Author: Momo Chan

For as long as I can remember, I was my mother’s teaching prop. My mother, a decorated and highly praised educator, didn’t just teach at school; she brought her curriculum home. And I was the lesson plan she used to discipline my older brother and sister. When we were kids, my brother, Luke, accidentally cracked another boy’s head open with a toy during a backyard fight. When the furious parents stormed our porch demanding justice, my mother didn’t yell at Luke. Instead, she picked up a loose brick from the garden bed and smashed it directly against my forehead. “There,” she said, looking at the horrified neighbors. “We’re even now. Is that enough?” Luke stared at the blood pouring down my face, too terrified to speak. He never got into another fight. When my sister, Camille, lost her motivation to study, my mother forced me to decline my early admission offer to Columbia. She made me sit at the desk beside Camille, night after night, matching her grueling study hours. Camille couldn’t bear to watch me ruin my future just to keep her company. She studied herself to exhaustion, eventually getting the grades that finally made our mother smile. As adults, Luke became a detective. To ensure he’d secure a massive promotion and the kind of career-making commendation she coveted, my mother drugged my tea with sleeping pills and delivered me into the hands of a dangerous human trafficking ring. I was supposed to be his informant, his fast track to glory. But I had no training. I was exposed instantly. When the gang fled their hideout, they didn’t have time to take me with them. Instead, they drove a knife deep into my abdomen, over and over, before leaving me to bleed out on a dirty cabin floor. I heard Luke got on his knees, begging our mother, sobbing as he cracked his forehead against the hardwood floor, pleading with her to tell him where she had dumped me. By the time they found the cabin, my breath was already slipping away. In the haze of the shadows, I closed my eyes. Mom, please. No more lessons. …… I am shivering, cold to my bones. It’s the hallmark of massive blood loss. I’ve already blacked out once. I don’t know how long it’s been, but I’m awake again. And I can hear Luke calling my name. He’s close, but not close enough. If he can just find this room, maybe I’ll survive. I look toward the heavy wooden door. My hands and feet are bound behind my back. I drag myself forward, inch by painful inch, using only my toes to propel my weight. One of my legs… when I tried to run earlier, they caught me and shattered it with an iron pipe. Dragging it across the concrete floor sends a white-hot agony straight to my chest, leaving a thick, smeared trail of dark blood behind me. I have to stop, gasping for air, paralyzed by the pain. At the limit of my endurance, I hear Luke’s desperate voice outside, begging her. “Mom, I am begging you. Tell me the truth. Is she in there?” He asks again and again. Finally, her voice drifts through the cracks—airy, casual, as if my life were an afterthought. “Should be. If my memory serves.” Luke sounds like he’s on the verge of madness. “Mom! That is a human life!” Camille’s voice cuts through, raw and screaming. “She’s my sister! She’s your own daughter!” I try to open my mouth. I want to tell them not to worry, to tell them I’m here. But nothing comes out. The broken bone in my leg has already gone septic, fueling a raging fever that has stolen my voice. I am mute. I clench my fists, hating my own weakness. If only I could scream, they wouldn’t have to beg her. I could save myself. But this is how it has always been. When Luke snuck out to the river to catch fish, my mother held my head underwater in the rain barrel until I nearly drowned. When Camille talked back, my mother slapped me across the face. When Luke was rumored to have a high school girlfriend, my mother dragged me onto the stage during the morning assembly, ripping my school jacket off in front of the entire student body, calling me a shameless tramp to teach him a lesson about purity. To her, I was never a child. I was a puppet she whipped so the others would fall in line. Because she knew Luke and Camille loved me. They would do anything to keep me from hurting. And now, to buy Luke a medal, she dumped me in this godforsaken, abandoned town. They beat me. They tore my clothes and pinned me to the dirt. I couldn’t even tell where the pain was coming from anymore; the darkness and the light blurred into one endless, agonizing night. I wanted to die. But then I thought of Luke. Every time our mother punished me, his eyes would fill with a crushing guilt. If I died here, that guilt would eat him alive. I had dragged him down for too long by simply being her hostage. Only if I survived, only if I stopped fearing her, could he finally break free. I bite my lip until it bleeds, crawling forward. When I reach the door, I lift my heavy head and strike it against the wood. Thud. Thud. Thud. It’s too quiet. I have no strength left. Outside, Luke’s voice fades slightly as he calls my name elsewhere. I close my eyes, take one last shallow breath, and slam my forehead against the door with everything I have. This time, the heavy iron chain wrapped around the outside of the door rattles loudly. Footsteps approach. Sharp, familiar. They stop right outside. Hope flares in my chest. I strike the door again. But the footsteps start up again, moving away. I hear her call out to Luke. “Nothing in here! Go check the barn over there!” My heart plummets into a freezing void. That last strike took everything. My mind is spinning, my eyelids heavier than lead. If they believe her, I won’t survive the hour. But Camille doesn’t believe her. She knows our mother too well. When Emma wants something, she will lie, manipulate, and burn the world down to get it. Two minutes later, Camille’s footsteps return. She stops at the door. “Gwen? Gwen, are you in there?” I manage a tiny, pathetic whimper. She knocks. Hearing no answer, she doesn’t walk away. She begins to kick the door with violent, desperate force. The loud, metallic clanking echoes through the quiet courtyard, drawing our mother back instantly. “What are you doing? Stop wasting time and look elsewhere!” Luke runs back, his voice thick with accusation. “Mom, you heard her in there, didn’t you? Why are you lying to me?” Emma stammers, her voice tight with guilty defensiveness. “No… Luke, you don’t trust your own mother? I told you, she isn’t here!” “Then let me look! Let me open the door so I can see for myself!” She snaps. I can picture her perfectly—arms spread wide, blocking the door, throwing one of her calculated tantrums. “You ungrateful boy! I did this for you! Why can’t you see that?” “The more desperate she is when you ‘finally’ find her, the bigger the rescue looks on the report! Think of the press! Think of your promotion!” “Besides, she has enough energy to knock on the door. She’s fine! A few more days of hunger won’t kill her!” Her voice drifts, waxing and waning in my ears. My soul turns to ice. Mom, if you knew I was using the last of my life force just to rattle this chain, would you still say that? The men who tore my clothes were viler than you were on that high school stage. I learned that when your dignity is stripped away, it isn’t just your heart that aches. When they broke my leg, I passed out from the pain, only to be awoken by a bucket of freezing water, my head forced up so I had to watch the pipe strike my bone again. If you saw that, Mom, would you feel even a flicker of pity? Tears finally spill over my eyelids, hot and useless. Outside, Luke runs off and returns. He doesn’t waste time arguing. I hear the heavy thud of something metal—a crowbar or a rock—smashing against the chain. My mother’s hysterical wailing starts up. “Oh, look at this! What a tragedy! I do everything to help you, and this is how you treat me?” When she realizes Luke isn’t stopping, her fake tears vanish, replaced by sharp venom directed at Camille. “I sacrificed my youth to raise you two! I thought of your future every single day, and you don’t have a shred of gratitude!” “If you still respect me as your mother, you will walk away and look again tomorrow!” “Would I ever hurt you?” No. She would never hurt Luke or Camille. But she would gladly destroy me to build them up. When I was a child, I didn’t understand why she loved them and hated me. I thought I was flawed. I tried to be the perfect, quiet daughter. I swept the floors, cooked the meals, took her blows without crying, and apologized for my siblings’ mistakes. It took me a lifetime to realize the fault was never mine. The noise outside stops. Through the crack under the door, I can see the silhouettes of Luke, Camille, and Emma. The outer gate has been breached. The lock on this inner door isn’t clicked shut yet—the chain is just wrapped around the handles. If they just unwrap it, I am free. But just as Luke’s eyes land on the door, my mother grabs his arm. “Oh, fine, fine! You’ve always been so stubborn.” “To tell you the truth, I did find her. But she’s in the cabin down the road.” Luke’s eyes light up. He is so desperate to save me that he falls for her trap again. “I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t lie about this.” Camille demands, “Where exactly?” Emma points down the path and hands them a key. “Three doors down on the left.” Luke turns to run, but hesitates. “Aren’t you coming?” Emma feigns exhaustion. “I can’t walk another step! My blood pressure is already through the roof. Why should I go just to make myself sick?” They don’t wait. Their frantic footsteps fade down the dirt road. With them goes my last breath of hope. And then, the sound that truly kills me. Click. A sharp, definitive metallic snap. She just locked the padlock. I hear her quiet, smug sneer through the wood. “Think you can outsmart me? You’re still just children. You have a lot to learn.” Down the road, Luke and Camille realize they’ve been tricked. Within minutes, they are running back. When Luke sees the padlock clicked shut, the horrific truth hits him. “Mom! Have you lost your mind?!” Camille’s voice is trembling violently as she presses her face to the door. “Gwenny! I’m here! Don’t be scared, baby, I’m going to get you out!” A tear slips down my cheek. At least someone in this world cared. But then, the sliver of light beneath the door is blocked. My mother has pressed her back against the wood, shielding the lock with her body. “Get her out? How? With what authority?” “I told you to go to medical school, Camille, but you insisted on law. Look at you now! When someone actually needs saving, all you can do is stand there and watch!” Luke tries to shove her aside. “I’m going to save her! I’m a cop!” Emma slaps his hand away, her voice rising to a screech. “You are soft! You have the weak heart of a woman!” “I don’t care what you say—today, you listen to me! If you want to open this door, you’ll have to kill me and step over my corpse!” Their defiance has wounded her pride. To her, this is no longer about my life; it is about her absolute authority. I can feel the blood from my stomach winding its way up my chest, warm and sticky, pooling under my chin. I lay my head down, trying to get closer to the only source of warmth I have left. “Luke… Camille… goodbye…” “Live… well…” I whisper the words, but there is no sound. Yet, somehow, they hear me. Through the shifting shadow of my mother’s flailing body, I see their bloodshot eyes. “Mom, when is this sick game going to end?!” Luke roars. Emma begins to sob—the same theatrical, manipulative weep she used whenever they disobeyed her. As children, we thought she was genuinely hurt. As adults, we realized it was just her ultimate weapon, betting on their kindness to force their submission. “A game? I did everything for you! And now you treat your own mother like an enemy?” “If you keep acting like this, the moment she comes out of that room, I’m locking her in the coal cellar for a week!” The coal cellar. Every time they slipped up, I was the one thrown into the pitch-black void. The absolute darkness that swallowed my childhood and left me with a paralyzing, suffocating phobia of the dark. Even now, I can’t sleep without a light on. And my escape failed tonight because when the sun set, the panic took over. My limbs went numb, cold sweat poured down my neck, and I froze in the shadows, waiting to be recaptured. Mom, you won’t have to lock me away this time. I am about to be locked in the dark forever. Luke doesn’t argue. “She has to survive first!” he screams. While Camille tackles our mother, pinning her arms, Luke lunges forward. He raises a heavy iron hammer and smashes it against the lock. Once. Twice. The door rattles violently against the chain. Finally, the lock shatters. Through the haze, I hear Luke’s voice echoing from a great distance. “Get the medics! She’s in here!” Then, chaos. Shuffling feet. Heavy hands pressing hard against my bleeding abdomen. I am lifted onto a stretcher. “She’s flatlining! Her pulse is barely detectable!” a paramedic yells. “We need to hook her up to the life support unit immediately, but it’s an expensive procedure and we need immediate consent from an immediate family member!” “Ma’am, you need to sign this waiver right now!” The rustle of paper. Emma takes one look at the form and throws it into the dirt. “How much? Are you people running a hospital or a highway robbery?” “Is this a rescue or a shakedown? I am not signing this!” The paramedics exchange stunned, helpless glances. The clock is ticking, but without a signature, their hands are tied. Luke snatches the paper from the mud, begging for a pen. “I’ll sign it! I’m her brother! I’m immediate family!” But before his pen can touch the line, Emma tears the paper out of his hands. With a series of sharp, violent rips, she shreds the document into tiny white flakes. Camille looks like she wants to tear her throat out. “Emma! Do you actually want her dead?!” Emma’s voice remains level, terrifyingly calm. “Stop yelling at me! She is acting!” “I am her mother. Do you think I don’t know her? She’s doing this because she can’t handle a little hardship, and she doesn’t care about your brother’s career. What use is she to us if she’s this selfish?” “Don’t worry. I already called the county hospital’s ambulance. They’re cheaper. Waiting a little longer won’t kill her.” She sneers at the paramedics. “Who knows if these city people are just trying to scam us?” “You kids have had it too easy. You don’t know the value of a dollar. Always throwing money away.” My soul hovers in the damp air of the courtyard, watching Luke drop to his knees, burying his face in his hands. Camille’s shoulders shake with violent, silent sobs. The paramedics quietly pack up their gear, their faces grim. And Emma stands there, hands on her hips, smug and self-righteous, lecturing the empty air. I shake my head. When you reach the absolute limit of disappointment, there is only a vast, echoing silence. I don’t even feel the pain anymore. Mom, there is no ‘later’ for us. You will never have to worry about me again. The mountain roads are treacherous; the county ambulance takes over an hour to arrive. For sixty minutes, Luke holds my cold, stiff body in his arms, rubbing my hands to keep them warm. Camille kneels beside him, her tears soaking into my torn shirt. But neither of them has the courage to put their fingers to my neck to check if my pulse has stopped. When the doctor finally arrives, a desperate hope flickers in their eyes. They scramble back, letting the doctor kneel beside me. But the doctor only takes one look at my dilated pupils, listens for a second, and sighs, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry. She’s gone.” Emma’s face drains of color instantly.

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They call me a gold digger. It’s the label that has defined me ever since my wedding day, when I halted the ceremony and refused to walk down the aisle unless my groom—the sole heir to a multi-billion-dollar empire—handed over half a million dollars in cold, hard cash. From that day on, in Christian’s eyes, every breath I took had a transaction fee. If I made sure his dinner was warm when he came home late, I was looking for a handout. If I fell ill, I was staging a tragedy to solicit a wire transfer. Even when I worked eighty-hour weeks at Albright Industries, refusing a salary to prove my dedication, he simply assumed I was playing the long game—positioning myself to clean him out for good. It took Christian accusing me of faking a high fever for the ninety-ninth time, leaving me shivering on the floor while he jetted off for a weekend getaway with another woman, for something inside me to finally snap. I took our marriage certificate and went to file for divorce. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the clerk said, pushing the paper back to me with a look of quiet pity. “But this certificate is a counterfeit. According to our system, you’re still single. We’ll have to confiscate this.” Her words echoed in my skull all the way back to the empty mansion. I wanted to call Christian. I wanted to scream, to ask him why. But when I reached his study to look for proof of our filing, the heavy mahogany door was slightly ajar. I stopped when I heard his friend Wyatt’s laughter drifting out. “So, Christian, you never actually registered the license with the gold digger? You’re playing the field openly, and you aren’t even worried she’ll walk?” Christian’s voice was cool, dismissive, entirely stripped of the warmth he used to possess. “Just make sure she doesn’t find out about the fake certificate. If she wants to blame someone, she can blame her own greed. She failed the test. Every time I remember her demanding cash at the altar, I feel sick. Registering a real marriage with a woman like that would only tarnish what little love I have left.” Behind the door, a cold, hollow laugh escaped my lips. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I had kept blocked for months—the direct line to Christian’s fiercest competitor. “You know that offer you made? The one where you said you’d pay handsomely for core intelligence?” I whispered, my voice steadying with every syllable. “How much are we talking?” If they wanted me to be a gold digger, I might as well start digging. 1 Wyatt’s laughter boomed through the hallway. “Man, you really pulled off a masterpiece on the wedding day. Hiring those fake debt collectors to show up, claiming her little sister Michelle owed half a million dollars in predatory student loans… threatening to sue her and have her expelled right before her finals. Pure genius.” A test. The word detonated in my feverish brain. I stumbled back, my limbs turning to lead, dragging myself toward my bedroom like a ghost navigating a graveyard. On my wedding day, Michelle, always my sweet, responsible little sister, had vanished. Then came the video on my phone. She was bound to a wooden chair by the docks, crying, while a rough voice demanded $500,000. My father—a man whose only consistent trait was his gambling addiction—had already run off with the trust money Christian’s family had set aside for us. I was entirely broke. To the wealthy elite sitting in the pews, half a million dollars was pocket change. To me, it was a mountain. It was my sister’s life. So I did the only thing I could do. In my white tulle wedding gown, I fell to my knees in front of Christian, sobbing, begging him to lend me the money. I will never forget the disgust etched into his handsome face. “Jane,” he’d said, looking down at me as if I were dirt under his leather shoes. “Did you seriously choose today, of all days, to shake me down for cash?” “I told you,” I had cried, grabbing the hem of his trousers. “Once we’re married, Michelle is my sister too. I’ll handle everything. But please, I need it now. It’s a loan, I swear I’ll pay you back!” He shook his head, stepping away from my touch. No matter how low I bowed, no matter how much I wept, he refused. In the five years that followed, I lived in a prison of my own guilt. I blamed myself for not watching over Michelle closely enough, for failing to hide the trust funds from my father, for humiliating Christian in front of high society. I took his coldness, his mockery, and his affairs without a single word of complaint because I believed I deserved it. But it was a play. A performance. A twisted loyalty test written, produced, and directed by Christian Albright. I opened my phone, pulled Devon Sinclair out of my blocked contacts, and tapped out a message. How much is the proprietary trade data worth to you? My fingers shook as I pressed send. Not from fear, but from the sheer, icy chill that had settled into my bones. For five years, I had worked at Albright Industries as an unpaid consultant. I had structured their green energy portfolios, optimized their supply chains, and reviewed their unreleased financial reports. I knew every secret they had. A single leak would ruin them. Yet, even as the message delivered, a small, pathetic part of me hesitated. Just wait, I told myself. Maybe he has a shred of humanity left. Maybe you don’t have to burn it all down. The fever was clawing at my throat, and the shock of what I’d heard made the room spin. The edges of my vision went dark. As I started to fall, my hand instinctively reached out, catching the sleeve of a passerby. “Please… get me some medicine,” I rasped. Before I could even register his scent, a harsh force shoved me away. I hit the hardwood floor, hard. Christian stood over me, brushing off his sleeve with blatant disgust. “Jane! Are you seriously addicted to the drama? Acting out a tragic collapse right in the hallway? Do you think I don’t see right through you?” I swallowed the metallic taste of blood in my mouth, forcing my voice to carry a rare, sharp edge. “What if I am? You call me a gold digger, Christian. But tell me—have you given me a single dollar since the day we allegedly married?” Even the $500,000 I supposedly “extorted” from him had been wired back to his account the moment Michelle was released. And the millions I had generated for Albright Industries over the last five years? I hadn’t seen a cent of it. I owed him nothing. If I hadn’t spent consecutive nights working myself to the bone to save his logistics department, my immune system wouldn’t have collapsed. “Christian,” I whispered, tears finally spilling over. “If you want me to die on this floor tonight, go ahead. Walk out.” I tried to wipe the tears away, but they kept coming, hot and relentless. A flash of hesitation crossed his eyes, gone as quickly as it came. He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and threw a few thousand dollars into my personal account via an app. “Take the money and cut the act. It’s pathetic.” By the time the notification popped up on my screen, his footsteps were already fading down the driveway. I slumped against the baseboard, crying out with the last of my strength. “Is anyone there? Please, help me to bed.” The house remained dead silent. A maid walked past the end of the hall, glanced at me, and kept walking. I had forgotten. In this house, I wasn’t the lady of the manor. I was just the gold digger who had forced her way in. I crawled to my feet, bracing myself against the walls, but the darkness claimed me before I even reached the door. 2 When I woke up, the smell of antiseptic hit my nose. I was in a private hospital room. Across from my bed, Christian was leaning over Gemma Hart, his hand resting tenderly on her stomach. In five years, Christian had cycled through dozens of women, but Gemma was different. She had lasted the longest. She was the one he kept. I stared at them, my voice hollow. “Christian. Are we actually married?” I put weight on the word married, but he didn’t even flinch. He slowly drew his hand back from Gemma’s stomach, looking at me with nothing but annoyance. “Jane, have you forgotten how you forced me to take you in? Is that half-million-dollar stunt not engraved in your mind?” He sneered, stepping closer. “I thought you’d learned your place. I didn’t realize you’d resort to a cheap pregnancy scare to get my attention.” He threw a folder at my chest. The sharp edge of the medical report sliced a neat line across my cheek, but I barely felt it. I was staring at the bold black letters on the page. Gestational age: 8 weeks. Patient: Jane Callahan. I was pregnant. Christian snatched the paper back, ripping it into shreds and tossing them into the trash. “I used protection every single time, Jane. So why don’t you explain to me whose bastard you’re carrying?” Ever since he branded me a gold digger, he had been meticulous. He wore protection, and he made sure I took the morning-after pill under his supervision because he was terrified I would use a child to anchor myself to his fortune. To him, I was a body to use, nothing more. But two months ago, he had come home completely drunk, throwing himself over me in a desperate, unprotected frenzy that lasted until dawn. That was when this child was conceived. While he fumed, a strange sense of peace washed over me. I rested a hand on my abdomen and looked him dead in the eye. “Whose bastard? Yours, Christian. You were blind drunk two months ago. I actually recorded a voice memo of you begging me that night, just in case you tried to play this exact card.” I reached for my phone, but before I could play it, he snatched the device from my hand, his face darkening with rage. “You recorded it? To blackmail me for cash? God, Jane, you really are a piece of work. A textbook gold digger.” The words didn’t hurt anymore. The armor of my apathy was complete. Before Christian could say another word, Gemma tugged at his sleeve, her eyes pooling with well-practiced tears. “Christian… you promised me you’d love our baby. You said you wanted this. But if Jane has her baby, my child will grow up labeled a bastard. If that’s the case, maybe our little one shouldn’t even come into this world.” I stared at Gemma’s stomach. When I first discovered Christian’s affairs, I used to scream and throw tantrums. He never comforted me, but he always told me the same thing: “They’re just toys, Jane. It’s dirty, it’s purely physical. I’d never let them have a child. There will never be a mistress taking your place.” And so, I had learned to look the other way. But those promises were like thin ice in the spring—fragile, beautiful, and utterly empty. The slight flicker of guilt in Christian’s eyes vanished the moment Gemma sniffled. He didn’t even look at me as he called the attending physician into the room. “Prepare her for an abortion,” he ordered. It was his child too. Yet, with a few soft words from Gemma, he was ready to discard it like trash. I gripped the bedsheets until my knuckles turned white. “Christian, you cannot perform a medical procedure on me without my consent. It’s illegal.” Predictably, we began to argue. The shouting escalated until Gemma stepped forward and delivered a stinging slap across my face. “Jane! How can you be so cruel to Christian? You’re just using this pregnancy to extort him! Fine, you want money? I’ll give you mine!” Gemma frantically pulled off her diamond bracelet, her rings, and her designer watch, piling them onto my lap with a theatrical sob. “Is this enough? Please, I beg you, let my child have a future!” She made a show of dropping to her knees, but Christian caught her before she hit the floor. “Gemma, don’t beg this leech. I decide what happens to my children. I’ll make sure you and our baby are taken care of.” He pulled a black Amex card from his wallet and threw it onto the bed. I didn’t look at it. My eyes were locked on the pile of jewelry Gemma had discarded. 3 I recognized those pieces. Several of them were items Christian had given me when we were first dating. I had kept them locked in my vanity drawer until they mysteriously vanished a few months ago. At the time, Christian had accused me of secretly selling them for quick cash. Michelle had defended me, arguing with him so fiercely that one of his security guards had pushed her down the stairs, breaking her arm. She was still in the hospital recovering. Even now, she was sitting up in her hospital bed with her arm in a cast, trying to study for her college entrance exams. “I can do this, Jane,” she had whispered through her tears. “I won’t let them ruin my future. I’ll pass.” The doctors had warned us that she might never regain full mobility in that hand, but Michelle refused to defer her exams. She didn’t want to burden me with another year of tuition. “Where did you get this jewelry?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. Gemma looked taken abandon by my tone, but she quickly recovered, offering a smug smile. “Christian gave them to me. Don’t worry, they’re entirely real—” Before she could finish, I snatched the heavy diamond necklace and slammed it into her face. Christian lunged forward to shield her, but I used the remaining strength in my arms to strike him across the temple with the heavy metal watch. But I was weak, and within seconds, Christian pinned my wrists to the mattress, his eyes blazing. “Are you out of your mind, Jane? Throwing a tantrum over some jewelry? I’ve given you millions of dollars’ worth of things over the years!” “If you hadn’t tried to shake me down on our wedding day, you’d have more jewelry than you could wear!” His words sliced through whatever remained of my heart. “You’re the one who is insane, Christian!” I screamed, the tears burning my throat. “You gave my jewelry to Gemma, and then you blamed me for selling it! You let your people throw my sister down the stairs! She’s about to take her exams, and her hand is shattered because of you!” The mention of Michelle made my chest tighten so hard I could barely breathe. If it weren’t for Christian, she wouldn’t have been subjected to a fake kidnapping at fifteen. She wouldn’t have spent her high school years traumatized, and she wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed with a ruined hand. Christian’s eyes flickered toward the jewelry on the floor. For a brief second, guilt registered on his face, but he quickly masked it with defensive anger. “So what? Your reputation is already ruined. Your sister’s arm isn’t a life-or-death situation—she’s in a private wing, isn’t she? It’s just an exam. She can retake it next year.” “And I just gave you my black card, didn’t I?” What good is a card you can freeze with a single swipe? “You want to call me a gold digger?” I laughed, a broken, hysterical sound. “Fine. Let’s make a deal. I want a direct wire transfer. Ten million dollars to buy my silence, my sister’s ruined hand, and the life of the child in my womb. Does that sound like a fair price, Mr. Albright?” Christian’s face twisted in disgust. “Five years of acting like a martyr, and you finally show your true colors. Even a beast wouldn’t sell her own child, Jane.” I wiped the tears from my eyes, holding up my phone to display my bank details. “We’re two of a kind, Christian. After all, you’re the one eager to pay to get rid of it.” His jaw clenched, but he pulled out his phone. A minute later, my phone buzzed. The transfer was complete. Seeing the balance, I let out a soft, humorless laugh. He sneered. “Does a little cash make you that happy? If it weren’t for… whatever. Just remember to play the part of Mrs. Albright when we’re in public.” I knew what he was going to say. He wanted to bring up the wedding day again. For five years, he had held that over my head like a leash. “Christian,” I said, looking at him with absolute clarity. “What would you do if I left?” He let out a sharp, mocking laugh, draping his arm around Gemma’s shoulders and rubbing her stomach. “Sweetheart,” he said to Gemma, “do you think a gold digger would ever willingly leave her cash cow?” Gemma giggled, and they shared a look of mutual amusement. Their laughter felt like a succession of physical blows, but I didn’t say another word. I quietly lay back down and let the nurses wheel me toward the operating room. I didn’t want the baby. Not because I was heartless, but because I refused to bring a child into this toxic cycle. I wouldn’t ruin my own future, or theirs, for a man who didn’t care if we lived or died. Right before the anesthesia took hold, my phone vibrated. It was a video file from an unknown number. I opened it. The background was my own bedroom. In the video, Christian was raw, desperate, and entirely consumed by Gemma in a way I had never seen. Even before he branded me a gold digger, Christian had always been gentle, almost reserved in bed. I realized then that it wasn’t his nature to be cold. It was just that I was never the woman who could ignite his passion. A wave of intense nausea hit me, and I threw up into a basin beside the operating table. As I mumbled an apology to the nurse, another text arrived from the same number. Do you honestly think he loves you, Jane? You’re just a placeholder to keep the Albright Group’s stock stable. You won’t last long. It was Gemma. I closed my eyes, laughing at my own stupidity. Even a mistress knew my marriage was a sham, yet I had spent five years trying to fix it. The messages kept coming. I’ll tell you the truth, Jane. Christian already promised to register a real marriage with me once the baby is born. You and your child are just stepping stones for me to walk over. I didn’t reply. Instead, I forwarded the video directly to my public social media feed. 4 The moment I was wheeled out of recovery, Christian dragged me out of the bed by my arm. “Jane! How can you be so vicious? I gave you the money! Why do you have to ruin Gemma’s life?” “Do you have any idea what posting that video will do to her reputation?” I wrenched my arm from his grip, my voice flat. “She sent me the video to brag. I thought I’d help her share it with the world.” Christian choked on his rage, dragging me down the corridor toward Gemma’s room. “Gemma would never do that! Do you think I’m stupid enough to believe a liar like you? Apologize to her. Now!” The sudden movement sent a sharp, tearing pain through my abdomen. I held myself upright, forcing my voice to remain steady. “I did nothing wrong. I won’t apol—” I stopped. Christian was holding up his phone, showing me a live video feed. In the video, Michelle was tied to a wheelchair, her mouth taped shut, tears streaming down her face. Next to her on the table was her college entrance exam ticket, torn neatly in half. Christian’s voice was low, dangerous. “You don’t want her future to go down the drain tomorrow, do you, Jane?” Under his cold, threatening gaze, my spirit finally broke. I deleted the post. I typed out a public statement, taking the blame for everything—claiming I was greedy, that I had fabricated the video to extort the Albright family, and that I was deeply sorry for the distress I had caused. “Is this enough?” I whispered, my teeth cutting into my lip until it bled. Christian nodded slowly, pocketing his phone. Once I confirmed Michelle was safe and released, Christian had his security guards lock me inside my bedroom at the mansion. He said it was for Gemma’s safety. I sat in the dark that night, staring at the ceiling. My mind wandered back to five years ago, when Michelle was kidnapped during her middle school exams. She had been a straight-A student, but after she was rescued, her grades plummeted. She ended up at a mediocre high school, but she never blamed me. She had only smiled and said, “It’s okay, Jane. I’ll make it up during the college entrance exams.” And now, I had ruined her life again. I saw Christian’s face in the dark—his smirk as he ordered the abortion, his arm around Gemma, his hand holding the video threat against my sister. Enough. I took a deep breath, opened my laptop, and compiled the master files of Albright Industries’ proprietary data. I sent them to Devon Sinclair. When I pressed send, I felt no fear. Only a profound, liberating peace. Ten minutes later, Devon replied with a single word: Received. Five minutes after that, a notification from my bank popped up. A sequence of numbers followed by six perfect zeros. I stared at the screen and smiled. You wanted a gold digger, Christian. Now watch me dig.

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Three years. My partner and I had finally put the syndicate behind bars. When they handed me our plane tickets home, I broke down and sobbed like a child. For three long years, I hadn’t slept a single night without one eye open. My partner, Paula, held me close, her voice a soothing murmur of comfort. But the words that tumbled from her lips sliced through me like a razor: “I wonder if the apple tree back home is still standing?” The tears dried instantly. The smile froze on my face. 01 “It’s over.” Paula’s voice was barely a whisper, heavy with the exhausting finality of dust settling after a storm. She held me tight, her arms wrapped around my shoulders with a desperate, crushing strength. Clutched in my fist were two boarding passes. The thin paper was already damp, soft from the sweat of my palms. Three years. Over a thousand days and nights. I hadn’t meant to cry, but the tears came anyway—unbidden, hot, and relentless—dripping one by one onto the shoulder of her charcoal-grey jacket. I felt like an idiot. But she didn’t laugh. She just kept rubbing her palm down my back, a slow, soothing rhythm. Her hand was warm, the heat of it radiating straight through my shirt. “We’re going home, Gavin.” I nodded, burying my face deeper into her shoulder. Around us, the airport hummed with chaotic energy. Strangers hurried past, and the PA system crackled with announcements in a foreign tongue I’d spent three years forcing myself to learn. Those voices felt so distant, yet so suffocatingly close. Like a dream I couldn’t quite wake up from. Then, she murmured it. “I wonder if the apple tree back home is still standing?” Every muscle in my face locked. The arms I had wrapped around her went entirely limp. The world fell dead silent. The roar of the airport, the static of the PA, the hurried footsteps of travelers—all of it vanished. I could only hear the sudden, violent thud of my own heart, hammering against my ribs like a caged beast. Blood rushed to my ears, then drained away just as fast, leaving me entirely hollow. Cold. So cold. Slowly, I pulled back and looked at her. Paula’s eyes were still soft, a gentle, comforting smile lingering at the corners of her lips. But deep in those eyes, something had shattered. And whatever had shattered in her took the rest of my soul with it. The apple tree. It was our trigger. A classified code established in the high-security bunker of Section Seven by Director Ward herself before we ever deployed. Operation: “Homecoming.” The condition for its activation: a fatal compromise of the mission. The directive: There is a traitor among us. Either Paula or I must be eliminated before the other can safely return. I stared at her, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “What did you just say?” The warmth drained from her face, leaving only a hollow, bone-deep exhaustion. “I said, it’s time to go.” She let go of me, smoothly taking the handle of my suitcase. The movement was effortless, completely natural. Exactly how she would have done it yesterday. But I knew. Everything had changed. The second she uttered “apple tree,” the bridge back to who we were crumbled into ash. Between us, there was now a gun. And it only held one bullet. Either she died. Or I did. In the car on the way back to the safehouse, neither of us spoke a word. I stared out the window at the blurred streets of the city we’d called home for three years. It was a humid, suffocating place, perpetually smelling of rotting tropical fruit and diesel exhaust. I used to despise it with every fiber of my being. Now, staring at it, I felt a strange, desperate fondness. Because the place we called “home” had just transformed into an execution chamber. Paula drove. Her hands on the steering wheel were steady, her knuckles pale. Those hands had defused pipe bombs. They had used a crude scalpel to dig a bullet out of my shoulder. They had handed me mugs of warm tea on countless sleepless, terrifying nights. And now, those same hands wouldn’t hesitate to snap my neck. My hand rested on my lap. Beneath my palm, tucked into the crease of my thigh, was a three-inch folding knife. I’d confiscated it from a target during yesterday’s raid. I hadn’t turned it in. The air inside the sedan grew thick, heavy as a swamp, pulling us down into a suffocating silence. In the rearview mirror, I could see her eyes. She was watching me. Our gazes locked in the reflection. No testing the waters. No raw malice. Just an abyss of nothingness. Three years of living in each other’s pockets meant we were too tired to pretend. I knew she knew. And she knew I knew. “Why?” I finally broke the silence. My voice was dry, scraping against my throat like sandpaper. “I don’t know,” she replied. She swung the car into a narrow, dirty alley, pulling up in front of an unassuming two-story brick building. Our safehouse. We used to call it our “makeshift home.” How sickeningly ironic. She turned off the ignition and pulled the key from the slot. “Get out.” “After you,” I said. She glanced at me, didn’t argue, and pushed her door open. I watched her walk toward the entrance. Lean, poised, and perfectly alert. For three years, that back had been my shield. I had trusted her to watch my blind spots through gunfire and betrayal. I had truly believed I could trust her forever. My fingers tightened around the hilt of the knife. She unlocked the heavy door but didn’t step inside. She stood on the threshold, waiting. “Together,” she said. I got out of the car and walked up to her side. Inside, the familiar dark, musty smell of damp drywall and old floorboards hit us. Like the gaping maw of a beast. Step inside, and it would swallow us whole. I took a deep breath, and we crossed the threshold side by side. Behind us, the door clicked shut. The lock turned. The world shriveled down to just the two of us. And a bullet with one of our names on it. She walked over to flip the light switch. I stayed rooted to the spot, my hand never leaving the pocketed knife. The overhead bulb flickered to life. The room was sparse: a wooden table, two chairs, a battered leather sofa. On the wall hung a massive, detailed map of the city, crisscrossed with red string tracing our three years of movements. Every red line represented a moment we had cheated death. She walked to the table, picked up the kettle, and poured two glasses of water. She slid one toward me. “Drink.” I didn’t budge. “It’s not poisoned,” she added quietly, picking up her own glass and taking a long, deep swallow. Her throat bobbed. I kept my eyes locked on her. “Repeat the protocol.” “Homecoming is active. Target elimination required. One agent returns,” she said, setting the glass down. Her voice was terrifyingly flat. “Who is the target?” “You. Or me.” “Who authorized it?” “I don’t know,” Paula said, meeting my gaze. “It was a direct, encrypted feed from Director Ward.” Director Ward. Our commanding officer. The deputy director of Section Seven. The middle-aged woman who had hugged us before we deployed and told us, Make sure you both come back alive. I let out a laugh. It was a harsh, bitter sound that bounced off the peeling wallpaper. “So, we bleed for three years to dismantle the Medusa Syndicate, and this is our reward?” The Medusa Syndicate was a massive, shadow-dwelling data-brokerage ring. We had been the two scalpel blades sent to cut out its heart. Now that the heart was dead, they wanted to snap the blades in half. “I need a reason,” I demanded. “There is no reason. There are only orders,” Paula said. “It’s protocol.” “To hell with protocol!” I slammed my hand onto the wooden table, sending water sloshing over the rim of the glasses. “Gavin!” she hissed, her voice sharp. My chest heaved as I struggled for air. Rage, betrayal, and a cold, clawing terror I refused to acknowledge chewed at my sanity like venom. We stared at each other. Silence stretched. A silence so thick, so absolute, I thought we might stand there until we rotted. Then, she moved. She walked around the table, taking slow, deliberate steps toward me. Every nerve in my body screamed. My muscles coiled; the knife was ready to slip from my sleeve. One step. Two steps. She stopped right in front of me. We were so close I could smell her—that familiar scent of cheap tobacco, sweat, and the faint, copper tang of dried blood. “Are you going to try?” I whispered. She didn’t answer. Instead, she slowly raised her hand. For a fraction of a second, I thought she was going for my throat. But her palm rested gently on the crown of my head. She ruffled my hair softly. Just like she had done every single time I had lost my mind under the pressure over the last three years. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “If the sky falls, I’ll hold it up.” I froze. My grip on the knife loosened. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, hot and sudden. But in that exact moment of fragile tenderness, I heard it. A tiny, almost imperceptible click. It came from behind her. Behind the heavy drapes of the window. My pupils dilated. There was someone else in the room. 02 My body reacted before my brain could process the threat. Instinct took over. I shoved Paula hard to the side and threw myself backward, my knife snapping open, held low and defensive across my chest. “Who’s there?” My voice cracked under the sudden spike of adrenaline. Paula stumbled from my push, but she recovered instantly, spinning on her heel. In a breath, her movements mirrored mine perfectly, the steel of a tactical spike sliding into her palm from her sleeve. Back to back, we stood, scanning the window. The drapes were a heavy, dust-caked navy blue, completely blocking out the streetlamps. Now, they hung perfectly still, as if that tiny click had been nothing more than a trick of my frayed nerves. But we both knew better. Three years in the trenches of the criminal underworld had honed our senses to a razor’s edge. There was a third breath in the room. Faint, but unmistakably alive. “Come out,” Paula ordered, her voice dropping to a low, lethal register. Nothing but dead silence from behind the fabric. I caught Paula’s eye. She mouthed two words: Left. I’ll take right. I gave a micro-nod. But just as we braced to spring, the drapes twitched. A paw slid out from the dusty blue velvet. A fat, ginger cat poked its head through the folds, let out a massive yawn, and leaped lazily onto the windowsill. As it landed, its rear paw clipped an empty soda can we’d left on the sill days ago. The can hit the floorboards with a sharp, clattering rattle. The click had been the sound of its claws snagging the wood. We both froze. The suffocating tension snapped like an over-tightened violin string, leaving a hollow, draining sensation in its wake. The ginger cat, utterly oblivious to the fact that it had nearly triggered a bloodbath, strolled over to my boots. It arched its back, rubbing its orange fur against my jeans, purring like a rusty engine. I stared down at it. It was a stray we’d started feeding about six months ago. It had no name, no schedule, but occasionally it would slip through the loose latch on the window to beg for scraps. I slowly folded my knife away and knelt down, scratching the soft spot behind its ears. The cat closed its eyes, leaning into my touch. Its body was warm, soft, and vibrantly alive. The simple, grounded reality of its fur beneath my fingers slowly dragged my heart rate back to normal. Paula slipped her tactical spike back into her sleeve and leaned her back against the wall, letting out a long, shuddering breath. “Jesus,” she muttered, rubbing her face. “That almost cost me ten years of my life.” I didn’t say anything. I just kept stroking the cat. The brief panic had acted like a bucket of ice water, freezing the hot anger in my chest, but also extinguishing the fleeting warmth of her promise to hold up the sky. The haze of emotion cleared, leaving us staring at the cold, hard facts. The “Homecoming” directive was still hanging over our heads like a guillotine. The cat, satisfied with the attention, leaped onto the table and began licking the condensation off Paula’s water glass. The room fell quiet again. But this time, the silence was different. It was fragile, paranoid. We were two birds trapped in a cage, so terrified of the shadow of a hawk that we were ready to tear each other’s feathers out at the slightest breeze. “Who do you think it is?” I stood up, turning my focus back to her. I wasn’t asking about the cat. I was asking about the directive. Who wanted one of us dead? Paula walked to the window, pulling the edge of the drape back an inch to peer into the alleyway. It was the usual view: rusted fire escapes, overflowing trash bins, damp brick. No one was there. “I don’t know,” she said, letting the curtain fall. “Director Ward is just the messenger. We don’t get to see the face of the actual hunter.” The messenger. Ward’s codename within Section Seven was Carrier Pigeon. She delivered the highest orders, and when the job was done, she was the one who reeled the kites back in. And now, she was cutting the string. “Could the mission have leaked?” I asked, pacing the small room. “Maybe we missed a loose end with the Medusa Syndicate. Maybe they have leverage on someone higher up, forcing them to clean house.” Paula shook her head. “Unlikely. We cleared out all seventeen core members. Every server, every hard drive, every ledger was encrypted and sent back to the mainframe. That line is completely dead.” She was right. We had spent three years meticulously plotting the takedown. Every variable had been checked, double-checked, and burned. We didn’t make mistakes like that. “Then…” I stopped, a cold, dread-inducing realization settling into my bones. “It’s internal.” Paula’s face darkened. It was the one theory neither of us wanted to touch, but it was the only one that fit. There was a leak inside Section Seven. And whoever it was had to be highly placed—high enough to authorize a red-level “Homecoming” protocol. During our deep-dive into the Medusa Syndicate’s databases, we must have unwittingly stumbled upon something that threatened them. They wanted us silenced. But why only one of us? “Because if one dies, the other can go home with a completed file,” Paula whispered, completing my thought. “The operation is wrapped up neatly. No questions asked.” “The dead one gets a star on the memorial wall.” “And the survivor gets a promotion.” We spoke in flat, clinical tones, as if discussing two strangers in a case file. But the words felt like ice picks driving into my temples. We weren’t being punished for failing. We were being liquidated because we had succeeded too well. “Who is the leak?” I asked. “Anyone with clearance to view the Medusa files,” Paula said, her eyes drifting back to the map on the wall. “Tactical, Intel, Logistics… and Ward herself.” When she said Ward’s name, my chest tightened. The woman with the weathered face and the deep laugh lines around her eyes. The woman who had pulled us out of the academy, telling us we were the finest officers she’d ever trained. Could she really be the one holding the scalpel? “We don’t have proof,” I said. “Then we find it,” Paula said, turning to face me. There was a spark in her eyes now—the familiar, brilliant fire that had kept us alive in the worst corners of this city. “Before they make their move. Or before we do.” I looked at her, searching her face. “Do you trust me?” “I don’t have a choice,” Paula said. “And neither do you.” She was right. We had two paths. We could tear each other apart in this dingy apartment like rabid dogs, leaving the survivor to walk back to a home that was nothing but a lie. Or we could pull the hand out of the puppet master’s sleeve. “How do we start?” I asked. “First, we make sure this room is actually clean,” Paula said, her eyes sweeping the ceiling. “Any comms device we have is compromised.” I got the point immediately. No phones, no internet. Every signal we broadcast would be a beacon to the hunter. We were bugs in a glass jar. “Sweep it,” I said. We moved in perfect, practiced unison. I took the bedroom and the bathroom; she took the main living space. I checked under the mattress, inside the closet vents, even the tank of the toilet. Nothing. No wiretaps, no pinhole cameras. When I walked back into the living room, Paula had finished her search. She met my eyes and shook her head. “Nothing.” “That doesn’t make sense,” I muttered, my brow furrowing. “If they wanted to keep tabs on us, this is the first place they’d bug.” “Unless…” Paula’s eyes locked onto the ginger cat. The cat was still on the table, licking its paws contentedly. “Unless the bug isn’t in the walls.” Paula took a slow step toward the cat. The animal seemed to sense the change in temperature; its back arched, and a low hiss vibrated in its throat. “Easy, boy,” Paula murmured, cutting her eyes to me. I moved into position on the opposite side of the table, cutting off its escape. The cat looked left, then right, ears flattening. Before it could spring, Paula’s hand shot out like a whip, catching it firmly by the scruff of its neck. The cat let out a sharp yowl, its legs flailing. I quickly stepped in, supporting its weight and stroking its back to keep it from scratching her eyes out. “Easy, easy…” Paula’s grip remained steady. With her free hand, she began feeling along the cat’s neck. Under the thick fur, her fingers brushed against the cheap red collar we’d slipped onto it a month ago, complete with a tiny brass bell. Paula’s expression went entirely rigid. She pinched the tiny bell between her thumb and forefinger. With a hard squeeze, the cheap metal shell cracked open. Tucked inside the brass casing was a tiny, black silicon chip. A microphone.

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When the Henderson’s biological daughter finally came back from that strict correction boarding school, she was, by all appearances, entirely broken. During dinner, she no longer fought me for my custom velvet-upholstered chair at the head of the table—the one my parents had commissioned for their “little princess.” Instead, she clutched a battered metal bowl she must have bought for a couple of dollars, crouching in the far corner of the kitchen, eating with her bare hands. She stopped screaming in the dead of night, demanding that Mom and Dad sing her to sleep with childhood lullabies the way they always did for me. Now, she wrapped herself in a filthy, threadbare dog blanket, curling up on the cold tile floor right next to the dog door in the mudroom. She shivered in the draft, refusing to return to her bedroom no matter how much our parents pleaded. And she certainly didn’t demand that we legally swap our names anymore—a desperate scheme she had once plotted so she could marry my childhood fiancé, Luke. Instead, she kept her head low, quietly calling me “Paula” and referring to Luke as her “brother-in-law.” I thought everyone was satisfied with this version of Gemma. Until tonight. When Gemma crouched in the corner to eat again, my brother Brody didn’t try to stop her. Instead, he stared at me, his eyes overflowing with a cold, simmering resentment. And Luke—the icy, untouchable Luke whom I had spent five years trying to thaw—stood by the mudroom, his eyes fixed on Gemma as she lay shivering by the dog door. In his gaze was a profound, aching tenderness. It was a look I had never seen before. A look I had spent my entire life begging for, and had never once received. Luke came to find me with our wedding invitations just as I was finalizing the details with the transition agency. I opened the heavy, cream-colored cardstock, my eyes grazing the elegant calligraphy. A faint, hollow smile touched my lips. “The bride’s name is wrong,” I said softly, looking up. “It should say Gemma. Not Paula.” 1 Luke’s brow furrowed, just a fraction of an inch. Most people wouldn’t have noticed the shift. But I had spent my entire life studying him, molding myself into the perfect woman to stand by his side. I had memorized the map of his face. Every twitch of his jaw, every slight narrowing of his eyes—I could read his true emotions better than he could himself. “I’m just teasing,” I laughed, a light, airy sound that felt empty even to my own ears. “Why so serious?” I slid the invitation back into his hands. “It’s perfect. Go ahead and print them.” Even then, the tension in his forehead didn’t ease. He slid the invitations into his coat pocket, his fingers lingering on the paper. He didn’t leave. “Don’t make jokes like that,” he said, his voice flat and warning. “It’s not funny.” I froze for a split second, then let out a forced laugh. “Come on, Luke. Since when are you so sensitive?” He looked down at me, his eyes dark and heavy. “Gemma is suffering from severe PTSD because of the abusive discipline she faced at that school. Jokes like that will trigger her.” I pressed my lips together, offering a quiet, performative apology. “Right. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.” Luke averted his gaze, clearly unsatisfied with my response. “About the engagement party—I’ve decided we’re keeping it on the yacht. Gemma is terrified of open water, so I originally wanted to move it to the country club lawn. But she insisted we stick to your original plan. She didn’t want to ruin your night. So, we’re keeping the yacht.” I nodded slowly. “Okay. Sounds perfect.” Once Luke left, I pulled my laptop back up to resume my call with the coordinator at Elysium Transitions. “Miss Sampson,” the woman’s voice was smooth, highly professional, and entirely devoid of judgment. “Regarding your transition, we highly recommend an active, plausible accident. Because we must map and transfer your neural pathways, memories, and emotional consciousness into your new body, the transition must be seamless. Do you have a preferred method that fits your current life?” I thought of the yacht Luke had just mentioned. The top deck of the custom cruiser sat roughly thirty meters above the dark, icy ocean. “Drowning,” I said, my voice steady. “I was a competitive synchronized swimmer. Falling from a thirty-meter deck into the ocean would easily look like a tragic accident.” “Excellent choice. It fits your narrative perfectly.” “Let’s go with that, then.” I scrolled down the digital contract, reviewing my options for my new life. “What is this section? Grieving families?” The coordinator offered a detailed explanation. “Yes. We often work with parents who have tragically lost their only child and are unable to conceive again. If their psychological profile and biological compatibility match yours, we allow a mutual matching process. If both parties agree, you can step into their lives and become their new daughter.” I read through the fine print, digesting the concept. “So, it’s essentially an adult adoption?” “In a sense, yes. But our process is far more sophisticated. We require a compatibility match of ninety percent or higher to ensure emotional integration. And you have the right to terminate the contract at any stage if you feel uncomfortable.” I listened quietly, a strange warmth blooming in my chest. “Do you have any active profiles that match mine?” “We do, actually. There is one family with a ninety-eight percent compatibility match.” “Send me their file,” I said. “I’d like to see them.” Just as I disconnected the call, our family butler knocked on my door. “Miss Paula, your mother needs you in the home dance studio. Miss Gemma twisted her ankle during her practice, and your mother wants you to examine it.” 2 I hadn’t stepped foot in the home dance studio since the day I tore my Achilles tendon. When I walked in, Gemma was already drenched in a cold sweat from the pain. She was curled up in our mother’s arms, resting her head against Mom’s chest. In Mom’s eyes was a look of tender, desperate worry—a look I had never once received in all my years of broken bones and torn ligaments. My father stood off to the side, his hands trembling with helpless anxiety. When Brody saw me walk in, his first instinct was to yell, though he quickly suppressed the rage in his voice, keeping it to a harsh whisper. “Gemma was trying to learn your ballet routine and twisted her ankle. Massage it for her. You used to handle your own injuries all the time, so you know what to do.” Gemma was a complete novice. She had no basic training, no professional guidance. A sprain was inevitable. I knelt on the cold floor and gently pulled off her thick sock. There was no visible swelling yet, so I lightly pressed around her ankle joint to locate the strain. “Ah!” Gemma let out a piercing shriek of pain. Before her cry could even fade, a sharp, stinging slap landed across my face. The familiar physical shock left me temporarily dazed. My father’s hand was still suspended in the air, his chest heaving with anger. Mom cradled Gemma closer, kissing her forehead. “Oh, my sweet girl. We expected too much from Paula. You shouldn’t have to suffer the way she did.” I clutched my burning cheek, keeping my head bowed. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry, Brody. It was my fault. I wasn’t careful—” “Paula, shut up,” Brody interrupted, his voice dripping with irritation. “How many times do I have to say this? Gemma is no longer trying to steal your spotlight. Why do you still seize every opportunity to punish her?” I raised my head, looking at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes. For a fraction of a second, a flicker of guilt crossed Brody’s face. When we were kids, whenever I couldn’t solve a mountain of math problems, I would look at him with those exact same innocent, pleading eyes. But he quickly looked away, his voice cold. “Just ice her foot. She doesn’t eat until she can walk again, and neither do you.” I nodded quietly and began to apply the ice pack I had brought. As the cold plastic touched her skin, Gemma flinched, pulling her leg back. Instinctively, I gripped her ankle to keep her still. “Mom… the ice is too cold,” Gemma whimpered, her voice trembling. “It… it feels like the freezing water they threw on me at the correction academy…” Brody instantly kicked my hand away, sending the ice pack flying. “Are you deaf? Go get a fresh towel to wrap it in!” The plastic ice pack skittered across the polished hardwood, making a soft, rolling clack-clack-clack sound before stopping in the corner. My eyes followed it. I stared at the lost ice pack, a realization washing over me like ice water. So… the real Henderson daughter didn’t need to be perfect to be loved, did she? She didn’t need to win trophies, or put her body through agony, or climb to the peak of high society to be protected by her brother and cherished by her parents. She just had to exist. 3 At dinner, Luke arrived. I assumed he was here to discuss the wedding details. Instead, he barely spared me a glance before walking straight toward Brody—or rather, toward Gemma, who was leaning heavily on Brody’s arm. “Let me,” Luke said, stepping in to lift Gemma into his arms. Seeing Luke, the fragile facade of strength Gemma had been holding up finally crumbled. Her eyes welled with tears, and she looked up at him, her lashes heavy with moisture. “Luke…” she whispered. Luke let out a soft sigh, his eyes melting with pity. “Did you try to learn ballet just because you wanted to dance at the engagement party tomorrow?” Gemma nodded miserably. “I wanted the night to be special for you and Paula. She looks so beautiful when she dances… I wanted to share that with her.” She turned her wet eyes to me, her lower lip trembling. “I’m sorry, Paula. This is all my fault…” Before I could even open my mouth to respond, Luke’s sharp, warning voice cut through the air. “Watch your tongue, Paula. I don’t want you repeating any of those cruel, inappropriate comments you made earlier around Gemma.” I forced a small, polite smile. “It’s fine. I appreciate the thought, Gemma. Just focus on resting your ankle.” Luke carried Gemma into the dining room. My custom velvet-upholstered chair—the one that had been reserved solely for me—was pulled back. Luke carefully laid Gemma down on the adjoining sofa, using my custom chair as a footrest for her injured ankle. My hand hovered over the back of the empty chair next to them, freezing in mid-air. “Gemma’s foot needs to be elevated,” Brody explained, his tone dismissive. “You can sit somewhere else.” He glanced at my plate. “Actually, you shouldn’t even be eating tonight. The engagement party is tomorrow. If you bloat, you won’t fit into your custom gown, and you’ll make a laughingstock out of the Henderson family.” I let my hand drop from the chair. “Thanks for the reminder, Brody,” I said softly, stepping back. “I’ll head up to my room. Enjoy your dinner.” As I walked toward the grand staircase, Gemma’s giggles echoed from the dining room. “Look at her walk,” she whispered. “She looks like a stuffed turkey from behind.” “Don’t insult turkeys,” Brody snickered. “Paula only acts high-and-mighty because of her trophies. That custom princess chair she’s so obsessed with? She basically threw a tantrum and forced Mom to buy it after she won her first regional title. It was never hers by right anyway.” Their laughter faded as I climbed the stairs. My phone vibrated in my palm. It was a notification from Elysium Transitions: Miss Sampson, your background check and compatibility match with the Scott family have been fully approved. I texted the coordinator: Can I go see them now? Of course. We have sent the coordinates to your device. You are free to visit them at your convenience. I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my keys, slipped out the back door, and drove away from the Henderson estate. The moment I arrived at the modest suburban address, I saw them. They were exactly as their file described: a warm, ordinary middle-aged couple in comfortable, faded sweaters. When they opened the door, they looked startled, but recognition quickly filled their eyes. “You must be Paula,” the woman said, her voice instantly wrapping around me like a warm blanket. “Oh, sweetheart, you are even more beautiful in person.” She pulled me into the warm entryway, gently holding my hand. “You’re just in time. My husband and I just finished cooking dinner. Please, come eat with us.” The man came out of the kitchen holding a piping hot plate of homemade lasagna, a shy, gentle smile on his face. “We didn’t know what you liked, sweetheart. But our Gemma… her absolute favorite was always my homemade garlic bread and slow-simmered marinara. I hope you’ll give it a try.” 4 My engagement party to Luke was even more lavish than I had anticipated. My parents had invited every prominent figure in the tristate area. The docks were lined with luxury vehicles, and the yacht itself was a towering, multi-deck monument to excess. I sat in the bridal suite, staring at my reflection in the vanity mirror. The face looking back at me was mathematically perfect—every strand of hair styled to perfection, every feature painted to highlight the Henderson lineage. For my entire life, I had been molded into the ultimate trophy. I was a product designed to elevate the Henderson brand. “Miss Paula, you look absolutely breathtaking,” the stylist whispered, holding up a delicate pink-and-white diamond necklace that caught the light beautifully. Before she could clasp it around my neck, the door flew open. “Paula!” Gemma burst into the room. She was wearing a stunning, emerald-green silk gown with a dramatic train that swept across the floor. It was easily as expensive and elaborate as my own bridal gown. She spotted the necklace in the stylist’s hands and snatched it away. “Oh, this is gorgeous! It matches my green dress perfectly!” She sat down in front of the mirror, demanding the stylist put it on her. I watched our reflections side by side. She was right. The diamonds looked striking against her fair skin and dark green silk. Luke stepped into the room a moment later. “Gemma, stop playing around,” he said gently, though his eyes lingered on her. “Give the necklace back to Paula. I had a custom emerald piece placed in your suite. Go see if you like it.” Gemma’s eyes lit up. She quickly let the stylist unclamp the necklace and practically skipped out of the room. Luke watched her retreating figure, calling out, “Slow down! Your ankle isn’t fully healed yet!” “I know, I know! You’re worse than Brody!” her voice echoed down the corridor. Only when her footsteps faded did Luke turn his attention to me. He stepped up behind me, took the pink-and-white diamond necklace, and fastened it around my neck. Meeting my eyes in the mirror, a rare, soft smile touched his lips. “You look beautiful tonight, Paula.” I tilted my head, resting my chin in my palm, my gaze locked onto his reflection. “And when am I not beautiful, Luke?” The small trace of warmth on his face vanished. “You are my fiancée, Paula. On a night as important as this, please don’t act like a petulant child. It’s highly inappropriate.” A quiet, bitter laugh slipped past my lips. “You’re right. I won’t say things like that anymore.” The party officially began, and the yacht slowly drifted away from the harbor, heading out into the dark, calm waters of the Atlantic. The grand ballroom was packed to capacity. When Luke and I made our entrance, a collective murmur of admiration rippled through the crowd. “Thank you all for being here tonight,” Luke spoke into the microphone, his hand resting on my waist. “Paula and I grew up together. To call her my fiancée is an honor, and I know this night represents the culmination of everything she has dreamed of…” As he droned on about our history, my mind drifted. The transition window was approaching. It had to be timed perfectly—not a minute too early, not a minute too late. My parents cornered me near the bar a few minutes later, keeping their voices low and sharp. “What is wrong with you, Paula? Do you have any idea how much is riding on tonight?” I knew exactly what Dad meant. My entire existence was a business transaction designed to secure the Henderson-Lance merger. One step out of line, and the illusion of our perfect family would shatter. After the speeches, the music swelled, and Luke led me out onto the open deck for our first dance. Brody stood near the brass railing, holding Gemma close. Gemma whispered something in Brody’s ear, and Brody immediately caught Luke’s eye, giving him a subtle nod. They had grown up together; they shared a silent language. Luke understood the signal instantly. As the waltz reached its dramatic crescendo, Luke suddenly let go of my hand, pushing me outward to finish my spin. At the exact same moment, Brody gently pushed Gemma forward, guiding her into Luke’s waiting arms. Luke caught her seamlessly, continuing the waltz without missing a single beat. This yacht had been my eighteenth birthday present from Luke. I knew every inch of its polished wood and brass. I knew precisely how to use the momentum of Luke pushing me away to drift backward toward the low railing. The heavy brass bar hit my lower back. My three-inch stilettos caught on a deck groove, throwing off my balance. My body tipped backward into the empty, cold night. As I plummeted toward the dark ocean, thirty meters below, a sharp gasp erupted from the few onlookers on deck. Someone rushed toward the railing, but Brody and Luke quickly stepped in, blocking their path. “She’s a synchronized swimmer,” Brody said dismissively, his voice carrying over the wind. “Paula can swim in her sleep. She’s just throwing a tantrum. She’ll climb back up in a minute.” As the freezing water rushed up to swallow me, a calm, synthesized voice echoed in my mind: “Elysium Transition protocol initiated. Please prepare for consciousness transfer. Old identity memories will be archived and replaced.”

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My skin was burning, a fierce, unnatural heat clawing its way up my throat. I yanked at the collar of my silk gown, gasping for air. The sight of the velvet drapes, the heavy mahogany wardrobe, and the flickering candlelight made my breath hitch. I was back. I had returned to the very night I was drugged. Damian’s brother-in-law, Lord George Harrington, would burst through that door in less than fifteen minutes. I had to get out. Cynthia, Damian’s scheming sister, had undoubtedly stationed her guards outside. She wanted me trapped. She wanted my ruin to secure her family’s fortune. Desperation overtook my fear. I grabbed the brass oil lamp from the nightstand and threw it directly onto the heavy bed curtains. The dry velvet caught instantly, flames hungry and bright, licking up the canopy. Within moments, the room was a furnace of smoke and fire. In this life, I would never play the tragic victim. I would never agree to become Lord Harrington’s second wife—a gilded prisoner brought in solely to bankroll his bankrupt estate and raise Cynthia’s spoiled children. 1 “Fire! Oh heavens, how did a fire start?” A frantic female voice cried from the hallway. Phoebe. Cynthia’s loyal lady’s maid. Of course she was out there. Cynthia had orchestrated every single detail. “You two, stay here and watch the doors! I’ll be right back!” Phoebe barked, her voice shaking with panic. She didn’t dare rush in to save me. According to their grand design, the Lord was supposed to “discover” me compromised, not roasted alive. My chest heaved. The drug in my veins, combined with the rising heat of the flames, made my head spin. I stumbled toward the door and yanked the handle. It was locked from the outside. Did George Harrington know of his wife’s plot? I was the sole heiress of the Whitmore merchant empire. Half the noble bachelors in the capital had begged for my hand. Why on earth would I have ever willingly thrown myself at a man twelve years my senior? In my past life, Cynthia had “discovered” us herself, dramatically coughing up blood, weeping, and accusing me of shameless debauchery. Damian had immediately and publicly broken our engagement. Shamed and desperate, I was told my only option to salvage a shred of dignity was to enter Lord Harrington’s household as his second wife. I wanted to shave my head and enter a convent instead, but Damian had played the martyr. “My sister is dying,” he had pleaded, tears in his eyes. “She only wants her children cared for. Please, Giselle. I will beg the Lord to grant you the status of an equal wife.” My poor mother, unable to bear the thought of me in a convent, had begged me to accept. And so, I had walked straight into their trap. The bitter memory made me bite my lip so hard I tasted copper. This time, I would not be their puppet. I kicked over the heavy chairs to create noise, then staggered toward the window. “Did she faint?” one of the maids outside squeaked. “If she dies in there, the Lord will skin us alive!” the older maid hissed, unlocking the door. “Hush! I’ll open it and check.” The moment she cracked the door open, I pushed the heavy window frame open, scrambled over the ledge, and tumbled into the cool night air, carefully pulling the window shut behind me. I couldn’t run far. The heat in my blood was reaching a boiling point. Dragging my heavy limbs, I slipped into the secluded wing of the estate—the quarters of Solomon Harrington, George’s younger brother. In my previous life, Solomon had been one of the few decent souls in this wretched house. I knew his character. He was a man of honor; he would never take advantage of a woman in my state. “Who’s there?” A cold, sharp voice sliced through the dark. A silver blade gleamed in the moonlight, resting flush against my throat. “Solomon… please. Help me,” I gasped. My vision blurred as I collapsed forward, tumbling right into the chest of the young man clad in a pale, moon-white robe. The sword clattered to the stone floor. Startled, Solomon instinctively pushed me back. I fell to the ground, a low groan escaping my lips. “Miss Whitmore? What are you doing here?” He looked bewildered, reaching out to help me before quickly drawing his hand back, mindful of propriety. “I’ve been drugged. Please… tell no one,” I whispered, my face burning, my voice trembling with the effort to stay conscious. “I… I will fetch your maid,” he stammered, his eyes wide. “No. I don’t trust her. I only trust you.” Monica had vanished the moment she escorted me to that room. In my past life, she eventually became Damian’s mistress. I wouldn’t trust either of them with my life. 2 In the dim light, Solomon’s eyes flickered with a sudden, intense warmth. “If you truly trust me, take this,” he murmured, pulling a small white porcelain vial from his sleeve and tapping out a round, chalky pill. I grabbed it without hesitation and swallowed it dry. Solomon blinked, surprised by my absolute faith in him, and a soft, genuine smile touched his lips. The cool medicine trickled down my throat, slowly dousing the roaring fire in my veins. I took a deep breath, reclaiming my sanity. “Thank you, Solomon.” I bowed slightly and pulled out a thick stack of banknotes from my hidden pocket, pressing them into his hand. “It was nothing. Please, there is no need,” he protested, trying to push them back. Our fingers brushed, and a dark blush crept up his neck as he hastily withdrew his hand. “You saved my life tonight, Solomon. You must take this.” I stuffed the money into his vest and turned on my heel. The Harrington estate was a hollow shell, rotting from the inside out under George’s poor management. If they weren’t bankrupt, Cynthia would never have targeted my family’s wealth. Right now, I needed to see exactly what role my beloved fiancé, Damian, had played in tonight’s little theater. “Then… I shall accept,” Solomon’s quiet voice drifted after me. I smiled softly to myself. Solomon lived in the forgotten, drafty wing of the estate, ignored and despised by his older brother. In my past life, he left to join the frontier army a few days after this night. Three years later, he returned as General Solomon Harrington, a decorated war hero. Right now, he needed every coin to buy his way in. I made my way back to the burning wing, hiding in the shadows of the courtyard. The room was mostly charred wood and smoke now. George Harrington stood with his back to me, barking orders. “She couldn’t have vanished into thin air! Search every room! Find her!” His voice was steady and sharp. There was not a single trace of the “drunken stupor” he had claimed to be in during my past life. He had lied to me from the very beginning. “George, she’s gone. What do we do now?” Cynthia coughed into a silk handkerchief. “She’s drugged. She won’t make it past the estate gates,” George snarled, turning around. In the torchlight, his eyes looked cold and vicious. “I am only worried someone else will find her first,” Cynthia whispered, quickly tucking her bloody handkerchief away. She was coughing up blood again. The royal physicians had whispered she had barely two months left. “Where is Damian? Tell him to search for her.” “Damian and Monica are in my private chambers. Phoebe, go fetch them.” George shot his wife a freezing look. “Keep those two on a shorter leash. The deed isn’t even done yet, and they’re already rolling around in your quarters like dogs.” My ears rang. A cold wave of nausea washed over me. So, even back then, Damian and Monica were already sleeping together. In my past life, Damian had played the devoted lover, milking me for every cent to “maintain his status” while pretending to be bullied by his peers. And because I was technically his brother-in-law’s wife, I couldn’t openly give him money. Monica had suggested a “solution”: I should adopt her as my sister and marry her off to Damian as a concubine. That way, I could funnel my family’s gold to Damian under the guise of her dowry. 3 Tears pricked my eyes, hot and angry. The fiancé I had trusted blindly had actively conspired to ruin me. I dabbed my eyes with my handkerchief. In my past life, when Damian married Lydia, the minor daughter of Minister Davenport, had he really been “forced” into it? I didn’t want to think about how deep his lies went. “We need Monica to keep Giselle compliant,” Cynthia murmured, her eyes darting toward the pathway. A group of high-society ladies was approaching. She had invited them specifically to witness my downfall. Now, the stage was set, but the star of the show was missing. “Look at the mess you’ve made!” George spat, sweeping his cloak around him as he stormed off. Cynthia bit her lip, tears of frustration swelling in her eyes. She only did this to secure her children’s future before she died. “Heavens! Why is there a fire?” Lady Davenport’s loud, shrill voice cut through the air before she even reached the courtyard. “Oh… Giselle was resting inside,” Cynthia whimpered, putting on her most fragile, tragic face. “I don’t know how this could have happened…” “Giselle Whitmore set a fire in Harrington Hall? How dare she!” Mrs. Gable chimed in, her eyes gleaming with delicious gossip. Cynthia remained silent, playing the victim. “I always knew she was trouble,” another lady whispered. “A merchant’s daughter has no breeding. Lady Harrington, should we call the city guard?” “Where is she now? To sneak away like this… how utterly classless.” “How can a brilliant scholar like young Damian Carlyle be tied to such a girl? She is entirely unworthy of him!” The ladies chattered like magpies, and Cynthia let out a faint, satisfied sigh. She had chosen these gossips carefully. By tomorrow morning, my reputation would be in tatters. “Why are you ladies so eager to spread lies? Where is your breeding? Your decorum? Your basic decency?” I stepped calmly out of the shadows, my voice dripping with ice. They gasped, spinning around to stare at me as if they had seen a ghost. “Giselle! Where were you?” Cynthia choked out, quickly recovering her composure. “Don’t worry, my dear. We won’t involve the authorities.” “How dare you speak to us with such disrespect!” Lady Davenport sneered. “Setting fire to a noble estate is a hanging offense. You truly are just a vulgar merchant’s child.” I locked eyes with her. “Did you see me start the fire, Lady Davenport?” She choked on her words, glancing awkwardly at Cynthia. Cynthia forced a tight, artificial smile. “Giselle, even if you did it, the family will not press charges.” “Lady Harrington, I was in that room for exactly five minutes before I stepped out. There was no fire when I left. If you suspect arson, let us summon Justice Albright of the High Court. I am more than willing to let his investigators find the real culprit.” I knew Cynthia wouldn’t dare. Justice Albright was famously incorruptible. “No! No need for the courts,” Cynthia said hastily, falling into a violent fit of coughing. The ladies exchanged knowing, suspicious glances. “If these ladies still doubt my word, I insist we call the guards,” I said smoothly, taking a step forward. “No one is accusing you, Giselle,” Cynthia rasped, swallowing the copper taste of blood. “Right, ladies?” “Of course,” Lady Davenport muttered reluctantly, while the others looked away, suddenly silent. “If I hear so much as a whisper of this slander tomorrow, I will sue for defamation. Spreading false rumors about a prominent family is a serious crime, after all,” I warned, brushing past Cynthia. 4 Cynthia stumbled, caught by Phoebe. “Giselle! Apologize to my sister!” Damian’s voice boomed as he marched into the courtyard, his face dark with fury. Monica followed closely behind him, keeping her distance. “Damian, it’s fine. I just lost my footing,” Cynthia lied, rubbing her eyes. “Giselle, where were you? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Damian demanded, scanning me for any sign of the drug’s effects. He looked confused. Why was I perfectly fine? Had Monica failed?

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My stepsister, Gemma, always loved flaunting everything she had stolen from me, especially when the whole family was watching. It was our annual family memorial day, a humid afternoon when the relatives gathered at the old estate. She caught sight of my new trench coat and immediately lunged, grabbing me by the collar. “Cora, isn’t this the exact jacket I bought last week?” Gemma sneered, her voice carrying across the lawn. “Honestly, copying my style is one thing, but with a face like yours, any outfit is a lost cause.” The quiet chatter in the courtyard died down. A few of my older cousins leaned closer, whispering and casting mocking looks in my direction. My Aunt Carol couldn’t stand it anymore. She stepped forward, trying to shield me. “Gemma, Cora is your sister. How can you say something so cruel, and right in front of the family memorial?” The smug grin on Gemma’s face stiffened. Her eyes darted viciously between Aunt Carol and me before she rolled them, letting out a sharp, dismissive laugh. “Are you seriously taking her side, Aunt Carol? Let me remind you, we don’t even share a mother.” Gemma scoffed, smoothing down her own expensive top. “To put it bluntly, she’s just the baggage my dad brought back when he made a mistake years ago. We’re doing her a favor by keeping her fed and clothed.” Across the yard, a group of my male cousins burst into loud, mocking laughter. In the shadows of my sleeves, my fingernails dug so hard into my palms that they nearly broke the skin. A wave of profound, suffocating humiliation washed over me, leaving me trembling. I looked at Gemma, and for the first time in eighteen years, the endless endurance cracked. I was done playing the quiet, grateful little sister. Without a word, I turned on my heel and headed toward the house to retrieve the one thing my mother had slipped me on her deathbed: her locked metal box. 01 “Cora! Where do you think you’re going? Stop acting so pathetic!” Gemma’s voice chased me down the hall, sharp and dripping with her usual condescension. I ignored her. My footsteps quickened as I hurried down the corridor and slipped into my room—a tiny, cramped space barely under eighty square feet. As I pushed the door open, my knee slammed hard against the edge of the bed frame. A sharp spark of pain shot through my leg, but I ignored it, dropping straight to my knees on the cold floorboards. I reached under the bed, clawing at the loose brick in the corner. My fingers met nothing but cold, empty air. I froze. I swept my hand through the hollow space three times, my nails scraping against the rough concrete, making a dry, horrific sound. It was empty. Completely empty. “Looking for something?” The voice behind me didn’t belong to Gemma. It was my stepmother, Helena. She was leaning casually against the doorframe, a porcelain teacup cradled in her hands, a slow, mocking smile playing at the corners of her lips. My fingertips went numb. “My mother’s metal box,” I whispered, my voice tight. “It was right here.” Helena took a slow sip of her tea, not even bothering to look me in the eye. “Oh, that rusty old thing? I cleaned out your room three years ago and tossed it.” Three years ago. The strength drained from my limbs. I had to press my palm flat against the mattress just to keep from collapsing onto the floor. “Where are the things inside it?” She blew gently across the surface of her tea, her tone as casual as if she were commenting on the weather. “Just a few yellowed papers. I couldn’t even make out the writing, so I threw them in the incinerator. There was also a golden pendant—the quality was decent enough, so I gave it to Gemma as a little trinket.” Finally, she looked at me, her eyes scanning me from head to toe with utter disdain. “Your mother died when you were five, Cora. Did you really think she left you some secret fortune? Stop daydreaming.” Gemma sauntered into the room, leaning against her mother’s shoulder with a mocking giggle. “Cora, did you honestly think your real mom left you an inheritance? Come on. She didn’t even have a dowry when she married my dad. My mom told me all about it.” I stared at the empty dark space beneath the floorboards, the dust embedded under my fingernails, my breathing shallow and rapid. They burned it. The last pieces of my mother had been burned. Gemma reached into her collar and pulled out a vibrant green pendant, letting it dangle between us. The golden was smooth, shaped like a delicate leaf, hanging from a simple red cord. “Are you talking about this? It’s pretty, but I’ve been wearing it for two years now. It’d be a bit weird to give it back to you, wouldn’t it?” I recognized it instantly. It was the pendant my mother had never taken off. Right near the bottom-right corner, there was a tiny, natural-looking golden vein. On her deathbed, her cold hand had squeezed mine, her final words scraping through her throat: “Cora, the things in the box… open it when you’re older. I left the most important thing inside.” I reached out my hand. “Give it back to me.” Gemma stepped back, laughing loudly. “Why should I? My mom said everything in this house belongs to her and Dad. You’re just a stray. You don’t get to demand anything.” Helena set her teacup down on my small nightstand, her voice dropping half an octave, turning cold. “Cora, stop making a scene. We have guests outside. Don’t embarrass your father. You’ve lived under our roof for eighteen years. Have we ever starved you? It’s just a cheap piece of old golden. Gemma likes it, so let her keep it.” I looked at Helena, and then at the pendant resting against Gemma’s chest. The fire screaming in my throat eventually died down into a bitter, silent swallow. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to fight. It was that I knew, in this house, there was no room for my truth. As I turned to walk out, Gemma threw one last jibe at my back. “Oh, and Cora? Make sure you ladle the soup for dinner tonight. Aunt Carol loves the cream corn soup. Don’t mess it up.” Outside, the courtyard was loud with clinking glasses and laughter. My cousins were already downing beers, completely oblivious to me standing red-eyed in the dark corner of the porch. Aunt Carol walked past, holding a tray of appetizers. Seeing my face, she paused. “Cora?” I wiped my face quickly, forcing a tight smile. “I’m fine. Just the wind.” She looked as if she wanted to say more, but instead, she let out a quiet sigh and leaned in close, her voice barely a whisper. “That golden pendant of your mother’s… I saw Gemma wearing it earlier.” I stayed silent. Aunt Carol squeezed my wrist, hesitating for a fraction of a second before breathing into my ear, “Cora, that golden vein in the corner… it’s not a natural flaw. Your mother told me once. It opens.” 02 “It opens?” My throat constricted. I stared into Aunt Carol’s eyes, wondering if I had misheard her. She gave a small, deliberate nod, her eyes darting around nervously before another aunt called out to her. “Carol! Come over here, we’re pouring the wine!” Aunt Carol squeezed my hand one last time, whispered nothing more, and quickly vanished back into the crowd. I stood frozen, my mind roaring. The golden vein wasn’t a flaw. It was a seam. A hidden compartment. My mother hadn’t hidden her greatest secret in the metal box. The box was just a decoy. The real key had been hanging around Gemma’s neck this entire time. At dinner, I was relegated to the very end of the long wooden table. In front of me sat a single bowl of plain rice and a small plate of cheap pickled radish. My utensils were a pair of old, splintered bamboo chopsticks. Gemma sat right next to Helena, surrounded by the finest cuts of beef and fresh lobster. She chewed lazily, her eyes glued to her phone. Our cousin on the opposite side of the table chimed in. “Gemma, how many followers do you have on Instagram now? My girlfriend loved that outfit mood board you posted last week.” Gemma tilted her head, giving a sweet, practiced smile. “Almost three hundred thousand. But honestly, the sketches for that collection were just some doodles I drew up myself. I’ll show her the drafts sometime.” My chopsticks froze over the pickled radish. Those drafts were mine. I had drawn them last month and left them on my desk. When they went missing the next day, I had assumed I’d simply misplaced them in some drawer. Gemma flicked her eyes up to look at me, a tiny, knowing smirk playing on her lips. It was a look I knew all too well—pure, triumphant malice, meant for my eyes only. Suddenly, Helena clapped her hands, demanding everyone’s attention. “Since the whole family is here today, there’s something I’d like to share.” She reached beneath her seat and pulled out a small, pink leather-bound ledger. She opened the first page, revealing columns of meticulously penned numbers. “Cora is eighteen now,” Helena said, her voice dripping with maternal performance. “Even though she isn’t my biological daughter, I’ve kept track of every single cent we’ve spent on her upbringing.” She slid the ledger to the center of the table, tapping her manicured finger against the pages. “Formula, tuition, school uniforms, tutors, allowance, medical bills. Over eighteen years, it comes to exactly four hundred and thirty-six thousand, eight hundred dollars. Every cent is documented.” The table went quiet for a moment before the murmurs started. An aunt from the side spoke up, her voice laced with mock sympathy. “Nearly half a million dollars? Helena, you really are a saint. I don’t think I could ever spend that kind of money on someone else’s child.” My hands shook so violently the chopsticks rattled against the porcelain bowl. But I forced myself to look up, locking eyes with Helena. “Are you showing me this because you want me to pay you back?” Helena offered a soft, magnanimous smile. “Oh, darling, I’m not that petty. I just want you to understand that your father and I have done right by you. When you enter the real world, I expect you to remember that we never mistreated you.” Gemma pulled the ledger closer, flipping through the pages with mock curiosity. “Look at this, Cora. Your food expenses for middle school alone were twenty-eight thousand dollars. You sure eat a lot for someone who barely speaks.” A wave of laughter rippled through the cousins. I turned my head to look at my father. He sat right next to Helena, his head bowed low over his bowl, his fork aimlessly pushing food around. He didn’t say a single word. Later that evening, while washing the mountain of dishes left over from the party, I noticed a dusty shoebox shoved into the highest shelf of the pantry. I dragged a chair over, climbed up, and pulled it down. When I took the lid off, my heart stopped. The box was stuffed with envelopes—dozens of them, some yellowed with age, the earliest postmark dating back thirteen years. The recipient was always Cora. The sender was Beatrice. I tore open the top envelope. Inside was a cashier’s check and a handwritten letter. “My sweet Cora, Grandma sent you another birthday gift this year. I hope it reached you. Your stepmother told me you are doing wonderfully and do not need my interference, but I miss you so much…” My fingers began to shake uncontrollably. Thirteen years. Thirteen years of letters and money from my grandmother, and I had never seen a single one. Helena had told me years ago that my grandmother had abandoned me, that she wanted nothing to do with a child from a broken marriage. I flipped through the envelopes. Every single check had been cashed. On the back of each one, written in sharp, familiar cursive, was Helena’s signature and bank account number. At the very bottom of the box lay a letter written in a shaky, frail script. “Cora, Grandma is getting old, and I don’t know if I will live to see you grow up. Before your mother passed, she told me she left something for you. The most important thing is inside the golden leaf. I don’t know if you ever found it, but you must remember—never let anyone else open that pendant.” The box slipped from my hands, letters scattering across the kitchen tile like dry leaves. From the doorway, Gemma’s voice drifted in, lazy and threatening. “Cora, what are you snooping through now?” 03 “These letters are from my grandmother.” I knelt on the floor, gathering the scattered pages one by one, trying to keep my voice steady despite the trembling in my chest. Gemma leaned against the doorframe, scrolling through her phone, not even bothering to glance at the floor. “Oh, that crazy old woman from upstate? My mom said she was losing her mind, always sending weird, confusing things. My mom kept them hidden so you wouldn’t get upset.” “Hidden?” I stood up, clutching the stack of envelopes tight against my chest. “Your mother cashed every single check. For thirteen years, she stole every dollar my grandmother sent me.” Gemma finally looked up, letting out an indifferent shrug. “Well, obviously. You eat our food and live under our roof. My grandma’s little handouts were basically rent. You should be thanking her for helping out.” I took a deep breath, pushing past her. I needed to see my father. I needed him to look at this. But Gemma grabbed my wrist, her nails digging deep into my skin. Her expression turned cold, almost feral. “I wouldn’t go whining to Dad if I were you.” “You think he doesn’t know? He’s always known.” The pain in my wrist was sharp, but the realization was sharper. I stared at her, trying to find any sign of a lie on her face. Gemma let go, pulling out a wet wipe to clean her fingers, as if she had touched something filthy. “Cora, you really are pathetic. You always think someone is going to swoop in and save you. Aunt Carol? Dad? Your dying grandmother?” “Wake up. You know exactly who runs this house.” She turned and went upstairs. I went to my father anyway. He was in his study, the room thick with the scent of cigar smoke. As I poured out the story, he didn’t even look up to ash his cigar. “Dad, Grandma sent me letters and money for thirteen years. Helena took everything. Did you know about this?” The silence stretched so long the cigar nearly burned down to his fingers. Finally, he spoke. “Your mother passed away early, Cora. It wasn’t easy for Helena to take you in. Some things… you just have to learn to let go.” “Let go?” My voice cracked. “She hid my grandmother’s letters for thirteen years and stole her money. And you’re telling me to let it go?” My father extinguished his cigar in the heavy glass ashtray, still refusing to look me in the eye. “The money your grandmother sent was spent on you anyway. Tuition, clothes, food. The math works out.” Hearing him say those words, a sickening realization washed over me. The $436,800 ledger Helena had paraded at dinner—a significant portion of that was my grandmother’s money. Helena had used my grandmother’s funds to raise me, logged the expenses under her own name, and forced me to bear the weight of her fake generosity. When I walked out of the study, the hallway felt freezing. As I passed Gemma’s room, her door was slightly ajar. Through the gap, I saw her sitting at her desk, her computer screen glowing. It was the application portal for a prestigious fine arts academy. Under the “Portfolio” section, the file names made my blood run cold. They were my paintings. Every watercolor, every pencil sketch I had labored over during the past two years had been scanned and uploaded into her application. The applicant’s name: Gemma Norton. I pushed the door open. “Those paintings are mine.” Gemma spun around, her face flitting from panic to icy composure in two seconds flat. “What are you talking about? Do you have a signature on them? Is your name on the canvas? Did anyone see you paint them?” “Cora, you don’t even have a desk of your own in this house. How are you going to prove these are yours?” I stared at the screen, at the digital image of my watercolor magnolia. The brushstrokes, the composition, the specific empty space I always left in the bottom-right corner—every single detail belonged to my soul. “You don’t even know how many petals a magnolia has, Gemma. How could you have painted this?” Her face twitched for a second, then she scoffed. “Who says I can’t paint? You think you’re some kind of genius? I’ve taken art classes for three years. I could paint this in my sleep.” She stepped closer to me, her voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper. “Even if you did paint them, so what? In this house, what’s yours is mine.” “Your clothes, your art, your mother’s cheap little pendant. If I want it, it’s mine.” “What do you have, Cora? You don’t even own the room you sleep in.” The blood roared in my ears, blurring my vision. She snapped her laptop shut and leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. “Oh, by the way, my interview at the academy is next week. I think I’ll wear your new trench coat. Don’t worry, once I get my acceptance letter, you’ll be the first person I thank.” I backed out of her room, standing in the silent hallway for what felt like hours, until Helena’s voice shrieked from downstairs. “Cora! The kitchen sink is still full of dishes! What are you doing up there?” I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against my grandmother’s final letter. Never let anyone else open that pendant. Returning to the sink, I stared at my reflection in the dark kitchen window. My eyes were red, but the tears wouldn’t fall. Eighteen years of crying had finally run my well dry. I needed that golden pendant. But getting it off Gemma’s neck was going to be the hardest thing I’d ever done. Just then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from an unknown number. “Dear Ms. Cora Norton, your late mother, Ms. Iris Raymond, established a secure deposit box with our firm eighteen years ago. The holding period has now expired. Please visit our office with your valid identification to retrieve the contents. — Simon Fletcher, Evergreen Legal Partners.” I stared at the screen, my fingertips turning ice-cold. Iris Raymond. My mother’s name. 04 “What are you smiling at like an idiot?” Gemma had sneaked downstairs, her eyes immediately darting toward my phone screen. I wasn’t fast enough to lock it. She snatched the phone from my grip. I reached for it, but she dodged to the side, her manicured thumb already sliding across the screen. “Evergreen Legal Partners?” She raised an eyebrow, holding the phone high out of my reach. “Cora, why are you talking to a lawyer? Are you trying to sue my mom for child abuse?” “Give it back.” She ignored me, reading the text message aloud before letting out a mocking whistle. “Iris Raymond… your dead mom, right? Secure deposit box? Eighteen years?” She laughed, turning toward the stairs. “Mom! You have to see this! Cora’s dead mom apparently left her a mystery package at a law firm!” Helena descended the stairs, taking the phone from Gemma. She read the message, her face tightening for a fraction of a second. But it was gone in an instant. She slipped my phone into her apron pocket. “It’s just a phishing scam. Scammers love targeting naive girls with these emotional tricks.” “That’s my phone—” “I’ll give it back tomorrow. Go to bed, Cora. Stop letting your imagination run wild.” Helena turned and walked back upstairs. Gemma followed close behind. As she passed me, she shoved her shoulder into mine, leaning in to whisper, “You can hire a hundred lawyers, Cora. You’re still absolutely nothing in this house.” I didn’t sleep that night. I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, playing the words of that text over and over in my head. Evergreen Legal Partners. Simon Fletcher. The secure deposit box my mother left eighteen years ago had finally matured. She knew. My mother had known exactly what would happen to me after she died. She hadn’t just left a decoy metal box; she had secured a lawyer. The metal box was something Helena was meant to find—an easy target to satisfy her greed. But what lay with the lawyer… that was my mother’s true legacy. The next morning, before anyone else woke up, I slipped into Helena’s room to search her bag. I couldn’t find my phone, but in her vanity drawer, I found a bank transaction receipt. The recipient was an elite art auction house. The amount was $4.2 million. In the memo line, there were only three words: Iris Raymond Paintings. Four point two million dollars. I vaguely remembered my mother painting in the attic when I was very small. The sunlight would stream through the skylight, the smell of oil paints and turpentine thick in the air. That was my clearest memory of her. Helena had told me those paintings were “worthless junk” and that she had thrown them out during our last move. Worthless junk worth $4.2 million. Before I could look closer, I heard footsteps on the stairs. I quickly shut the drawer and slipped back into the hallway. Later that morning, Gemma left the house wearing my new trench coat, practically floating out the door for her interview at the art academy. With the house empty, I began my chores—mopping the floors, wiping down the windows, cleaning the dust off the family memorial altar. As I worked near the end of the hallway, I noticed Helena’s bedroom door was slightly ajar. She was on the phone, her voice kept to a low whisper, but the acoustics of the old hallway carried every word. “…I’m keeping an eye on Gemma. The interview will go fine.” “Cora? What can she possibly do? She’s just a stray. I’ve already wiped out everything her mother left behind.” “I know about the lawyer. I’m going there tomorrow to shut it down. She can’t find out…” The voice abruptly cut off. She had realized the door was open. The door slammed shut with a sharp clack. I knelt on the floor, the damp rag trembling in my hand, my entire body freezing over.

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For our high school graduation trip, Grace, our class princess, gave us three different itineraries. In my first life, we chose Route A. The tour bus plummeted off a mountain pass. The vehicle was pulverized, and not a single soul survived the impact. In my second life, we went with Route B. A head-on collision wiped out the entire class. Grace was the sole survivor. In my third life, we opted for Route C. A tire blowout caused a devastating rollover. Most of the class walked away with scratches, but Grace and I died on the spot. Now, my eyes snap open. Grace is leaning forward, her chin propped on her hands, smiling sweetly at me. “So, Hannah, which one do you want to pick?” Before I can even open my mouth, the others chime in. “Why are you asking her? She’s a charity case. Probably hasn’t even crossed state lines. What would she know about a vacation?” “Yeah, just choose, Grace. If she complains, I’ll shut her up myself.” On the morning of the trip, when they do the headcount and realize I’m missing, Grace calls me in a panic. “Hannah, where are you? The whole bus is waiting for you.” I am sitting on the terrace of a boutique resort at the foot of the mountain, leisurely sipping an iced latte. “I’m already here.” This time, they can keep their death trap of a bus. I’m going to sit back and watch exactly who pays the price. 1 At our post-finals dinner, the table was buzzing with talk about the trip. “Hannah, I asked you a question. Why are you spacing out?” Leonard asked, crossing his arms and looking at me with cold irritation. I looked up, meeting his eyes. For a split second, all I saw was his crushed, blood-soaked body pinned beneath the rusted frame of a bus. Grace slid over, draping her arm over my shoulder, her eyes sparkling. “Hannah, you’re the class president. Your opinion is super important to us.” I looked at her. Her smile was still effortlessly beautiful, sweet enough to rot your teeth. But I couldn’t stand the sight of it anymore. I looked down, surreptitiously checking my arms and torso. No broken bones. No exposed organs. I exhaled a long, shaking breath. I was back. The fourth time. In my first life, Route A ended on jagged rocks. I still remembered the copper smell of blood on the dirt, the silent, terrible carnage hanging over the cliffside. In my second life, Route B ended in a metal-on-metal scream. Grace was the sole survivor, but the internet turned on her, hounding her with cyberbullying until she jumped off her apartment balcony. In my third life, Route C ended in a violent roll. Almost everyone walked away with minor scratches—except Grace and me. We died on impact. Three times. I had died three distinct, agonizing deaths. The phantom pain still clawed at my chest. I couldn’t do this anymore. I gently slid Grace’s hand off my shoulder. “I’m not going.” The table went dead silent for a second, then erupted. “What do you mean? The class president is ditching?” “This is a once-in-a-lifetime trip, Hannah. Why do you always have to be so painfully antisocial?” Grace blinked, her voice soft and maternal. “Hannah, is there something holding you back? If you have any worries, we can totally change the plans.” I looked straight into her clear, deceptive eyes. “I am not going. Have fun, but leave me out of it.” Grace’s smile stiffened. Leonard scowled. “Hannah, don’t be a killjoy. Grace spent weeks putting this together. Can’t you just support her for once?” Leonard. My next-door neighbor since we were kids. He was brilliant, ridiculously handsome, the guy half the girls in our grade secretly cried over. I used to be one of them, but once I realized his heart belonged to Grace, I had forced myself to get over it. “The weather forecast for the mountain pass looks brutal,” I said, trying one last time to warn them. “Honestly, if you want my advice, none of you should go.” They burst into laughter. “Are you serious? It’s a road trip, not a horror movie.” “Typical Hannah. Class president to the end, trying to micromanage our lives.” Leonard’s jaw set. “Hannah, can you stop with the dark, dramatic warnings? Everyone is excited. Why do you always have to rain on our parade?” I let out a quiet sigh. Fine. Everyone has their own cross to bear. In my third life, when only Grace and I lay dying in the wreckage and the paramedics arrived, Leonard had grabbed a first responder by the coat. “Save Grace first,” he’d screamed. Nobody argued. In the end, they threw a massive candlelit vigil for Grace. Nobody even mentioned my name. “Go if you want,” I said, gathering my things. “I’m just telling you where I stand.” The dinner was wrapping up, and I stood to leave. But Grace suddenly caught my wrist, her eyes swimming with performative sympathy. “Hannah… is it a money issue? I heard your dad is just a security guard, and your mom is… well, she has a disability. If things are tight at home…” She caught herself, clapping a manicured hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! That was so insensitive of me. I didn’t mean to blurt that out, I just…” The room filled with hushed, venomous murmurs. “No wonder she never comes to parties. She’s dead broke.” “She probably only studies so she can escape her trashy life.” I looked down, not out of shame, but to hide the hysterical laugh bubbling in my throat. My dad did work in private security—as the CEO and owner of a firm with over two thousand contractors. My mother had a mobility impairment, yes, but her oil paintings sold for six figures at elite galleries in New York. We lived quietly because my parents despised flashing their wealth. But how did Grace find out about my family? I cast a cool glance at Leonard. He instantly shifted his gaze, looking guilty. I see. He’d gossiped about me to Grace, desperate to distance himself from the “poor girl” who used to crush on him. “Let me make this clear one last time,” I said, looking directly at Grace. “I am not going. Do not put me on the list.” Grace bit her lip, tears welling up. Leonard wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry about her, Grace. Just book it. We’re all behind you.” The rest of the table nodded eagerly. Grace pointed to Route C on the flyer. “Let’s do Route C then. We can hike and go white-water rafting. Just Venmo me the $150, and I’ll book the group rate.” Phones started chiming with transaction notifications. I didn’t move. Grace walked over, looking hurt. “Hannah, you haven’t sent it… did you want me to cover you? I’d love to help, but I’m just a student too, and I can’t keep spending my parents’ money…” The room turned on me instantly. “Are you kidding me, Hannah? She’s doing all the work and you expect a free ride?” “Unreal. Some people are just shameless.” I set my bag down and looked up at Grace, my face completely expressionless. “When did I say I was going?” Grace blinked. “I told you four times I’m not going,” I said, enunciating every word. “Are you deaf?” Leonard snatched my phone off the table. He knew my PIN—he’d watched me unlock it during our AP study sessions. Ding. Transaction complete. $150 sent. He tossed the phone back onto the table like a piece of garbage. “Stop acting like you’re above everyone else,” he sneered, his disgust entirely undisguised. “If you keep acting this toxic, don’t expect me to look out for you when we get to college.” I picked up my phone. “I said, I’m not going. Keep the cash if it makes you feel better, but my seat will be empty.” I slung my backpack over my shoulder and walked toward the exit. Behind me, Grace burst into tears. “She’s doing this on purpose… she hates me…” Leonard pulled her close. “Don’t cry. I’ll make sure she goes.” The others nodded aggressively. “Don’t worry, Grace. If she tries to flake, we’ll drag her by her hair.” “Yeah, we’re not letting her ruin the class spirit.” Class spirit. What a joke. 2 The moment I walked through the front door of my house, my parents rushed toward me. My mom threw her arms around me, sobbing instantly. “Hannah! Oh thank god, you’re home!” My dad’s eyes were bloodshot, his voice thick with unshed tears. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” I froze, the realization washing over me. “Mom? Dad? You guys…?” “Yes, honey,” my mom said, wiping her face as she leaned heavily on her cane. “We remembered. We went through it too. Listen to me, Hannah—you cannot go on that graduation trip. Under no circumstances.” I nodded slowly. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of going.” My mom let out a ragged sigh of relief, but the anxiety still hung thick in her eyes. “Why don’t we go somewhere else? Just the three of us. Aspen? Maui? We can leave tomorrow and stay for a week.” My dad chimed in, “Yes, I’ll clear my schedule at the firm. I’ll drive us. Anywhere you want to go, sweetheart.” I look at their anxious, loving faces, and a deep warmth bloomed in my chest. “Let’s wait. Let’s wait until the standardized test scores come out, and then we’ll go with a clear head.” I didn’t spell out my deeper fear. After three consecutive fatal accidents, I didn’t know if the curse lay in the bus, the route, or the day itself. I needed to bypass all the variables entirely. The next morning, Grace posted an announcement in our group chat. We’re leaving in three days! Everyone meet at the school gates at 7:30 AM sharp. She added a voice note: We should go before the scores are released. That way, even if someone didn’t do great, it won’t ruin the vibe! The chat filled with praise. Grace, you’re literally an angel. Yeah, once the scores drop, half of us will be too depressed to pack a bag. Team Grace all the way! I scrolled through the messages, completely detached, until Grace tagged me. @Hannah, 7:30 AM in three days! Don’t be late! I didn’t reply. A few minutes later: @Hannah did you see this? Don’t pretend you forgot! Still, I ignored it. Three minutes later, my phone rang. It was Leonard. I picked up, and his voice was thick with irritation. “Hannah, what is your problem? Grace tagged you twice. Are you blind?” “I saw it.” “Then why aren’t you replying?” “Because I don’t want to.” Leonard took a sharp, angry breath, trying to control his temper. “Grace just called me crying. Are you seriously trying to humiliate her? Every single person in our class replied except you!” I pinched the bridge of my nose. He was doing it again—using that demanding, accusatory tone. If our parents weren’t old friends, I would have blocked his number years ago. “Leonard, I’ve told you. I am not going.” “Hannah!” his voice barked through the receiver. “We’re a class! Why do you always have to be the odd one out? If you hated the three options so much, you should’ve suggested a fourth!” “I didn’t hate them.” “Then why won’t you go?” “I just don’t want to.” A cold, mocking laugh echoed from the other end. “You really think you’re something special, don’t you? Playing hard to get, acting like some brooding outsider just to get my attention? You think this makes me want you?” My jaw tightened. How did I ever fancy this arrogant idiot? When I didn’t reply, his voice dropped to a chilling threat. “You’re just making yourself look pathetic, Hannah. I’m telling you right now—you will be on that bus. End of story.” He hung up. I almost wanted to laugh. He actually thought this was about him. Delusional. 3 With only twenty-four hours left before the trip, the group chat was booming. I remained a ghost. I was waiting—waiting to see how this timeline tried to force my hand. Suddenly, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find Leonard standing on our porch. “We need to talk,” he said, looking slightly uneasy. “About tomorrow.” I leaned against the doorframe, refusing to let him inside. “I’ve made my position very clear.” Instead of arguing, he pulled out his phone and hit play on a video. I looked at the screen, and my blood ran ice-cold. In the video, my mother was sitting in her wheelchair near the entrance of our high school. Grace was standing directly behind her, her hands resting heavily on the rubber handles. “Mrs. Clark, thank you so much for coming down to see us off,” Grace said, looking directly into the lens with a bright, manic grin. “Hannah, your mom is here. Aren’t you coming?” With a sickeningly sweet smile, Grace gently nudged the wheelchair forward. Just a little more pressure, and the chair would roll down the curb—right into the four-lane, high-speed traffic of the main road. My hands started to shake against my phone. My mother had told me this morning that Leonard’s mother had invited her out for coffee. I never imagined Grace would lay such a trap. I looked up at Leonard, my eyes burning with rage. “You lured my mother out there?” Leonard’s expression stiffened for a fraction of a second before smoothing over. “Lured? What are you talking about? We just invited your mom for coffee so Grace could meet her. Grace is really into art, you know…” I shoved the phone screen right in his face. “Look at her hands! What is this supposed to be? If I don’t show up, is she going to push my disabled mother into oncoming traffic?” Leonard glanced at the screen and frowned, clearly annoyed. “You’re being paranoid. It’s just a joke.” “A joke?” The anger in my chest was suffocating. “Leonard, my mom practically raised you when your parents were working. How can you stand there and defend this?” “Why do you always have to bring up the past?” Leonard muttered, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “Just go on the trip. Support Grace. It’s better for everyone.” I looked at him. I had known this boy for twelve years. Twelve years. And suddenly, I was looking at a complete stranger. I drew a slow, shuddering breath. “Fine. I’ll go.” Leonard’s eyes lit up. “See? Was that so hard?” He held out his palm. “Give me your driver’s license and passport.” I stared at him, bewildered. “Excuse me?” “Just to make sure you don’t flake tomorrow morning. A guarantee.” I was trembling with rage. He was holding my official documents hostage. But with my mother’s safety on the line, I couldn’t risk defying them. I turned around, grabbed my wallet and passport from the drawer, and slapped them into his hand. Leonard tucked them into his jacket pocket, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “Great. I’ll give them back when we get to the resort.” He reached out as if to pat my shoulder, but I flinch away. His hand froze in mid-air, a flash of annoyance crossing his face. “See you tomorrow.” As he walked down our driveway, I heard him dialing Grace. “It’s done.” Grace’s laughter leaked through the speaker. “I knew you could handle her. Your idea worked perfectly.” So it was his idea. A hollow, bitter laugh escaped my throat. I really, truly misjudged him. The moment he was out of sight, I called an Uber and sprint to the high school. By the time I arrived, Grace was gone. My mother was sitting safely in the air-conditioned security guard booth. When we got home, I told my father everything. He slammed his fist onto the dining table. “We’re calling the police! Right now!” I gently caught his hand. “It won’t work, Dad. She hasn’t done anything illegal yet. If the police show up, they’ll just question her and let her go. It’ll only make her more desperate.” My father’s fists trembled with rage. “So we just let her get away with this?” My eyes were cold and clear. “They want me on that trip? Fine. I’ll go.” “No!” both of my parents shouted in unison. My mother grabbed my hands, her palms sweaty. “Hannah, that bus is a death trap. You’ll die!” “I know,” I said softly. “Which is why I’m not taking the bus. We’re going to change the game.” I laid out my plan. When I finished, the room was dead silent. “Are you sure about this?” my dad asked. I nodded. “This loop has to end.” My parents shared a long, heavy look before finally nodding. “If anything looks off, you run,” my mother whispered. “Forget the evidence. Just stay alive.” “I will.” 4 If I was going, I was doing it on my own terms. No cursed bus. No cursed route. No cursed morning departure. That very afternoon, my dad packed my bags into his SUV and drove me directly to the mountain resort. I checked into the penthouse suite, which boasted a stunning panoramic view of the very peak we were supposed to climb. The next morning at 7:00 AM, I walked down to the resort terrace, ordered a full brunch spread, and enjoyed my coffee under the morning sun. My phone started buzzing. The group chat was alive. We’re on the road! Is everyone here? So excited! Grace sent a sweet voice note: Don’t worry, guys, I’m just doing a quick headcount… Hannah, are you here yet? She tagged me. I took a slow sip of my coffee and left it on read. Five minutes later, my phone rang. Grace’s voice was tight with a frantic, sharp edge. “Hannah, it’s 7:25. Everyone is on the bus. Where are you?” I swallowed a piece of smoked salmon. “I’m already here.” The line goes completely quiet for a beat. “What?” she asked, as if she didn’t hear me correctly. “I said, I’m already here. Sitting on the terrace of the resort, having brunch.” “That’s impossible,” her voice cracked. “The bus hasn’t even left the school. How could you be there?” “My dad drove me up last night. You guys take your time. No rush, I’ll be waiting.” Another long silence. When Grace spoke again, her voice was strained, her sweet facade cracking. “Hannah, stop playing games. Where are you really?” “I’m not playing. Want me to FaceTime you?” I hung up and immediately started a video call. On her screen, my classmates were gathered in front of the school bus, bags packed. On my screen, I showed her my father sitting across from me, the mountain peaks towering in the background, the gourmet breakfast spread, and the luxury resort logo stitched into the linen napkin. I waved cheerfully. “See you guys soon!” The classmates crowded around Grace’s phone, and the audio picked up their frantic whispering. Wait, she’s already there? Look at those keys on the table—is that a Porsche SUV? Oh my god, is Hannah actually loaded? Why are we still waiting then? Let’s get moving! They started climbing onto the bus. On the screen, Grace’s face went through a terrifying transformation—from pale white to a furious, blotchy red, and finally to a sickly, dark purple. Suddenly, her carefully constructed mask shattered completely. She screamed into the camera, her face contorting into something hideous and wild: “Hannah! Are you fucking doing this on purpose?!”

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For ten years, my sister and I loved the same man. Luke always said he liked girls who were soft, gentle, and nurturing. My sister, Hailey, knew how to shrink herself to make him feel big. She possessed an innate, honeyed helplessness. I didn’t. I couldn’t. Whenever the three of us were together, his eyes and words belonged entirely to her. I sat beside them, as invisible and rigid as a lamppost. On the day we graduated college, they got married at City Hall. So, I ran. I packed a suitcase, flew across the Atlantic, and took a full ride for an MBA in London. I spent four grueling years building my startup. By year six, I was ringing the bell on Wall Street as our stock went public. Recently, word reached me that Luke’s company was bleeding out. Desperate for capital, he posted on LinkedIn: “Big pitch meeting tomorrow with a major investment firm. Wish me luck!” Hailey commented right below: Go get ’em, babe! You’re the absolute best! I glanced down at the schedule my secretary had sent me for tomorrow. At nine-thirty, the founder of a struggling tech startup was coming in to pitch for funding. The name on the ledger read— Luke Davenport. 01 My mother called me, her voice heavy with a frantic, pleading edge. “Lindsay, your brother-in-law is drowning. You have to do something.” “Do what?” “His company is in trouble. He’s desperate for investors. You spent all those years in Europe—surely you know people in venture capital. Can’t you just make an introduction?” She spoke with a jarring lightness, as if she were asking what we should have for dinner. “I’ll look into it.” “Don’t just ‘look into it,’ Lindsay. Hailey is losing her mind. And honestly, you’re thirty-two, unmarried, and entirely alone. What’s the point of building an empire if you have no one to share it with? Look at your sister. She married so well.” I stared out the window of my office, watching the city lights flicker. “Mom—” “You’ve been drifting abroad for six years. You don’t even come home for Christmas. Ever since Hailey married Luke, she’s been the one taking care of your father and me. What have you done?” “Mom, I paid for Dad’s bypass surgery.” “Oh, so you wire some money and suddenly you’re a saint? Thirty thousand dollars to buy yourself a clean conscience? While Hailey spent seven days and nights sleeping on a plastic chair in that hospital room, where were you? In London, chasing dollars!” I stayed quiet, letting the silence stretch. “You’ve always been like this. Competitive. Aggressive. Always trying to one-up your sister. And for what? Hailey has a beautiful family. And you? Drifting alone in your thirties, without a single soul to love you.” I looked at Luke’s name on the schedule. My finger lightly brushed the glass. “Mom, it’s almost midnight.” “Fine, fine. You’re busy. You’re always busy.” Her voice dropped a fraction. “Hailey wanted me to ask… do you know anything about the firm Luke is pitching tomorrow? What kind of guy the managing partner is? Just so Luke can prepare.” The partner is me. “Yeah,” I said quietly. “I’ll ask around.” The moment I hung up, my phone buzzed. It was a voice note from Hailey. Thirty-six seconds. She never texts; she only sends voice notes, forcing you to listen to her breath. “Hey, Lindsay. Mom called you, right? Luke is under so much pressure lately, he can’t sleep. Since you lived abroad for so long, you must know some heavy hitters in venture capital. Can you do some digging for us?” A pause, followed by a light, airy giggle. “Oh, by the way, what exactly is it that you do now? Is it internet stuff or something? I can never quite remember, haha.” Thirty-six seconds. She didn’t even know what I did. When my company went public, my full name was splashed across the financial news. She couldn’t even bother to Google me. The family group chat was buzzing too. Mom: [Luke has a massive meeting tomorrow. Let’s all wish him luck! Let’s bring this funding home!] Dad replied with a thumbs-up. Hailey: [My husband is the best! You’ve got this!] I scrolled through twenty-odd messages. Not one of them was directed at me. For six years, I have been a ghost in this chat. I read, but I never reply. I tried, once. The day we closed our Series A funding, I texted: Just signed our Series A. Nobody asked what a Series A meant. Hailey had simply replied: [Oh, that’s cute, Lindsay! Glad your little project is still going. Keep it up! ~] I never posted about my life again. My secretary, Patricia, called through the office line. “Lindsay, the assistant for the nine-thirty appointment just called to confirm. I have their pitch deck. Should I bring it in now?” “Just leave it on my desk.” “Will do. Also… his assistant sounded incredibly anxious. Asked if they could meet ten minutes early.” “Tell him to wait in the lounge. We stick to the schedule.” “Understood. Anything else you need?” “No. We’ll treat this as a standard pitch.” 02 “Lindsay, why aren’t you replying?” At seven in the morning, Hailey’s second voice note blasted through my phone. Forty-two seconds. “Lindsay, Luke didn’t sleep at all last night. I’m literally sick with worry. I know you’re busy, and you have your own life. But if this pitch falls through… we might have to mortgage the house. And Zoe’s preschool tuition for next term…” Her voice cracked perfectly on cue. House, daughter, tuition. Every word was a calculated strike, designed to play on family obligation. Ten years. With Luke, she used sweetness; with me, she used tragedy. Those were her only two frequencies. I didn’t reply. Driving to the office, the phone rang again. Caller ID: Joyce. My college roommate. We hadn’t spoken in over four years. “Lindsay? Oh my god, long time no see! I heard you’re back in the States?” “What made you think of me, Joyce?” “Haha, actually, your sister mentioned you at a dinner party a few days ago—” “What did she say?” “She said you only moved to London because of a broken heart. That you were secretly in love with her husband, Luke, for ten years, and when you couldn’t get him, you fled the country out of spite.” My grip on the steering wheel tightened. “Everyone was saying how hard it must have been for you over there. Your sister even said she feels so guilty, and that since you’re still single, it’s probably because you still haven’t moved on.” “She was crying, wasn’t she?” I asked. “How did you know? Yeah! She said her biggest regret in life was hurting you. But she also said… well, she said you’ve always been stubborn and competitive, trying to prove you’re better than her. She said she actually feels really sorry for you.” Joyce’s laugh was light, casual. But every word was a dull blade. Hailey, playing the fragile victim, had carefully written my narrative: the pathetic, bitter older sister who failed to get the guy, fled the country in tears, built a career out of desperate spite, and ended up an unmarried, lonely woman in her thirties. Six years. An IPO on Wall Street. A valuation nearing a billion dollars. Hundreds of employees worldwide. To her, it was just “a bitter spinster running away from a broken heart.” “What else did she say?” “She said she felt so bad because you were sobbing at the airport the day you left—” “I was sobbing at the airport?” “Yeah, she said—” “Joyce.” “Yeah?” “The day I left, my flight was at four in the morning. I took an Uber alone. No one drove me, and no one even knew what day my flight was.” Silence stretched on the other end of the line. “Including Hailey,” I continued. “She didn’t even know what day I was leaving. How could she know if I was crying?” Joyce stayed quiet. Then, in a small voice: “So, what have you been doing these past few years?” “I’ve been well. Busy. Running my company.” “Your sister said you were running some little Etsy shop or something…” “It’s not an Etsy shop.” I didn’t bother explaining further. “Joyce, I’m at the office now. I have to go.” “Oh, sure. Let’s grab coffee sometime? Your sister said she’s been wanting to—” “I’m fully booked. Talk soon.” I hung up and pulled into the underground garage. I turned off the engine and sat in the quiet. She cried at the airport. She ran away because of a broken heart. She still can’t let him go. How many dinner parties had Hailey served this story at? How many times had she squeezed out tears to erase six years of my blood, sweat, and tears, turning it into a pathetic flight of defeat? My phone buzzed. The family group chat. Hailey: [Lindsay’s back in town but she won’t even reply to my texts… I hope she isn’t still mad at me…] Mom: [You know how your sister is. Don’t worry about her. If she won’t help Luke, she won’t. Let it go.] Dad: [Let’s focus on what matters today. Good luck, Luke.] They all accepted Hailey’s version. I was the petty, grudge-holding, unmarried older sister. She was the sweet, long-suffering little sister. The elevator doors opened. Patricia was waiting at the end of the hall. “Morning, Lindsay. The investment team pulled some supplementary files on Ignite Tech. Want to see them now?” “Bring them in.” “Is the nine-thirty meeting still on?” “Yes.” “How do you want to handle it?” I walked into my office. “By the book. It doesn’t matter who he is. The numbers do the talking.” 03 “Lindsay, you there?” At 7:23 AM, Luke’s text hit my phone. It was the first time he had messaged me in six years. No how are you, no it’s been a while. He wanted a favor. “I’m pitching a firm called Meridian Capital at nine-thirty this morning. Since you spent so much time in finance abroad, do you know anyone there? Can you feel them out for me? Find out what their CEO is like, what kind of angle they’re looking for.” I stared at the text. Ten seconds later, another one arrived: “Hailey mentioned you worked in investment banking or something? So you must know the crowd. Let me know if you can ask around. This is huge for me.” Investment banking. That was how Hailey had described my career to him. He didn’t even know what I did. The “investment firm” was my company. The “CEO” was me. But he had no idea. No one had ever cared to find out. I didn’t reply. Another text buzzed. “Lindsay? Did you get this?” Then: “Look, I know you might still be bitter about the past. But that’s over. Do this for me, even if it’s just for Hailey’s sake.” Bitter about the past. He actually believed my silence was because of lingering heartbreak, not because I had forty urgent emails waiting for me at dawn. He still believed my entire world revolved around him. I locked my phone and sat at my desk. Patricia had already laid out my agenda. “Lindsay, I went through the diligence files for Ignite Tech. The team found something interesting.” “Go on.” “The core technology framework for their main product, Nexus, is almost identical to the academic paper you published in the university journal back in 2016. The conceptual overlap is over seventy percent.” “I know.” “The investment team thought this might be an affiliated project at first and came to me to confirm. Your name isn’t listed anywhere in Ignite’s documents.” “Of course it isn’t.” Patricia hesitated. “If we need to initiate an intellectual property audit…” “No need.” “But Lindsay—” “An idea is nothing if it just sits in a notebook. At least he tried to build it. Whether he succeeded is another story.” Patricia pursed her lips. I flipped through his business plan. Four product lines, not a single one fully operational. Unbalanced tech team. His customer acquisition cost model was using data from three years ago. My phone lit up again. The family chat. Hailey: [Luke is on his way! Everyone cross your fingers!] Then she DMs me: “Lindsay, Luke said you aren’t replying to his texts. Can you please just help us out this once? He’s incredibly stressed.” Followed by an eight-second voice note: “Is your phone dead or something? Seriously, did you get my messages?” I closed the app. At 8:50 AM, Patricia peeked her head in. “Lindsay, Luke Davenport from Ignite Tech is at reception. He’s forty minutes early. Should I have him wait in the lounge?” “Yes. Give him a glass of tap water.” “Got it.” She took a step back, then turned around. “The receptionist said… he made a call as soon as he sat down. He wasn’t exactly quiet.” “What did he say?” “He told whoever was on the line: ‘Don’t worry, babe. I’ve dealt with VC firms this size a million times. Today is just a formality.’” Meridian Capital had over $3.8 billion under management. And to him, it was “just a formality.” “Patricia.” “Yes?” “Bring him in at nine-thirty sharp. Not a minute earlier.” 04 “It’s nine-twenty-eight, Lindsay,” Patricia whispered from the doorway. I closed my financial ledger. My phone lit up. Hailey’s voice note. Fifteen seconds. “Lindsay, Luke said you ignored his texts. Are you doing this on purpose? This meeting is everything to him. If you’re not going to help, fine, but don’t hold him back.” A pause. Her tone shifted, sharp and venomous. “I’m telling you, Lindsay, if Luke fails today, I’m telling Mom and Dad it’s your fault. You’re taking your bitter, spinster resentment out on us. When are you finally going to grow up?” Fifteen seconds of poison, without a single breath. To the world, she was a sweet victim. To me, every word was a serrated edge. Mom’s call came in immediately after. “Lindsay, are you picking fights with Hailey again?” “No, Mom.” “Then why won’t you help Luke? It’s a ten-minute favor and you’re making excuses.” “Mom, I’m at work—” “What’s so important about your little job? Luke’s company is a real business, Lindsay. Can’t you see the difference?” “Mom—” “Don’t ‘Mom’ me! Let me tell you something, Lindsay. If you can’t even do this for your family, don’t bother coming home. You ran away the day you graduated. You didn’t show up when your father had bypass surgery, and you skipped your sister’s wedding. Six years, and you haven’t done a single thing for this family.” I leaned back in my chair. The September sun outside was blindingly bright. “You’ve always been so competitive, so cold. Always trying to prove you’re better than Hailey. What was all that struggle for? Look how lonely you are.” In the background, I heard Hailey’s muffled voice: “Mom, stop. Lindsay has her reasons.” Mom sighed. “Don’t help him then. You’ve never cared about this family anyway.” Click. She hung up. I set the phone down on the polished wood desk. My fingertips were completely numb. Not from pain, but from gripping too hard. The day we went public on the New York Stock Exchange, I stood on that balcony watching the blue confetti rain down. Hundreds of people were cheering. The stage lights were incredibly hot. But in that moment, I wasn’t thinking about the success. I was thinking: I wish Mom could see this. I had sent the video clip to the family group chat. No one replied. Two hours later, Hailey texted: [Oh, did you go on a trip, Lindsay? Looks fancy! ~] And then the chat dissolved into a discussion about what color Luke should get for his new Tesla. “Lindsay.” Patricia’s voice broke my thoughts. “It’s nine-thirty. Mr. Davenport has been waiting for ten minutes. Should I bring him in?” I opened my eyes. I sat up straight. The pitch deck was open in front of me. Debt ratio, cash burn rate, product timeline, a request for five million dollars—all of his failures laid bare in my hands. “Bring him in.” The sound of footsteps approached. Polished leather shoes clicking confidently on the hardwood floor. Patricia led the way. “Right this way, Mr. Davenport.” The door swung open. Luke stood in the doorway. His suit was perfectly tailored. He held a bound business plan. His face wore a practiced, confident smile—the kind designed to charm investors. He looked up. His eyes scanned the office, the floor-to-ceiling windows, and finally landed on me. The smile vanished. The business plan slipped an inch through his fingers. His lips parted, but his voice was strangled. “…Lindsay?” I looked into his eyes. The distance between us across the desk was less than six feet. Ten years ago, when the three of us sat together, his eyes never lingered on me for a single second. “Mr. Davenport,” I said calmly. “Please, take a seat.” 05 “How… what are you doing here?”

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On the eve of our wedding, I borrowed my fiancée’s phone to order some takeout, and a hotel booking notification popped up on the screen: Deluxe King Room, $350. Special request: “Floor-to-ceiling windows on the top floor.” My chest tightened. I tapped into her message history. The pinned contact at the top of her list was no longer me. It was Chase, the college intern at her firm. I scrolled through dozens of Venmo transactions she’d sent him: $520, $1,314, $9,999… The latest message was a voice note from him: “You were so rough last night, babe. I’m still sore. Where’s my bonus?” She had sent him a thousand dollars instantly. When Lauren walked into the room and saw the phone in my hand, the color drained from her face. She dropped to her knees right there on the hardwood floor, the sound of her knees hitting the wood sharp and loud, and slapped herself hard across the face. “Adam, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking… it was a moment of madness. Please, just forgive me this once. Please.” Ten years of history—from high school sweethearts to this apartment. My throat burned, but I swallowed the humiliation and nodded. After we got married, Lauren became the perfect wife. Almost terrifyingly so. She texted me her location constantly, left her phone unlocked on the kitchen counter, and practically begged me to check it. When I got sick and had to leave my job to recover, she took care of everything, transferring ten thousand dollars into my account every month so I wouldn’t feel the sting of losing my career. Our friends told me I was lucky. They said she had learned her lesson, that a reformed partner was worth their weight in gold. Until the third month of my recovery. Lauren rushed out the door for work and left her burner phone behind. The screen suddenly lit up. It was an Amazon delivery notification: “Your order for [Lace Strappy Nightgown – Emerald Green] is out for delivery.” My hands shook as I unlocked it. The recipient’s name was set to “Chase Baby.” The exact same pet name she had used for the intern two years ago. … I stood frozen in the quiet living room, the air caught in my throat. My thumb moved on autopilot, scrolling up. In the purchase history, she had bought the same brand of nightgown three times, each in a different color. Along with boxes of condoms and sets of lingerie I had never seen. The shipping address wasn’t our home. It was a luxury high-rise apartment near her office called The Emerald. I clicked on the latest product review she had left. “Fits perfectly. My wife loves it.” Attached was a photo of two hands, fingers tightly intertwined. On the woman’s wrist was the Cartier watch I’d saved up to buy her for her birthday just a few months ago. My hands shook so violently I almost dropped the phone. When I logged into her secondary messaging app, a physical pain flared in my chest, sharp and suffocating. It was still him. “Chase Baby.” His profile picture was new. He was wearing a tailored designer suit, posing confidently right inside Lauren’s executive office. She hadn’t fired him back then. She had promoted him. He was now her senior associate. And they were just as obsessive as they had been two years ago. Lauren had sent him a provocative photo of herself in the lace nightgown with the caption: “My battle armor just arrived. Come tear it off.” A second later, Chase sent a pin to a five-star hotel downtown. At two in the morning, Chase had sent a voice note saying he missed her. Lauren’s reply was just two words: “On my way.” Twenty minutes later, her location showed she was parked outside his apartment. While I lay asleep in our bed, recovering from surgery, Lauren was either in his arms or on FaceTime with him. And every morning, I woke up to a bed that had already gone cold, assuming she had just left early for an important meeting. To the world, Lauren was the ultimate devoted wife. She sent me photos of her lunch, called me on her breaks, and let me browse her main phone whenever I wanted. She’d hold my face and say, “Adam, I owe you everything. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. I will never betray you again.” I had felt so incredibly grateful that I gave our love a second chance. But that “clean slate” was just a performance. This burner phone was her real world. I took slow, ragged breaths, trying to keep the burning in my chest from consuming me. Suddenly, the screen flashed with a new text: “Tonight, room 1201. Same place. I’m going to ruin you, babe.” The front door unlocked. I slid the phone back into her purse and sat back, taking a slow sip of my tea. Lauren rushed into the living room. When she saw the phone untouched on the counter, a wave of relief washed over her features. She grabbed it, quickly checking her notifications. “Forgot my work phone,” she said, her voice breezy. “Just some high-profile clients reaching out.” She turned to leave. I reached out and caught her wrist. I looked straight into her eyes, searching for even a flicker of guilt. “Are you coming home tonight?” There was nothing. Just empty, beautiful clarity. Lauren leaned down, kissing my forehead with that familiar, gentle warmth. “Work is crazy right now, sweetie. I have a late dinner with some investors. Don’t wait up for me.” She had said those words a thousand times over the last two years. And every time, I had stayed up until 2 a.m., keeping her dinner warm. I never guessed her “investor” was Chase, and her “dinner” was a hotel room. The click of the door closing echoed through the empty apartment, and something inside me finally went cold. On the coffee table sat a small, heart-shaped cake. Happy 2nd Anniversary, the icing read. Just last night, she had held my hand and talked about how we’d celebrate tonight. Now, a single text from Chase had wiped it all from her mind. Maybe because I’d already survived this pain once before, I didn’t break down. Not this time. After a few quiet minutes, I sat down, pulled out my laptop, and emailed a divorce lawyer to draft the agreement. When night fell, I grabbed my coat and drove to the five-star hotel downtown. It took me ten years to build my love for her. But it only took a second for it to die. When I pulled up to the valet, I saw them. Lauren was laughing, her hand locked in Chase’s as they walked through the grand revolving doors. I walked up to the front desk and booked a room right next to theirs. In the elevator, two room-service attendants wheeled in a cart. On the white tablecloth sat a small, elegant chocolate cake and a box of ultra-thin condoms. “Room 1201 again?” one whispered to the other. “That’s the third time this week.” “Yeah, the lady in 1201 is a VIP. She always wants the premium service.” My entire body went rigid. I forgot to even press the button for my floor. “Last time I dropped off the cart, the door wasn’t fully closed. They were right there against the floor-to-ceiling window… curtains wide open. The guy actually looked at me and smirked.” “Oh my god, seriously? No shame.” “Well, she’s rich. That’s how these corporate types are. Out here playing with a boy toy while her poor husband is probably sitting at home waiting for her.” “Sucks to be him. Imagine being that clueless.” The other shrugged. “If you can’t keep your wife satisfied, that’s on you.” Ding. The elevator reached the penthouse level. They wheeled the cart out, but my legs felt like lead. I couldn’t move. Every word had been a physical slap to my face, shattering what little dignity I had left. I slowly followed them down the carpeted hallway and stood outside 1201. Inside, Chase’s voice drifted through the door. “Babe, you ordered cake again? We never even finish it.” Lauren’s voice was teasing, dripping with honey. “If we don’t finish it, I’ll just bring it home to Adam.” My hands clenched into fists. All those nights she brought home “leftover desserts from corporate dinners”—they were Chase’s scraps. And I had eaten them gratefully, touched by her thoughtfulness. Hearing their laughter, a knife twisted in my chest. I didn’t know if I could keep my composure if I knocked. Part of me wanted to tear down the door, to scream and shatter things like I had two years ago. Instead, I walked into 1203 and closed the door behind me. The moment the latch clicked, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Lauren. “Hey, babe,” she said, her voice soft and sweet. “How are you feeling? Is your chest still hurting?” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. I couldn’t find my voice. “This dinner is going to run incredibly late, so I’m just going to crash at a hotel near the office. Get some sleep, okay?” In the background, there was a muffled, breathless groan. “Ah… Lauren, gentler… that hurts…” There was a rustle as she scrambled to cover the mic, but she wasn’t fast enough. “Oh, don’t worry,” she quickly lied. “One of my associates sprained his ankle at the restaurant. I’m just helping him with some ice.” For the first time in my life, I didn’t get angry. “Right,” I said quietly. “Go take care of him.” “Love you, babe,” she murmured before hanging up. It was fascinating, really, how she could divide her heart so neatly. One half to tell me she loved me, and the other to lose herself in another man. I leaned against the floor-to-ceiling glass of my room, lighting one cigarette after another. Ten years. We had gone from high school sweethearts to college sweethearts, to a beautiful wedding. We survived finals, four years of a grueling long-distance relationship, and the cramped, drafty apartments of our early twenties when we lived on instant noodles. I had watched her claw her way up from an entry-level clerk to executive vice president. She used to work herself to the bone. I remembered her with a hundred-degree fever, still typing away at her laptop in bed. I’d wrap my arms around her, begging her to rest. But she’d smile, press her cold forehead against mine, and say, “Adam, I want to build a life for us. I want to stand beside you and never have to worry about rent again.” That love was real. The ten years were real. That was why, when I first found out about Chase, my heart bled but I couldn’t let her go. I forgave her because I couldn’t bear to erase our history. At eight the next morning, the door to 1201 opened. I stood in the shadow of the hallway corner, watching Chase drape his arm over Lauren’s shoulders as they walked out. “Babe, that Porsche you wanted?” Lauren was saying, tapping his nose. “We’re going to the dealership after work to pick it up.” Chase’s eyes lit up. “Seriously? That’s a hundred and fifty grand. Is your husband going to check the joint account?” Lauren laughed, a cold, dismissive sound. “Adam is sitting at home playing sick. I pay for everything now. He doesn’t have a say in how I spend my money.” I pulled out my phone and checked our bank app. Half of our joint savings was gone. And the luxury apartment at The Emerald? She had bought that too. That money included my life savings, my parents’ wedding gift, and the nest egg we had built together for a future child. She had gutted it to buy her lover a condo and a sports car. A sudden, violent cough tore through my chest, and I doubled over, gasping for air. A passing housekeeper caught my elbow. “Sir? Are you alright?” The noise cut through their laughter. Lauren paused, her eyes scanning the hallway. “Come on, babe, I’m starving,” Chase whined, pulling at her arm. Her gaze brushed past me for a fraction of a second before Chase pulled her into the elevator. Wearing my oversized hoodie with my hood pulled low, she didn’t even recognize her own husband. My phone buzzed. A text from Lauren: “Morning, sweetie! Ordered you that green smoothie and avocado toast you like. It’ll be at the door soon. Take care of yourself today. Love you.” It was hilarious, really. She’d said “I love you” more times in the last three days than she had in the last three years. When I walked out to the parking garage, Chase was leaning against the driver-side door of my sedan. His eyes curled with amusement. “Hey, man. You were in 1203 last night, weren’t you?” Before I could speak, he smirked. “Since we both know what’s up, let’s grab a coffee. Talk like men.” In the quiet coffee shop across the street, I sat opposite him. Lauren had taken excellent care of him. A Gucci messenger bag, a Rolex Submariner, a bespoke wool suit. My entire wardrobe combined probably cost less than one of his buttons. Chase leaned back, looking completely at ease. “Look, Adam. Do you know why you can’t hold onto her? Women like Lauren—high-powered, successful women—they get bored. You can love your favorite meal, but eat it every single day for ten years, and you’re going to crave something new.” My fingers tightened around my paper cup until the cardboard buckled. Chase noticed and grinned. “Lauren says you’re great for keeping the house tidy and cooking dinner. You’re the perfect domestic husband. But me? I’m the adventure. She loves me too much to ever make me wash a dish.” I didn’t think. I just threw the boiling hot coffee straight into his face. Chase jumped back with a roar of rage. “Are you out of your mind, Adam?!” I lunged forward, raising my fist. But before I could connect, a cold, firm grip clamped around my wrist. Lauren shoved herself between us, pulling Chase behind her. Her face was dark with anger. “Adam! Enough! Get in the car. Stop embarrassing yourself in public!” I looked at her, standing defensively in front of him, and felt a dull, familiar ache behind my eyes. “It’s him again. The exact same guy. You really couldn’t let him go, could you?” Lauren didn’t even flinch. She pulled out a chair, her voice turning incredibly cold and practical. “Adam, you are my husband. That is never going to change. We have a home together. Don’t throw a tantrum over something this insignificant.” Insignificant. Two years of systematic betrayal, and she called it insignificant. She grabbed a handful of napkins, gently dabbing the coffee stains off Chase’s tailored lapels, whispering soft, soothing words to him as he pouted. I don’t remember leaving the cafe. By the time the fog cleared, I was sitting in the passenger seat of Lauren’s SUV. “I’m taking you home,” Lauren said, starting the ignition. “You’re tired. Once you’ve calmed down, you’re going to apologize to Chase.” I turned to her, incredulous. “Apologize to the guy sleeping with my wife? What is it about him, Lauren? What does he have that makes you lose your mind like this?” Lauren slammed on the brakes. I flew forward, my forehead cracking hard against the dashboard. Sharp pain bloomed in my temples, but she didn’t even glance over. She just gripped the steering wheel and screamed: “Enough! I have spent two years groveling at your feet, Adam! What more do you want from me? I like his body, okay? He’s young and he’s fun. But you’re the one I love! Why can’t you just accept that?” I pressed my palm to my bruised forehead and leaned against the cold passenger window. The fight drained out of me all at once. “Let’s get a divorce, Lauren. I can manage on my own.” The silence in the car stretched, heavy and suffocating. Then, Lauren let out a dry, humorless laugh and hit the gas. “A divorce? With what money? You can’t even pay your own medical bills without me.” Before my surgery, I was a senior marketing director making six figures, on track for partner. But when her company needed to restructure and she was pulling eighty-hour weeks, I stepped back to manage the house so she could focus. And then I got sick. I became a stay-at-home husband because she held my hand and whispered, “Let me take care of you now.” How incredibly stupid I had been to believe her. The moment we got back to the house, I dragged my suitcase out of the closet. Lauren ripped the shirts from my hands and threw them onto the floor. “Adam, stop this childish behavior. You have no job, no income, and without my insurance, you can’t even afford your physical therapy. Just sit tight and stop making a scene.” She tossed a slip of paper onto the bed. “Chase is coming over with some clients for his birthday tomorrow. Cook what’s on this list. He likes spicy food, so don’t hold back on the seasoning.” “I’m your husband, Lauren, not your housekeeper.” “Then act like it,” she snapped, grabbing her coat. “Making dinner is the least you can do.” She walked out without looking back. The next afternoon, Lauren arrived with Chase and several junior executives from her office. I was in the kitchen, sweating over hot pans, when she called me out to serve. One of the younger guys glanced at my apron and smiled. “Wow, Lauren, your maid is incredibly efficient.” Chase chuckled, taking a sip of his wine. “That’s not a maid. That’s Lauren’s husband.” The room went dead silent. Everyone stared at me, their eyes shifting awkwardly. “Oh… sorry. We didn’t… your husband looks…” “No wonder Lauren practically lives at the office,” another whispered, not quite quietly enough. “She’s got a sick kid at home.” Lauren didn’t say a word to defend me. Instead, her brow furrowed. She walked over and whispered sharply in my ear, “Go upstairs. You’re ruining the mood.” My hands trembled as I set down the serving platter. “Go to your room and stay there,” she commanded, her voice cold and impatient, like she was ordering a disobedient pet. As the bedroom door clicked shut behind me, a burst of laughter erupted from the dining room below, followed by the clinking of glasses. Ten minutes later, I walked downstairs and found her in the hallway. “I need you to sign this medical authorization form,” I said. Lauren snatched the paper with a sigh, signing her name at the bottom without even reading a single line. “Lauren, hurry up! We’re cutting the cake!” Chase called out from the living room. She tossed the pen onto the console table and hurried back to him. I looked down at the paper. Folded beneath the dummy medical form was our divorce agreement, now carrying her bold, hurried signature. I let out a long, quiet breath. By midnight, the guests had left, and my bags were packed by the door. The guest bedroom door creaked open. Chase was leaning against the frame, a smirk plastered on his face. “Packing your bags, big guy?” He strolled into the room, his eyes scanning the wide, beautiful floor-to-ceiling windows. “You know, Lauren and I love this room. Every time she brings me here when you’re asleep, we do it right against the glass.” He pulled back the sheer curtain, flashing me a cruel, triumphant grin. “She likes keeping the curtains open. Says the risk of getting caught makes it hotter.” “Did you ever guess, Adam? While you were drugged out in that bed, I was right behind you.” I stared at him, my face turning completely white. Chase slid his phone out and tapped the screen. It was a photo. Chase, shirtless, holding a half-naked Lauren from behind against the window. Their faces were flushed, her head tilted back as he kissed her throat. And right behind them, clearly visible in the background, was me—curled up in the bed, fast asleep. He swiped to the next photo. And the next. Different nights, different positions, same room. In every single one, my unconscious figure lay in the background. “Remember that month you slept like a baby? Lauren was slipping Ambien into your warm milk every night so we could have some fun.” “I really love these floor-to-ceiling windows. The moonlight is so romantic…” He leaned against the glass, sighing with theatrical ecstasy. Every drop of blood in my body turned to ice. Years ago, when we finally bought this house, I had told Lauren I wanted a bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows. I wanted to wake up to the first light of dawn with her, to fall asleep under the stars. She had immediately hired contractors to customize the room just to make me happy. It had been my favorite corner of our home. And all this time, she had been pressed against that very glass, wrapped in another man’s arms, desecrating the one sacred space I had left. I lunged. My fist connected with his jaw with a sickening crack. Then another. And another. Chase shrieked, trying to shield his face, but I grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head against the glass. “You love this window so much?!” I roared, my voice raw and unrecognizable. “Look at it! Look at it!” I grabbed the heavy oak chair from the vanity and threw it with everything I had. The massive pane of glass shattered with a deafening explosion, raining sharp shards onto the balcony outside. The moonlight fractured into a thousand jagged pieces. Chase scrambled away, bleeding and terrified, sobbing on the floor. “Adam! You’re fucking crazy!” “If you’re mad, blame me! Don’t touch Chase!” Lauren burst into the room. She grabbed me by my collar and shoved me back with terrifying force. But there was no glass behind me anymore. My heel caught on the frame, and my balance tipped. I felt myself falling backward into the cold night air. The wind roared past my ears, and the last thing I heard was Lauren’s raw, terrified scream echoing through the dark: “Adam—!”

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My boyfriend possessed a tongue sharp enough to draw blood, yet a face beautiful enough to make you forgive him. His favorite phrase to use against me, always laced with a condescending drawl, was, “Right, right, whatever you say.” In our tenth year together, Marcus finally caved. He agreed to come home with me for the holidays to meet my family. On the twentieth of December, brimming with foolish hope, I texted him: What day are you flying in? Radio silence. It wasn’t until Christmas Eve that my phone buzzed with his reply. K. I took a slow, deep breath, swallowing the familiar spike of frustration. Are you free on the 27th or 28th? Those are the only days that work for my folks back home. Earlier or later messes up my schedule. Just give me a firm date so I can tell my parents, I typed back. The response was instant this time. Again, just: K. A second later, a voice memo popped up. His tone was infuriatingly casual, dripping with detached arrogance. “You’re always complaining that I’m too sarcastic. I gave you a simple ‘K’. Are you satisfied now?” I sat there, my fingers wrapped tight around my phone, staring blankly at that single, dismissive letter. For a long time, the world was perfectly still. Then, my thumb moved. I opened my blocked contacts list. I scrolled until I found the man who had once shamelessly, relentlessly offered to be the other man in my life. Are you free to come home with me for the holidays and meet my family? We get married right after. His reply came in a heartbeat. Done. Marcus. If you refuse to show up, someone else will gladly take your place. 1 I opened Marcus’s thread one last time. That glaring “K” sat at the bottom of our history, a monument to his apathy. What was the point anymore? It had taken me eight grueling years just to force his hand into meeting my parents for the holidays. Was I supposed to spend the next eight years begging for a ring? Another eight begging for a child? We’re done. I sent the text without a tremor in my fingers. I locked my phone and started packing. We had made it official our freshman year of college. Ten years together, eight of them sharing a roof. The detritus of our shared life was everywhere—heavy, sprawling, suffocating. Yet, the moment the decision settled in my bones, packing felt lighter, faster than any move we’d ever done together. Throw it away. Donate it. Leave it. In a matter of hours, the three-bedroom apartment that had been stuffed to the brim with our existence echoed with emptiness. I called a moving company, efficient and cold, and had my boxes hauled to a small studio apartment I’d bought years ago as a quiet investment. Just like that, a decade was surgically removed. Before walking out the door, I took one last look around. This was the place we’d lived the longest. The place we were supposed to renovate into our marital home. A sudden, sharp ache bloomed in the back of my throat. Ten years. Over. Extinguished in absolute silence. By the time I dragged my suitcase into the fluorescent glare of the airport terminal, my phone chimed. Marcus’s custom text tone. Despite myself, a pathetic, unruly sliver of hope reared its head. My hand moved faster than my brain, tapping the notification bar. “Ha,” I let out a dry, neurotic laugh. Then, I blocked his number. Overhead, the airport coffee shop was playing a soft, melancholic indie-pop song. If we’re breaking, let’s break clean. No apologies, no regrets… What’s there to owe? I dared to give it all, I dare to let it break… I thought about the last decade. The dizzying highs, the screaming fights. Walking away now, while I still had a shred of dignity, felt like the only way to honor the genuine love we once shared. I couldn’t wait around until his little intern decided to knock on my door to stake her claim. That would be pathetic. Lost in thought, I aimlessly opened Instagram. A new story with a green ring popped up. Kenzie. Marcus’s twenty-one-year-old assistant. Ahhhh my boss said he’d pretend to be my boyfriend to get my parents off my back about dating! I am literally the luckiest girl in the world! The next slide: You guys don’t even know. He spent forever picking out outfits just to come home with me for the holidays. Who said men hate shopping? I’m exhausted! The photo grid showed Marcus in nine different casual outfits, looking effortlessly wealthy but shockingly youthful. A vintage hoodie. Distressed denim. Clean white sneakers. It was the complete antithesis of his usual, severely tailored aesthetic. I pressed the buttons to screenshot, but the story vanished mid-capture. Deleted. I smiled, a bitter, self-deprecating curve of my lips. I remembered meeting Marcus in college. Even back then, as the brooding student body president, he practically lived in button-downs and slacks. I used to beg him to wear matching college hoodies with me. He rejected me every single time. My position doesn’t allow me to dress like a clown, Camille. Stop acting like a child. Since when did hoodies and jeans become acceptable? Looking at the ghost of that image—Marcus, dressed like a carefree college boy for someone else—felt like taking a knife to the ribs. We were broken up, but he still had the power to make me bleed. The intercom called my flight. I stood up, gripped my luggage handle, and joined the boarding line. I had walked this terminal alone for ten years. For five of those years, I had begged him to come home with me. Kenzie had been his intern for exactly six months. It’s fine, Marcus. From now on, you’ll never have to wrack your brain for another excuse to say no. 2 The plane was dead quiet. Night flights always are. I was surrounded by sleeping strangers, yet I was drowning in an ocean of inexplicable, crushing loneliness. I opened TikTok, navigating to a burner account I used to quietly keep tabs on Kenzie. She had just posted a text-to-speech slideshow. The title: The Guy Who Loves You Doesn’t Need to Be Asked. The moment my boss found out my family set me up on a blind date for the holidays, he freaked out. I didn’t even ask him to pretend to be my boyfriend! He volunteered! Omg guys, I think I’m developing massive feelings for him. Am I crazy? It’s like having a crush on your strict professor. But he’s so good to me… What do I do if I’m actually falling for him? The comment section was a chorus of enablers. Girl, your boss is built like a Calvin Klein model and he’s initiating? How could you NOT fall for him? Diagnosis: Creator is a clueless, oblivious queen. He’s practically throwing himself at you. Wake up! Been following for six months. I’m literally screaming at my screen. When are you changing your handle from ‘InternKenzie’ to ‘Office Romance Diaries’? Confess to him already! You guys are totally one step away. Did I notice Marcus drifting away during our tenth year? Of course I did. I was just… so tired. Marcus was fundamentally anti-marriage. I didn’t find that out until the day we graduated. I thought about it for a week, then packed my things and told him I was leaving. “I’m an only child,” I had told him, my voice trembling. “If I don’t get married, if I don’t have a family, it would shatter my parents. It would shatter my grandparents.” The color drained from Marcus’s face. “Does leaving me mean nothing to you?” “What does it matter how much it hurts?” I was furious—furious that he had hidden this massive, life-altering truth from me. “I can’t just be your girlfriend for the rest of my life.” He scrambled for a lifeline. “Your life belongs to you, Camille. You shouldn’t have to carry the weight of your family’s expectations.” I held up a hand, cutting him off. “Who said it was just their expectation? We used to lay in bed and talk about having a baby. About giving it all the love in the world.” I looked at him, ice in my veins. “I want a family. I want children. Was all of that just pillow talk to you?” Marcus had no answer. We ended it that night. A month later, he showed up outside my corporate housing. He looked gaunt, pale, clutching a massive bouquet of flowers. “Camille. I can’t do this. I don’t want to be without you.” He looked at me with those devastatingly intense eyes. “Can you just give me a little time? I’m just… I’m not ready to step into a marriage right now.” I was soft. He was my first love. “I never said we had to get married tomorrow,” I whispered. “Are you sure about this?” I asked him, searching his face. “Don’t change your entire worldview just to keep me.” Tears welled in his eyes. “The fear of marriage is nothing compared to the terror of losing you.” He swallowed hard. “Wait for me, Camille.” “I’ll overcome it.” I waited seven years. I was done waiting. 3 Exiting baggage claim, I pulled out my phone to hail an Uber, but it rang before I could open the app. “Cammy, you land yet?” It was my dad. “Yeah, I’m heading to the curb.” “I’m parked by the cell phone lot near Terminal 1. Head this way.” “Oh. Okay.” I was genuinely shocked. Aside from my freshman and sophomore years of college, my dad hadn’t picked me up from the airport in ages. I dragged my suitcase through the freezing winter air. From fifty yards away, I saw my mom and dad leaning against their Subaru, craning their necks to scan the crowd. When they spotted me, they practically jogged over. Dad grabbed my bag to heave it into the trunk, while my mom kept peering over my shoulder, looking at the sliding glass doors behind me. Seeing their frantic, hopeful faces, I suddenly felt a wave of profound relief that I had called a backup. “Mom, Dad—” I opened the back door and slid in. “My boyfriend isn’t coming until the 27th. Stop looking.” “Oh, right, right!” My mom slapped her thigh. “It’s Christmas Eve! He’s gotta spend the actual holiday with his folks first. That makes sense.” My dad patted the steering wheel. “This Marcus kid is pushing thirty, right? Glad he finally realized he needs to step up.” I bit the inside of my cheek, cutting off their eager discussion about their future son-in-law. “Marcus and I broke up.” The car went dead silent. “I’m seeing someone new. His name is Alistair.” I looked out the window. “Don’t get the names mixed up.” My dad whipped his head around, entirely ignoring the icy road ahead. “Wait, when we talked on the phone last week you said Marcus was just on a business trip—” “Keep your eyes on the damn road!” My mom grabbed the steering wheel and violently corrected our lane. She turned her wrath on him. “It’s not you dating the guy, why are you having a heart attack? She said he’s coming on the 27th, so we’ll meet him on the 27th! You’re driving like you’ve downed a fifth of bourbon, acting a fool on the interstate…” I laid my head against the cold window, letting my mom’s familiar, abrasive nagging wash over me. It was true. I had told them just last week that Marcus was finally coming. Now, at the eleventh hour, the groom was swapped. I braced myself for the interrogation, but they just kept bickering about my dad’s driving, deliberately stepping over the landmine to give me space. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. My chest physically ached from how fiercely I loved them. I dozed off in the backseat. The moment we pulled into the driveway of my uncle’s sprawling farmhouse upstate, I was swarmed. My dad was the youngest of five; my mom the youngest of six. This meant our family gatherings were chaotic, deafening, and heavily invested in the marital status of the youngest cousin—me. My oldest cousin bounced a toddler on his hip. “Brought the little guy over so some of his baby luck rubs off on you! Get married, have a kid, and give Auntie some peace of mind.” “Yeah, working on it,” I mumbled. My two older female cousins practically shoved their heads into the car window, scanning the empty seats. “Your guy has zero manners. Who drags his feet for almost a decade?” They clucked their tongues in disapproval. “If he had any sense, he would be here tonight with an armful of presents. You treat him like a goddamn prince for nothing.” “Yeah, totally uncalled for.” Aunts, uncles, and great-aunts crowded around the driveway. “Where’s the boy, Cammy? Didn’t show?” “Not today. He’s coming on the 27th.” My aunt stepped in, physically pulling me from the firing squad. “Give them a break! People have their own families to see on Christmas. She said he’s coming later. Back off and let the girl breathe!” It was twenty degrees outside, and I was sweating through my cashmere sweater. God help me, I thought. How the hell is Alistair, an actual European aristocrat, going to survive my lunatic American family? 4 Christmas and the day after passed in a blur of food comas, spiked eggnog, and relentless socializing. When I finally collapsed onto my childhood bed to rest, my phone buzzed with an unknown number. “Hello?” I answered, my voice raspy with exhaustion. “It’s me.” Marcus. Before I could even process the audacity, his voice cracked with indignation over the line. “You blocked me.” “Yeah.” I stared at the ceiling. “We broke up. Was I supposed to keep you unblocked so I could like your Instagram stories?” “I messed up! But Camille, you have to give me a little more time… I wasn’t ready.” “You messed up a lot of things. Which one are you apologizing for?” I asked, my voice chillingly detached. “You agreed to come home with me for the holidays. If you couldn’t do it, why promise? Hell, if you got cold feet, why didn’t you just communicate that to me?” I sat up, the anger finally catching fire. “Ever since you agreed to come, you either ignored my texts or gave me one-word answers. Scroll through our chat and count how many times you just sent me a ‘K’ this past year.” “You told me you were terrified of marriage. You didn’t want to meet my parents. I gave you time to process it. Seven years! Seven goddamn years!” I took a ragged breath. “I gave you nothing but understanding and space, and you turned around and spent Christmas playing house with your twenty-one-year-old assistant in her hometown.” On the other end, there was a loud crash, followed by Marcus groaning in pain. “Fuck!” “How did you know about… no, listen, let me explain!” he panicked. “I was just doing Kenzie a favor! Her parents were breathing down her neck about getting married. She’s only twenty-one, she shouldn’t have to—” “I don’t care,” I snapped, the sound of his voice physically repulsing me. “We are broken up. I do not want to hear your pathetic excuses.” Marcus’s panic morphed into defensive anger. “I admit that breaking my promise to you was wrong! But you can’t even give me the grace to explain myself? We had a rule, Camille! We promised we’d talk things out, that we’d never go to sleep angry!” He was still violently avoiding the subject of Kenzie. I wasn’t going to waste my precious holiday rest on him. “There’s nothing to talk out. You strung me along under false pretenses. You break promises, you deflect blame, and you are completely utterly gutless.” “I am officially informing you: we are done. Goodbye.” I hung up and instantly blocked the new number.

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