Author: Momo Chan

We were locked in a fierce, confidential internal race against Team B for a ten-billion-dollar project when my director sidelined me under a false pretense. On the day he suspended me, Jared clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Wes,” he’d said, “you’re our technical core. This whole project depends on you. Once we lock down this ten-billion-dollar contract, I’ll personally welcome you back with open arms.” So, I stayed home, working myself to the bone on the project proposal. Three months later, we won the bid. But instead of a welcome back, I received a termination letter. Jared sent me a text, each word cutting like shards of ice. [Wes, you’ve got a disciplinary mark on your record now. HR won’t approve your reinstatement. It’s best you look for opportunities elsewhere.] I stared at the screen, then quietly went into my system architecture file, which relied on three of my personal core patents, and revoked the company’s licensing rights. Three days later, my phone rang. It was the CEO. “Wes, don’t sign that severance agreement yet!” 1 “Hey, Wes, did you see the news? We won the bid.” It was my coworker, Toby, calling. His voice was a frantic, breathless squeak. On the television screen in my living room, the local news anchor was announcing the story: Synapse Tech had officially won the contract for Stellaris Group’s ten-billion-dollar AI initiative, the Meridian Project. “I saw,” I replied. My voice was calm, but I couldn’t stop the corner of my mouth from curving upward. We had chased this project for half a year. To guarantee that our strategy wouldn’t leak, my director, Jared, had manufactured a performance issue to temporarily suspend me. It was supposed to be a strategic move. For three months, I’d been cooped up at home, utilizing my three proprietary patents to build the backbone of the entire proposal. Now, finally, the victory was ours. “Man, you’re the unsung hero of this whole thing,” Toby said, his excitement practically vibrating through the receiver. “The corporate bonus pool alone is eighty million. You’re bound to get the lion’s share.” Behind him, I could hear the office. The voices of Nora, Frank, and the rest of the team were a chaotic, joyful hum, overlapping in a celebration I could only observe from a distance. “Three months, Wes. Jared said he’d personally bring you back. We’re already planning a massive welcome-back party for you.” Right then, my phone chimed with an email notification. I tapped it open. It was an automated message from HR, containing an attached document and a brief, clinical note: [Employee Wes Mitchell: Having produced zero output during a three-month suspension, your employment is hereby terminated in accordance with company policy.] Beneath it was a formal pink slip. Seconds later, the same announcement flashed across the company-wide chat channel. The celebratory background noise on Toby’s end suddenly vanished. The line plunged into a heavy, suffocating silence. Then came a text from Jared. [Wes, the project team is at capacity now. I went to bat for you with leadership, but they said because of that disciplinary mark on your file, HR won’t approve your reinstatement. I’m sorry, man.] [Don’t lose heart, though. With your skills, you won’t have trouble finding another gig. A massive firm like ours might be out of reach for a bit, but a smaller shop will snap you up in a heartbeat.] The world seemed to lose its sound. My mind went blank, my thumb freezing over the cold glass of the screen. My mind flashed back to three months ago, to Jared sitting across from me, his eyes wide with manufactured intensity. “Wes, this project is my ticket to a VP spot. You know Team B is breathing down our necks. We have to keep this architecture absolutely locked down.” “This suspension is just a smoke screen to throw them off. Stay home, put the proposal together, and we’ll keep our communications strictly off-line. If you need to run tests on the hardware, come in after midnight.” And so, for ninety days, I lived like a ghost. Whenever I needed to run high-volume data simulations, I’d show up at the office at midnight, dragging myself through the empty, silent cubicles of the R&D wing until five in the morning. Every single line of the foundational code was written by my fingers. Every dataset was processed, analyzed, and refined by me, over and over, until my eyes burned. The entire architectural framework was built, layer by layer, from my own mind. The patented technologies that anchored the entire AI model were things I had spent three years of my life developing, locked in a university lab, barely making it home to see my family. The winning proposal was mine. The patents were mine. I was the one who had spent nights on calls with the client to understand exactly what they needed. And now, they’ve won the bid, and I’m being discarded like trash? Jared sent another message: [I have to head over to the client’s office for a kickoff meeting, so I won’t be around when you come in to sign your exit papers. Truly sorry about that. It was great working with you—wish I could be there to send you off.] A cold laugh escaped my throat. He wasn’t at a meeting. He just couldn’t bear to look me in the eye. “Wes…?” Toby’s voice on the line was small, laced with a mixture of guilt and concern. “It’s fine,” I said, my voice shockingly level. “I’ll head over and sign the paperwork now.” 2 At ten in the morning, I walked into the Synapse Tech office and went straight to HR. Diane, the HR manager, slipped a sheet of paper across the desk. I glanced at the listed reason for termination: [Lack of technical contribution, low productivity.] Without a word, I signed my name and pressed my thumbprint into the inkpad. She handed me the next document: a severance agreement. An N+1 package of two hundred and seventy thousand dollars. Again, I signed and stamped it without hesitation. Diane looked up at me, her lips parting as if to say something, but she ultimately thought better of it. I took my company badge, laid it quietly on her desk, and slid it toward her. She offered a sheepish, uncomfortable smile. When I left the HR office and pushed open the glass doors of our department, the ambient chatter died instantly. Dozens of eyes locked onto me, then just as quickly darted away. Suddenly, everyone became deeply fascinated by their keyboards, the rapid-fire clacking of keys filling the awkward silence. I walked over to the desk I hadn’t sat at in three months and began packing my things. Toby’s desk was right in front of mine. He didn’t dare turn around, keeping his voice to a hushed whisper. “You signed?” “Yeah.” “That fast? Why aren’t you filing an appeal?” I didn’t answer him. No one else spoke either; the air in the room felt thick and suffocating. Suddenly, a notification pinged on everyone’s phones. HR had posted the project bonus distribution spreadsheet to the department-wide chat. I opened it. An eighty-million-dollar bonus pool. Jared took the lion’s share: forty million. The remaining forty million was split among the other twelve team members based on “contribution.” Toby got three million. Even the lowest-ranking junior developer walked away with two million. Fourteen people on the roster. An eighty-million-dollar pool. The smallest cut was two million dollars. By any fair metric, the forty-million-dollar share should have belonged to me—the core architect. But my share was a two-hundred-and-seventy-thousand-dollar buyout. Within seconds, the heavy silence of the office dissolved into a wave of palpable relief and excitement. The hushed, giddy whispers began to drift over the cubicle walls, sharp as needles. “Honestly, it’s a good thing we cut one person loose. Otherwise, Wes would’ve easily taken thirty million. Our cuts would’ve been slashed by two-thirds.” “They did the right thing firing him. Sitting at home for three months claiming he was ‘developing the proposal’—who actually saw him do it? He just wanted an easy payday. The nerve.” “Look at that sour face. Like we owe him something. Just leave already, you’re ruining the mood.” Toby’s lips twitched, caught between a grin and a grimace. He looked at me, hesitating. I ignored him. I picked up the Outstanding Contribution trophy I had won the previous year and tossed it into the trash can next to my desk. The heavy plastic hit the bottom of the bin with a loud, hollow thud. The whispers stopped. I lifted the cardboard box of my belongings, swept a cold glance over the colleagues I had spent three years working with, and walked out without a word. Celebrate while you can, I thought. I hope it lasts. 3 I stepped into the elevator, only to find Rachel, the director of Team B, already inside. She glanced at me and let out a small, mocking smirk—the kind of look reserved for someone who had played a game and lost spectacularly. I kept my eyes fixed on the illuminated floor numbers, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. We descended in silence. When the doors slid open on the lobby, she didn’t move, letting me walk out first. I walked through the grand glass entrance of the building and stopped briefly on the sidewalk to look back at the sleek, blue-gray facade of the tower. This would be the last time. When I got back to my apartment, I opened my desk drawer, pulled out my employment contract, and flipped to the very last page. Three years ago, when I joined Synapse Tech, I was fresh out of grad school. Jared had sat across from me with a warm, friendly smile. “Wes, these two patents of yours are still unproven in the market. The company can’t pay you a direct licensing fee upfront, but we can bundle them into your base salary. Half a million a year. That’s a pretty sweet deal for a kid straight out of school, right?” At twenty-five, half a million dollars sounded like a fortune. I figured it was a great way to cut my teeth in the industry. Because of that, my employment contract included a specific, non-standard addendum: The patent rights were tied directly to my employment. If my employment was terminated, the company’s right to use the patents would immediately lapse. Over the next three years, those two patents generated hundreds of millions of dollars for Synapse Tech. I had repeatedly requested that the company pay separate licensing fees for them, but Jared always fed me the same empty promises. “Wes, you’re young. Think about the long game. Grow with the company. Once I move up to Vice President, the director’s chair is yours.” “Tell you what, I’ll talk to the CEO and see if we can bump your base salary to eight hundred thousand.” I believed him. I worked eighty-hour weeks, putting my health on the line. My newly developed third patent was the very technology that secured the ten-billion-dollar Meridian Project. Yet, when I brought up the patent licensing fees again, HR rejected the request, citing that my five-year employment contract had not yet expired. They expected to use my brain for free for another two years. They wanted to lock down my technology at the lowest possible cost, and then, to keep the forty-million-dollar bonus for themselves, they threw me to the wolves. I stared at that specific clause: The licensing of the patents is contingent on the employment of the patent holder. Upon termination of employment, all licensing agreements are null and void. A slow, cold smile spread across my face. I wasn’t the one who broke the rules. I drafted a formal Notice of Revocation of Patent Licensing and emailed it directly to Synapse Tech’s legal department, carbon-copying Stellaris Group’s project office. Just as I hit send, my phone rang. It was my mother. “Wes, sweetie, I made your favorite pot roast today. Come over for dinner after work.” “Sure, Mom. I’m on my way.” My parents lived in an older apartment building on the sixth floor, with no elevator. My plan had been to buy them a modern condo with an elevator once my project bonus came through. I had already picked out a few places near my rental apartment. Now, that would have to wait. When I opened their front door, the familiar, comforting scent of slow-cooked beef and rosemary washed over me. At the dinner table, my mom smiled warmly. “I saw the news, Wes. Did your project win the bid?” “Yeah.” “So you can finally go back to the office now, right?” I took a slow bite of my food, chewing thoroughly before answering. “Mom, I was fired today.” My parents’ forks froze mid-air. My mom’s voice trembled slightly. “Fired? Why?” I paused for a moment. “The official reason was ‘zero output’ during my three-month suspension.” My mom’s eyes flared with anger. “But they told you to stay home and build that proposal! You barely slept for three months, you didn’t even have time to visit us! How can they do this to you?” I remained quiet. My dad caught my mom’s eye and gave her a gentle, warning look to calm down. “It’s alright,” my dad said softly. “You have the skills. You’ll find a better place.” My mom sighed, reaching over to squeeze my hand, her eyes filled with worry. “Don’t worry about the new apartment, honey. Your father and I can still climb the stairs just fine.” I smiled, though my throat felt tight. “Dad, Mom… you won’t have to wait long.” Suddenly, my phone vibrated. A notification popped up in the department group chat. Jared had sent a digital gift card with a note: ‘A little something for the team. Everyone gets a piece of the ten-billion-dollar pie.’ A flood of brown-nosing replies followed immediately. ‘Oh my god, thank you, Jared!’ ‘Jared is the best boss ever! Stellaris Group knew exactly who had the winning design!’ ‘All thanks to your leadership, Jared!’ I looked at the number of recipients on the gift card. Twelve. Out of a fourteen-person department, excluding Jared himself, I was the only one left out. His ‘everyone’ didn’t include me. Jared posted one more message: ‘This victory belongs to all of us. Celebration dinner tonight, no excuses!’ And then, a tiny line of system text appeared at the bottom of my screen: You have been removed from the group chat by the administrator. I stared at it for three seconds, then closed the app. On my social feeds, local tech blogs were firing off articles about Synapse Tech securing the massive Stellaris contract. I turned my phone face down. It buzzed again. This time, it was an unknown landline. I answered. The voice on the other end was professional and familiar. “Mr. Mitchell? This is Mandy from the Stellaris Group. We just received a formal Notice of Revocation of Patent Licensing from you. Is this correct?” “Yes,” I said. “May I ask why?” I hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Because I was terminated yesterday.” 4 After hanging up, I checked the time. It was seven in the evening. For the first time in three years, I had finished dinner this early. I turned off my phone, took a long, relaxing shower, and put on a movie. By ten, I was in bed, sleeping peacefully until the sun woke me up the next morning. Bright morning light filtered through the curtains, illuminating my bedroom with a clarity I hadn’t experienced in years. No code to write. No simulations to run. No frantic late-night debug sessions. Life, it turned out, could be beautiful. When I finally turned my phone back on, it exploded with dozens of missed calls and over a hundred unread messages. Jared, Toby, Nora, and several unrecognized numbers. I ignored them all and opened a message from Toby that had just popped up. [Wes, why is your phone off? Jared is losing his mind trying to reach you. He’s making all of us call you.] Similar messages from other former coworkers sat in my inbox. I didn’t reply to any of them. Instead, I got out of bed, washed my face, and opened my laptop. I logged into the United States Patent and Trademark Office portal, uploaded my termination letter and the contract addendum, and filed the official paperwork to formally revoke Synapse Tech’s licensing rights. Then, I enjoyed a quiet breakfast. At ten, Jared’s name flashed on my screen again. I let it ring. He called ten more times before I finally picked up. The moment the connection went through, his furious voice boomed through the speaker. “Wes! What the hell did you send to the client? Call them right now and pull it back! Tell them it was a misunderstanding and that the patents are still active!” “Why would I do that?” “Are you out of your mind? Because those patents belong to the company!” I kept my voice cool and steady. “You’ve been freeloading on my work for so long you actually forgot who owns it, didn’t you? Do you need me to email you the USPTO registration certificates?” He choked on his breath, silent for a moment. “But we have an agreement! A five-year contract! There are still two years left!” I smiled. “Jared, I signed an employment contract, not a patent transfer agreement.” His voice died in his throat. I could hear his shallow, panicked breathing. “The contract has a clause…” he stammered. “Your salary included the licensing fees. The company has the legal right to use them.” “Right,” I said. “Maybe you should read that clause a little closer. Since you clearly don’t have it in front of you, let me refresh your memory.” I took a screenshot of the specific sentence—human presence required for licensing validity—and texted it to him. He sounded like a drowning man grasping at straws, unable to form a coherent sentence. I hung up and tossed the phone onto the couch. Half an hour later, it rang again. A different number. “Mr. Mitchell, this is Mandy from Stellaris Group again. I have a few quick questions.” “Mandy, I no longer work for Synapse Tech.” “I’m aware. Synapse told us you left yesterday, but I need to confirm: are the three core patents in the Meridian proposal indeed your personal property?” “Yes, they are.” “Synapse claims you’re in breach of contract by revoking them, and they’ve assured us we can continue using them. But we must verify this. Without those three technologies, Synapse’s proposal doesn’t even meet our minimum technical threshold.” I let the silence hang for a moment. “I had no independent licensing agreement with Synapse Tech. The permission was tied directly to my employment. Now that they have terminated me, they have zero legal right to use my intellectual property.” I heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end. “I see. If Synapse were to offer you a separate licensing contract now, would you consider signing it?” “Absolutely not,” I answered without hesitation. “Understood. We will begin a formal compliance audit of the project. Would you be willing to bring the original patent documentation to our office to assist us with the review?” “Mandy, you can verify all of this online via the USPTO database.” She paused. “We have, but there are other matters our director would like to discuss with you in person.” “When?” “As soon as possible.” By one in the afternoon, I was walking into the Stellaris Group headquarters. Mandy escorted me up to the sixteenth floor. Inside the conference room, three people were waiting. In the center sat Lydia, the director of the Meridian Project. She stood up to greet me. “Mr. Mitchell, these are our head of legal and our chief technology officer. Time is of the essence, so I’ll get straight to the point.” I nodded and sat down. “We’ve verified the patents,” Lydia said. “They are indeed yours. Together, these three technologies form a complete, highly advanced pipeline for neural network training, real-time interaction, and deployment. They were the sole reason Synapse Tech won this bid. Without them, their score drops below the qualifying line.” The room fell quiet as they watched me. “Since you’re no longer with Synapse, we need to know: do you intend to license these patents to another firm, or what is your plan?” I met Lydia’s gaze, my voice steady and unwavering. “I plan to deliver the project myself.”

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The air in the grand ballroom was thick with the scent of white roses and expensive champagne—a scent I had spent nearly a year choosing. But when I finally tossed my bridal bouquet, it didn’t land in the hands of a hopeful bridesmaid. It was caught, mid-air, by Cassidy. She arched a perfectly groomed brow, a playful smirk playing on her lips. “Does this mean I’m supposed to propose now?” She turned her gaze directly to the altar. “Gary, you coming with me?” The groomsmen, already half-drunk on pre-ceremony whiskey, erupted into loud, rowdy cheers. They began shoving Gary toward her, practically pushing him off the altar. “Kiss her! Kiss her!” “Come on, Gary, don’t be shy! It’s not like you guys didn’t literally cuddle in the same bed at the bachelor party last night. We all saw you face-planted in her chest!” Gary laughed, kicking playfully at one of his friends. “Shut up, guys. My wife is standing right here.” But I didn’t miss the faint, guilty crimson creeping up his neck. Cassidy shrugged, completely unfazed. “I don’t mind, but I think someone’s little bride is about to cry.” Only then did Gary turn his head to look at me. He reached out, tapping the tip of my nose with a casual, easy gesture. “Don’t be so sensitive, babe. It’s just a joke. Come on, let’s get the ceremony finished.” I slowly pulled my face back, escaping his touch. I reached out and took the microphone from the stunned officiant. “If she wants to object,” I said, my voice echoing clearly through the speakers, “I’m taking her seriously.” Three days later, he stood in front of City Hall, his eyes bloodshot and desperate. But I never looked back. … The rowdy cheers of the groomsmen died instantly. A suffocating silence fell over the ballroom, followed by the quiet, hurried whispers of our guests. Gary gripped my wrist, his face darkening with embarrassment. “Cassidy was just kidding. Do you really have to do this?” “Stop making a scene, Nina. This is the wedding you’ve been dreaming about for years.” “My grandmother is still waiting in her hospital bed to see the video.” Just last night, my grandmother had experienced a rare, fleeting moment of lucidity. With trembling hands, she had placed my palm into Gary’s. He had knelt by her bedside, promising her that he would cherish and protect me for the rest of his life. And then he had gone straight to his bachelor party to mess around with Cassidy. My eyes burned with unshed tears. I raised the microphone, my voice cracking but steady. “Is motorboating her and sleeping in the same bed also just a joke?” The words hit the room like a physical blow. The guests leaned in, their eyes darting rapidly between Gary and Cassidy, hungry for the drama. A flash of angry humiliation crossed Gary’s face. He snatched the microphone out of my hand, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. “Shut up! Are you trying to ruin our wedding?” Cassidy stepped forward, smoothly taking the microphone from him. Her tone was light, almost bubbly. “Oh, please. Gary and I were taking baths together naked when we were two years old. Isn’t it a little late to start getting jealous now, honey?” With a few breezy sentences, she brushed off their boundary-crossing behavior as childhood innocence. Suddenly, I was the one being unreasonable. Gary’s mother, Mrs. Stanley, stepped up and draped an arm over Cassidy’s shoulder, casting a cold, dismissive look in my direction. “Cassidy is the kind of daughter-in-law I always wanted. Elegant, high-class, from a good family.” She sniffed. “Not like some people from cheap backgrounds who throw tantrums at their own weddings. No class, no manners. I don’t even know what kind of parents raised her—” “Mom!” Gary snapped, cutting her off. “Stop it.” He looked at me anxiously, his eyes filled with a sudden, heavy wave of guilt and worry. My face went entirely pale, a bitter, hollow ache spreading through my chest. Ten years ago, my parents were celebrating their anniversary at a quiet coastal beach. They saw a young boy being swept away by a violent rip current. They swam out, fought the waves, and saved him—but they never made it back to shore. That boy was Gary. If my parents were still here today, no one would dare treat me like this. Cassidy crossed her arms, rolling her eyes. “Are you seriously going to cry over this?” “God. If Gary and I actually wanted to be together, do you really think you’d even be standing here?” “Fine, fine. It’s all my fault. I’ll just leave, okay?” Gary’s face shifted instantly. He chased after her, catching her by the waist to stop her. Then he turned to me, his voice sharp with accusation. “Cassidy flew halfway across the world just to be here for us. If you can’t be grateful, fine, but why do you have to drive her away?” Looking at Cassidy’s smug, triumphant smile over his shoulder, I suddenly felt a profound, exhausting wave of futility. I slid the diamond band off my left ring finger and tossed it toward them. “She doesn’t have to leave,” I whispered. “I will.” “You wanted to steal the groom? Here, you can have the ring too.” Gary caught the ring, his eyes igniting with a sudden, volatile fury. “Nina! You really want to play this card?” “Let me tell you something—if you walk out that door today, we can easily find another bride to finish this ceremony!” “Let her go!” Mrs. Stanley sneered. “I’ll wait to see her crawl back begging.” I gathered the heavy lace skirts of my gown and ran out of the ballroom without looking back, leaving Gary’s furious shouts behind me. I hailed a cab on the street. The driver looked at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes widening slightly at my disheveled bridal gown. “You alright, sweetheart? Where to?” Sitting in the back seat, the anger in my chest slowly dissolved into a cold, terrifying numbness. Where could I go? Shortly after my parents died, my grandmother, shattered by grief, got into a car accident. The other party demanded a massive financial settlement, and I was forced to sell our family home. It was pouring rain the day of the eviction. I couldn’t get a cab, and I was sobbing on the curb. That was when Gary rode up on his motorcycle, his leather jacket drenched, his face wild and rebellious as he pulled off his helmet. “There’s no PIN. Use it,” he had said, forcing his credit card into my hand before turning back into the storm. By the time I sorted out the medical bills and tried to return the money, he had disappeared. But then, a few months later, he suddenly turned up at my university. He had wrapped a casual arm around my shoulder, winking at a girl who was trying to ask him out. “Sorry, babe. My girlfriend gets super jealous.” Under the autumn sun, his bleach-blonde hair had gleamed. He crashed into my life like a storm. “Play along as my girlfriend,” he had whispered. “Call it even for saving your grandmother.” For three years, I chased him down, desperate to pay back every cent, while everyone else mocked me as his clingy, desperate shadow. When he crashed his motorcycle on a back road, I was the first to arrive. When he broke his leg snowboarding, I brought him homemade meals every single day. Just as I was about to pay off the last of my debt, my grandmother wandered off. It was the worst blizzard Boston had seen in a decade. The snow was knee-deep. The security footage showed Grandma walking out into the freezing night in nothing but a thin sweater. The police searched for hours and found nothing. I was losing my mind. It was Gary who organized thousands of people online to search the city. As the hours ticked away and I collapsed into the snow for the ninth time, he had reached down and pulled me up. “We found her. She’s at the hospital. She’s okay.” I had sobbed into his chest, completely broken. He had clumsily wiped my tears, trying to keep his tone light. “Letting your boyfriend hold you isn’t a bad deal, you know.” For the first time, I didn’t correct him. “Miss? Are you okay?” the driver asked, offering me a box of tissues. I looked in the mirror and realized my face was entirely soaked with tears. “Just keep driving, please.” The city blurred past the window. Only last night, Gary had knelt by Grandma’s bed and confessed: “Actually, ten years ago, the kid your parents saved at the beach… it was me. My family tried to offer twenty million dollars, but your grandma refused. She said a life can’t be bought. She said your parents did what was right.” “Nina, destiny brought me to you. I’ll spend the rest of my life loving you for them.” But less than twenty-four hours later, everything had shattered. My heart felt squeezed by barbed wire. My phone kept buzzing. It was a video sent to the wedding group chat. Cassidy, wearing a stunning red-and-gold gown, was standing arm-in-arm with Gary, drinking and laughing with the guests. Some people threw a tantrum and walked out, so Cassidy had to step in. Honestly, they look perfect together. Why don’t they just get married for real? Show that psycho what she’s missing. I turned off the phone, my cold face reflected in the dark screen. “Take me to The Pinnacle,” I told the driver. I needed to know the truth. At the penthouse, I went straight to his gaming room. Gary kept a locked box here. Once, I had caught him tucking photos inside. When I teased him and tried to look, he had held me close, laughing: “It’s a surprise for our wedding day.” I had been waiting for that surprise for years. It was a four-digit combination lock. I tried his birthday. Our anniversary. My birthday. None of them worked. With trembling fingers, I typed in Cassidy’s birthday. Click. Inside were three thick photo albums, ten keys to luxury sports cars, and a dark green velvet box. I opened the albums. They were filled with photos of Cassidy growing up. On the back of a photo of her as a teenager, holding a helmet and smiling fiercely on a podium, Gary had written: The love of my life. May you always shine. The date was July 5th, 2016. The exact day my parents drowned. “So, you finally found it,” Gary’s raspy voice sounded from behind me. “I used to have feelings for Cassidy, but that’s ancient history.” “That day, I was going to confess to her. But she just laughed and hugged everyone, saying we were all brothers. I never gave her the necklace. And the sports cars I bought her over the years… I never gave them to her either.” “So,” my voice cracked, “the day your confession failed, you got drunk on the beach and walked into the ocean. And my parents died saving you.” I was shaking violently. My parents died for this? For his high school heartbreak? I lost my family, and I had been living a lie with him for eight years. “It was never a coincidence, was it? You transferred to my school out of guilt. You forced yourself into my life, pretended I owed you money, just so you could keep me close for three years. Was it fun, Gary? Playing with my life?” “No, Nina, it’s not like that…” Panic flickered in his eyes. He reached out to wipe my tears, but flinches when I drew back. He pulled out a lighter and flicked it open. “Cassidy and I are just friends. There’s nothing between us. If this box bothers you so much, then—” He threw the lighter into the box. Flames immediately licked the thick pages of the albums. “If you’re still mad, I’ll never speak to her again. Okay?” He pulled out his phone, opened his contacts, and deleted her right in front of me. But a second later, Cassidy’s name flashed on his screen. He hesitated, then answered. “Just let me say goodbye to her. For good.” Three minutes later, Gary stormed back in, his face contorted in anger. “Did you upload that video of Cassidy catching the bouquet? People online are tearing her apart, calling her a manipulative ‘pick-me’! How could you cyberbully her like this?” “Do you have any idea how important her race tomorrow is? This cannot stain her career!” I stared at him, feeling a cold, hollow laugh rise in my chest. “Are the comments wrong? She grabbed the bride’s bouquet and proposed to the groom.” “I told you, it was a joke! And you’re going to ruin her entire life over a stupid joke?” “Nina, I didn’t think you could be this vindictive.” He looked at me with pure disappointment. “I’ve already had my team use AI to swap your faces in the video. You’re going to post an apology statement saying you did it out of jealousy. We need to kill this story now.” Anger reached a fever pitch, and suddenly, I felt entirely calm. “No. I had nothing to do with that video.” “Nina!” He lunges forward, pinning my arms and snatching the phone from my pocket. I fought him, but he hoists me over his shoulder and locked me in the windowless utility closet. Through the heavy door, his voice was muffled. “I’m wiping your camera roll so you don’t leak any photos of us and make things worse. Calm down tonight. The housekeeper will let you out tomorrow. Once I’m back from Cassidy’s race, we’ll go get registered.” The light in the closet was broken. There were no windows. I sat in the pitch black until dawn, when the housekeeper opened the door, gasping at my bloodshot eyes. “Oh, goodness, ma’am. Are you alright?” I shook my head, my throat dry as paper. “Where is my phone, Mrs. Clark?” She pointed to the coffee table. “Mr. Stanley told me to make you some soup before he caught his flight. He said you shouldn’t look at your phone for a few days…” I walked right past her and grabbed the phone. When it booted up, the screen was flooded with missed calls and texts. I clicked a link sent by my old college roommate. The top trending topic on Twitter was Gary’s account, featuring a picture of a marriage certificate and a childhood photo of him and Cassidy. Childhood sweethearts, finally together. @Cassidy_Racer The comments were a sickening wave of congratulations. An heir and a champion racer. True love exists! Good luck at the championship tomorrow, queen! The second trending topic: High school teacher admits to AI face-swap out of spite. The video showed my face swapped with Cassidy’s—making it look like I was the one who crashed the wedding and proposed to Gary. This is pathetic. She almost ruined the bride’s career right before the race. I’m sick to my stomach. This woman is a teacher? What school lets a psycho like this near children? My brain went entirely numb. I swayed, clutching the wall to keep from falling. Then, my phone rang. It’s the school principal. “Nina, the scandal surrounding your personal life has severely damaged the school’s reputation. Effective immediately, your contract is terminated.” “Principal Evans, I didn’t—” He hung up. Before I can call back, Gary called. “How dare you use my name to post those lies? I just lost my job because of you!” “Isn’t that a good thing?” Gary’s voice was thick with sleep, casual and relaxed. “I can take care of you. Being a wife is much better than dealing with screaming teenagers anyway.” “Besides, you’re twenty-six now. It’s time we started thinking about having a baby, don’t you think?” My body shook with a violent, visceral disgust. “Gary,” I whispered, “you make me sick.” I hung up, the tears finally spilling over. Then, my phone rang again. It’s the hospital. By the time I arrived, Grandma was already in the OR. The surgeon handed me a critical notice to sign. “The patient experienced severe emotional stress, causing an aneurysm to rupture. We have an experimental blocker that could save her, but it’s fifty thousand dollars a dose. Do you want us to proceed?” “The golden window is three minutes. If you want it, you need to pay now.” “Do it!” I screamed, my hand shaking as I signed the papers. “Do whatever it takes! Just save her!” I ran to the billing window, my chest tight. Declined. The online banking app said my daily limit was exceeded. I frantically tore open my wallet, dropping cards onto the floor. “Try this one. PIN is 062746,” I sobbed, handing over a card. Declined. “Ma’am, this card has been frozen by the primary account holder.” I froze. It was the joint card Gary gave me. When did he freeze it? There’s no time to think. I pulled out my personal savings card—the one where my entire four years of teaching salary, nearly seventy thousand dollars, was kept. I read off the PIN. The nurse looked at the screen, her face falling. “Ma’am… there aren’t enough funds.” “What? That’s impossible!” My head spun. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Gary. Hey, my card hit its limit while celebrating Cassidy’s win. I used your savings card to buy her a celebratory Chanel bag. Consider it a gift from us… “Gary!” I screamed into the phone as I called him back. “That is my grandmother’s life support money!” Gary chuckled on the other end. “Stop being so dramatic. I’ll pay you back tenfold when I get home. I have to go.” The line went dead. The nurse walked out of the double doors, looking at me with deep pity. “Family of Marian Rogers… I am so sorry for your loss.” The world went entirely quiet. I watched them wheel out a gurney, a white sheet draped over the quiet silhouette of my grandmother. “Gary, are you sure you’re skipping my after-party?” Cassidy punched him playfully in the chest. “That’s cold.” Gary didn’t pull away, just smiled. “I cleared your name, posted a fake marriage certificate, and dealt with my girl’s tantrums. I think I’ve been more than supportive.” “She’s still throwing a fit at home. I need to get back and smooth things over before she does something crazy. My flight is tonight. Tomorrow is our fifth anniversary, and we’re getting registered.” But when he finally unlocked the door of the penthouse, the flowers in his hands fell to the floor.

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I was curled up in Oliver’s lap, casually scrolling through engagement ring designs on my iPad, when the news of Sylvia’s bankruptcy broke. The local socialite group chats were alive with venomous glee, mocking the spectacular fall of Boston’s once-untouchable golden girl. I tilted my head back, pressing a light kiss to his jawline, and teased, “So, Sylvia is back in town and completely broke. Aren’t you going to play the knight in shining armor?” He didn’t even look up from my hand, his fingers idly tracing the curve of my knuckles. A soft, dismissive scoff escaped his lips. “The business world is a war zone, babe. Why would I bail her out? Don’t make me out to be some soft-hearted fool.” A quiet wave of relief washed over me. After all, years ago, Sylvia’s wealthy family had deemed Oliver too poor, throwing him aside like yesterday’s trash. With Oliver’s fierce pride, I knew he wasn’t the type to swallow his dignity and go backward. I slid off his lap and headed to the walk-in closet to slip into a cocktail dress. But when I stepped back out, I saw Oliver standing on the balcony, his back to me. The night air was thick, and a thin trail of cigarette smoke curled over his shoulder. Driven by some inexplicable, dark instinct, I picked up his phone, which he’d left face-up on the velvet sofa. Just as my fingers brushed the glass, the screen lit up with a banking notification: [Wire Transfer Successful: $7,000,000 debited from card ending in 8888. Memo: Repurchase of the Harrington Estate.] The screen’s icy glare burned straight into my eyes. … “What are you looking at so intently?” His deep voice drifted in from the balcony, carrying the low, gravelly rasp of freshly inhaled smoke. My fingers froze. The string of zeros was still burned onto my retinas, but within a fraction of a second, I calmly pressed the lock button and turned the phone face-down on the cushion. “Nothing,” I said. I turned around to face him. There was a lingering storm in his eyes—a dark, unsettled shadow—but the moment his gaze met mine, it vanished, replaced by the familiar, practiced warmth I had known for five years. “Just looking over the schedule for our bridal fitting tomorrow,” I lied softly. Oliver stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ash tray and walked toward me, his long strides effortlessly closing the distance. He brought with him the scent of rich tobacco and the crisp chill of the autumn night, wrapping his arms around me with practiced ease. “You shouldn’t worry about those details. Let the assistant handle it.” He rested his chin on the crown of my head, nuzzling me gently in that soothing way of his. “I cleared my schedule for tomorrow. I’m all yours, the entire day.” I leaned against his warm chest, listening to the steady, unbothered rhythm of his heart. The question—Where did seven million dollars go?—lodged itself tightly in my throat. I closed my eyes, forcing it down, swallowing it alongside the five years of youth I had poured into him. “Okay,” I whispered. The next morning, a persistent, gray rain began to fall over the city. For once, Oliver didn’t check his emails over breakfast. Instead, he meticulously peeled a soft-boiled egg, placing it gently onto my plate. When we arrived at the most exclusive bridal boutique downtown, the manager and her assistants were already waiting under the awning. “Miss Ward, the three custom gowns we had flown in from Paris are ready for you.” I was ushered into the grand VIP fitting suite. Oliver settled onto the plush velvet sofa, mindlessly flipping through an editorial magazine. “Go on,” he said, offering a warm, adoring smile. “I’ll be right here waiting.” The first gown was an incredibly intricate French lace masterpiece with a sweeping cathedral train. The fitting was a slow, delicate process. Three assistants worked in hushed whispers, carefully cinching the corset around my waist. Just as they were about to pin the delicate silk veil to my hair, a sharp, frantic ringtone shattered the quiet of the salon. Through the half-drawn velvet curtain of the dressing room, I watched Oliver bolt upright. He didn’t even notice the heavy magazine slipping from his lap to the floor. He strode to the floor-to-ceiling windows, covering the receiver with his hand, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, his shoulders incredibly tense. By the time I gathered the heavy folds of my skirt and stepped out, he was already grabbing his tailored coat from the armchair. “Oliver?” I called out softly. He turned. His gaze lingered on me for a fraction of a second. There was no awe in his eyes. No praise. Only a thinly veiled, chaotic panic. “An emergency came up with a friend,” he said, buckling his watch and moving toward the door, not even pausing to kiss my cheek or offer a quick embrace. “I need to run over and check on them. I’ll be right back. Whichever dress you love, just put it on my tab.” The heavy oak door of the VIP suite clicked shut. He was gone. The boutique manager stood frozen, holding the veil, her face a mask of polite embarrassment. “Miss Ward… should we…?” “It’s fine,” I said, staring at my reflection in the gilded mirror—so grandly dressed, yet so utterly foolish. “I’ll wait.” The gown was heavy, the tight boning making it hard to draw a full breath. The grandfather clock on the wall ticked with a monotonous, agonizing rhythm. The staff brought me a fourth cup of black tea. By now, the liquid had gone completely cold, a bitter, dark skin forming on its surface. I checked my phone. 8:00 PM. He had promised he’d be right back, yet he had left me sitting in this temperature-controlled room for twelve hours. Suddenly, a sharp, twisting cramp flared in my lower abdomen. My face drained of color, and I bent over, my fingers gripping the delicate lace of the skirt. Cold sweat beaded at my temples. With trembling fingers, I opened my contacts and dialed his number. The long, empty rings echoed through the silent boutique. Just as the call was about to lapse into voicemail, the line clicked open. “Oliver, my stomach really hurts—” “Hello?” The voice that came through the speaker wasn’t Oliver’s deep baritone. It was a woman’s low, purring laugh. My breath hitched. It was Sylvia. “Amelia, sweetie,” she said, her voice dripping with casual, unbothered triumph. “Oliver’s a little busy right now.” In the background, I heard the faint clinking of metal. Sylvia sighed softly, making no effort to hide her smug satisfaction. “The crystal chandelier in the Harrington drawing room is just so heavy. Oliver was worried it would fall and hurt me, so he’s up on a ladder right now, hanging it himself.” The line went dead. The dull ache in my abdomen slowly spread, gnawing at my nerves. I sat on the sofa, motionless, for what felt like hours. It wasn’t until the manager gently asked if she should call me a cab that I snapped out of my daze. I peeled off the heavy white gown and changed back into my sweater and jeans. The Harrington estate was a grand Tudor mansion in the hills, nearly an hour’s drive from the city center. The taxi crawled up the winding, dark mountain road, the windshield wipers thrashing violently against the torrential downpour. By the time I stepped out at the gates, my shoes were completely soaked through with muddy water. The rusted iron gates were left slightly ajar, as if welcoming back their lost mistress. Splashing through the mud, I walked up to the towering glass windows of the main house. Inside, the rooms were ablaze with warm, golden light. Through the rain-streaked glass, the scene played out with devastating clarity. Oliver had discarded his suit jacket. He was in his white dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He stood on an A-frame ladder, tools in hand, looking down to speak to someone below him. Sylvia stood at the base, wearing a silk slip dress, looking up at him with a radiant, joyful laugh. Cradled in her arms was a fluffy Ragdoll cat. Oliver hated cats. In our five years together, if I even wanted to go to a cat cafe, he would claim his allergies were too severe and wait in the car. But now, as he climbed down the ladder, he didn’t pull away. Instead, he reached out and naturally, tenderly, stroked the cat’s head. Sylvia took the opportunity to tug gently on his sleeve, whispering something with a soft, pouty smile. It was a picture of domestic perfection. A warm, intimate tableau that made me, his fiancée, look like a pathetic intruder standing out in the cold. I stood in the pouring rain, watching them through the glass. I watched until my fingers turned numb from the cold, until the cramping in my belly went entirely dull. I walked around to the front entrance and pushed the heavy oak door open. The laughter inside cut off instantly. Sylvia flinched, shrinking back behind Oliver’s broad shoulders, clutching the cat tight. “Amelia…” she stammered, looking at me with wide, tear-filled eyes. “What are you doing here?” Oliver spun around. The gentle warmth on his face hardened into ice the moment he saw me standing there, dripping wet and covered in mud. “Did you follow me?” his brows furrowed, and he took a long stride toward me. I didn’t answer. My eyes bypassed his stiff white shirt and landed on the few strands of white cat hair clinging to his fingertips. He had always told me he was deathly allergic. If I so much as patted a stray dog or cat, he would anxiously insist I wash my hands immediately. Yet here he was, completely fine, letting a cat nuzzle against his chest. It was never an allergy. He just didn’t care enough. “Amelia, did you really have to come all this way in a storm just to make a scene?” When I remained silent, his tone grew sharper, laced with irritation. “Sylvia is severely depressed. She’s completely alone and terrified.” A crack of thunder boomed outside, the bright flash illuminating my trembling, wet hands. The antique grandfather clock in the hall began to chime eleven. I watched him drape his own suit jacket over Sylvia’s bare shoulders, and a quiet, bitter smile touched my lips. “It’s eleven o’clock,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. I didn’t cry. I just looked at him with an eerie calmness. “Oliver, the bridal shop closed at eight.” Oliver’s furious expression froze. His hand, still adjusting the jacket on Sylvia’s shoulders, arrested mid-air. From behind him, Sylvia gently tugged his sleeve, her voice trembling with unshed tears. “Oliver, don’t blame Amelia. It’s my fault. This house is just… it’s so full of my parents’ ghosts. I was so scared. I promise I won’t bother you ever again.” Oliver reached back, catching her hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Then he turned back to me, his eyes cold, as if looking at a complete stranger. “Your jealousy is getting entirely out of hand. It’s pathetic,” he said, pointing a finger toward the open door. “Go home. Stop acting like a child.” I looked at the way he stood, a solid shield protecting Sylvia from the world. “Okay,” I said. There was no screaming match. No throwing of insults. I simply turned, walked back out into the night, and opened my black umbrella. Behind me, the heavy oak door slammed shut with a deafening thud. The draft kicked up a spray of muddy water, leaving dark, ugly splatters across the hem of my cream-colored skirt. The love I had spent five years carefully guarding was now completely ruined. The next morning, the soft chime of the smart lock broke the silence of the apartment. Oliver walked into the bedroom, carrying the crisp chill of late autumn on his shoulders. In his hand, he held a paper bag stamped with the logo of a bakery from the West End. Years ago, when we had nothing, I had offhandedly mentioned craving their pastries. He had stood in a sub-zero blizzard for two hours, keeping the box tucked inside his coat to keep them warm for me. He set the bag on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. He reached out, his hand moving to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. But right before his fingers could brush my skin, a faint, familiar scent drifted into my nose. It was Sylvia’s signature perfume. The jacket he had draped over her shoulders last night had brought it back. My body reacted before my brain did. I instinctively jerked my head away, avoiding his touch. His hand froze in the air, his fingers twitching slightly before he pulled back, trying to act as if nothing had happened. “I’m sorry about my attitude last night,” he said, his voice dropping into that weary, patronizing tone of patience. “But you have to try to understand. Her family went under. She has nothing left, her depression is back, and she’s been talking about ending it all.” “I couldn’t just sit by and let her die, Amelia.” He opened the bakery bag, pulled out a warm, glazed pastry, and held it to my lips. “Come on, eat it while it’s warm. After this, we’ll reschedule your bridal fitting.” The rich scent of butter and sugar mingled with the ghostly trace of Sylvia’s perfume, turning my stomach. I didn’t yell. My body, still holding onto years of muscle memory, reached out and took the pastry from his hand. A small, relieved smile began to form in Oliver’s eyes. But a second later, I leaned over and tossed the warm pastry directly into the trash can beside the bed. It landed with a dull, heavy thud. “It’s cold,” I said, pulling a wet wipe from the nightstand to meticulously clean the fingers that had touched the pastry. I didn’t even look up at him. “Too stale to chew.” The smile on Oliver’s face vanished. He stared at the trash can, as if unable to comprehend that I—always so compliant, always so gentle—would ever do such a thing. “Amelia,” his voice turned icy, carrying the heavy weight of a man used to being obeyed. “Don’t push your luck.” Leaving those words behind, he stood up and walked into the bathroom. I tossed the dirty wet wipe into the trash can. From that day on, for an entire week, Oliver found endless excuses to stay out all night. And every morning when he returned, the scent of Sylvia’s perfume on his clothes grew stronger. I didn’t call him out. I didn’t make a scene. I ate, I slept, I worked on my fashion designs. I stopped texting him first, and I stopped asking about his schedule. Over those few days, the sharp cramps in my abdomen became more frequent. I spent four hours brewing a rich chicken soup, packing it into a thermos. I planned to go to the clinic for a checkup and have a warm meal afterward. But when I reached the intersection, on some strange, sudden impulse, I told the driver to change routes and head to Oliver’s design studio instead. The receptionist, recognizing me, waved me through with a polite smile. I carried the heavy metal thermos down the corridor to his private office. The door wasn’t fully closed; a narrow gap remained. From inside came Sylvia’s soft, sweet voice: “Oliver, you spent seven million dollars to buy back the Harrington house. Did you really do all that just to help me?” I stopped in my tracks. “Don’t read too much into it,” Oliver’s voice was detached, flat. Sylvia let out a soft, teasing laugh. “Then… does that mean you bought it as our future home?” A heavy silence stretched for several seconds. Oliver didn’t deny it. He only murmured, “Just live there for now.” I looked down at the heavy thermos in my hand, suddenly feeling that my silence and understanding over the past few days had been nothing short of a tragedy. I reached out and pushed the door open. The two of them turned in unison. Sylvia was leaning against the edge of his mahogany desk, and Oliver was standing directly in front of her, their faces far closer than any professional boundary allowed. “Amelia…” Sylvia gasped, looking genuinely startled, and took a sharp step back. She was wearing towering stiletto heels. Her foot caught on the leg of the desk, and she lost her balance, falling backward. “Ah!” Her hand landed squarely on a sharp crystal paperweight on the coffee table. The glass sliced her palm, and a thin line of crimson began to seep out. “Sylvia!” Oliver’s face went pale. Instinct overrode everything. He lunged forward, his shoulder slamming hard against mine in his rush to get to her. The force sent me stumbling backward. My lower back collided heavily with the solid wooden doorframe, and the metal thermos slipped from my fingers, clattering loudly to the floor. A blinding, white-hot wave of pain ripped through my lower abdomen. The color drained from my face. I slid slowly down the doorframe, collapsing onto the hardwood floor. Just a few feet away, Oliver was on his knees, cradling Sylvia in his arms. He had pulled out the silk handkerchief I had painstakingly embroidered with his initials, pressing it firmly against her hand to stem the bleeding of what was nothing more than a superficial scratch. Only when he was sure she was safe did he turn his head, looking at me with a gaze full of defensive anger and disgust. But when his eyes fell on the puddle of hot chicken soup spreading across the floor, he froze. His hand, still holding Sylvia’s wrist, trembled. His gaze traveled from the spilled soup up to my ghostly, sweat-slicked face. A sudden, unbidden wave of panic flashed deep in his eyes. “Amelia…” He instinctively let go of Sylvia, trying to stand. But Sylvia let out a soft, whimpering cry. “Oliver, it hurts so much.” The knee he had just lifted sank right back to the floor. “Amelia, do you have to do this right now?” he hissed, his voice sharp with a defensive, panicked anger. I watched him hover over her. The pain in my stomach was so intense it stole the breath from my lungs. But I didn’t make a sound. I knew that the man in front of me would no longer feel any pain for my tears. To scream would only make me look pathetic. Holding onto the wall, I dragged myself to my feet, shaking. I looked at the soup on the floor, and then at Oliver. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, my throat dry, my voice barely audible. “I ruined your floor.” Without another look, I clutched my stomach and walked slowly out of the office. Just as I crossed the threshold, I thought I heard Oliver call my name. I didn’t turn back. A warm, heavy wetness began to trace a path down my thigh, washing away five years of devotion in a single, silent wave.

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I was out of state, right in the middle of a tense negotiation for a massive supply chain contract, when my phone buzzed with an unknown number. “Your piece of shit car is blocking my spot!” a man roared through the receiver, his voice grating and thick with impatience. “You have exactly thirty minutes to get down here and move it, or you’re going to be real sorry.” I was completely lost. My client leaned over, catching the tail end of the shouting. “Ms. Carmichael, the lot where you parked…” he whispered apologetically. “It’s a commuter lot during the day, but they convert it into a pop-up food truck park at night.” The realization hit me like a splash of cold water. I didn’t waste a second. I excused myself and rushed out. But when I finally arrived at the lot, the breath was knocked completely out of my lungs. My car windows were completely shattered. The trunk had been violently pried open with what looked like a crowbar. The windshield wipers and license plates were snapped off, bent into jagged angles, and the hood of the car was piled high with reeking, greasy trash—half-eaten hot dogs, chili-soaked paper boats, and empty beer cans. Swallowing the lump of hot, rising anger in my throat, I tracked down the man who had called me. But instead of an apology, he just sneered, looking me up and down with utter contempt. “That’s what you get for stealing my real estate, lady.” He stepped forward and kicked the dented side panel of my ruined car. “Let’s be brutally honest here. Your little clunker isn’t even worth the price of one of my truck’s tires. Why are you acting like it’s a tragedy?” Watching his chest puff out with arrogant pride, a dark, quiet laugh slipped past my lips. He was right about one thing. The car itself was a cheap, secondhand piece of metal. But what he didn’t know—what he couldn’t possibly fathom—was that the item sitting inside that car was worth more than a thousand of his food trucks combined. … 1 Seeing me standing there in stunned silence, the food vendor’s ego seemed to swell. He took a drag from his cigarette, blew a thick cloud of smoke directly into my face, and lazily rapped his knuckles against my shattered window frame. “What are you staring at? You brain-dead or something?” “Move the damn car!” “You’re cutting into my prime business hours, do you get that?” I pressed my lips together, my nails biting into my palms as I fought to keep my voice steady. “I called you ten minutes ago. I told you traffic was gridlocked and I might be a few minutes late.” “You said that was fine.” “And for the record, I’m not even late.” The second he had called me, I’d ordered a premium Uber. But a mile out from the food park, we hit a wall of bumper-to-bumper traffic. Not wanting to impact his livelihood, I had jumped out of the car, rented a Lime scooter, and navigated the cracked sidewalks the rest of the way. I had even called him while riding to keep him updated. He had chuckled on the phone. Traffic happens, don’t kill yourself getting here. I had rushed. I had sweated through my silk blouse. I had made it within his arbitrary thirty-minute window. And yet, I was staring at a junkyard on wheels. “Are you aware that destroying private property is a felony?” I asked, my voice dropping an octave. The vendor, a burly guy with a greasy apron, pointed his cigarette at my chest. “Felony? What felony? You maliciously squatted on my leased commercial space, and you think you’re the victim here?” His temper flared again, and with a deliberate, vicious motion, he ground his lit cigarette out on my car’s peeling paint job. “Property? You call this trash property?” he spat. “You cost me money tonight, lady! You’re lucky I didn’t set this piece of junk on fire. Now get the hell out of here before I really lose my temper.” The other vendors operating out of the tents and trucks nearby started chiming in, their voices a chorus of resentment. “He’s got a family of four to feed off this truck!” a woman yelled. “Of all the places to park your ugly little hatchback, you pick his spot?” My entire body was trembling, a raw, electric current of fury shooting through my veins. The polite, professional veneer I wore for boardrooms completely evaporated. “This is a public parking lot during the day! Where else was I supposed to park?” I snapped. “Are you all blind? Does this look like a designated food court to you?” The vendor’s eyes went dark. With a sudden, explosive surge of violence, he lunged forward, his thick, grease-stained fingers twisting into my hair. He yanked my head back so hard my neck popped. “Listen to me, you stupid bitch,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Open your eyes and look around. Is this a parking lot, or is this a night market?” The crowd, feeding off his aggression, rallied behind him. “Messing with people’s livelihoods and you still have an attitude!” “If this wasn’t a civilized country, someone would have beaten you half to death by now!” Even the tourists walking by holding their dripping food containers joined in the mockery. “Just apologize to the guy and call a tow truck for your little trash can on wheels!” one guy laughed. As he spoke, he casually tossed a paper tray dripping with rancid cheese sauce right onto my windshield. The sour, synthetic smell hit the back of my throat, making me gag. Drawing on every ounce of adrenaline in my body, I shoved the vendor backward with both hands, breaking his grip on my hair. I stumbled, struggling to catch my breath and recalibrate. “First of all,” I said, my chest heaving. “I am from out of state. I had no idea this lot transitions after five. Second, when you contacted me, I made it here within the timeframe you demanded.” “And finally… you destroyed my car.” My eyes darted to the back seat, to the spot where I had carefully tucked away the antique rosewood box. The seat was empty. Smashed glass covered the upholstery, but the box was gone. “You didn’t just destroy it. You robbed me,” I said, the gravity of the situation sinking in, turning my voice into a cold blade. “You crossed the line into grand larceny. I’ve already dialed 911.” I expected the word larceny to sober them up. I expected a shift in the atmosphere. Instead, a wave of uproarious laughter washed over the lot. Todd—the name embroidered on the vendor’s apron—laughed the loudest, clutching his stomach. “Oh, you’re calling the cops? You think you can scare me with the cops?” “Even if the cops show up, they’re gonna side with me!” Another vendor from a taco stand chimed in. “It’s an unwritten rule around here! You block our spot, we have the right to move or trash your ride. You broke the law first, sweetheart!” A college kid shoving a hot dog into his mouth mumbled through a full cheek, “These people work hard for their money. You got your convenient parking spot, but did you even calculate how much cash you cost him?” Then came the “sympathetic” bystander. An older woman patted my shoulder patronizingly. “Honey, if I were you, I’d just let it go. You were in the wrong. Besides, I know cars. That old thing? You probably bought it used for what, seven grand?” I stared at the sea of faces surrounding me, completely utterly bewildered by the absurdity of it all. “Whether this car is worth seven thousand or seven dollars, it is my private property. Who gave you the right to vandalize it?” Three days ago, I had flown into this city for a merger acquisition. It was supposed to be a quick trip, but when the tech infrastructure audits hit a snag, my stay was extended by a month. To avoid the hassle of endless rideshares, I had bought a cheap, reliable used car just to get from my hotel to the client’s office. A pure A-to-B vehicle. “So what if we trashed it? What are you gonna do about it?” Todd crossed his arms over his chest, his arrogance practically suffocating the space between us. “It’s a junker. And you’re talking about grand larceny?” The corners of my mouth curled up into a humorless, rigid smile. “You’re right. The car isn’t worth much,” I said softly, the silence of my tone cutting through the noise. “But the rosewood box that was in the back seat? That was worth quite a bit.” “Four point five million dollars, to be exact.” 2 The words hung in the humid night air. For three seconds, the food park was dead silent. And then, the cacophony of jeers and mocking laughter erupted, sharper and more vicious than before. “Four and a half million?” “Why stop there? Why not say it was worth a billion?” Todd doubled over, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye, while the vendors behind him didn’t even try to hide their disdain. “What was in that little wooden box, huh? The ashes of a saint? Even a solid gold casket wouldn’t cost that much!” I clenched my fists so tight my nails cut half-moons into my skin. I knew that explaining anything to this mob was like playing the violin to a herd of cattle. The box itself wasn’t the treasure, though the antique wood was valuable. It was what lay nestled in the velvet inside. An exquisite, vintage set of imperial green emerald jewelry. It was the centerpiece of a Sotheby’s auction, a gift I had meticulously tracked down and purchased for my mother’s upcoming 60th birthday. There wasn’t another set like it in the world. Buying it required more than just liquid capital; it required deep-rooted connections in the high-society art world. The moment the courier had delivered it to my hotel, I had transferred it into a custom rosewood humidor-style box, a wood my mother loved for its calming scent. And now, the jewelry, the box, the gift—everything was gone. Todd wiped his nose with the back of his hand and exhaled another cloud of smoke. “Alright, I’m done wasting breath on you. You’ve got two choices. One: move the car.” “Right now. Not a second later.” “Two: you compensate me for my lost revenue tonight!” I glanced around the claustrophobic space. “Moving the car is impossible.” Even if the car wasn’t totaled and I actually wanted to move it, there was nowhere to go. The narrow aisles between the trucks were packed with folding tables, generators, and a sea of pedestrians. It would be hard enough to walk out, let alone drive. Todd wasn’t surprised by my answer. In fact, he looked thrilled. He turned around and grabbed a digital calculator from his prep counter. “Fine. You won’t move, so let’s tally up the damages!” “I’ll be generous and just use my average Saturday night net profit.” “That’s a solid twelve hundred an hour.” “Times six hours of the dinner rush!” “Just for the lost revenue, you owe me seven thousand, two hundred dollars!” His thick fingers aggressively punched the buttons on the calculator, the loud beep, beep, beep grating against my ears. “Let’s add in the spoiled inventory, the labor for my cousins, and my emotional distress…” He shoved the calculator screen an inch from my nose. The digital red numbers blared in the dark. “Fifteen grand!” He raised an eyebrow, a triumphant, ugly grin spreading across his face. “Now let me ask you—are you still mad I smashed your little toy car?” “Your ride is worth maybe seven k, but you owe me double that right now.” He pulled a laminated QR code from a lanyard around his neck. “Venmo, CashApp, Zelle. Hell, I’ll even take Apple Pay.” The crowd murmured, their eyes raking over my appearance. Because I had literally run the last half-mile to get here, my hair was disheveled, my blouse was wrinkled, and I was sweating. I looked like a mess, a far cry from a Fortune 500 executive. “She looks broke. Probably gonna have to max out a credit card!” “Todd, look at her. You really think she’s good for fifteen grand?” Todd cleared his throat loudly. “If she can’t pay, then we’ll just have the cops sort it out.” I tightened my grip on my phone, my expression turning to ice. “Then we’ll wait for the police.” “And when they—” “What the fuck?! Where is my car?!” Before I could finish, a booming, frantic voice tore through the crowd. 3 I turned toward the sound. A burly, thick-necked man in a tailored but slightly ill-fitting suit was aggressively shoving his way through the throngs of people. He was practically vibrating with rage. “Who the hell called me to move my car?!” “Where is it?!” “Where is my goddamn car?!” I couldn’t help myself. I raised my hand. “Your car might have suffered the exact same fate as mine.” The man whipped his head toward me, his eyes wide with horror. A second later, his roar silenced the entire market. “That was a brand-new Mercedes G-Wagon!” I was just about to suggest he stand with me when the police arrived, but Todd suddenly sprang into action. He shot me a warning glare, then immediately transformed. His shoulders hunched, his arrogant sneer melted into an obsequious, fawning smile, and he practically scurried over to the furious man. “Boss! Sir! Your car is perfectly safe!” Todd bowed slightly, his hands rubbing together like a sycophant. “The black G-Wagon, right? With the out-of-state plates?” Watching Todd’s face morph into pure, unadulterated subservience gave me full-body chills. The man yanked his arm away from Todd’s reaching hands. “Yes, that’s my car. Where is it?” “I parked it right here! What did you do to it?!” He ran a hand aggressively through his gelled hair. “I just drove that off the lot last week! It’s a hundred and eighty grand, fully loaded!” He pointed a thick, accusatory finger at Todd and the surrounding vendors. “If there is a single scratch on that paint, a single microscopic dent, I will tear this entire market down to the asphalt!” Todd waved his hands frantically, completely terrified. “Sir, please, it’s a misunderstanding!” “We manually pushed your car out of the way for you!” The taco vendor, who had just been screaming in my face, now looked like a scolded puppy. “Boss, it’s our fault for not putting the signs up early enough. This place turns into a market at five.” “We put it in neutral and rolled it to a VIP spot out back. We were so careful, I swear, we didn’t even get dust on the rims!” The stark contrast in their attitudes made my jaw clench. Todd carefully guided the man toward the back of the lot. He dramatically pulled back a heavy, protective tarp. “Look, sir, we know night markets have a lot of grease and smoke in the air. We saw it was a beautiful new Benz, so we actually covered it with our own tarps to make sure the paint didn’t absorb any odors.” “And—” The man cut him off, still irritable but visibly relieved. “If you could move it yourselves, why the hell did you call me? I was in the middle of a hot towel shave!” Todd scratched the back of his neck, laughing nervously. “Well, boss, once we realized whose caliber of car it was, we wanted to make sure you were in the loop! You might have missed the text.” “Listen, if you’re busy, just leave it right there! I personally guarantee nobody will come within ten feet of it.” A few of the bystanders whistled in awe. “Man, that is a beautiful machine. If only I could afford something like that.” “That’s dream car status right there.” One guy even shuffled forward, phone out. “Sir, do you mind if I take a selfie with it?” The flattery washed over the man like a warm bath. His shoulders relaxed, his chest puffed out, and he pulled a premium cigar from his inner pocket, offering it to Todd. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, kid.” “This beast ran me close to two hundred thousand with the aftermarket trims…” “Why the hell did you treat us differently?” I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I pushed through the crowd, my voice shaking with raw indignation. “He parked in your spot too! Why did you gently roll his car away and cover it with a tarp, but you took a crowbar to mine?!” For a moment, anger blinded me to everything else. Todd looked over his shoulder, his eyes dripping with disgust. “Why? Because your car is a piece of crap! You don’t matter!” The man in the suit turned around, glancing at my decimated compact car. He let out a loud, theatrical laugh. “Honey, welcome to the real world,” he said smoothly. “When you’re broke, nobody respects you. Doesn’t matter where you go.” He adjusted his cuffs, standing tall. “Instead of complaining about fairness, maybe you should work on your financial portfolio.” He tapped the hood of the Mercedes. “Besides, you see this license plate? It’s a vanity plate from the capital. You can’t even buy that kind of status.” I looked at the plate. A jolt of recognition hit my brain like lightning. “If my memory serves me right, this isn’t your car,” I said quietly. “You’re just the driver.” 4 I enunciated every single word. The color drained from the man’s face instantly, his ruddy complexion turning the shade of old parchment. He balled his hands into fists, his knuckles cracking loudly. “You stupid bitch, what the hell are you talking about?” “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” I replied, crossing my arms defensively over my chest. “This car belongs to Mr. Evans, doesn’t it?” Three months ago, I had sat across a dining table from Richard Evans. He had been driving a Maserati back then, but the vanity plate—a highly specific alphanumeric sequence ending in 888—was the exact same one he always transferred to his new vehicles. The driver’s eyes darted nervously. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The crowd sensed the shift in the wind. “Boss, is she telling the truth?” someone asked hesitantly. The driver’s chest heaved. “What truth?!” “This is my goddamn car!” “Who the hell is Evans?!” “You’re full of shit!” Desperate to prove his point, he aggressively clicked the key fob, unlocking the doors with a loud chirp. The flashing LED lights of the luxury SUV drew another round of collective gasps from the crowd. Taking advantage of the distraction, Todd stepped forward and violently shoved me backward. “I don’t know what your problem is, lady, but you’re a pathological liar!” “First you claim you lost four million dollars of jewelry in a junk car, and now you’re trying to say this VIP doesn’t even own his own ride?!” “If it’s not his, what, is it yours?” Caught off guard, I stumbled backward over a cracked piece of pavement. My ankle twisted sharply, a searing pain shooting up my leg as I hit the ground hard. The crowd erupted into laughter, their eyes filled with utter disdain. “People these days are insane. They’ll lie about anything just to save face!” Someone lobbed a half-empty cup of soda at me. It splashed against my shoulder. “You’re lucky this guy has class and isn’t suing you for defamation!” “If you called me a chauffeur, I’d slap the taste out of your mouth!” Up by the Mercedes, the driver’s eyes darted left and right, panic thinly veiled behind his bluster. I gritted my teeth, trying to push myself up off the wet asphalt, but before I could find my footing, Todd aimed a vicious kick right at my ribs. Pain exploded in my shoulder as I scrambled backward to avoid the brunt of it. It felt like my collarbone had splintered. Cold sweat broke out across my forehead. Todd stood over me, casting a long, dark shadow. He shoved his QR code back in my face. “Pay up!” “I’m done wasting my time with you!” Suddenly, the sharp, piercing wail of police sirens cut through the night air. Todd froze, a flicker of panic crossing his features, but he quickly masked it with bravado. “Oh, so you really called them? Good! Let them come. I’ve got the whole lot on my side!” Two patrol cars pulled up, lights flashing in the dark. Officers quickly pushed through the crowd, and one helped me to my feet. I quickly and clearly summarized the situation. But before I could finish, Todd was already shouting. “Officers, you guys are locals! You know how it is!” “She wants you to judge, so judge this! I’ve got a whole family relying on this one truck!” The rest of the vendors immediately swarmed the cops, creating a wall of noise. “This market is how we survive!” “She blocked his space! She was trying to ruin his night! Didn’t her car deserve to be towed?” The sheer volume of the crowd drowned out the officers’ attempts to establish order. Seeing the chaos, I spotted a megaphone sitting on a nearby vendor’s table. I grabbed it and clicked it on. “You publicly destroyed my private property, assaulted me, and committed grand larceny!” my voice boomed over the crowd, echoing off the nearby brick buildings. “If you do not cooperate with the police immediately, you are only adding obstruction of justice to your charges!” Before anyone could shout me down, I pulled my phone out, opened my encrypted files, and held up the digital appraisal and Sotheby’s invoice. “I have just been robbed of a vintage emerald jewelry set valued at four point five million dollars!” “I formally request that the police lock down this scene and conduct a search!” The crowd gasped, a collective sound of shock rippling through the night. “Officers, don’t listen to her! She’s out of her mind!” “Lying to the cops is a crime, lady! You have a death wish?” “She was driving a seven-thousand-dollar piece of junk and expects us to believe she had millions inside? Who falls for that?!” The lead officer looked skeptical at first. But when I handed him my phone, his eyes widened as he scrolled through the watermarked Sotheby’s documents, the insurance policies, and the macro photographs of the emeralds. He looked up, his expression hardening instantly. He signaled to his partner, who immediately got on the radio to call for backup. They began pulling yellow tape to cordon off the lot. The lead officer turned to the crowd, his hand resting on his utility belt, eyes scanning the suddenly nervous faces. He held up his own phone, showing the macro photo of the rosewood box. “This box contained property valued at four point five million dollars.” “This is not a civil dispute anymore. This is a major felony investigation.” “Whoever saw it, whoever took it, step forward now. If you hide it, and we find it on you, you are looking at federal prison time!”

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Three years. That’s how long I chased Lauren. Three years of begging, of worshiping her, until she finally agreed to marry me. But at the altar, right as we were supposed to exchange rings, she drew her service weapon. She pressed the cold barrel of her Glock straight against my father’s forehead. “You son of a bitch,” she hissed, her voice vibrating with a decade of pure, unadulterated hatred. “You’re the monster who murdered my mentor. Officer Badge Sixty-Six Two-Zero-Five.” “Drop your weapon and surrender. Do it now, or I’ll paint this chapel with your blood!” Before my father could even raise his hands, Toby—Lauren’s younger brother—screamed. The sudden, piercing shriek startled her. Her finger, white-knuckled on the trigger, flinched. She didn’t hesitate. Bang. The bullet tore straight through my father’s skull. His body collapsed into a heap on the altar, blood blooming across the pristine marble floor. His eyes stayed wide, staring blankly at the vaulted ceiling, even in death. His custom-tailored wedding suit was instantly soaked in crimson. In a fraction of a second, my life was obliterated. I went from Boston’s golden heir to the worthless son of a dead kingpin. And Lauren? She climbed to the top of the department, stepping over my family’s bones. They handed her a medal. They crowned her a hero. “Dave,” she said to me later, her crisp, dark-blue uniform immaculate, her gaze utterly detached. “I know who your father was. But you’re innocent in this.” “We’re married now. I’ll make sure the prosecutor goes easy on you.” I kept my head down, my fingers digging into the rusted police badge my father had left behind. I wanted to scream. I wanted to ask her: Who is the real criminal here? … The sharp metal edge of the badge sliced into my palm, warm blood pooling in my hand and dripping through my fingers. In the blink of an eye, I lunged. I pressed a long, venom-tipped syringe needle directly against her brother’s carotid artery. I looked up at her, my eyes bloodshot, my voice hoarse with a grief so deep it felt like dying. “I don’t want your damn mercy!” I roared. “I want you to reopen the case!” Lauren slammed her hand down on the hood of the squad car, her knuckles turning bone-white. She glared at me, her voice dropping to a dangerous, low whisper. “Dave, don’t force my hand. Don’t make me put you in the ground right next to him.” I let out a hysterical laugh, my tears splashing onto the wet asphalt. “Then pull the trigger, Detective Donovan!” Just as the tip of the needle was about to pierce Toby’s skin, the icy mask on Lauren’s face finally shattered. She lunged forward, her movements a blur of practiced violence. She grabbed my wrist, twisting it with enough force to snap the bone, wrenching the needle from my grip. Toby collapsed onto the pavement, hacking up bloody spit and shattered teeth. He looked absolutely pathetic. “Get him out of here!” Lauren hissed through gritted teeth. Before the other officers could swarm me, I thrashed violently, throwing my weight forward. I sank my teeth deep into the side of her neck, right over her jugular. I bit down until her skin tore. The metallic tang of her blood flooded my mouth. Lauren gasped, a low grunt escaping her throat. She slammed me backward against the sharp edge of a metal desk. The cold iron bit into my lower back, sending a bolt of agony shooting up my spine. Cold sweat broke out across my forehead. Her shadow loomed over me, blocking out the harsh fluorescent lights. Her chest heaved, her breath ragged. “You’re insane.” “Yes,” I spat, grabbing her collar and pulling her down, forcing her to look at me. “I am. And you’re the one who drove me to it.” “Lauren, the moment you pulled that trigger, I stopped caring about staying alive. I want your life. I want you to pay for what you did to my father!” Lauren looked down at me, her eyes dark, bottomless wells. “Dave, I gave you a way out. You chose this.” Without another word, she snapped the heavy steel cuffs around my wrists and hauled me away. The interrogation room was sterile, bathed in a blinding, aggressive white light that made my skull throb. Lauren had stripped off her dress jacket. Her white button-down shirt was wrinkled and stained with the blood I had drawn from her neck. “This is your absolute last chance, Dave.” She grabbed my chin, her grip so tight I felt my jawbone creak. “Tell me where you got that badge. If you don’t, no one in Boston will be able to protect you.” I tilted my head, staring into her wild, unravelling eyes, and laughed. “Protect me?” I mocked. “Lauren, you still don’t get it, do you? I don’t want to survive. I want you and Toby to burn in hell with my father.” The heavy metal door burst open. Toby stumbled in, half of his face wrapped in thick white gauze, his eyes brimming with tears. “Lauren… please, don’t do this to Dave,” he whimpered, his voice cracking dramatically. “He’s just hurting. I understand what it’s like to lose a father. Even though he tried to kill me just now, I don’t hold a grudge.” I leaned forward, a vicious, mocking smile stretching across my face. “Drop the act, Toby. There’s no audience here.” “Dave, how can you say that about me…” Toby gasped for air, his face completely drained of color. “Lauren, I’m really fine. As long as it makes Dave feel better, I’ll do whatever he wants.” He swayed, pretending his legs were giving out, and collapsed right into Lauren’s arms. Lauren’s expression shifted instantly. She pulled her brother behind her, shielding him, and glared at me with pure, unadulterated disgust. “You are absolutely disgusting, Dave.” Her voice was colder than the air in the room. “Toby barely survived your father’s world, and he’s still here begging for your sake. Yet you treat him like garbage. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the rotten tree.” I leaned back in the cold metal chair, watching their little display of sibling devotion. It made my stomach churn. “You’re right,” I sneered. “And you were raised by that same tree, Lauren. You’re just as rotten as the rest of us.” Before she could react, I snatched a heavy metal pen off the interrogation table. Without a second thought, I plunged the sharp steel tip directly into the bruised, swollen back of my left hand. “Look at it, Lauren,” I whispered, my voice terrifyingly calm as my hand began to throb. “My blood is red. My father’s blood was red. Your blood, Toby’s blood—it all looks the damn same. What makes you think you two are so holy?” Crimson spilled rapidly down my wrist, dripping onto the clean table and splashing onto Lauren’s white shirt. A few drops even flecked Toby’s face. Toby shrieked, cowering behind Lauren like a frightened child. “Blood… Lauren, I’m scared!” Lauren lunged forward and wrenched the pen from my hand, her composure entirely gone. She grabbed my bleeding hand, pressing down on the wound with a force that felt like she was trying to crush my bones. Her eyes were bloodshot, her voice cracking. “Are you insane?! Dave, do you think self-mutilation is going to wash away the sins of the Ward family?” “Sins?” I leaned in, letting my blood smear all over her palms, laughing like a man who had already crossed over to the other side. “Lauren, do you know what the ultimate sin is? It’s murdering the man who saved your life. You’re nothing but an ungrateful animal!” Lauren froze. Her pale, righteous face turned paper-white. Toby clutched her shirt tighter. “Lauren… he’s lying… it hurts so bad… please take me home…” Lauren took a sharp, ragged breath, forcing down whatever emotion was clawing its way up her throat. She shoved me back. My spine slammed against the concrete wall, and for a second, I couldn’t breathe as pain flared through my ribcage. “Don’t try to bait me, Dave,” she said, her voice trembling but cold. “If you want to die, I’ll make sure you stay alive. You’re going to live and pay for every single one of your father’s crimes.” After Lauren left, the officers dragged me out of the interrogation room. Their eyes held nothing but contempt, as if they were looking at a piece of trash. “You’re free to go, Ward. Captain Donovan put up her own bond to bail you out as your spouse.” I had nowhere to go. I scraped together every last penny in my pockets just to buy a simple, cheap black suit. I knelt alone in the dim, freezing chapel of the mortuary, keeping a silent vigil over my father’s closed casket. But the peace didn’t last. The quiet roar of high-end engines shattered the silence. A fleet of dozens of black Rolls-Royces, adorned with festive red ribbons, smashed through the gates of the mortuary. It was a grotesque parade. The black hearse was trapped in a sea of celebratory red wedding cars. Lauren stepped out of the lead Cullinan. She wasn’t in uniform. Instead, she wore a structured, slate-grey designer dress. Pinned to her lapel was the shiny new medal of honor she’d just been awarded. Her face was a mask of cold, untouchable authority, silhouetted against the gray Boston drizzle as white funeral programs and rose petals blew across the courtyard. “Dave. Get in the car,” she commanded, standing over me. “My father’s body isn’t even cold yet, Lauren,” I said, my voice dripping with venom. “And you’re already using his corpse as a stepping stone for your career?” Without a word, she grabbed my wrist, forcing our heavy gold wedding bands back onto my ring finger, pushing it down inch by inch. “Victor Ward got what he deserved. But you’re innocent,” she whispered in my ear, her breath warm, her words dripping with a sickening charity. “You might be the son of a criminal, but you’re my husband now. You belong to the Donovan family. That’s the only reason you’re still breathing.” “No one in this city can protect you but me.” I stared at her for a long second, then let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Protect me? You’re just terrified I’ll die too quickly and the public will start asking questions. After all, if it weren’t for my father, you would have died in a ditch ten years ago.” “Dave, don’t misunderstand my sister,” Toby chimed in. He was dressed in a sleek charcoal suit, draping an arm casually over my shoulder. “She’s doing this for your own good. The loan sharks and rivals your father left behind would tear you apart. But as the husband of a decorated captain? No one will dare touch you.” He leaned in closer, putting on a show of brotherly concern. “Come on. Take off this dusty mourning suit. Let’s get you into a proper tuxedo. Your father can rest in peace knowing you’re taken care of.” Before he finished speaking, his cold fingertips slid down my arm, finding the swollen, infected wound on the back of my hand. And then, he dug his fingernail straight into the raw, pus-filled hole. “Ah—” A white-hot wave of pain blinded me. My spine locked up, drenched in instant cold sweat, and I violently wrenched my hand away. Thud. Toby threw himself backward, tumbling onto the wet asphalt. His forehead clipped the sharp corner of my father’s granite headstone, and dark blood began to mix with the rain on his face. “Toby!” Lauren’s eyes flared with sudden fury. She shoved me hard. I fell into a freezing puddle, the sharp gravel tearing open the palms of my hands. “You are absolutely hopeless, Dave!” she yelled, rushing to scoop Toby into her arms, cradling him as if I were some kind of monster. “Lauren… I’m fine. Dave is just… he’s just grieving…” Toby whimpered, shivering in her arms. But he deliberately pulled back his collar, exposing a nasty purple bruise that he claimed I had given him. “As long as it helps him feel better, I’ll crawl on my knees if I have to…” I wiped the bloody spit from the corner of my mouth and stared at him. “Fine,” I said, my voice carrying over the wind. “You want me to play the happy groom? Then get on your knees. Bow to my father’s grave.” “Ninety-nine times. Do it, and I’ll marry her. I’ll let her keep her shiny medal and her perfect reputation. Deal?” Toby’s eyes welled with tears. “Okay! If it’s for my sister, I’ll do anything!” “Stop!” Lauren snapped, grabbing Toby before he could drop to his knees. She looked at me, her eyes filled with nothing but cold, absolute disgust. She grabbed my wrist, forcing my hand into hers, squeezing so hard my knuckles popped. “You’re marrying me today, Dave. You don’t have a choice.” I looked at her beautiful, victorious face. I raised my foot and kicked the brass tribute urn, sending the burning embers and white-hot charcoal scattering into the rain. As the white paper programs swirled around us like falling snow, I laughed until tears of blood squeezed from my eyes. “Remember this day, Lauren,” I whispered, every syllable laced with poison. “I am your reckoning.” After the wedding, Lauren locked me away in her secluded estate in the hills. She was terrified I would ruin her career with another public breakdown. By nightfall, my body was burning with a hundred-and-two-degree fever. The puncture wound on the back of my hand had grown badly infected, the swollen, angry red flesh weeping pus onto her pristine white silk sheets. The door clicked open. Lauren walked in, holding a bowl of warm broth. “Eat,” she said, her voice flat, placing a bottle of antibiotics and the bowl on the nightstand. I kept my eyes closed, lacking even the strength to look at her. A dry, pathetic laugh rattled in my throat. “Are you so afraid I’ll die, Lauren? Afraid you won’t get to parade your pet criminal’s son around while you climb the ranks?” Lauren’s breath hitched. “Do you have to do this every single time, Dave?” I opened my eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling. “Did you honestly expect me to smile at my father’s killer?” Her eyes rimmed with red. “Dave! When are you going to get it through your thick skull? Your father was a monster! Ending him was my job!” I summoned every ounce of my remaining strength to swing my arm, knocking the bowl off the table. It shattered against the hardwood floor. “Stop pretending, Lauren! It makes me sick!” I snarled. “You didn’t even know who he really was. You just pulled the trigger, and now you play the saint?” Lauren closed her eyes, slowly kneeling to pick up the broken porcelain pieces. Her voice softened, losing its sharp edge. “Dav, you knew what he was better than anyone. He was the Red Scorpion. A single word from him could set the entire East Coast underbelly on fire.” I dragged myself up against the headboard, my vision swimming. “He wasn’t!” As I swung my legs out of bed, my bare sole caught a sharp piece of porcelain. I gasped as a deep gash opened up, blood quickly pooling on the floor. “Stop moving!” Lauren barked, dropping the shards and grabbing my ankle. “Let go…” I muttered, but the pain was too much, and a soft groan escaped my lips. She paused, her grip softening as she cradled my foot in her hands. She had done this a thousand times over the last ten years. She was an orphan my father had taken in. For years, she had protected me, watched over me like an older sister, returning the favor of my father’s kindness. Lauren grabbed the first-aid kit from the bathroom. She soaked a cotton ball in rubbing alcohol and pressed it against the cut. “Ah!” I flinched, my back arching as a cold sweat broke out across my neck. “Hold still,” she murmured, her knuckles white as she bandaged my foot. I stared down at her, my voice raw and empty. “You killed him, Lauren. And now you’re trying to heal me. Don’t you find yourself utterly pathetic?” I leaned down, my feverish breath brushing against her neck. “You built your entire career on the blood of the man who raised you, and yet here you are, acting like you care.” “Shut up!” Lauren snapped, her eyes wild and bloodshot. The agonizing guilt she had been suppressing finally broke through her cold facade. “I told you, he brought this on himself!” I grabbed her wrist, digging my fingernails into her skin. I looked straight into her eyes and smiled. “What if he was innocent, Lauren?” “Come closer. Let me tell you a secret…”

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When I walked into my own wedding reception wearing a custom silk gown, the first thing I noticed was the professional octagon MMA cage sitting dead center on the ballroom stage. My fiancé, Garrett, was standing beside it, holding the hand of his “female bestie,” Sabrina. He grinned, walking over to slip a pair of heavily padded leather gloves into my hands. “Flora, babe, it’s a little tradition from my family’s side of the state,” he said, his voice smooth and reassuring. “The bride is supposed to do a quick, playful spar with someone from the bridal party to bring good luck to the marriage. I asked Sabrina to step in so you wouldn’t have to deal with any of the guys. Just play along for the crowd.” I looked at Sabrina. She was standing there in her maid-of-honor dress, looking as fragile and sickly as she always did. I didn’t think twice before stepping through the cage door. But the moment the referee signaled the start, Sabrina’s weak demeanor vanished. She pivoted on her heel and unleashed a professional, devastating spinning heel kick. The blow caught me squarely on the temple, fracturing my skull and knocking me into a severe, hemorrhaging concussion before I even hit the canvas. When I finally woke up in the ICU, my body was a useless weight beneath the sterile sheets. Garrett was standing at the foot of my bed, holding Sabrina’s hand. “The guests flew in from all over, Flora, and the registry was incredibly expensive,” he said, his face twisted into a mask of performative sorrow. “We couldn’t just cancel the wedding. Sabrina offered to stand in for you so we didn’t lose the venue or the gifts. You’re so kind and understanding—you don’t mind, right?” Under the crushing weight of utter humiliation and severe, postpartum-like clinical depression, I eventually rolled my wheelchair to the edge of our high-rise balcony and threw myself off. But instead of the pavement, I woke up in my old bed. One month before the wedding. I didn’t waste a second. I got dressed, drove across town, and knocked on the heavy metal door of the state’s elite combat training center. “Coach,” I said, looking the head trainer in the eye. “Can you teach me how to shatter someone’s skull in thirty days?” 1 The coach looked me up and down. His gaze lingered on my slender arms and pale wrists for three painful seconds before he let out a dry, dismissive chuckle. “Shatter someone’s skull? Sweetheart, with a frame like yours, a stiff breeze could snap you in half.” I didn’t argue. I reached into my bag, pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, and slammed them onto the metal desk. Five thousand dollars. Every cent of the emergency cash I’d spent two years scraping together. The coach barely glanced at it before pushing it back toward me. “I don’t need the pocket change, kid.” Without a word, I reached over and pulled up my left sleeve, exposing the dark, mottled yellow-and-purple bruises Garrett had left on my arm after a drunken rage the weekend before. The coach’s eyes hardened. He stared at the marks for a long moment, then reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a standard liability waiver, sliding it across the table. “Sign this,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “The gym is not responsible for any injuries sustained during training. This includes, but is not limited to, fractures, concussions, and internal bleeding.” I grabbed the pen and signed my name without hesitating. The coach took the paper, filed it away, and the casual, dismissive look on his face vanished completely. “Alright. Starting today, I’m going to train you with the same intensity I use for professional fighters preparing for a title bout. I don’t know if you’ll be able to shatter anyone’s head in a month, but by the end of this, you’ll definitely want to shatter your own.” That first day, the sparring partners threw me to the mat forty-seven times. Every single time my back slammed into the vinyl padding, the air leaving my lungs in a ragged gasp, the memories of my past life flashed behind my eyelids. I saw Sabrina’s heel coming toward my face. I felt the sterile, cold hospital air, the tubes running down my throat, the weight of a body that would never walk again. I saw Garrett standing there, looking so incredibly burdened by my tragedy while holding the hand of the woman who had crippled me. “Sabrina offered to stand in for you… you don’t mind, right?” Did I mind? He had legally married Sabrina three days after I was paralyzed. They used my savings. They lived in the brownstone my parents had bought for me. Everyone in our social circle praised Garrett for his deep loyalty, calling Sabrina a saint for helping him navigate the tragedy of his “brain-damaged ex-fiancée.” Not a single soul asked how the girl who had been kicked into a wheelchair was supposed to keep living. The memory burned like acid in my throat. I pushed myself up from the mat, ignoring the screaming pain in my shoulders, and raised my gloved hands toward the sparring partner. “Again,” I rasped. The partner looked over at the coach. The coach nodded slowly. “Take her down.” That night, I lay on the thin, hard mattress in the gym’s dorm room, my skin covered in ice packs. My phone vibrated on the nightstand. A text from Garrett: “Babe, just got out of a late meeting and finally grabbing dinner. I’ve been keeping the planners in line so everything is perfect. Just focus on being the most beautiful bride in the world.” I stared at the words “late meeting” for a moment, then opened Instagram. Sabrina had posted a story three minutes ago. It was a mirror selfie of her trying on a white lace wedding dress. In the background, draped carelessly over the arm of a velvet sofa, was the navy silk Hermès tie I had bought Garrett for his birthday last month. Her caption was short: “The favorite always gets the privilege of the first fitting.” My fingers tightened around the phone. I opened our text thread and sent Garrett a voice note, keeping my tone sweet, light, and perfectly trusting. “You’re working so hard, sweetie. I don’t know what I’d do without you handling the venue stuff. I trust you completely.” Then, I typed out a follow-up: “By the way, babe, I just saw a bespoke designer gown online. Apparently, there are only three of them in the country, but the deposit is twenty grand. What do you think?” A long, agonizing two minutes passed before the typing bubbles appeared. “Isn’t that a bit excessive? The off-the-rack ones look amazing on you anyway.” I replied instantly: “But we’re only doing this once, Garrett. And you promised me we’d have the most talked-about wedding in the city. I want everyone to see how much you cherish me.” Another silence. Finally, a single word: “Fine.” I let out a cold, quiet laugh, locked the phone, and turned to face the wall. Garrett, my love. In my past life, you wanted my money, my home, and my very survival. This time around, I’m going to drain you until you have nothing left to give. 2 During the day, I was the perfect, glowing bride-to-be. I gossiped with my coworkers about floral arrangements, tasted samples of vanilla-bean cake, and smiled until my cheeks ached. But the moment the clock struck five, I shed the corporate clothes and threw myself into the ring. I strapped on the headgear, laced up the gloves, and let the rage take over. The same mouth that whispered sweet nothings over the phone to Garrett spent three hours a night screaming through heavy bag drills. Coach Briggs focused entirely on my defense against high kicks. “You said this opponent has a background in dirty combat?” he asked one night, throwing a towel over my shoulders. “Underground street fights,” I replied, taking a long drink of water. “She spent years as a paid sparring partner in unlicensed gyms.” Briggs frowned, rubbing his jaw. “Street fighters don’t follow regulations. They don’t care about points; they care about damage. They go straight for the soft tissue—the temples, the throat, the knees.” He pulled up a video on his tablet, showing a grainy clip of an unsanctioned match. “Watch her hips,” he pointed to the screen. “Before she launches a spinning kick, there’s a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch in her left hip. It’s a micro-adjustment to find her balance. It happens in less than a third of a second.” I leaned in closer, memorizing the movement. “Your window is right there,” Briggs continued. “The second you see that hip drop, you don’t back away. If you back up, you put yourself directly in the path of her maximum force. You have to slip inside the arc, close the distance, and strike from the blind spot.” I nodded. And for the next three hours, I practiced the slip-and-strike over and over until my muscles memorized the rhythm. By the end of the week, I was sparring with a six-foot-two amateur lightweight. When I managed to slip his guard and land a liver shot that brought him to his knees, Briggs let out a rare, genuine grin from the sidelines. Later that evening, my best friend, Naomi, came to pick me up from the gym. When she saw the dark, ugly bruises mapping my shoulders and ribs, her eyes welled with tears. “Flora, what are you doing to yourself? This is insane. You’re getting married in three days!” I pulled off my hand wraps, the coarse fabric scraping against my calloused skin. “Take a look at this first.” I handed her my phone, showing her the files my private investigator had delivered that afternoon. They were bank statements and credit logs under Garrett’s name. A high-interest personal loan for eighty-three thousand dollars. And a pending charge of sixty-two thousand at Cartier. The shipping address? Sabrina Kelly’s apartment. Naomi’s jaw dropped. “That absolute bastard… he took out a predatory loan to buy her Cartier? What did he get you for your birthday, Flora? A ten-dollar grocery store bouquet! Call it off. Cancel the wedding right now!” I shook my head slowly, taking the phone back. “If I cancel, he just walks away with a few bad debts and a bracelet. No, Naomi. I’m going to make sure he crawls out of that venue on his hands and knees.” Naomi stared at me, her expression shifting from horror to a quiet, fierce understanding. “I don’t know what your plan is,” she whispered, “but whatever you need, I’m in.” On the night before the wedding, the investigator sent over one final audio file, recorded via a small tracker planted in Garrett’s car. I pressed play, and Sabrina’s voice filled the quiet locker room. “Garrett, babe, once she’s out of the picture after the wedding, that brownstone is completely paid off, right? We can just transfer the title to your name and move in. It’s perfect.” Garrett’s low chuckle followed. “Don’t rush it, sweetie. Once we get her off the deed and drain her trust account, this whole circus will have been worth every penny.” Sabrina giggled, a sound that made my skin crawl. “You’re terrible, you know that?” “But you love it.” “Obsessed.” The recording clicked off. I sat alone in the dim locker room, listening to the file three more times. My hands were perfectly steady as I uploaded copies of the audio to three separate secure cloud drives. Then, I wired the investigator his final payment with a short note: Perfect work. Worth every cent. 3 Two days before the ceremony, Garrett’s mother paid me an unexpected visit. She marched into my apartment carrying a plastic bag of bruised, discounted apples, sat herself down on my custom sofa, and crossed her legs with an air of absolute authority. “Flora, dear, we need to talk about a small matter,” she began, her tone dripping with artificial sweetness. “That brownstone you’re living in—your parents bought that outright before you met Garrett, correct? Well, now that you’re marrying my son, you’re going to be a family. It’s incredibly tacky for a family home to only have one person’s name on the deed.” I set my teacup down, remaining completely silent. “Sabrina was actually telling me the other day,” she continued, dismissive of my silence, “that a truly modern, loving wife doesn’t keep secrets from her husband. A little generosity now will bring you so many blessings down the road.” Sabrina said. An outsider was dictating the terms of my life, and my future mother-in-law saw absolutely nothing wrong with it. I forced myself to draw a slow, deep breath, letting a sweet, compliant smile spread across my face. “You’re absolutely right, Mom. Do you have the deed transfer paperwork? I can take it to the title company first thing tomorrow.” The older woman beamed, reaching into her designer knockoff purse to pull out a pre-drafted quitclaim deed. She had been carrying it around, just waiting for this exact moment. I took the papers and escorted her to the door. The moment the lock clicked shut, the smile fell from my face. I didn’t take the paperwork to a title company to add Garrett’s name. I took it to a private lender. The brownstone was valued at 1.2 million dollars. Within four hours, I had secured a cash-out home equity line of credit for eight hundred thousand dollars. The funds cleared by mid-afternoon, and I immediately wired the entire balance into Naomi’s offshore savings account. In my past life, Garrett had successfully transferred the deed after my accident and sold the property, leaving me with nothing. This time, he wouldn’t get so much as a single brick. When I returned home that evening, Garrett was surprisingly present in the kitchen. He handed me a steaming mug of dark, herbal tea. “You’ve been looking so tired lately, babe,” he said, his eyes filled with a terrifyingly familiar warmth. “I brewed you some chamomile and valerian root. Drink up, get a good night’s sleep, and you’ll be the most stunning bride tomorrow.” I took the mug. Beneath the heavy scent of honey, there was a bitter, chemical undertone. In my past life, this was the exact tea that had put me into a dead sleep for twelve hours, giving him and Sabrina all the time they needed to coordinate the setup of the MMA cage at the venue. I lifted the mug to my lips, pretending to take a long sip. The moment he turned his back to rinse a spoon, I spat the liquid into a dry paper towel, folding it quickly and stuffing it into my pocket. “Thank you, sweetie. It’s perfect,” I murmured. Garrett’s eyes flared with a brief, victorious light. “Get some rest, then. Big day tomorrow.” He grabbed his coat and walked down the hall to the guest room, locking the door behind him. I pressed my ear to the wall, listening. “Sabrina? Yeah, she drank it. Out like a light,” he whispered into the receiver. “Everything is set for tomorrow.” I heard Sabrina’s faint voice filter through the drywall. “Garrett, when she gets in the ring, do you think I should aim for her left temple or her right?” Garrett chuckled. “Whatever makes you happy, babe. It’s not like she’ll be using either side of her brain after tomorrow anyway.” I walked back to my bedroom, locked the door, and opened my laptop. I spent the next two hours organizing every piece of evidence I had gathered over the past month into a beautifully formatted presentation. I titled the file: Portrait of a Groom. I set a digital timer on the media server, linking it directly to the ballroom’s main projection system. When I finally closed the laptop and lay down, I didn’t feel fear. I felt like a blade that had finally been polished to a lethal edge. 4 The morning of the wedding was crisp and cold. At six o’clock, Naomi arrived to help me dress. When she unzipped the twenty-thousand-dollar custom silk gown and held it up against my bare shoulders, her breath hitched. “Flora… your arms.” The gown was a strapless sweetheart cut, exposing my entire collarbone and upper arms. Under the bright vanity lights, the faint yellowing bruises from my final sparring sessions were visible. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, my voice steady. “Just layer the concealer. Thick.” Naomi bit her lip but didn’t ask any more questions. It took three heavy layers of professional-grade body makeup to completely hide the marks of my training. Once the veil was pinned, I stood and looked at my reflection. The woman in the mirror was wrapped in layers of delicate white silk, but she looked nothing like the fragile, broken girl who had been wheeled out of a hospital ward a lifetime ago. The Flora who had died on that pavement was gone. The woman standing here now had crawled back from the grave. At exactly eight o’clock, the limousine arrived. Garrett was waiting by the door, looking exceptionally handsome in his tailored tuxedo. His shave was immaculate, his cologne expensive. When he saw me, a genuine spark of admiration lit up his eyes. I smiled, taking his arm as he led me into the car. Sabrina was already sitting in the front passenger seat, dressed in her maid-of-honor gown. She looked pale, her hair pulled back in a loose, delicate low bun. She turned around, offering me a faint, watery smile. “You look beautiful, Flora.” She let out a small, delicate cough. I reached forward and squeezed her hand. “Thank you, Sabrina. I know you haven’t been feeling well lately, so it means the world to have you stand by me today.” “Of course,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t miss your special day for anything.” I saw Garrett catch her eye in the rearview mirror. It was a fraction of a second—a shared look of absolute, breathless anticipation. They couldn’t wait. The limousine pulled up to the Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel. The entrance was flanked by towering floral arches and a plush red carpet. Garrett got out first, offering me his hand with the grace of a perfect gentleman. “We’re here, beautiful,” he whispered. I lifted my skirts and stepped out, securing my grip on his arm. As we pushed through the heavy double doors of the ballroom, the crowd of three hundred guests erupted into applause. I scanned the room. The tables, the centerpieces, the lighting—everything was exactly as I had planned. Except for the main stage. Where the towering champagne fountain was supposed to stand, there was a raised, professional-grade octagon cage. The chain-link walls glistened under the spotlights, the floor lined with thick, blue wrestling mats. Hanging from the corner posts were two fresh pairs of leather sparring gloves. I stopped, feigning confusion. “Garrett… what is that?” Garrett patted my hand, his voice smooth and reassuring. “Don’t worry, babe. Like I said, it’s a tradition from my family’s old neighborhood. Just a playful little spar to bring some excitement and good fortune to the marriage.” He stepped aside, and Sabrina stepped forward, holding a pair of gloves. “Flora,” she said softly, her voice carrying through the room’s microphone system. “Garrett really wanted us to do this. Don’t worry, I’m still feeling a bit weak from my cold. Just a light touch for the cameras.” In the crowd, Garrett’s family and friends began to cheer. “Go on, Flora! Show her what you’ve got!” “Don’t be a party pooper! It’s tradition!” The pressure mounted, a wall of smiling, demanding faces. Nobody saw anything wrong with it. Just like last time. I let the silence stretch for ten seconds, staring directly into Garrett’s eyes. “Alright,” I said, my voice echoing over the speakers. Garrett let out a breath, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But on one condition,” I added. I waved Naomi over. She stepped forward, holding a legal document. “Since this is a contact sport, and we’re wearing expensive gowns, I want to make sure everything is official. We sign a standard mutual liability waiver. If anyone gets hurt up there, we agree not to pursue legal action or damages.” I took the pen and signed my name with a flourish, then handed it to Sabrina. Garrett’s mother laughed from the front row. “Oh, look how serious she’s taking it! How cute!” To them, this waiver was just a joke. To Sabrina, it was a guarantee that she could cripple me without facing a single day in court. She grabbed the pen and eagerly scribbled her signature. I handed the paper back to Naomi, who tucked it safely into her bag. Then, in front of three hundred stunned guests, I unzipped my twenty-thousand-dollar designer gown, stepped out of it, and let it fall to the floor. Beneath the silk, I was wearing a black compression top and athletic shorts. I walked toward the cage, lacing up my gloves.

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My girlfriend was a severe germophobe. Because of this, throughout our three years together, I never touched cologne, threw away all my scented skincare, and stripped the bed to wash the sheets every single day. Yet, whenever Joyce looked at me, her eyes remained as cold and clinical as if she were inspecting a stain. Then came the storm. The power went out, the elevator stalled, and we were trapped in a metal box for two suffocating hours. My asthma flared. I collapsed onto the floor, my chest heaving as I trembled, desperately clawing at the hem of her trousers. “Joyce… please… my inhaler…” She looked down at me, her face twisting into a mask of pure disgust as she kicked my hand away. She turned her back on me, taking off her designer trench coat and draping it gently over the shoulders of the intern standing beside her—a young man drenched in expensive, suffocating cologne. “It’s okay,” she whispered to him, her voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “Lean on me. I’ve got you.” She pulled him flush against her chest, her palm resting flat against his back, murmuring sweet, steady promises into his hair. And my inhaler was right there, sitting in the designer handbag resting against her ankle. That was the moment I realized she didn’t have a phobia of germs. She was just disgusted by me. … When the firefighters finally pried the elevator doors open, I could barely draw enough breath to speak. My throat felt like it was lined with glass. A paramedic squeezed into the cramped space, immediately pressing an oxygen mask over my face. The building manager, clutching her walkie-talkie, looked around frantically. “Who’s the emergency contact? Who’s his family?” Joyce didn’t look up. As they lifted me onto the gurney, I tilted my head to the side. I saw her arms wrapped tightly around Cody. He was burying his face in the crook of her neck, his hands clutching her silk blouse, wrinkling the expensive fabric. “Ms. Adler,” Cody whimpered, his voice trembling. “Is this because of me? Did I make Mr. Ross have an attack?” Joyce stroked his hair, her voice a soothing hum. “No, Cody. It’s not your fault. He’s always had trouble regulating his emotions.” The cold steel of the gurney rail bit into my palm. The paramedic called out, “Where’s his medication? Does the patient have an inhaler?” With what little strength I had left, I pointed a trembling finger toward the handbag resting in the corner of the elevator. Joyce glanced at it, then at the paramedic. “He keeps too much clutter in there. I’m not comfortable digging through it.” The paramedic stared at her for a second, then stopped asking. By the time my best friend, Dan, arrived, I was already hooked up to an IV in the emergency room. The doctor held out a clipboard at the reception window, gesturing for Joyce to sign. She stood a few feet back, her hands crossed over her chest. “I’m not his family.” The nurse looked down at the charts, then back up at her, frowning. “But the emergency contact on his phone says ‘Girlfriend.’” Joyce’s lips thinned into a hard, straight line. “We’re just friends.” Dan, who had just rushed through the automatic doors, stopped dead in his tracks. He pointed a finger directly at her face. “Just friends? Joyce, he’s lived with you for three years. He walked away from his own life for you, and you dismiss him with ‘just friends’?” Joyce pinched the bridge of her nose, her expression tight with annoyance. “This is a hospital, Dan. Don’t start a scene. Cody is traumatized from the elevator. I need to take him home.” As she turned to leave, Cody was still wiping tears from his eyes. He clutched his stomach, complaining that the smell of hospital bleach was making him nauseous. Joyce wrapped an arm around his waist, guiding him out without looking back once. I lay in the sterile light of the ER, the needle cold in the back of my hand, and slowly curled my body into a tight, quiet ball. I didn’t wake up until the following morning. Dan was asleep, slumped over the edge of the mattress, his eyes red and swollen. I reached for my phone on the bedside table. There was a single text from Joyce, sent at midnight: Cody cried all night. I stared at the screen, my throat dry and tight. Dan stirred, saw what I was looking at, and snatched the phone out of my hands. “Don’t look at that garbage. You’re going to give yourself a stroke.” I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. For three years, I had purged my life of every scent. I used to love high-end hand creams and botanical body oils; my clothes always carried a faint, warm trace of cedarwood. But the moment Joyce smelled it, she would press her hands to her temples, claiming it triggered her sensory issues. She told me she had a clinical aversion to scents and bodily clutter, so I stopped. I washed my hands until they were raw before I ever dared to touch her. Yet, in that elevator, Cody was wearing a cologne so strong it made my lungs seize—and she had held him like he was the only thing keeping her anchored to the earth. Dan unlocked his phone and slid it across the sheets. “Someone leaked this on the company Slack.” It was a photo. Joyce was standing by the passenger side of her car outside the hospital, and Cody was sitting inside, wrapped in her tailored wool coat. On his wrist, he was wearing her antique sandalwood bead bracelet. I had touched those beads once, a year ago. Joyce’s face had turned instantly dark, and she had coldly told me never to touch her personal items again. I pushed the phone back to Dan. It wasn’t that she had a phobia of touch. It was just that she didn’t want me touching her. On the day I was discharged, Dan offered to take me back to his place. I shook my head. “I have to go back to the apartment. My things are still there.” He looked at me, searched my face for a moment, and chose not to push. I knew what he was thinking—he was terrified I was making up excuses to crawl back to her. But when I unlocked the door to the apartment, the first thing I saw was Cody. He was standing by the dining table, holding a mug of steaming ginger tea. He was wearing my slippers. When he saw me, he flinched, taking a small, performative step backward. “Mr. Ross… you’re back.” Joyce walked out of the study, a folder in her hand. She took one look at me standing in the entryway and frowned. “You just got out of the hospital. Go take a shower immediately. Don’t bring public transport bacteria into the living room.” I stood perfectly still on the doormat. Cody took a step forward, his voice dripping with soft, apologetic sweetness. “Please don’t be upset, Mr. Ross. I caught a fever after getting soaked in the rain yesterday. Ms. Adler was just worried about me being alone in my apartment, so she let me crash here for the night.” I stared down at his feet. At my slippers. The ones I had spent hours picking out to match the hardwood floors. Cody followed my gaze, his eyes widening in faux panic as he lifted his foot. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize these were yours. There was only one pair of men’s shoes in the closet…” Joyce stepped between us, shielding him from my sight. “It’s just a pair of slippers, Elliott. Cody is sick.” I looked past her shoulder, straight into her cold, beautiful eyes. “In the elevator… my inhaler was right at your feet. Why didn’t you give it to me?” She looked away, her jaw tightening. “It was chaotic. It was Cody’s first time dealing with something like that. He was hyperventilating, Elliott. I couldn’t just leave him to panic.” My chest felt hollow, the phantom ache of the asthma attack returning. “And me? I couldn’t breathe. I begged you, Joyce.” There was a brief, heavy silence. Joyce adjusted her collar. “You’ve had asthma for years. You know how to manage your attacks. You know how to self-soothe. He doesn’t.” “And your phobia?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “He was wearing enough cologne to scent a hotel lobby. How did you manage to hold him so close?” Cody began to dab at his eyes with his sleeve. “Mr. Ross, please don’t yell. It’s my fault. I grew up in an orphanage—enclosed spaces are my absolute worst trigger. Ms. Adler was only trying to keep me grounded. Please don’t fight because of me.” He shrunk back, practically hiding behind her shoulder. Joyce’s eyes hardened as she looked at me. “Elliott, must you always paint everything in the ugliest, most dramatic light?” I looked at her—really looked at her—and felt nothing but a vast, empty exhaustion. “Joyce, let’s end this. We’re done.” The apartment went completely quiet. Cody’s hand tightened around his mug, spilling a few drops of ginger tea onto the marble tabletop. Joyce set her folder down with a sharp click. “Are you serious?” She took two slow, deliberate steps toward me. “Your design studio’s payroll next month is entirely dependent on Adler Corp’s final milestone payment. You want to call it quits now? You want to drag your entire staff down with you just to throw a tantrum?” I didn’t answer. Seeing my silence, her tone softened slightly, turning into that familiar, condescending maternal warmth she used to control me. “Go cool off. Cody is just an intern. I look after him because he has no safety net. You’re being paranoid.” Cody kept his head low. “I really envy you, Mr. Ross. You have your own studio, and you’ve had Ms. Adler by your side for three years. I have nothing.” I walked past them, ignoring them both, and went into the bedroom to pack. But when I opened the closet, my hands froze in midair. My custom-blended cedarwood lotions, my imported essential oils, my ceramic diffuser—the few things I had kept tucked away in the back—had all been swept into a heavy black trash bag. Cody appeared at the bedroom door, leaning against the frame. “I thought those scents were what made Ms. Adler so uncomfortable, so I did a little deep cleaning for her. I hope you don’t mind.” I turned to him, my voice dropping to a dangerous register. “Who gave you permission to touch my things?” He shrank back, his lower lip trembling. Joyce stepped into the room, her voice sharp. “Elliott! What is wrong with you? Why are you taking your anger out on him? He was only trying to help me.” The next morning, I had to carry my design portfolio to Adler Corp for our quarterly review. Cody was already sitting in the conference room, right next to Joyce. He was lazily flipping through the sample fabric sheets of my new collection. “Mr. Ross,” Cody said, looking up with a look of pure, innocent concern. “Don’t you think this design feels a bit… cheap? It doesn’t really carry the premium weight that Adler Corp’s brand demands, does it?” The room went quiet. Every executive at the table turned to look at me. I opened my laptop, pulling up the technical specs to explain the weave density, the linen-silk blend, and the cost-efficiency. Before I could finish, Joyce walked in. She didn’t even look at my presentation. She simply closed my physical portfolio folder with a dull thud. “Redo it.” I gripped the edge of my seat. “Joyce, this is the third revision. The production timeline—” Cody suddenly let out a soft, wet cough, covering his mouth. “I’m so sorry… Mr. Ross, do you still have hospital disinfectant on your clothes? The smell is really hitting my throat.” Joyce immediately gestured to her assistant. “Open the windows.” Then she turned her cold eyes to me. “Go sit at the other end of the table.” A few junior designers nearby ducked their heads, whispering and snickering behind their hands. I stood up, pulled out the chair at the absolute far end of the long mahogany table, and sat down. During the break, Cody stood up to pour some coffee. As he walked past the display rack holding my main prototype gown, his wrist gave a sudden, awkward jerk. The dark, hot liquid splashed entirely across the delicate ivory bodice. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry! My hand slipped, the mug was so hot…” I rushed over, grabbing the fabric, but the dark stain had already soaked deep into the open-weave silk linen. The gown was completely ruined. Joyce immediately grabbed Cody’s wrist, inspecting his skin. Then she looked up at me, her voice commanding. “Apologize.” I froze. “What?” “His hand is red, Elliott. Apologize to him.” I looked at the ruined gown—the work of three months—and then at her. My lips remained pressed together. I didn’t move. Joyce pushed her chair back, her face devoid of any warmth. “Adler Corp is suspending all contracts with your studio, effective immediately.” “The remaining projects will be handled internally by our brand department. Cody will assist with the transition.” When I got back to my studio, the group chat was already blowing up. My designers were panicked about the frozen milestone payments. I muted my phone, pulled out my ledger, and began calculating how much of my personal savings I would need to drain to pay out their severance. That night, Joyce came back to the apartment. She tossed her car keys onto the entryway table. “Give the original sketch files of your Alabaster line to Cody.” I paused, looking up from my desk. “What did you just say?” “He’s entering the National Emerging Designer Showcase next month, and he needs a cohesive portfolio,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “Your Alabaster sketches are fully developed. Let him use them. It’s just a loan.” My pen slipped from my fingers. The Alabaster line wasn’t just a design. The delicate, interlocking ivy vine pattern in the sketches was adapted from a vintage wool suit my father had left me before he died. When he passed, the suit was too worn to wear, so I had carefully unstitched the lining, preserved the pattern, and poured it into my sketches. It was my studio’s masterpiece, and my father’s only legacy. “No,” I said, my voice steady. “He’s not touching it.” Joyce closed my ledger for me. “Elliott, Cody is just starting out. He needs this break. You already have an established studio. And besides, once we’re married, half of Adler’s resources will be yours anyway. What does it hurt to help him?” “Help him?” I stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. “You want me to hand over my father’s legacy and my original work so he can take the credit?” Her phone buzzed. It was a voice note from Cody. When she pressed play, his sniffling voice filled the quiet room: “Ms. Adler, please don’t pressure Mr. Ross. I don’t want to make things hard for him. I just wanted to prove that I could stand on my own two feet without relying on your charity…” Joyce locked her phone, her eyes darkening. “He’s already willing to back out, and you’re still being this petty?” “If you love him so much, buy him his own designs,” I said, my chest heaving. “Don’t use my life to build his career.” She stared at me for a long time, shaking her head. “You used to be so generous, Elliott. You’ve become so ugly.” I didn’t argue. I went to the bathroom to wash my face. But when I came back out, the drawer to my desk was half-open. The leather binder containing my original sketches was gone. I ran down the stairs, bursting into the underground parking garage just as Joyce’s sedan was pulling out of her space. I threw myself in front of her hood. The car screeched to a halt. The driver’s side window rolled down an inch. I shoved my hand into the gap, gripping the glass. “Give it back, Joyce. Give it back right now.” She kept her eyes fixed on the windshield. “He’ll return it as soon as the showcase is over. Don’t make a scene, Elliott. Have some dignity.” The window rolled up, forcing me to rip my hand away as she drove off. I called a cab and drove straight to the convention center. When I snuck past security into the backstage area of the showcase, I found Cody surrounded by reporters. He was cradling my leather binder to his chest, talking animatedly about his “deep, personal connection to heritage textiles.” The crowd was nodding, charmed by his youthful vulnerability. I pushed through the reporters. “Cody. Give me the binder.” The chatter stopped. Cody’s face fell instantly into that familiar, tearful pout. “Mr. Ross… I know you don’t like me, but this is a professional event. Can we please not do this here?” I reached out to grab the edge of the binder. He held onto it, twisting his body away. “Please, don’t take it! I didn’t steal anything!” Two security guards began moving toward us. “There is a piece of my father’s suit in that binder,” I said, my voice shaking with rage. “Give it back to me. Now.” Cody looked at me, a brief, sharp flash of malice crossing his eyes. Then, he let go. The binder slipped from his hands, falling straight into a deep plastic drum of dark indigo dye used for the live-dyeing demonstration next to the booth. The clasp popped open on impact. The vintage silk lining—my father’s fabric—slipped out, sinking instantly into the dark, murky liquid. I dropped to my knees, plunging my bare arms into the cold, chemical dye, desperately feeling around the bottom of the drum. My skin stained a deep, bruised blue. Cody leaned down, his voice dropping to a whisper that only I could hear. “I know it was your dad’s. But old trash needs to make way for the new, Elliott.” I spun around, my fingers dripping dark blue ink. That was when Joyce walked into the room. I was kneeling on the floor, frantically wiping the ruined, indigo-soaked silk against my shirt, trying to clean it, but only making the stain worse. Cody was already weeping. “Ms. Adler, I swear I didn’t mean to. Mr. Ross ran in and grabbed the binder so hard… my wrist hit the table, and it just fell in…” He held out his wrist, showing her a faint pink mark. Joyce looked at my stained hands, then at Cody’s face. She stepped forward, grabbing my shoulder. “Apologize, Elliott.” “He threw it in on purpose,” I whispered, holding the ruined fabric against my chest. “Elliott, enough!” she snapped, her voice cold and public. “This is a national showcase. Stop embarrassing yourself.” I stared up at her. “Check the security cameras. Right there. They’re pointing directly at this booth.” Cody immediately panicked. “No, please, don’t. There are so many VIPs here today. If this gets out, it will ruin the reputation of the whole showcase. I’ll just withdraw.” Joyce put an arm around Cody’s shoulders. “You’re too soft, Cody.” She turned to the event coordinator standing nearby. “Delete the footage from the last ten minutes. We don’t want any internet rumors affecting the brand.” The coordinator hesitated. “Ms. Adler, that’s against our security protocol—” “I’ll take full responsibility.” I watched the coordinator nod. My nails bit so deep into my palms that they drew blood, mixing with the blue dye on my skin. The security guards took me by the arms, dragging me out of the venue. The head of security warned me that if I kept causing trouble, they would blacklist my studio from every major trade show in the country. Half an hour later, I received an official email: Adler Corp had officially revoked my studio’s credit from all past collaborative designs. I stood outside the glass doors of the convention center, watching the giant LED screen on the facade. Cody was on stage, holding the trophy for “Most Promising New Designer.” Joyce was sitting in the front row, clapping gracefully. I pressed the wet, stained piece of my father’s suit against my chest, turned around, and walked into the rain. That night, a text came from Joyce: The fabric is already ruined. Stop obsessing over it. I’ll buy you a brand-new studio space to make up for it. I set my phone face down on the kitchen island. She truly believed that everything in this world had a price tag, and that money could buy my silence. I spent the next three hours at my desk. I printed out the breakup agreement, followed by the formal termination of all business relations between my studio and Adler Corp. By the next afternoon, I had drained my personal savings account to pay out maximum severance packages to all my designers. I dissolved the studio, shook hands with my team, and sent them home. For the first time in my life, I had absolutely nothing left to lose. I took the ruined, indigo-dyed piece of silk and placed it directly on top of the signed breakup papers on the kitchen counter. Dan was waiting for me downstairs in his car. As I threw my single suitcase into the trunk, he looked at me. “Are you really leaving the city, Elliott?” I nodded. “If I stay here any longer, I won’t recognize myself.” On the way to the airport, my phone buzzed continuously. Joyce had called me seventeen times. I turned off the screen. Just before boarding my flight, I sent her one last message: Joyce, we’re done.

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My friend Jessica was getting married over Memorial Day weekend, and our group chat was buzzing with frantic discussions about who would be in the bridal party. Austin’s childhood best friend, Amber, suddenly dropped a message into the chat. [Why don’t we have Clara do it? She’s got plenty of experience.] Fiona, a close friend of mine, immediately tried to smooth things over: [Clara’s already been a bridesmaid three times. You know the old saying—four times is bad luck.] But Amber wouldn’t let it go. [Bad luck? Come on. Clara went to an Ivy League school, surely she doesn’t actually believe in silly superstitions like that?] [Or is she just insecure because she knows Austin is never actually going to put a ring on her finger?] Just as Fiona was about to fire back at Amber’s passive-aggressive jab, Austin’s avatar popped up in the thread. [It’s just a bridesmaid gig, Clara. Don’t be so dramatic. Just do it.] The group chat went dead silent. I stared at the screen, a dry laugh escaping my lips. I picked up my phone and typed a quick reply. [Sorry, but it’s really not convenient for me.] Because my own wedding was also scheduled for Memorial Day weekend. The only difference was, the groom wasn’t Austin. 1 The moment my message sent, the group chat froze for a solid ten seconds. Then, Austin’s name flashed across my screen. I didn’t even blink. I muted the ringer, flipped the phone face down on the corner of my desk, and went back to work. My current project was in its final, most critical phase. Since I was getting married over the holiday weekend and taking a two-week honeymoon right after, I had to ensure every single file and client handoff was completed beforehand. I had no intention of wasting my energy arguing with Austin over the same tired excuses we’d exhausted a hundred times before. Finishing this final spreadsheet was a far better use of my time. The phone buzzed, went silent, and buzzed again. Then came the flood of text messages. What is your problem? Are you seriously trying to humiliate me in front of everyone, Clara? I told you, Amber just speaks without thinking. She didn’t mean anything by it. Answer your phone. I didn’t reply. By the time the clock in the corner of my laptop screen ticked to 11:40 PM, I finally hit send on the last transition document to my colleague. I shut down the computer, packed my bag, and headed home. When I unlocked the front door, I was surprised to see the living room lights shining brightly. My hand paused on the doorknob. The faint, unmistakable scent of expensive cologne, sweet perfume, and whiskey hung in the air. A pair of men’s leather dress shoes lay scattered sloppily across the entryway. Austin was actually home. Three months ago, after a screaming match that shattered whatever peace we had left, he had slammed the door and walked out. We hadn’t spoken a single word since. In the beginning, I used to sit up waiting for his texts. I waited for him to swallow his pride, to come back with a peace-offering latte or a box of those expensive pastries he knew I loved, standing at the door pretending he’d just “happened to be in the neighborhood.” But this time, he never did. He seemed determined to make me break first. He ignored my messages, let my calls go to voicemail, and refused to step foot in the apartment. Over those silent weeks, the quiet realization settled in: we were over. I stood in the entryway for a brief moment. To my surprise, my heart didn’t race, and my stomach didn’t knot up. I simply slipped off my shoes, walked past the living room, and went straight to the bedroom as if the house were empty. His return didn’t shift my gravity anymore. Pushing the bedroom door half-open, I dragged my suitcase out of the closet, laid it flat on the floor, and began to pack. My marriage license, my travel documents, summer dresses, toiletries, my honeymoon itinerary—I folded and organized each item methodically. Halfway through, a sudden warmth enveloped me from behind. Austin wrapped his arms around my waist, resting his chin heavily on my shoulder. His breath was hot, smelling faintly of alcohol, his voice thicker and lower than usual. “Clara.” My hands froze over a silk blouse. “Still mad at me?” He held me tightly, as if terrified I would slip away the moment he loosened his grip. He was drunk, his words slurred with a needy, familiar petulance. It was the same old Austin—proud, stubborn, and entirely convinced he could make months of neglect vanish with a little charm. “Come on, babe, let’s stop this,” he muttered, pressing his face against my cheek in a mock-pout. “I’m home now.” I placed the blouse into the suitcase and said quietly, “Let go of me.” “No,” he mumbled, tightening his arms. “If I let go, you’ll just shut me out again.” A wave of dark amusement washed over me. The man who hadn’t stepped foot in our home for three months was acting like he was the one who had been wronged. “Clara,” he softened his tone, coaxing me. “I won’t lose my temper anymore, okay? And you don’t have to freeze me out. You know what Amber is like—she’s got no filter. You’ve known her for years. Why do you let her get under your skin?” He paused, as if realizing that wasn’t enough, and added, “I’ll put her in her place. I promise.” I remained silent. Taking my silence as a green light, he kept pushing. “And about my mom… just give me a little more time. She just has the wrong impression of you right now. Once I talk her round and she finally accepts you, we’ll have the most beautiful, lavish wedding you could ever dream of.” With that, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, square black velvet box. 2 “Look,” he whispered, flipping the lid open in front of me. “I have it all ready.” Inside sat a diamond ring, its brilliant cut catching the harsh bedroom light, casting sharp, expensive glints across the room. Austin’s eyes shone with a drunken, eager hope. He looked like a little boy presenting a prized possession, waiting to be praised. “Do you like it?” He looked down at me, a trace of his usual smug confidence creeping back into his voice. “I spent months picking it out.” “I wanted to find a more romantic setting to give it to you, but you had to go and pick a fight in the group chat tonight.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Let’s make up, Clara.” If this had happened a year ago, I might have felt my chest ache. I might have softened. Austin had always been incredibly skilled at playing the apologetic lover. His anger flared hot and fast, but the moment he realized I might actually walk away, he would scramble, offering grand, desperate gestures of devotion to pull me back. But it was simply too late. I stared at the sparkling diamond, my hands resting still on my lap. Seeing that I wasn’t reaching for it, Austin assumed I was just being stubborn. He took my left hand, intent on sliding the ring onto my finger himself. Then, he froze. His gaze locked onto my ring finger. There was already a ring resting there. It was a simple, understated band, but anyone with an eye for jewelry could tell it was exquisite, timeless, and incredibly costly. The bedroom fell into a suffocating silence. Austin stared at the ring, the alcohol-induced haze rapidly draining from his eyes. His voice went tight. “…What is that?” I slowly but firmly pulled my hand from his grip, turned around, and looked him dead in the eyes for the first time that night. He had the same handsome face I had loved for years—clear-cut jaw, bright eyes now rimmed with a quiet, panicked red. I closed the lid of my suitcase with a soft click and spoke in a tone so calm it bordered on gentle. “Austin, we ended things a long time ago.” I raised my left hand, lightly turning the band on my finger, and gave him a faint, weary smile. “And this isn’t a tantrum.” “I am actually getting married.” Austin stood there, completely paralyzed. He stared at the ring, his brain struggling to process the words. “You’re… getting married?” “Yes,” I replied, my expression serene. He stared at me for several agonizing seconds, and then a harsh, mocking laugh escaped his throat. “Clara, you’ve really outdone yourself this time.” “Amber was right. You’re completely desperate. You’re actually making up a fake wedding just to get a rise out of me.” He snapped the velvet box shut with a sharp clack, towering over me, his face twisting into a sneer of utter condescension. “Sweetheart,” he said, dragging out the word with venomous mockery. “You’re thirty-nine years old. You’re pushing forty. Do you honestly think that besides me, there’s some amazing guy out there just waiting to lock you down?” The air in the room instantly turned to ice. I looked at him, but in my mind, a memory from years ago suddenly began to play. I remembered a younger Austin chasing after me, calling me his “brilliant girl” with boundless, sunny adoration. Back then, he was a fresh college graduate—earnest, bright, and completely devoted to me. He used to bring his laptop to my desk, looking up at me with wide, hopeful eyes. Clara, could you look over this proposal for me? He used to pout when he couldn’t get a pitch right, leaning into my shoulder. Please help me, Clara. He used to stand outside my office late at night during busy season, holding a warm matcha latte, smiling so warmly it could melt winter. Clara, I promise I’m going to take such good care of you for the rest of our lives. Those vibrant, tender memories clashed violently with the bitter, sneering man standing in front of me—using my age as a weapon to humiliate me. Every lingering thread of affection I had left for him snapped. “I am older than you,” I said, my voice incredibly quiet, incredibly steady. “But you didn’t seem to mind my age when you were begging for my help and chasing me. The person you’ve become tonight, Austin, is absolutely pathetic.” His face flushed a violent, ugly red. 3 Stung by my words, the last of his carefully maintained composure shattered. His eyes flared with a humiliated, vicious rage. “Fine, Clara. You want to play tough?” he spat, letting out a bitter laugh. “Let’s see how long you can keep this little act up.” “Go ahead. We both know you’ll come crawling back to me soon enough.” With that, he spun on his heel and stormed out of the bedroom. A second later, the front door slammed shut so hard the windows rattled. The apartment fell into a profound, heavy silence. I stood there for a long time, letting the quiet settle around me. Then, I leaned down and zipped up my suitcase. The next morning, I called a real estate agent and put the apartment on the market. We had chosen this place together, but I had paid nearly seventy percent of the down payment, and I had spent months managing the renovations myself. Since the relationship was dead, there was no reason to keep the house. Shortly after I hung up with the agent, my phone buzzed with a text from Fiona. Clara, you need to see this. It was a video file. The footage was dark and noisy, filmed in some upscale downtown bar. Austin was sitting at the counter, disheveled, several empty cocktail glasses clustered around him. Amber was pressed close to his side, whispering into his ear with a pout on her lips. “That ring she’s wearing is so obviously fake. Who is she trying to fool?” Amber’s voice carried over the bass. “You didn’t text her for three months, so she panicked. This is just a pathetic attempt to force you into a proposal.” “I knew there was a reason she refused to be a bridesmaid in Jessica’s wedding. She’s been planning this dramatic little stunt all along.” The camera shook slightly—Fiona had clearly filmed this from a booth across the room. She followed the video with a barrage of angry texts. Austin is a total idiot. I cannot believe he falls for her toxic, manipulative garbage. I watched the video, staring at the smug, self-satisfied look on Amber’s face. Over the years, nearly every major argument Austin and I had could be traced back to her. If they crossed boundaries, it was because I was “too uptight.” If she made a cruel comment, it was because she was “just honest and blunt,” and I needed to stop taking things so personally. And Austin always stood right in the middle, telling me to be understanding, reminding me that Amber’s family had deep ties with his, and claiming that once we got married, I would need Amber to help smooth things over with his mother. But his mother had never wanted me. She had wanted Amber all along. Thinking about it now, I didn’t even feel angry. It was just exhausting. I closed the video, opened my chat with Fiona, and sent her the digital wedding invitation I had prepared weeks ago. Underneath, I typed: Looks like our weddings ended up on the exact same weekend. I leaned back against the sofa, a soft, genuine smile gracing my face. This time, I was truly stepping into my own future. Planning a wedding was far more exhausting than I had anticipated. The venue, the catering, the guest list… every detail required a dozen tiny decisions. Fortunately, my partner was incredibly hands-on. He took care of the heavy lifting, ensuring everything was organized to perfection. Meanwhile, Austin’s life seemed to be continuing without a hitch. Amber posted constantly on her social media. Glamping trips, rooftop bars, weekend road trips. Austin was in almost every single photo. I glanced at them briefly and swiped past, entirely unaffected. But today was different. 4 Today, Austin thought, they would finally have a real conversation. He would let her apologize, and maybe he would offer a small apology of his own. As long as Clara was willing to take the olive branch he was throwing her, they could finally put this childish fight behind them. The thought brought a wave of relief washing over him. The hotel lobby was already bustling when he arrived. Since it was Memorial Day weekend, the venue was packed with weddings. The grand lobby was filled with towering floral arrangements, and electronic display screens and guest-greeting boards lined the hallways. One of the friends who had driven over with Austin looked around and laughed. “Man, everyone is getting hitched today. There must be three different weddings in this hotel alone.” He pointed toward one of the signboards at the far end of the lobby. “Hey, Austin, look at that bride. Doesn’t she look kind of like Clara?” Austin frowned, his gaze instinctively following his friend’s finger. It was a striking, custom-designed wedding announcement board. The background was a deep, velvet crimson bordered with elegant gold leaf. The woman in the photo wore a breathtaking, custom-tailored crimson silk gown, her eyes crinkling with a warm, radiant smile. Austin’s heart skipped a sudden, violent beat. But before he could get a closer look, the groom and the bride—Jessica—came walking out of the main hall to greet guests. “You made it!” Jessica’s husband, Connor, called out, waving them over. “Come on, let’s grab a quick photo before we go in.” After the group photos, Connor called over one of the bridesmaids to show them to their seats. A few bridesmaids in matching champagne-colored dresses stood nearby, smiling warmly. Austin’s friend scanned the group, and when he didn’t see Clara, a smug, knowing look crossed his face. “Looks like Clara really didn’t show up to be a bridesmaid,” he whispered to Austin. “She definitely still cares about you. She couldn’t bear to watch another wedding.” Hearing this, the faint knot of anxiety in Austin’s chest completely dissolved, replaced by a satisfying sense of vindication. Of course. If Clara didn’t care, why would she refuse to stand up there? He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the velvet ring box, and thought back to the crimson and gold signboard he had just seen. A dramatic, classic vintage wedding. Clara had told him once that she hated cookie-cutter white-tent weddings on golf courses. She wanted something timeless, dramatic, and elegant—something with rich, bold colors. A sudden wave of warmth hit Austin. He decided that once they made up, they would have a gorgeous black-tie ballroom wedding with deep crimson roses and gold decor. She would absolutely love it. Just then, Jessica caught the tail end of their whispering. She looked at them with a look of pure, unadulterated confusion, and then she let out a dry laugh. “Of course Clara isn’t here to be my bridesmaid,” Jessica said, her voice entirely matter-of-fact. “She’s a bride today, too.”

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My heart stopped when I realized a misplaced decimal point had turned a $560 million contract into a $56 million disaster. But before I could even process the cold dread pooling in my stomach, my boyfriend stood up in front of the entire company and announced he was appointing his assistant as the new VP of Sales. My voice cracked as I stood up. “Why, Derrick?” Derrick looked at me, his eyes entirely devoid of the warmth they used to hold. “Amber just landed a massive, multi-million-dollar account for this firm. It’s an achievement you couldn’t match in a lifetime, Emma. It’s time to step down and let someone more capable take the lead.” I spent six months chasing that lead. I lived out of suitcases, drank terrible hotel lobby coffee, and poured my soul into securing that client. How could he look at me—look at everyone—and lie so effortlessly? Amber, standing beside him in her perfectly tailored blazer, offered a saccharine, victorious smirk. “Emma, please. Don’t do this to yourself. Ask anyone in this room. We all know I was the one who spent the last six months breaking my back for this deal. You had absolutely nothing to do with it.” I scanned the room. The sales team, people I had hired and mentored, stared at their desks, refusing to meet my eyes. I couldn’t fathom how a twenty-something assistant had managed to buy their silence so completely. But the expected wave of fury didn’t hit me. Instead, a strange, hysterical bubble of laughter rose in my chest. If she was this desperate to take the fall for a catastrophic mistake, who was I to stop her? 1 Watching the room fall into step behind Amber’s lie, a cold, dark amusement washed over me. Five hundred and sixty million dollars. Reduced to fifty-six million. A five-hundred-million-dollar deficit. And the contract was already signed, sealed, and legally binding. A mistake of that caliber wouldn’t just end a career; it would bury a company. If everyone wanted to protect me from the fallout so badly, if Amber was practically begging to strap herself to the metaphorical bomb, why should I stop her? Of course, I had to play my part. The performance had to be convincing. I forced my face to contort into an expression of sheer, trembling rage. I cast a quick, calculated glance at the security camera in the corner of the ceiling. Then, turning my tear-filled eyes back to Derrick, I let my voice shake. “So… you’re saying Amber brought in this contract? All by herself?” Derrick didn’t blink. “Who else?” With those two words, the very last ember of affection I held for him went cold. We had met in high school. Back then, we were just two kids studying under the flickering lights of the library, keeping each other grounded, sharing dreams wrapped in cheap takeout. We went to the same college, fell in love, and started this company from a cramped studio apartment right after graduation. We built it brick by brick. There was a time when Derrick would have burned the world down to keep me safe. But everything changed the day Amber walked through the door. At first, his indiscretions were whispered, hidden behind late-night “client dinners” and locked office doors. But now, he didn’t even bother to spare my feelings. Looking at his icy, indifferent expression, I lowered my head and let a quiet resolve take root. “Emma, let’s be honest about your capabilities,” Derrick said, his voice echoing in the silent office. “Did you really think you were capable of landing a whale like this?” The sales reps kept their heads down. They knew exactly who had signed that client. But Derrick was the CEO, and in this economy, survival trumped truth. Even the associate director of sales, a man I had personally promoted, decided to kick me while I was down. He spoke up, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Emma, just drop it. It’s embarrassing to watch. Amber practically killed herself working on this account for the last six months. How can you stand there and try to steal her credit? Someone as selfish as you doesn’t deserve to run this department anyway. Honestly, you should just leave.” 2 It was a coordinated execution. Amber stepped forward, her eyes bright with triumph. She adopted her signature fragile, victim-like tone. “Emma, I’ve always let you have your way when you picked on me in the office. But this deal… I poured my blood, sweat, and tears into it. I won’t let you take it from me.” I looked at her. Let her fly high today. The fall tomorrow would be spectacular. But a practical thought gave me pause. Even if they lied, my signature was on the original paperwork—or so I thought. If the bomb went off, I could still be caught in the blast radius. I hesitated, keeping my voice cautious. “You claim you negotiated the deal. But I was the one who signed the contract… and I—” “Emma, you really are losing your touch,” Amber interrupted, her smile widening. “The contract has my signature on it. Clear as day.” I stared at her, genuinely bewildered. “That’s impossible. I distinctly remember signing those papers.” Amber nodded to a junior assistant, who promptly brought over our copy of the executed agreement. I scanned the signature page. My name was nowhere near it. It was Amber’s handwriting, neat and looping, right above the client’s signature. But how? I knew I had signed it. Did she swap the documents? Even if she forged our copy, the client—a massive enterprise—would have their own executed version. She couldn’t possibly have altered both. “Emma,” Amber purred, snapping me out of my thoughts. “I know it must be hard watching someone younger and more driven surpass you. But the ink is dry. You can’t lie your way out of black-and-white proof.” I let my shoulders slump, playing the defeated woman perfectly. “I’m done.” Amber blinked, caught off guard by my sudden surrender. “What?” “If this company has no place for me,” I said, raising my voice so everyone could hear, “I resign.” A flash of pure ecstasy crossed Amber’s face, though she quickly masked it with a piteous frown. “Oh, Emma… now everyone will think I forced you out. If you really want credit for the deal… I… I guess I could share it with you.” If this were yesterday, I would have fought tooth and nail. Today, I was practically running for the exit. Before I could speak, Derrick snapped, “Amber, stop. What’s yours is yours. You don’t owe her charity. As for you, Emma—I’ve tolerated your dramatic tantrums for years. But this is the final straw. If you want to resign, fine. I accept.” His response was swift, cold, and entirely devoid of hesitation. I let out a dry, hollow laugh. Of course. Why would he hesitate when he had a shiny new toy to play with? I looked him dead in the eye. “Fine, Derrick. But don’t forget—we built this company together. I own exactly fifty percent of the shares.” Derrick reached into his breast pocket and tossed a sleek black debit card onto the desk. “I knew you’d turn this into a cash grab,” he said, his lips curling in disgust. “There’s five million dollars on that account. Sign over your shares, take the money, and get out of my sight.” Looking at the card, the puzzle pieces fell into place. It was a setup. Securing a client of this scale would put our company on the map, skyrocketing our valuation. The firm was easily worth over five hundred million now. He wanted to push me out, offering a measly five million for half of a thriving empire. A masterclass in greed. 3 I stared at the card, making no move to pick it up. Derrick scoffed. “What? Not enough for you?” “Do you take me for an idiot?” I asked quietly. Derrick’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” “We just secured a massive enterprise contract. The company’s valuation is about to be recalculated by every venture capital firm in the city. And you think you can buy me out with a pocket-change five million? Are you stupid, Derrick, or do you just think I am?” A muscle twitched in Derrick’s jaw. “I knew you were greedy, Emma, but this is low.” Greedy? He was trying to rob me of my life’s work, and he had the audacity to call me greedy. Looking at him now, the handsome face I had loved for a decade looked incredibly ugly. I shook my head. “With our current production scale and the projected revenue from this contract, our valuation is easily five hundred million. If we go public, that number doubles. Do you really think I’m going to walk away for five million?” Derrick’s expression darkened into something menacing. “How much do you want?” “Fifty million.” I didn’t hesitate. Why fifty million and not more? Because I knew him. He was a selfish pragmatist; he would never agree to an astronomical number. More importantly, with the massive liability hiding in that contract, the company was practically already bankrupt. I needed to cash out fast before the bomb went off. Fifty million was the absolute ceiling of what Derrick could liquidate or borrow on short notice. “Fifty million?!” Derrick roared. “You’ve lost your mind!” “Have I?” I asked, completely unfazed. “Do you think the company isn’t worth that?” Derrick’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t care about hypothetical valuations. We started this company with five million each. Just because we got a lucky break doesn’t mean I’m going to let you extort me.” I expected nothing less. I nodded slowly, taking a step back. “If you can’t meet my price, then we have nothing more to talk about.” I turned to walk away. “Emma!” Derrick yelled, his voice tight. “You can’t sell those shares to anyone else without my approval!” I looked back over my shoulder. “Oh, really? I think I’ll take my chances in the private equity market. Let’s see what they have to say.” Derrick clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white. He knew the true value of my fifty percent share. That was why he had orchestrated this elaborate coup in the first place. If the firm’s operations were as healthy as he believed, any venture capitalist would jump at the chance to buy my fifty percent for fifty million—heck, even a hundred million would be a steal. More importantly, Derrick wanted absolute control. If I sold my shares to an aggressive institutional investor, they would squeeze him out of his own board within a year. He couldn’t risk that. Just as my hand touched the door handle, Derrick cracked. “Fine!” he barked. “I’ll do it. But I need a month to put the funds together.” A month? Absolutely not. By then, the client would have realized the mistake, the lawsuit would be filed, and the company’s stock would be worth less than toilet paper. I shook my head. “I don’t have a month. This time tomorrow, either the money is in my account, or I’m calling Mr. Henderson at Henderson Holdings. You know how eager he’s been to get his hands on our logistics network. With this new contract, fifty million is a bargain. He’ll wire the money before the ink on our deal is dry.” 4 Derrick looked like he wanted to strangle me. “Emma, you know Henderson is a shark! The second he gets a foothold in this company, he’ll fight me for the CEO seat. I will not let you sell to him!” “Then you’d better pay up,” I said calmly. “Who runs this place after I leave is no longer my concern.” Seeing my resolve, Derrick finally slumped, defeated. “Fine. Tomorrow.” I didn’t waste another second. I walked out of the building. That evening, my phone buzzed. It was Sophie, one of the senior account managers and a close colleague. “Emma, are you really selling your shares?” she asked, her voice hushed. “Since I can’t stay there anymore, why shouldn’t I?” I replied. Sophie sighed. “But fifty million is a massive underestimation. I actually reached out to a friend of mine in venture capital today. He said that with a major enterprise contract under our belt, our valuation is through the roof. He thinks even in a rush sale, your half is worth at least three hundred million. Fifty million is practically giving it away.” I smiled softly into the receiver. “It’s fine, Sophie. Consider it the price of peace.” There was a brief silence on the line before Sophie spoke again, her voice even lower. “By the way, right after you left, Derrick called an all-hands meeting. He’s trying to raise thirty million dollars by selling ten percent of the company to the employees.” “Really?” I sat up, intrigued. “Yeah. Everyone is scrambling to buy in. They think they’re getting a golden ticket. Amber bought the largest share—she actually mortgaged her parents’ house and took out a massive bank loan to finance it.” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. The higher they climb, the harder they fall. Hearing my laughter, Sophie sounded confused. “What’s so funny?” I didn’t answer her directly. Instead, I asked, “Did you buy any?” “I wanted to,” Sophie admitted. “I was actually thinking of borrowing some money from family to get in on it. What do you think?” I took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t.” “Why?” “Just trust me on this,” I said. “Don’t buy a single share.” I hung up. I had done what I could for her. The rest was up to her. The next day. Derrick summoned me to the office. I signed the share transfer agreement, and the fifty million dollars was wired to my account. As I turned to leave, Derrick called out, his voice tinged with a strange mix of guilt and arrogance. “Emma, don’t hate me for this. Business is business. In the real world, it’s eat or be eaten. There’s no room for sentimentality.” Hearing him finally drop the mask of righteousness, I turned back and looked at him with pity. “I hope you can keep that same energy in a few weeks,” I said quietly. Derrick’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?” I didn’t answer. I just walked out. In the hallway, I ran straight into Amber. She was practically glowing, a smug grin plastered across her face. “Congratulations on your retirement, Emma.” I didn’t say a word. I just walked right past her. Enjoy your victory, sweetie. It’s going to be short-lived. With fifty million dollars sitting in my bank account, my chest felt incredibly light. I took my parents out for a lavish dinner that evening to celebrate. Mid-course, my phone lit up with an incoming call from Adrian Pierce, the executive at the major client enterprise. “Emma,” Adrian’s deep voice came through the line. “There’s a critical issue with the contract. We need to meet immediately. Are you free?” I knew this call was coming. “Adrian,” I said, keeping my tone perfectly calm. “Are you calling about the decimal point?” A brief pause on the other end. “You already know?” I nodded and said, “Of course I do. But the company forced me out right after the deal was closed. Legally, that mistake is no longer my problem. I suggest you handle it directly with the person who signed it.” Adrian let out a low, appreciative chuckle. “Your company really is a viper’s nest, isn’t it? Fine, I know what to do. Thanks for the heads-up on the free five hundred million.” When I hung up, a wave of pure satisfaction washed over me. Adrian had been trying to get close to me for months, often hinting at wanting something more than a professional relationship. If I were still at the firm, he would have used this massive leverage to pressure me. But now that I was out of the equation, he had no reason to play nice. Capitalism is inherently greedy. No corporate executive is going to hand back half a billion dollars out of the goodness of their heart. Late that night, unable to sleep, I scrolled through social media. I saw Amber’s latest post. It featured two photos: one of her newly signed employee stock purchase agreement, and another of her and Derrick clinking champagne glasses. The caption read: Special thanks to a certain someone who didn’t have what it took. If she hadn’t quit, I wouldn’t be the new VP of Sales with a five percent stake in the company! #Blessed #Success #NextChapter I tapped the “like” button and locked my phone. Word on the street was that to secure that five percent, Amber had not only mortgaged her parents’ home but had also taken out high-interest personal loans. Watching her march so enthusiastically toward her own ruin was a beautiful thing. Over the next month, I traveled, letting the stress of the last ten years melt away while keeping an eye out for new investment opportunities. Exactly thirty days later, the bomb finally exploded. My phone rang. It was Derrick. “Emma, you crazy bitch!” he screamed, his voice raw with panic. “What did you do to the contract? Did you set me up?!” I held the phone a few inches from my ear, a cold, sharp smile spreading across my face. “Derrick, what on earth are you talking about?” I mocked, using his own condescending tone. “Everyone knows that deal was negotiated and signed by your brilliant new VP. What does it have to do with me?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “462723”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Seven years after we broke up, I received a package from Pierce Clifford. It weighed nearly forty pounds. Inside were printed copies of every single text message we had ever sent each other during our seven years together. Right after the delivery guy left, a text message notification lit up my phone screen. Got a minute to meet up? There are some things I need to tell you. My finger hovered over the glass. I typed a single, cold response: No. I locked the screen. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with a damp hand towel, lifted a crate of fresh apples, and went back to setting up the display outside. I acted as if nothing had happened. After all this time, I had no idea why he was suddenly reaching out. Just like he had no idea that I had long since become another man’s wife. … “Tomorrow,” the next text read. “It’s your birthday. Let’s get coffee.” It was Pierce again. I looked down at the screen, my thumb tapping out another flat refusal. Can’t. I have to run the shop. Without waiting for his reply, I shoved the phone deep into my apron pocket. My fingers curled inward, tracing the uneven, raised scar on my wrist. It had been so long that I’d almost convinced myself I had forgotten him. But in this quiet moment, the truth was hard to ignore. Some memories don’t fade; they just rot, seeping deep into your bones until they become a permanent part of you. The bell above the shop door chimed. Without looking up, I hefted a crate of oranges and called out in my practiced, welcoming merchant’s voice. “Afternoon! Feel free to look around. We’ve got some beautiful organic peaches today, fresh plums, and the watermelons are incredibly sweet—” “Nola.” That low, raspy baritone cut through the air, freezing me mid-sentence. I slowly raised my head and locked eyes with Pierce. His gaze was dark, deep, and heavy with a complicated mix of emotions. He was holding a bakery box, tied neatly with a white ribbon. “It’s been a long time,” he said. “Happy birthday.” For a second, the world seemed to tilt. But I forced a polite, business-like smile to my lips. “It has been a long time. Welcome to the shop. What can I get for you today, sir?” He set the cake down on the wooden counter, his eyes scanning my face as if searching for a ghost. “Why don’t you give me a recommendation?” I wiped my hands on my canvas apron, offering him the same bright, eager customer-service smile I gave to everyone else. “Sure thing,” I said smoothly. “We just got these organic berries in this morning, the mangoes are perfectly ripe, and the bananas are great…” “Nola,” he interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, raw and strained. His eyes never left me. “Is there anything good for a pregnant woman?” The words hung in the air. I didn’t let my smile falter. I just wiped a stray speck of dust off my hand and pivoted instantly. “Of course. We have plenty of options. The plums are excellent for morning sickness—nice and tart—and the cherries are packed with iron. Or maybe some grapes?” His jaw tightened. He gestured vaguely toward the displays. “I’ll take some of everything. Just pack it up for me.” “You got it!” As I reached for a paper bag to start packing the fruit, Pierce suddenly reached out and caught my wrist. “Nola,” he whispered. “Do you really have nothing to ask me?” My hands froze. But I didn’t look at him. There was nothing to ask. Seven years ago, his wedding to Cynthia Albright had been the talk of high society. It was only natural that they would eventually have a child together. Before I could reply, the bell chimed loudly. A woman stormed into the shop, dragging a crying toddler by the hand. “Where’s the manager? What kind of garbage are you selling here? I bought peaches here two days ago and they’re already covered in mold!” she yelled, sitting down on a nearby crate in protest. “My kid got sick after eating one! You’re charging premium prices for rotten trash!” “Ma’am, I am so sorry,” I said, immediately stepping away from Pierce and walking over to her with a soothing tone. “The humidity has been terrible lately, and I should have reminded you to keep them refrigerated. Is your little boy okay? Tell you what—let me cover any medical bills, and I’ll refund your purchase. We’re a small, local shop, and the last thing we want is to cause any trouble. Next time you come in, your groceries are on the house.” The woman sniffed, her anger deflating slightly at my easy compliance. “Fine. Only because you’re usually nice.” I reached into a crate, polished a couple of crisp apples on my apron, and handed them to the little boy with a warm smile. Once they finally left, I took a breath and turned back to Pierce. “Sorry about that,” I said, my voice completely level. “Your total comes to twenty-eight dollars. Let’s just call it twenty-five.” Pierce stared at me, his mouth opening slightly before he looked away, a pained expression crossing his face. “Nola… you used to be so different.” My smile stiffened. He was right. During the years I spent with him, I only wore designer clothes, used skincare products that cost more than a month’s rent, and drank wines where a single bottle could easily run into five figures. But that was a lifetime ago. Now, I had to worry about every single dollar. I slid the brown paper bag across the counter to him, entirely detached. “People change,” I said softly. “Just like you did.” He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words died in his throat. Instead, he took the bag and scanned our payment QR code with his phone. He lingered for a few painful seconds before finally turning to leave. A moment later, the automated voice from my tablet chimed: Direct deposit received: Fifty-two thousand dollars. I stared at the screen and let out a dry, humorless laugh. I pulled up the app and immediately refunded the excess amount, keeping only the twenty-five dollars for the fruit. He hadn’t changed at all. He still believed that every problem in life could be solved with a wire transfer. The next morning, when I arrived at the shop, my young assistant, Daisy, handed me a thick manila envelope. “Nola, someone left this at the door first thing this morning.” Frowning, I tore the envelope open. Inside was an official job offer from Clifford Enterprises—one of the largest media conglomerates in the country. Daisy gasped, leaning over my shoulder. “Clifford Enterprises? Nola, is that the Clifford Enterprises? The ones who own half the news networks in the state?” “Yes,” I muttered, my expression darkening. “How do you even know them—” I didn’t answer. I slowly ripped the document in half, then in quarters, and tossed the pieces into the recycling bin. “I was with Pierce Clifford for seven years,” I said quietly. It was a relationship I had truly believed would end in a lifetime together. I was barely eighteen when I met him. My mother had passed away when I was a child. My father was a compulsive gambler who eventually ended up behind bars, leaving behind a mountain of debt that I could never hope to pay. My grandfather was the only family I had left, and we survived on whatever we could scrape together. The day the loan sharks tracked us down, they trashed our small apartment. I fought back, getting bloodied and bruised in the process. That was when Pierce appeared. He stood in the doorway, a cigarette dangling from his lips. With a casual flick of his wrist, his security guards stepped in, and he paid off my father’s entire debt on the spot. He looked down at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Want to come with me?” he asked. His voice was completely flat, but my heart skipped a beat. Soon after, I moved into his estate, and he bought my grandfather a comfortable house in a quiet, safe suburb. Pierce was a man of few words, and he never once said he loved me. Yet, he showered me with luxury. If I lingered a second too long on a dress in a boutique window, it would be hanging in my closet by the next afternoon. When his family tried to arrange high-society marriages for him, he ignored them all. Once, at a charity gala, a jealous socialite humiliated me and slapped me across the face. When Pierce found out, he took my hand and marched me right back into the ballroom. “Tell me who did it,” he demanded, his voice cold as ice. “Point them out, and I’ll ruin them.” My heart had beat so fast that night. It was the exact moment I fell desperately, irreversibly in love with him. I became his shadow. I went with him to every business dinner and gala. He had a weak stomach and hated drinking, so I would drink for him, taking glass after glass of heavy liquor to protect him from aggressive business associates. I drank until I ended up in the emergency room with a bleeding stomach ulcer, but I didn’t care. I was naive enough to think that my devotion would make Pierce love me even more. For seven long years, I was the only woman by his side. Until Cynthia Albright came back. She was a journalist, just like I was. The day she showed up at the gates of the Clifford estate, Pierce’s hand slipped from mine. His entire body went rigid. And in Cynthia’s eyes, I saw a chilling, absolute certainty. She knew she had already won. Gradually, Pierce stopped coming home. His replies to my texts grew shorter, arriving hours, sometimes days, later. I would sit up in the dark, staring at the screen of our chat logs. Eventually, his responses dwindled down to short, functional codes. A “1” meant he was canceling our dinner plans. A “2” meant he was coming home late, and expected me to be waiting in his bed. I kept telling myself he was just emotionally reserved. I kept believing that, deep down, he still cared. On my twenty-fifth birthday, he finally sent a “2.” I bought a small cake, determined to have a real conversation with him and fix whatever was breaking between us. But when I unlocked the bedroom door, the cake slipped from my hands. Pierce and Cynthia were in our bed. Naked. Wrapped tightly around each other. “I thought you hated me,” Cynthia murmured, her voice dripping with a lazy, satisfied purr. “I thought you said you’d never forgive me for leaving. Aren’t you afraid your little songbird will walk in and make a scene? Who knows, maybe she’ll try to get pregnant just to force you to marry her.” Pierce’s voice was strained, thick with an intensity he had never shown me. “Her? Keeping her around is one thing, but she doesn’t belong in my world. She’s not wife material. When the time comes, a man in my position needs someone like you.” My hands shook so violently I couldn’t breathe. I threw the door wide open. “Then what the hell have these past seven years been to you?” I choked out. Pierce didn’t panic. He slowly sat up, carefully draping the sheet over Cynthia’s shoulders, and looked at me with complete detachment. “You’re scaring her,” he said coldly. “Her clothes got stained. Go to your closet and find something for her to wear.” My legs felt like lead. I had to lean against the wall just to keep from collapsing as I stepped closer. “Pierce, I am asking you,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “What were those seven years?” Cynthia let out a soft chuckle, burying her face into his chest. “Honestly, Pierce, your taste really went downhill while I was in Europe. No grace, no class. Look at her.” “Yeah, well, I had to pass the time,” Pierce said, gently stroking her hair before turning a cold, impatient glare toward me. “Why are you still standing there? Get out. Cynthia is moving back in today. Don’t start any drama with her. And by the way, she likes the designer dresses in your closet. Leave them behind; they’re hers now.” In a blind, suffocating panic, I knocked over the vanity table, glass shattering across the floor. I stumbled out of the room, my vision blurred by tears. Desperate to escape, I ended up in his study, looking for my car keys. Instead, my eyes fell on an old, leather-bound journal sitting half-open on his desk. The pages were yellowed. Year three of loving Cynthia. She has a new boyfriend. She told me we’re just friends. She broke up with him, but she still rejected my confession. She moved to London. Her social media is full of other guys. I met a girl today. Her name is Nola. She looks so much like Cynthia. Nola says she wants to get married and have kids someday. But if the woman isn’t Cynthia, everything just feels… hollow. Second-rate. Hollow. A tear fell onto the page, smudging the ink of his neat handwriting. My entire body shook. It wasn’t that he was emotionally distant. It wasn’t that he was a slow burner. It was simply because I was a copy. From the very beginning, I was nothing but a placeholder. A choked sob escaped my throat. I grabbed the journal, my fingers digging into the leather, and ripped the pages out one by one, shredding his neat handwriting until the paper lay like snow on the hardwood floor. I sank to my knees, completely drained. The sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway. Pierce stood in the doorway, his silk shirt half-unbuttoned. “So you saw it,” he said. His tone was so casual, so completely devoid of guilt, that it felt like a physical blow. I lunged forward, grabbing his collar, my knuckles white, my eyes burning. “Then what am I to you? Pierce, tell me! What have I been doing here for seven years?” He leaned back slightly, looking down at me, and spoke a single word. “A substitute.” There was no remorse in his voice. It felt as if a thousand needles were piercing my heart. Slowly, my grip relaxed, and my hands fell away. I let out a broken laugh that sounded more like a sob. “A substitute. That’s all.” Pierce’s eyes swept over my crumpled form. His throat bobbed. “Now you know the truth,” he said quietly. “I won’t be getting married for at least another two years. Whether you choose to stay or leave is up to you. I won’t stop you.” It felt like my lungs were filled with wet cement. I couldn’t breathe. I forced myself to stand, using the wall for support, my throat raw and aching. “Fine,” I whispered. “I’m leaving.” I packed my bags and moved my grandfather into a cheap motel. I spent my days working late at the news agency and my nights scouring local listings for a small apartment we could afford. But the very next morning, my phone exploded with notifications. A viral headline was trending on local news sites: Prominent Investigative Journalist Sells Body for Inside Scoops—Career Built on Backroom Deals! The featured photo was an angled shot of me and my elderly grandfather entering the motel. The caption implied he was one of my wealthy “clients.” When I walked into the office, the whispers started immediately. My colleagues stared at me, their eyes filled with disgust and amusement. “It’s not true…” I tried to explain, my voice trembling. “That’s my grandfather. We were just—” They just covered their mouths, giggling behind my back. My editor-in-chief called me into his office, screaming about public relations and brand damage. Within an hour, I was forced to sign a public apology letter and hand in my resignation. I tried to defend myself on my personal social media accounts, posting proof of my relationship with my grandfather, but my posts were immediately drowned out by a fresh wave of leaked photos. This time, they were intimate, explicit photos of me in bed with various men—though the faces of the men had been poorly photoshopped over Pierce’s. The journalist who broke the “exclusive exposé” was Cynthia Albright. The air felt like glass in my lungs. Consumed by rage and panic, I went to Pierce’s office and demanded to see him. “How did she get those photos?” I slammed my hands on his desk. “Why is Cynthia’s name on that article? You know that motel photo was just me and my grandfather! Why didn’t you stop her?” Pierce rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking deeply annoyed. “Cynthia found the photos on my old cloud drive and used them before I could stop her,” he said, sighing. “She’s trying to make a name for herself at her new network, and this story got her a major promotion. I didn’t want to crush her confidence by forcing her to retract it. It’s really not that big of a deal, Nola. Once the news cycle moves on, everyone will forget.” “Not a big deal?” I slammed my fist on his desk, sending his coffee cup rattling to the floor. “Pierce, my career is over! My reputation is completely ruined! Do you have any idea what my colleagues are saying about me? How am I supposed to ever work in journalism again?” “That’s enough,” Pierce snapped, his brow furrowing. “Can you stop being so selfish? You’re only thinking about yourself. Why can’t you think about Cynthia for once? Why do you hate seeing her succeed so much?” I was hyperventilating, the room spinning around me. “She fabricated the story! She slandered me! She has absolutely no ethics, don’t you see that?” The next second, a sharp crack echoed through the office. My head snapped to the side. The force of his slap sent me stumbling against the leather armchair. Pierce stood over me, his eyes dark and menacing. “Don’t you dare speak about her like that.” He looked down at me, cold and unyielding. “Nola, you lived a life of luxury on my dime for seven years. What’s wrong with taking a little hit for her now?” I tasted iron in my mouth. I slowly swallowed the blood, my head throbbing. In seven years, he had never once raised a hand to me. Today was the first. “Just wait,” I whispered. I left his office and spent the next forty-eight hours gathering every piece of evidence I had—my grandfather’s birth certificate, our family records, and metadata from the original photos. I prepared a massive thread to expose Cynthia’s fraud. But the moment I hit post, my accounts were suddenly logged out. When I tried to log back in, I saw a new post pinned to my profile—written in my name: I want to apologize to Cynthia Albright. Out of professional jealousy, I fabricated lies to damage her reputation. My own moral failures have made me unfit for this profession. Effective immediately, I am permanently retiring from journalism. An instant later, a text from Pierce popped up on my phone. If you try something like this again, I’ll make sure you and your grandfather have nowhere left to run in this city. From that day on, Cynthia was the only woman at his side. Using the massive influence of Clifford Enterprises, Pierce built Cynthia up into the most celebrated young journalist in the state within a matter of months. Whenever he spoke about her to the press, he had a proud smile on his face, attributing her success entirely to her own hard work. Yet, when I had once asked him to introduce me to a contact for an investigative piece I was working on, he had brushed me off, telling me I was being “unreasonable” and “using him.” I closed my eyes, a tear escaping my lashes. I decided to take my grandfather and leave Seattle for good. But I never made it out of the airport. A mob of reporters and online influencers blockaded the departures gate. Some carried heavy cameras, others thrust microphones directly into my face. Several people had their phones out, live-streaming the confrontation. “Look! There she is! The disgraced journalist!” “Is it true you slept with over twenty executives to steal stories? Did you abuse your interns?” “Are you trying to flee the country to escape justice?” “No! That’s not true!” I screamed, my voice cracking as I tried to shield my grandfather, pushing through the wall of bodies. But the crowd only grew more aggressive, surging forward. Someone threw a half-empty coffee cup at us, followed by crumpled paper and plastic bottles. “Disgusting trash! You think you can just run away?” “You tried to ruin Cynthia’s life! You’re a toxic workplace bully!” “Get out of our city! You’re a disease to journalism!” The screaming voices closed in, suffocating me. In the chaos, my grandfather was shoved hard. He lost his footing and crashed onto the polished floor. The crowd didn’t stop; several people stepped on his legs and hands as they rushed forward to get a better camera angle. I threw myself over him, screaming at the top of my lungs. “Stop! Please stop! He’s an old man! You’re going to kill him!” But my voice was drowned out by the noise. With trembling fingers, I dialed Pierce’s number. By some miracle, he answered. “Pierce, please! We’re at the airport, and a mob has trapped us! My grandfather fell… he’s hurt! Please help us!” On the other end of the line, Pierce sighed, his tone dripping with irritation. “Stop playing games, Nola. Why do you always have to lie?” “What?” My voice broke. “I hired those actors to give Cynthia a little closure. I specifically told them not to hurt you—it’s just a little stunt to help her vent some frustration. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. Just play along, and I’ll wire you some money later.” My heart went entirely cold. “But my grandfather is on the ground! He’s not moving, Pierce! Do you have a soul?” I was still screaming into the receiver when the call disconnected. My grandfather lay on the cold floor, his body shaking in a violent seizure. Shaking uncontrollably, I managed to dial 911. Hours later, at the hospital, my knees buckled when the surgeon finally stepped out of the operating room. “I’m sorry,” the doctor said softly, looking down. “We did everything we could, but he was too frail. By the time he arrived, it was too late.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. I walked into the sterile room like a ghost. My grandfather’s face was pale, looking as if he were only asleep. I knelt by the bed and gently took his hand. “Grandpa, wake up,” I whispered. “Please wake up. Let’s go home. Let’s go back to our old apartment, okay? I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…” His skin was wrinkled and cold. There would be no one left to gently pat my head when I cried. No one to smile warmly and tell me he’d saved up a few dollars to buy me my favorite candy. No one to hold my hand and walk me home through the rain. I sobbed until I threw up, kneeling on the cold hospital floor. I used every cent of my savings to buy a small, quiet plot in a cemetery. On the day of the funeral, my phone buzzed with a bank notification. A wire transfer of ten million dollars had been deposited into my account. From Pierce. After the service, I booked a one-way ticket to a small town across the country, desperate to put this city behind me. But as I turned to leave the cemetery gates, a black burlap sack was suddenly pulled over my head. I was dragged into an alley, my hands and feet bound tightly with zip ties. Heavy wooden bats and metal pipes rained down on my back, my ribs, my legs. Through the roaring pain, I heard Cynthia’s shrill, manic voice. “Hit her! Hit her harder!” she shrieked. “Do you think I don’t know you’re still trying to seduce Pierce? He actually wired you ten million dollars behind my back! You cheap, pathetic whore!” I tried to speak, to tell her I didn’t want his money, but a heavy blow to my temple sent me into darkness. When I finally drifted back to semi-consciousness, I was lying in a sterile hospital room. Through the heavy fog of painkillers, I heard voices whispering outside the door. “Mr. Clifford, we’ve cleaned up all the evidence connecting Miss Albright to the assault,” an assistant said quietly. “But they went too far. Nola has several fractured ribs, a concussion, and severe internal bleeding.” Pierce’s voice was low, flat. “Good. Just make sure the police don’t get involved.” “And… Miss Albright?” “Cynthia only did it because she loves me,” Pierce replied, his tone dismissive. “She was jealous. It’s my fault for not handling Nola sooner, so we can’t blame Cynthia entirely. Just hire the best doctors for Nola. Make sure there’s no permanent physical damage.” “Understood, sir.” The assistant hesitated. “But there’s one more thing… The doctor confirmed that Nola is six weeks pregnant.” The silence in the hallway stretched on forever. Finally, Pierce spoke, his voice completely devoid of emotion. “Terminate it. It’s not a big deal anyway. Cynthia finally agreed to the wedding; I can’t let anything disrupt that. Put a guard on her door. Make sure she doesn’t cause any trouble.” “Yes, sir.” The footsteps faded down the hall. Slowly, I slid my hand down to my stomach, my tears soaking through the thin hospital pillow. For the next week, I went completely mad. I tore at my stitches, swallowed pills when the nurses turned their backs, and screamed until my throat bled, demanding to see him. Every time, they pumped my stomach, sedated me, and tied my wrists to the bedrails. But Pierce never came. The day they wheeled me into the operating room to terminate my pregnancy, Pierce and Cynthia were walking down the aisle at a cathedral downtown. He thought I would fight. He thought I would try to ruin his perfect wedding. But I didn’t. I was quiet. I took my broken body, packed my few remaining things, and vanished from his world forever. My seven years with him ended with a whimper, in a cold operating room. “Nola.” The voice snapped me back to the present. Pierce was standing in the doorway of my shop. I threw my damp towel over my shoulder and put on my bright, professional customer-service smile. “Welcome back, sir! How was the fruit yesterday? We just got some fresh blackberries in if you’re interested.” “Why didn’t you accept the job offer?” Pierce asked, his brow furrowing, his face pale and tense. “I’m just a simple shopkeeper,” I replied, turning my back to him to sort a basket of peaches. “A corporate media giant like Clifford Enterprises isn’t the right fit for me.” Pierce suddenly lunged forward, grabbing my arm and spinning me around to face him. “Nola, look at me!” he demanded, his voice thick with frustration. “You graduated top of your class. You wrote brilliant, hard-hitting investigative pieces. Are you really content spending the rest of your life hauling crates of fruit in this middle-of-nowhere town? You used to have dreams. You wanted to report on global crises, to make a real difference in the world. Now you’re just… a street vendor haggling over pennies.” I stared at him for a moment, then calmly pulled my arm out of his grasp. “At least here, I am not a substitute for anyone.” Pierce’s hand dropped to his side. He stared at me, completely speechless, his throat bobbing. “Nola… if you come back,” he stammered, “I promise… things will be different. You won’t be—” Before he could finish, the shop door burst open. Two little kids, a boy and a girl, came running in, laughing and covered in dirt from the park. Their bright eyes and the soft curves of their faces looked exactly like mine. Pierce froze. The color drained from his face as he took a step back, his eyes darting from the children to me.

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