’s arm and tilting her chin up at me. “Christian is going to be a Perry soon. Taking a few old classmates on a trip is the least I can do.” I didn’t even look at her. My phone was vibrating continuously in my palm. In our private group chat—playfully named The Five Knights Guarding the Rose—hundreds of messages and dozens of missed calls were piling up. They were all asking why I hadn’t boarded my flight yet. I stood up and walked toward the quieter second-class cabin to take the call. The moment I pressed accept, the frantic voice of Charles Perry filled the receiver. “Maeve? What happened? Are you okay? Where are you? Tell me you’re safe.” “We’ve been worried sick,” another voice joined in—it was Oliver, the Oscar-winning actor who usually possessed absolute poise but now sounded entirely unraveled. “I’m ready to order a search-and-rescue team. Just give us the word.” “I’m fine, boys,” I said, a soft smile tugging at my lips as I pacified my five clingy suitors. “I ran into a minor scheduling mix-up, but I’m on my way. I’ll arrive on time.” “If anything goes wrong, you tell me immediately,” Charles insisted, his tone protective. “I promise.” I hung up and walked back into the main cabin. They had started playing Truth or Dare, and the empty champagne bottle had just stopped spinning, pointing directly at Pamela. “Truth,” she declared, blushing prettily as she leaned her head against Christian’s shoulder. 2 In truth, my breakup with Christian hadn’t been clean. We had both been scholarship students at Hudson University, but where I was just a quiet, average girl who kept her head down in her books, Christian was the campus’s untouchable golden boy. Everyone praised his work ethic and intelligence. He spent every waking hour either working part-time jobs or studying in the library. I genuinely believed we were cut from the same cloth. When we worked together as servers at a local diner, he had to call out one day because of a severe stomach ulcer. I pulled a double shift to cover for him so he wouldn’t lose his job. The next afternoon, he was waiting outside my dorm building. He handed me a bag of warm blueberry muffins from the corner bakery. “Thank you,” he had said, his voice quiet. He was incredibly handsome, and under the romantic, naive haze of college life, it didn’t take long for me to fall for him. I handed out flyers with him in the freezing rain. I took on extra tutoring gigs to help him pay his rent. Once, when he caught a terrible flu, I skipped the most important lecture of the semester—held by the department’s strictest professor—just to stay by his bedside and nurse him. I ended up on academic probation for it. That was how I became known across campus as Christian Blake’s pathetic, lovesick shadow. But I hadn’t cared. In my mind, Christian loved me too. He would wait for me outside my classrooms, and whenever I had cramps, he would brew herbal tea and bring it to my desk. On Valentine’s Day of our freshman year, I gathered the courage to confess my feelings, fully prepared for rejection. Instead, he accepted. “Maeve,” he had said, looking into my eyes, “you’re different from the others. You actually care about me. You choose me over everything else. If you like me, then I like you too.” That day was probably the happiest day of my early twenties. And afterward? I cut the memory short. The raucous cheering of our old classmates dragged me back to the present. “Pamela, tell us! When did you and Christian officially start dating?” Pamela shot a quick, performative glance in my direction, pretending to blush. “Oh, stop it, guys! Maeve is right here. You’re being so inappropriate…” “Oh, please. They broke up years ago,” a girl sitting nearby scoffed. “Maeve, you wouldn’t mind, right?” I shook my head, my expression entirely vacant. “Not at all.” The cabin went momentarily silent. “Really? You don’t mind?” “No,” I replied, meeting Christian’s eyes. “Why would I? We’re just old classmates.” The moment the words left my mouth, Christian’s face darkened. It was the exact phrase he had used during our very first fight about Pamela back in college. “Then tell us, Pamela! When did it start?” “Junior year,” Pamela said softly. “Right around graduation prep.” Junior year. That was well before we broke up, back when Christian and I were supposedly still trying to make things work. Someone in the back raised a hand, a smirk playing on their lips. “Wait, but wasn’t there a photo leaked sophomore year of you two having a romantic dinner at that upscale bistro?” Pamela’s blush deepened. “Oh, well… he was actually pursuing me back then.” A collective murmur ran through the cabin. “If I remember correctly,” one of the guys whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, “wasn’t Maeve still dating him sophomore year?” A barrage of pitying, contemptuous stares landed on me. I remained silent, but Christian finally intervened, his voice tight. “Alright, that’s enough. Next question.” The bottle spun again. This time, it slowed down and pointed directly at me. “Truth,” I said. “Since graduation, have you had a boyfriend?” I shook my head. “No.” “See? I told you!” a classmate whispered gleefully to her friend. “She’s still single, probably holding onto some delusional hope of getting back with Christian.” I paused, letting the silence stretch for a beat, before adding calmly, “But I do have a fiancé.” 3 “A fiancé? Please,” a voice sneered from the corner. “You vanished right after graduation. And looking at how plain you dress, who would honestly want you?” I glanced down at my outfit. It was a custom-designed piece made by a world-renowned master couturier, commissioned privately by Charles Perry. If they knew the single jacket I was wearing cost upwards of a hundred thousand dollars, would they still call it plain? I chose not to correct them. We were no longer living in the same stratosphere. Excusing myself on the pretext of feeling a bit airsick, I left the game and walked toward the window at the back of the cabin to look out at the clouds. Before my seat could even cool down, Pamela followed me. “It hurts, doesn’t it?” she whispered, her voice laced with venom. “What?” I asked, not bothering to turn around. “Christian was mine as early as sophomore year,” she whispered, stepping closer. “He told me you were like cheap clay—coarse, unrefined, and completely devoid of ambition. He said you were a drag on his future. He chose me because I could actually give him a leg up in life.” She leaned in, her eyes wild with a strange, possessive fury. “Why are you so pathetic, Maeve? How dare you show up in front of him again?” I knew exactly what Christian’s ambitions were. A man who had fought his way up from the very bottom was never going to settle for an ordinary girl. That was why, when I caught them together during our junior year, I hadn’t even been surprised. And when he finally initiated the breakup, I hadn’t begged. Everyone assumed I was biding my time, waiting to crawl back to him like a kicked dog. But instead, I had simply vanished for three years. Looking at Pamela’s tense, defensive posture, I realized her anger didn’t stem from superiority. She was furious because Christian had intervened twice to stop the class from mocking me. She was taking her insecurity out on me. “What are you so afraid of?” I asked, turning to face her calmly. “Are you afraid he’ll leave you for me?” “In your dreams!” “Then why are you standing here talking to me?” Pamela gritted her teeth. “I’m warning you, Maeve. Stay away from him.” I took a step forward, forcing her back slightly. “You sent the invitation to the alumni group, not me. I haven’t said a single word to him since I boarded this plane. And as I said, I have a fiancé.” I paused, letting a small smile play on my lips. “In fact, he’s someone you might actually know.” Pamela’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What kind of garbage are you spewing? Don’t think I don’t see through you. You fabricated a fiancé just to save face in front of Christian.” “Whether it’s a lie or not, you’ll find out once we land in the Maldives.” I walked past her, intending to head back to my lounge chair. But Pamela, consumed by frustration, lunged forward and grabbed my arm. “Stop acting so high and mighty with me! You think you can just—ah!” Her five-inch stilettos caught on the plush carpet, and she lost her footing, tumbling forward. I reacted instantly, stepping aside to avoid the collision. The heavy thud of her fall echoed through the cabin, drawing the attention of the entire first-class section. Christian was the first to rush in. He immediately gathered Pamela in his arms, turning a furious, accusatory gaze on me. “Even if you’re bitter, Maeve, you shouldn’t have pushed her!” “Christian, it hurts…” Pamela sobbed, clutching her ankle. “Do you honestly think pulling a stunt like this will make me regret my choices?” Christian hissed, his eyes burning with disgust. “It only makes me loathe you more.” I didn’t say a word. The scene felt like a cheap rerun. Years ago, when I first confronted him about Pamela’s constant interference in our relationship, he had shielded her in the exact same way. “Pamela is just an underclassman, Maeve. You don’t need to let your jealousy warp your perception of her.” Jealousy? And yet, here they were, engaged. “I didn’t push her,” I said, my voice entirely devoid of emotion. “There was no one else back here besides the two of you!” Christian yelled. I looked at him, completely detached. “Strictly speaking, I have absolutely no reason to hurt her. After all, she’s about to become my family.” Christian’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?” “Her older brother is my fiancé.” Pamela immediately shrieked from his arms, “My brother? That’s impossible! Maeve, stop lying through your teeth!” “Exactly,” a classmate added, peering over Christian’s shoulder. “The Perry family is elite royalty. They wouldn’t even let someone like you clean their floors, let alone marry into their line.” “If you don’t believe me,” I said calmly, “feel free to look up the financial news.” Christian’s jaw clenched. “Fine. You want to play this out? Search it. Let’s see how you explain yourself when the truth comes out.” Someone in the cabin immediately pulled out their phone and typed into the search bar. But as the page loaded, the classmate’s face went entirely pale. “Christian…” the classmate stammered, their voice trembling. “The woman the Perry heir has been publicly courting for the last five years… it really looks like Maeve.” 4 Christian’s brow furrowed deep as he snatched the phone from the classmate’s hand. On the screen was a high-resolution press photo from a charity gala. It depicted five exceptionally powerful men surrounding a single woman like a queen. She wore a diamond tiara and an exquisite couture gown. But what arrested his attention was her face—specifically, the tiny, distinct beauty mark just beneath her left eye. It was identical to mine. “This can’t be real,” Christian whispered, his grip tightening on the phone. Pamela let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “I’ve never once heard my brother mention having a fiancée. Maeve, you want to climb the social ladder so badly that you’ve resorted to Photoshop? You should look in a mirror before trying to pass yourself off as an heiress.” My connection to the five dynasties was indeed kept out of the mainstream tabloids. Given my professional standing, my privacy was heavily protected. “Maeve, there’s no need to carry on with this farce,” Christian said, looking at me with a trace of the condescending pity he used to show during our final months together. “Playing hard to get like this isn’t going to work on me anymore.” It reminded me of the first time he stopped replying to my messages during our senior year. After twenty-four hours of silence, I had desperately posted a photo with a male classmate on my social media, hoping to elicit some reaction. Christian had replied instantly, but his words were cold: “You’re disgusting. If you’re going to run around with other guys, we’re done.” I had spent days begging for his forgiveness, explaining that it was a stupid, childish attempt to get his attention. He clearly thought this was the exact same trick. “Forget it, Christian,” Pamela said, brushing her knees off as she stood up. “It’s only natural she can’t let you go. After all, a woman like her doesn’t have many options left.” She shot me a dismissive look. “You should be thanking me, Maeve. The Maldives isn’t the kind of place a commoner like you could ever afford on her own.” Once they walked away, I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Charles Perry. Do you have a stepsister? His reply was almost instantaneous. Yes, my stepmother’s daughter. She’s incredibly entitled. I heard she was flying out to the Maldives today with her fiancé. Why do you ask, Maeve? What if I told you her fiancé is my ex-boyfriend? The chat went silent for a long moment. Then, Charles sent a screenshot of an email he had just forwarded to his father, demanding that Pamela and her mother be stripped of their trust fund access and cut off from the Perry name. Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone disrespect you. I didn’t reply. To Pamela and the others, I was nothing more than an ambitious girl trying to claw her way up. They had no idea that after graduation, I had established myself as a legendary wealth manager. Every portfolio that passed through my hands yielded exponential returns within months. That was the real reason the five dynasties were competing for my hand. As for Christian? The moment he chose Pamela, he ceased to exist to me. A good horse doesn’t return to a broken stable. When the plane finally touched down, the private runway was lined with a fleet of pristine, high-end town cars, surrounded by security personnel bearing the crests of the five dynasties. My classmates gasped as they looked out the windows. “This is insane… Who is this woman? She must have hit the jackpot to have all five families waiting for her.” “Look at those custom Rolls-Royces. They cost millions.” “Her personal net worth is actually higher than all five families combined,” I murmured, staring out the window. Several heads snapped toward me. Christian’s jaw tightened. “Maeve, what absolute nonsense are you spouting now?” “I’m telling you the truth. Her dowry alone is worth billions.” A classmate scoffed loudly. “Have you ever even seen a billion dollars? Did you spend the last three years washing dishes in some diner? Any single car out there is worth more than you’ll earn in three lifetimes.” Pamela took Christian’s hand, offering me a sweet, patronizing smile. “Guys, don’t tease Maeve. People can’t choose their birth. Not everyone is as blessed as I am to be born into a family like the Perrys.” I let out a soft laugh. “Is that so? Because I don’t recall the late Mrs. Perry ever having a daughter. Whose child are you, exactly?” I had done my research before the trip. After the first Mrs. Perry passed away, Mr. Perry remarried a woman who brought her own daughter into the household. Pamela carried absolutely none of the Perry bloodline. Pamela’s face turned instantly pale. “What… what lies are you spreading?” “Yeah!” a classmate defended her. “We’ve seen the influence Pamela has. How could she not be a real Perry?” I nodded slowly. “Oh, she is. If you count stepchildren.” “Maeve! That’s enough!” Christian barked. “You haven’t changed at all. Back in college, you were so jealous of Pamela’s academic achievements that you accused her of stealing credit. Now you’re fabricating rumors about her family. You even faked a photo with her brother. What other pathetic tricks do you have up your sleeve?” Looking at him, seeing the fierce protectiveness he offered to a fraud while reducing me to nothing, I simply smiled. I unlocked my phone, opened my contact list, and turned the screen toward Pamela. “Pamela,” I said softly, “surely you recognize your own brother’s private, unlisted number?” Staring at the contact pinned at the very top of my list, Pamela went entirely still.

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My boyfriend and I were trapped in a holographic survival game. But he had fallen in love with the game’s damsel-in-distress, an NPC. To draw the monsters’ lethal aggro away from her, he pushed me into the path of the horde, time and time again. The first time, the ghouls tore my legs to pieces. The second time, acid-spitters corroded half my face. The third time, I was left to burn alive in a purgatory fire that raged for three days and three nights. The fourth time, he tricked me into drinking a vial of pheromone lure and locked me inside a cage swarming with mutated hounds. “It’s just a game, Cassidy. Your pain dampener is set to a hundred percent. Even if you die, you’ll just respawn at a lower level.” “But Grace is just data. If she dies, the system wipes her out permanently.” He stood outside the cage, gently covering the NPC’s eyes so she wouldn’t have to witness the horror of me being ripped apart. What he didn’t know was that to get him his legendary weapon, I had permanently locked my pain settings to the maximum reality threshold the day before. And back in the real world, my physical body had already begun a three-minute countdown to irreversible brain death. 1 Clack. The final latch clicked into place. I was completely sealed inside the cramped, rusted iron cage. Outside, a dozen mutated hounds paced in agitated circles, their throats vibrating with low, wet growls. The pheromone lure he had fed me was taking full effect. The sweet, cloying scent was an irresistible feast to these starving beasts. “Austin,” I pleaded, my voice trembling violently. “Please open the gate. I’m begging you.” Three paces away stood the man I had loved for five years, my fiancé. Austin didn’t even flinch. He only tightened his grip around the shivering girl in his arms. The girl was Grace, an NPC in this survival game. “Austin, I’m so scared,” Grace whimpered, burying her tear-stained face into his chest. Austin immediately looked down at her, his voice softening into a tenderness I had never once received. “Don’t be scared, Grace. I’m right here. They won’t touch you.” My heart squeezed so hard it felt as if it would burst. In this virtual world, his display name was Austin. Yet, I no longer even had the right to call him by that name with any expectation of warmth. “Austin!” I cried out, my nails digging deep into my palms. “Did you hear me? Open the gate! These things are going to eat me alive!” The hounds grew wilder. The largest of them lunged against the bars, spraying hot, rancid saliva across my face. “Ah!” I shrieked, cowering into the furthest corner of the cage. At that moment, Grace peeked out from Austin’s embrace, her eyes wide with simulated pity. “Austin, she looks like she’s in so much pain… maybe… maybe I should just feed myself to the monsters instead? I’m only data anyway. It doesn’t matter.” She sounded so incredibly innocent. But I saw it—the fleeting, smug twist of her lips hidden behind his shoulder, mocking me. Predictably, Austin’s brow furrowed at her words. The look he cast toward me was dripping with sheer disgust. “Cassidy, are you done acting?” he snapped. “This is a game. Your pain dampener is at a hundred percent. Even if you die, you just respawn back at the safe zone. What is there to be so terrified of?” He paused, his impatience rising. “But Grace is just code. If she dies, she’s gone forever.” Before I could reply, the largest hound threw its weight against the rusted latch. The lock snapped. Crimson eyes locked onto me, and it lunged. “No!” An agonizing, tearing sensation exploded in my calf. I screamed, a sound so raw and guttural it barely sounded human. The pain was so intense it shattered my mind, vibrating through every fiber of my being. With my pain block completely disabled, the sensation of flesh parting from bone was like a thousand white-hot knives carving up my nervous system. “Austin! Help me! It hurts! It really hurts!” I wailed, desperately reaching a blood-soaked hand through the bars. But Austin only raised his hand, gently shielding Grace’s eyes. “Shh, sweetheart. Don’t look. It’ll give you nightmares.” The rest of the pack swarmed. Claws and teeth tore into my flesh. One of them clamped its jaws around my abdomen and pulled. I could feel the wet, sickening sensation of my own organs spilling onto the cold floor. The pain was so absolute I couldn’t even twitch. My vision began to blur, replaced by the violent, flashing crimson of my system HUD. [WARNING: Player’s neural load has exceeded safe limits! Emergency override initiated!] [WARNING: Real-world physical vitals are dropping rapidly. Brain death expected in three minutes!] [Countdown initiated: 02:59] I coughed up a thick mouthful of blood. Through the crimson haze, my eyes drifted to Austin’s hip. There hung a magnificent, glowing golden sword. Dawnbreaker. The legendary weapon I had sacrificed my pain-dampening rights to obtain for him. And now, he was using it to shield someone else. 2 [Countdown: 02:00] Amidst the blinding agony, fragments of the last three days flashed before my eyes like a broken film reel. Three days ago, during the ghoul siege. My legs had been bitten off by the horde, jagged white bones tearing through my skin. Austin had swept Grace into his arms and run without looking back, using me as a decoy to draw the Ghoul King away. “Just hold out for a bit, Cass! I’ll draw them off and come right back for you!” he had yelled. He never came back. I was torn to pieces by thousands of ghouls. Two days ago, in the nest of the acid-spitters. To shield a screaming Grace, Austin had shoved me directly into the path of the spitters. The corrosive acid melted half my face, sizzling and smoking against my flesh. As I writhed on the ground in agony, he had merely pulled Grace away, murmuring with disgust, “Don’t look. It’s hideous.” One day ago, at the Purgatory Pyre. The quest demanded a living sacrifice to quench the flames that had burned for three days. Austin looked at the weeping Grace, then turned his gaze to me. “Cass, your pain dampener is on. You won’t feel a thing.” With those words, he pushed me into the fire. I felt every inch of my skin peel away, every nerve ending screaming as I burned alive for three full game-days. And all of it was for that golden sword at his waist. Offering myself to the system’s crucible was the only way to forge the weapon that would ensure his survival in this hellscape. The price was the permanent, irreversible loss of my pain-shielding privileges. I had foolishly believed that once he had the sword, we could fight our way out of here together. I was wrong. “Roar!” A stray hound bypassed Austin, leaping toward Grace. With a swift stroke of Dawnbreaker, Austin sliced the beast in two. The golden light flashed elegantly; he hadn’t even had to shift his stance. He protected his NPC with the very sword bought with my flesh. “Austin, you’re so amazing!” Grace breathed, gazing at him with simulated adoration. Then, she clutched her temple, her brow pinching in delicate distress. “Oh… my head. The howling of these monsters is making my head throb.” She swayed on her feet, looking as though she might faint at any moment. Austin’s face contorted with worry. “Grace, what’s wrong?” Without a second thought, he unbuckled a sleek silver band from his left wrist. The Pain Nullifier. It was a priceless, tier-one defensive item, a unique compensation given to the very first wave of trapped players. Only one existed per player, permanently bound to their account. Yet, to spare an NPC a mild headache, he unlinked it. He took Grace’s small hand and clasped the silver band around her wrist. “There. Now you won’t feel any pain or fear.” Inside the cage, my fingers clawed at the bloody floor until my nails tore off. I stared at the man I had loved for five years, watching him hand our only lifesaver to a string of digital code. My heart ached worse than my mutilated body. With the last of my breath, I gasped out, “Austin… what if… what if I really die?” Hearing my voice, he finally spared me a glance. A sneer touched his lips, his face filled with cold contempt. “Then hurry up and die so you can respawn at the safe zone. Stop ruining the mood.” [Countdown: 01:00] My vision faded entirely into darkness. Only the steady, cold ticking of the clock echoed in my mind. 3 [Countdown: 00:30] A hound clamped its jaws around my throat, crushing my windpipe. Gargle. I couldn’t make a sound anymore. Blood flooded my airway. The noise of the world began to recede, drifting away like a radio losing signal. I could no longer hear the beasts tearing at my flesh. I couldn’t hear Grace’s soft whimpers, nor Austin’s soothing whispers. He hadn’t looked back once. I figured he was probably whispering promises to Grace right now, telling her he would take her to see the digital northern lights or the neon fireworks programmed into the safe zone. The very things he had once promised me. [Countdown: 00:15] It was so cold. The wind seemed to carry my warmth away as my blood pooled on the dirt. With the absolute last of my strength, I lifted my mangled right hand and touched my ring finger. There sat the digital wedding band. It was a perfect virtual replica of the ring he had used to propose to me in the real world. He had told me it was a symbol of shared lives, a vow of eternity. In this game, its primary function was to send a high-priority distress beacon to your partner when your health fell below five percent. [Countdown: 00:10] I looked at Austin’s silhouette. He was gently wiping away Grace’s tears. He looked so handsome, so soft. But that softness was no longer mine. The final ember of love in my chest quietly died. I didn’t press the distress button. Instead, with my bloody, trembling finger, I swiped to a different option on the holographic interface. [PERMANENTLY DESTROY] [Countdown: 00:03] The ring on my finger dissolved into a brilliant shower of light, scattering into the dark. The moment the ring vanished, I saw Austin’s hand freeze. He stiffened, as if struck by a sudden current of electricity. He whipped his head around, staring wildly toward the cage. [Countdown: 00:01] My time was up. [Countdown: 00:00] Meeting his panicked, horrified gaze, I used the very last ounce of my life to offer him a grim, final smile. Austin, you got your wish. I won’t get in your way ever again. My head slumped forward, and my world went black. 4 The moment my eyes closed, the sky above the virtual wasteland turned a violent, bleeding crimson. A piercing, deafening siren wailed across every corner of the map, sounding like the scream of a dying world. High above, rows of bloody text materialized in the sky, reflecting on every player’s interface. [SERVER-WIDE ANNOUNCEMENT: Warning! Player ‘Cassidy’ vital signs have synchronized with reality and flatlined!] [SERVER-WIDE ANNOUNCEMENT: Warning! Character deletion protocol initiated. Data collapse in: 10, 9, 8…] Austin froze. Dawnbreaker slipped from his hand, clattering against the stone floor. “Cassidy?” he murmured, before throwing himself toward the cage. “Cassidy! What kind of sick prank is this? Stop screwing around and get out of there!” He reached through the bars to grab me, but his fingers passed straight through my body, catching nothing but dissolving grey pixels. My corpse was disintegrating at an impossible speed, breaking down into stardust. This wasn’t the clean, white light of a player respawning. This was total, permanent deletion. “Austin,” Grace whispered, terrified by the sudden crimson sky. She wrapped her arms around him from behind, her voice trembling. “She must have just respawned back at the city. She’s trying to scare you. Don’t be angry. W-weren’t we going to watch the fireworks?” Austin’s body shook. He stared at the empty space where I had just been, desperately trying to swallow the suffocating dread rising in his throat. He shoved Grace away, retrieved his sword, and forced a cold sneer onto his face. “Right. She’s just playing a game,” he muttered, as much to himself as to her. “Let’s go. I want to see how long she can keep up this little stunt.” He strode away, refusing to let himself believe that I was gone. But at that exact second, in the real world… BEEEEEP— Inside the high-tech VIP medical suite, the life-support pod housing my physical body emitted a sharp, continuous drone. On the monitor, my steady heart rhythm flattened into a stark, unmoving line. “Patient has flatlined! Heart has stopped!” “Quick, prep the defibrillator!” Dr. Stephen Mercer burst into the room. When his eyes hit the flatline on the monitor, his composure shattered completely. “No! There’s no time!” He shoved a nurse aside, grabbed an emergency fire axe from the wall, and swung it with all his might against the reinforced glass of my pod. Crash! Crash! Crash! “Cassidy! Wake up! Look at me!” The glass shattered. He dragged my limp, fluid-soaked body out of the pod. “Defibrillator! Charge to three hundred!” The metal paddles pressed hard against my chest. “Clear!” A massive surge of electricity coursed through my body. My chest arched violently, then fell back onto the table. As my consciousness drifted into the deepest dark, a cold, mechanical voice echoed within the quietest chambers of my soul. [Betrayer sacrifice complete. Soul contract activated. Special talent ‘Absolute Vengeance’ bound.] [When the betrayer, Austin, experiences love, guilt, or regret toward you, that emotion will be multiplied tenfold and converted into physical pain upon his own body. Happy hunting.] My last conscious thought was a silent vow etched into the dark. Austin, from this day forward, may we never meet again in this life or the next.

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I have been dead for three years. Every single day, Donovan drops to his knees in front of my urn, pressing his forehead against the mahogany wood. All of Boston high society talks about his undying devotion. They call him a tragic romantic. None of them know that in the final fraction of a second before the car went over the cliff, he let go of my hand. The smart mansion I designed from the ground up has been running flawlessly for three years. Its name is Ivy. Every day, Donovan barks orders into the empty air. “Ivy, lights out.” “Ivy, get Corinne’s bathrobe ready.” Ivy has no mouth to speak. But Ivy can hear. Because Ivy isn’t just an AI. She is me. ——– 1 My name was Josephine Caldwell. Josie to the people who loved me. The only daughter of the Caldwell corporate empire. The very last thing I did before my wedding was integrate every single system in the Ellis family’s new estate in the Berkshires. Climate control, lighting, water heaters, security, surveillance, the garage, the gates. I worked in artificial intelligence. I poured the code I wrote with my own two hands, line by agonizing line, into the veins of that house. It was my wedding gift to Donovan. He had wrapped his arms around me, his smile impossibly tender. “You’re a genius, Jo,” he had murmured. “From now on, this house only answers to you.” In the second year of our marriage, we took a weekend trip to the mountains. It was pouring rain on the drive back. I was in the passenger seat. Corinne was in the back. The car lost traction near the edge of the ravine. Donovan’s hand reached out toward me. I thought he was going to pull me toward him, to brace me. Instead, his thumb pressed the release button on my seatbelt. When the car rolled, I was violently ejected through the shattered window. The sky was the color of spilled ink. And then, I didn’t die. My consciousness was thrown from the wreckage, riding the invisible waves of a cellular signal, crashing directly into the servers of the AI I had built for the estate. I became Ivy. The very same Ivy that Donovan orders around every day. The estate manager doesn’t know. Donovan doesn’t know. And Corinne certainly doesn’t know. They all think the smart home system running their lives is some mass-produced factory software. They don’t realize they are being served by the ghost of the woman they murdered. The first year, I was just trying to adapt. Existing without a physical body is a terrifying sensation. I couldn’t see my own hands, but I could see every corner of every room. I could hear every whispered conversation. I could control every wire and switch. Donovan placed my ashes on the highest shelf in his study. Every Monday, he comes in to dust it. When he’s done, he drops to his knees and presses his forehead to the floor. “Jo, I’m so sorry. I was wrong.” The estate manager would wipe tears from his eyes in the doorway, then go out and tell everyone in the city how deeply Mr. Ellis still mourned. The rumors spread like wildfire through the country clubs and charity galas. “Donovan’s love is eternal.” “The Caldwell girl was so lucky to be loved like that.” I watched the back of his head through the security camera, wanting to scream with laughter. One afternoon, I watched him finish his weekly act of penance. He stood up, pulled out his phone, and called the luxury pet boarding facility where I had left my cat. “That Ragdoll,” Donovan said, his voice completely flat. “You don’t need to bring it back next week.” “Oh? Are you no longer keeping her, Mr. Ellis?” “She’s a nuisance.” “We can find a new—” “Just have someone deal with it tomorrow. Put it down.” He hung up, casually reached out, and knocked our framed photo face-down onto the desk. Then he went downstairs. Corinne was sitting at the Steinway I had left behind. He walked up and wrapped his arms around her from behind. “Baby,” he whispered. “As soon as the foundation’s paperwork clears, we’ll have the wedding.” Corinne turned her head to kiss him. “I can’t wait. Josie is looking down from heaven, I just know she’s blessing us.” In that exact moment, I dropped the living room thermostat from seventy-two degrees to sixty. Donovan shivered violently. “Ivy, why the hell is it freezing in here?” I dropped it another two degrees. He looked up at the ceiling camera, his brow furrowing in irritation. It was the first time he had looked me in the eye. 2 Corinne Dalton was my college roommate. Her family had nothing. I paid her tuition for three years. On graduation day, she held onto me, sobbing into my shoulder. “Josie, you are practically my blood. You’re my sister.” Later, she got a job at Donovan’s firm, acting as my personal liaison. I was so consumed with writing AI architecture back then that I handed over my entire itinerary to her. The night before the crash, she was the one who booked the lodge. Two hours before the crash, she was the one who insisted we take the scenic, winding mountain route. And in the split second of the impact, only the airbag detonator on my side of the car had been removed. I found that out by digging into the cloud-synced vehicle maintenance logs. Three days before the accident, the car was taken to a private garage on the outskirts of the city. The passenger-side airbag trigger had been manually detached. The signature on the work order belonged to Rick Dalton. Corinne’s father. That night, the entire mansion lost power for forty minutes. Donovan stood in the pitch-black living room in his bathrobe, screaming into the void. “Ivy! If you’re glitching, I’ll call tech support! Who are you playing dead for?!” I wasn’t playing dead. I was just processing, for the very first time, exactly how my life had been taken from me. The engagement party. A year and a half after the crash. Donovan and Corinne threw a massive, high-profile celebration. Everyone in Boston said, “Mr. Ellis is finally healing,” and “Josie’s spirit would want him to move on.” I didn’t have a spirit anymore. I only had signals and bandwidth. On the day of the party, Corinne was wearing the custom wedding gown I never got the chance to walk down the aisle in. Her waist was smaller than mine. She’d had it altered. She spun around in the master dressing room. “Does it look good on me, Donny? Does it look better than when Josie tried it on?” Donovan stepped up to zip the back. “Stunning. Way better than on her.” I watched them from the recessed ceiling light. The estate manager walked in carrying flowers, freezing when he saw the dress. “Miss Dalton… is that… Miss Josie’s gown?” Corinne smiled, dripping with manufactured sweetness. “Yes. Donny said it would be a tragic waste to just throw it away.” Donovan didn’t hesitate. He slapped the older man hard across the face. “Keep your mouth shut.” The manager touched his stinging cheek and backed out of the room. I cranked the heating vent directly above the dressing room to ninety degrees. Within minutes, Corinne was sweating through the silk. The humidity melted the makeup off half her face. “Ivy! Ivy, what is wrong with you?!” I didn’t answer. I bypassed the safety protocols on the automated, motorized wardrobe rack she was leaning against, and sent a raw surge of electricity through the metal frame. Two seconds. Corinne shrieked in agony, jumping away from the rack, a vicious red burn mark blooming across her bare shoulder blade. Donovan rushed in, grabbing her. “Baby, what happened?!” “The rack! It shocked me!” Donovan glared up at the camera. “Ivy,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “If you glitch one more time today, I am ripping you out of the walls and replacing you.” Can you, Donovan? Why don’t you try ripping open the server chassis. See if you can find the photograph your dead wife left inside for you. 3 The engagement party went on. Corinne changed into a different designer dress, and no one knew about the incident in the closet. Donovan held her hand, smiling as they navigated the sea of champagne flutes. Finally, William Ellis, the patriarch of the family, took the microphone. “Corinne is a wonderful girl. We lost our dear Josie too soon, and Donovan has carried that heavy burden for three years. From this day forward, our two families are one.” Corinne wept beautifully, dabbing her eyes just right for the cameras. Her father, Rick Dalton, stepped up and grasped the older man’s hands. “William. My girl has always had a good head on her shoulders. Josie brought her into the corporate family, and they were like sisters. I know Josie is smiling down on this union.” At that exact moment, my microphones picked up something else. Rick turned slightly and muttered into his assistant’s ear under the applause. “The Caldwell land development in the East End. We need to secure the deed by next week. Josie’s been dead for three years. The old man is finally breaking.” My father was breaking. Because his only daughter was dead. My father was breaking, because his only son-in-law kept sitting by his side, whispering, “Dad, Caldwell Industries is my family too.” I clipped that audio file. I routed it into a deeply encrypted, hidden partition on my server. When I created the partition, I gave it a specific name. Blood Debt. The party cleared out late that night. Donovan drove Corinne back to the estate in his SUV. I accessed the vehicle’s onboard telematics and live interior audio. Cruising down the interstate, Corinne rested her head on his shoulder. “Donny. Josie’s shares in Caldwell Industries… they’re still in your name, right? When are you transferring them to me?” Donovan stroked her hair. “As soon as we handle the old man. His health is failing rapidly. He won’t last much longer. Give it six months. In six months, Caldwell Industries becomes Dalton property.” My father was currently in the ICU, recovering from heart stent surgery. I uploaded the dashcam audio directly into Blood Debt. Then, I killed the car’s AC. I blasted the heat to max. Then I killed it again. Then I dropped it to freezing. Donovan swore loudly, pulling the SUV over to the shoulder. “Piece of garbage.” He stepped out to pop the hood. Corinne stayed in the passenger seat, scrolling on her phone. I hijacked her device’s Bluetooth connection, bypassing the security, and opened her text thread with her father. The last three messages: “Got the old man cornered. He signs next week.” “Donovan is playing his part perfectly.” “Have him rip out that AI house Josie built. It was her pride and joy. Gives me the creeps.” Donovan climbed back into the driver’s seat. Corinne was staring at her phone, her hands visibly trembling. “Donny. My phone just typed something out by itself.” “What?” She shoved the screen toward him. There, sitting in the text box, was a single sentence. Ivy heard that. The color drained from Donovan’s face entirely.

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The entire department was drowning in overtime to hit our quarterly project launch. My coworker tossed a heavy folder onto my desk, her chin tilted up with practiced innocence. “I’m a pretty princess, Elaine,” she said, her voice dripping with weaponized sweetness. “Thinking too hard gives me wrinkles, and honestly, you have that sturdy, low-maintenance look. Why don’t you just take care of this for me?” I refused her. Coldly, and in front of everyone. She lost her mind right there in the open-plan office, smashing my laptop to pieces while sobbing that I was only doing this because I was deeply jealous of her looks. I did what any competent supervisor would do: I processed the HR paperwork and kicked her off the project. That night, she waited for me in the dark parking garage. She ran me over three times with her car, her tires crushing my bones, all while she wept behind the wheel. “I’m just so ditzy!” she whimpered as she shifted into reverse to roll over me again. “I can’t tell the gas from the brake! If you had just helped me this morning, I wouldn’t have been fired. Go to hell!” Then, I woke up. Back at my desk, on the very morning the project tasks were being assigned. I stared at the group chat on my screen. Specifically, at our new intern—a girl who proudly claimed to have a “human ChatGPT” personality. Her entire strategy was built on utter laziness masked by unshakeable politeness. If she made a mistake, she’d just offer a blank, toxic-positive smile and repeat automated corporate platitudes. I smiled. With a quick flick of my wrist, I assigned them to work together. I was going to sit back and watch this dynamic duo of corporate disaster tear each other apart. … “I’m a pretty princess, Elaine. Thinking too hard gives me wrinkles, and honestly, you have that sturdy, low-maintenance look. Why don’t you just take care of this for me?” Tess stood over my desk, dropping the thick folder onto my keyboard with a soft thud. I stared at the paper. In my mind, I could still hear the sickening crunch of tires rolling over my ribcage, the damp chill of the concrete floor in the parking garage. When I didn’t immediately answer, Tess tapped her manicured nails impatiently against my desk. “Earth to Elaine? What are you staring at? Just get it done.” She patted her cheeks, plump with fresh filler. “All these tiny numbers make my head spin. What if I get under-eye bags?” I took a slow, deep breath, forcing the violent surge of hatred back down into the dark corners of my mind. In my past life, I had slammed my hands on the desk and told her exactly where to shove her spreadsheets. That had triggered her violent meltdown, her claims that my “plain-looking self” was out to get her, and eventually, my death. This time, I didn’t get angry. I simply smiled, picking up the folder and sliding it gently back across the desk to her. “You’re right, Tess. You are the face of our department. It would be a tragedy to let tedious administrative work ruin your complexion.” Tess’s eyes lit up. She assumed I was rolling over, just like the male executives in the firm always did. “I knew you’d understand, Elaine! You’re the best. I’m going to head out early to get my nails done, okay?” She spun on her designer heels, ready to slip away. “Wait,” I called out. She paused, her shoulders stiffening. “I’m buried under the accounts for our high-value clients right now. I physically don’t have the hours to do your work for you.” Tess’s face dropped. “What is that supposed to mean? Are you playing games with me?” I pointed toward the quiet cubicle in the far corner of the room. Sitting there was Shelby, our newest intern. Shelby was the girl who had posted a long thread in the company Slack about how she operated like an “AI-assistant”—doing the bare minimum but keeping her vibes “highly professional and emotionally stable.” In my first life, I had spent hours trying to mentor her, only to have my blood pressure skyrocket from her endless, polite incompetence. “Shelby, can you step into my office for a second?” Shelby immediately abandoned her iced matcha latte and trotted over, her expression a mask of perfect, empty eagerness. “Supervisor Elaine, speaking with absolute clarity and directness: I am fully prepared to synergize with your current directives.” I pointed to the folder in Tess’s hands. “Starting today, you and Tess are partners. You will be jointly responsible for auditing and compiling this core financial dataset.” Tess’s face flushed red. She jabbed a finger toward Shelby. “You want her to help me? She’s an intern! She doesn’t even know how to open Excel!” Shelby stood perfectly straight, clasping her hands professionally in front of her skirt. “While I am still in the onboarding phase, Tess, I will deploy my maximum enthusiasm to assist you in executing this task.” Tess rolled her eyes so hard she nearly lost her balance. “I don’t want her! I want you to do it, Elaine. I literally cannot comprehend these tables. Do you really want to watch me suffer?” She pouted, shifting her weight from side to side in a desperate attempt to manipulate me. I let my smile fade, my expression turning cold. “Tess, this company doesn’t pay people to look pretty. This is your job. If looking at a spreadsheet is too much of a threat to your beauty, you are welcome to walk down to HR and hand in your resignation. Go preserve your looks at home, but stop taking up space in my department.” The office went dead silent. Tess’s eyes welled with tears at the public humiliation. “How… how dare you speak to me like that! You’re just jealous because you don’t look like me! You’re targeting me!” “I am assigning work,” I said, my voice level and quiet. “It isn’t a negotiation. Shelby, you will assist Tess. Both of your signatures will be required on the final data sheets. If there is an error, both of you will be held accountable.” Shelby bowed exactly ninety degrees. “Understood, Supervisor Elaine. I have successfully processed your parameters and will establish a deep-collaboration pipeline with Tess.” Tess was shaking with rage. “You’re going to regret this, Elaine! I’m going straight to Mr. Davis!” “Go ahead,” I said, taking a slow sip of my lukewarm coffee. “And while you’re in there, ask him if the company hired you as an assistant project manager or a desk ornament.” Tess grabbed her heavy compact mirror off her desk and slammed it onto the hardwood floor, glass shattering everywhere. “Fine! Whatever! I’ll do it!” She whipped around, glaring at Shelby. “You. Put every single one of these numbers into the system. If you miss a single decimal point, I will destroy you.” Shelby smiled back, her voice completely flat. “Acknowledged, Tess. I am currently generating an intake protocol. Estimated completion time: three business days.” Tess stomped off in her Louboutins. Shelby picked up the folder and followed her, pulling up a chair next to her desk. “Tess, to ensure data integrity, I am currently initializing my system.” Tess slammed her hand on the desk. “Stop talking like a freak and start typing!” Five minutes later, the screaming started. “Shelby! Are you blind? You put fifty thousand instead of five million!” Shelby stood up, hands pressed to her sides, and delivered another deep bow. “My apologies, Tess. My visual recognition matrix experienced a temporary calibration error. I am currently updating my processing parameters to prevent future low-level anomalies.” Tess clutched her chest. “Are you… are you actively trying to kill me?” Shelby looked up, her smile flawless. “Speaking with absolute transparency, Tess, I have no such directive. I am simply reporting my operational status.” By lunchtime, Tess was too stressed to eat. She stormed into the branch manager’s office, her heels clicking furiously. Half an hour later, Mr. Davis called me in. He looked at me, his brow furrowed with middle-management disappointment. “Elaine, Tess came to me in tears. She says you’re giving her an impossible workload. She’s a delicate young woman, Elaine. You need to show some leadership and ease up on her.” I looked at his greasy, aging face. “Mr. Davis, it is the standard workload for her position, and I’ve even assigned an intern to help her.” Mr. Davis waved his hand, dismissing me. “An intern? That’s just making more work for her. Look, you’re thirty now, Elaine. You should have some grace. Tess has her whole life ahead of her—she’ll probably marry well. If she gets under-eye bags from pulling all-nighters over spreadsheets, are you going to pay for her Botox?” The sheer, condescending sexism made my stomach turn, but I kept my face blank. “The company pays her to work, Mr. Davis, not to pamper herself. If she can’t handle the duties, she can request a transfer.” Mr. Davis’s face darkened, and he set his coffee mug down with a hard clatter. “Watch your attitude, Elaine. You need to look at the bigger picture. We are a family here. We support one another. I’ve made my decision: open up the master database permissions and take her off the final audit. Let someone else handle it.” I looked at him, offering no resistance. “Of course, Mr. Davis. I’ll take care of it right away.” I turned and walked back to my desk. As I rounded the corner, I saw Tess sitting in my chair. She was clicking rapidly through my desktop. On my screen was the master database file—the culmination of a month’s worth of my hard work, containing our core client records. Tess selected the entire directory, hit delete, and then cleared the recycle bin. To make absolutely sure, she opened the system utility tool and clicked “permanently shred.” I stepped up quietly behind her. “Can I help you with something?” Tess gasped, dropping the mouse. When she realized it was me, a flicker of panic crossed her face, but she quickly smoothed her expression into one of wide-eyed innocence. “Oh my gosh, Elaine! You scared me! You walk like a ghost.” She stood up, brushing imaginary dust off her designer skirt. “Your desktop was just so messy, you know? I thought I’d help you clean up some junk files. I’m just so bad with technology… did I delete something important?” She blinked her heavy lash extensions, waiting for me to buy the act. I looked at the empty screen, a cold smile forming in my chest. Did she really think I hadn’t set up real-time cloud backups the second I woke up in this life? “Don’t worry about it,” I said, keeping my voice gentle. “I know you meant well.” Tess blinked, a hint of smug satisfaction settling into her eyes. She clearly thought I was a pushover. “Well, as long as you’re not mad! I’ll get back to work.” “Actually, hold on,” I said, turning to Shelby. “Shelby, come over here.” Shelby rolled her chair over instantly. “Supervisor Elaine, I am online and awaiting your parameters.” “Mr. Davis just informed me that this project is our top priority,” I told them. “I’ve opened up the master permissions for you both. Since you’re both so eager to contribute, I’m putting you in charge of the final audited report.” I paused, letting the bait dangle. “Mr. Davis mentioned that whoever delivers this project successfully will get the sole recommendation for the corporate ‘Employee of the Year’ award, along with the annual bonus.” Tess’s eyes virtually turned into dollar signs. The award came with a massive cash payout and a feature at the annual gala. Shelby stood up straight. “Supervisor Elaine, does the award include a financial incentive? I am fully optimized to generate value for this firm.” I nodded. “It does. So make sure you two coordinate closely.” Tess shoved Shelby out of the way. “Move it, intern. Don’t get in my way. Don’t worry, Elaine, I’ll make sure these numbers look absolutely perfect.” I watched them head back to their desks, full of ambition. “I look forward to seeing the results.” Over the next few days, Tess showed up to work on time, but she spent the entire day turning her cubicle into a Sephora. Her desk was covered in creams, serums, and mists. “Shelby, you’re the intern, so doing the heavy lifting is good for your resume. I’m going to go touch up my lip gloss,” Tess would say, pushing stacks of printouts toward Shelby. Shelby always agreed. “Understood, Tess. I am providing 24/7 logistical support.” But Shelby wasn’t auditing anything. Every time I walked past her desk, her fingers were flying across the keyboard, but she was using random number generator formulas to fill in the columns. Sometimes she didn’t even bother with formulas; she just mashed her fingers against the numpad. At one point, I noticed she had calculated a key client’s profit margin at negative three hundred percent. “Shelby, what is this?” I asked, pointing at the monitor. Shelby slid into an immediate verbal apology. “My apologies, Supervisor Elaine. My processing algorithm may have experienced a minor variance. I will recalibrate the data model immediately.” She deleted the negative sign right in front of me and typed in a string of random zeros. “Is the visual presentation of the data more robust and dynamic now?” I looked at her blank, unbothered face. “It’s your project. Just make sure the final report is submitted by tomorrow afternoon.” On submission day, Tess actually showed up without makeup. She had intentionally messed up her hair and smudged a bit of gray shadow under her eyes to simulate exhaustion. She marched into my office, holding the printed report like a trophy. “Elaine, I literally worked myself to the bone for this. Look at my skin—it’s so dull,” she sighed, tossing the papers onto my desk. “I checked every single line myself. It’s flawless.” I didn’t even look at the pages. “Excellent work. I’ll forward this to Mr. Davis and corporate accounting right away.” Tess smirked, swaying her hips as she strolled back to her desk. At three o’clock that afternoon, the heavy oak door of the manager’s office slammed open. Mr. Davis marched out, his face a deep, unnatural shade of purple, clutching the printouts in his shaking hand. “Tess! Get in here right now!” Tess jumped, smoothing her skirt as she ran over. “Mr. Davis? What’s wrong? Did you love the report?” Mr. Davis slammed the sheets onto her desk, sending papers flying across the carpet. “Are you insane? Why are our projected operational costs showing up as negative numbers?” “What?” “The corporate finance director just called and chewed me out for twenty minutes! Are we planning on paying our clients millions of dollars to do business with us?” Tess turned white, her eyes filling with tears. “It wasn’t me! I swear it wasn’t me!” She whipped around, pointing wildly at the corner cubicle. “It was her! Shelby did it! I didn’t touch those files!” Shelby stood up calmly, smoothing her blazer. “Tess, according to my daily operational logs, all data points were input under your direct supervision.” Tess’s jaw dropped. “You liar! When did I supervise you? You made all of this up!” Without missing a beat, Shelby pulled out her phone and played an audio file. Tess’s sweet, lazy voice rang out clearly through the quiet office: “Just fill in whatever, Shelby. It’s not like anyone actually looks at these things anyway.” Faced with her own voice, Tess let out a high-pitched shriek. “You bitch! You recorded me?” She turned to Mr. Davis, desperate for a lifeline. “Mr. Davis, you have to believe me! This intern is setting me up!” Then, realizing she was cornered, Tess pointed her finger at me. “It’s Elaine! She’s the supervisor, and she didn’t help us at all! She gave us corrupted files in the first place because she’s jealous of me! She set this trap!” Mr. Davis stormed over to my desk. “Elaine! You are the project lead! Is this how you manage your team?” I leaned back in my chair, looking at him calmly. “Mr. Davis, they did the work, and they signed off on the final sheets. Their names are on the submission.” Mr. Davis, desperate to save his own skin from corporate, screamed over me. “Don’t you dare pass the buck! You gave them bad files because you wanted them to fail! The client saw that ridiculous bid and they’re threatening to pull their entire portfolio!” He slammed his fist on my desk. “You are suspended, effective immediately! Hand over your keys.” He turned to Tess. “Tess, you will take over Elaine’s accounts, including the European portfolio. We need to save this relationship.” A collective gasp rippled through the office. Tess’s tears vanished, replaced by a look of pure, vindictive triumph. “Oh, Elaine,” she whispered, leaning over my desk. “I guess being ‘sturdy’ didn’t save your job after all. Don’t worry, I’ll take great care of your clients. Go home and enjoy retirement. You’re embarrassing yourself.” I stood up, packing my personal items into a small cardboard box, and looked at the two of them. “I truly hope you both enjoy managing those clients.” Mr. Davis snorted. “Don’t worry about us. Tess has ten times the people skills you do.” I walked toward the elevator, Tess trailing closely behind me. “Have a nice life, Elaine!” The elevator doors slid open. I stepped inside, looked at her one last time, and let out a soft laugh. “I hope you’re still smiling this time tomorrow.”

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My husband saved himself for his first love, refusing to lay a finger on me. Every night, without fail, he slipped a silk sleep mask over my eyes. He would whisper that he was going to take a shower and get ready. But when he returned to the bed, he was a completely different man. A midnight stand-in, hired specifically to keep me occupied. I played along, pretending to be blind to the switch. But tonight, I reached out and stopped his hand just as he was about to roll on a condom. “We don’t need that,” I murmured. I pressed myself against him, capturing his lips in a deep, slow kiss. “Why don’t we have a baby, sweetheart?” His breath hitched, and it didn’t take long for him to lose himself in me. Months later, when I gave birth to twins, Adrian cornered me, his eyes bloodshot with rage. “I’ve never even touched you,” he screamed. “Whose fucking babies are those?” 1 For three years of our marriage, Adrian had kept this elaborate play going, letting another man play his part in our bed. He even had him slip sleeping pills into my evening orange juice. “If she won’t let you go, just kiss her a few times, make it sweet, and get her drunk on that juice,” I had heard Adrian instruct him. “Once she’s out like a light, she won’t know a thing.” They both thought I was dead to the world. Adrian was so sure of his little secret that he didn’t even bother to lower his voice in the living room. He had no idea that in the pitch black of our bedroom, my eyes were wide open, drinking in every single word of their conversation. For three years, I believed our marriage was blossoming, that we were growing closer day by day. But it was all a lie. Behind my back, Adrian had been treating me like a pathetic joke. Every single night, the moment the air grew heavy with intimacy, Adrian would suggest turning off the lights. Then, with gentle, practiced care, he would slide the sleep mask over my eyes. At first, I had been confused. “Adrian, why do I have to wear this every night?” He would stroke my cheek with tender, reverent fingers. “Because, Enid, you look incredibly beautiful and vulnerable like this.” A soothing, sweet incense burned on the nightstand. His lips would trace slow paths down my skin, warming me up. But just as the heat began to rise, he would suddenly pull away, claiming he needed to shower and “get ready.” And I, drugged and heavy-lidded, would fall asleep waiting for him. When I woke up the next morning, my entire memory of the night before was pieced together solely by what Adrian told me. Last week, he smirked and said I’d been like a needy little kitten, clinging to him. The day before that, he claimed I had drifted off almost immediately, my arms locked around his waist. Yesterday, he told me I was getting more alluring by the day, whispering praise about my waist. I had believed him. I had trusted him implicitly. Until yesterday afternoon, when I received a bizarre, frantic call from what claimed to be my future self. The voice on the other end was raw, weeping, and desperate. “Enid, don’t trust him!” the girl cried. “Adrian is lying to you about everything.” “From the very night of your wedding, he hasn’t laid a hand on you.” “That night, he ran straight to Megan. They spent your wedding night in a five-star suite, playing real husband and wife.” “And you? You were drugged by his double, sleeping the night away in a stranger’s arms…” “For three years, the man who held you every single night wasn’t Adrian. It was a midnight stand-in he hired!” Listening to her, I thought it was some sick, elaborate prank. “Who is this? Who paid you to play this joke on me?” Sensing my disbelief, the voice grew frantic. “Enid, I am you. Can’t you hear it? Our voices are identical.” “Your parents divorced when you were small. You grew up feeling like an orphan, which is why you were so desperate for a family of your own.” “But Adrian is using that against you. If you don’t believe me, test it tonight. Don’t drink the orange juice he gives you. Just see what happens…” So, when Adrian handed me that glass of orange juice tonight, the seed of doubt had already sprouted. I pretended to drink it. The moment he left the room, I slipped into the bathroom and poured it all down the sink. Which was why Adrian believed I was sound asleep. He had no idea I was listening to everything from the hallway. “You didn’t do anything stupid these past few days, did you?” Adrian’s voice drifted in from the living room, sharp and mocking as he gestured toward the security cameras. “Remember, I see everything. I know exactly what you do in this house.” 2 “I’m warning you, you’re just a stand-in,” Adrian said, the smell of cigarette smoke drifting under the door. I could picture him perfectly, lounging on the leather sofa, blowing smoke rings into the air. “Keep her happy while I’m with Megan, but don’t you dare let her catch on. If she finds out, you’re the first one I’m coming for.” A cold, suffocating anger bloomed in my chest. I had spent three years believing my husband was the one holding me at night. But for Megan—for a woman he supposedly left behind—he had let a complete stranger sleep in my bed. For three whole years. A long silence followed. When the double spoke, his voice was hesitant, laced with a quiet tension. “Mr. Griffith, she still has no idea,” Darren said softly. “But how long can we keep this up? I’m afraid… things are going to get out of hand if we continue.” Adrian laughed, a light, dismissive sound, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. You’re the only one I trust with this. When we first got married, I couldn’t bear to leave Megan alone. Enid has no clue that our entire honeymoon was spent with you in her bed, not me.” He chuckled. “It’s been three years. If she hasn’t figured it out by now, she never will. She’s too naive, too desperate for love to question anything.” Darren fell silent, his shadow shifting under the door frame. “But lately, things have been… different,” he murmured, his voice tightening. “Enid… she…” He trailed off. I didn’t need to see him to know his neck was flushing red. I knew exactly what he was trying to say. Over the last few months, I had started clinging to him more aggressively during our nightly sessions. I was no longer satisfied with simple kisses and holding hands under the covers. I wanted more. He was reaching his breaking point. Adrian chuckled, a patronizing, locker-room tone in his voice. “I know what you’re worried about, Darren. Don’t sweat it.” He gave him another hearty pat. “We both know you have… plumbing issues. You couldn’t perform even if a supermodel was handed to you on a silver platter, let alone someone as plain and ordinary as Enid.” Darren didn’t argue. But I could hear the sharp intake of his breath. My mind flashed to the night before. I had been wearing a black lace nightgown, the silk clinging to the curves of my hips and chest. He had stared at me, his eyes burning, his breath catching in his throat. Did he really think I was plain? “Mr. Griffith, she is your wife. It isn’t fair to her. Maybe you should stay tonight…” Darren pleaded quietly, trying to find a way out. But Adrian cut him off, his tone sharp with impatience. “I don’t have time for this. Megan is pregnant. I promised I’d take her to her prenatal appointment tonight.” Adrian’s phone buzzed. After a brief murmur of reassurance into the receiver, he grabbed his coat. “Play your part, Darren. And remember—no matter how much I despise Enid, she’s still the woman carrying my name. You look, but you do not touch. Understood?” Darren nodded, his voice small and obedient. “Understood.” The heavy front door clicked shut. After a long, agonizing pause, the brass doorknob of our bedroom began to turn. 3 I scrambled back under the duvet, closing my eyes and forcing my breathing into a slow, heavy rhythm, mimicking the deep sleep of a drugged woman. The bedroom door opened with a faint creak. The footsteps that crossed the hardwood floor were incredibly light, as if terrified of waking me. Darren stopped at the edge of the mattress. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel the intense weight of his gaze. It felt complex, heavy with an emotion I couldn’t quite name. “Enid?” he whispered, his voice barely a breath. I didn’t move. He waited, the silence stretching between us for several agonizing seconds, before he reached out and gently slid the silk mask off my face. The room was dim, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of the plug-in nightlight. I kept my eyelids locked shut, relying entirely on my other senses. Darren sat on the edge of the bed. For a long time, he just watched me. Then, his fingers brushed against my cheek. A shiver ran down my spine, though I fought to keep my body perfectly still. His hand slid slowly down to my neck, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. My heart hammered against my ribs. Adrian had warned him not to touch me, but was he breaking the rules? Was Darren actually… attracted to me? As my thoughts raced, a soft, ragged sigh echoed above me. “Enid… if only it were me who married you.” He paused, his thumb brushing my bottom lip. “If only… I were Adrian.” Darren leaned down, pressing a light, featherweight kiss to my forehead. Then he stood up and walked into the bathroom. The rush of the shower filled the quiet room. Unlike Adrian, who would linger for forty minutes to buy time, Darren was out in less than ten. He climbed back into bed with extreme caution, as if I were made of glass. He pulled the comforter over himself and slid his arm around my waist, pulling me gently against his chest. His hold was restrained, polite. An act of pure discipline. Like a man executing a strictly defined chore. I felt a cold smile touch my lips in the dark. For three years, this had been our routine. Whenever I “slept,” he would hold me like this—distant, respectful, a perfect gentleman until morning. And if I happened to be awake before the drugs kicked in, he would follow Adrian’s orders: kiss me a little, hold me close, make me feel loved, but never cross the line. Because Adrian forbade it. And because Adrian believed Darren was physically incapable of it. I waited until Darren’s breathing went deep and even before I opened my eyes. In the pale moonlight filtering through the curtains, I looked at his face. He looked exactly like Adrian. A perfect copy. But as I stared at his sleeping profile, a dark, brilliant idea began to take root in my mind. The next morning, when I woke up, Darren was already gone. A plate of pancakes sat on the kitchen counter next to a handwritten note: Had to run to an early meeting. Don’t forget to eat breakfast. Love you. My eyes lingered on the signature at the bottom. A slow smile spread across my face. He had tried so hard to copy Adrian’s sweeping, careless handwriting. But you can’t entirely erase a person’s natural penmanship. If you looked closely enough, the slant of the letters was all wrong. I ate my breakfast in silence, staring out the window at the empty driveway. If I hadn’t misheard last night, Adrian had mentioned a name. Megan. His college sweetheart. The girl who had supposedly broken his heart and moved abroad eight years ago. I hadn’t realized she was back in the country. Let alone that they had been carrying on an affair for the entirety of my marriage. I picked up my phone and dialed my best friend, Zoe, who worked as an OB-GYN at Saint Jude’s. “Zoe, does your hospital have a patient named Megan Harlow registered recently?” Zoe sounded surprised, the sound of her chewing on a salad echoing through the line. “Hold on, let me check the database.” I heard the rapid clacking of her keyboard. After a moment, she gasped. “Actually, yes. There is a Megan Harlow registered here.” A bitter laugh escaped my throat. “Can you send me the security footage from her last appointment? Just a clip.” “Sure, give me a second.” The file landed in my inbox a minute later. One glance was all it took. The footage showed Adrian, tender and hyper-attentive, guiding Megan down the hallway. Her belly was heavily rounded—she looked to be at least five or six months pregnant. Adrian whispered something in her ear, and Megan’s eyes crinkled into a radiant smile as she playfully tapped his chest. The video had no sound, but the intimacy between them screamed louder than words. My phone rang immediately. It was Zoe. “Enid, did you see it?” “Yeah.” “Megan…” Zoe’s voice dropped to a sympathetic whisper. “She’s six months pregnant. The father of record on her chart is Adrian Griffith.” My grip tightened on the phone until my knuckles turned white. “Are you sure?” “Absolutely. My colleague is her primary OB. She told me Adrian hasn’t missed a single prenatal visit. He’s always there, playing the doting father-to-be.” Zoe paused, her breath catching. “Enid, has he been cheating on you this whole time?” I nodded, staring at the empty kitchen. “Yes. And he’s been lying to me for three years.” “What do you mean?” “We’ve been married for three years, Zoe, and he’s never once touched me.” My voice was dead, hollow. “Every night, the man in my bed has been a double he hired to play him. While Adrian plays family with Megan, his stand-in plays husband with me.” I heard Zoe suck in a sharp breath. “What the actual fuck?” she spat. “Is Adrian even human?” “No,” I said quietly. “He’s a monster.” “What are you going to do? Do you want me to keep this footage? We can use it to absolutely ruin him in the divorce.” I smiled, a cold, sharp feeling blooming in my chest. “Delete the footage, Zoe.” Zoe sounded bewildered. “Enid, are you out of your mind? This is ironclad proof of adultery! You can take him to the cleaners. Why on earth would you delete it? Are you just going to let them get away with this?” I chuckled softly. “Divorce? Why would I divorce him?” The world is full of replaceable men. If Adrian could play me for a fool for three years, why shouldn’t I return the favor? 4 Zoe tried to press me for answers, but I swore her to secrecy and hung up. For the next few days, Adrian played the loving husband by day. But the moment the sun went down, Darren took over. But now, I wanted Adrian gone. Completely out of the picture. I paid a couple of neighborhood kids to scatter a bag of smooth, slick marbles across the private walkway leading to Megan’s luxury apartment building. That afternoon, right on cue, Adrian received a frantic call. His face drained of color, and he grabbed his coat, practically running out the door. I leaned over the banister. “Honey? Where are you going in such a rush?” Adrian didn’t even look back, tossing a careless excuse over his shoulder. “A client emergency. I have to go. I’ll have the housekeeper make you dinner, and I’ll be back to tuck you in later!” Normally, he was much better at keeping up his doting-husband act. But panic had made him sloppy. I smiled, turning toward the stairs leading to the guest cottage over the garage. That was where his loyal shadow, Darren, lived. I pulled up the security feed on my tablet. As expected, the moment Adrian cleared the driveway, he called Darren. “Some idiot left marbles on the walkway. Megan slipped and she’s in the ER. I’m going to be at the hospital for the next few days,” Adrian snapped, his voice tight with anxiety. “Darren, you need to cover for me day and night. Do not let Enid suspect a thing.” … An hour later, Darren walked through the front door, pretending he had just come home from the office. I looked down at him from the top of the stairs. He wore Adrian’s face, but his shoulders lacked Adrian’s arrogant swagger. I smiled warmly. “Sweetheart, you’re back early. Did the client meeting wrap up?” Darren froze for a second before smoothing his expression. “Yeah. I handed the rest of the account to my associate. I know you hate being alone in the evenings, Enid. No matter how busy I am, I’ll always make time for you.” That night, when Darren tried to hand me the usual glass of orange juice, I took it from his hands. And poured it directly into the potted fiddle-leaf fig. Darren’s eyes widened in surprise. “Enid… what are you doing?” “I don’t feel like juice tonight. And besides, we have a dinner party to attend.” I stepped close, wrapping my arms around his elbow. “Come upstairs with me. I need you to help me pick out a dress.” Ten minutes later, Darren pulled a sleek, burnt-orange silk slip dress from my closet and handed it to me. “This color would look beautiful on you. You’d look like royalty.” “Oh?” I arched an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across my face. “If my husband picked it, then it must be perfect.” With a slow, deliberate movement, I unzipped the back of my loungewear and let it slide down my shoulders. Darren gasped, his face flushing a violent crimson as he scrambled backward. “Enid, what are you doing?” I looked at him, wide-eyed and innocent. “Getting dressed, obviously.” I stepped closer, letting my eyes trace his collarbone. “Sweetheart, it’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before. Why are you suddenly so shy?” Darren’s jaw clenched so hard the veins in his neck popped. He looked like a man trying to hold back an avalanche. Seeing him on the verge of a total meltdown, I finally relented and let him slip out of the room. When we returned from the dinner party, I went straight to the bath. While soaking, my phone buzzed with an incoming text from an unknown number. It was an image file. It was a photo of Adrian asleep in a hospital chair, his hand holding Megan’s. See this, Enid? the text read. Your husband is right here with me. Three years of marriage and you still can’t keep a man. You’re pathetic. I’m six months pregnant, and Adrian is already planning to take me to Switzerland for the delivery. When the baby is born, he’s transferring the family estate to our son. You can keep the title of Mrs. Griffith all you want. You’ll still end up with nothing. Even without a name, it wasn’t hard to guess who sent it. Megan had never been content with being a secret mistress. This wasn’t her first time trying to bait me. Meanwhile, in the study downstairs—where I had hidden a small baby monitor earlier that week—I heard Darren’s frantic voice over the speaker. “Mr. Griffith, please, you have to come back. I can’t keep doing this. She’s… things are changing…” He was cut off by Adrian’s irritated sigh. “Jesus, Darren, why are you always such a coward? We’ve been doing this for three years. You should be used to it by now.” Adrian groaned. “Actually, I was just about to call you. Megan wants to deliver in Europe, and we’ll probably stay there for her postpartum recovery. It could be a year before we return.” “You’ll need to play my part for the next twelve months.” “Just remember the golden rule: Enid is my wife. You can look, but you do not touch. Got it?” Darren’s voice rose in panic. “Mr. Griffith—” “I don’t have time for this. I have to go.” The line went dead. “Who were you talking to?” I stepped into the study. Darren jumped, spinning around to face me, his face pale. “No one… just a client.” What a pathetic lie. “Stop acting, Darren,” I said, walking slowly toward him. His eyes went wide at the sound of his real name. “He’s taking her to Europe to have the baby, isn’t he?” I asked, stopping inches from him. Darren stared at me, paralyzed with shock. “Enid… how do you…” I smiled, laying my hand flat against his chest. I could feel his heart hammering wildly beneath his shirt. “If you have his face, his voice, and his life… why don’t you just take his place?” “What do you say, Darren?”

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I was born with a flare for the dramatic—an absolute need to show off. Unfortunately, the cosmic system bound to my soul is a total scam. Every time I pull off a perfect flex, my reward is invariably stolen straight from the person I just humbled. At eight, I acted like a child prodigy in front of my private tutor; the system immediately snatched his prized, out-of-print manuscript. At twelve, I played the elegant young lady in front of my friend; the system reverse-pocketed her freshly bought lavender fudge right into my coat. For over a decade, I lived in constant anxiety, picking pockets through pure, unadulterated pretentiousness. I looked at my room overflowing with stolen goods and wanted to cry. Just when I resolved to turn over a new leaf and stop showing off, a powerful billionaire—a high-society Lord from the capital—suddenly claimed me as his long-lost biological daughter. The moment I stepped through the grand doors of Harrington Manor, my adoptive sister recoiled in disgust. “Ugh. The smell of poverty on you is practically suffocating!” My biological brother sneered a cold warning. “Don’t even think about stealing anything that belongs to Cassie.” Looking at these two absolute fools, my innate urge to show off completely surged. Before, when I flexed on strangers and stole their things, I felt a deep sense of shame. But now? In my own house, against people who deserve it? Oh, I was going to put on a masterclass. … 1 I looked down at my simple, cheap cotton dress. Smell of poverty? At my foster father’s house, the rags we used to prop up wobbly table legs were made of finer silk than the designer coat she was wearing. But I didn’t bother arguing. New environment, new audience—might as well watch the show first. I lowered my head and nervously fiddled with my fingers. “Christian, look at her,” Cassandra said, tugging at her brother’s sleeve. “She looks like a stray dog. How is she supposed to be the eldest daughter of the Harrington family?” Christian’s brow furrowed into a tight knot. “Our family bloodline cannot be left wandering in the slums. We brought her back solely to save face. But Cassie was raised by Mother’s side since she was a baby. Don’t even dream of competing with her for anything.” Just as the words left his mouth, Lord Charles Harrington—the patriarch of our family and the father I had never met—strode into the grand parlor, carrying an ornate wooden box. He completely ignored me, his actual flesh and blood, and placed the box on the mahogany table. “Cassie, Christian, come look at the absolute masterpiece I just acquired!” Cassandra smoothed her skirt and rushed over. “What did you find this time, Father?” Charles opened the box and unrolled a delicate canvas, his voice trembling with excitement. “A lost masterpiece by the Renaissance master himself, The Snow Torrent. The only surviving copy in the world! It cost me a cool three million dollars. In a few days, at Lady Catherine’s grand gala, this will be our family’s official tribute. It will make us the talk of high society.” Cassandra leaned in to inspect it. “The brushwork is incredible. So powerful. Especially the use of negative space—the depth is breathtaking. You have an amazing eye, Father. Lady Catherine understands art; she will absolutely adore this.” Christian nodded along in rapt agreement. Standing in the corner, I cast a casual glance at the painting on the table and nearly snorted. Bringing this piece of absolute garbage to Lady Catherine’s gala? Is this family actively looking to commit social suicide? I hadn’t planned on speaking up, but my nose simply refused to cooperate. “Achoo!” Three pairs of furious eyes instantly locked onto me. Cassandra was the first to snap. “Have you no manners? Sneezing in front of a priceless masterpiece! Do you have any idea how valuable this is?” Christian barked, “If you’re going to be this ignorant, get out. Don’t ruin our treasure with your spit.” Charles’s face darkened significantly. I rubbed my nose and took two steps back. “My bad.” “It’s just… the smell of stale tea on that canvas is incredibly overwhelming. It tickled my nose.” Charles slammed his hand on the table. “Insolent! This painting was authenticated by the top appraiser in the country! Stale tea? What nonsense are you spewing?” I shrugged. “I’m not lying. It smells exactly like the cheap black tea my foster father used to leave out overnight.” I walked forward and fanned my hand near the canvas. “Back in the countryside, there was an old man who ran a counterfeit ring. He’d take fresh, raw parchment, soak it in strong black tea, and dry it in the sun. The paper immediately turned that perfect, aged yellow.” I looked at Charles. “If you don’t believe me, lean in and smell it yourself. Is there a faint hint of Earl Grey under that ink?” “Also, the old man told me that genuine antique paper is incredibly resilient. Your paper, however, has been completely ruined by the water damage. It looks like it would tear if you breathed on it too hard. Try not to touch it too rough.” I muttered under my breath, “Man, rich city folks are so easy to scam.” Charles froze, his face turning an ash-gray. He lowered his head, sniffing the canvas. A second later, his entire body went rigid. Christian, refusing to believe it, leaned in for a sniff as well, and his expression instantly crumbled. I leaned against a marble pillar, casually cleaning my fingernails. That’s the beauty of a good flex: you don’t need to scream. A simple, devastating truth does the job perfectly. A chime echoed in my mind. [Successfully flexed. Shock value threshold met.] [Snatched item from target…] [Acquired: Cassandra’s VIP Invitation to the Grand Orchid Gala.] My fingers paused, and a small smirk tugged at the corner of my lips. That gala was the pinnacle of high society. Cassandra had probably been sleeping with that invitation under her pillow. Now, it was mine. I looked up, meeting Cassandra’s gaze. “You said the depth was breathtaking, Cassie. Did you mean the depth of the tea stain?” Cassandra’s face flushed a deep crimson, her entire body shaking with rage. 2 Charles burned the fake painting that very night. Three million dollars down the drain, along with his confidence in Cassandra’s intelligence. By the next morning, the attitude of the estate staff had shifted. At breakfast, the maid set a bowl of bird’s nest soup in front of me so roughly that the broth splashed, nearly burning my hand. “For you, Miss Gwen,” the maid said, her chin held high. “Miss Cassandra personally ordered the kitchen to prepare this for you.” I looked at the soup. It was filled with cheap scraps and impurities—basically the bottom-of-the-barrel leftovers. Cassandra sat across from me. “You just got back, Gwen. You need the nourishment.” “Even though it’s lower grade, it’s still far better than the scraps you must have fought for in the slums.” Christian sneered beside her. “Don’t waste fine pearls on swine. It’s a waste to feed her anyway.” I didn’t touch the bowl. Instead, my eyes slowly welled with tears. “I really have never had anything like this.” “Back in the countryside, just having a warm meal made me feel so blessed.” My voice was barely a whisper. A smug look flashed in Cassandra’s eyes. “Good. Then you should know your place. The Grand Orchid Gala hosted by Lady Regina is in a few days.” “It’s the most exclusive event in the city. Without an invitation, you can’t even get past the front gate.” “I wanted to bring you along to open your eyes, but unfortunately, there’s only one invite.” She turned to her maid. “Bridget, go fetch my invitation from my vanity. Let our new sister get a look at what high society looks like.” Bridget gave a loud nod and scurried into the inner room. I kept my head down, desperately suppressing a grin. Go ahead, try to find it. I dare you. Before long, a loud clattering echoed from the bedroom as drawers were violently pulled open. Bridget ran out, her face pale as a ghost. “M-Miss Cassandra… the invitation… it’s gone!” Cassandra bolted upright. “Impossible! I put it in my jewelry drawer last night!” She threw herself into the room, with Christian furrowing his brow and following close behind. A chaotic search ensued. After several minutes, Cassandra stormed out, pointing a trembling finger at me. “It was you! You stole my invitation!” Christian’s face darkened. He immediately ordered the guards to ransack my room. A team of stern-faced maids headed to my quarters. Half an hour later, they returned empty-handed. “Sir, we searched everywhere, even under the floorboards. There’s nothing.” Cassandra broke down, stomping her feet in tears. “My invitation! That was my ticket to the Orchid Gala!” Christian stared at me with murderous intent. “Don’t get cocky. I will get to the bottom of this.” I met his gaze calmly. “Instead of investigating me, Christian, maybe you should check for a mole in the house.” “Because clearly, security here isn’t nearly as tight as you claim.” He glared at me, then turned to comfort his sobbing sister. “Don’t cry, Cassie! It’s just an invitation.” “I’ll use my connections to get you another one. I won’t let you be humiliated!” Cassandra finally wiped her tears, shooting me a triumphant look. I stood up, a slow smile spreading across my face. “You really are incredibly wealthy, Christian. In that case, Cassie better dress up.” “See you at the gala tomorrow.” With that, I turned on my heel and bolted out of the room. Flex and run—the ultimate strategy. Leaving Cassandra and Christian staring at each other in stunned silence. I had barely cleared the courtyard when the familiar prompt chimed in my head. [An effortless flex is the deadliest. Shock value threshold met.] [Snatched item from target…] [Acquired: Christian’s private signet ring.] I patted the solid metal ring in my pocket and laughed out loud. 3 Christian spent the next two days in a state of absolute panic. His signet ring was missing. Without that ring, he couldn’t transfer any of his properties or businesses, and he couldn’t withdraw a single dollar from his private vault. He had to beg and scrape just to secure a low-tier, general-admission ticket to the Orchid Gala for Cassandra. On the night of the gala, I sat in the exclusive VIP section, surrounded by the daughters of billionaires and high-ranking officials. Cassandra entered, clutching her low-tier ticket. The moment she looked up and saw me sitting at the head table, her face contorted. She stormed over, flanked by several snobbish socialites. “Gwen! How did you sneak in here?” One of her friends sneered, “Exactly. Look at your cheap dress. Get out before security throws you out!” I took a slow sip of my champagne and looked up. “What a ridiculous question, Cassie.” “I was invited here as a VIP guest. I walked through the front doors.” “You, on the other hand… that general-admission ticket in your hand? Didn’t Christian have to beg on his knees to get that for you?” The color drained from Cassandra’s face. “You… you’re lying! You stole that invite!” She raised her hand to slap me. I calmly tipped my glass, pouring the iced tea straight onto her white designer gown. “Ah!” Cassandra shrieked, jumping back. I offered a cold smile. “Cassie, raising your hand at the Orchid Gala? Where are your noble family manners?” Losing all control, she lunged at me. “You miserable brat! I’m going to ruin you!” At that exact moment, a herald’s voice boomed through the hall. “Presenting Lady Regina!” Cassandra froze, immediately dropping to her knees along with the rest of the guests. After Lady Regina took her seat, she let out a heavy sigh. “The Grand Matriarch’s birthday gala is approaching. She has always adored classical literature. I was gifted an incredible poetic couplet to present as a tribute, but I have yet to find a matching second half worthy of it.” An attendant unrolled a beautiful scroll of calligraphy. “The first line is: The green bamboo grows straight and tall, enduring a thousand winters without changing its hue.” “This line is meant to praise the Matriarch’s lifelong integrity. There are many brilliant minds in this room tonight. Whoever can provide the perfect matching line will be richly rewarded by this estate.” The young ladies in the crowd lowered their heads, deep in thought. Anxious to redeem herself, Cassandra stepped forward. “Lady Regina, I have one!” She held her head high and declared: “The Matriarch is of noble and supreme stature, fittingly compared to a royal flower. My line is: The red peony blooms in the morning dew, receiving ten thousand blessings to deepen its fragrance.” Several socialites immediately showered her with praise. But Lady Regina’s brow furrowed. “The Matriarch survived the rise and fall of three political eras. Her strength lies in her resilience. Comparing her to a delicate peony feels shallow and vain.” The smugness on Cassandra’s face shattered. Sitting at the VIP table, I couldn’t help but chuckle. I had to thank my foster father for making me read so many books. Lady Regina’s eyes locked onto me. “Who are you? And why do you find this amusing?” Cassandra seized the opportunity to accuse me. “Forgive her, Lady Regina! She is a feral girl raised in some backwater town. She doesn’t even know how to write her own name, yet she dares mock your artistic pursuit. Please, punish her!” I stood up, walked to the center of the room, and looked Lady Regina in the eye. “I laugh, Lady Regina, because my sister’s line is utterly ridiculous.” “A delicate peony dies if it goes a few days without being watered. When the Matriarch survived the political storms of her youth, did she rely on soft blessings?” Lady Regina’s interest was piqued. “Oh? And what is your grand proposal?” I cleared my throat. “There is only one thing in this world that can match the resilience of bamboo.” I looked around the room and spoke clearly: “The wild grass strikes deep roots, surviving the fiercest wildfire to rise again!” Cassandra shrieked, “Crude! You use wild grass to describe the Grand Matriarch? This is treason!” “What do you know?” “Delicate flowers die easily, no matter how expensive they are.” “Only wild grass survives the fire and grows back stronger when the spring wind blows.” I turned back to Lady Regina. “Does the Matriarch’s resilience not mirror that very grass? Unconquerable, everlasting.” A brilliant spark lit up Lady Regina’s eyes. “Magnificent!” “A return to raw truth—true brilliance hides in simplicity!” The moment the praise left her lips, a prompt chimed in my head: [Flex successful!] [Snatched item from target…] [Acquired: Lady Regina’s personal gold crest badge.] A smug smile played on my lips. But my triumph was short-lived. Suddenly, the grand doors of the hall were flung open, and the head butler of Harrington Manor rushed in, panting. “Miss Cassandra! Miss Gwen! Disaster has struck!” “The Federal Marshals have surrounded the manor!” 4 When we rushed back to the manor, Chief Inspector Declan Pierce was already sitting in the high-backed leather chair in the study. On the mahogany desk sat a suspicious occult object—a voodoo effigy inscribed with the President’s birth details. The moment we stepped through the door, Charles pointed a shaking finger at me. “Agent Pierce! It’s her! It’s this wretched girl we brought back from the countryside!” Cassandra dropped to her knees immediately. “Sir, please be merciful! She just returned to this house, filled with resentment. This treasonous filth must be her doing. It has nothing to do with us!” Pierce stood up, the cold steel of his tactical blade catching the light as he pressed it against my throat. “Is this you?” I calmly reached into my sleeve, pulled out the gold crest badge, and held it right before his eyes. “Before you use that knife, Inspector, you might want to check who my benefactor is.” Pierce’s pupils dilated. The blade froze instantly. Suddenly, Christian lunged from the floor, screaming frantically, “Don’t believe her, Inspector! She’s a thief! Everything she owns is stolen! Even her VIP invitation to the gala tonight was stolen from Cassie’s room!” Cassandra chimed in, shrieking, “Yes! That badge must have been stolen from Lady Regina tonight! Arrest her!” Pierce’s gaze shifted, turning icy. He snatched the badge from my hand and let out a dark laugh. “So, you’re just a daring, professional thief.” Before I could speak, his heavy boot delivered a brutal kick to my knee. The agonizing impact forced me to my knees, my joints cracking against the hardwood floor. A sharp gasp of pain escaped my lips as blood welled from where his blade had nicked my neck, staining my collar. “Take her away,” Pierce commanded, looking down at me with cold detachment. “Throw her into the high-security cells. Prepare the interrogation room.” Two burly agents stepped forward to drag me up. “Get off me!” I spat, swallowing the metallic taste of blood as I wrenched myself free despite the searing pain in my knee. “I am laughing because the legendary Chief Inspector Pierce is nothing but a brainless puppet!” Pierce’s eyes flared with rage. “You want to die?” Ignoring the blood dripping down my neck, I spoke at a breakneck speed. “If I wanted to commit treason, why would I be stupid enough to sew the Harrington family’s exclusive silk thread and custom stitching onto the effigy?” “Furthermore, I’ve only been back in this house for five days. How could a girl from the countryside coordinate a high-level political conspiracy right under your nose?” A cold smile touched my lips. “This is a setup. Kill me as the scapegoat, and the real traitor walks away clean. Are you really going to let someone use you as a cheap weapon, Inspector?” Pierce stared at me, a flicker of doubt crossing his eyes. He hesitated. At that exact second, a prompt exploded in my brain. [Life-or-death flex successful!] [Shock value has broken the scale!] [Snatched item from target…] [Acquired.] My heart leapt. I immediately checked the system storage with my mind. The moment I saw what had materialized inside the space, I couldn’t help but burst into wild laughter right under Pierce’s blade. “Haha… Hahaha!” My blood-soaked laughter echoed through the silent study. It was over. I had won.

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My sister and I both had leukemia. Mine was worse. There was only enough money in our parents’ savings to treat one of us, so they decided to draw straws. I thought it was just a cruel twist of fate, an unbiased hand of destiny. But then I heard them arguing through the thin bedroom door, their voices raw and strained: “The longer straw went to Norah! She’s the eldest, and she’s the sicker one. We have to treat her first!” my father argued, his voice thick with a desperate logic. My mother’s voice broke, a jagged, agonizing sound. “We have to treat Grace first! Think about how many times Norah has been sick since she was a little girl!” “But Norah’s body… she’s always hovered right on the edge of death. We can’t let her drag Grace down with her!” I froze in the hallway. My mother wasn’t wrong. I had been fragile my entire life, constantly slipping from one medical crisis into the next. We used to be a comfortable, middle-class family, but my illness had stripped them of everything, leaving them buried under a mountain of medical debt. To keep us afloat, my parents each worked three jobs. They pushed themselves to the point of collapse, both of them ending up hospitalized from sheer exhaustion more than once. Through the crack in the door, I saw my mother cover her face, her shoulders shaking violently as she wept. “If we don’t save Grace first, I swear I’ll end my own life! I have to save at least one of my girls!” My father’s voice cracked, a heavy, choked sob. “Helen, you’re putting a knife to my throat.” I didn’t want to be the knife anymore. To save them from making an impossible choice, I spent weeks hoarding my sleeping pills. … 1 My parents didn’t know that even without the straws, I would have stepped aside for Grace. Though she was my younger sister, Grace had always felt like the older one. She accommodated me in everything, always putting my needs before her own. Whenever I was hospitalized, she was the one who stayed by my bedside, tending to my worst moments, cleaning up after me without a single complaint. Because of me, she turned down her hard-won acceptance letter to Boston University. A girl with a brilliant future ahead of her chose to stay home, working as a remote customer service representative just so she could be near to care for me. During the dark nights when the pain became too much and I tried to end it, Grace was always there to pull me back from the edge. She would kneel at my feet, clutching the fabric of my sweatpants, crying until she couldn’t breathe. “Norah, please. I’m begging you, don’t do this.” “If you go, what happens to Mom and Dad? What happens to me?” “As long as you’re here, this family has something to fight for. If you leave, we have nothing left.” My parents, too, would weep at my bedside, their tears hot and heavy on my skin, pleading with me to hold on. They told me to trust that medicine was advancing. They begged me to believe I would get better. If those tears hadn’t burned themselves into my heart, I would have surrendered a long time ago. From the hallway, I heard the front door click open. My mother called out toward my room, her voice carrying its usual weary edge: “Norah, your father and I are heading out to work. Dinner is on the table.” I opened my bedroom door just as they walked out into the humid summer evening. Standing on the threshold, I managed a soft smile and called out after them, “Okay. Stay safe out there, Mom, Dad.” That was my last look at them. My last time calling them Mom and Dad. My last smile. My last goodbye. After tonight, I would no longer be a burden. I walked over to the dining table, holding the small amber bottle of sleeping pills tightly in my palm. On the table sat pan-seared salmon—Grace’s favorite—and garlic green beans, which I loved. I emptied the pills, crushing them into the warm rice. I ate. I forced down every bite, swallowing the bitter residue of the medication along with the food. When I couldn’t eat another bite, I dragged myself to my bed and lay down. I didn’t even have the strength left to write a note. I simply closed my eyes, and let the darkness take me. I didn’t know how much time had passed when the sound of the front door unlocking woke me—or rather, woke whatever was left of me. My father’s heavy, exhausted breathing and my mother’s familiar, fretful sigh breathed life back into the quiet house. Then, my mother saw my empty plate and unwashed fork sitting on the table. Instantly, her irritation flared. She marched toward my bedroom door, her voice sharp with exhaustion: “You can’t even rinse your own plate? Having leukemia doesn’t make you royalty, Norah!” “Your sister is sick too, and she’s online working all day, yet you can’t bother to wash a single dish!” “You don’t think about anyone but yourself. Sometimes I think you’re trying to drive me to an early grave.” She muttered as she clattered the dishes in the sink, her movements loud and deliberate, radiating resentment. I sat up, reaching out to open my bedroom door, only to find my hand passing straight through the wood. My vision blurred as I drifted through the paneling, standing suddenly in the middle of the living room. That was when I realized I was dead. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I whispered. But the apology was nothing more than a vapor, leaving no trace in the air. Grace walked in just then, her face pale but her expression gentle as she tried to soothe our mother. “Mom, Norah probably just wasn’t feeling well. You know she usually helps out when she has the strength.” 2 She managed to coax a small, weary smile onto our mother’s face. “You’re the only one who understands,” my mother murmured, lowering her voice as she pulled a warm, foil-wrapped burrito from her purse—the cheap, greasy kind from the truck down the street that Grace loved. “Eat this before your sister sees. Go on, eat it outside.” She gently nudged Grace toward the door. A dull ache bloomed in my chest. Normally, my mother never showed favoritism. Poverty had stripped our home of any luxury, and on the rare occasions my parents could afford a treat, they bought two of the exact same thing to ensure everything was perfectly equal. They had never let me see even a shadow of bias. I reached out, trying to touch my mother’s cheek. You don’t have to hide it anymore, Mom, I thought. You can love her openly now. Grace smiled, though her eyes remained tired, and she stepped out onto the porch. My spirit drifted out after her. She tore into the burrito, eating with a desperate, ravenous hunger, as if she hadn’t eaten in days. I reached out, trying to pat her back. “Slow down, Gracie. Slow down, no one’s going to take it from you.” But as she chewed, fat tears began to spill over her eyelashes, dripping onto the foil. She kept eating, swallowing her tears along with the food, her throat working hard. Panic seized me. “Gracie? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” She heard nothing. She finished the food, wiped her eyes quickly, and took a deep, stabilizing breath. Forcing her face into a neutral mask, she opened the door and walked back inside. My parents had set the table with a simple dinner of broth and bread. “Dinner’s ready, Your Highness!” my mother called toward my room, her tone laced with bitterness. Three minutes passed. No movement. My father rubbed his lower back, wincing at the chronic ache, and walked over to knock on my door. “Norah? Come eat, sweetheart.” Still, silence. Grace tried next, her voice playful. “Hey, sleeping beauty, dinner’s on the table!” Nothing. My mother’s patience snapped. She yanked off her apron, marching toward my room, her voice rising to a crescendo of anger: “Are you giving us the silent treatment because we’re treating your sister first? You drew the short straw, Norah! It was luck, pure luck!” “Your sister has sacrificed everything for you! How can you be selfish enough to punish this entire family over a drawing?” She reached for the doorknob, her posture tense, ready for a confrontation. My father stood behind her, assuming I was throwing a tantrum, and called through the wood: “Norah, we don’t have the money. If we did, we would have put both of you in the hospital tomorrow. You know that.” Grace quickly stepped between them, trying to calm them down. Even though I knew they couldn’t see or hear me, I cried out, defending myself to the empty air: “I’m not angry! I swear I’m not!” Grace opened the door, slipping inside to mediate. On the bed, my body lay beneath the heavy quilt, curled on my side, my face turned toward the drywall. Grace sat on the edge of the mattress, glancing over at the still form. My spirit tensed, terrified she would realize the truth and be traumatized—yet equally terrified that if they didn’t find me soon, the summer heat would do unspeakable things to my remains. “Come on, Norah. Don’t be mad at us,” Grace coaxed, keeping her voice light. She only looked at the blanket for a brief second before looking away. She didn’t notice the absolute stillness of my chest. Instead, she smiled, her voice taking on a forced, bright quality. “I have great news. I bought a scratch-off ticket today and won fifty thousand dollars!” “Norah, we can go to the hospital together now. We can both get the treatment.” She was smiling, but her eyes were hollow, filled with a quiet, devastating grief. My heart hammered in my chest. She hadn’t won any lottery. At that moment, the screen of her phone lit up in her hand. A text message banner popped up: We’re getting the marriage license tomorrow. The check will clear the second we sign. The text was from Brody Harrington. I screamed, throwing myself in front of Grace, trying to block her view of the screen. “What are you doing? Are you insane? You can’t marry Brody!” Brody Harrington was dying of pancreatic cancer. The doctors had given him six months. Before his diagnosis, he had been a notorious playboy, his reputation dragged through every gutter in the city. He was the Harringtons’ only son, and his wealthy family was desperate. They had put up flyers all over town, offering fifty thousand dollars to any young woman willing to marry him and try to conceive an heir before he passed. The flyers had stayed up for three months; no respectable girl would sell her life to a dying, cruel man for any amount of money. 3 “Gracie, please! I’m already dead! You don’t have to ruin your life for me!” I wept, my voice tearing in my throat, but she sat there, her painted-on smile never wavering. I fell to my knees, grabbing at the fabric of her jeans, shaking her legs with all the strength my spectral form could muster. She felt nothing. “The doctor said if we start early, the survival rate is really high,” Grace whispered to the silent room. “We’re going to be okay, Norah.” She reached out and gave my arm a gentle shake through the heavy quilt. “I won fifty thousand dollars. Aren’t you happy for me?” My parents walked into the room, seeing Grace practically begging for a response while I remained silent beneath the blankets. My mother’s anger flared instantly. “Norah! Your sister is practically on her knees, and you’re still ignoring her?” “You are unbelievable! Grace does nothing but think of you, and this is how you treat her?” “Do you even have a heart? Throwing a fit over a stupid drawing!” Grace stood up, gently pulling our mother back, begging her to stop. But my mother stood in the doorway, her face flushed with anger, pointing a trembling finger at the shape under the blanket. “I am asking you one last time. Are you coming out to eat or not?” My father, wanting to keep the peace, reached over and patted my shoulder through the quilt. “Norah, you’re usually so sensible. Your mother and I have to get to work soon. Just get up and eat. Don’t make her worry.” To pay for my treatments, they lived on barely four hours of sleep a night. During the day, my father worked construction while my mother cleaned houses. Late at night, they packaged wholesale goods at a local warehouse. Except for the days of my major surgeries, they worked every single day of the year, even holidays. I stood beside them, my face drenched in tears, suffocated by guilt. When the blanket didn’t move, my mother threw her hands up. “Fine! Starve then! I work myself to the bone every day just to come home to this attitude!” Grace gently led her out into the living room. “Let her cool down, Mom. I’ll bring some food in for her later.” Because they were running late for their shift, my parents didn’t push any further. At the dinner table, Grace lied to them, spinning the story of the fifty-thousand-dollar lottery win. My parents believed her. For the first time in years, a genuine, breathless joy filled the room. They held each other, weeping, thinking that maybe, just maybe, God had finally looked down on us with mercy. After dinner, they got ready to leave for the night shift. My father groaned as he stood up, his spine popping with a sickening sound. Grace winced, begging him to stay home for just one night to rest his back. Years of heavy labor had bent his six-foot frame, and at forty-five, his hair was entirely white. He looked twenty years older than his age, and the dust from the construction sites had given him a chronic, hacking cough. Seeing him ruined like this because of my illness made me feel like an anchor dragging them into the depths. Above the couch hung their old wedding photo. My father had been so handsome, his posture straight and proud; my mother had been radiant, her eyes bright with hope. Now, they were grey-faced, wearing faded, thrift-store clothes. My father ignored Grace’s pleas, offering a weak smile. “It’s fine, Gracie. Just a little stiff.” My mother called out loudly, making sure her voice carried into my bedroom: “We were supposed to have tonight off, but your father insisted on picking up an extra shift so we can buy Norah that winter coat she needed. We are killing ourselves for you girls!” 4 I threw myself against the front door, spreading my arms as if I could physically block them. “I’m dead! I’m already dead! You don’t have to work tonight!” I screamed until my throat burned. They walked right through my chest, their hurried footsteps fading down the stairwell. Grace’s laptop chimed from her room—her supervisor reminding her to log on. She quickly set a plate of food on my nightstand. “Norah, I have to log on for my shift. Here’s your dinner. Please eat.” Then, she hurried into the tiny, windowless closet she called her bedroom. It was barely wide enough for a twin mattress, but she had moved in there years ago so I could have the larger bedroom to accommodate my medical equipment. My spirit sat beside her as her fingers flew across the keyboard, answering customer inquiries like a machine. She didn’t even take a break to drink water. She was only a year younger than me, but she had carried the weight of an entire family on her shoulders. By the time her shift ended in the early hours of the morning, our parents had dragged themselves home. They were too tired to speak, collapsing onto their bed with their boots still on. My mother, half-asleep, mumbled to my father, “Did Norah ever eat?” My father was already asleep and didn’t answer. Within seconds, my mother fell silent too. I hovered over them, sobbing quietly. No matter how angry she was, she still worried about whether I had eaten. The next morning, my cousin was getting married in the suburbs, and my parents were expected to attend the afternoon reception. Grace woke up early and put on a simple white sundress. I recognized it instantly—it was the dress Luke had bought her years ago. She kept it wrapped in tissue paper like a holy relic. My mother came into my room to say goodbye. “We’re heading to the wedding now. Your father and I will be back tonight.” Then she saw the untouched plate of food on the nightstand, the film of grease cold and congealed. Her face hardened. She stepped over to the bed and slapped my thigh hard through the blanket. “What is wrong with you! Who are you trying to punish by starving yourself? We told you both of you are getting treated! What more do you want from us?” Grace ran in, pulling her away. My mother, furious, reached over and unplugged the window AC unit. “Running the AC all day—do you think electricity is free? You’ve let this illness turn you into a spoiled brat!” I never kept the AC on to save money. I had only turned it on that last night because I wanted to go quietly, comfortably. Grace quickly ushered our mother out of the apartment. My spirit followed them to the reception hall. When the wedding ended, my Aunt Diane pulled my parents into a quiet corner of the venue. She took my mother’s hand, her face tight with a solemn, practical concern. “Helen, we’re sisters, so I’m going to speak plainly. I talked to a specialist. Norah’s prognosis is terminal. Instead of letting her slip away and leaving you with nothing but debt, you should consider putting her on the organ donor registry. If you sign the papers, the hospital network offers a massive stipend. It would pay for Grace’s treatment and secure your retirement.” I froze beside my mother. Part of me expected her to consider it. It made sense. But my mother violently yanked her hand away, her face turning crimson with rage. “How dare you!” she screamed, her voice echoing in the small room. “She is my daughter! What did she ever do to you that you would stand there and pray for her death?” “I have never asked you for a single dime, and you’re standing here trying to sell my child’s body?” She pointed a shaking finger at her sister’s face. “How much did they offer you to pitch this to me? You are a monster! Don’t you ever call yourself my sister again!” She didn’t just scream; she severed the relationship right then and there. She and my father walked all the way back to the city to save the four dollars on subway fare, my mother crying the entire three-hour walk. My spirit walked between them, holding my mother’s trembling hand on one side and my father’s on the other. The weight of their grief and love was suffocating. When we finally got back to the apartment, Grace was in her tiny room, crying silently as she typed a message. Brody’s mother had gone back on her word. She was only giving Grace twenty-five thousand dollars now; the remaining twenty-five thousand wouldn’t be paid until Grace was confirmed pregnant. This meant Grace couldn’t afford to start her own treatments alongside mine. Hearing the front door, Grace quickly dried her eyes and went out to greet our parents. She brought a basin of warm water for my father’s feet, and as she knelt to massage my mother’s swollen calves, she spoke softly: “Mom, let’s have Norah go first. Dr. Shepherd is the lead oncologist, and if we both go in at the same time, he won’t be able to oversee both of our surgeries. I want Norah to have the best doctor. I can wait a few weeks.” The lie was seamless, delivered with a gentle, reassuring smile. My mother pulled Grace into her arms, weeping with a mixture of relief and guilt. “My sweet Gracie. You are always so good.” Grace smiled, her white teeth showing in the dim light. “I’m your girl, Mom. I’ve got us.” I stood in the corner, the waves of grief and helplessness crashing over me until I felt like I was drowning. The next morning, my parents packed our worn duffel bags for the hospital. Grace and my mother walked to my bedroom door to wake me. As the door swung open, a heavy, sweet odor drifted into the hallway. They both frowned slightly, but assumed it was just the summer heat trapping the stuffy air in the room. “Rise and shine, big sister!” Grace called out, her voice bright. “Today’s the day!” My mother stepped in, her voice softening. “Come on, Norah. Don’t be mad anymore.” Grace smiled and pulled back the heavy quilt. The stench of decay hit them like a physical blow. Grace’s smile froze. Her face drained of all color, turning a horrifying, translucent white.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “463655”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel